Amsterbeth

QotD: A Little Something To Start With

What's your favorite appetizer to order at a restaurant?

All of them!

Oranje Stealth

My friend Dave once adviced me to write down every little observation of anything that seemed strange or foreign when in a foreign land. Because of course, when you live anywhere long enough, you acclamate.  I had already done this to a large extent my first few trips to Amsterdam. It also got me thinking about the strangeness of Seattle the first time I went there. The overwhelming majesty of the city's natural beautiful surroundings. How all the highway overhangs were covered in vines and flowers. How flowers bloomed and thrived in February.  I moved to Seattle when I was 26 and it was my first time living outside of the midwest. There were subtler things that struck me as well and for a while, intimidated me. It was very strange to have to sit in line in your car waiting for a parking space at a grocery store. It was very strange to find myself struggling to take a nice walk up and down the viciously steep hills. It was also strange to notice one day, I no longer struggled. It was strange how expensive everything was. It was strange to live in such a huge state and thrilling to think there was only one state the separated me from California. But there somewhat of a difference between driving from Michigan through Indiana to get to Kentucky and driving from Seattle through Oregon to get to San Francisco. :-).

Like most people, I was stunned by the endless massive tangle of bicycles in Amsterdam. This is well worn territory, but the thing that is just as stunning is how crappy all the dutch bicycles are. Your typical dutch bike could not be given away for free in the US, and yet, these bikes are expensive. I paid 135 euros for Saskia and bought her used.  When I first arrived in AMS, I said to my friend Michelle, no way in hell would anyone ever catch me on some crappy dutch bike. What a clueless idiot I was.

When I returned to the US after my three month stay in AMS in the winter of 2006, the first thing I did was go out and buy a bike. I went to that bike shop in the U District right next to Blue Water Tacos...I forget the name of the bike shop (help me out, Seattleites!)).  I bought the cheapest bike there. It doesn't have a cross bar in the frame. It is heavy. The saddle is wide and cushiony. It's a grandma bike. It was something like 250 bucks. Not a cool bike at all. Slow and sluggish.  I took it out on the Burke Gilman trail with my friend Kristin, who has a very nice bike and also an athlete's ability to ride it. She'd pass me up and zoom off into the distance while I'm chugging along on my big orange Inadequacy.

An "oma" bike is the classic dutch bike. It is black. It has backwards-pedal breaking. Oma is the dutch word for "grandma." An old oma bike passed down from generations is a prized possession. New ones run about 235 euros. Not cheap. My bike, Saskia, is made by Sparta, a dutch manufacturer, and is also a nice typical dutch bike. She tends to fall apart rather easily and I've put at least as much money into her repairs as I have into her purchase. I love this bike.

Yesterday, after my work day was over, I took my bike which was shipped over from the US to a shop to have the tires inflated and to buy an additional lock. This bike is bright orange (patriotic) and is made by Raleigh. People were almost fawning over it. The shop keeper commented on what a nice bike it was and how "lightweight" it was. We got the tires inflated and now, with what seemed like the lightest touch, this bike sailed past just about everyone and everything. I rode over bridges with negative effort. Breaking was achieved with a light grip on the hand breaks. I was stealth. Fast. Sleek. I felt like I was driving a porsche. And for the wrong reasons also. The typical crappy dutch bike is another vehicle, literally and metaphorically, of egalitarianism in Holland. Everyone rides them. Men wearing 1000 dollar suits ride them. When you ride a fancy bike, it gives the impression that you are trying to achieve betterment above everyone else. I was passing people. My butt was totally enjoying the nice saddle and I was loving the speed. However, I no longer belonged. I was an outsider on this bike. There was something just not right about being on this bike. I also got hit about 10 times. In relative surroundings, it had a silent aura to it as if at once I stood out but was also invisible. Twice I almost collided with opening cars doors encroaching on the bike lane. That never happens on Saskia.

I took the bike home and walked it past Saskia who seemed sad and insecure to me. She is parked outside. This bike needs to be kept inside or else it will be stolen.  I sensed a sadness in both bikes, actually. The American bike which was clearly uncomfortable with its new status. And Saskia must have felt bettered.  The two of them can't be friends, like ally cats and house cats staring at each other through windows, each jealous of what the other has. I will ride the new bike to work until it gets stolen, which I doubt will curb my compulsion to anthropomorphize everything.

Negotiations, Perspective, and Silver Linings

A few weeks ago I got my hair cut and colored. I had what I thought was a rather exasperating conversation with my hair stylist who opened a book of color samples, plunked it on my lap and said "Choose." Well, I am not sure. What do you think?  "What is it that you want?" Well, I am not sure. You are the expert, what do you think would look nice with my skin tone? And I don't want any hints of red, by the way.  Well, she said, maybe we could mix two colors together?  Ok, I agreed. But which ones? Which ones do you want? Sigh...

 

Yesterday, after an especially stressful day, I decided to visit CyberSalon just before closing for last minute massage. The massage therapist asked if there was any part of my body I wanted her to concentrate on? I said I just wanted a full body massage...the regular, but if she could focus on my back and neck that would be good. So then she asked how much time did I want her to focus on my back? Well, I wasn't sure but not so much time that she couldn't get to everything else. She said that she couldn't do a good job on my back and do a full body in an hour. So then we agreed finally upon back and neck for half an hour, feet and scalp for 15 minutes each. Sigh...

 

Normally, in instances of such services, an American woman would expect to go in, be doted on a bit, be told what would look nice, maybe be asked if there was anything in particular you wanted. Or perhaps you know exactly what you are paying for upon entry. Having that decision making process taken away from you is part of the pampering experience. Come in darling. Let me make you pretty. Let me make you feel relaxed. 

I had almost forgotten in my fried-out state that the experience in the hair salon and the spa was a dutch experience. We were in negotiations. We were in discussions. We would both discuss and voice an opinion on what we thought should be done, come to a consensus, and then move forward with the utmost pleasantness.

On a side note, I still have a bit of a hard time getting used to the protocol of having a massage in Holland. This woman, who I did not know and had met just about 2 minutes ago, stood in the room after we had our negotiations and waited for me while I got completely undressed totally naked.  In the US, the massage therapist excuses him or herself so you can undress in private and slip discreetly face down under a blanket ready to receive your massage. It's just strange and amusing. You want me to get undressed all the way? Now? Right now? And I um...just walk over there to the table and lie down?  Ok, cos like right now? Cos you are still here...and ...ok.. right now.  I see. So I'm just gonna, I guess, put all my clothes over here on this chair.

After looking for almost two weeks I confirmed the conclusion I had known immediately the day I couldn't find my passport after returning from Paris. It was just gone. I spend the first two months after my move to holland doing nothing but gathering paperwork, much of which was affixed inside my passport. The thought of having to go through that again, especially with everything else going on right now, was just more than I want to handle right now. But as most things go in holland, what seems from the outset like an insurmountable problem almost always has a rather easy conclusion.  Therefore, someday, I might actually be able to take up my dutch bretherens' advice just to relax a little bit .There is always plenty of time for everything.

The US embassy was closed yesterday for columbus day. If people who work at the US embassy get both dutch holidays and US holidays off, I want to work there.  I showed up 10 minutes before the embassy opened and was already about 10th in line.  I saw a young man take out his driver's license and saw a flash of what I recognized as a Washington driver's license. I asked him about it. He lives in Issaquah and was spending a few days in Amsterdam on his way back from a month in India. He's a software developer for Microsoft. Lost his passport the first night he was in the city.  Remarked on the smallness of our world. Security getting into the US embassy was rudimentary but thorough. I didn't have to go through a machine that blew air on me like in Tornonto, but I did have to practically dismantle my computer and my cell phone which both had to be left at a security desk. How naive of me to think that I could get some work done on my laptop while waiting for my turn at the counter.  The process was relatively quick and painless. I should have a new passport in about a week. Getting my residence permit and my work visa re-issued I am imagining will be more time consuming. 

Standing behind me in line was an Asian girl who has lived and worked in Holland for five years. When I was lamenting to her that it took two months to get all my documentation together she remarked, "Only two months! You are so lucky! That is really fast. I have to get my visa renewed every year and the process takes three months, which means three months out of the year I can't leave holland." When my little band of displaced and stranded americans made it through the security maze, we all actually enjoyed each other's company and conversation quite a bit. Dare I say, the morning that I was dreading was actually pleasant.

 

I Apologize to the World

On October 3, Michael and I will celebrate our 9-year wedding anniversary. Today, October 1, I Iament the 8th consecutive year I have forgotten our anniversary. The only reason I know about it now is because yesterday, my mother sent me an email reminding me about my own anniversary.  I have also forgotten Michael's birthday twice. Every time I forget a friend or family member's birthday, I feel horrible. I feel so horrible that I swear that I will remember in the future. But I can't. I am incapable of remembering birthday's and dates. It is a deficiency.

Here are the birthdays I know. There is no logical reason why I know these birthdays when I can't remember the birthday's of other friends and family who are equally important to me.

My own (December 5 aka Sinterklaas Dag in Holland and also Walt Disney's birthday so it is easy to remember)

My mother's: March 15

My Father's: November 19.

My cousin Sam: December 26

My Aunt Carol: December 31.

My friend Barb: July 5

My friend Arjan: July 4.

And as of very recently: my friend Sarah's birthday, which is on the same day as my dad's, November 19.

I *think* my husband's birthday is on May 30. I have spend 14 birthday's with him so you'd think I would know. but I have this mental block that his birthday is on the last day of May, but I can't ever remember if May 30 is the last day in May or not. It's always a bit touch and go with that one.

Michael has a brother born in April and another brother born in November sometime after thanksgiving, or maybe the week before. I have some friends born in September and some more in April. I had a friend born on January 21 and that was easy to remember becasue she turned 21 on the 21st. But we've fallen out of touch so that's of little use. My grandmother and my stepfather are born in one of the J months in the summer. Most of the rest of my friends and family I have absolutely no idea when they were born - not even sure what month.

I live in a universe were birthdays occur in the past. I always find out when someone mentions what they did (not the verb tense) on their birthday, and I can't help but always read "you missed my birthday again you inconsiderate a-hole" between the story's lines, even if that sentimnt is completely absent.

In holland, it is customary to put a calendar on the inside door of the WC so as you are doing your business, you are forced every day  (assuming you eat your fibre)  to sit there and stare at a calendar which is demarked with all your beloveds' birthdays. I will buy a calendar for 2008 and note the birthday of every person I have ever known. I hope that in this respect, Holland will save me from myself yet again.  If not, I will have to rely on things like facebook that notify me when someone's birthday is coming up, and that just seems like cheating.

A New Low

I am repurposing this from an email I sent to a friend.

I am feeling like an enormous slug today. Yesterday, my friends Sean and Bruno came over and they said "come on, we are going out."  It was a beautiful sunny day so we got on our bikes and went to this place called the Blauwe Thee Huis in the park for a glass of wine. Then we went to the Leidseplein which is a very toursisty area and they parked in front of the Holland casino. I thought they were taking me to the casino but it was even worse, I found myself following them through the doors of the Hard Rock Cafe.  It was dreadful inside of course. Nothing but dismal british and american tourists all staring at TV screens watching Eminem, not talking to each other while putting their revolting table manners on display. Plastic blue and white gingham  table cloths, red, worn carpeting.

Ha ha, guys. Ok, funny. I can deal with the irony. Just get me a bloody mary which I am sure will be prepared from a watered down mix (it was).

 

Of course, being in Rome, I ordered a burger and fries. I am not sure if my taste buds have been dulled by dutch cuisine or if what I was eating was actually indeed the best hamburger I had ever had in my life, but it sure seemed like it. I couldn't believe it. This was the best hamburger I had ever had *in my life,* not just in Holland. I think it was the first hamburger I have ever had in  Holland.

Bruno and Sean were oh so pleased with themselves. They knew something I didn't.  It was a set up. I will be returning to the Hard Rock to have this hamburger again. I will sit next to a Matchbox 20 guitar with a cracked fretboard (they are so hardcore). An american-style hostess will bark orders at me to wait in line before she seats me. I will again smirk at the fact that there is a waiting line for the smoking section but the non-smoking section will have plenty of seats available. I will grimmace at my surroundings but I will be in love with that Angus sirloin hamburger.