Dear Friends and Family,
Thanks to those of you who have been reading the blog and leaving comments or emailing me. Apparently you have to be registered google user, or have a google email, or something like that, to leave comments, which is causing difficulties for some of you. Comments are fun, but don't worry about leaving them if it's a problem; you can always email me!
You might have noticed I haven't posted in a while. In fact, I've barely been able to get myself to look at the blog at all for a couple of weeks. The bottom line is, my sense of humor has finally failed me.
I will not bore you with the numerous details, because it would be no more fun for you to read than it's been for me to suffer through. Suffice it to say that I'm sure the Netherlands is a wonderful place to immigrate to if you're from a third-world country or have nothing to lose, but no one from the U.S. should ever consider moving here. Speaking not only as a U.S. citizen, but as a veteran of 12 years of U.S. federal employment (6 of which were in the Dept. of Defense), and as the spouse of someone who had to deal with U.S. Immigration repeatedly (and who eventually became a naturalized citizen), I can say the Netherlands far outperforms the U.S. in excessive bureaucracy and regulations, obstructiveness, and money-grubbing.
I am seriously considering writing a detailed account of everything we've had to go through to be here and submitting it to Dutch newpapers or magazines. It won't be fun and I'm much rather be writing humor or children's books, but I'll do it because (1) the Dutch public has no idea about these aspects of their government's behavior (anyone I've told even a fraction of the story to has been surprised and appalled), and (2) Anyone living in the U.S. who is considering moving here should be fully informed of what's involved before making that decision.
In short, I'll be back blogging when I again feel able to share the more positive or humorous aspects of life here. It could be a while. But please check back every so often!
Monday, October 25, 2010
Wednesday, October 13, 2010
Assimilation
Evidence That I Am Assimilating
I bought a 15 kilo bag of scoopable cat litter (that's over 30 lbs, my friends - 33 lbs to be pretty much exact), put it on the right side of my bike in the bike saddle bag, and stayed balanced riding said bike (I am using the word "balanced" strictly in the physics/gravity sense here) all the way home. The only counterweight was the bag I carry around with me daily, which I put in the left saddle bag, and which did not weigh anywhere near 33 lbs (although it gets close sometimes). Now if that feat doesn't make me worthy of permanent residency status, damned if I know what does!
I have mastered the fine art of not quite stopping all the way when I approach a red light on my bicycle. I can balance, virtually motionless, for several seconds while desperately hoping the light will change soon enough that I don't have to get off the bike and then start up again.
Sometimes people actually understand me the first time I say something in Dutch. Also, I am starting to think in Dutch sentence structure, even in English. Pretty soon, I'll be incomprehensible in both languages.
I have finally figured out how to type the € in Microsoft Word.
Evidence That I Still Have a Way to Go
I can't tell the difference between a wedding and a funeral. I've seen the participants in one of each, in passing, and both times just about everyone was dressed in black. But now I know that knee-length formal black jackets are worn by coffin-bearers, not by members of a wedding party, so I am making progress.
I still think Dutch people dress funny.
I do not understand why, on washers and dryers specifically designed for energy efficiency, approximately 16 little orange lights go on, and stay on, after a cycle is complete.
I have not figured out how to type the euro sign directly in this blog. Or anywhere other than in Word, for that matter. Do not be fooled by the cut-and-paste euro sign above.
I bought a 15 kilo bag of scoopable cat litter (that's over 30 lbs, my friends - 33 lbs to be pretty much exact), put it on the right side of my bike in the bike saddle bag, and stayed balanced riding said bike (I am using the word "balanced" strictly in the physics/gravity sense here) all the way home. The only counterweight was the bag I carry around with me daily, which I put in the left saddle bag, and which did not weigh anywhere near 33 lbs (although it gets close sometimes). Now if that feat doesn't make me worthy of permanent residency status, damned if I know what does!
I have mastered the fine art of not quite stopping all the way when I approach a red light on my bicycle. I can balance, virtually motionless, for several seconds while desperately hoping the light will change soon enough that I don't have to get off the bike and then start up again.
Sometimes people actually understand me the first time I say something in Dutch. Also, I am starting to think in Dutch sentence structure, even in English. Pretty soon, I'll be incomprehensible in both languages.
I have finally figured out how to type the € in Microsoft Word.
Evidence That I Still Have a Way to Go
I can't tell the difference between a wedding and a funeral. I've seen the participants in one of each, in passing, and both times just about everyone was dressed in black. But now I know that knee-length formal black jackets are worn by coffin-bearers, not by members of a wedding party, so I am making progress.
I still think Dutch people dress funny.
I do not understand why, on washers and dryers specifically designed for energy efficiency, approximately 16 little orange lights go on, and stay on, after a cycle is complete.
I have not figured out how to type the euro sign directly in this blog. Or anywhere other than in Word, for that matter. Do not be fooled by the cut-and-paste euro sign above.
Tuesday, October 12, 2010
On Language
Now that we're living in Holland I'm reacquainting myself with Dutch, which I learned by immersion more years ago than I'll admit. I long go lost fluency from disuse, but all these years later I am a much more sophisticated language end-user, so I'm noticing things I wasn't aware of before. In this episode of "language strikes you funny," specifically "the Dutch language strikes you funny," we will be discussing gendered nouns and their associated gendered articles and pronouns. Those of you who think this level of attention to language is geeky and tedious have permission to run screaming from this little piece of cyber space right now, so as not to spoil the fun for the rest of us.
Alrighty then, for the lonely language geek still with me (you know who you are): unlike English, many languages have two or three genders for nouns. In French and Spanish all nouns are either masculine or feminine, and if preceded by the word "the," the "the" has to be in the appropriate masculine or feminine form (e.g., le garcon and la fille). Also, if you want to use a pronoun in place of the noun, you have to use the language's word for "he" or "she" rather than the impoverished one-size-fits all "it" we use in English. Same thing in German, except German, just to make things more difficult for everybody else, uses three genders: masculine, feminine, and neuter (der mann, die frau, das kind).
Yes, you say, this stuff is truly fascinating and all, but what does it have to do with Dutch? Dutch is closely related to German, so you might expect it to have three genders. It is even more closely related to English, as it happens, so now that you know this nifty fact you might expect Dutch to have only neuter nouns. Well, I hate to shatter your entirely rational expectations, but Dutch has only two genders. AHA!, you exclaim, so it's got that masculine-feminine duality thing going on; it's a romance language wanna-be! WRONG AGAIN!! No, Dutch has the following two genders: masculine and neuter.
Doesn't that just make you wonder? I mean, how do you come up with the idea that there are only two categories of things in the world: "Male" and "Everything Else"? What does that say about you as a language, a culture, a people? And to make matters worse, for someone trying to learn the language, it's anybody's guess what's masculine, what's neuter, and why. Not surprisingly, the word for "man" is masculine: "de man." Surprisingly, the word for "woman" is masculine: "de vrouw." If someone asks me where my jacket is in Dutch, I have to say (in Dutch) "He is hanging in the closet." Of course, since I generally have no idea whether my jacket, or any other item of clothing, is hanging in the closet or is masculine or neuter (a masculine bra hanging in the closet, now that would be funny!) I've been trying to think of a way around this little linguistic problem. I considered dropping pronouns altogether, but that won't work, because if you say "the jacket" you have to know whether to use "de" or "het," and if you say "my jacket" you have to know whether to use "mijn" or "mijne."
From now on, I'm sticking with verbs.
Alrighty then, for the lonely language geek still with me (you know who you are): unlike English, many languages have two or three genders for nouns. In French and Spanish all nouns are either masculine or feminine, and if preceded by the word "the," the "the" has to be in the appropriate masculine or feminine form (e.g., le garcon and la fille). Also, if you want to use a pronoun in place of the noun, you have to use the language's word for "he" or "she" rather than the impoverished one-size-fits all "it" we use in English. Same thing in German, except German, just to make things more difficult for everybody else, uses three genders: masculine, feminine, and neuter (der mann, die frau, das kind).
Yes, you say, this stuff is truly fascinating and all, but what does it have to do with Dutch? Dutch is closely related to German, so you might expect it to have three genders. It is even more closely related to English, as it happens, so now that you know this nifty fact you might expect Dutch to have only neuter nouns. Well, I hate to shatter your entirely rational expectations, but Dutch has only two genders. AHA!, you exclaim, so it's got that masculine-feminine duality thing going on; it's a romance language wanna-be! WRONG AGAIN!! No, Dutch has the following two genders: masculine and neuter.
Doesn't that just make you wonder? I mean, how do you come up with the idea that there are only two categories of things in the world: "Male" and "Everything Else"? What does that say about you as a language, a culture, a people? And to make matters worse, for someone trying to learn the language, it's anybody's guess what's masculine, what's neuter, and why. Not surprisingly, the word for "man" is masculine: "de man." Surprisingly, the word for "woman" is masculine: "de vrouw." If someone asks me where my jacket is in Dutch, I have to say (in Dutch) "He is hanging in the closet." Of course, since I generally have no idea whether my jacket, or any other item of clothing, is hanging in the closet or is masculine or neuter (a masculine bra hanging in the closet, now that would be funny!) I've been trying to think of a way around this little linguistic problem. I considered dropping pronouns altogether, but that won't work, because if you say "the jacket" you have to know whether to use "de" or "het," and if you say "my jacket" you have to know whether to use "mijn" or "mijne."
From now on, I'm sticking with verbs.
Monday, October 11, 2010
Cultural Similarities, and Then Some
I tried asking the tree-in-the-forest-question in Holland once, and the reaction I got gave me some insight into Dutch culture and its similarities with American culture.
Both American and Dutch culture value the practical, the useful, the what-you-see-is-what-you get. American immigrants and pioneers didn't have time to sit around philosophizing; they were too busy trying to settle the wild frontiers, overthrow British tyranny, strike it rich, or just plain survive. Maybe the Dutch didn't have a vast frontier to settle, but they had colonies and trade routes to dominate, Spain to overthrow, other European aggressors to fend off, and a whole lot of soggy land to rescue, and keep rescued, from the ocean.
This wildly over-simplified yet piercingly on-target historical analysis makes it unsurprising that being pragmatic, problem-solving, and fully in touch with the concrete realities of life are far more valued in both cultures than being what the Dutch picturesquely call a "wolkenfietser" (literal translation: cloud bicyclist. And doesn't the very fact that they have such a term say it all?).
In many ways, Dutch culture is even more down-to-earth than American culture. "What's it good for?," "How can we turn this situation to our advantage?," and "How much money can we make on this?" are often the implicit or explicit response to just about any stimulus. And I waltzed right into this culture several years ago, had a lovely home-made Indonesian dinner (see dominated colonies, above) with some of my beloved extended family members, and, for reasons that currently escape me entirely, asked the tree-in-the-forest-question during after-dinner conversation.
The initial response was non-verbal. Try to picture a couple of 70-somethings sitting across from you. Now picture the nonverbals that would go with this subtitling: "We're not sure we heard that right, but if we did we're speechless because that is the most utterly vacuous question we have ever heard and a total no-brainer. WHY would anybody from this planet ever even consider irking us with such inanity? Don't you have something better to do? (a small country somewhere to colonize, maybe?)."
The nonverbal episode segued smoothly to an admirably restrained verbal response. Culturally speaking, it had to be considered admirably restrained, because not only are the Dutch even more pragmatic than Americans, they're also even more straightforward. They tend to pretty directly speak their minds, in a manner that Americans can experience as blunt and tactless, but it's just the cultural norm, and not intended to offend (case in point: there's a little handbook to help Turkish immigrants assimilate into Dutch culture entitled "Just Act Normal. ").
So the polite response I got was that, yes, the tree would make a sound even if no one were there to hear it fall. When I asked how they knew, the answer went like this: "Because when I went for a walk in the forest the next day I would see that the tree had fallen and know it had made a sound." Well, I can assure you I had no snappy comeback for that one; I just told them the tree wouldn't make a sound if there was no on there to hear it.
I bet I don't have to do the virtual subtitling thing again for you to imagine the response to that assertion! They didn't even segue into a verbal response asking me to explain the deeply flawed, if not certifiably insane, reasoning leading to my hopelessly misguided conclusion. Clearly, there was no interest in viewing the whole thing as a philosophical question to be explored, no sense that there might be more than one "correct" answer to the question.
That's when I got the sudden insight that these reactions signified both individual concrete thinking and perhaps a cultural value system favoring concrete over abstract thought. Not knowing when to stop, I immediately tried testing this insight by rapping sharply on the wooden table between us and proclaiming it to be mostly empty space, no matter how solid it might seem. Well, that was the end of that conversation, I can tell you! I swear if they'd had any antipsychotic medication on them I'd have been force-fed it right then and there (or maybe they thought I'd made a recent visit to the local smartshop).
As a Trained Scientist, I'm aware an n of 2 is not a representative sample. I'm sure there are many fine citizens of the Netherlands who are more than willing to engage in debate over the tree-in-the-forest or any other philosophical question (preferably over a beer or three). My real points are that, culturally speaking, the Netherlands is more similar to the U.S. than it is different, and there are many things to find humorous in both countries. Also, I am from another planet.
Both American and Dutch culture value the practical, the useful, the what-you-see-is-what-you get. American immigrants and pioneers didn't have time to sit around philosophizing; they were too busy trying to settle the wild frontiers, overthrow British tyranny, strike it rich, or just plain survive. Maybe the Dutch didn't have a vast frontier to settle, but they had colonies and trade routes to dominate, Spain to overthrow, other European aggressors to fend off, and a whole lot of soggy land to rescue, and keep rescued, from the ocean.
This wildly over-simplified yet piercingly on-target historical analysis makes it unsurprising that being pragmatic, problem-solving, and fully in touch with the concrete realities of life are far more valued in both cultures than being what the Dutch picturesquely call a "wolkenfietser" (literal translation: cloud bicyclist. And doesn't the very fact that they have such a term say it all?).
In many ways, Dutch culture is even more down-to-earth than American culture. "What's it good for?," "How can we turn this situation to our advantage?," and "How much money can we make on this?" are often the implicit or explicit response to just about any stimulus. And I waltzed right into this culture several years ago, had a lovely home-made Indonesian dinner (see dominated colonies, above) with some of my beloved extended family members, and, for reasons that currently escape me entirely, asked the tree-in-the-forest-question during after-dinner conversation.
The initial response was non-verbal. Try to picture a couple of 70-somethings sitting across from you. Now picture the nonverbals that would go with this subtitling: "We're not sure we heard that right, but if we did we're speechless because that is the most utterly vacuous question we have ever heard and a total no-brainer. WHY would anybody from this planet ever even consider irking us with such inanity? Don't you have something better to do? (a small country somewhere to colonize, maybe?)."
The nonverbal episode segued smoothly to an admirably restrained verbal response. Culturally speaking, it had to be considered admirably restrained, because not only are the Dutch even more pragmatic than Americans, they're also even more straightforward. They tend to pretty directly speak their minds, in a manner that Americans can experience as blunt and tactless, but it's just the cultural norm, and not intended to offend (case in point: there's a little handbook to help Turkish immigrants assimilate into Dutch culture entitled "Just Act Normal. ").
So the polite response I got was that, yes, the tree would make a sound even if no one were there to hear it fall. When I asked how they knew, the answer went like this: "Because when I went for a walk in the forest the next day I would see that the tree had fallen and know it had made a sound." Well, I can assure you I had no snappy comeback for that one; I just told them the tree wouldn't make a sound if there was no on there to hear it.
I bet I don't have to do the virtual subtitling thing again for you to imagine the response to that assertion! They didn't even segue into a verbal response asking me to explain the deeply flawed, if not certifiably insane, reasoning leading to my hopelessly misguided conclusion. Clearly, there was no interest in viewing the whole thing as a philosophical question to be explored, no sense that there might be more than one "correct" answer to the question.
That's when I got the sudden insight that these reactions signified both individual concrete thinking and perhaps a cultural value system favoring concrete over abstract thought. Not knowing when to stop, I immediately tried testing this insight by rapping sharply on the wooden table between us and proclaiming it to be mostly empty space, no matter how solid it might seem. Well, that was the end of that conversation, I can tell you! I swear if they'd had any antipsychotic medication on them I'd have been force-fed it right then and there (or maybe they thought I'd made a recent visit to the local smartshop).
As a Trained Scientist, I'm aware an n of 2 is not a representative sample. I'm sure there are many fine citizens of the Netherlands who are more than willing to engage in debate over the tree-in-the-forest or any other philosophical question (preferably over a beer or three). My real points are that, culturally speaking, the Netherlands is more similar to the U.S. than it is different, and there are many things to find humorous in both countries. Also, I am from another planet.
Friday, October 8, 2010
Hellloooooooooo........?
Hey, folks! Add a comment under a post once in awhile or drop me an email! I'm starting to feel as though I'm talking to myself (and I have a husband and son for that!). And that gets me wondering whether writing when nobody's reading is on a psychiatric par with hearing voices when nobody's talking (hint: Not Good. I refer you to the DSM IV-whatever-revision-we're-on-these-days).
If a tree falls in the forest and there's nobody there to hear it, does it make a sound?
If a tree falls in the forest and there's nobody there to hear it, does it make a sound?
Thursday, October 7, 2010
And While We're on the Topic of Drugs....
Since moving to the Netherlands, I have felt secure in the knowledge that at no time have I been more than a few meters away from a potential cup of coffee. I suspect that, while coffee is in fact a legal substance available without prescription in this country, it is, like marijuana, subject to some regulation. I imagine at least one of the regulations goes something like this:
"We, the people of the Netherlands, consume coffee at the respectable rate of 8.4 kg per capita annually. Nevertheless, we rank only 5th in per capita coffee consumption worldwide. Yes, Finland, Norway, Iceland and Denmark have longer, darker, colder winters than we do, not to mention they are full of Scandinavians! But are these reasons to allow them to surpass us? Furthermore, Sweden is gaining on us! Where's your national pride? Be it therefore resolved that at least one multifunction, full-service automatic coffee apparatus be placed in all universities, government workplaces, and private businesses located more than 10 meters away from a cafe, restaurant, coffeeshop, or private residence."
The first time I encountered one of these koffieautomaten was in the Immigration Office, where the receptionist invited us to help ourselves to coffee, hot cocoa, or tea from the machine. We were faced with a bewildering array of choices. We were already bewildered enough, what with the procedures involved with establishing my official existence and permanent residency, and with bureaucracy in general (remember bedrijfshulpverleningsorganisatie?). So the complex decision-making process required to get a cup of coffee out of this machine was almost beyond me. There was coffee mild, medium, or strong; with or without milk and/or sugar. There was espresso, cappucino, wiener melange (you're on your own), hot chocolate, tea, and multiple permutations thereof. You put your little plastic cup under the spout, push the three or four buttons necessary to indicate your choice, pray that you didn't press "wiener melange" by mistake, and watch the machine dispense your beverage. "What's this button, the one that says 'kan'?," asked Ben, finger dangerously poised in the pointing position mere millimeters away from it. Turns out that's the one you push when you have a coffee carafe in hand, ready to fill for you and six of your closest co-workers. You most definitely do not want to push that button if you are carafe-less.
Not fully in possession of my wits or my camera at the time, I missed the photo opp and the associated comic potential of the situation. However, thanks to Dutch coffee regulations, I have encountered such machines in several other places, including but not limited to the grocery store, the cafeteria located in the Cobbenhagen Building at Tilburg University, high school teachers' lounges, hospitals, and a restroom somewhere. Okay, I made that last one up. But the rest are True Facts and, because (1) I always have this sneaking suspicion that some of you doubt my veracity and (2) they say a picture is worth a thousand words, and I don't feel like writing a thousand words right now any more than you feel like reading them, I submit below some authentic, non-photoshopped pictures of two of the three automatic coffee machines located in the university's cafeteria.
The simple little model in the bottom picture is located right inside the service area of the cafeteria, where there are trained staff on hand to instruct you in the use of the thing or respond to a coffee emergency, should one arise. This low-end model has a mere 31 possible permutations and combinations. It is complicated, however, by the need to figure out under which of the 4 spouts you should carefully center your cup. I am particularly fond of its choice of adjectives describing beverage strength: "mild," "normal," and "strong." Just a little judgmental, don't you think?
The top machine can be operated in the time it takes to skip your next class. Two of these machines are located against the wall at the far end of the cafeteria, where there are no coffee-machine-certified staff to come to your rescue. The picture only shows the selection panel; the machine itself is the size of a soda vending machine. It dispenses 17 different beverages (not counting soup), which can be adjusted for 3 levels each of strength, milk content, and sugar content. Assuming that every drink can be adjusted for strength, but not necessarily for milk or sugar level, at a conservative estimate that's at least 100 possibilities. Do the math yourself if you don't believe me. The good news: there's only one spout under which to place your cup, so that's one fewer decision to make.
"But DoubleDutchDeb!" you exclaim (again!), "Maybe these are just some hoity-toity, high-brow university machines, unnecessarily complicated just to show off?" Could be. So far, I think the only machine I've met that was as complicated as the top one pictured was at the Immigration Office. They might not be a group of egg-head intellectuals over there at Immigration, but bureaucracies do delight in excessively complicated procedures. On the other hand, the Jumbo Supermarkt machine, where you can help yourself to a free coffee while shopping, looks like the bottom picture. So I'd have to conclude that the university is doing its patriotic best to increase coffee consumption across a demographic with a wide range of koffieautomaten competency.
"We, the people of the Netherlands, consume coffee at the respectable rate of 8.4 kg per capita annually. Nevertheless, we rank only 5th in per capita coffee consumption worldwide. Yes, Finland, Norway, Iceland and Denmark have longer, darker, colder winters than we do, not to mention they are full of Scandinavians! But are these reasons to allow them to surpass us? Furthermore, Sweden is gaining on us! Where's your national pride? Be it therefore resolved that at least one multifunction, full-service automatic coffee apparatus be placed in all universities, government workplaces, and private businesses located more than 10 meters away from a cafe, restaurant, coffeeshop, or private residence."
The first time I encountered one of these koffieautomaten was in the Immigration Office, where the receptionist invited us to help ourselves to coffee, hot cocoa, or tea from the machine. We were faced with a bewildering array of choices. We were already bewildered enough, what with the procedures involved with establishing my official existence and permanent residency, and with bureaucracy in general (remember bedrijfshulpverleningsorganisatie?). So the complex decision-making process required to get a cup of coffee out of this machine was almost beyond me. There was coffee mild, medium, or strong; with or without milk and/or sugar. There was espresso, cappucino, wiener melange (you're on your own), hot chocolate, tea, and multiple permutations thereof. You put your little plastic cup under the spout, push the three or four buttons necessary to indicate your choice, pray that you didn't press "wiener melange" by mistake, and watch the machine dispense your beverage. "What's this button, the one that says 'kan'?," asked Ben, finger dangerously poised in the pointing position mere millimeters away from it. Turns out that's the one you push when you have a coffee carafe in hand, ready to fill for you and six of your closest co-workers. You most definitely do not want to push that button if you are carafe-less.
Not fully in possession of my wits or my camera at the time, I missed the photo opp and the associated comic potential of the situation. However, thanks to Dutch coffee regulations, I have encountered such machines in several other places, including but not limited to the grocery store, the cafeteria located in the Cobbenhagen Building at Tilburg University, high school teachers' lounges, hospitals, and a restroom somewhere. Okay, I made that last one up. But the rest are True Facts and, because (1) I always have this sneaking suspicion that some of you doubt my veracity and (2) they say a picture is worth a thousand words, and I don't feel like writing a thousand words right now any more than you feel like reading them, I submit below some authentic, non-photoshopped pictures of two of the three automatic coffee machines located in the university's cafeteria.
The simple little model in the bottom picture is located right inside the service area of the cafeteria, where there are trained staff on hand to instruct you in the use of the thing or respond to a coffee emergency, should one arise. This low-end model has a mere 31 possible permutations and combinations. It is complicated, however, by the need to figure out under which of the 4 spouts you should carefully center your cup. I am particularly fond of its choice of adjectives describing beverage strength: "mild," "normal," and "strong." Just a little judgmental, don't you think?
The top machine can be operated in the time it takes to skip your next class. Two of these machines are located against the wall at the far end of the cafeteria, where there are no coffee-machine-certified staff to come to your rescue. The picture only shows the selection panel; the machine itself is the size of a soda vending machine. It dispenses 17 different beverages (not counting soup), which can be adjusted for 3 levels each of strength, milk content, and sugar content. Assuming that every drink can be adjusted for strength, but not necessarily for milk or sugar level, at a conservative estimate that's at least 100 possibilities. Do the math yourself if you don't believe me. The good news: there's only one spout under which to place your cup, so that's one fewer decision to make.
"But DoubleDutchDeb!" you exclaim (again!), "Maybe these are just some hoity-toity, high-brow university machines, unnecessarily complicated just to show off?" Could be. So far, I think the only machine I've met that was as complicated as the top one pictured was at the Immigration Office. They might not be a group of egg-head intellectuals over there at Immigration, but bureaucracies do delight in excessively complicated procedures. On the other hand, the Jumbo Supermarkt machine, where you can help yourself to a free coffee while shopping, looks like the bottom picture. So I'd have to conclude that the university is doing its patriotic best to increase coffee consumption across a demographic with a wide range of koffieautomaten competency.
Wednesday, October 6, 2010
Seed Catalogs
The Fly 'N Hy coffeeshop has three small round tables outside where customers can enjoy a coffee or cola while smoking. It reminded me of my first coffeeshop experience, years ago, when we were wandering around some town (Arnhem, I think) and wanted to find a cafe so we could sit and have a cup of coffee. Not in the habit of discriminating between the terms "coffeeshop" and "cafe," we went into a coffeeshop and I tried to order a decaf. No go. So, being pregnant and wanting to avoid caffeine, I asked if they had any herbal tea. Well, a menu full of herbs they had, but none of it was in tea form.
It was just such an herb menu I was hoping to come away with this time. There was one posted on the board behind the counter, listing varieties, quantities, and prices, but I didn't see a take-out menu. So I asked the kid behind the counter if they had one. Clearly, management policy at this place dictates that staff should be personally familiar with the shop's products, because if anybody was Fly 'N Hy, it was that kid. Eventually, despite my accent and the kid's blood THC level, I got a sign that there had been comprehension and and answer (no).
Unfortunately, since there was no take-out menu and I didn't hang out long enough to memorize the posted offerings, I can't fully report on what was available. I do remember it was sold in strange amounts, among them 0.8 gram, 1.5 grams, or, in the case of one substance, a joint. Actually, even if I could remember what was on the menu it wouldn't do much good; they were just names like "White Widow," "Purple Tops," and "Bob Marley's Best." I'm not sure I ever even knew that pot came in varieties; at least I never gave it any thought. At Fly 'N Hy you're Fly 'N Solo if you don't already know the difference between hash and marijuana, much less the difference between one species of weed and another. I've met better wine menus; you can sometimes get a description of the wine's characteristics, or at least a grouping by color or dryness. I suppose if you want advice you can ask the staff, but if you want to know why I didn't try that I refer you to the previous paragraph.
Luckily the seed catalogs (and I am not talking tulips!) kindly made available by the smartshop were wondrously educational. Each catalog listed at least twenty different varieties, split into "indoor" and "outdoor" sections and with individual growing advice. Each entry lists plant height, buzz type, THC level, weeks flowering, genetic background, yield, and harvest month. (Also I learned that magic mushrooms are referred to here as "truffles").
"But DoubleDutchDeb!" you exclaim, "All of these categories are objective and quantitative except 'buzz type,' which is subjective and qualitative! What, exactly, are the domains of buzz? What are the criteria? How is all this determined and validated? And what about multicollinearity of the factors involved?"
Well, I just knew you'd ask those very questions, so here, based on the Royal Queen Seeds and High Quality Seeds catalogs, is what I have learned about the all-important "buzz type" variable, summarized in graphic form. Those of you who participated in our monthly wine tasting group back in Maryland will recognize this graphic as a highly simplified knock-off of the wine aromas wheel painstakingly developed by A.C. Noble et al. at U.C. Davis in the 1980's and published in the esteemed American Journal of Enology and Viticulture, in an article entitled "Modification of a Standardized System of Wine Aroma Terminology" (1987). I am considering submitting my somewhat-less-painstakingly-developed Sativa-Indica Effects Wheel to High Times, a periodical perhaps not so highly esteemed as but undoubtedly more widely read than the American Journal of Enology and Viticulture.
It was just such an herb menu I was hoping to come away with this time. There was one posted on the board behind the counter, listing varieties, quantities, and prices, but I didn't see a take-out menu. So I asked the kid behind the counter if they had one. Clearly, management policy at this place dictates that staff should be personally familiar with the shop's products, because if anybody was Fly 'N Hy, it was that kid. Eventually, despite my accent and the kid's blood THC level, I got a sign that there had been comprehension and and answer (no).
Unfortunately, since there was no take-out menu and I didn't hang out long enough to memorize the posted offerings, I can't fully report on what was available. I do remember it was sold in strange amounts, among them 0.8 gram, 1.5 grams, or, in the case of one substance, a joint. Actually, even if I could remember what was on the menu it wouldn't do much good; they were just names like "White Widow," "Purple Tops," and "Bob Marley's Best." I'm not sure I ever even knew that pot came in varieties; at least I never gave it any thought. At Fly 'N Hy you're Fly 'N Solo if you don't already know the difference between hash and marijuana, much less the difference between one species of weed and another. I've met better wine menus; you can sometimes get a description of the wine's characteristics, or at least a grouping by color or dryness. I suppose if you want advice you can ask the staff, but if you want to know why I didn't try that I refer you to the previous paragraph.
Luckily the seed catalogs (and I am not talking tulips!) kindly made available by the smartshop were wondrously educational. Each catalog listed at least twenty different varieties, split into "indoor" and "outdoor" sections and with individual growing advice. Each entry lists plant height, buzz type, THC level, weeks flowering, genetic background, yield, and harvest month. (Also I learned that magic mushrooms are referred to here as "truffles").
"But DoubleDutchDeb!" you exclaim, "All of these categories are objective and quantitative except 'buzz type,' which is subjective and qualitative! What, exactly, are the domains of buzz? What are the criteria? How is all this determined and validated? And what about multicollinearity of the factors involved?"
Well, I just knew you'd ask those very questions, so here, based on the Royal Queen Seeds and High Quality Seeds catalogs, is what I have learned about the all-important "buzz type" variable, summarized in graphic form. Those of you who participated in our monthly wine tasting group back in Maryland will recognize this graphic as a highly simplified knock-off of the wine aromas wheel painstakingly developed by A.C. Noble et al. at U.C. Davis in the 1980's and published in the esteemed American Journal of Enology and Viticulture, in an article entitled "Modification of a Standardized System of Wine Aroma Terminology" (1987). I am considering submitting my somewhat-less-painstakingly-developed Sativa-Indica Effects Wheel to High Times, a periodical perhaps not so highly esteemed as but undoubtedly more widely read than the American Journal of Enology and Viticulture.
Tuesday, October 5, 2010
My First Smartshop
Background research is dandy, but no substitute for first-hand observation. So, taking my investigative legwork seriously, I set out to educate myself about smartshops and coffeeshops.
First stop: the Breda town center, for the highly-sophisticated, textbook research methodology reason that I was in the neighborhood anyway. I found a smartshop and a coffeeshop located - conveniently and efficiently, for my purposes - right next door to each other. It took a little doing, but I got up the nerve to walk right on into the smartshop.
It did take some nerve because, in general, I avoid doing things to call attention to myself in public. I do not like to stand out in a crowd, make a scene, or otherwise make my existence known if there's any way to avoid it. In fact, I'd just walk around invisible most of the time if I could find a way to do it. So one of my hurdles, besides any reticence I might have been feeling about just walking into one of Satan's Drug Dens, was the problem of being inconspicuous.
I stopped dyeing my hair a couple of years ago.
I share this personal fact because, to fully appreciate the utter impossibility of my "blending in" in the smartshop/coffeeshop environment, you need to realize that I started dyeing my hair at the age of 27, and I want to remind you that it has since become almost entirely gray. A nice, bright, silver-white gray, as friends kindly remark, not that dull, drab shade you sometimes see. I am still self-conscious about my gray hair, of which I am not very fond, not least because as soon as people spot that much gray that automatically add about 20 years to your age. That's people, as in just your average law-abiding citizen. Which is not perhaps exactly the demographic owning and operating the establishments in question. The staffperson in the Sativa Smartshop (strangely absent from the Amsterdam Coffeeshop Directory; guys, it's time to update your site!) was a guy in his 20's or 30's. It is a Known Scientific Fact that people, particularly male people, in that age range cannot discriminate between a 50-year old and a 75-year old. Gray = Old. I became acutely aware that I'd neglected, in my background research, to look into the demographics of smartshop clientele.
Nevertheless, I casually browsed the contents of the shelves and cabinets as though I knew what the hell I was looking at, which, in many cases, I did not. But damned if I was going to go around pointing and asking "what is this?" when I was providing the youngster behind the counter enough comic relief already.
I am a college graduate, so I did not need a guidebook or personal assistance to recognize the many colorful hookahs, bongs, pipes of various sizes in various materials, and incense in stock. Then there were various sprays, drops, and capsules designed to cover the smell of ambient smoke, correct red eyes, and enhance energy, memory, sexual function, and breast size(?). The stock also included preparations to facilitate growing one's very own herb garden, as well as pertinent literature. And seeds. Lots and lots of little clear, round, plastic seed-containing bubbles centered in cardboard squares describing the contents.
From what I'd seen online, I figured smartshops did not sell marijuana, but the closer I got to the back counter, the more confused I became (and no, there was no second-hand smoke to blame it on). Obviously, the seeds were for pot, the paraphernalia was for pot, and there were two big lollypop jars on the counter full of hash and cannabis lollypops (on closer examination, it turns out they were actually hash and cannabis-flavored lollypops. oh yum.). So I asked the staffperson whether they sold marijuana, and he said no, I'd have to go to the coffeeshop next door for that. So I picked up a few free seed catalogs on my way out and headed next door to the Fly-N-Hy Coffeeshop.
Next in the series: Onward and Upward
First stop: the Breda town center, for the highly-sophisticated, textbook research methodology reason that I was in the neighborhood anyway. I found a smartshop and a coffeeshop located - conveniently and efficiently, for my purposes - right next door to each other. It took a little doing, but I got up the nerve to walk right on into the smartshop.
It did take some nerve because, in general, I avoid doing things to call attention to myself in public. I do not like to stand out in a crowd, make a scene, or otherwise make my existence known if there's any way to avoid it. In fact, I'd just walk around invisible most of the time if I could find a way to do it. So one of my hurdles, besides any reticence I might have been feeling about just walking into one of Satan's Drug Dens, was the problem of being inconspicuous.
I stopped dyeing my hair a couple of years ago.
I share this personal fact because, to fully appreciate the utter impossibility of my "blending in" in the smartshop/coffeeshop environment, you need to realize that I started dyeing my hair at the age of 27, and I want to remind you that it has since become almost entirely gray. A nice, bright, silver-white gray, as friends kindly remark, not that dull, drab shade you sometimes see. I am still self-conscious about my gray hair, of which I am not very fond, not least because as soon as people spot that much gray that automatically add about 20 years to your age. That's people, as in just your average law-abiding citizen. Which is not perhaps exactly the demographic owning and operating the establishments in question. The staffperson in the Sativa Smartshop (strangely absent from the Amsterdam Coffeeshop Directory; guys, it's time to update your site!) was a guy in his 20's or 30's. It is a Known Scientific Fact that people, particularly male people, in that age range cannot discriminate between a 50-year old and a 75-year old. Gray = Old. I became acutely aware that I'd neglected, in my background research, to look into the demographics of smartshop clientele.
Nevertheless, I casually browsed the contents of the shelves and cabinets as though I knew what the hell I was looking at, which, in many cases, I did not. But damned if I was going to go around pointing and asking "what is this?" when I was providing the youngster behind the counter enough comic relief already.
I am a college graduate, so I did not need a guidebook or personal assistance to recognize the many colorful hookahs, bongs, pipes of various sizes in various materials, and incense in stock. Then there were various sprays, drops, and capsules designed to cover the smell of ambient smoke, correct red eyes, and enhance energy, memory, sexual function, and breast size(?). The stock also included preparations to facilitate growing one's very own herb garden, as well as pertinent literature. And seeds. Lots and lots of little clear, round, plastic seed-containing bubbles centered in cardboard squares describing the contents.
From what I'd seen online, I figured smartshops did not sell marijuana, but the closer I got to the back counter, the more confused I became (and no, there was no second-hand smoke to blame it on). Obviously, the seeds were for pot, the paraphernalia was for pot, and there were two big lollypop jars on the counter full of hash and cannabis lollypops (on closer examination, it turns out they were actually hash and cannabis-flavored lollypops. oh yum.). So I asked the staffperson whether they sold marijuana, and he said no, I'd have to go to the coffeeshop next door for that. So I picked up a few free seed catalogs on my way out and headed next door to the Fly-N-Hy Coffeeshop.
Next in the series: Onward and Upward
Monday, October 4, 2010
You Thought I Was Kidding?
Well here it is, Monday morning. As promised, I have more specific information about Recreational Drug Availability in My Neighborhood. So much more specific information, in fact, that I will have to post it as an investigative reporting series. (Note to my highly experienced, very professional journalist friend at the Washington Post: Relax; I am not after your job).
Within the first few days of being here we'd already walked by several smart shops and coffeeshops between our house and the town center. Before venturing into any of them, though, I did my usual background research with the help of my good friend Google, which led me to the incredibly informative and helpful Amsterdam Coffeeshop Directory, a UK-based site ardently dedicated to "unashamed cannabis tourism." Despite its name, the directory lists over 1000 shops throughout the Netherlands, not just in Amsterdam. By my (very conservative) calculations, that's more than enough retail outlets to provide every man, woman, and child in the country with at least one gram of cannibis, hash, or psychedelic mushrooms per month, and with a different bong, hookah, pipe, and rolling papers for each day of the week.
The online directory distinguishes among coffeeshops, smartshops, head shops, and grow shops, denoting each with its own symbol:
= coffee shop (cannabis, hashish, marijuana)
= smart shop (mushrooms and smart drugs)
= grow shop (cannabis seeds)
= head shop (pipes and paraphernalia)
Naturally, I checked the directory for Breda (population 172,219, fyi) , where I found 20 shops listed, with an indication that 5 of them had gone out of business. Clicking on the link for the Feelgood Smartshop (close to my heart because it's close to my residence), I found the below map thoughtfully provided by the owner, who states: "We sell mushrooms and pipes but not cannabis so I get a lot of French tourists asking me where they can find a coffeeshop. To answer their question, I created this map of the coffeeshops in central Breda, which I give away free in my shop. "
Funny, the only thing French tourists ever ask me the location of is the McDonald's! (which, by the way, is conveniently located across the street from the Fly 'N Hy coffeeshop).
On this map, we live about an inch above the first "e" in this sentence. Every shop on the map is within easy walking distance. The Coffeeshop Mediteranne, which is not actually on the map (note arrow) is not within walking distance, but that turns out to be irrelevant, since it is also no longer in business. Oh, and Coffeeshop Pax (boot)? It isn't a boot, it isn't in a boot, and it does not have a "no boots, no service" policy. It is a coffeeshop on a boat in the canal, colloquially referred to as a "weed boat," and, according to this weekend's paper, has just been closed down for three months. Seems the owner was caught with just a wee bit (on the order of 25 kilos) more than the 500 gram limit in the hash and hemp department.
Officially, sale and possession of "soft drugs" such as marijuana, hash, hemp products, and psilocybin is not legal, and here's where I get really confused. It isn't legal; nevertheless it is regulated. (??). So these shops can stay in business as long as they don't get caught selling hard drugs, sell no more than 5 grams of of drug to a customer at a time, and do not stock more than 500 grams at a time. If things get slow in the law enforcement business and the authorities get a sudden urge to do a little enforcing, they just swoop in to make sure these regulations are being adhered to.
Conclusion: I might not be able to legally obtain an effective decongestant in this country, even with a prescription, but I can just mosey on over to the nearest coffeeshop and get up to 5 grams of my choice of "soft" psychotropic, no questions asked, no prescription required. And don't think I'm not tempted! Maybe hash won't clear up my stuffy nasal passages, but heck, after a puff or two I probably just won't care.
Next in the series: Smartshops - what's up with that?
p.s.
I think the coffeeshop directory people should be commended for their responsible stance with regard to addictive substances; witness their disclaimer: "The word 'coffee' in the title of the Amsterdam Coffeeshop Directory should not be taken as condoning the use of addictive drugs. Drinks containing caffeine should be used with care and moderation. Alternatively, stay on the grass!"
Within the first few days of being here we'd already walked by several smart shops and coffeeshops between our house and the town center. Before venturing into any of them, though, I did my usual background research with the help of my good friend Google, which led me to the incredibly informative and helpful Amsterdam Coffeeshop Directory, a UK-based site ardently dedicated to "unashamed cannabis tourism." Despite its name, the directory lists over 1000 shops throughout the Netherlands, not just in Amsterdam. By my (very conservative) calculations, that's more than enough retail outlets to provide every man, woman, and child in the country with at least one gram of cannibis, hash, or psychedelic mushrooms per month, and with a different bong, hookah, pipe, and rolling papers for each day of the week.
The online directory distinguishes among coffeeshops, smartshops, head shops, and grow shops, denoting each with its own symbol:
= coffee shop (cannabis, hashish, marijuana)= smart shop (mushrooms and smart drugs) = grow shop (cannabis seeds) = head shop (pipes and paraphernalia)Naturally, I checked the directory for Breda (population 172,219, fyi) , where I found 20 shops listed, with an indication that 5 of them had gone out of business. Clicking on the link for the Feelgood Smartshop (close to my heart because it's close to my residence), I found the below map thoughtfully provided by the owner, who states: "We sell mushrooms and pipes but not cannabis so I get a lot of French tourists asking me where they can find a coffeeshop. To answer their question, I created this map of the coffeeshops in central Breda, which I give away free in my shop. "
Funny, the only thing French tourists ever ask me the location of is the McDonald's! (which, by the way, is conveniently located across the street from the Fly 'N Hy coffeeshop).
On this map, we live about an inch above the first "e" in this sentence. Every shop on the map is within easy walking distance. The Coffeeshop Mediteranne, which is not actually on the map (note arrow) is not within walking distance, but that turns out to be irrelevant, since it is also no longer in business. Oh, and Coffeeshop Pax (boot)? It isn't a boot, it isn't in a boot, and it does not have a "no boots, no service" policy. It is a coffeeshop on a boat in the canal, colloquially referred to as a "weed boat," and, according to this weekend's paper, has just been closed down for three months. Seems the owner was caught with just a wee bit (on the order of 25 kilos) more than the 500 gram limit in the hash and hemp department.
Officially, sale and possession of "soft drugs" such as marijuana, hash, hemp products, and psilocybin is not legal, and here's where I get really confused. It isn't legal; nevertheless it is regulated. (??). So these shops can stay in business as long as they don't get caught selling hard drugs, sell no more than 5 grams of of drug to a customer at a time, and do not stock more than 500 grams at a time. If things get slow in the law enforcement business and the authorities get a sudden urge to do a little enforcing, they just swoop in to make sure these regulations are being adhered to.
Conclusion: I might not be able to legally obtain an effective decongestant in this country, even with a prescription, but I can just mosey on over to the nearest coffeeshop and get up to 5 grams of my choice of "soft" psychotropic, no questions asked, no prescription required. And don't think I'm not tempted! Maybe hash won't clear up my stuffy nasal passages, but heck, after a puff or two I probably just won't care.
Next in the series: Smartshops - what's up with that?
p.s.
I think the coffeeshop directory people should be commended for their responsible stance with regard to addictive substances; witness their disclaimer: "The word 'coffee' in the title of the Amsterdam Coffeeshop Directory should not be taken as condoning the use of addictive drugs. Drinks containing caffeine should be used with care and moderation. Alternatively, stay on the grass!"
Friday, October 1, 2010
Active Ingredients
I had a cold.
If I were in the U.S., I would've gone to my trusty medicine cabinet and checked my supply of night-time cold medicine. You know, that poison-green-colored liquid stuff that lets you breathe at night so you can get some sleep? Works wonders for me, and, since I am unaccountably fond of breathing at night, knowing I have a supply of nasty-looking but effective pseudoephedrine makes me feel secure.
On the rare occasion my medicine cabinet disappoints me, I feel secure knowing I can walk into any supermarket, chain drug store, or convenience store on any day of the week anywhere in the country and buy a bottle of the stuff, no prescription required. I'd suspected such might not be the case here, but with very limited luggage space, I couldn't bring the cold medicine with us on the plane. So I put a bottle of it in the car. Yes, that's right, the car we still do not have (I apologize for perseverating on the whole car thing, but it truly is a major inconvenience that we can't seem to wrest it from the greedy hands of the Powers-That-Be).
I woke up on Saturday feeling a cold coming on, and anxiously suspecting that finding and accessing pseudoephedrine, or any other effective decongestant, would be fall somewhere on the scale between "difficult" and "impossible." Here's how this extensively-tested, fine-tuned psychometric tool works. A 0 on the scale ("No-Brainer") would be: widely available (accessible in terms of locations and business hours), relatively inexpensive, and available without a prescription. A 10 on the scale ("Impossible") would be "Forget about legally obtaining this substance in this or any contiguous nation; start looking a
couple of countries away." I'll let you fill in the subtle gradations between 0 and 10 for yourself.
So let's see how the Netherlands stacks up. Widely available decongestants include saline nasal spray, Vicks Vapo-Rub, and chamomile steams. Also, generally speaking, homeopathic and herbal remedies are very accessible. As far as I can tell, most things containing a synthetic compound must be obtained by prescription from a pharmacy. When pharmacies are open, it's generally between 8 am and 6 pm. When they are not open it is a Saturday, a Sunday, a holiday, the pharmacist didn't feel like getting out of bed, or before 8 am or after 6 pm (to be fair, I should add that you can find an "on call" pharmacy for emergencies or go to a hospital pharmacy if you're desperate).
Because of concerns about cardiac safety, The Netherlands removed pseudoephedrine from the market way back in 1989. Some form of pseudoephedrine is legally available in nearby Belgium (I foresee a field trip in my near future), but I have yet to figure out whether a prescription is required.
Turns out what I thought was a cold was just a brief allergic episode, so you don't have to send me emergency shipments of night-time cold reliever immediately. But, since Wijo and I had to visit a pharmacy to fill some other prescriptions, we asked the pharmacy assistant about the availability of decongestants. Her answer, and I quote: "Met werksame ingredienten?" Translation: "With active ingredients?"
Really - that's exactly what she said, with a straight face, in all seriousness. She had no idea why I started laughing hysterically (hint: to prevent myself from saying: "No, you idiot, I'd like a placebo please; just tell me where I can get me some of that kick-ass saline nasal spray")!
Okay, so it's no surprise that countries regulate and dispense pharmaceuticals in different ways, and there are legitimate concerns involved. You're certainly not going to hear me jumping to the FDA's defense anytime soon. I just find it a little ironic that a place scoring an 8 or 9 for decongestants on the renowned Deb's Drug Availability Scale scores a 1 on that same scale for recreational drugs.
Out of deep concern for the accuracy and completeness of my posts, I feel compelled to research, first-hand, the specifics of recreational drug availability in comparison with those dangerous decongestants your mother warned you about. I'll be back soon - on Monday, if the buzz wears off in time - with some hard-hitting investigative reporting on this very topic.
If I were in the U.S., I would've gone to my trusty medicine cabinet and checked my supply of night-time cold medicine. You know, that poison-green-colored liquid stuff that lets you breathe at night so you can get some sleep? Works wonders for me, and, since I am unaccountably fond of breathing at night, knowing I have a supply of nasty-looking but effective pseudoephedrine makes me feel secure.
On the rare occasion my medicine cabinet disappoints me, I feel secure knowing I can walk into any supermarket, chain drug store, or convenience store on any day of the week anywhere in the country and buy a bottle of the stuff, no prescription required. I'd suspected such might not be the case here, but with very limited luggage space, I couldn't bring the cold medicine with us on the plane. So I put a bottle of it in the car. Yes, that's right, the car we still do not have (I apologize for perseverating on the whole car thing, but it truly is a major inconvenience that we can't seem to wrest it from the greedy hands of the Powers-That-Be).
I woke up on Saturday feeling a cold coming on, and anxiously suspecting that finding and accessing pseudoephedrine, or any other effective decongestant, would be fall somewhere on the scale between "difficult" and "impossible." Here's how this extensively-tested, fine-tuned psychometric tool works. A 0 on the scale ("No-Brainer") would be: widely available (accessible in terms of locations and business hours), relatively inexpensive, and available without a prescription. A 10 on the scale ("Impossible") would be "Forget about legally obtaining this substance in this or any contiguous nation; start looking a
couple of countries away." I'll let you fill in the subtle gradations between 0 and 10 for yourself.
So let's see how the Netherlands stacks up. Widely available decongestants include saline nasal spray, Vicks Vapo-Rub, and chamomile steams. Also, generally speaking, homeopathic and herbal remedies are very accessible. As far as I can tell, most things containing a synthetic compound must be obtained by prescription from a pharmacy. When pharmacies are open, it's generally between 8 am and 6 pm. When they are not open it is a Saturday, a Sunday, a holiday, the pharmacist didn't feel like getting out of bed, or before 8 am or after 6 pm (to be fair, I should add that you can find an "on call" pharmacy for emergencies or go to a hospital pharmacy if you're desperate).
Because of concerns about cardiac safety, The Netherlands removed pseudoephedrine from the market way back in 1989. Some form of pseudoephedrine is legally available in nearby Belgium (I foresee a field trip in my near future), but I have yet to figure out whether a prescription is required.
Turns out what I thought was a cold was just a brief allergic episode, so you don't have to send me emergency shipments of night-time cold reliever immediately. But, since Wijo and I had to visit a pharmacy to fill some other prescriptions, we asked the pharmacy assistant about the availability of decongestants. Her answer, and I quote: "Met werksame ingredienten?" Translation: "With active ingredients?"
Really - that's exactly what she said, with a straight face, in all seriousness. She had no idea why I started laughing hysterically (hint: to prevent myself from saying: "No, you idiot, I'd like a placebo please; just tell me where I can get me some of that kick-ass saline nasal spray")!
Okay, so it's no surprise that countries regulate and dispense pharmaceuticals in different ways, and there are legitimate concerns involved. You're certainly not going to hear me jumping to the FDA's defense anytime soon. I just find it a little ironic that a place scoring an 8 or 9 for decongestants on the renowned Deb's Drug Availability Scale scores a 1 on that same scale for recreational drugs.
Out of deep concern for the accuracy and completeness of my posts, I feel compelled to research, first-hand, the specifics of recreational drug availability in comparison with those dangerous decongestants your mother warned you about. I'll be back soon - on Monday, if the buzz wears off in time - with some hard-hitting investigative reporting on this very topic.
Thursday, September 30, 2010
Politically Incorrect
I recently read My 'Dam Life: Three Years in Holland, by Sean Condon. As a transplant to the Netherlands, I thought it would be fun to read a humorous memoir about another transplant's experiences. The book is sporadically funny, albeit poorly written. How can anyone who calls himself a writer not know the grammatically correct usage of the words "I" and "me?" Equally baffling, apparently neither the editor nor the publisher know, either. A sad comment on publishing today (that and the fact that hardly anybody's published my largely grammatically-correct writing).
In most cases, I'd never have made it past about the third misuse of "I" as the object in a sentence. Nope, that would've been it for the damn book. But since I'd been trying to get a handle on the whole idea of living here permanently, I was motivated to soldier on past the grammatical violence. Condon shares some interesting perspectives on various aspects of Dutch life and culture. For example, I love his take on Sinterklaas traditions. But first, a little background.
Sinterklaas, or Saint Nicholas, was a bishop famous, among other things, for gift-giving and kindness toward children. Dutch tradition has him sailing a steamboat up from Spain with his Moorish (black) helpers, called "Black Petes" for the annual celebration each December, during which well-behaved children receive presents and naughty children are either whacked or hauled off by the Black Petes to be put to work in Spain.
The Dutch, not widely known for their political correctness, do not seem to see any problem with the race issue here. Let me illustrate. When we lived in the D.C. area and Ben was little, we'd go to the Dutch Embassy-sponsored Sinterklaas festival each year. The Embassy not being conveniently located on a waterway, Sinterklaas would drive up in a convertible with the top down, accompanied by his costumed Black Petes, who were just every bit as white as most Dutch people, but wearing blackface. Blackface. Really, really dark blackface. In Washington D.C., a city whose population was about 56% black. Right out in the open. And it that weren't bad enough, one year when the Sint was taking questions from the little kids, one kid asked which Black Pete was his favorite. The answer: "Michael Jackson."
I don't think there's even a way to say "politically correct" in Dutch.
Anyway, here's Condon's twisted take on the Sinterklaas celebration: "When the bearded, mitre-clutching Sint arrives, he rides a white horse...accompanied by Moorish 'Black Petes' (the Dutch equivalent of elves but with heavily racist overtones) who distribute sweets to the good children and allegedly put the bad children into sacks and haul them back to Spain, thus providing the children of Holland with material for a lifetime of horrific nightmares, terrified as they are of having to live in a land of sunshine, merriment, and flavoured food." (2003, p. 62).
I wonder whether the horrors of all that sunshine, merriment, and flavored food have anything to do with why our Sinterklaas-derived Santa took up residency at the North Pole?
In most cases, I'd never have made it past about the third misuse of "I" as the object in a sentence. Nope, that would've been it for the damn book. But since I'd been trying to get a handle on the whole idea of living here permanently, I was motivated to soldier on past the grammatical violence. Condon shares some interesting perspectives on various aspects of Dutch life and culture. For example, I love his take on Sinterklaas traditions. But first, a little background.
Sinterklaas, or Saint Nicholas, was a bishop famous, among other things, for gift-giving and kindness toward children. Dutch tradition has him sailing a steamboat up from Spain with his Moorish (black) helpers, called "Black Petes" for the annual celebration each December, during which well-behaved children receive presents and naughty children are either whacked or hauled off by the Black Petes to be put to work in Spain.
The Dutch, not widely known for their political correctness, do not seem to see any problem with the race issue here. Let me illustrate. When we lived in the D.C. area and Ben was little, we'd go to the Dutch Embassy-sponsored Sinterklaas festival each year. The Embassy not being conveniently located on a waterway, Sinterklaas would drive up in a convertible with the top down, accompanied by his costumed Black Petes, who were just every bit as white as most Dutch people, but wearing blackface. Blackface. Really, really dark blackface. In Washington D.C., a city whose population was about 56% black. Right out in the open. And it that weren't bad enough, one year when the Sint was taking questions from the little kids, one kid asked which Black Pete was his favorite. The answer: "Michael Jackson."
I don't think there's even a way to say "politically correct" in Dutch.
Anyway, here's Condon's twisted take on the Sinterklaas celebration: "When the bearded, mitre-clutching Sint arrives, he rides a white horse...accompanied by Moorish 'Black Petes' (the Dutch equivalent of elves but with heavily racist overtones) who distribute sweets to the good children and allegedly put the bad children into sacks and haul them back to Spain, thus providing the children of Holland with material for a lifetime of horrific nightmares, terrified as they are of having to live in a land of sunshine, merriment, and flavoured food." (2003, p. 62).
I wonder whether the horrors of all that sunshine, merriment, and flavored food have anything to do with why our Sinterklaas-derived Santa took up residency at the North Pole?
Wednesday, September 29, 2010
Plastic Wrap
Plastic Wrap.
You and I both know it's From Hell, so there's no point pretending otherwise. The only thing, and I do mean ONLY thing, that elevates it from Hell all the way up to Purgatory is that row of little aluminum teeth attached to the edge of the box housing the wrap roll. That serrated edge makes tearing off a reasonably straight and even piece of plastic wrap the main not-hellish thing about the whole plastic wrap experience.
If you're having a good day and luck is on your side, your piece of wrap detaches from the roll with ease, wafts gracefully, with your aid, to its designated location, and fits snugly around or over whatever it is you want to fit it around or over. Most of my days are not like that. At the very smallest opportunity - phone rings, slight breeze passes through, I breathe - the wrap folds in on itself. Admit it, this has happened to you, too. You try to veerrrrrrry carefully separate the thing back into a single-layer, usable kitchen accessory but, unless you have the dexterity of a trained surgeon, your attempts only result in a completely useless, crumpled ball of petroleum-based, non-biodegradable product that you should never have bought in the first place.
What, you ask, is my point, exactly?
I now live in a country that sells plastic wrap in boxes that do not come equipped with their very own serrated wrap-cutting edge.
Did you hear me? I NOW LIVE IN A LAND OF CUTTING-EDGE-LESS PLASTIC WRAP!
It's a nightmare, a nightmare, I tell you. So now the entire plastic wrap experience, every single time, is perfectly hellish from beginning to end. Purgatory never looked so good. Whoever designed these cutting edgeless boxes was clearly entirely unfamiliar with human anatomy, with the physics of plastic wrap, or both. I don't know about him, but I only have two hands. If you have to cut the wrap yourself, using scissors or a knife, you have to: hold the roll in one hand, and with the other hand find the edge of the wrap and figure out in which direction to separate it from the roll (because the lack of serrated lip leaves you no dangling wrap to grab); play out some wrap and hold it tautly (and I challenge anyone to successfully detach an entire width of wrap from the roll one-handedly and play it out in one piece); and then cut. That adds up to THREE hands. At least.
I have been trying to think of some ways around this I-only-have-two-hands-but-need-three problem. Here's what I have so far:
(1) You could rig up some device that would immobilize the roll, thereby reducing the operation to a two-handed affair, but that might require (shudder!) tools and some mechanical aptitude.
(2) You could call in your spouse, child, or a random passer-by and have that person perform one part of the operation, but that would leave a perfectly good fourth hand unused. Besides, it's hard to fit more than one person at a time into a Dutch kitchen if either one of them will need to engage in movement.
(3) You can, using one hand, attempt to separate and rip whatever size piece of wrap you need off the roll using sheer force. Unless you have paws bigger than Rachmaninoff's, you cannot possibly get hold of and hold taut the full width of the roll in one hand, so you wind up with a much-too-small piece of wrap, in a shape for which modern geometry has no name. Then you quickly drop the roll from your other hand in your hurry to two-handedly grasp the wrap and get it around the target before it balls up on itself; fail, and throw roll of wrap across the room while loudly exercising your vocabulary of impolite words.
Number 3 is the approach I pick, every single time. But if anyone can suggest other options, I'm willing to consider them.
You and I both know it's From Hell, so there's no point pretending otherwise. The only thing, and I do mean ONLY thing, that elevates it from Hell all the way up to Purgatory is that row of little aluminum teeth attached to the edge of the box housing the wrap roll. That serrated edge makes tearing off a reasonably straight and even piece of plastic wrap the main not-hellish thing about the whole plastic wrap experience.
If you're having a good day and luck is on your side, your piece of wrap detaches from the roll with ease, wafts gracefully, with your aid, to its designated location, and fits snugly around or over whatever it is you want to fit it around or over. Most of my days are not like that. At the very smallest opportunity - phone rings, slight breeze passes through, I breathe - the wrap folds in on itself. Admit it, this has happened to you, too. You try to veerrrrrrry carefully separate the thing back into a single-layer, usable kitchen accessory but, unless you have the dexterity of a trained surgeon, your attempts only result in a completely useless, crumpled ball of petroleum-based, non-biodegradable product that you should never have bought in the first place.
What, you ask, is my point, exactly?
I now live in a country that sells plastic wrap in boxes that do not come equipped with their very own serrated wrap-cutting edge.
Did you hear me? I NOW LIVE IN A LAND OF CUTTING-EDGE-LESS PLASTIC WRAP!
It's a nightmare, a nightmare, I tell you. So now the entire plastic wrap experience, every single time, is perfectly hellish from beginning to end. Purgatory never looked so good. Whoever designed these cutting edgeless boxes was clearly entirely unfamiliar with human anatomy, with the physics of plastic wrap, or both. I don't know about him, but I only have two hands. If you have to cut the wrap yourself, using scissors or a knife, you have to: hold the roll in one hand, and with the other hand find the edge of the wrap and figure out in which direction to separate it from the roll (because the lack of serrated lip leaves you no dangling wrap to grab); play out some wrap and hold it tautly (and I challenge anyone to successfully detach an entire width of wrap from the roll one-handedly and play it out in one piece); and then cut. That adds up to THREE hands. At least.
I have been trying to think of some ways around this I-only-have-two-hands-but-need-three problem. Here's what I have so far:
(1) You could rig up some device that would immobilize the roll, thereby reducing the operation to a two-handed affair, but that might require (shudder!) tools and some mechanical aptitude.
(2) You could call in your spouse, child, or a random passer-by and have that person perform one part of the operation, but that would leave a perfectly good fourth hand unused. Besides, it's hard to fit more than one person at a time into a Dutch kitchen if either one of them will need to engage in movement.
(3) You can, using one hand, attempt to separate and rip whatever size piece of wrap you need off the roll using sheer force. Unless you have paws bigger than Rachmaninoff's, you cannot possibly get hold of and hold taut the full width of the roll in one hand, so you wind up with a much-too-small piece of wrap, in a shape for which modern geometry has no name. Then you quickly drop the roll from your other hand in your hurry to two-handedly grasp the wrap and get it around the target before it balls up on itself; fail, and throw roll of wrap across the room while loudly exercising your vocabulary of impolite words.
Number 3 is the approach I pick, every single time. But if anyone can suggest other options, I'm willing to consider them.
Monday, September 27, 2010
Big Americans Pizzas, or Further Adventures in Grocery Shopping
I have to go grocery shopping on a nearly-daily basis because, as I might have mentioned in passing, we STILL do not have our car, and I keep checking but we still have a very very small refrigerator and freezer. To make the experience more entertaining, I try to notice new details about the stock each time I shop. So I was exercising my observational skills while perusing the contents of Albert Heijn's freezer section, and darned if there wasn't blog fodder there staring me right in the face. Dr. Oetker's Big Americans Pizza.
I have been a lifelong consumer of pizza, mostly in America. I have eaten more pizzas - delivered, frozen, and homemade - than I would even attempt to count. Also, my BMI, qualifies me as an authentic Big American. I suspect many Americans got to be Big Americans by eating too much pizza, but that is neither here nor there. As a Big American, I can with some authority pronounce Dr. Oetker's Big Americans Pizza to be neither big nor American. Here is my supporting evidence:
(1) A small pizza in the U.S. is 10" or 12". A large is 14-16", and sometimes there is even extra-large, which, not surprisingly, can be bigger than that. If you were to put a Dr. Oetker's Big Americans Pizza in the oven, take it out when it was nice and warm, and stretch it as far as you could without breaking it, it would still not make it to even 10". Ix-nay on the ig-bay.
(2) Dr. Oetker's Big Americans Pizzas include ingredients that I have never seen on a pizza, or on any list of pizza toppings, in the Lower 48, including tuna (the Big Americans California), corn (the Big Americans Supreme and the Big Americans BBQ chicken), and - I think I might've seen this somewhere in the U.S. but it's hardly typical - marinated BBQ chicken (the Big Americans BBQ Chicken).
(3) Dr. Oetker wouldn't know authentic pepperoni if it rolled off the sidewalk and tripped him off his bicycle.
I couldn't help myself; I had to go check out Dr. Oetker's pizza website (http://www.oetker.nl/oetker_nl/html/default/debi-5dmg7r.nl.html). And here is what I learned. "Big Americans are pizzas with an extra thick crust. Crispy on the outside, light on the inside, and richly topped with thoughtfully selected ingredients and extra real cheese." Nevermind that the cheese is not among the varieties used on pizzas in America (e.g., emmenthaler).
I have been a lifelong consumer of pizza, mostly in America. I have eaten more pizzas - delivered, frozen, and homemade - than I would even attempt to count. Also, my BMI, qualifies me as an authentic Big American. I suspect many Americans got to be Big Americans by eating too much pizza, but that is neither here nor there. As a Big American, I can with some authority pronounce Dr. Oetker's Big Americans Pizza to be neither big nor American. Here is my supporting evidence:
(1) A small pizza in the U.S. is 10" or 12". A large is 14-16", and sometimes there is even extra-large, which, not surprisingly, can be bigger than that. If you were to put a Dr. Oetker's Big Americans Pizza in the oven, take it out when it was nice and warm, and stretch it as far as you could without breaking it, it would still not make it to even 10". Ix-nay on the ig-bay.
(2) Dr. Oetker's Big Americans Pizzas include ingredients that I have never seen on a pizza, or on any list of pizza toppings, in the Lower 48, including tuna (the Big Americans California), corn (the Big Americans Supreme and the Big Americans BBQ chicken), and - I think I might've seen this somewhere in the U.S. but it's hardly typical - marinated BBQ chicken (the Big Americans BBQ Chicken).
(3) Dr. Oetker wouldn't know authentic pepperoni if it rolled off the sidewalk and tripped him off his bicycle.
I couldn't help myself; I had to go check out Dr. Oetker's pizza website (http://www.oetker.nl/oetker_nl/html/default/debi-5dmg7r.nl.html). And here is what I learned. "Big Americans are pizzas with an extra thick crust. Crispy on the outside, light on the inside, and richly topped with thoughtfully selected ingredients and extra real cheese." Nevermind that the cheese is not among the varieties used on pizzas in America (e.g., emmenthaler).
Not knowing when to stop, I clicked on the "FAQs" link. The questions included, "Are there vegetarian pizzas?" (answer: yes. But none of them are members of the Big Americans line), and "My freezer is too full; can I store my pizza in the refrigerator (now there's someone I can relate to, but the answer was, sadly, "no."). Other piercingly shrewd questions were: "can I bake my pizza in the microwave?"; "Why is there baking paper under Casa di Mama's pizzas?"; "Why must Casa di Mama's pizzas be baked at 250 when the other pizzas are baked at a much lower temperature?"; and the Casa di Mama crust is still slack; how can this be?"
After I've had some time to ponder the above and other pizza-related conundrums, I'm sure I'll be back to report further adventures in grocery shopping. Check back in, oh, early 2011.
French Mustard
One of my favorite mustards is Maille dijon mustard. Not the grainy kind, although that one is very tasty as well, but the smooth kind with that little sinus bite reminiscent of wasabi. So when we went grocery shopping in Breda for the first time to stock our empty refrigerator with the basics, I bought some Maille dijon mustard. It looked exactly like the same stuff, in the same distinctively-shaped little jar, sold in U.S. supermarkets. It tasted mostly, but not exactly, like the Maille dijon sold in the U.S. To my surprise (and subsequent delight when I recovered), this mustard is significantly sharper than the version France ships to the U.S. (no doubt all the while very Frenchly snickering when our culinary backs are turned).
Ever curious, I took a closer look at the label. The design and color were the same as the U.S. version. The label reads "dijon originale." Aha, I thought, maybe the American version doesn't say "originale," or even "original," "authentic," or anything else along those lines. Maybe the label on the mustard designed for American consumption just says "dijon mustard," when it should probably read "dijon mustard somewhat watered down for ze wimpy and undiscriminating palates of ze average American consumer, who undoubtedly lacks ze sinusoidal fortitude to handle ze real thing." But it would probably be too difficult to fit all that on the label.
Well, French culinary types, I have just this to say to you:
During our first week in Holland, while strolling through downtown Breda, minding our own business and actively soliciting no attention whatsoever from any French citizens who might be passing by, we were stopped by a French couple who wanted to ask us for directions. The homme of said couple approached Wijo and asked (predictably) "Parlez-vous francais?" So, since Wijo admitted to "un peu," nos ami asked,
"Ou et le McDonalds?"
The entire French nation had to have been squirming in embarrassment at that very moment. Or, now that they know about it from reading this blog, they must be squirming. So much for culinary elitist posturing.
On the other hand, it's certainly possible le dude and la dudette francais needed to get to the McDonalds for some top-level espionage meet to hand off some ultra-confidential, top-level spy-type intelligence. Which is my theory, and I'm sticking with it. Because, as self-respecting French citizens, they couldn't have been going there for the food, could they?
Ever curious, I took a closer look at the label. The design and color were the same as the U.S. version. The label reads "dijon originale." Aha, I thought, maybe the American version doesn't say "originale," or even "original," "authentic," or anything else along those lines. Maybe the label on the mustard designed for American consumption just says "dijon mustard," when it should probably read "dijon mustard somewhat watered down for ze wimpy and undiscriminating palates of ze average American consumer, who undoubtedly lacks ze sinusoidal fortitude to handle ze real thing." But it would probably be too difficult to fit all that on the label.
Well, French culinary types, I have just this to say to you:
During our first week in Holland, while strolling through downtown Breda, minding our own business and actively soliciting no attention whatsoever from any French citizens who might be passing by, we were stopped by a French couple who wanted to ask us for directions. The homme of said couple approached Wijo and asked (predictably) "Parlez-vous francais?" So, since Wijo admitted to "un peu," nos ami asked,
"Ou et le McDonalds?"
The entire French nation had to have been squirming in embarrassment at that very moment. Or, now that they know about it from reading this blog, they must be squirming. So much for culinary elitist posturing.
On the other hand, it's certainly possible le dude and la dudette francais needed to get to the McDonalds for some top-level espionage meet to hand off some ultra-confidential, top-level spy-type intelligence. Which is my theory, and I'm sticking with it. Because, as self-respecting French citizens, they couldn't have been going there for the food, could they?
Friday, September 24, 2010
Culture Clash
Holland is a great country for kids. Homes, schools, businesses, and recreational facilities are located close together, and bicycles are a major and fully integrated form of transportation. As a result, children don't have to be chauffered by car all over the place; they can get around more independently (and this is especially good as, since I think I might've mentioned previously, we still do not have our car).
My 12-year old child, who is thrilled with being able to get around by bike and with feeling more independent, wanted to make a trip to the nearby electronics store on his own in search of a Wii cable. I asked him if he'd like to pick up some frites for lunch from the nearby stand. Frites are french fries, which, despite any disrespect regarding Dutch cooking that might have been implied in my previous post, the Dutch make exceptionally well.
"Child," I said (not his real name), "the frites stand is a yellow free-standing place in a small park a couple of blocks down from the electronics store on the left" (italics added). He comes back with his Wii cable but no french fries. He couldn't find the frites stand. So I repeated the directions, only this time with the italics and with lots of gesturing and pointing.
He goes off on his bike again, and this time he comes back with frites and a story. He notices a yellow (correct) non-free-standing shop (wrong) in the vicinity but not in a park (wrong) and walks in (wrong again!), perceptively observing that it stocks an awful lot of cigarettes for a frites place (correct). He walks right through to the counter at back, notices a display labeled "marijuana," and asks the guy behind the counter whether he speaks English. The guy says yes, so The Child asks something along the lines of "isn't it illegal to sell marijuana in a frites shop?" The English-speaking, pot-selling guy concurs that it is, in fact, illegal to sell marijuana in a frites shop. The Child brilliantly concludes, "this isn't a frites shop, is it?" At which point the guy says "No, this isn't a frites shop," lets him know he's too young to be in there, and kicks him out.
Does the kid pause at (1) the paradoxical name "Smart Shop" over the door, in really, really big letters, (2) the lack of that distinctive frites smell, (3) the presence of other distinctive smells, (4) the seven stoned-looking people hanging out in the place at 1 pm on a Monday, or (5) any of the other myriad clues that this place was not, and in fact at no time ever had been, a frites stand?
That was a rhetorical question.
My 12-year old child, who is thrilled with being able to get around by bike and with feeling more independent, wanted to make a trip to the nearby electronics store on his own in search of a Wii cable. I asked him if he'd like to pick up some frites for lunch from the nearby stand. Frites are french fries, which, despite any disrespect regarding Dutch cooking that might have been implied in my previous post, the Dutch make exceptionally well.
"Child," I said (not his real name), "the frites stand is a yellow free-standing place in a small park a couple of blocks down from the electronics store on the left" (italics added). He comes back with his Wii cable but no french fries. He couldn't find the frites stand. So I repeated the directions, only this time with the italics and with lots of gesturing and pointing.
He goes off on his bike again, and this time he comes back with frites and a story. He notices a yellow (correct) non-free-standing shop (wrong) in the vicinity but not in a park (wrong) and walks in (wrong again!), perceptively observing that it stocks an awful lot of cigarettes for a frites place (correct). He walks right through to the counter at back, notices a display labeled "marijuana," and asks the guy behind the counter whether he speaks English. The guy says yes, so The Child asks something along the lines of "isn't it illegal to sell marijuana in a frites shop?" The English-speaking, pot-selling guy concurs that it is, in fact, illegal to sell marijuana in a frites shop. The Child brilliantly concludes, "this isn't a frites shop, is it?" At which point the guy says "No, this isn't a frites shop," lets him know he's too young to be in there, and kicks him out.
Does the kid pause at (1) the paradoxical name "Smart Shop" over the door, in really, really big letters, (2) the lack of that distinctive frites smell, (3) the presence of other distinctive smells, (4) the seven stoned-looking people hanging out in the place at 1 pm on a Monday, or (5) any of the other myriad clues that this place was not, and in fact at no time ever had been, a frites stand?
That was a rhetorical question.
Thursday, September 23, 2010
Where's the Garlic?
Living here has only confirmed my previous impression of the general Dutch diet and cooking; that is to say: stunning in the sheer scope of its unimaginative- and unvaried-ness. As far as I can tell, for most Dutch folks the diet consists primarily of: bread and cheese (not necessarily in that order). Breakfast? Bread and cheese, with coffee or tea. Additional breakfast options include: bread with jam, bread with peanut butter, and buttered bread topped with some representative of the Sugar Food Group (i.e., actual sugar; anise-flavored sugar, sugar syrup; fruit syrup; Nutella and nutella equivalents; milk chocolate, dark chocolate, white chocolate, or fruit-flavored "sprinkles;" milk chocolate, dark chocolate, or white chocolate flakes, small thin chocolate no-I-am-not-making-this-up candy bars; little tiny cookies). Okay, I take back that thing about the lack of variety. Lunch? See the above.
But what about the cooking, you ask? Well, there isn't actually anything one could call Dutch "cuisine," except maybe Indonesian, an exotic, spicy cuisine the Dutch picked up as part of their colonial (read: imperialist dog) heritage. Traditional Dutch cooking (which hasn't, apparently, changed much since the Bronze Age), consists of lots of potatoes, cabbage, cauliflower, and the like, often with cheese added (presumably for flavor). And meat, of course, but because I don't eat meat I don't pay much attention to whatever it is the Dutch do to it.
One of my beloved Dutch extended family members kindly presented me with a nouveau Dutch cookbook upon our arrival. Well, I should have realized the fact that the thing had a foreward by Jamie Oliver, aka The Naked Chef, was not a good sign. Apparently, Jamie Oliver is particularly popular in the Netherlands, and I know this fact partly because another of my beloved Dutch extended family members presented me with Jamie's Amerika (yes, in Dutch; oh the irony) as a Christmas gift last year. Now, in case these people didn't realize, Jamie Oliver is British. And everybody else in the world knows that the British can't cook worth a damn, think "tinned" peas are actually edible, and regard vegetables as The Enemy (battle plan: cook them to death). Nevertheless, attempting to pry my mind open, I looked through every page of that nouveau Dutch cookbook. And guess what's in there? Lots of bread, cheese, and cabbage (although, to be fair, several different kinds of cabbage and cabbage recipes were presented, so I apologize for that earlier comment about lack of variety, okay?). The main cooking innovation, as far as I could tell, was - gasp! - the addition of an herb (mainly thyme, and I mean thyme was in nearly EVERY recipe).
Now, I'm not sure the Dutch consider herbs and spices to be The Enemy, but neither am I sure the Dutch are sure what you're supposed to do them. Once, when visiting my mother-in-law, I went looking for some pretty run-of-the-mill herbs and spices with which to cook dinner. I like to cook. I like interesting flavor combinations. I like herbs and spices, and they don't necessarily have to be exotic, but I am lost without certain staples such as: garlic, basil, garlic, oregano, garlic, thyme, garlic, cumin, and garlic (you see why I throw that annual garlic party). Not a single form of garlic was to be found in my mother-in-law's house. Also no basil, oregano, or thyme, although there was an "Italian herbs" mix, the kind those of us who like to cook regard with disgust because it is clearly designed for people who don't know the first thing about Italian cooking. There were also 5 (five) packets of something called "meat herbs." Don't ask; since I don't cook meat I didn't even bother to look at what was in the mix. "Oll," I said, "You never have to buy 'meat herbs' again. You have a lifetime supply of 'meat herbs.' BUT WHERE IS THE GARLIC??"
But what about the cooking, you ask? Well, there isn't actually anything one could call Dutch "cuisine," except maybe Indonesian, an exotic, spicy cuisine the Dutch picked up as part of their colonial (read: imperialist dog) heritage. Traditional Dutch cooking (which hasn't, apparently, changed much since the Bronze Age), consists of lots of potatoes, cabbage, cauliflower, and the like, often with cheese added (presumably for flavor). And meat, of course, but because I don't eat meat I don't pay much attention to whatever it is the Dutch do to it.
One of my beloved Dutch extended family members kindly presented me with a nouveau Dutch cookbook upon our arrival. Well, I should have realized the fact that the thing had a foreward by Jamie Oliver, aka The Naked Chef, was not a good sign. Apparently, Jamie Oliver is particularly popular in the Netherlands, and I know this fact partly because another of my beloved Dutch extended family members presented me with Jamie's Amerika (yes, in Dutch; oh the irony) as a Christmas gift last year. Now, in case these people didn't realize, Jamie Oliver is British. And everybody else in the world knows that the British can't cook worth a damn, think "tinned" peas are actually edible, and regard vegetables as The Enemy (battle plan: cook them to death). Nevertheless, attempting to pry my mind open, I looked through every page of that nouveau Dutch cookbook. And guess what's in there? Lots of bread, cheese, and cabbage (although, to be fair, several different kinds of cabbage and cabbage recipes were presented, so I apologize for that earlier comment about lack of variety, okay?). The main cooking innovation, as far as I could tell, was - gasp! - the addition of an herb (mainly thyme, and I mean thyme was in nearly EVERY recipe).
Now, I'm not sure the Dutch consider herbs and spices to be The Enemy, but neither am I sure the Dutch are sure what you're supposed to do them. Once, when visiting my mother-in-law, I went looking for some pretty run-of-the-mill herbs and spices with which to cook dinner. I like to cook. I like interesting flavor combinations. I like herbs and spices, and they don't necessarily have to be exotic, but I am lost without certain staples such as: garlic, basil, garlic, oregano, garlic, thyme, garlic, cumin, and garlic (you see why I throw that annual garlic party). Not a single form of garlic was to be found in my mother-in-law's house. Also no basil, oregano, or thyme, although there was an "Italian herbs" mix, the kind those of us who like to cook regard with disgust because it is clearly designed for people who don't know the first thing about Italian cooking. There were also 5 (five) packets of something called "meat herbs." Don't ask; since I don't cook meat I didn't even bother to look at what was in the mix. "Oll," I said, "You never have to buy 'meat herbs' again. You have a lifetime supply of 'meat herbs.' BUT WHERE IS THE GARLIC??"
Wednesday, September 22, 2010
Extortion
My U.S. auto insurance has to be renewed this week, but the carrier doesn't insure cars overseas, so I have to find a new insurer. The way things are going, there will be at least a few days (or weeks) of fully uninsured time before a new policy kicks in. But that's no problem, because we STILL do not have, and have seen no signs that we ever will have, our car (by now you should be starting to detect a subtle car-related theme in these posts).
In reviewing the detailed quote I received from one company, I discovered a little rider I'd never heard, seen, or imagined before, even in my wildest nightmares. I had to double-check my understanding of this rider with Wijo, because a consistent pattern I've seen in the Netherlands, for reasons I can only guess at, is the tendency to write in Dutch. So just to be sure, I went ahead and test drove, so to speak, my understanding of the entire document.
Me: Wettelijke Aansprakelijkheid - liability?
Wijo: Right
Me: Ruit - huh?
Wijo: Windows
Me: Diefstal - theft?
Wijo: Right
Me: Brand, Storm, en Natuur - acts of god?
Wijo: Right
Me: Aanrijdingen - collision?
Wijo: Right
Me: "No-Claim" Beschermer. Wijo, I am pretty sure this rider is insurance against having your insurance rates increased if you make a claim.
Wijo: No!
Me: Yes, let me just read you the detailed description:
At which point I read him the detailed description, which, in translation, goes like this:
"The 'No-Claim' Protector...is a perfect supplement to your auto insurance. With this supplemental insurance you can, in the event of damage, submit one damage claim per insured year without affecting your established no-claim discount. Therefore, your premium will not increase."
Yes, you heard correctly. Specifically, I have the option to pay them 17.50 per year to not raise my premium after any claim of up to 1,500 euros, or to pay them 40.00 per year to not raise my premium for claims over 1,500.
If you have doubts about my translation, you just let me know and I'll be happy to email you the verbatim text in Dutch so you can check it yourself.
The Dutch. They don't look like Mafiosi, but that's where the lack of resemblance ends.
In reviewing the detailed quote I received from one company, I discovered a little rider I'd never heard, seen, or imagined before, even in my wildest nightmares. I had to double-check my understanding of this rider with Wijo, because a consistent pattern I've seen in the Netherlands, for reasons I can only guess at, is the tendency to write in Dutch. So just to be sure, I went ahead and test drove, so to speak, my understanding of the entire document.
Me: Wettelijke Aansprakelijkheid - liability?
Wijo: Right
Me: Ruit - huh?
Wijo: Windows
Me: Diefstal - theft?
Wijo: Right
Me: Brand, Storm, en Natuur - acts of god?
Wijo: Right
Me: Aanrijdingen - collision?
Wijo: Right
Me: "No-Claim" Beschermer. Wijo, I am pretty sure this rider is insurance against having your insurance rates increased if you make a claim.
Wijo: No!
Me: Yes, let me just read you the detailed description:
At which point I read him the detailed description, which, in translation, goes like this:
"The 'No-Claim' Protector...is a perfect supplement to your auto insurance. With this supplemental insurance you can, in the event of damage, submit one damage claim per insured year without affecting your established no-claim discount. Therefore, your premium will not increase."
Yes, you heard correctly. Specifically, I have the option to pay them 17.50 per year to not raise my premium after any claim of up to 1,500 euros, or to pay them 40.00 per year to not raise my premium for claims over 1,500.
If you have doubts about my translation, you just let me know and I'll be happy to email you the verbatim text in Dutch so you can check it yourself.
The Dutch. They don't look like Mafiosi, but that's where the lack of resemblance ends.
Tuesday, September 21, 2010
In Which I Go Looking for a Jacket
Last week I went shopping for a jacket. I've been riding around on my bike with what used to be a very nice lightweight jacket with a hood; perfect for early fall temperatures and great for staying relatively dry when it rains, no umbrella required. The temperatures are starting to drop now, and the jacket won't be warm enough much longer. I have a warm winter coat, but that is still sitting in the car that we still do not have here, and it doesn't have a hood, either (the jacket, not the car). In fact, none of the outerwear I own, with the exception of my lightweight jacket, has a hood. As a general rule, I am not so big on hoods. But riding a bike in this country necessitates some form of head covering, and a hood strikes me as the most fail-proof option. So I donned my just-barely-still-warm-enough jacket, got on my bike, and rode into the retail-dense area of downtown Breda.
I knew what I was looking for in a jacket. I wanted an at least moderately well-made hooded jacket that would keep me sufficiently warm and dry on a bike. What I did NOT want in a jacket was: anything that would make me look like the Michelin Tire Man (I have enough padding of my own, thank you); anything that had the level of shine you'd expect from at least three layers of shellac; anything sporting a faux-fur-lined hood; anything particularly purple; or anything costing upwards of 200 (euros, not pesos). Go ahead, scoff at my unrealistic expectations if you will.
While hunting this mythical beast I was exposed not only to many poorly-made and overpriced jackets; I was visually assaulted by an astonishing quantity of poor-quality, unattractive, and overpriced clothing. I have to wonder: how do so many people spend so much money on so much really bad clothing? I'm sure I will return to this theme once I've had more time to observe and analyze the clothing customs of the Dutch in their natural habitat. But for now, back to the jacket.
The only jackets that fit well and looked good on me didn't have hoods. I considered caving in and buying a jacket without a hood, using what my mother-in-law refers to an "anti-sex" to keep my head dry instead. An "anti-sex" is one of those little transparent plastic rain bonnets you tie under your chin. I discarded the idea because, among other reasons, I'd probably lose it, or forget to bring it, or have to stuff the wet thing into a pocket or purse, thereby getting the pocket or purse (and everything in it) all wet. Besides, if the weather is perfectly nice and then suddenly turns gray and starts raining (a frequent weather pattern here), it's a little awkward, to say the least, to find the thing and put it on while biking without causing a major accident. Plus, there's a reason she calls it an anti-sex.
In the very first store I walked into, the very first snap on the very first jacket I even touched came flying off. Immediately and dramatically. The zipper on another jacket immediately came apart the wrong way - you know how they sometimes unzip from the bottom after you've zipped them up? That. I had to pull the jacket over my head to get it off. So much for well-made. Okay, I thought, so I started at the bottom of the department store chains; why not have a look at the other stores?
Four (4) hours later, out of sheer stubbornness and determination, I was the owner of a new hooded non-purple, non-Michelin, non-shiny, non-fur lined jacket from......the bottom of the department store chains. But it doesn't have snaps.
I knew what I was looking for in a jacket. I wanted an at least moderately well-made hooded jacket that would keep me sufficiently warm and dry on a bike. What I did NOT want in a jacket was: anything that would make me look like the Michelin Tire Man (I have enough padding of my own, thank you); anything that had the level of shine you'd expect from at least three layers of shellac; anything sporting a faux-fur-lined hood; anything particularly purple; or anything costing upwards of 200 (euros, not pesos). Go ahead, scoff at my unrealistic expectations if you will.
While hunting this mythical beast I was exposed not only to many poorly-made and overpriced jackets; I was visually assaulted by an astonishing quantity of poor-quality, unattractive, and overpriced clothing. I have to wonder: how do so many people spend so much money on so much really bad clothing? I'm sure I will return to this theme once I've had more time to observe and analyze the clothing customs of the Dutch in their natural habitat. But for now, back to the jacket.
The only jackets that fit well and looked good on me didn't have hoods. I considered caving in and buying a jacket without a hood, using what my mother-in-law refers to an "anti-sex" to keep my head dry instead. An "anti-sex" is one of those little transparent plastic rain bonnets you tie under your chin. I discarded the idea because, among other reasons, I'd probably lose it, or forget to bring it, or have to stuff the wet thing into a pocket or purse, thereby getting the pocket or purse (and everything in it) all wet. Besides, if the weather is perfectly nice and then suddenly turns gray and starts raining (a frequent weather pattern here), it's a little awkward, to say the least, to find the thing and put it on while biking without causing a major accident. Plus, there's a reason she calls it an anti-sex.
In the very first store I walked into, the very first snap on the very first jacket I even touched came flying off. Immediately and dramatically. The zipper on another jacket immediately came apart the wrong way - you know how they sometimes unzip from the bottom after you've zipped them up? That. I had to pull the jacket over my head to get it off. So much for well-made. Okay, I thought, so I started at the bottom of the department store chains; why not have a look at the other stores?
Four (4) hours later, out of sheer stubbornness and determination, I was the owner of a new hooded non-purple, non-Michelin, non-shiny, non-fur lined jacket from......the bottom of the department store chains. But it doesn't have snaps.
Monday, September 20, 2010
Grocery Shopping on a Bicycle (In 14 Easy - or Not - Steps)
For the first month we were here we rented a car. But since we weren't using the car enough to justify the rental price and expected our own car back at some point during the second month (as in, NOW), we discontinued renting once our first month was up. Not having a car hasn't really been a problem so far, because from where we're living it's easy to bike to the town center and to grocery stores. If we want to visit family or the immigration office in den Bosch (for example), it's easy to bike to the train station and catch a train to family or den Bosch (or to Brussels or Paris, for that matter). Also, so far the weather has mostly been good, so biking around has been no hardship. However, being car-less has changed the whole grocery shopping experience. But first a little background.
(14) Pick up all the unloaded groceries off the ground and put them in the kitchen. Put bike in shed, lock bike, bolt shed, lock gate, lock back door, and put groceries away.
(1) We moved here from a large house, with a big kitchen, lots of cabinet space and a rather large pantry. Wijo was always complaining that he lived "in a puzzle," because the refrigerator and pantry were so full that every time he tried to find or remove something, he was "attacked" by something else falling out at him. Oh, and did I mention the extra refrigerator and free-standing freezer in the basement? Okay, I admit to having a little hoarding problem, but at least I know where I got it from (and so do you, Mom).
(2) We own a Subaru Outback, which car I have seen referred to as a "station wagon on steroids." I could probably buy at least six months' worth of groceries and fit it all in that car at once, no problem.
(3) My current car is a bike, with a two-sided saddle bag that can carry enough groceries for at least one day, no problem.
So I went grocery shopping on my bike, and it went something like this:
(1) Put on jacket with hood, because it could rain at any time, even if the weather looks good right now.
(2) Retrieve bicycle key from drawer. Make sure I am in possession of house keys and back gate key. Don't worry about shed key, because I refuse to lock the shed; how many keys is a person supposed to keep track of, anyway?
(3) Unlock back door, open shed door (which activity inconveniently requires both hands, since the shed door is not hung straight and therefore has to be lifted a little for the bolt to be pulled out or slid in). Irritably wonder, since this entire country is extremely flat; how hard can it be to hang a door straight?
(4) Place shoulder bag in bike saddle bag; unlock bicycle and back it out of shed; close and rebolt shed door.
(5) Use key (large, old-fashioned, really long skeleton key-type thing that requires significant finger strength and dexterity to operate) to unlock back gate and open gate, which is tricky because the door is not hung straight (deja vu!) and a strip of wood at the bottom tends to scrape along the ground and come partially loose, and will just break or fall right off one of these days, hopefully not while we are still renting this place.
(6) Wheel bike out, close and lock gate, and walk bike down little tiny bike alley to the street. Ride bike to grocery store (that's the easy part. Except if it's raining or there's a heavy wind).
(7) Upon arrival at store, park bike, check in pocket for bike key, belatedly remember, once again, that the key is always in the lock when the bike is unlocked; lock bike, pocket key, remove shoulder bag from saddle bag and enter store. If I'm having one of my more lucid days, like today, I do not insert the .50 euro piece into the grocery cart slot to remove a cart, because there is no way I can fit what I might be tempted to put into a grocery cart into the saddle bag. No, instead I take one of those little plastic baskets like the ones they have in American grocery stores, but here they have some with wheels and a long handle that allow you to roll the thing around behind you in the store rather than risk muscle spasms and lifelong disfigurement carrying it over your arm. I figure if I can fit it into the basket, I can fit it into the saddlebag.
(8) Conduct grocery shopping as usual, attempting to keep in mind that there is very limited available refrigerator, freezer, or saddlebag space.
(9) Emerge from store with shopping basket in tow, since they don't give you grocery bags in Dutch stores and the saddlebag is outside on the bike, anyway.
(10) Now here's the tricky part. Get shoulder bag and groceries from point A (shopping basket) into point B (saddlebag). Sounds straightforward, you say? Well, that shows what you know! What happens next is a precision, scientific balancing act. You can't just put 4 liters of milk and a couple of bottles of wine into one side of the saddle bag and a couple heads of lettuce into the other, now can you? Not if I understand gravity (well, actually I'm not at all sure I understand gravity, but you get the point)! No, the items must be distributed with an eye both to volume and weight. Luckily, in this case, my one lonely spatial skill is volume. But even I, with my idiot savant aptitude for fitting things into proscribed space, am stretched to the limit by the problem of getting all the groceries from a full basket into the bicycle saddle bag. This time I mostly managed, but there was a head of broccoli and a box of white seedless grapes precariously located at the top of one side of the bag, which I couldn't fasten closed. And I had to bike through traffic dangling two half-loaves of bread in my left hand while balancing myself and the groceries. Why two half-loaves of bread, you ask? Why not just one whole loaf of bread? Because, silly, it's fresh-baked bread and goes stale (and bad) quickly, so you have to freeze some of it if you don't want to repeat this whole performance daily, and who has room for a whole loaf of bread in their freezer in this country? Not me, I can tell you that.
(11) Get partway home when it starts raining. Wait (in the rain) in the bike lane designated for straight-ahead or left turn traffic, conveniently located between the left-turn/straight-ahead car lane and the right-turn car lane, for the light to turn, which takes forever. When light turns, try to indicate with body language that I intend to turn left, because it's hard to signal a left turn when your left hand is holding two half-loaves of bread. Apparently fail to adequately signal left-turn intention to auto driver into whom I nearly crash as he continues forward while I am attempting to make left turn.
(12) Get most of the way home when an ominous splat-like sound signals contact between the aforementioned precariously-placed package of seedless white grapes and the road. Pull bike over, park on sidewalk, retrieve grapes, and continue home.
(13) Walk bike down bike alley, unlock gate with cleverly stored - and thus easily accessible - key in jacket pocket and walk bike up to back door of house to unload groceries. Like loading, unloading is not as easy at it might seem at first blush. No, take too many things out of one side of the bike and the whole thing topples.
But now I am faced with a problem. I can't unlock the back door without getting my shoulder bag out of the saddlebag, because I once again, curse it, forgot to put the house keys into my pocket rather than leaving them in the bag. The shoulder bag, of course, takes up most of one side of the saddlebag and has been surrounded by and filled with whatever groceries I could fit in there along with it. So now I have to, with the same precision loading the damn thing up required, unload the whole #$*! saddlebag to get at the key enabling me to open the door.
For future reference, it is good policy to unload any breakable items first. I assume I don't have the list the reason.
But now I am faced with a problem. I can't unlock the back door without getting my shoulder bag out of the saddlebag, because I once again, curse it, forgot to put the house keys into my pocket rather than leaving them in the bag. The shoulder bag, of course, takes up most of one side of the saddlebag and has been surrounded by and filled with whatever groceries I could fit in there along with it. So now I have to, with the same precision loading the damn thing up required, unload the whole #$*! saddlebag to get at the key enabling me to open the door.
For future reference, it is good policy to unload any breakable items first. I assume I don't have the list the reason.
(14) Pick up all the unloaded groceries off the ground and put them in the kitchen. Put bike in shed, lock bike, bolt shed, lock gate, lock back door, and put groceries away.
Good thing I don't have a job yet. Don't know how we're gonna eat when I get one.
Friday, September 17, 2010
Bureaucracy: The Continuing Saga
So our car is sitting in some undisclosed location, biding its time while waiting for Wijo to get an endless list of paperwork to the moving company, so it can forward the endless list of paperwork to customs, so the car (not to mention the rest of our worldly goods) can clear customs without costing us precious body parts and we can drive to someplace no one's ever heard of to pick it up. The email I received from the moving company went thusly:
Words fail me.
p.s. There was one box, containing a printer and a few other items, that we mailed to ourselves rather than sending with the movers. When the delivery guy came to the door with it, he informed us that 102.72 in customs tax were due. The whole thing was a mistake, because you're not supposed to be charged any customs taxes at all on used personal items that you mail to yourself for your own continued personal and are not importing in a nefarious attempt to sell for your own personal profit. When I asked how the tax on approximately $400 worth of used personal items could possibly be that high, the answer was that only some of it was duty on the items; the rest was duty on the postage. Who the hell ever heard of taxing postage? When you pay postage you are not paying for goods, you are paying for a service. S-E-R-V-I-C-E! How can the Dutch government get away with taxing a service, the cost of which was paid to an American company in the United States? If you understand how this makes sense, please fill me in; I am baffled.
After arrival into the Netherlands, your goods need to be cleared through Dutch customs, before they can be delivered. In order to clear your belongings through Dutch customs without paying taxes and duties, we will need to apply for an exemption with them.
For application for exemption, we need the following documents from you:
1. residing certificate from the Population Register of the Municipality, showing that you have come from abroad and taken up residence in the Netherlands.
2. (a certificate of registration will not be accepted!).
3. completed application form for exemption* (Please note that we need to receive original signed application)
4. copy rental/purchase contract of your current & new residence and/or statement from your employer that you are living / will be living in a company residence or at a temporarily address
5. statement of employer or copy of your work agreement (you can leave out private & confidential information)
6. copy of your passport (photo page)
7. copy of the inventory (this will be produced by the removal company)
*Click here to download the Dutch Customs Import Permit Application form. A translation of this form can be found here. Please note that customs requires you to fill out the Dutch customs form, not the translation form !
We look forward receiving the above mentioned documents. Please feel free to contact us should questions arise.
After sending the requested documents, Wijo received the following email:
After sending the requested documents, Wijo received the following email:
Thank you for your e-mail and documents which we received in good order.
It is no problem to get the import permit under your name, however in that case we need the proof that you are married.
We now only need the following documents:
-3. -completed application form for exemption* (Please note that we need to receive original signed application)
4. -copy rental/purchase contract of residence in the USA;
-copy of your passport and copy of your marriage certificate;
5. -copy of the purchase invoice of the car;
-copy of car title;
-copy of the car insurance of the last six months.
-
Words fail me.
p.s. There was one box, containing a printer and a few other items, that we mailed to ourselves rather than sending with the movers. When the delivery guy came to the door with it, he informed us that 102.72 in customs tax were due. The whole thing was a mistake, because you're not supposed to be charged any customs taxes at all on used personal items that you mail to yourself for your own continued personal and are not importing in a nefarious attempt to sell for your own personal profit. When I asked how the tax on approximately $400 worth of used personal items could possibly be that high, the answer was that only some of it was duty on the items; the rest was duty on the postage. Who the hell ever heard of taxing postage? When you pay postage you are not paying for goods, you are paying for a service. S-E-R-V-I-C-E! How can the Dutch government get away with taxing a service, the cost of which was paid to an American company in the United States? If you understand how this makes sense, please fill me in; I am baffled.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)