Dutch headline news can really break through the ice

Tonight, I joined Arie Jan on the couch to watch the 8:00 news to catch up on world events. Something serious must be going on inside Holland, I thought, as there on the screen was a somber looking Dutch man speaking before an expansive collection of brightly colored microphones. His countenance, continuously lit up by flashes of light, suggested there were more reporters at this live news conference then there are Stroopwafels in Holland.

Had there been an international attack I had somehow missed out on? Or maybe Holland was pulling out of the European Union? Was Queen Beatrix okay? Was Holland sinking into the ocean at a faster rate than earlier calculated, putting us all in imminent danger? I tried to connect the gravity of the image before me with the weathery words I was picking up: lakes, water, ice, snow, freezing point, centimeters, volunteers, ice thaw.

“Oh My God,” I said to Arie Jan. “Is all of this about whether or not that big skating event will go forward?”

“I’m afraid so,” Arie Jan said. “The Dutch take their skating very seriously. Either that, or there’s not much going on in the world.”

Well, in the world of skating, Elfstedentocht is a big deal. It is described as the world’s largest speed skating competition, going through eleven cities and traversing close to 200 kilometers. And, it is only possible if the weather conditions are just right–e.g. if enough rivers and lakes and waterways that form a contiguous skating path through the eleven cities have reached a deep enough freeze.

Thus, it requires the cooperation of not only thousands of volunteers, but of mother nature herself providing the right conditions and the Elfstedentocht commission verifying that the conditions are suitable. And sadly, despite the one day of snow we had last week, and despite all of the Dutch already out there skating on every patch of frozen water they can find, the conditions were not yet up to par for the world’s largest speed skating competition to go forward.

But after 15 more minutes of continuous news coverage, I switched to BBC without too much flinching on my husband’s part to discover that indeed, the rest of the world was still out there, covering stories that had very little to do with speeding across the ice.

If you are Dutch and you are reading this right now, then my apologies to the insult I am bringing on your motherland. But really, 15 minutes of prime time news coverage for live footage on whether or not the 11 city skating event will go forward? These are the moments when living in Holland feels more like being a member of a provincial town where all eyes turn inward toward the upcoming parade or pageant, than an internationally renowned country that influenced far-reaching parts of the world through its seafaring, trading and business practices.

Now, if I only knew an elfstedentocht economist who could explain the monetary benefits of 200 kilometers of speed skating, or a sociologist or historian who could enlighten me on how this race is connected to the sinew that binds together the Dutch national spirit, then I might just see that elfstedentocht is not only plausibly linked to the origins of Dutch worldliness, but does indeed warrant 15 minutes of prime time.

Yelling into a crowd

Sitting on a raised basement, our living room is positioned a half story above street level. This provides us with a tree lined view of the urban bike paths, street and busy tram lines just high enough to be seen by passersby, and just low enough that the branches don’t obscure our view. The first few months of living here I was acutely aware of the people outside, suffering from the strange sensation of being on display.  But with the passage of time, that perception has changed. Much like a person living next to a playground no longer notices the playful screams and laughter of children at recess time, now I hardly notice the people outside.  Unless the patterns change.

One Monday afternoon as I stood in the living room, my eyes were suddenly pulled outside. No longer was there the languid movement of people going about their business, but a sudden cluster of dark-haired teenagers along the tram line. They pressed in against the metal guard rail as they surrounded two young girls gesticulating wildly toward one another.  Soon a cat fight broke out. For a good three seconds, the situation felt humorous, in that uncomfortable, sitcom sort of way as the girls started pushing one another and pulling hair. But as the crowd of 20 or so teenagers got sucked into the burst of violent energy the fight quickly escalated. Fists flew, other students got involved and within 10 seconds one girl lost her balance, falling to the hard cement. Other kids began kicking.

I quickly unlocked the glass door, stepped out on the balcony and shouted in a deep guttural voice “Stop now! Or I’ll call the police!” I clapped my hands loudly to emphasize the seriousness of my words. The teenagers fled like rats from a cat, running off in multiple directions. Several quickly turned to see me and my husband, who was now beside me, and just as quckly turned away, as if afraid we were memorizing the contours of their round young faces for a police report.

It wasn’t the first time I’d witnessed a crowd-induced fight. Nor was it the first time I’d found myself suddenly yelling into a crowd. My first trip to Italy over a decade ago provided for just such an occasion.

My traveling partner and I arrived late one July evening in the Rome Train Station to discover that the strike that had delayed us several hours in Napoli was also in full swing in this station. Blurry eyed with heavy packs on our backs, we didn’t look forward to the prospect of finding a hotel past midnight in peak tourist season. But then a stocky middle-aged Italian woman approached us.

“Need a hotel tonight?” We’d become quite used to such forward solicitations from the Italians, but knew to keep our guard up in Rome. Or at least I did.

“Yeah. How much?” my travel mate said. Seriously? Wouldn’t it be safer to find something on our own? I thought. In a less seedy part of town? While I was doing my best to convey these thoughts through a series of eyebrow contortions, he made a deal and we started following her out of the train station. But just then, my eye caught a break in the pattern.

A fight broke out not 20 feet from where we stood. A group of lanky young Italians started attacking a dodgy looking man in his thirties. A metal luggage cart was lifted in the air and came crashing down on his head. I’d learned a few words in Italian and suddenly I found myself shouting:

“Polizia! Polizia!” The police came quickly and broke up the fight. I wondered if it was too late, as an impressive pool of blood was already forming beneath the motionless man, staining the marble floor of the train station. The woman who we continued to follow out of the station told us that it would have been fine if this man had been killed as he was a known drug dealer. Great, I’m headed back to a hotel with a woman who knows the squalid underbelly of this ancient city and condones vigilante style murder.

If Wikipedia were seeking a photo of seedy, this hotel would not disappoint. When I complained that the shared bathroom and shower was too dirty to even consider using, the woman called her mother to come mop it up. Mom, hunched and thick, must have been in her late 70s. I wondered if the Italians had an elder abuse hotline, or if this was the way things worked in this part of town. The beds were so awful that we slept on the floor on our sleeping pads. But we survived.

Speaking of survival in the true meaning of the word, I wonder if that man in Rome so many years ago survived and why I was the only person to take action. It was, after all, a hot summer night in peak tourist season with plenty of other people around. Of course I like to think that I helped save this stranger, rather than witnessing his murder.

I’ve heard stories from close friends who have also had these situations; there is someone in their midst, a tragedy unfolding and they are the only ones to respond.  I’m not suggesting some sort of moral superiority. I didn’t choose social work or another selfless career. I haven’t received any citizen awards for outstanding public service.

It’s more that I wonder what is it that makes one person break out of her awe-struck gaze at a situation unfolding and take action, and another stay fearfully or apathetically locked in place? Remember, for the first few seconds of witnessing the cat fight by the tram line, I participated as a spectator. But I broke out of that role and took action.

I can think of a few reasons I find my voice in these situations: I grew up with older brothers around and had to hold my own, providing my lungs with lots of training; I was raised with strong Christian ethics to do the right thing; my formative years were spent in a small country town where girls never got hit when they spoke up (at least not in public) and I’ve had the great good fortune of avoiding violent situations. So perhaps someone with a rougher background might say the reason I speak up is that I don’t know any better.

And on the flip side, why do violent actions often stem out of groups? One answer I found is “deindividuation.”  Deinidividuation, according to a SouthSource article, is when you lose your sense of self-awareness when in a group. Suddenly, you feel anonymous and no longer individually responsible for your actions, as “everybody’s doing it” and you are just an anonymous member of this anonymous group–thus the potential for acting more boldly, or violently. But if you are in a large group that is witnessing something violent, wouldn’t you boldly protest? I’m not sure if it works in the reverse as well.

The next time I’m in a large group, I will try to keep the concept of deindividuation in mind. But in terms of staying true to who I am, I have to wonder; Now that I’m an official urban dweller with a daily view to the tram lines outside my window, will time wear down my good Samaritan reflexes, if I can call it that, or is this a characteristic that will stay with me to the end? I pray it will be the latter.

A bite into consciousness

Yesterday morning I put on my sweats and raincoat and headed to Den Haagse Bos. As my feet left the pavement and landed on the gravel path leading between the leafy green trees, I inhaled deeply, breathing in the scent of nature. Usually this transition from the built environment to a more natural one creates a sense of calm, as if I’ve left the pressures of modern life behind. But that day, the darkened sky and rain cast the forest in a less friendly light. The birds weren’t singing. There was hardly anyone in sight.

As I walked along the dark paths lined with growing puddles,  I thought of Sicko, the Michael Moore documentary we’d watched the night before. We’d only caught the second half, but that was enough to suck us in to the horror of U.S. health insurance coverage.  The film showed that health care in France was about 190,000 times better than in the U.S., unless you’re a U.S. senator, that is. How is it that the U.S. can be the richest country in the world (is this still the case, actually?) and still not have universal health care? How is it that over 50 million Americans are uninsured? Why are the prisoners at Guantanamo Bay provided better health coverage than most Americans? The dismal weather seemed appropriate for such a line of thought.

My mind wandered over to my to do list: small things at work, maybe a blog post, trying a recipe out of the Sneaky Chef to get some extra healthy nutrients into my 4-year-old. Suddenly there was a man walking toward me, startling me into the present. There was something about him that made me uneasy. In his mid to late fifties, he had loose gray curls and a haggard look on his unfriendly face. I bristled, suddenly feeling less cozy and thoughtful in this forest I’d come to know, and more aware that I was indeed walking alone in an unpopulated forest in a big city.

A thimble-sized shot of adrenaline coursed through my veins as I walked firmly past him. I didn’t feel fear so much as strength, as if I had tapped into a primal, animalistic response.  The type where feathers puff and muscles flex; a don’t-fuck-with-me sign in your energetic field.  Moments later, a black, mid-sized dog came running down the path, and based on his unkept appearance, I was sure he was with the man.

It happened so quickly I couldn’t make sense of it. Instead of running past me, the black, mangy looking dog attacked, growling as he snapped at my leg. Just as quickly he was gone. So much for my animal instincts. I looked down at my sweat pants to see a gaping hole exposing my white skin. Had it actually bitten me? I peered into the rip to see two little red spots where his teeth had just broken the skin. No blood poured out, but the skin was broken. I called after the man in Dutch.

“Your dog just bit me!” A normal reaction would be for the dog owner to apologize profusely, but this man just ran after his dog, yelling for it to come back. Perhaps he was as shocked as I was.We weren’t nearly as isolated as I imagined, as a couple with a cute, friendly little dog came upon us. They saw the look on my face and slowed their pace. I explained to them what had just happened and they were shocked. Top news story of the day. They stopped and waited with me.

They suggested that the man pay for a new pair of pants. This man, whom I had viewed as a threat a few minutes before, now seemed less scary and more like someone who had been beaten down by life. I had never thought of asking him to buy me a pair of pants. This is a very Dutch way of thinking when it comes to taking responsibility for a wrong doing.

Let’s just say I agreed the man could buy me another pair of sweat pants. Wouldn’t that require exchanging information? Giving him my address to mail a check? They don’t actually use checks here, but wire money directly to your account. Was I supposed to give this stranger, who gave me a bad vibe,  my bank account number? At the time, my mind couldn’t grasp onto any of these ideas, and all I wanted to do was to continue on my walk. Yet, I did want one thing from him.

“You can’t let that dog off his leash. He’s clearly dangerous.” He seemed to agree.

By the time I got back home and told Arie Jan what had happened, the idea of rabies and other unknown terrible diseases you can get from an animal bite had made an impressive number of laps through my mind. But Arie Jan–usually my Rock of Gibraltar when it comes to keeping me away from those ruminating thoughts–joined in on the refrain. When was the last time I had a tetanus shot? We need to get you to a doctor.

I usually lead a pretty healthy life, save a dog bite now and again, and thus visiting a Dutch doctor’s office was to be  a new experience. Well now. Come to think of it. In light of Michael Moore’s documentary, I had been wondering what the Dutch universal health care system was like.

We called a local doctor’s office and were told to come right over. Because I’m married to a Dutch man, and have my work permit, I am covered under his plan. We hopped on our bicycles and rode through the pouring rain to the office, about 6 minutes away. When we got there, and pulled off our dripping rain coats, we were handed a four page health history form. Ten minutes later, I was whisked into an office. A friendly female doctor looked at my wound and decided a tetanus shot was in order on the premise of better safe than sorry. That was it. No line. No co-pay. No health insurance paperwork. Hopefully I won’t have to revise this story with any ghastly updates about the Dutch health system, but my first experience was, needles aside,  rather pleasant.

We mentioned the dog bite incident to two people in church that day–one who is a police volunteer and happens to have a medical hotline programmed into her phone, and a nice Indonesian woman who works in the office, as Arie Jan had to go with me to do the initial paperwork and we needed someone to be on hand for the clients in the church.

But news of my bite spread like rabies. Just about everyone I’ve seen since that bite into consciousness has asked me about my leg. And you know what, sometimes it feels good to know people are talking about you.

Shopping like a Dutchie

It is the subtle, day to day differences that bring home the fact you are not in Kansas anymore, but living in a foreign country. Our trip to the Dutch grocery store Albert Hein yesterday made this all too clear.

First, the entire store is like a never ending Dutch lesson. Even if you know the basics–banaan, sla, brood, kaas, melk, (bananas, lettuce, bread, cheese, milk)–a more robust lesson is available on the back of any packaged good, from ingredients, company messaging to instructions. For example, by reading the description on the back of Ezra’s Weleda children’s toothpaste,  I learned an important collection of words that later came up in conversation and impressed my Dutch husband.

The Dutch tend to buy only what they need for the next few days and the layout of the store reflects this. The aisles are closer together, and most people shop with a small hand basket you can carry or roll on wheels with an extended handle, rather than the full cart to which we are accustomed. This tendency to buy just a little is also a reflection of preferred transportation methods of many shoppers; they buy only what they can take away by bicycle, carry down the street with two arms, or easily haul on and off the tram.

Of course, there is a universal similarity in the way a store is laid out; fruits and vegetables, dairy and bread on the perimeter; the farther in you go, the more processed the food becomes. But, in a Dutch supermarket,  the bread, dairy and cheese sections receive a disproportionate amount of real estate. I imagine the pasta, cheese and vegetable sections of an Italian grocery would similarly receive more space.

One thing that continues to throw me off is the metric system over here. Liquids are measured in deciliters and liters rather than ounces and gallons, and an egg carton offers up ten eggs, rather than our customary twelve.

Although most grocery stores are of this smaller scale, The Dutch have caught on to the Costco concept as well. A large store called Sligro, with a  parking lot full of cars and not a single bicycle in sight, is for large scale shopping by businesses, mainly restaurants and hotels. Here, you can buy 10 kilos of ground coffee, excessively large trays of meats and cheeses, commercial cleaning supplies, etc. I pushed an unwieldy cart through the store that even makes the American shopping cart look small as I accompanied my current manager on a shopping trip for the church kitchen. Although Sligro is geared toward businesses, I was offered a free Sligro membership through an Expat organization. It’s as if they think we might just buy half the store and put it all in storage in our expat basements and second freezers.

Back at the more Dutch scale neighborhood grocery store, we headed to the check out stand, in line with 20 other people who waited with noteworthy patience to purchase a handful of items.  Although I still have the desire to have a well stocked pantry, I find myself going to the store more often, and purchasing less, as if trying to do it the Dutch way. Each time, however, a few canned goods slip their way into my cart which I don’t need immediately, and my proverbial pantry grows.



An uncoddled nation

In America, we are protected from our own stupidity. Okay, not in all cases. Sometimes it is encouraged: eat crappy things, buy more than you can afford, believe Fox News, go shopping to do your part in solving the country’s financial woes.

Yet, America is also very serious about safety and coddles us as if we are irrational beings, incapable of deciphering the obvious. For example, a cup of hot coffee may have the following label: Be Careful! The content of this cup is hot and could burn you!

If a street is closed, large signage in neon colors is placed at the entrance. In case this didn’t get our attention, or we can’t read, the area is fenced off, just to make sure we don’t trip, fall, get injured and, more importantly, sue.

If a metro line runs through a city, quite often there are guard rails along the tracks, with specified entry and exit points. We wouldn’t want someone who was, say, focused on a very important cell phone call, to accidentally walk in front of the metro.

In Holland, you’re on your own. Multiple tram lines run through the urban centers, and pedestrians, bicycles and cars cross the tracks at their own will and risk. Sure, there are flashing lights at major crossings, but no guard rails go down.

If a postman or delivery person can’t find a parking place, they will simply park half on the sidewalk  and half on the bike path–and no one cares. There are no bright orange cones placed before or after to state the obvious. It’s up to you to figure out how to go on your merry way.

In a densely populated European city with a well-integrated public transport system,  it’s just not possible to coddle the populace at every moment.  And, it isn’t necessary. People pay attention because they have to, and because lawsuits based on not paying attention are just not acceptable or common.

I’m not saying this is entirely good. The other day, we were cycling along, and discovered the road was closed. However, there was a small opening for pedestrians and cyclists. We proceeded forth and entered a construction pit. Metal panels had been laid down as a makeshift cycling or walking path and we muddled our way through the site, around tractors and drop offs. It felt adventurous in a way, but if we’d gotten hurt, we would be on our “onus.”

I suppose the European coddling comes in the form of health care, quality education and other services provided for free or at a very low cost, and the multiple, paid vacations.  I much prefer this type of coddling. And, paying attention is empowering!

Commuting by Bike in Holland

Upon arrival, one of the first things our Dutch family provided for us, besides a ride from the airport and a place to sleep, was a pair of bicycles. Nice bikes. Not a gift, but bikes on loan until we had our own. It seems a Dutch man without a bicycle is like an American man without a car. Sure, it happens, but, it causes great inconvenience and dare I say, a bit of class prejudice should you not be properly fit with a bicycle in your stable.

As I pulled up to my Dutch class on my sister-n-law’s bicycle, a classmate saw me. “Leuke fiets,” she said (nice bike). Afraid I was coming off as a rich American woman, I felt compelled to explain it wasn’t mine, but only on loan. In other circumstances, I let the illusion run its course. But more important than looks, is the experience of cycling in the land of bicycles.

I’ve noticed some major differences between cycling here and in the U.S. First, hardly anyone wears a helmet. Although my default position is that everyone should wear a helmet, it does seem much safer here to hop on your bike; Auto drivers seem keenly aware of cyclists,  and almost without fail, give you the right of way. Dedicated bike paths run parallel to the roads, sometimes a part of the road, sometimes separated by a row of trees or sidewalk. All types of people cycle here. Old, young, Dutch, Indonesian, African, businessmen and women, moms with kids, politicians and diplomats.

Dutch cyclists also lack road rage. If you accidentally, say, try to pass someone to try to keep up with your much faster and bolder Dutch husband, and have to cut back in too soon to avoid a bicycle head on with oncoming cyclists, the person who’s space you’ve just compromised doesn’t start yelling at you. Instead, they say their not-so-nice things calmly to your back, as if having a pleasant conversation.  If a car blocks the bike path, the birdies don’t fly. Instead, cyclists flow around the car, like water in a river readjusting its course around an obstacle. On occasion, as you wait at one of the many bike stop lights next to another cyclist, they’ll strike up a 15 second conversation with you. They are friendly and relaxed.

Cycling seems like a natural time to take in the scenery, feel your legs pumping, the cool air flowing in and out of your lungs. It almost feels like the daily commute has transformed into a moving meditation. And then along comes a moped. They honk for you to get out of the way, not the gentle bell of a faster cyclist, but a honk akin to that of an automobile. When you wait at a traffic signal, suddenly that crisp cool Dutch air is filled with moped fumes. They rev their mopeds when the light turns green, ensuring an extra inhalation of gas fumes as you start pedaling.

I’m sure I’m not alone in my annoyance, and just as soon as my Dutch is good enough, I will join that activist group out there that wants mopeds to return to the main roads where they belong.

I do notice that on the weekends, the number of bikes in the city decreases. It’s as if everyone decides to get their cars out for a weekend drive. This is in stark contrast to the U.S. phenomenon of the weekend warrior going for a 50 mile bike ride in their neon outfit, or taking the Harley off of it’s red carpet in the garage and trading in the suit and tie for leather, jeans and a red bandana. My brother-n-law Cornelis, a sensible lawyer, had a simple explanation; cycling is the fastest way around the city during the work week. On the weekend, it’s not so crowded, so people use their cars. Call me a romantic, but I thought it was about the Dutch zeal for the fiets! (bicycle)

Coming up next: Ezra studies the Heelal (universe)