2015: The Newsletter

2015 "In Quotes"

"I don't remember anything from when I was a monkey."

-Nate, not quite understanding evolution.

"Oh, I've missed you so much!"

-Mia, in the candy aisle at Target during our 1st trip back to the US this Summer.

"[Something closely related to intelligible English]."

-Sam, trying to explain whatever it is that happens on Minecraft.

"The music major in me says this is wrong, but the nostalgic '80's kid in me says this is so right."

-Donna, introducing the kids to the song "We Are The World" on YouTube.

"I've never heard this song...who are these people?"

-Mark, also apparently introduced to the song for the first time, which led to a lengthy discussion about who's childhood was better.

"I just miss our old house. The walls were already scratched."

-Nate, bemoaning our move to another apartment in Amsterdam. Also, kid logic.

"Le Meeghraaahnshay?"

-Cashier at a McDonald's in France, when I ordered a McRancher.

"So when you buy something for the kids, do you always do so with a plan of how to get rid of it?"

-Mark, interrogating Donna about her gift-giving strategy. The answer is yes.

"You're the best mom ever!"

-All 3 kids whenever I'm doing something of questionable judgment, such as allowing them unlimited screen time, making dessert for dinner, or getting a dog as a consolation prize for not moving back to the US. 

Finally, "We wish you all, both near and far, a joyful and happy 2016."

Sam (10), Donna, Nate (7), Mark, Mia (12)

'Merica: Four Years Later

You Guys.

In America, people say hello to you while out running on trails. For no reason whatsoever.

And they drive huge cars, and sit in traffic for hours, and live in gigantic houses. They're friendly and helpful, and they scare me when they randomly talk to me in English because I forget that I can actually understand them.

It's like some crazy foreign land. And the weirdest thing was how not weird everything felt, even after four years away -- like riding a bicycle. Which we did not do in America unless we were far away from cars, and securely wearing helmets and spandex. Just like a bunch of American dorks.

We flew to Seattle and immediately went to Chipotles, where we drank from cups as big as my head. Then we refilled them because of FREEDOM. (We're patriotic like that.) I consumed my weight in Barq's root beer. And as it turns out, free ice water at restaurants completes me.

Oh America, you do keep us well-hydrated.

We spent the majority of time in Seattle stuck in traffic jams, it didn't matter what time of day. Yes, I took pictures of it.

This is called: Tuesday, 11:30 AM

I drove for the first time in four years. My parents lent us their van, complete with mini-blinds, a built-in television, and boat seats like Lazy Boys. As far the kids were concerned, it was the lap of luxury.

It's smaller than the vans we had while I was growing up-- no bus driver's license required. 

We reacquainted ourselves with the suburbs of the Pacific Northwest, visiting friends and staying with family. I went for a run one morning and saw a bear. Yes, a BEAR. I debated saying hello, because that seemed to be a thing, but instead ran away as fast as I could. I hope it wasn't offended.

We were at Target within 24 hours, where my kids had aneurysms in the candy and snack aisle. Or so it must have seemed to anyone in proximity.

Don't mind us, we're just getting our America on. 

Not everything lived up to our expectations. Costco has changed its hot dog and churro recipes, and discontinued its Mango Salsa. For this, there is no forgiveness. Guess I'll just have to get my 13 lb bags of baking soda and packages of 24 Sharpies elsewhere. Wait -- damn it, Costco it is.

It needs to be said: American washing machines are nothing short of miraculous. American public toilet stalls are nothing short of the worst invasion of privacy ever. It's no wonder Americans don't care about the NSA. Europeans might bare everything at the beach, but they do not tolerate making eye contact with strangers in the middle of a poo. Thanks OBAMA. And MONSANTO. And VACCINATIONS.

We met Mark's mom in Montana, and spent a few days surrounded by bikers (the other kind) on their way to the Sturgis Motorcycle Rally in South Dakota, most of whom looked exactly like Gobber the Belch. But they're all doctors and lawyers who grow their beards out just for rally week. You think people on normal salaries drive Harleys? Ha, no.

We found American Way in Missoula, Montana. It had a China Bowl and Little Hong Kong restaurant, which seemed fitting.

We didn't even make it to downtown Seattle, or eat enough Mexican food, but we talked, and talked, and laughed, and talked, and laughed, and reconnected with so many people that we love, which I'm deeply grateful for. And 27 days was not enough time because we only went to four states and didn't get to see nearly enough of our peeps, which I'm deeply sad about.

I'm also sad that I didn't spend the entire time shoving my face with Reeses Peanut Butter Cups. Hashtag regrets.

Thanks for all the ice water America, and thanks for not giving us measles. Actually, for that, thanks VACCINATIONS.

Moving House or The Art of Avoidance

The number one thing on my list today is finishing our US taxes*. And hard as it is to tear myself away from that barrel of monkeys, my gut says it's time to write. So writing it is.

Too bad, tax monkeys.

Tax deadline for expats is June 15th, which is also moving day for us. Not back to the US, but to another place in Amsterdam. Our soon-to-be apartment has two(!) toilets, an adorably tiny office, steep Dutch stairs, a garden, and lovely high ceilings with those carvings and architectural details and whatnot (pretty sure that's the technical term). We'll have a dryer and a proper oven for the first time in four years.

We'll bike to school through Vondelpark, which will practically be our back yard. We'll be two doors down from a vintage furniture shop, and a few minutes walk from the only decent place to get Mexican food in Amsterdam. I'm a bit giddy. In short, I really think we might not ever move again.

Just kidding, we're totally moving back in a year. And everyone knows by now that when we say that, we MEAN it.

Here, it's common to use a realtor to find rentals (we didn't), as well as negotiate rental terms as you would buying a house. We viewed the place and bid on it in the same day (did I mention it has whatnots?), in an effort to show how serious we were even without a realtor. Which is also why we very carefully cut out the magazine letters for our offer letter and put "This is a serious rental offer!!!!!" on the top with a heart dotting the i so they would know we were just the right mix of responsible and cute.

Actually we did it all the negotiating via email while traveling, and in our desperation to snag a place with a garden, we brushed off the tiny detail that the new place is unfurnished while our current apartment is furnished. Ha ha, didn't seem like such a big deal at the time.

That's OK, because to avoid thinking about all the things we'll need to buy, I've been distracting myself by arranging all the furniture that we don't have in my head. Avoidance is fabulously therapeutic.

Go away tax monkeys.

Maybe we should renew our vows and do another wedding registry. Coincidentally, we just had our 17th wedding anniversary, which according to the anniversary gift list, is the furniture year. Convenient! We'll go to Ikea together and see if we can make it to 18.

To celebrate our anniversary we went out for a rather bland brunch, where an American tourist sat with us and then joined us to view an exhibit of the 2014 World Press Photo winners. That's right, we celebrated 17 years of marriage by looking at disturbing photos of war zones and human atrocities with a complete stranger. There's an analogy there, I know it.

Oops-- no time to think about that anymore. Time for taxes.



*If you didn't see my Facebook post: when I opened up our tax return from last year, I saw that I listed my occupation as "Lady of Leisure," and now I'm trying to decide what to put for this year. So far I've got: Avoidance-art Specialist, Homecoming Queen Runner-Up, and Barrel and Monkey Facilitator. Hit me with your best suggestions. 

Blimey, Time for an Update

Funny how my "write every day" resolution resulted in the opposite. Next year, I will resolve to not write a single word, and see if my rebellious soul decides to write a novel instead.

A rundown of the past few months, give or take four:

1. After 3 1/2 years in Amsterdam, I FINALLY got to send the following text to a friend about her son: "Ummmm, so xxxx just fell in a Canal. Mark is bringing him home." Xxxx was just fine, but this is the reason why the Dutch school curriculum includes swimming lessons, where every child learns to swim fully dressed, and getting your first Zwem Diploma is possibly a bigger deal than graduating from college.

The canal episode happened in the nearby park, on our way to bury Squeaky the hamster, who crawled under his hamster ladder and died on Mia's 12th birthday. Because that was the kind of day it was. RIP Squeaky, in your pizza-box coffin. Not cool the way you made me cry though you were smaller than a grapefruit.

2. We revisited our decision to move back to the US this Summer. The days have been so gorgeous lately, we had no option but to extend one more year, despite the utter foolishness of it. There is just something about riding your granny bike along the canals of Amsterdam on a bright Spring morning that breaks your heart wide open and whispers to you that you will only ever leave this place kicking and screaming. I wonder what would happen if we tried to make this decision in the bleakness of a Dutch Winter, fighting on our bikes against a bitter headwind...

3. Mark turned 41. We started a new tradition: cake apologies.




4. As I was coming home one night, I was stopped by two young men trying to drive to the city center. Our street is currently a mess of construction, and the intersection was entirely blocked off. As I was thinking of the best route to tell them, an older woman walked by and with zero hesitation or timidity let us all know, "There's no way to get to Centrum. The whole place is a mess. You just need to turn around and go home right now." This was, of course, not true, but I just loved the unapologetic gutsiness of it. Definitely one of the top 5 Most Dutch things I've ever witnessed.

5. This is our friend Aaron, giving 12 kids a ride in a mega bakfiets while wearing a kilt. Just one of those things that might happen here any given Sunday.

Some people just like to blend in. 

6. A Dutch friend invited Nate to join his baseball team, which was when we realized Nate probably has no idea what Baseball is. As we were explaining it, Sam piped up: "Oh, I know that game! It's where you try to hit a ball with a stick." 

Oh, sometimes we suck at being American. However, word has it the American kids are infecting the poor British kids at our school with their alarming American "twang"-- like a virus. Which is why I'll be teaching my kids to say, "dude, no taxation without representation!" 

What will happen to us when we ever move back?

I'll think about that next January. 

How Do You Say First World Angst In French?

We spent last week in the French Alps for the kids' midwinter break. Which sounds much more sophisticated than it is. Not that it was a bad trip, but the sentence we spent last week in the French Alps for the kid's midwinter break just really doesn't convey the reality of family travel, which has plenty of reality in it, even in the French Alps.

Cue the battle with pretentiousness that is blogging whilst expatting, embodied in the use of the word whilst. 

Cue Gwenyth Paltrow: "Oh, we've just returned from skiing in the French Alps, and darling, it was just lovely. You've been of course? By the way, I'm a perfect perfectly normal person and totally get what it's like for the peons. I was just telling that to my 24-hour-on-call eyebrow stylist the other day." 

Cue me just telling an amusing story and calling it a day. 

We spent our last night in France in a tiny village near the Belgian border. For dinner, we drove down to the McDonald's by the highway. The official story is that there was nothing else around besides a Chinese Palace. The unofficial story is that after a week in France we were not even a little bit disappointed. We were giddy at the thought of familiar food, and a place where French kids do, in fact, throw food and get fat. 

The best part of McDonalds is that the sandwich names are all in English, even in France. So I approached the counter and started off our order with "un McRancher, s'il vous plait." Blank stare from the teenage girl. I pointed at the large "McRancher" sign, and she says, " ahhh, le Meeghraaahnshay?" 

[At this point, it takes the slightest second for my brain to register what just happened. Then there is a short pause while I'm sure we were both controlling the urge to laugh each other out of town.]

Oui. Le meeghraaahnshay.  

Yep, that happened. Tarantino totally nailed it. 

This after driving all day through French countryside that wasn't so different from the drive from Seattle to Portland, just minus a few Toyotas and volcanoes, and plus a few more Renaults and castle ruins, but still with plenty of whining, fighting, and poking from the backseat, amid stops for bad truck stop food (that's right, even France has bad truck stop food, a teaser for our bad American fast food dinner.) 

So when you're on your US road trip this Summer, and maybe feeling a little deflated that you're not traveling around Europe, just remember that even Europeans dream of visiting American National Parks. And when you stop in McDonalds for lunch, you can order a McRancher, and say it with a big nasally a, and curl that r like you're sneering at some pretentious expat writing her snobby travel posts. 

OK, kids, just act cool. Self-aware, not too pretentious, still grateful, not braggy. Like you're not at all complaining about having to vacation by a beautiful lake in the Alps, with random castles to take pictures in front of. Then we'll go to McDonalds, I promise. 

#CrazyNewYearIdea

Guys, I just had a brainflash: since it's a brand new year, let's all think of new things we're going to do this year! Kind of like things we're going to resolve to do. Seriously guys, I don't know where I come up with things. Rev.oh.lut.ion.ar.y.

I'll go first. In 2015:

I resolve to stop making fun of hashtags. #somuchmorethantictactoe #hardresolutions

I resolve to take more high-def photos with blurry backgrounds of homemade drinks in mason jars. I didn't take nearly enough mason jar beverage photos in 2014, and this needs to be remedied. #ASAP

I resolve to do nothing lest it is hacked. Figuratively, literally, technically, ironically, emotionally... I'm going to hack the crap out of 2015. #hackityhack

I resolve to send all my mail in felt envelopes with felt heart stamps and zig zag stitches where the address should be. #reallyusefulpinterestideas

I resolve to high-five anyone I see wearing rolled skinny jeans with no socks. I will high-five them with anti-fungal cream. #hipsteroutreach

I resolve to put little pirate flags on sliced melons. #pirattitude

I resolve to improve my facial expressions in five easy steps. #selfiestickforchristmas

I resolve to make tiny bows to adorn all my paperclips, which I'll put on reminder notes that say Time is precious, don't waste it.  #wisdom #papercliphack #adorn #yolobow

I resolve to finally learn the 13 things my camera wishes I knew. #2014regrets


Any you?
Happy New Year. 

2014: The Newsletter

...even though it's not actually a newsletter... Wonder when the kids will figure out that I do this every year? 

2014 "In Quotes"

"Can you just walk in a straight line? Please? Just walk straight?"

-Donna's constant refrain to Sam and Nate anytime they are walking, ever.

"That's right, I'm a contrarian!" 

Mia, gleefully discovering a label she can fully embrace. Tweendom, we have arrived.

"So we're staying? Moving? Which is it again? ...Have we decided?" 
-This was more or less the bulk of all our conversations from January through April, indicating our prolonged indecisiveness about returning to the US. Looks like we'll be moving back in the Summer of 2015. Right Honey? We're sure about that?

"Mom, look how brave I am."
-Nate, sitting on the couch, picking his nose.

"Can I get a drone?"

-Sam, moments before his first crushing disappointment.

"In my defense, they were very heavy pancakes."

-Mark, attempting to justify tearing his rotator cuff while lifting a serving platter full of pancakes.  

"But I have really bad goosebumps." 

-the reason Sam couldn't get off the couch to set the table.

"Missed my flight from Budapest (haha). Send cc#, urgent." 

-Donna, in a text sent to Mark at 2 AM outside of the central train station in Brussels. Long story. 

"What's a twinkie?"

-Mia, Sam, and Nate's unison response to an offhand comment. Not sure if we're failing or winning as parents.

"He doesn't like to hear people chewing. It's a thing." 
-Our explanation to guests as to why Sam sits in another room wearing earphones while we eat. Good times.

"That's OK Mom, we all know that you just say 'mmm-hhhmmm' when you're not really listening." 
-Mia, after Donna was caught not listening to Nate go on and on and on about Star Wars. Just one of the billion times Nate went on and on about Star Wars this year. And on and on and on...

"I think we've lived in Europe too long. I was eavesdropping on an American couple with Southern accents, and I couldn't understand a word they said."
-Donna, shocked to realize that after three years in Amsterdam, American accents now sound foreign. Win? 

Not technically a quote, but no annual review would be complete without Nate's sweet dance moves:

We wish you all, near and far, a wonderful holiday season and a joyous 2015. 

Donna, Mark, Mia (11), Sam (9), and Nate (6) 

Let's Not Talk About Christmas

This post is not about Christmas.

But I bet Christmas is going to think it is. That's just like Christmas, you know? Thinking everything is all about it.

I'm not really on speaking terms with Christmas right now.

I mean sure, Christmas acts all sweet and innocent, like everyone's darling, but in reality, Christmas will borrow your favorite sweater and then return it with a big stain. Like we're not going to notice. So there, Christmas, everyone knows now.

But I'm not talking about that.

Instead, you know what is way more interesting than Christmas? Dutch bathrooms.

That's right. Just about every Dutch house has a WC (pronounced vay-say)-- a small room with only a toilet and an adorably tiny sink. There is an entirely separate room for the shower and vanity. Again, Europeans seem to understand bathroom needs so much better than Americans.

Exhibit A: our WC. Sorry, I didn't clean it for you. 

Oddly, however, the Dutch use their WC as the display spot for the family birthday calendar. Why? So you can always associate the birthday of your loved ones with pushing out big turds?

This is why I love Dutchies.

The Dutch love modern bathrooms, or at least, Amsterdammers do. You don't see French Country bathrooms, or Craftsman style, or shabby chic. It's all ultra-modern, sleek, and minimal. I've never seen so many open showers and Ikea cabinetry.

My husband broke the toilet seat on our ultra-modern, hidden-cistern, square-shaped toilet recently. You can imagine the nicknames we have for him now. I assure you, they are all exactly what you're thinking. We looked into the replacement. 220 euro.

Two hundred and twenty euro for a toilet seat. And it doesn't wipe your bum or do your taxes.

I don't even understand the world anymore.

By the way, did you know you can buy used toilet seats on Amazon?

And let's just add to all the potty talk with this tidbit: if you're putting together a puzzle of the Sistine Chapel, chances are absurdly high that on any given puzzle piece there is going to be a penis. I'd say at least a 75% chance, from personal experience. Just really makes you think of the Sistine Chapel in a different light.

Take that Christmas. And guess what? On Christmas Eve, we're going to Istanbul. Not many people care about you in Istanbul,  if you can imagine. And when we come back, I'm going to put away all your stuff, and not think about you again for at least 11 months. Maybe 10 1/2, because dammit I need to get started earlier next year.

When I Grow Up (I Should Really Have This Figured Out By Now)

In the 2nd grade, I wanted to be a stand-up comedian.

By 3rd grade, I predicted in an essay that I was going to be a "computer whiz" while married to a prince, and running my own clothing store.

Pretty big dreams for a young girl in America, whose only computer experience involved Typing Tutor and making greeting cards on Word Perfect.

Eventually, I went through a mid-childhood crisis, lost all sense of direction in my big bangs phase, and at some point thought I might be an actress. Toward the end of high school I was briefly fixated with Music Therapy. Problem was, I couldn't ever figure out exactly what Music Therapists do.

In college, I started out in Psychology, at one point dabbled in Biology, thought about Geology, Interior Design, and finally ended up with a degree in Performing Arts. By the time I graduated, I was working as a personal trainer at a women's gym, while managing the apartment complex we lived in.

Mia came along, then 2 more children, and it's now been 11 years since I've been in any paid employment position. So what now? Computer whiz?

What were you going to be when you grew up?

Fun fact: Francine Pascal, author of the Sweet Valley High series, didn't go to her own prom, and wasn't that into High School. She preferred writing political commentary.

I Have a Reading Disorder

My "Oh I didn't know I was taking a picture of myself" selfie.*

Literally, my reading is disordered. Specifically, it happens in this order: beginning, end, middle.

Yep, I skip ahead and pre-read the end of every book I start. I never read the end last. Never. And, yes, every single book. Doesn't matter if I'm enjoying the book or not. Doesn't even matter if it's non-fiction.

Are you freaking out now?

When you see a spoiler alert, you probably cover your eyes and run away? Not me. I love them. In fact, please do tell me how your favorite book or movie ends. Actually, let me guess: he gets the girl? The beloved dog/horse/mythical creature dies? The world is saved? They figure out the secret code just in the nick of time? She becomes a vampire and has vampire babies?

**Spoiler Alert** I'm going to go ahead and tell you how this blog post ends: I kill off the character you've grown to love. Sucks, but that elf on the shelf had it coming. And then I ask a question, like all good blog posts, and that question is: can you believe how much more complicated the actual US criminal investigation and prosecution system is than its TV counterpart?? Guys, I feel betrayed.

Back to the reading thing-- I know, you are horrified. You think it's wrong, unnatural, immoral maybe. And I tell you I was born like this. I can't help it; I'm chronologically challenged. Even as a child I couldn't understand why Grover didn't just peek at the last page to get a glimpse of the monster. Why, Grover, why?

You know what's horrible and unnatural? People reading an entire book that they hate, just to see how it ends. Recently, my husband was reading a terrible book**, and he complained constantly about how awful it was, how it was literary assault and battery. And then he would pick that book right back up and read more of it, groaning and writhing the entire time.

Me: Why do you keep reading it?

Mark: Because I have to find out how it ends. No matter how painful it is. What if the end makes it worth it?

Me: Maybe you should just peek and see.

Mark: WHAT???!! That would be a crime against literature! I'm just going to have to suffer for... 157 more pages.

Me: You're sick. You need help.

Endings don't save books. An unsatisfying ending might tarnish, or even ruin, an otherwise good book, but if the middle (i.e. the plot and characters and conflict and development) is bad, then it's just a bad book. End of story.***

It's not just that I peek at the end to scandalize civilized people, or to see if it's worth it to keep reading. There's a bigger, deeper reason: I skip to the end, because once I know what's going to happen, I can relax, and enjoy how it gets there. Provided I think it's a book worth finishing, of course. (Guys, stop feeling obligated to read bad books!)

So it all comes down to suspense. Suspense, and my supreme aversion to it.

You might say that it's in human nature to enjoy suspense-- isn't that the point of all entertainment? To keep us in suspense until the end?

I say no. Think about a book or movie that you love. I mean, your house is on fire and you grab it before your children and pets LOVE. Chances are you've watched it or read it a second time or more, even though you already knew what was going to happen.

And once you know how it's going to end, by definition the suspense is over. But there is still tension, created by conflict. And that's what's in human nature to enjoy-- conflict and resolution. And we can watch or read that over and over, knowing full well what happens in advance, and it's actually very satisfying.

Like this:

Feels good, doesn't it? 

So after the many conversations I've had with people about my reading disorder, I've decided that there are two kinds of people in the world:

Those who will never skip ahead, and those who always skip ahead.

If you're in the first category, you are in the majority, and quite frankly, you probably waste a significant amount of time.

If you're in the second category, we are soul mates, and chances are you also hate click-bate with a passion.

So, which one are you?


*Crap, selfies are hard. Props to Kim Kardashian.
**OK, not the actual book he was reading, but I couldn't resist.
***Mmm-hmmm. Pun intended. 

photo credit: Michael Kappel via photopin cc

Silesia: Europe's Forgotten Corner

So far, while traveling in Europe, we've stuck with major cities, and haven't wandered too far off the tourist's path. Until, after a lengthy rabbit-hole session on Airbnb, we ended up heading to the Silesia region of Poland.

The where now?

Yes, exactly.

Guys, you can stay in legit old palaces there, and not like the L.A. Best Western Royal Palace Inn. Your stucco palace facade isn't fooling anyone Best Western.

And in Silesia, palace stays are actually affordable.

They're also half-way run down, but so is everything there. But it's a quaint sort of run down. Let's just call it vintage.

Silesia is here, tucked between the Czech Republic and Germany:

Silesia, more or less.

And it is certainly off the beaten tourist track. We got to brush up on our pantomiming skills, and it was challenging to find places to eat that were not depressingly similar to all-you-can-eat buffets in American strip malls, circa 1992, with the added adventure of all-Polish menus.

On the plus side, my hair was looking fabulous this day. 

But it is also beautiful. And for centuries, Silesia was kind of a big deal, and extravagant buildings, country houses, palaces, and castles dominated the countryside, mixed in with tiny farms and towns.

You see what I'm talking about. I don't think many people think of Poland like this. 

I'm going to go historic on you for a minute, so hang tight.

Before WWII, Silesia was actually part of Germany. But when the boundaries of Poland were redrawn in the aftermath, the three million mostly German inhabitants were suddenly living in Poland-- they were asked, maybe forced, to leave. And as the region emptied, two million displaced Poles from other areas moved in, directly in to the newly abandoned homes and structures.

Am I the only one who finds this fascinating?

Almost the entire population has no roots in the region going back any further than 70 years. The actual people, not just the ruling powers, have completely changed. It's an area with a long history, and no history at all.

After WWII, the Communist government prohibited private ownership, so the country houses and estates, though stripped and plundered, were largely left empty and the majority sat abandoned for decades. Some were used by collective farm workers. Most are now in ruins, or in dire need of restoration. And they are all over the region.

This absolutely gorgeous castle was deserted and mostly unused for 70 years.
It's currently being restored, and open for tours (in Polish). 

Today the beauty of the region pervades, stamped with evidence of past extravagance,  sprinkled with the grit and neglect of communism. It is bleak, and beautiful, and bizarre.

We stayed in one such charming, dilapidated palace dating from the 1300's, currently being restored painstaking detail by painstaking detail, by a lovely British/Polish family with 5 kids. The oldest two girls, hilariously extroverted, ran our kids around the property, showing them all their little magical spots and corners, playing in falling-down barns ("just watch out for the holes in the floor"), and running in terror from the evil cockerel that hated children. We picked the last raspberries of the season from the garden, tossed bread to the geese in the "moat", and explored every last bit of the palace, all the way up to the tower.

Then we drove around and around, in and out of the Czech Republic, and through Polish villages, over hillsides, and came back each evening to sit by the fireplace.

Oh look, another beautiful castle. 

A beautifully restored building on the Czech side.
This was one of my favorites. 

It was absolutely enchanting.

(OK, so I also played a fair amount of Sudoku, did not write a single word for a week, and the kids spent every second of every drive on an electronic device. But still, everyone was happy and our marriage stayed in tact. So I say, enchanting.)

 Just remember, we went there before anyone else.

Get Me Off This Crazy Holiday Train

In honor of the arrival of Sinterklaas in Amsterdam today, here's a post from last year describing the holiday season in The Netherlands. 

On November 11th, we celebrated the holiday of Sint Maartens. It's kind of Dutch Halloween in that it involves children going door to door soliciting candy, but with more singing, and less sexy pizza costumes. Instead of dressing up, the kids carry home-made lanterns while singing songs about Sint Maarten (Saint Martin) and in return, get candy. Or maybe mandarin oranges. Or, if they're really lucky, peanuts and black licorice. 

Just days later, Sinterklaas (Saint Nicholas) and his Zwarte Pieten (Black Petes) arrived in Amsterdam, and the holiday festivities kicked into high gear. If you're not familiar with the celebration of Sinter Klaas, it is not associated with Christmas in any way, and is instead an entirely harmless and joyful celebration of cardboard-flavored cookies, smelly shoes stuffed with candy, obnoxious wrapping paper, and the timeless tradition of dressing up in black-face and then insisting that it's not racist. 

Martha Stewart is offended. 

This year we've learned more about two more components of the Sinterklaas tradition: The Surprise, and what I like to call The Poetry Slam. The Surprise is a small, inexpensive gift that is given as part of a gift exchange, but it has to be wrapped in a creative and handmade way, reflecting the hobbies or interests of the person receiving the gift. So if the person enjoys online Gaming, for example, you might turn a box into a game console, but leave it empty to represent the sad and lonely void they are trying to fill. Then you make a poem where you gently make fun of the person, such as: "You play so many online games, guess that makes you super lames." But you would go on and on until you've crushed their soul and extinguished every last flame of confidence and self-esteem. It's all in good fun. 

We were introduced to the poems when we went to a Sinterklaas event in an old fishing village, turned outdoor museum, turned Zwarte Piet village for the day. Toward the end of the day we stopped in the Rhyme House, where two of the Petes helped the kids write silly poems in Dutch. We spent about 20 minutes in the cottage, just us and the 2 Petes making rhymes, until a woman came in and demanded to know what we were doing. I was about to answer, well, we're just sitting here, writing poetry with two white women who are dressed up like black men in Renaissance clothes. However, that wasn't what she meant-- as it turned out the village had closed 15 minutes earlier, and we needed to leave. Oh, right. We'll just leave then-- not like we were looking for a reason to get out of this entirely normal, and not at all awkward situation...

Sinterklaas and Zwarte Piet are beloved by the Dutch, and when I say beloved it is in an excessive enunciate-all-three-syllables kind of way. BE-LOV-ED. The holiday is associated with fun and frivolity, and all things happy and silly. Do not suggest to a Dutch person that the tradition has racist origins, and propagates stereotypes in an alarming, if bizarrely well-intentioned, way. Criticizing Zwarte Piet would be like suggesting to an American that apple pie tastes like communism. Or more realistically, pointing out that Thanksgiving can be a painful and unpleasant day for Native Americans. This will be equally ill-received. But, but-- carbohydrates!! Besides, it's not like we continue to propagate hurtful stereotypes of Native Americans. Now, shhhh, the Redskins game is on.  

I'm sure that, thanks to their commitment to inclusion and tolerance, the Dutch will eventually find a way to uphold the spirit of this unique holiday while modernizing the implementation. And by the time they do, I promise you, Americans will still be dressing in war paint to cheer for a football team. 

Speaking of Thanksgiving-- here is how you might celebrate Thanksgiving if you are an American living in Amsterdam. First you will have to find a poultry seller, whom you can order a turkey from in advance, and then pay the equivalent of $70 USD for it. When you pick up the bird, it will in no way resemble the prepackaged, sanitized, vacuum-packed meat lump you have bought previously in America, but will look exactly like what it is: a recently slaughtered animal carcass, which you will schlep across town on your bike and drop off with your friend, who will have to remove the remaining feathers and other tidbits before cooking it. You will then make a run to the local American import store to pick up some exorbitantly priced canned pumpkin, and where you might not be able to resist the allure of Reeses Peanut Butter cups, even at almost $4 a package. You will spend the day cooking and baking in your compact European kitchen with your compact European appliances. Then you will load up your family and half of a Thanksgiving dinner on your bikes, and ride to your friend's house while hoping she doesn't hate you for the turkey carcass. The evening will be spent in the celebration of imported Stove Top Stuffing, with friends who have become your family abroad, while thanking God for your innate ability to happen to live in a country where you are blissfully unaware of anything having to do with Black Friday. But the next morning you will arise at 4 AM anyway to head to your favorite discount store, bang on the doors until it opens 5 hours later, and threaten to beat the crap out of anyone who gets in your way. Ahhh, traditions. 

That's how we might have done it. Who knows really? Glutenous holiday binges leave me a bit confused-- we may have started celebrating Hanukkah somewhere in there too, for all I know. However, I do know that Sinterklaas has his last hurrah on December 5th, and that Christmas in the Netherlands will officially begin on the 6th. At which point I will blast some holiday music, pull out the decorations, write a to-do list, and in the true essence of Christmas, stick my head in the dryer and cry. 

Dutched Up!: The Book (Pssst I'm In It!)

Did I ever tell you about the time I emotionally wounded a bus driver during our 2nd month in Amsterdam?

No? Well, now you can read it in a new book about expat life in The Netherlands. A new book that my writing is featured in!


Oh, did I ever tell you about the time I was published in a book?

No? Well, crap, it's like we never tell each other ANYTHING anymore.

OK, actually, I've been saving this little secret for a while, and can finally tell you all about it.

A little over a month ago, I found out my submissions were accepted for an anthology of expat stories put together by a group of women bloggers in The Netherlands.
A few months before that, I had been introduced by a new blogging friend to said group of women bloggers, and I decided to submit something.
All because almost a year ago, I met said blogging friend at a writing workshop that I had signed up for in an act of comfort-zone defiance.

And today, I have two stories in a book. An actual available-on-Amazon book! And not the kind that my kids staple together and begrudgingly let me sign as a ghostwriter (though Mia and the Pirates is a work I'm damn proud of).

Are you an expat in The Netherlands? Maybe you're planning on moving here? Perhaps you married a Dutchie, or have Dutch family? Just have an extensive collection of windmill souvenirs? Then this book is for you!

Dutched Up! is available electronically right now through Amazon and iTunes, paperback version coming soon.





I'm honored to be among the contributors-- some fabulous women and writers are on the list-- and thrilled to be part of this project. Thankful, happy, and amazed.

Amsterdam's Other Famous Windows

photo credit: monsterpants via photopin cc

So Amsterdam has some famous windows. But if you really want to see people in their underwear, or less, there's little need to venture into the Red Light District.

For the voyeurs, for those who are house-curious, and for those who are just generally judgmental, there's no better place than Amsterdam-- where homes are adjacent to sidewalks and the windows, more often than not, are clean, bare and tantalizing.

Don't underestimate your latent peekosity* until you live in a place where windows are wide open for the peeking, day and night**. And it's not just the clean houses or the ones with professional interior designers. Amsterdammers let it all hang out, and it's totally refreshing: the piles, the paperwork, the laundry hanging to dry, the remnants of breakfast still on the table, the odd naked person, and the occasional collection of taxidermied Boar heads.

To the Dutch, an open window signals you have nothing to hide. Their lives are open books, and what's more, you can literally read the open book on their dining room window as you pass by.

But if you have just a little bit to hide, there are opaque films you can stick on your windows, obscuring as much or as little as you want. And for those with a lot more to hide, say a dead body, or perhaps a regrettable Ikea purchase, there are sheers***.

It helps, for both the view in and out, that the windows here are huge. Credit given where credit is due: Amsterdam has figured out that the secret to living in a gray climate is to have enormous windows, to keep them as unencumbered as possible, and then not to care. Take note, Seattle.

It's just more interesting all around that way.



*TM. Really wish there was a word for voyeurism that is not sexual in nature. OK, there's nosy, but you know, something with a more positive connotation.
**Generally, only bedroom curtains are closed at night. 
***Actually, after three years in Amsterdam, I don't think there are many things that would fall under the category of "something to hide." Or rather, whatever is behind the odd closed curtain is probably something I really don't want to see. 

Hook Your Audience With a Pretentious Lead in 4 Steps (or Let's Have Some Tea and Talk About Snarky Things)

Step One: Choose one of the myriad obnoxious sentences available to you when you live in Europe: I recently discovered a little gem of a corner bakery near my kid's school.

Step Two: Review your opening sentence, and raise it one flaunty detail: I rode past it on my bike one glorious Amsterdam morning.

Step Three: Just keep that pretentious ball rolling: And, in this adorable bakery (where I'm sitting right now), next to the adorable rustic counter, is this adorable little sign:

Step Four: Post a picture with a trendy vintage filter.

Congrats-- your audience is hooked.  So let's talk about happy things, and be adorable!

Step Four, part b: Pull the old bait and switch: Except surprise! I'm just not that blogger. Nothing against happy and adorable things here, so long as they're also slightly mockable. But, do go make yourself some tea, and let's talk about snarky things.

Back to this little corner bakery-- it's actually called The Corner Bakery. Which is not at all surprising in a city where the two most important historic churches are called The Old Church, and The New Church. If there was a tradition of naming houses here, like in England, I guarantee you every single house would be named The Brick House.

Speaking of traditions, so it was just Halloween, and you know what that means in The Netherlands? For one thing, it means that we bought our candy at full price, and that this is the extent of the Halloween section at the biggest toy store chain:

It also means that my daughter is blissfully unaware of sexy Ebola Nurse costumes, and that's fine by me. Oh Halloween, you're my favorite holiday, but sometimes you are the worst.

I bought a toy lightsaber for Nate's Darth Vader costume, and it wasn't even 2 hours before that decision became the biggest regret of my life. Even more than my thespian phase in high school.

Oh regret, you demon you. (Dibs for next year's costume, no copying. You can be the Ogre of Guilt.)

In our Amsterdam neighborhood, we do get to trick-or-treat, but only if you find out about the secret registration time-slots, and pay to participate. It's a blast, but my kids got mostly lollies and Haribo gummies. What the cuss! I was only barely tempted to raid their stash. Barely. But I still did.

Speaking of first-world problems, my 11 year-old is starting to get some serious B.O. When she didn't believe me, I tucked her nose in her armpit for a sensory learning experience. She came up gagging, "what is that?!" Oh sweetie, it's the stench of pubescent mutiny beginning to rage in your body. Wait til you start bleeding out of your vagina for days at a time! 

Let's file that under things I need to delete before my kids start reading this blog. Note: the Dutch word for adolescent is puber. Because of course it is.

Speaking of things that smell bad: GamerGate. Why can I not look away? I'm not even a gamer, but I suppose as a feminist and a mom of mini-nerds, who are therefore potential future gamers, there is no way for me to not be fascinated/appalled by the whole thing.

Oh Gam3rz.
Oh commentz on the Internetz.
Oh Gam3rz blaming Internet Trollz and Feministz for distracting everyone from the real enemy: Journalistz!
Oh Train Wr3ckz.

But what's really bothering me is a little more insidious. I was so interested in this that I fell down a GamerGate Internet Rabbit Hole where the stench of Red Pill websites and rotten Reddit threads was so vile it made my 11 year-old's armpits smell like Mrs. Field's kitchen exploded in a lavender field at Christmastime. I won't post any links, in case you happen to enjoy being able to sleep at night.

I think it's time to take my kids and go live in a cave with no wifi.

Maybe I do need to talk about happy things instead. Like this picture of my son rocking his Darth Vader velvet body suit. That's pure happiness right there:

Bonus Step: End with a question, or four: Speaking of other disturbing things I'm obsessed with, have you been listening to the new podcast Serial? Why is Jay not a suspect? And how do feel about Adnan? And are you also alarmed that the entire thing exists because a girl was murdered, and she's barely even talked about??

Street Market Field Trip: A Cellphone-Camera Photo Journal

...in 20 Minutes or Less*

I tagged along on the school field trip to the Albert Cuyp Market, Amsterdam's oldest street market. There's nothing you can't find at the Albert Cuyp. And yes, I'm talking about lime green shimmery hot pants, life-size replicas of The David's head, and your choice of genitalia in fine assorted chocolates. Those are all on your list, right? 

Local Tip: Go to Sonny's. Best falafel in Amsterdam. Get the fries too.

It's always an exciting day when you see the bike barge, but what happens next will blow your mind.

Praise from critics: "Sesame Street + Rainman + Geiko Commercial + Gigli + Pink Floyd's The Wall= this movie." -- Mark B. 

Not trying to make anyone jealous or anything, but did you see the picture of the Churro stand? 

But are you a little jealous? Just let me know. 

*OK, that may have taken a little more than 20 minutes. I'm a writer, not a writer/movie file compressor.