Thanks to advice from a friend equally enthusiastic about organic, local vegetables, I've started a wonderful service this week: organic produce delivered straight to my door. The Katwijk-based company is called Kievit and they offer a once-a-week delivery of organic vegetables, fruits, and other items, like potatoes and eggs.
I chose for a combination pack (fruits and veggies) plus a bi-weekly order of potatoes and six eggs per week. The order arrived on Tuesday evening, and I was greeted with two large paper bags plus a turquoise welcome bag.
So what did I get? I know you're dying to know. Cherry tomatoes, corn salad, chinese cabbage, spring onions, apples and oranges, plus my requested sack of potatoes and half dozen eggs. And the welcome gift contained a pineapple, cheese and locally made organic jam. Yum!
There's something magical about having someone else select your produce. I'll spend the week incorporating these items into some hopefully delicious dinners. I'd better be quick, since the delivery repeats itself in just a few more days!
01 March 2012
22 January 2012
Sitting still
A traveling hiatus. A year of sitting still. This is what I'm contemplating at the start of 2012.
Why does that make me so uncomfortable? It may sound crazy, but I certainly wouldn't miss visiting new places. In fact, after our last trip - five weeks, seven hotel rooms, seven airports and eleven cities - all with a 16-month-old in tow - I could use the break. No, it's not any overactive sense of adventure that leaves me anxious.
It's the idea of skipping one of my bi-annual trips "home" to the Midwest. Without sounding too dramatic, I'm not sure I could psychologically cope with being away for one entire calendar year.
What could happen? Even if I stayed away for years, the shopping would still be there when I returned. Amazon, Target, Zappos - they'd all welcome me and my credit card with open arms. Makes no difference to them. The restaurants and grocery stores would remain, and perhaps even improve over time.
My friends would still be my friends. I know that. It's silly to think they would disappear if I didn't check in every six months. They love me, sure. They enjoy seeing me and put aside time for me when I come around. But the visits are one-sided.
I get it. I've chosen to live overseas. It's expensive and time-consuming to come here. The passport paperwork and the jet lag is off-putting. It's a different country, and that can create more anxiety than a trip to another state or the Caribbean. I especially understand since most are lucky to get one week off during the year. So the vast, vast majority of them, save for some family and a tiny scattering of friends, have never come to see me. In ten years.
Why not? It's more than the paperwork.
It's because this isn't their life. This isn't their home. Why should they make the effort?
It isn't mine, either. And they know it. I've lived in one place for more than ten years, and consider "home" a place more than 4,000 miles away. My life is a series of six month increments. Five months in the Netherlands, one month in the U.S. Rinse and repeat. Sisyphus. Groundhog Day.
Is this what life is as an expat? Is this what I'm doomed to expect for the next 20 years? Either I spend a couple grand to travel back twice a year, doing an exhausting round of visits, or I lose touch with what I consider my real life. My roots. My people. My culture.
Don't tell me to build a real life here. It's not the same. Expats come and go. Even though I love my expat friends dearly, it's difficult to emotionally count on people who are just sitting around waiting for their marching orders. In the short term it's great. I've met amazing people that I deeply respect and am incredibly fond of. They'll probably be in touch forever, thanks to Facebook. But you know that warm, safe feeling you get when you're surrounded by lifelong friends and family? When you can exhale and just be yourself, completely, without fear of consequence? That does not exist here.
So I'm thinking maybe all the back and forth is the problem, and I'll change my mind if I just sit still and experience this place for more than a few months at a time. It's an experiment. I might fail, but I also might find that things can be different.
It's worth a shot.
Why does that make me so uncomfortable? It may sound crazy, but I certainly wouldn't miss visiting new places. In fact, after our last trip - five weeks, seven hotel rooms, seven airports and eleven cities - all with a 16-month-old in tow - I could use the break. No, it's not any overactive sense of adventure that leaves me anxious.
It's the idea of skipping one of my bi-annual trips "home" to the Midwest. Without sounding too dramatic, I'm not sure I could psychologically cope with being away for one entire calendar year.
What could happen? Even if I stayed away for years, the shopping would still be there when I returned. Amazon, Target, Zappos - they'd all welcome me and my credit card with open arms. Makes no difference to them. The restaurants and grocery stores would remain, and perhaps even improve over time.
My friends would still be my friends. I know that. It's silly to think they would disappear if I didn't check in every six months. They love me, sure. They enjoy seeing me and put aside time for me when I come around. But the visits are one-sided.
I get it. I've chosen to live overseas. It's expensive and time-consuming to come here. The passport paperwork and the jet lag is off-putting. It's a different country, and that can create more anxiety than a trip to another state or the Caribbean. I especially understand since most are lucky to get one week off during the year. So the vast, vast majority of them, save for some family and a tiny scattering of friends, have never come to see me. In ten years.
Why not? It's more than the paperwork.
It's because this isn't their life. This isn't their home. Why should they make the effort?
It isn't mine, either. And they know it. I've lived in one place for more than ten years, and consider "home" a place more than 4,000 miles away. My life is a series of six month increments. Five months in the Netherlands, one month in the U.S. Rinse and repeat. Sisyphus. Groundhog Day.
Is this what life is as an expat? Is this what I'm doomed to expect for the next 20 years? Either I spend a couple grand to travel back twice a year, doing an exhausting round of visits, or I lose touch with what I consider my real life. My roots. My people. My culture.
Don't tell me to build a real life here. It's not the same. Expats come and go. Even though I love my expat friends dearly, it's difficult to emotionally count on people who are just sitting around waiting for their marching orders. In the short term it's great. I've met amazing people that I deeply respect and am incredibly fond of. They'll probably be in touch forever, thanks to Facebook. But you know that warm, safe feeling you get when you're surrounded by lifelong friends and family? When you can exhale and just be yourself, completely, without fear of consequence? That does not exist here.
So I'm thinking maybe all the back and forth is the problem, and I'll change my mind if I just sit still and experience this place for more than a few months at a time. It's an experiment. I might fail, but I also might find that things can be different.
It's worth a shot.
30 November 2011
A tribute to Helmer
Last month I received some terrible news: My dear stylist, Helmer, had passed away suddenly. Helmer + Friends is one of my favorite places to visit in Amsterdam. Finding Helmer in 2004 was like winning the hair stylist lottery. He was a benevolent expert, and every time I left, I was thrilled with my hair. Anyone who’s ever had a haircut knows the rarity of that feeling. Soon after I blogged about his styling skills:
Besides being incredibly good at his job, Helmer was also very kind. As an expat living far from home, I was always completely comfortable at Helmer + Friends. I can remember many afternoons sitting in my chair, waiting for the highlights to set. I was surrounded by a peaceful, gezellig vibe and a hip space. The music always provided a wonderful ambiance, not to mention the view: I could glance out of the window onto the glorious corner where the Prinsengracht and the Reguliersgracht meet. Behold, Amsterdam in all its glory, and the promise of great hair!
When I first started visiting Helmer, I was 26 years old. Like many 20-somethings I was full of ruminations about how life might turn out. Helmer provided great inspiration. He had spent years running his business together with his wife, Joke. They were happy and content in their interaction. It seemed they had found the secret to happiness. I would often sit in my swivel chair and imagine a similar scenario for myself. What could possibly be better than a life with a devoted companion and a rewarding job? As time went on, we celebrated special moments. His son’s graduation. A refurbished salon. Relaxing holidays. Haircuts often signify special occasions in life. For me? A fresh start after a breakup. My graduation. My wedding. I see pictures from these occasions and have him to thank for the perfect shade of blonde that accompanies my smile.
Though in retrospect it seems incredibly foolish, a few years went by where I didn’t go. I had moved to Leiden and it seemed such a long way to travel, just for hair. Of course I never found anyone that came close to matching Helmer’s skill. Defeated, I finally went back in September of this year. He greeted me like an old friend, three Dutch kisses and all. We did the usual: some talk about life, followed by periods of comfortable silence as he worked his magic. I swore to him I was back for good, and said I hoped he wouldn’t retire for many years. That made him smile.
I had no idea it was the last time I would see him.
One thing I’ll take away from that final visit: I asked him if he ever cut children’s hair, now that I have a son of my own. He said yes, but then pleaded with me, “Oh, but don’t cut his hair, not for a long time. Babies have the softest hair, and wonderful brand-new curls. You should enjoy it as long as you can.” Now, when I look at my son’s sweet hair, I always think of Helmer. His perspective is now intertwined with those curls. The curls stay.
Helmer, you will be greatly missed. But your passion for your life and your work will continue to inspire me, and anyone else who had the privilege to encounter you.
After only one experience with Helmer, I let him do the unthinkable: I told him to just “do whatever he wanted,” given that he didn't chop it off. The experience was terrifying and exhilarating. He cut with a dizzying precision, stopping once in a while to step back and admire his work; perhaps brushing a small strand of hair from my eye before he continued. He did the back and then paused, spinning to the right and then to the left in a whimsical dance. And at the end of the performance, when my hair was dry and perfectly styled, with its new, exciting, look, I was more than happy to pay what was owed and then some.
Besides being incredibly good at his job, Helmer was also very kind. As an expat living far from home, I was always completely comfortable at Helmer + Friends. I can remember many afternoons sitting in my chair, waiting for the highlights to set. I was surrounded by a peaceful, gezellig vibe and a hip space. The music always provided a wonderful ambiance, not to mention the view: I could glance out of the window onto the glorious corner where the Prinsengracht and the Reguliersgracht meet. Behold, Amsterdam in all its glory, and the promise of great hair!
Though in retrospect it seems incredibly foolish, a few years went by where I didn’t go. I had moved to Leiden and it seemed such a long way to travel, just for hair. Of course I never found anyone that came close to matching Helmer’s skill. Defeated, I finally went back in September of this year. He greeted me like an old friend, three Dutch kisses and all. We did the usual: some talk about life, followed by periods of comfortable silence as he worked his magic. I swore to him I was back for good, and said I hoped he wouldn’t retire for many years. That made him smile.
I had no idea it was the last time I would see him.
One thing I’ll take away from that final visit: I asked him if he ever cut children’s hair, now that I have a son of my own. He said yes, but then pleaded with me, “Oh, but don’t cut his hair, not for a long time. Babies have the softest hair, and wonderful brand-new curls. You should enjoy it as long as you can.” Now, when I look at my son’s sweet hair, I always think of Helmer. His perspective is now intertwined with those curls. The curls stay.
Helmer, you will be greatly missed. But your passion for your life and your work will continue to inspire me, and anyone else who had the privilege to encounter you.
25 November 2011
07 November 2011
You Review
I recently discovered a great excuse to read books: the American Book Center's You Review program. Every few months, they post a list of soon-to-be-released books. If you're interested in reviewing one, you just send an email, and if you're the first, the book is yours, for free. If you submit your review on time, you also get a small gift certificate to spend on ABC merchandise. What a deal!
I had my first review published last week on the ABC blog. Just because I'm allowed to, I'm reposting it here:
I had my first review published last week on the ABC blog. Just because I'm allowed to, I'm reposting it here:
Welcome to the dark side of human nature. Jakob Ejersbo’s Exile journeys through a few years with teenager Samantha. Born of British parents, she has spent most of her life in Tanzania. For Samantha and her fellow boarding school peers, life is made bearable through vices like cigarettes, cokes, beer, and one-sided sexual encounters. If the term “international school” conjures up notions of multicultural harmony, Ejersbo smashes this illusion. His reality is of students living together separately, with little respect for other’s values, and a deep disdain for the native African population.
Exile is a study of intrigue, violence, drugs, and African politics. All of these themes are revealed through Samantha’s schizophrenic sexuality. We watch her swing from confidence to shame and from seductress to victim. Despite the fact that the author is male, he provides deep insight into the dance teenaged girls perform between owning their sexuality and being exploited. Samantha’s journey brings this to the fore as we watch her walk a pivotal line between life and death with her often spontaneous, always outrageous behavior.
The book is littered with authentic details. Through Samantha’s expert example, readers learn how lighting a fire scares rapid dogs away, how drinking gin and tonic deters mosquitos, and how to hitchhike – African style.
If you like books that stick with you – even if it’s an icky feeling – Exile is a must read. This is one of those novels that will spin in your mind days after finishing it. This intensifies when you learn that the Danish author died of cancer in 2008 at the age of 40, and Exile - the first of a trilogy just now available in English – is his legacy.
04 November 2011
NaNoWriMo day four: bruised but confident
I'm on day four of NaNoWriMo, and I'm proud to report that my word count passed the 10,000 mark this afternoon. 10,000 words! In four days!! I'm not wildly proud of what I've written so far, but I'm focusing on quantity over quality. This is my first time, after all.
So how did I do it (so far)? I think I may have found the magic formula for success in NaNoWriMo. Ready? Here goes:
The day before the writing frenzy started, I did something incredibly stupid. When I fell on the stairs at work on Monday, I managed to sprain my right ankle AND my left big toe. Five hours of excruciating pain later, I realized the damage must be somewhat significant. Just to make sure I didn't overdo it, I visited the ER, where I discovered that I didn't break any bones.
When I finally got home, I realized that I would not be able to leave the house for at least a week. I would need to hobble around my apartment and rely on the kindness of others (particularly hubby, in my case) to do all errand running and grocery shopping.
With nothing else to do, I started writing. The result? My word count quickly soared.
Let's see how I fare once I can walk down the street again.
So how did I do it (so far)? I think I may have found the magic formula for success in NaNoWriMo. Ready? Here goes:
The day before the writing frenzy started, I did something incredibly stupid. When I fell on the stairs at work on Monday, I managed to sprain my right ankle AND my left big toe. Five hours of excruciating pain later, I realized the damage must be somewhat significant. Just to make sure I didn't overdo it, I visited the ER, where I discovered that I didn't break any bones.
When I finally got home, I realized that I would not be able to leave the house for at least a week. I would need to hobble around my apartment and rely on the kindness of others (particularly hubby, in my case) to do all errand running and grocery shopping.
With nothing else to do, I started writing. The result? My word count quickly soared.
Let's see how I fare once I can walk down the street again.
28 October 2011
Ode
I'm three weeks into attending the Writer's Studio Amsterdam. It would be an understatement to say that I love it. Each week, we write about 500 words with the goal of emulating a particular narrative voice. It's just a sample of writing. It is not meant to be a finished or titled, though what we imitate is a published piece of fiction or poetry. This week's assignment is based on Barbara Hamby's "Ode to the Lost Luggage Warehouse at the Rome Airport."
I realize now that I'm a big fan of the "Ode." Wikipedia describes it as "an elaborately structured poem praising or glorifying an event or individual." I may not be a poet, but I now realize that on this blog, I often turn to the Ode in substance if not in form.
What should I write about this week? There are so many choices! Going back to the BbB archives leaves me with lots of inspiration:
Ode to the man with bad breath.
Ode to the nude Dutch sauna.
Ode to the writing.
Ode to the cheese grater.
Ode to the A4 traffic jam.
Ode to Preikestolen.
In case you haven’t noticed, it’s very difficult not give an Ode a title.
I realize now that I'm a big fan of the "Ode." Wikipedia describes it as "an elaborately structured poem praising or glorifying an event or individual." I may not be a poet, but I now realize that on this blog, I often turn to the Ode in substance if not in form.
What should I write about this week? There are so many choices! Going back to the BbB archives leaves me with lots of inspiration:
Ode to the man with bad breath.
Ode to the nude Dutch sauna.
Ode to the writing.
Ode to the cheese grater.
Ode to the A4 traffic jam.
Ode to Preikestolen.
In case you haven’t noticed, it’s very difficult not give an Ode a title.
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