Queen's day

April 30 is Queen’s Day in the Netherlands. It’s the day when Dutch people celebrate the birthday of the queen, whose birthday happens to be in January. Her mother’s birthday, however, was April 30, and to commemorate her mother, and probably because the weather is so much nicer at the end of April, Queen Beatrix decided to maintain April 30 as Queen’s Day.

Several people have asked me if the Dutch are very pro-monarchy since we have dedicated a special day to the royal family, and I can never seem to explain the phenomenon properly. I always seem to repeat phrases such as “sack races” “alcohol” “orange”, and “silly hats”.
To be honest, I’ve never thought of the Dutch are very much in love with their royal family, so then why this sudden explosion of patriotism? On Queen’s Day, half of the Dutch population seems to develop this desire to spend several hours in front of the television watching the royal family travel to small obscure towns jumping with excitement to treat the queen and her family to fun-filled activities such as jeans-hanging competitions, a local art exhibition, sack races, and dancing the salsa with overexcited locals dressed in orange. The other half of the Dutch population will venture into town, which will have been decorated with enough orange to make any Halloween party seem subdued. Here they can be treated to similar activities, only without the added glamour of a royal family. Children can join in games like bobbing for apples and the three-legged race, while adults can sit on benches hastily erected for the occasion, drink alcohol in the middle of the day, and listen to a wide variety of musical expressions, from opera to rock bands to church choirs. To top it all of, most Dutch people will feel the sudden urge to don bright orange clothing, including enormous hats, large sunglasses, and inflatable crowns.

Perhaps this sudden outburst of patriotic joy can be attributed the otherwise almost puritan nature of the Dutch people: “Just act normal, and you’ll be crazy enough” is an often heard expression. If a people get so little opportunity to let their hair down, it’s a definite possibility that when they do, they literally paint the town, well, orange, obviously.

Living overseas makes the whole Queen’s Day experience very different. When I was a kid, our parents would take us to events featuring hordes of Dutch people we had never met before (and would not see for the remainder of the year). These events were always far more patriotic than anything I had been to in The Netherlands; imagine a line of twenty cars driving into the mountains behind Grasse, France, each of them sporting a Dutch flag waving out the window, and a group of forty people without any kind of prompting, spontaneously bursting into the national anthem before a potluck dinner held in an empty field. Absence definitely makes the heart grow fonder.
Today the celebration is not quite as festive, mainly because it’s a weekday, and I’m in the middle of finals (another oft-heard expression in Dutch is “business before the girl”). I did replace our American flag with our Dutch flag last night though, while very quietly, and somewhat absent-mindedly (I think after three lines, I turned into “the star-spangled banner”) humming the Dutch anthem. Now all I’m waiting for is an unsuspecting neighbor to ask me why I have an “open” flag hanging off my porch, or to wonder which state we’re from. I also told those students who have to take their final today that if they wore orange, I would give them one bonus point on their exam. And I pulled out the brightest orange blazer the world has ever seen. No sack-races, bobbing for apples, or drinking wine while listening to St. Agnes’ women’s choir. But the sun is shining, I’ve seen pictures of the royal family ice-skating and, yes, dancing the salsa, and life is pretty good anyway.

Simple pleasures

Small things are highly underrated. You know, those little unexpected events that can really make or break your day. Somehow, those things never really get mentioned. The comments I get on this blog, for instance, can really make me happy. On the other hand, that time our sprinkler system was still on, covering the driveway in a heavy rain, when I walked to my car did not make me very happy.

Living in another country means that there are a lot of new little things. Little happy occasions that can make you smile or annoying incidences that make you break out into hives of frustration. I’ve mentioned some of the latter in previous blogs: bugs, the roundabout way of talking, and the lack of fog lights in cars. But there are a host of little things that are actually really good.

Like the wonderful scent that I can only associate with springtime in the south. Recently, our entire town seems to smell of honeysuckle. We’ve taken to driving through town with the windows rolled down so that this thick sweet scent can just waft into our car. The campus also smells of all the flowers that have been planted alongside the buildings, which makes for a lovely arrival at work each morning. Although I spent most of my life living in the country known for its flowers, I can’t say that spring has ever smelled this good.

Or how about coming home from a very long and tiring day, full of unhappy students, and then having your neighbors offer you a glass of wine and some chocolate. I have lived in many different places, but this is the first time we've met a set of neighbors who were that welcoming. It’s just so nice to have people wave at you and ask how your day was (or in some cases even why you got home so late) whenever you pull into your cul-de-sac. I’m not sure if this is a southern thing, or just an American thing, but it definitely puts a smile on my face.

And then there are the students how come in to your office to just say “hello” and “thank you for the semester”, the people you don’t know in the hallways who still smile and say hello, the fact that it’s almost always sunny down here, and the sound of crickets chirping at night. Yes, since I’ve moved my life has gotten a whole lot crazier. But there are many, many little happy moments that make up for it.

Rebel(tje)

Diep in mijn hart ben ik, of nou ja, was ik, stiekem een beetje een rebel. Ik was zo’n student die, als docenten mij vroegen een paper in de linkerhoek te nieten, het dan expres in de rechterhoek niette. Een fietser die, als het kon, lekker door rood karde, en zich niet zo heel veel aantrok van “hier geen fietsen parkeren” borden. Zo eentje die leuk in voetgangersgebieden fietste, en dan tegen een agent, die aangaf dat dat niet mocht, heel blij riep “Dat weet ik!”, en leuk doorfietste. Zo iemand die enorme dreads in haar haar liet vlechten terwijl ze docent op een universiteit was, en iemand die altijd bij alles vroeg “waarom?”.

Maar helaas is de mogelijkheid tot het uithangen van rebel de laatste tijd toch beduidend minder. En eerlijk, het ligt niet alleen aan het wonen in het zuiden. Eigenlijk is dat begonnen toen ik manlief leerde kennen. In de militaire gemeenschap zijn regels namelijk echt regels, en valt er met politie niet zo heel veel te discussieren. Als je verteld wordt dat je, als je niet subiet je helm op zet terwijl je aan het fietsen bent, je toegangsprivileges kwijt zou kunnen raken, en je man op het matje geroepen kan worden, dan geeft zelfs de grootste stiekeme rebel toe.

Maar verhuizen, en het aannemen van mijn huidige baan betekende een nog verdere inperking van het kleine rebelletje dat ik soms ben. Niet alleen heeft mijn universiteit de veelbesproken dresscode, we worden geacht elkaar met “dr so and so” aan te spreken, en moeten een badge met onze naam, functie, en department erop dragen. Daarnaast verwachten onze studenten dat we niet vloeken en al helemaal niks negatief zeggen over het geloof (het is dan wel een public school, maar we zitten nog altijd in de bible belt). Nu kan je heel stoer roepen dat je daar niet aan meedoet, maar ja, dat kan nare consequenties hebben.

Zo heeft een college die openlijk aangaf niet gelovig te zijn de laatste meer moeite zijn studenten gemotiveerd te krijgen. En studenten komen aan mij fluisterend vragen of het echt waar dat Mr so and so atheist is, en waarom hij niet gelooft, en of ik dat niet heel erg raar vind. Als je een keer niet strak in het pak verschijnt, krijg je door opmerkingen als “wow, you’re looking sporty today” heel gauw door dat dit niet helemaal de bedoeling is. En zonder badge verschijnen betekent overal moeten bewijzen dat je toch echt geen student bent. Maar het kan erger. Zo kwam een potentiele toekomstige college laatst een proefcollege geven. Haar kleding was, voor academische standaarden zeker netjes, maar het was niet helemaal volgens de kledingsvoorschriften hier op de universiteit. Maar ja, mijn collega's en ikzelf komen allemaal van universiteiten waar docenten in gescheurden spijkerbroeken, en oude, vale t-shirtjes van vergane jaren 80 bandjes rondliepen, dus wij zagen het niet zo. Tot onze grote verbazing vielen de studenten in de lengte en de breedte over haar kledingkeuze; "Did you see her shoes?" "And those hose! Who wears black hose nowadays?". Ook het dat ze de phrase “pissed off” gebruikte, en een keer het word “sh…” zei viel total niet in geode aarde. De studenten protesteerden zo heftig dat het aannemen van de kandidaat in kwestie zelfs in twijfel werd gesteld. Ik wil maar zeggen.

En nou moet ik het toch echt zeggen; dat was “in mijn tijd” toch wel anders. Wij verwachten niet anders dan dat de docent in oude kleding verscheen. Als we een docent kregen die er te netjes uitzag, dan begonnen wij automatisch altijd de academische kwaliteiten van de docent in twijfel te trekken. Iemand die er zo netjes uitzag, die moest wel iets te verbergen hebben. Ook schopten wij tijdens colleges tegen alle heilige huisjes aan die er bestonden; geloof, overheid, taalgebruik, alles. Nee, ik ben geen hippie uit de jaren 60, en ook niet van de roerige jaren 80, maar gewoon iemand die gewend is dat rebelleren onderdeel is van je hele zijn. In ieder geval, dat dacht ik dus altijd.

Vandaag zouden een collega en ik gaan rebelleren. We zouden allebei in korte broek, t-shirt, en slippers naar de uni komen. Het is ten slotte finals week, dus wij vonden dat dat kon. Het was tijd om eens te laten zien dat je om goed les te geven er niet als een bankmanager uit hoefde te zien. Maar ja. Toen hoorde ik dat ik vandaag salarisonderhandelingen zou hebben, en sja, toen durfde ik niet meer. Dus nu ben ik toch maar in nette pantalon en blousje gekomen. De andere kleding ligt in mijn auto, om aan te doen na de onderhandeling. Hmm...wat een rebel!

A professor with a problem

One of my teachers used to always tell me "write what you know". Well, today I know that I am somewhat, no, actually, deeply disappointed in several of my students. In fact, I'm not just disappointed, I'm also slightly upset and even insulted.
Yesterday, as I was grading the research papers one of my classes had to write as part of their final grade, I discovered that six out of twenty students had chosen to plagiarize parts of their paper. Not just the one or two lazy students whom you will find in every class who think they can get away with a simple cut and paste their job. No, six. Almost a third of my students had used parts of other people's work without any kind of reference or citation. I realize this was a tough assignment, but this surpassed even my worst nightmare.
To an academic, plagiarism is as bad as cussing in church to a pastor. Or eating a snack right before dinner to your mom. Or cheating on your husband on your wedding night. It's not only wrong, it completely ignores the purpose of the activity at hand. In the case of academics that would be to carry out original research. I can't even begin to describe the blood, sweat and tears that go into producing an academic article of paper, not to mention the intense labor it takes to write a doctoral dissertation. Now I don't expect my students to produce either. However, to ask them to please write their own paper, while including a lengthy lecture on citation rules and the APA styleguide, should not be asking too much, right?
Well, it seems as though it is. And it's not as though the students made any effort to hide their plagiarism by changing a word or two. Nope. Apparently my students believe that if I read "my research will looks at the manor in which people interpret reality programs" on one page and then on the next page see a paragraph that starts with the words "This study, besides examining the ideological potential of reality shows, will also venture into the racial discourses offered by these texts", I won't think anything of it. Hmm.
And then the culprits didn't take the work from obscure articles and books either. In most cases, students copied sentences and paragraphs straight from the internet, and preferably from websites I told them not to use, such as wikipedia. It's somehow very insulting to my intelligence when students seem to assume that I don't know how to use google. And don't even get me started on wikipedia. Whoever decided that that was a trustworthy source of information..well, they definitely need a talking to.
Yesterday, as I was grading the papers, my heart just sank every time I would see a suspect sentence, and then see my suspicions be confirmed. I want all of my students to succeed, and I do my very best to create the conditions for them to do so. I lecture them about all the important aspects of conducting research. I spent at least one lecture talking about plagiarism. I asked them to hand in their first drafts, to come see me with any questions, to let me know if they had any problems. And then to have students merely assume they can get away with a complete disregard for the basic rules of academia almost feels like betrayal.
The worst part is that once I catch a student plagiarizing, there is very little I can do to guarantee their success. Our university's student handbook dictates a whole set of actions to take when students plagiarize. It includes such nasty penalties as failing them for the class, reporting them to the chair, dean, possibly even the president, and the possibility of academic probation. I dread having to talk to the dean on Monday, but my professional integrity does not allow me any other option.

But, honestly, how hard is it to write your own work? I just did it.

On tea

While writing my post yesterday, I realized that I wasn’t being completely fair by describing myself as some sort of international chameleon. After all, I do have certain behaviors and characteristics that are so “me”, that I can’t imagine changing them, no matter how often they amuse or confuse people down here.

Drinking tea would be one of those things. And by tea, I don’t mean “iced tea”, I mean “hot tea”. You know, the kind where you boil water, add a teabag, add a little milk, and then, wait for it, wait for it,…drink it while it is still hot. Yes, I drink tea while it’s still warm, with a touch of milk. In my opinion, nothing is as refreshing, cooling, or soothing as a nice mug of hot tea. In fact, “Shall I boil you some water” is an expression used in our house that indicates that you must be either really tired, incredibly crabby, or in need of some real comfort.

However, I can’t tell you how many times southerners freak out when I tell them I drink hot tea in the morning, as opposed to coffee. Now coffee is as much a staple down here as it is pretty much everywhere else. However, I do have the feeling that of all the places I have lived, the locals here are least open to the idea of someone having a hot beverage besides coffee in the morning. Juice, sure, if you’re a health freak. Milk, well, if you’re over the age of 16, people may look at you funny, but it’s still alright. Coke, hey, anything to wake you up in the morning. But hot tea? No. That is just plain odd.

Southerners appear equally amused by the fact that I much prefer hot tea in the afternoon to “sweet tea”, or a soda, or juice, or water. I can’t tell you how many times people, while opening their third can of something really unhealthy, have told me that drinking too much caffeine will apparently “dry me out”. Hmmm…if that is true, then I should have turned into a prune a long time ago. And whenever I request a cup of “hot tea” in a restaurant, I at times almost feel bad for those waiters who look at me as though the sky has just come crashing down, and then spend a good ten minutes trying to desperately figure out how to meet this request.

But I will not give in. I am standing tall, and for all those tea-drinkers among us, I say: join in on the tea-volution!

When in Rome

or in the deep south, you do as the locals do. Or so the saying goes. Having been on the move every few years since I was probably around two years old, adapting to local customs and traditions has become second nature. So over the years I have developed an interesting array of habits, from the French love for sitting in the street and watching the world go by, to the Dutch penchant for being far too honest, to the German-like punctuality. And over the past few months, I've been able to add several characteristics to that list.

Liking tinted car windows is one of the characteristics I adopted surprisingly fast. This doesn't come as much of a surprise, since summers here are hot enough to make pavement melt (or at least get really soft and squishy). I'm not talking about the light-green tinting you will see in most cars nowadays, I'm talking about the deep-almost-black tinting that is mainly seen in programs like "Pimp my ride" (or Georgia, apparently). Back in Europe, tinted windows used to, at best, make me think of really important politicians, and at worst, of some form of criminal, so needless to say I did not have a very positive attitude towards them. Funnily enough, I never noticed that husband's truck had tinted windows too - perhaps that was because the whole huge truck with quad cab thing was enough of a rarity. Anyway, the new car that we bought last August did not come with tinted windows, and my first response was "oh great, I don't want my car to look like that anyway". My second response, after about a day of feeling like I had driven around in a sauna, was, "Oh crap, where can I get my windows tinted, and how dark can we go?"
So much for my dislike of tinted windows.

And how about saying "Thank you" and "oh that's great!" when you're doing someone a favor? I think this falls into the southern-discourse I blogged about earlier. Now don't get me wrong, I have always been a polite person, I was taught to say "thank you" and "please", and I like to think I have been doing pretty well in that department. But here in the south, we take politeness and gratitude to the next level. You thank everyone. And I mean everyone. You thank the person who bumps into you and then apologizes. And guess what, it's contagious too. Whenever I would just visit the south, I would shrug it off as an ancient idiosyncrasy. But now that I live here, I find myself doing it more and more. So when a student calls me with a question, I end up thanking them for calling. When I call, say payroll, to correct a mistake they made, I tell them it would be great if they could get that fixed, and thank you so very much ma'am. Now I have to be honest, but I have also gotten the feeling that perhaps my adaptation here is more of a survival mechanism than an additional layer of politeness that I just picked up on (even though I'm sure my mother is proud of me). I have begun to realize it is a way of life, and you had better adapt, or else you will not get anything done.
So, thank you for reading my blog today:)

Birthdays and things

When it comes to celebrating major events, I know, as one half of an international couple, that these can be tricky occasions. We sometimes find ourselves talking for hours about a certain holiday, hashing out the most mundane details just to prevent nasty surprises and subsequent cultural wars. Christmas is of course the kicker; we come from such diverse backgrounds that this holiday required days of round-table discussions where we expressed expectations, pondered the different options, and came up with a scenario that was acceptable to both of us. We even conduct a little post-Christmas evaluation each year. These evaluations, although they may sound hilarious, at times lead to very revealing findings. This year, for instance. I discovered that breakfast without candles just did not work for me. Call me an idiot, but there you have it. We've had round-table talks about Thanksgiving (a fairly short one, since this is not a European holiday), Halloween, New Year's, Easter (again, an easy one), and Sinterklaas (husband-dear left that one up to me). The one major event that we have somehow never had to talk about, and yet have molded into our own, overwhelmingly European-style celebration, would be the birthday. This weekend, as we celebrated my birthday, I found myself wondering how this was possible, since there are some distinct differences between Dutch and American birthday celebrations.

For one thing, when should you open the birthday presents? I used to think the answer to this was clear-cut and simple. Until I met my husband. He thought his answer was clear-cut and simple too. Only it was completely different from mine. He scenario for giving presents was indeed very simple. You would either give the presents after work, if the birthday was on a weekday, or right after breakfast if it fell on a weekend. My scenario could not have been any different. In my world, receiving presents from immediate family is a long-standing tradition with clear rules and regulations. The first rule is it must be celebrated on a weekend. A second regulation entails the entire family getting up early, sneaking downstairs and decorating the house while the birthday boy or girl lies in bed, wide awake, listening to all the noises downstairs in excitement. The next step involves the entire family marching into the birthday girl or boy's room while singing a loud and off-key rendition of "Happy Birthday". The birthday boy or girl is then presented with all her gifts, and breakfast in bed. A bylaw involves the family pets; any cats or dogs are at this point in time allowed to jump on the bed, as an exception to the usual rules.
Although my tradition is far more complicated than my husband's, it somehow defeated his more simple celebration. So this weekend I was awoken by singing family members, each holding their presents and a breakfast tray.

Present-giving becomes even more complicated when it comes to friends and family members who come to see you later in the day. In Europe, most everyone I know opens the presents right when you get them. But some of my American friends prefer to wait until everyone has arrived, and then open presents all at once. Somehow, I feel slightly uncomfortable, as I feel that I need to make sure that my present measures up to everyone else's. And I always wonder what they do when two people give them the same thing. When you open presents right at the door, at least you could pretend (in that good old southern way) like you've never seen such a lovely doorstop/vase/corkscrew/candlestick holder before. But what do you do when everyone sees you open two of the same things? Needless to say, I still open my presents at the door, while my husband waits patiently until everyone has arrived. It's a happy compromise.

But when it comes to cake-eating, my husband's tradition won out. In Holland, once you reach adulthood, your birthday cake is usually simple, and served to people when they come in. There is no singing, and no candles to blow out. Not so with my husband's family. All of our cakes are sumptuously decorated (only last year, my husband's read "Older than dirt"), and they are only served after everyone at the party has gathered around the table and sang "happy birthday". I have to admit that being sung to somehow makes that birthday buzz that you had when you were a little child return. It's great.

Now I have to admit that I was never much in favor of the "let's sit around a coffee table in a circle and talk" kind of parties that most Dutch adults I know seem to favor. Both my husband and I are of the "you either celebrate it well, or not at all" school of thought, so that was an easy topic to agree on. I'm not sure if this is an American thing, or just a "Dixiechick and her husband thing". But either way it's great. My last birthday party in Europe involved rock-climbing and frozen margaritas, and this year, my husband suggested renting a bouncy castle, and buying a new blender so we could make frozen margaritas.

Since celebrating our birthdays never involved as much talk as any of the other holidays, I think that during our next roundtable meeting, I am going to suggest replacing the more difficult events with another birthday celebration. I mean, we have got to get our money's worth out of that blender, right? :)

Wat doe ik aan vandaag?

Dat Amerika het land van de extremen is, daar zijn we het denk ik wel over eens. Het klimaat, de natuur, de mensen, misschien zelfs de politiek; dit land heeft werkelijk vanalles wat. Ik ben zelf ondertussen van mening dat we "kleding"ook prima aan dit lijstje toe kunnen voegen. Sinds ik in het zuiden woon begin ik langzaam van mening te worden dat op het gebied van kleding, sommige Amerikanen (en ik ondertussen eigenlijk ook wel) bijna een gespleten persoonlijkheid hebben.

Ik moet toegeven dat toen ik in het hoge noorden woonde, ik een andere mening toegedaan was. Destijds was ik ervan overtuigd dat maar weinig Amerikanen echt smaak hadden wat betreft hun outfits. In de winter was het daar zo koud dat je meer bezig was met hoe te voorkomen dat je vingers niet aan deurknoppen vastvroren, dan met het maken van fashion statements. Rokken, hakjes, en leuke strakke shirts zijn nou eenmaal niet zo geschikt voor temperaturen ver onder het vriespunt. Op een gemiddelde winterdag met zo'n 1,5 m sneeuw lopen de meeste mensen daar in dikke winterjassen, een maillot met daarover heen een gevoerde spijkerbroek, een hemd, een koltrui en een dikke trui. Met zoveel lagen kleding (die naar behoeven aan en uit getrokken kunnen worden) is het hele idee van bij elkaar passende kleding al snel onmogelijk. Maar het was niet alsof de mensen in het noorden zich in de zomer in eens ontpopten tot ware fashionista's; het tegendeel was waar. Op een of andere reden waren mensen daar zo gewend aan het dragen van comfortabele kleding, dat men in de zomer (geen sneeuw, wel heel veel blackflies) niet veel verder kwam dan een korte spijkerbroek of flanel boxershort met een wijd t-shirt en teevas.
Dat ook ik gegrepen was door deze "culture of comfort" werd me eigenlijk pas duidelijk toen ik weer terug was in Nederland, en merkte dat ik wel heel vreemd werd aangekeken toen ik in mijn schots geruite flanel college shorts, lokaal theater t-shirt, en oude badslippers naar de Albert Heijn ging.

Hier in het zuiden is het echter een heel ander verhaal. In tegenstelling tot het noorden ervaar ik het zuiden echt als het land van de dresscodes. Niet alleen banken, maar bijna elke werkplek heeft een dresscode. Zelfs universiteiten, normaal bolwerken van alternatieve kledingstijlen, doen er aan mee. Zo zijn bij ons spijkerbroeken compleet taboe, t-shirts zonder kraag zijn een no-no, en met birckenstocks hoeven we al helemaal niet aan te komen. Zo moeten dames, ongeacht de temperatuur, altijd een panty aan. Mouwloze shirtjes zijn eigenlijk not done, en het liefst zien ze je elke dag in een net jasje. Het vereist veel kleding, heel veel extra panties in je handtas, een hoge stomerij rekening, en aardig wat creativiteit om er elke dag toch weer een beetje hip uit te zien. En op hete zomerdagen heb je ook nog eens een aardige voorraad deodorant en tissues nodig.
Maar, en hier komt de gespleten persoonlijkheid om te hoek kijken, zodra "southerners" thuis zijn, gaat her roer volledig om. Net als in het noorden komen dan de oude t-shirts, joggingbroeken, shorts en sandalen of gympen om de hoek gekeken. Het is bizar hoe groot de ommezwaai soms is, en ook hoe makkelijk je er aan went. Toen ik net even naar de buurvrouw liep in een oude flanel boxershort met een college t-shirt en flipflops, en toen zij noch ik het vreemd vonden dat ook zij in een oude joggingbroek met gat liep, besefte ik, jawel, ik ben weer gegrepen door de lokale kleding cultuur. En het is heerlijk. Dus als jullie over een maand of wat een vrouw in een oude paarse joggingbroek, een fout groen college sweater, en roze teevas door de Aldi zien lopen..dat ben ik.

Gratitude II

After yesterday's diatribe about end-of-semester hassles, I decided there nothing would be as refreshing as to sit back (albeit briefly) and again consider the small but very good things about life down here.

One of the things about life in the US that is amazing, and still pleases me to no end is the endless supply of water and sodas in restaurants. Compared to Europe, ordering a drink in the US is a completely exhilarating experience. In most places "ordering water" is an oxymoron. You don't order water, your waitress shows up, pours you a positively gigantic glass of water with huge clumps of ice and then asks you what you want to drink on top of that. The best part? It's free!
Your sodas come in an equally tall glass, and yes, they are full of ice too. Yes, this does probably mean there is less soda in the glass than you think, but the best part is that if you ask for a soda without ice, the waitress doesn't sigh, pout, or make a face, they just nod, smile, and make sure you get a huge glass filled to the brim with just plain soda.
Compared to this, European restaurant policy regarding beverages seems almost medieval. To anyone who has been to a restaurant in Europe, the following scenario must sound familiar. First, there is no getting your water while you look at your menu. Looking at your menu is serious business, and you cannot be distracted with anything as mundane as a beverage. So instead you sit at your table, and then look around for someone to serve you. Once you have finally accomplished locating a waiter, and convinced them to come over, you can finally order that water, or soda, or juice that you have been wanting. After waiting for a reasonable amount of time, after all, real cuisine takes time, you receive a glass as tall as your hand and as wide as maybe your wrist. If you're lucky there are a few minuscule ice cubes floating around in the glass, if not, you're stuck with a few ounces of lukewarm beverage. And guess what, if you ordered water; it's usually not free. Some places will actually charge you up to three dollars for your tepid tap water. Granted, sometimes they do try to make you feel better by by supplying you with an empty glass and presenting you with a luxurious bottle that has a fancy label and just enough water in it to fill that undersized glass. But the bottom line is that it's still not free.
Now in the US, the waitress will pass by your table throughout your entire meal asking you if you need refills. Not so in Europe, where acquiring a refill can almost be considered a national sport. It's one that requires a great deal of patience, a lot of hand raising, looking around for your waiter, and patience. Oh wait, I already said that. The refill is the same, stingy, size as your original drink, only they charge you the full price for it. There are no free refills in Europe. Just like there is no free parking or free bread sticks.
Maybe I'm a thirsty person. Maybe I'm just obsessed with drinking a lot. I don't know what is going on, but I can assure you that knowing that when I go out, I will have my natje and my droogje taken care of is very comforting.

To sleep, perchance to dream

"I don't even know what we do, really, besides complain and wish we were sleeping"
Jamie Buchanan ~ Mad About You

It's times like these, when we're getting very close to the end of the semester, when I am always reminded of this quote from one of my favorite sitcoms.

Before I acquired a full teaching load, I don't think I could have ever grasped the insanity of the frantic hassle that is the end of a semester at an American university. My days seem to consist of nothing else but drive, work, come home, clean up, go to bed, and lament the fact that nights have become so short.

Sleep used to never be a big deal to me. I have always been blessed with the gift to sleep whenever and wherever. I can sleep on airplanes, in terminals, in lecture halls (I swear, it was only that one time), on the hot tarmac in the sun, and in the middle of complicated indie movies. In fact, when husband-dear and I first started dating, we used to stay up until all hours of the night talking, to then drive home to sleep and get up four hours later to go to work. It's hard to imagine now, but my motto used to be "You can sleep when you're dead".
Nowadays I honestly believe that if I had slept more back then, I would maybe not be so tired now:)

Let me tell you, it does not matter how well you plan ahead, this time of year has got to be the equivalent of what the April 15 deadline is to CPAs (and wouldn't you know it - that is today). All of a sudden, everything comes together, and you not just need to teach, you also have to advise, grade, prepare finals, and counsel. Your computer is covered in post-its with reminders, your desk is full of papers to grade, and your door is full of sign-up sheets for thesis defenses, advisement appointments and envelopes with final evaluation sheets. Your husband tells you that you have that "end of semester look" again, and one look in the mirror confirms his observation. Suddenly you find yourself getting up at 2 am because you have just thought of the perfect question for your final. Or getting up at 6am on a weekend so you can finish grading those case studies before everyone else wakes up, or cooking dinner while reading student papers.

I can't say that I ever experienced this kind of crunch in Europe. Somehow the semester there last longer, and there just isn't as much stuff to grade, or as many students coming in to talk to you. I also distinctly remember telling myself I would never, ever sleep less because of work. And while working in Europe, I never did. Then when last semester I found myself cutting short on those blissful hours asleep, I told myself it was just because it was the first semester teaching here. But now that I see myself going through the same thing again, I realize that perhaps this is just one of those things that are an automatic part of the life of an American college professor.

It's only a few weeks left until the end of the semester, and I am confident I'll make it. But I will tell you right now that the minute the last note of our graduation march dies away, I am going right to sleep. And nobody better wake me up.

A pig with a 'tude

Finally! I have been dying for an opportunity to get at the computer so I can tell you all about what life down here is really like. I don't want to write some philosophical dribble about roundabouts or gratitude, I want to give you the down low about life at Gertie's house. Or Gertje's house, I guess, since that's what that crazy lady who feeds me every morning calls me.

Did I just say crazy? I most certainly did. These people are lovable I guess, but they sure are different.
First, the food. What is up with all this healthy food they eat all the time? Wild rice, fish, salad, salad, and more salad. I'm surprised these people survive. Don't they know a healthy diet consists of okra, sweet tea and lots of fried food? They're in the south for crying out loud! The worst part is, I think they're trying to make me one of them. They're trying to feed me all these disgusting vegetables all the time. What is up with that?! Cucumber, carrots, apple, lettuce...and you would think that if I ignored it once, they would pick up on it, but nooo...it took them forever! For months they tried, they would talk to me, cajole me, put those disgusting slices in between my dry food, and sometimes put it right up in my face...I mean, excuse me? They also kept talking about someone named Cali who would love cucumber. I don't know who this Cali is, but I'm guessing the reason I don't is cause she's so skinny, she's invisible. Honestly people, just because you're always chewing on something full of nutrients, and complain you're not eating healthy when you get fast food like once a month, doesn't mean I want to be a health freak too. Last week they finally picked up on it when they gave me a sweet potato. Now that's what I call a snack! Then they had the audacity to laugh at me and call me a southern pig! I am not a pig! I'm a pure-bred Abyssian thank you very much. Well, either way, at least they now shower me with sweet potato. I wonder when they're going to try collared greens..hhmm..

Oh yeah, and what about all that exercising? They come home from these exhaustingly long days, complain about how tired they are, and then make outrageous statements like "yeah, I think I'll just run six miles today". Six miles?! I wouldn't run that far if someone were chasing me. Sheesh. But they love it. They're always prancing around in sports clothes, buying new running shoes, stocking up on Gatorade, and bringing home trophies. That's what I call showing off. And the worst part is not hearing them talk about mileage and weights and whatnot, but the fact that they assume I like exercise too! They put a few upside flowerpots, a hay ball, and an edible log in my cage, and then would encourage me to jump and run. At first I resisted. Nobody makes Gertie run, or jump. But, well, hmm..I guess I have to admit that I do secretly like it. It's especially funny when they're just sitting around the kitchen table, and I suddenly start racing around and startle all of them...heehee. But don't you go telling them that!

What gets me the most, though, is that weird foreign language they speak sometimes. I'm not sure why, really. And it's not like they're any good at it. Sure, the crazy lady, you know, who calls me Gertje sometimes, she can rattle away, but the man is always asking her to repeat things, and says "what" like a million times. It sometimes drives me nuts! It's like, y'all, speak English already! But the crazy lady especially likes to talk to me in that weird raspy language. To be honest, I have no clue what she's saying. I've tried telling her too, but that has only backfired spectacularly, since everyone says idiotic things like "Oooh..listen to Gertie, she likes it when you talk to her like that". Oh my goodness. It's enough to drive any respectable guinnea pig up the wall.

But I guess I shouldn't complain too much. Yeah, they're definitely out there, but at least they seem to like me. My first family didn't want me after just a few days, and took me back to the pet store. The lady there said that because I was so much bigger than the others already, they weren't sure if they could sell me again, but that first family didn't care. But then this crazy bunch showed up. The crazy lady asked to hold me, and I was all like, yeah, yeah, you're going to see someone that's smaller and cuter, and put me back down. But she didn't, and when the store lady told her that I had already been returned once, she said "Then we're definitely taking this one". And that was the nicest thing ever. Yeah, they're an odd health-exercise-foreign-language family, but they're mine...you know?

Handige tips

Er zijn een aantal dingen waarvan ik nog steeds niet snap dat ze die in de VS nog niet hebben. Dan doel ik niet op dingen zoals hagelslag of brinta (alhoewel dat helemaal geweldig zou zijn natuurlijk), nee, dan heb ik het over zaken die je leven juist veiliger, handiger, of mooier zouden kunnen maken.

Het mistachterlicht bijvoorbeeld. Totdat ik hier kwam wonen had ik me nooit gerealiseerd dat auto's gemaakt voor de Amerikaanse markt geen mistachterlicht hebben (alhoewel het feit dat toen manlief een keer in mijn auto reed, en niet wist waar ik het over had toen ik zei dat hij het mistachterlicht aan moest doen een hint had moeten zijn). Alle merken auto's waarin ik in Europa heb gereden hebben zo'n ding, maar hier heb ik er nog nooit een gezien, niet in Amerikaanse merken, maar ook niet in mijn eigen Japanner. En waarom? Het is niet alsof dit het magische land zonder mist is. Een paar weken terug hadden we nog een paar keer zulke dikke mist dat het net was alsof je door een blik erwtensoep aan het rijden was. Wat veel mensen hier doen om toch zichtbaar te zijn is hun knipperlichten aanzetten. Maar ja, dan heb je van die automobilisten zoals ik, die dan meteen denken dat er iets aan de hand is, en zwaar op de rem gaan staan. Dus heel handig is dat niet.
Nu kan het zijn dat ik iets mis, ik heb natuurlijk bij lange na niet in alle merken gereden. Het zou trouwens ook best zijn dat het mistachterlicht onder dat vreemde knopje in de zijkant van mijn stoel zit, waarvan ik na negen maanden nog steeds niet wat het doet. Maar ja, je zou denken dat er reden genoeg is om een misterachterlicht op een duidelijke plek in elke auto te doen, ook de goedkopere knalrode uitvoeringen van de Honda. Maar ja waarom het er dan toch niet zit...Iemand?

En nu we toch in het verkeersthema zitten: rotondes. Ik heb van horen zeggen dat er in New England een paar rotondes (daar noemen ze ze rotaries blijkbaar) zijn, alhoewel ik ze daar nooit gezien heb. Een ding weet ik wel zeker, hier in het zuiden weten mensen niet eens wat een "traffic circle"is, en als je het beschrijft dan vragen ze zich af waarom Europeanen zo'n gevaarlijke uitvinding handig kunnen vinden. Laat ik eerlijk zijn, naast mijn brinta en mijn drop mis ik de rotonde misschien wel het meest.
Een voorbeeld. Om bij ons op de doorgaande weg te komen moeten wij onze wijk uit, linksaf een gewone weg op, en dan weer links bij een T-splitsing. Deze T-splitsing is met een 3-baans weg die vol met heuvels is, altijd druk, en waar mensen permanent harder rijden dan de 55mph die er is toegestaan. Oversteken in de spits kan daar soms wel tien minuten duren. Ik rij dus altijd een mijl of wat om, juist om dat kruispunt te vermijden. Maar als ik dan een keer halfwakker niet oplet en toch weer bij dat stopbord sta, dan zeg ik elke keer tegen mezelf dat dit de ideale plek is voor een rotonde; het haalt de snelheid uit de weg, en bevordert de doorstroming. Maar nee hoor. De city council heeft het nu over stoplichten.
Toegegeven, Amerikanen en rotondes is niet een natuurlijke combinatie. Toen wij in Duitsland woonden heb ik aan menig collega van Dennis moeten uitleggen hoe zo'n ding nou precies werkt. Maar als ze het principe eenmaal doorhadden (kijken, voorrang verlenen en in de twee), dan ging het geweldig, en wilden ze niet meer anders. Het grappige is dat de mensen die in Europa gezeten hebben en nu hier wonen, hetzelfde idee over rotondes hebben dan ik.
Ik verwacht ook niet dat mensen hier een vijf-baans rotonde met zeven afslagen a la het Keizer Karel plein foutloos kunnen rijden. Dat kunnen Nederlanders die niet in Nijmegen afgereden zijn amper. Maar een kleine simpele rotonde hier op dat nare kruispunt zou mij zoveel gelukkiger maken. En zoals manlief altijd zegt: Happy wife, happy life!

Maar soms dan heb je ook dat je je afvraagt waarom ze hier iets niet hebben, en je dan realiseert dat ze het hier prima zonder kunnen. Het winkelwagentje met munt bijvoorbeeld. Ik kan me niet voorstellen dat als de winkelwagentjes in Nederland niet met zo'n muntslot voorzien waren, mensen ze terug zouden brengen. Hier in Georgia zijn winkelwagentjes gratis, en hoef je er helemaal niks in te doen om er een uit het rek te krijgen. En ondanks dat worden alle winkelwagentjes altijd netjes terug in het rek gezet. Om mijn moeder te citeren: En zo hoort het ook.

BRDANY1?

For some reason, I have spent a great deal of time the last few years trying to figure out how to amuse myself while driving long distances. The incredible commute here is nothing compared to what I used to have to drive when we lived in Europe. Although I telecommuted to work then, at times I did have to actually show my face at the office, which meant driving four hours (one way) at least once every two weeks. On top of that, I also managed to conduct a research project that involved driving to schools in countries across Europe. If I ever want to make up for my carbon footprint, I probably need to plant a forest the size of a small European country.
Anyway, when driving long distances, especially on the highway, I get bored quickly. Maybe it's me, but once you've seen ten miles of half-empty highway, you've seen it all. When it comes to entertainment, the radio isn't much help. You lose signal after at most 45 minutes, and then spend every ten minutes looking for a station without static. CDs are great, but unless you want your car to look like a music store, there are only so many you can take with you, and you don't want to end up listening to the same music or book over and over again. So I discovered my absolute favorite pastime while driving: license plates.

Before moving to Georgia, Germany was my absolute favorite country to drive in. Not just because the drivers are actually courteous (unlike some unnamed countries) or pay attention to what they're doing (unlike other unnamed countries), but because of their tags. In Germany the first letters on your license plate indicate the city or county where your car is registered. So as a fellow driver, you can spend hours trying to figure out where someone with the letter "D" is from (Dusseldorf), or "HOM" (Homburg), or "NE" (Neuss). I would take great pride in figuring out which combination stood for which town by looking at names on the road signs, and seeing where cars would get on and off the highway (I was very bored). And if I couldn't figure something out, I would go home and look up the code in our "Find-it Guide" (I'm also a little over-zealous). It became quite the game for me.

Moving to Georgia meant giving up that little game of "tag". I was certain I would never find anything as entertaining. Reading off counties on people's plates just isn't as interesting, and the very few personalized license plates around here aren't enough to keep me occupied. But it wasn't long before I discovered that Georgia plates, and cars in general, actually offer a cornucopia of activities to keep my brain happy.
First, Georgia has an enormous array of special plates: university plates, military plates, and special interest plates. When you're driving down a long boring country highway, it really is strangely rewarding to figure out what the strange tag is on that car in front of you. However, this can also prove to be slightly risky; the other day I pretty much tailgated a car for over a mile, almost crawling into their trunk before I was able to see that their tag supported pediatric cancer research. What is the point of making a special interest tag if no one can read it? I also saw my first purple heart license plate just last week - when you think about what that actually means, it's quite chilling. And whenever I see an "educator" license on a car that seems to drive quite haphazardly, I always wonder what that says about our teachers :) I've seen more "support our wildlife" tags than I can count, and only the day did I learn that the cute plates that say "animal friend"are actually in support of cat and dog sterilization. I've looked online, and there are about a hundred special plates out there, and I'm guessing I'll be occupied for at least another six months.
Georgia drivers also love to put bumper stickers all over their vehicle. Coming from the woman who hated putting the parking decal on her car, I have to tell you, reading them is fun. There is the ubiquitous, but dull, "My child is an honor student at...", the more challenging "my dog is smarter than your honor roll student", the ancient political bumper stickers (this is I believe the only state where I have seen "W 04" stickers four years after the election), and if I were to get a quarter for every "support our troops" ribbon, I would be a rich woman now. There are the American Pride stickers, American flag stickers, and the "fish with crucifix". And sometimes I see a real beauty, like my old-time favorite: "cover me I'm changing lanes"
Finally, the lack of a tag in the front. In Georgia, cars only require a tag in the back, which means that most cars have an empty tag holder on the front of the car. The majority of the drivers here chose to put a personal plate in the front, and these are a lot of fun to look at. I've seen an enormous collection of sorority and fraternity plates (which sure helps me keep my Greek alphabet to date), as well as Georgia Bulldogs (the University of Georgia mascot) tags. Some people chose to express their religious views on these tags with words like "Blessed", while I've also seen John Deere tags, military plates, and those license plates that have the owner's name craftily spray painted on them. It's fun to look at the tags, and then at the driver, and try and figure out what kind of person they are - is the Bulldog-tag-man really a raging fan who tailgates every weekend? And I'll never forget the few times I saw a car that had a name like "Tracy" or "Mychelle" on the front tag, and then had a male driver.
Although I don't have a special tag, and no bumper stickers, I did contribute to this phenomenon by putting a bright pink John Deere tag on the front of my car. As a tree-hugging academic who shies away from anything country and who drives a a fuel-efficient city car I can honestly tell you I did this to amuse all those people out there like me - this will sure give them something to think about!

The beauty of teaching

There are days when I wonder why on earth I decided to become an educator. Days when all of my students show up late to class, when I hear a thousand-and-one excuses about why a paper couldn't be turned in on time, when students refuse to listen, refuse to try to understand, and refuse to find anything interesting. Days when I wonder why I settled for such little pay (relatively speaking) for so much stress. Days when I'm just plain tired, and don't want to explain the principle behind statistical significance a fourth time.
Fortunately, every one of those days is usually punctuated with little bright spots that remind me why I chose this career. It's a student who all of a sudden sees the light and writes a brilliant paper. Or a student who comes in to talk to you about personal issues, and then thanks you for making them feel better. At times it's finding the perfect book for a paper I'm writing, or having an entertaining and constructive class discussion.
But sometimes, and these days are very rare, something so wonderful happens that I wonder why I would ever question my career choice at all. Last week we had one of those days.

Besides teaching, one of my jobs here at the university is to serve as co-adviser to the student newspaper. Usually it involves no more than paying bills, overseeing meetings, interviewing new staff members, and appointing the new editors. But last week, my job suddenly took on a whole new angle.
It started when the PA to a high-up administrator came into my office, wanting to know if I had a copy of the newest issue of the newspaper. Apparently, the students had written a heavy critique of the administration, and the administrator wanted to read this article himself. Now the staff had forgotten to give me one, even though that is one of our rules. Students forgetting something, anything, is one of my pet peeves, so grumbling, I made my way downstairs to get my own copy. Ready to have a serious talk with our editor in chief, my anger slowly made way for astonishment when every single student that I ran into in the hallway was reading the newspaper. When I finally got my hands on a copy of the newspaper, I understood why. Two students had each written an editorial fiercely criticizing our administration for taking certain financial decisions. I don't believe the newspaper has ever published anything quite so critical, or anti-administration. Usually our student paper is an innocuous collection of stories about campus life, wire stories, music, book, and movie reviews, and a sports section, and steers clear of campus politics. Although our students are quite vocal about their issues with the school, they usually keep quiet towards administrators and most of the faculty. Not this time though. The students had finally taken a stand, and taken up their pens to protest what they felt was a gross injustice. Although at the time I had no clue what the repercussions of their actions would be, I felt what could only be described as pride. The students had finally taking all of our harping about critical thinking, persuasive writing, the power of the press, and standing up for what you believe in, to heart.
Yes, not all of the administration was equally thrilled with their writing, especially when a local television station devoted a brief news item to the story. But the students have finally shown me that all of my nagging, pushing, and ranting about developing principles, making them known to the world, using the power of the media, and standing up for your rights is worth every second of my effort.

Gratitude I

When moving overseas, there are always a lot of really "big" things to get used to. Like speaking another language, living in a different climate, and trying to figure out how on earth your new sprinkler system works. But sometimes it's the little things that seem to make a world of difference. Those small, seemingly insignificant differences that make you smile. If I were to think hard, I could probably list a hundred little things that have changed my life in a good way. But today I am going to limit myself to just a two: doors and public restrooms.

First of all: doors. I should have specified that: doors in public buildings. For those of you who have been to Europe, you are probably all to familiar with this little scenario. You walk up to a building, try to pull open the door, and can't. You peer in through the glass, and the fact that there are people inside staring back at you make you realize that, yes, they are open, and yes, you do look a bit odd. So you yank at the door again, only to find that it still won't budge. At this point you're starting to wonder if maybe the door has been accidentally locked. But then it dawns on you, maybe, just maybe, you need to push at the door. Carefully, you push against the door, and lo and behold, it opens. You have now learned your lesson, and make a mental note that in Europe, doors in public buildings open inwards. But then you come upon another building, only to go through the entire scenario again, only this time in reverse, because here the door opens outward. There is no logic to doors in public buildings in Europe. They open inwards and outwards, completely at random. I've always wondered who decides these things; the architect? The construction engineer? The man who screws in the hinges?
Anyway, you can imagine my delight at discovering that here in the US all doors open outwards. When you're on the outside of a public building, you have to pull at the door to get in. When you're trying to get out, you push. This is the same for all fifty states (or at least the twenty or so that I've been to), and I've been told it's actually a federal law. For a country which cannot agree on a national elementary curriculum, or national driver's license requirements, this is a little miracle. But a miracle nonetheless, because people like me no longer have to surreptitiously pull at a door to see which way it opens, we can just confidently yank at the handle, and never look like an idiot again!

Second, public restrooms.
I can't tell you how happy it makes me that here in the US there are a) public restrooms everywhere, and b) they are all free. I have yet to go into a store where there isn't a customer restroom easily available and for no charge. Honestly, and not to get abrasive here, but what is up with restrooms in Europe? I can't count the number of times I would walk into a store, even larger multiple-story clothing stores, and there is not a bathroom to be found. When you ask the employees, they look at you as though you have just absolutely lost your mind, and off-handedly point out that there is a McDonald's a few doors down. And then when you do find a bathroom (such as inside the afore-mentioned McDonald's), you have to pay to use it. Sometimes a quarter, but sometimes closer to a dollar. And there's no getting out of paying either: most of these restrooms have a stern-looking older man or woman man sitting at a tiny little table with nothing on it but a small saucer and a sign listing the amount you must pay, preferably before using the facilities. The man or women in charge pretend to be reading an old magazine, but should you try to sneak out without paying, they will call you back in. The worst part is, some restaurants sometimes even make you pay. So you're enjoying dinner, you want to use the restroom, and you have to pay to do so. It's a bizarre world.

So thanks to the man, or woman, who decided that all American customers have an unalienable right to life, liberty, pursuit of happiness, the free use of public restrooms, and one simple way to open a door.

Racing through the blossoms

"This is the best smelling race I have ever been in."
When running a 15k race through the pouring rain, that is probably the last thing you expect your running mate to say. However, it happened to me early this morning, and I actually found myself agreeing. We were running along a tree-lined road, and the blossoms, pink, white, and purple, were dripping with rain, and exuding a lavender-lilac-cherry scent that not even the best potpourri or candle could compete with.

Now why would anyone voluntarily get up at 6am to spend almost an hour and a half pounding through the rain in clothes and shoes that are heavy with water? To be honest, I'm not entirely sure how that happened either. A few months ago, after a very successful 5k (for me) and half marathon (for husband-dear), I decided it was high time to actually work towards a bigger race instead of just running bigger and bigger loops around the neighborhood. So we picked a 15K Cherry Blossom Run in early April, positively convinced the weather would be much better than our last run where we had icicles hanging off our hats.
Well, we were wrong. It started dawning on us this morning when we found ourselves getting up to lightning and thunder reverberating through the house, and rain beating on the windows. Now it was six in the morning, so we were hopeful the weather would improve. By the way, this getting up early thing is starting to get out hand. Anyway, coming from an incredibly rainy part of the world, I wasn't about to let some foul weather ruin my plans, and my husband believes that fair-weather athletes aren't real athletes, so we packed ourselves, a change dry clothes, and a cooler full of ice and water into my car. We happily hydroplaned down the highway, all the while noting that the weather wasn't exactly letting up. When we got to the location, the rain only intensified, and we dismally noticed that far fewer people than expected were showing up. But you know, you're there, you've got your bib pinned to your shirt, so you just slap on a cap, put on your waterproof jacket and go.
So that is how we found ourselves sloshing through the rain at 8 this morning.
The rain never really let up, but it did not take away from the beauty of the area we were running through. We ran up and down gently rolling hills, and along beautifully tree-lined streets. The rain had left everything green and blossoms were thick on the trees. At one point we actually ran beneath a canopy of fuschia flowers, which felt like something out of a fairytale.
Now I don't mean to get too romantic here. After all, at the end of the day you are still running a good nine miles, which it does still hurt, and the rain still has you soaked to the bone at the end of the run. But, admittedly, racing through the blossoms is a beautiful experience.

p.s. For those of you who wanted to know; I ran a 1:23:30 which earned me third place in my age category. Another award for my dresser!

Over Brinta, drop, en terrasjes

Terwijl ik op een student wacht, die alweer te laat is voor een afspraak, wilde ik toch nog even een stukje in het Nederlands krabbelen. Mijn broer belde vanmiddag tijdens de lunch, en daardoor kreeg ik de smaak voor het Nederlands weer te pakken!

Zoals ik al eerder schreef, heb ik een lange reistijd naar mijn werk. Naast luisteren naar de radio en telefoneren (ja mam, met bluetooth dus handsfree hoor! :)), heb ik ook veel tijd om na te denken. En vanochtend zat ik te denken wat ik nu, naast familie, echt mis uit Nederland.
Natuurlijk was "drop" het eerste dat in me opkwam. Ik ben een enorme snoepkont, en ik mis de Jamin echt enorm. De bakken met tikkels, met die bruine boerderijdrop, met dubbelzout...hhmmm.. Ik weet dat je deze ook online kan bestellen, maar kieskeurig dat ik ben, zijn het nooit de goede dropjes. Daarnaast ben ik ook nog eens een zuinigerd die meer dan een paar dollar voor een pondspak drop al snel te veel vindt:)
En Brinta. Vroeger toen ik klein was, was er een reclame op TV van een man die eerst een bod brinta at, en toen ging hardlopen. Ik zou bijna gaan roepen dat televisie dus wel effect heeft, want afgezien van het feit dat ik geen man ben, kan ik werkelijk zeggen dat ik de verwezelijking ben van dat spotje. Zonder brinta begint mijn ochtend gewoon niet goed. Ik moet namelijk een stevig ontbijt hebben, dus dan vallen cereal al af, maar kauwen is echt teveel moeite. Dus vandaar de Brinta.
Oh ja, en laat ik de pakjes Conimex niet vergeten. Godzijdank hebben we een hele gevarieerde commissary die zo nu en dan Conimex producten heeft, en die ik dan meteen per dozijn insla.

Maar goed, dit zijn allemaal producten, dingen waar je zonder kan leren leven. Als ik een poos geen drop heb gehad (zoals nu), dan mis ik het bijna niet meer; ook al krijg ik er wel weer zin in door al dit schrijven. En voor dingen zoals Brinta en Conimex zijn vervangers te vinden. Zo las ik laatst dat Cream of Wheat een soort Bambix lijkte zijn (ook goed). En ook al passeerden deze producten zeker als eerste mijn gedachten, wat toch vooral in mij op kwam waren dingen die je hier in het zuiden in ieder geval nooit echt zult vinden. Dingen die ik, misschien, wel altijd zal blijven missen. Ook al hoop ik van niet natuurlijk.
Het kunnen fietsen of lopen naar de stad bijvoorbeeld. En dan bedoel ik niet naar een shopping plaza of strip mall, maar echt naar "de stad", waar je dan al lopend bij -alle- winkels kan komen. Hier moet je toch altijd weer de auto in, en dat vind ik toch veel meer moeite dan even op de fiets springen (ook al zal menig Amerikaan het vast met mij oneens zijn).
Afspreken met mensen in de stad is ook zoiets. Ik heb hier nog nooit met een vriendin in de Target of de BX afgesproken. Het is gewoon niet zo gezellig om samen door de gangen van de lokale Walmart te struinen als het is om door een straat met winkels en bomen en buitenlucht te banjeren. Ik weet dat steden zoals Boston en Georgetown dit wel hebben, en heel soms ben ik daar ook wel een beetje jaloers op.
Wat ze hier ook bijna niet kennen is buiten zitten bij een restaurant of een coffeehouse. Wij hebben laatst ontdekt dat een Starbucks een waar terras heeft, en dat ook de lokale Moe's een buiten eetgelegenheid aanbiedt. Meteen een reden voor mij om daar naar toe te willen. Ik vind persoonlijk dat er weinig dingen heerlijker zijn dan op een terrasje zitten en dan de wereld aan je voorbij zien gaan. Ik snap dat het hier in de zinderende zomerhitte eigenlijk niet te doen is, maar zoals nu zou het ideaal zijn. Maar de restaurants die het doen zijn op een hand te tellen. En als je dan buiten gaat zitten, dan word je toch wel drie keer gevraagd of je niet liever naar binnen wilt, want daar is de AC aan. Buitenzitten dat doen ze hier blijkbaar liever niet. Manlief en ik trekken ook altijd de aandacht van de hele buurt als wij op zaterdag avond lekker buiten in de voortuin gaan zitten. Glaasje wijn er bij, en onze avond kan niet meer stuk. Mensen komen allemaal langs om te kletsen, maar erbij zitten, dat doen ze niet. Misschien als we maar lang genoeg volhouden, dat ze vanzelf wel overstag gaan.

In Europa stond ik er eigenlijk nooit zo bij stil dat dit zo'n vast onderdeel was van mijn leven. Lekker rode wangen van het fietsen, of in het prille lentezonnetje op een terras zitten. Het zijn dingen die ik hier waarschijnlijk met moeite zal vinden. En soms, heel soms, word je daar een beetje melancholisch van.

Niceties and nuisances

"Hey, how are you?"
"I'm pretty good, happy the week's almost over, how are you?"
"Oh, not bad at all. Everything OK over at the office?"
"Sure, yeah, great."
"Cool. Listen, I was calling to see if you could..."

This little conversation is one I have at least a few times each day. Whereas at my old job I would just call someone and immediately address the matter at hand, here all requests, large or small, convenient or inconvenient require a nice little introduction. Without that little introduction, there's a small chance of getting anything done.

So up in the North, or in Europe, a conversation with a secretary about requiring a toner will probably go something like this:
"Hi, my printer is out of toner, do you have a new one?"
"You have an HP (insert model number here) right?"
"Yes."
"No, sorry, we just gave our last one away, but they are on order."
"Huh. How long will it take for the new ones to come in?"
"About a week. I can shoot you an e-mail when they come in."
"Great, thanks. I appreciate it."

Down here, I had a conversation about that exact same topic not too long ago, and it went something like this:
"Hi, how are you doing today?"
"Oh, I am great, the week is almost over so I am one happy camper."
"That's great."
"How are you?"
"Fine, yep, happy the weekend's on its way. "
"Good"
"So, I was wondering, my printer is pretty much out of toner, do you have a new one for me?"
"What kind of printer do you have?"
"(insert printer type and number here)"
"Hhmm,...I would need to go and look"
(insert long pause)
"No, we're all out I think."
"Oh. Hey listen, I really need one though. Do you think you could order them for me?"
"I don't know. I think so. Yeah, I guess so."
"OK, that would be great. When would you have them?"
"Oh, I don't know. It depends."
"How long does it usually take?"
"You know, I'm not sure. We got so much going on down here, sometimes I can't keep track of everything."
"I bet!"
"I want to say a week or two, but I really just don't know. Let me ask Ms. M"
(pause)
"No, she doesn't know either. It's just one of those unpredictable things you know!"
"Yeah, I know what you mean. So could you let me know when it comes in?"
"Sure honey. Could you e-mail me the name and type again?"
"Of course, and thank you so much."
"No problem."

As you can see, it's not just the extreme amount of niceties, but also the roundabout way in which everything is taken care of. Down in the south, people like to take their time. In everything. You don't just come out and ask something, you show interest in the other party first, build a relationship and then phrase your request, always keeping the other person's interests in mind. If anyone has ever read a Jane Austen novel; living down here sometimes reminds me of the conversations in her books; they're very polite, very charming, very long, and not always to the point.
And you know, when dealing with people in a social setting, it's fine. You quickly get used to having to address things in a less direct manner, and having to frame everything in a bed of politeness. I would even go as far as to argue that in a society where things become more and more fast-paced, it's good to slow down and show some respect and friendliness to the person you're talking to. And the abundant friendliness is very comforting somehow.
But it's when it permeates into the work setting that it becomes slightly annoying at times.
In Europe, if someone would have told me they had no idea how long the toners would take to come in, I would further emphasize that that meant that I would be without a printer for an indefinite amount of time, and that that is not really acceptable. Here, I need to express understanding of the other person's plight if I want them to do anything for me in the future. Sure, you could tell them that this inefficiency on their part is causing you problems, and the other party wouldn't say anything about it to your face. They would just smile and carry on. That's the thing; people down here are always nice and friendly, even if they don't like you. So you will never know if you committed a social gaffe. But when you do, and you cross that unspoken line of what southerns consider rude, they will be very unlikely to ever help you out again. They may be slow to return calls, not smile as much, and stall any request if they feel like it.
But hey, they'll be nice about it:)

Gone Scarlett

"..and the southern girls, with the way they talk, they knock me out when I'm down there".
The Beach Boys sure knew what they were talking about - I have lived in various states in the US, and know people from all over the country, but there is no accent like a true southern one.

My ambition in life at this point is to confuse people into thinking I'm a local (yes, I like to have realistic goals in life). All of my life I have had a fairly stable Northeastern accent (minus the "pahk the cahr" tick), and have managed to have people assume I come from some place in New England. But having been here for a while, I've decided that I like the way they talk so much better. I don't know about it knocking me out, but it's close.

It's not just the accent; it's far more than that. For one thing, the intonation is completely different from anything you hear up north. Here in the south, everything seems to be a question; "I'm going to go ahead and file those forms now?". The danger in that is that as an insensitive non-southerner, you assume that people actually want you to respond to what appears to be a question, and so you end up telling people what to do when all they were looking for was an "uhuh". Directness is not a quality that is much valued down here, something I have had to discover the hard way :) (but more about that some other time)
And how about "y'all"? I could write a whole page about the practicality of that term. Up north I would always say "you guys", but that just sounds odd when talking to a group of girls, and then what do you say? "You gals"?. So, no, "y'all" is a wonderfully useful term that was part of my daily vocabulary within a week. And the best part? No one can quite seem to agree on whether it's plural or singular, so you can use it for individuals as well as groups. And you're free to play with it too; "all y'all" (all of you guys) and "y'alls"(you people's - possessive) are perfectly acceptable variations.
The south is also known for its colorful expressions, many of which I had never heard living up north. How about "she's meaner than a skillet full of rattlesnakes"? Or "I'm in it for spit and sticks" (spek en bonen), and "uglier than a mud fence".
But there are some things I'm not too sure about; how about "across-t" for "across" and "heighTH" for "height". Call me snooty, but to me that sounds just plain wrong.
In spite of those few things that I don't care, the drawl wins me over every time. And I do think I'm getting there. The other day I had two people ask me if I was from the midwest...I'm not quite there yet, but my accent is slowly moving south...yeehaw!

"Y'all better come back now, ya hear?"