Almost the end

The end of our vacation in The Netherlands is almost in sight. One part of me can't wait to finally unpack all of our souvenirs and sleep in my very own bed, but another part of me is sad that the three weeks have flown by so fast. We spent some time today doing mandatory shopping (no trip to Holland is complete without the stroopwafels, brinta, and drop), and I found myself doing what I do every trip: saying goodbye to every small thing around me (goodbye Albert Heijn, goodbye sheep, goodbye town, goodbye bike).

The past three weeks have been fun, but slightly draining as well. At times I've felt it was more of a visit than a vacation. I felt like I was on tour, seeing old friends and family, as opposed to taking a break from a very hectic life back home. And although I was able to talk to some friends as though I had left just yesterday, at times I found that relationships just weren't what they seemed. Even though I knew this was going happen, it's still a little sad to be confronted by the reality of it. But I know that in the years to come, this is probably going to become easier with each visit. After all, as time goes by, I know I won't be able to keep in touch with everyone, and I know that Georgia will start to seem like my home more than it does now. In a few years, I should be able to really go on vacation here, and not feel like I'm somehow trying to find a life here that no longer exists. The good friends will stay in my life, they will come and see me in Georgia, and become part of my life now, and not be a memory of a past life. In short, there will be no need to feel like I should have "Dixiechick on tour" t-shirts made anymore, and an even greater desire to buy Delft's Blue goods.

But for now there is still one full day left to enjoy the company of my family, one last bike ride across the es, one last look at the cows, the fields, the quaint rows of houses, the traffic signs. I better go and enjoy it to the fullest!

Coins and ducks

Today it finally happened, the thing that some of my readers have been talking about: I needed help figuring out Dutch coins. It was not a major event, it didn’t last very long either, but it made me feel like I was losing my mind.

I have been using plastic or major bills to pay for everything, and have been putting any change that I’ve received in my purse. Every time I would just carelessly dump all the change into my bag, Dutch friends would look at me like I was truly going crazy. After all, some European coins can be worth up to three dollars. But I guess it’s one of those truly convenient American habits that are just hard to break. Why mess around with overweight wallets when you don’t have to? Back home I will put spare change in my pockets, in a cup holder in my car, or just toss it into my purse. Once a month or so, I will collect up all the loose change from everywhere, and still find I’ll only have around four dollars in dimes, nickels, and quarters. So change is not something I worry about, although it is always a present surprise to discover that I have enough change lying around the console in my car for a soda after work. But today, as I noticed that the collection of coins in the bottom of my purse had grown to fairly large proportions, I realized that I probably needed to start spending the money, unless I wanted to end up with $30 worth of fat and heavy European coins after we had come home.

So when I had to buy some blank CDs today, I decided to be smart and spend all that change that had been weighing down my bag. I walked up to the counter, and confidently pulled out a handful of change. The final price was 7 euros and 95 cents, something that would have caused me no problems at all a few years ago. But today I seriously found myself having to turn over every single coin trying to figure out what they were. Who knew that the twenty and fifty cent piece looked so much alike? The only difference is the edge, apparently, but you could have fooled me. And why couldn’t they have made it easier to distinguish between the one and two euro coin? Sure, one is slightly bigger than the other, but, trust me, in the heat of rushing to pay, and feeling three other customers stare at you, you can’t tell left from right, let alone two coins that look pretty much exactly the same. I ended up having to ask the sales assistant to help me out. After looking me like I was one sandwich short of a picnic, the man pointed out the value of each coin and picked out the ones he needed. And that’s when it hit me: I truly look like a fool. As a slightly clumsy, and at times overly enthusiastic person, I’m no stranger to embarrassment, but this moment really took the cake.

Looking back I realize that the mistake I made was to speak Dutch to the person in the store. The moment I decided to use my change, I should have just spoken English. Then my whole little coin-moment would have been considered cute. Now I’m sure there’s just a shopkeeper somewhere telling his family that he had a really crazy lady in the story today who had probably just been released into society after years of seclusion, because although she looked alright, talked alright, she couldn’t tell one coin from another. That’s what you get when you live abroad and want to speak your native language. The thing is, I refuse to speak English when I can speak Dutch just fine. In fact, I go out of my way to use English words or phrases at all. When I can’t think of a word, I’ll either describe what I’m trying to say, or use a synonym, but I refuse to use English. There’s nothing wrong with people who do, but it’s just not for me. To be honest, I always can’t help but wonder if someone isn’t trying to act a part. On the flight to Amsterdam, for instance, I was sitting next to a Dutch teacher who had spent two weeks in the US, and she was constantly using English words, albeit incorrectly, with the excuse that she hadn’t spoken a word of Dutch in fourteen days. That’s just not me. But I guess this means that I am going to have to accept that there will be times when people think I am a little bit crazy. Or maybe I just need to spend more time keeping up with Dutch society :)

Now I hate to bring up that same metaphor again, so I won’t…do ducks even use change?

Hoera! De Efteling

Morgen gaan we naar de Efteling, en ik moet toegeven, ik kan haast niet wachten. Ik heb zo’n zin om de Vogelrok te doen in het voorste karretje, de tulpen te zien openen en sluiten bij de fakir op het vliegende tapijt, en te luisteren naar de zingende lelies. Voor die ongelukkigen onder ons die nog nooit naar de Efteling zijn geweest, stap in je auto/het vliegtuig en ga! Nu! De Efteling is een ervaring die je niet mag missen; het is een thematisch attractiepark dat ooit begonnen is als een sprookjesbos gebaseerd op de tekeningen van Anton Pieck, en dat langzamerhand is uitgebouwd met allerlei meer spectaculairdere attracties (zoals de achtbaan de python, vliegende schepen, en wild water banen), maar dat toch hetzelfde sprookjesachtige thema in alle attracties heeft weten te verwerken.

Toen ik klein was ben ik misschien maar een keer of twee naar de Efteling geweest. We woonden nooit dichtbij genoeg om heel vaak de trip te maken, en ook hadden mijn ouders de voorkeur voor meer educatieve bezigheden zoals musea en dierentuinen. Van de paar keren dat ik naar de Efteling geweest ben kan ik me vooral herinneren dat het niet zo heel groot was, er lange rijden stonden, en dat het bijna altijd regende. Maar toch had de Efteling een bepaalde aantrekkingskracht; waar anders kon je pratende paddestoelen zien, rode schoentjes die uit zichzelf danste, en de allerengste achtbaan (toen!) van Europa? Het was echt de perfecte combinatie van fantasie en spanning, en wij zeurden vroeger onze ouders de oren van het hoofd om toch maar weer een bezoekje aan de Efteling. En toch werd het dan elke keer weer net iets anders; een orgelmuseum, of het Kroller Moller bijvoorbeeld.

De laatste jaren ben ik voor het eerst weer eens naar de Efteling geweest, en ondanks dat er veel veranderd is, is de mystiek nog lang niet weg. Ja, je kan nu inderdaad zien dat de fakir wel op heel dik ijzerdraad over de tulpen heen “zweeft”, dat de poppen in de Fata Morgana lijken toch echt aan een likje verf toe te zijn, en oh ja, dat de lelies lichtelijk vals zijn gaan zingen, maar de pratende paddestoel is er nog, en ook de Japanse nachtegaal zingt nog steeds. En uiteraard zijn er nu allerlei nieuwe attracties, zoals de Vogelrok (een achtbaan in het donker met klassieke muziek – een soort variant op de Aerosmith ride in Disneyland, maar dan eentje waar mijn ouders zich waarschijnlijk meer in zouden kunnen vinden), de Carnaval Parade (een soort “it’s a small world”-achtige ride, met net zo’n verschrikkelijk gekmakend muziekje), en de Pandadroom (een 4D attractie, compleet met enge slangen en appel-gooiende apen). Maar ondanks de veranderingen heeft de Efteling veel van zijn originele snoezigheid behouden. Het sprookjesbos is uitgebreid, en ook al zijn de meningen over de Laven verdeeld (ik blijf ze een soort enge dikke mini-mensjes vinden), de Efteling is ten minste niet veranderd in een parkeerplaats met allerlei veel te enge attracties waar ik toch alleen maar misselijk van word.

Dus toen mijn broer voorstelde om naar de Efteling te gaan heb ik de uitnodiging met beide handen aangenomen. Ik ben al een week bezig enthousiast te vertellen over het sprookjesbos, Rapunzel, en het Ezeltje-strekje, en probeer iedereen warm te maken voor de Droomvlucht en de Villa Volta. Maar terwijl ik zo aan het nadenken ben over mijn Efteling ervaring, besef ik me dat ik misschien een iets te rooskleurig plaatje geschilderd heb, en dat ik, om een teleurstelling te voorkomen, een iets realistischer beeld moet scheppen. Uiteraard is manlief gewend aan de geliktheid van Disney, en zal een Fakir die al piepend en krakend over twee dikke draden beweegt hem niet zo bekoren als dat ik nu denk. Hij deelt ten slotte niet in mijn jeugdherinneringen over het sprookesbos, toen je je nog afvroeg hoe dat toch allemaal kon; vliegende mannen, dwergen, en pratende paddenstoelen. Stiekem krijg ik ondertussen mijn twijfels of ze de Efteling met dezelfde kinderlijke bewondering zal bekijken als ik. Natuurlijk zullen alle attracties, en vast ook Ezeltje-strekje een groot succes zijn (wat wil je nog meer; een stenen ezel die munten uit zijn achterwerk schiet), maar ik weet niet of ze ooit, net als ik, in staat zullen zijn om met de ogen van een zeven-jarige door het park te lopen. We zullen het zien. Een ding staat in ieder geval al vast; de gids in mij is wakker geworden, en aan mij zal het niet liggen!

Laundry

When I first met husband-dear, he was slightly appalled by the fact that I would hang my laundry to dry outside. It’s not that he thought it was unsanitary, no, he thought it looked “poor”. The fact that I didn’t own a dryer (and wouldn’t have had a place to put it if I did) only further underlined his belief. On his first trips through the Netherlands, he was amazed by the number of people who would have their laundry hanging outside for the whole world to see. He was especially surprised that even the nicest homes would have a drying rack out in the backyard, and my argument that they probably didn’t want all their clothes to go into the dryer did little to convince him. So when we moved in together, I had to promise that a) if I would use a drying rack, I would never put it outside where everyone could see it, and that b) I would never ever hang underwear out to dry anywhere. So even though I would love to hang my whites outside in the bright sunlight to dry, I’ve kept my promise, and instead have a tiny little drying rack in the corner of our screened-in back porch, where no one can see it.

As time has gone by, I’ve gotten used to this arrangement. I put most of our clothes in the dryer, except for some of my more delicate shirts and pants, which I surreptitiously dry on the back porch. I’ve gotten “unused” to seeing clotheslines full of sheets, underwear and shirts next to people’s homes, a fact that I was confronted with only the other day when I biked past a farm which not only had a clothesline strung out in the front yard (the love of my life would have had a heart attack), but which also had the entire family’s underwear collection hanging from it. My first thought was “Wow, I can’t believe they would do that. Everyone can see it!”, while my second thought was “Wow, I can’t believe I’ve changed that much!”. I’ve slowly gotten used to the presence of laundry in yards again, although when my mother washed some of my clothes and hung them out to dry, I made her hide my underwear behind some larger clothes.

When husband-dear and I first met I was equally surprised by the fact that he took all of his uniforms to the dry cleaner’s. Even though I owned several suits and dress pants, I only took them to dry cleaner’s sporadically. This wasn’t only the result of Dutch frugality, but also because all the dry cleaner’s in my town were only open when I was at work, and tended to be situated in places that could only be properly reached by bike. Since I didn’t really feel like taking an hour off work to lug all my clothes across town on my bike, that put a damper on any dry cleaner plans I may have had. So I was surprised my husband didn’t just wash his clothes. The surprise lasted about five minutes, which is how long it took him to tell me that his uniforms required starching and lots of complicated ironing, while the dry cleaner’s had a drive-through drop-off window and only charged several dollars per outfit. It wasn’t long before I became a regular at the dry cleaner’s, a mere necessity when your work has a strict dress code like mine does. When I told my former Dutch co-workers about our dress code, their first question was how I cleaned all of my clothes, and when I told them about the dry cleaner’s, their second question was if that wasn’t really expensive and troublesome…:)

The reason for writing about laundry today is something that my sister-in-law did earlier this morning: she opened one of the upstairs windows and hung my duvet out of the opened window, to air out. For a second, all I could do was stare, because why on earth would you hang your bedding out the window? I mean, they live in a nice neighborhood, what would everyone think of them? Then I realized that this was actually a good idea, and my third thought was that I should really kick myself since I used to do this all the time, and now I was responding as though it was completely new to me. Honestly though, I can’t image hanging our bedding out the window, and not only because of what the neighbors would think. I mean, first, it would involve removing our screens which has turned out to be a huge pain (a.k.a we can’t really figure out how to take them off). This would mean all sorts of nasty bugs would find their way into our house (and I’m not that desperate for aired bedding). And second, our entire house is one floor, so it’s not like we could actually “hang out” the bedding. So when my sister-in-law asked me how we aired out our bedding, I told we either put in the dryer, or took it to the dry cleaner’s….

It doesn't walk like a duck, doesn't talk like duck, so how can it still pretend to be a duck?

Compare...and compare

When I spoke to a close friend two days ago, she asked me if I could write something about the similarities between Dutch people and Americans. According to her, all I really seemed to do was underline the differences, while there had to be some things they had in common.
When I thought about all the different topics I have written about here, I realized that she was right; all I seem to do is describe how people or things in the Netherlands are different from American people and things. Granted, there are a lot of differences between the two countries, but they are both developed, well-to-do western nations, so they have got to have something in common besides the fact that they are both populated with humans.

My focus on the differences can probably be blamed on academics. More specifically on one class that I took a long time ago on identity formation. This is where I learned that in order to create one’s identity, one has to be aware of an “other”, a person, or a group of people that one is not like and does not want to be like. I know this sounds vague and probably slightly like I’m one sandwich short of a picnic, but think about it. Try to tell yourself right now how you experience being a woman, a man, a mother, a believer, or really anything that you consider an identifying characteristic of yourself. If you just tried explaining what’s it like to be a woman, you probably ended up using the characteristics of a man to explain what you are and what you’re not (you can sit down when you use the bathroom, you have to spend more time on your hair, you have to shave your legs but not your face, you’re more likely to encounter gender discrimination, and so on). The bottom line is that in order to know who you are, you need to know what and who you’re not, and don’t want to be. I think that what’s been happening in this blog is that I’ve been pointing out the differences between my two homes in order to decide who I am, what I do want to keep from my “old” home (roundabouts and bicycling everywhere), and what I want to retain from my “new” home (politeness, the weather, the students).

But for the sake of my good friend, I did, for just a day, discard my tendency to only consider differences between the US and the Netherlands. So I started to ponder what Americans and Dutch people have in common. I have to tell you, I considered this for quite a while, and found it really hard to come up with examples. Stating that both peoples like to eat and listen to music seemed a little too simple, but when it came to finding shared cultural codes, I really struggled to find similarities. However, I finally managed to think of a few. Well, one actually. It’s sad, I know, but there you go.

The one shared characteristic that came to mind were the differences between the north and the south of both countries (and once again I managed to squeeze some differences in there). I think that after having lived in both places in both countries I can conclude that people in both places share some similarities. Sure, the southern part of the Netherlands will, unless global warming really persists, probably never grow cotton, and the people in the northern states in the US never lived in huts made of peat, but the people are somewhat the same. For one thing, northerners, whether they’re Dutch or American, tend to be sticklers for punctuality and efficiency, which unfortunately can’t always be said for southerners. When I taught at a university in the Netherlands, and a student was late for class or an appointment, we almost always assumed the student was from the south, simply because we knew they lived by a concept known as the “southern 15 minutes” (Brabants/Limburgs kwartiertje). In Georgia people don’t appear to take time as seriously as people up in New England either, and they appear far more laid back about being on time and taking care of things in a speedy and efficient manner (and honestly, why rush if you can sit on your porch with some sweet tea?). Moreover, southerners in both countries tend to be less direct and more polite than their northern counterparts. Southerners in both countries will say “Sure, no problem honey”(although Dutch people will probably leave off the honey), even when something can’t be done, while people in the north will tell you why it can’t be done straight up. It strikes me as odd that the differences within a country as large as the US are somehow the same to the differences in a country as small as the Netherlands, but, and this is a tough admission for someone who always has an answer to everything; I really don’t know why.

Well, I am going to put my thinking cap back on and think of some more similarities, because there have got to be more, and I am a woman on a mission. In the meantime, all your suggestions are very welcome.

Lesson of the day

I firmly believe you should spend each day of your life trying to learn one new thing. It can be something really simple, like what the lowest level on a PS2 game looks like, or something a little more complicated, like how to use scallograms to create a reliable scale. Yesterday, I learned three important things:
1) Some things never change
2) I look American
3) Southerners may actually be a lot more direct than you think

Yesterday I decided to visit the department where I used to work before we moved to the US. I’ve kept in touch with a lot of my former co-workers, either through joint research efforts, or on a more personal level, and so it seemed like a good idea to stop in and say hello. The moment I walked into the building it was like I was transported back in time; everything was still exactly the same, down to the messy bulletin boards and the smell of cleaning fluids. There were a few new faces, and some people had moved to different offices, but besides that very little had changed within the department. While it’s nice to know some things don’t change, it’s also slightly odd that while you’ve gone and changed your whole life around, these people, whom you all know very well, haven’t changed one iota in their daily routine; they still bicker over classroom assignments, share pots of coffee, and all have lunch together.

While at the department, I also discovered that apparently I look American now. I think I had at least five people tell me that yesterday, and I’m still not quite sure what to make of that. Should I be proud? Ashamed? Should I even care at all? Above all, it’s slightly confusing, I mean, since when is there such thing as a generic “American look”? I know that Dutch people have this idea of Americans as overweight, sneaker-wearing, fanny pack-toting people, who at times dress like it’s the 1980s, but unless I’ve lost my mind and no one has told me, I don’t think I’m any of those things. I was thinking about this yesterday as I pondered my jeans, crocs, and hoodie, and decided that it may have something to do with the extent that you care about what you wear. Having been in Holland for a week now, I think I can come to the tentative conclusion that Dutch people generally always care about what they look like. It doesn’t matter whether they’re merely heading to the post office or the dentist, Dutch people will usually carefully consider their outfit. Conversely, I think, after considering my pajama-clad students, that Americans don’t always care. Sure, when the time is right, every southern woman will pile up her hair and her make-up, pull out that skirt and shirt, and find herself a nice pair of shoes and hose. But whenever a southern woman has a day off and only has to run to the store, she won’t spend more than five minutes deciding what to wear (if that). After all, it’s only the grocery store clerk, or your professor and your fellow-suffering students who will see you. I think I’ve slowly begun to pick up on that attitude as well. Although I don’t think I will ever run to the store in my pajamas, I have begun to notice that when I don’t have to dress up for work, I don’t really care about what I put on. Sure, I’ll probably still look alright (I don’t really own a fanny pack for starters), but I really don’t care. So yesterday, it probably wasn’t the fact that I was wearing a hoodie and jeans and crocs, it was the fact that I really didn’t care what everyone else thought of me. Now if this finding is actually true, then not only have I finally achieved what I've been trying to do since I was a teenager, but I guess I would also have to say that I’m proud to look like an American.

And lastly, I know I’ve spent a lot of time in this blog lamenting the fact that southerners can be so indirect, and I’ve probably also mentioned from time to time that Dutch people are a lot more direct in their daily conversations. But yesterday, I’ve had to slightly revise that opinion though. Sure, Dutch people will say things that southerners wouldn’t even dream of saying, such as the former co-worker who commented on my crocs by saying “I’ve heard they’re really comfortable, but I don’t want to try them on because then I may find myself agreeing, and I think they are just too ugly to wear anywhere”. When you think like a Dutch person, that comment is actually fairly acceptable. Think like a southerner, and your ruffled shirt just ran for cover. But on the other hand, when push comes to shove, I found that my former co-workers are less likely to address issues that are really important because they are somehow afraid that they will upset the applecart. No one will talk to the professor who never shows up unless he absolutely has to. No one will mention the mistakes made by the administration. No one will stand up for their or the department’s rights to money or faculty. Now I don’t mean to imply that people at my school in Georgia are constantly battling every wrong, but I do believe they are more likely to speak up. In the week before I left for Holland I had a very straightforward conversation with our dean about my position and salary next year, and now that I’ve spent a few hours at my old work, I think I can safely say that I would have never dared to be that direct with anyone there, let alone someone high up like the dean. For all their charms and manners, I think southern people should not be underestimated, while it sometimes seems that Dutch people are more bark than bite.

So those were my three lessons of the day. Since that’s two more than the norm, I think that I get to play dumb today!

Marikenloop

Hardloopgek die ik ben dacht ik dat het leuk zou zijn als ik, terwijl ik op bezoek ben in Nederland, mee zou doen aan een hardloopwedstrijd. Een vakantie niet gesport is een vakantie niet geleefd, ten slotte. Dus toen ik erachter kwam dat de Marikenloop een week na mijn aankomst zou plaatsvinden, was de keuze snel gemaakt. Wie wil nou niet meedoen aan de grootste women-only loop in Nederland? Dus schreef ik me enthousiast in voor de 10k. Toen ik in de dagen voor de loop voelde hoe verschrikkelijk koud het was geworden, werd het enthousiasme echter iets getemperd. Niet dat hardlopen in de kou zo erg is, maar meer omdat ik, met mijn hoofd nog in Georgia, helemaal niks met lange mouwen had meegenomen. Ik zag mezelf al helemaal bibberend in met een vuilniszak om tegen de wind een uur lang door de bossen rennen. Maar gelukkig was het afgelopen zondag stralend zonnig weer, en kon ik vol goede moed aan de loop beginnen, en weer eens heerlijk observeren hoe zo’n race er in Nederland aan toe gaat.

Het allergrootste verschil merk je meteen als eerste: de starttijd. Terwijl je in de VS vaak voor dag en dauw al aan de startlijn verschijnt (bij onze laatste race was het net licht toen het startschot ging), beginnen de meeste races in Nederland niet voor het middaguur. Voor mensen die de avond voor een race graag nog even een doorzakkertje nemen is dit misschien ideaal, maar voor serieuze vroege vogels als ik is het beduidend minder. Niet dat ik nou sta te springen als we weer eens om half zeven in de auto zitten op een zaterdagochtend, maar het maakt je hele dag wel makkelijk. Je werkt na het opstaan een flink ontbijt weg, rent een uurtje of wat, gaat naar huis, douchet, en hebt dan nog meer dan voldoende tijd om terug in bed te duiken, een uurtje te slapen, en dan je dag weer helemaal opnieuw te beginnen. Afgelopen zondag mocht het helaas niet zo zijn. Nadat ik om acht uur wakker was geworden moest ik nog zes uur wachten tot het startschot. En sja, wat doe je dan? Wil je dan toch een groot ontbijt eten? Of misschien toch maar een grote lunch? En hoe ver van te voren wil je er eigenlijk zijn? Normaal is het een kwestie van opstaan en gaan; nu met al deze keuzes raakte ik helemaal in de war.

Gelukkig is het allemaal goed gekomen, en stond ik braaf om half twee op het warm-up veld, met als zekerheid toch maar een vuilniszak aan. En het eerste dat me opviel was dat ik er echt uitzag als een zwerver. Ik roep altijd dat ik een “running hobo” ben, maar hier was ik dat echt, zelfs zonder vuilniszak. Terwijl ik in de VS totaal niet opval met mijn running outfit, was ik hier duidelijk een vreemde eend in de bijt. De dames om mij heen droegen allemaal prachtig hardloop pakjes, met prachtige bij elkaar passende shirts en broekjes, mooi weggewerkte MP3-player houdertjes, en in sommige gevallen zelfs oorbellen in de kleur van hun shirt. Ik had de starende blikken van de mensen om mij heen niet echt nodig om door te hebben dat ik er vreemd uitzag. Ik loop altijd in een heel oud strak kort broekje, met daarover een lila wijder broekje (waarom? Geen idee eigenlijk, maar het zit lekker), dat dan weer totaal niet past bij het grijze shirt van de Base Chapel dat ik aan had. Sja, een modeshow zou ik zeker niet winnen. Maar het gaf stiekem toch wel een goed gevoel toen de wind aanzwol, en iedereen om mij heen klaagde van de kou en ik met mijn vuilniszakje nergens last van had..ha!

Wat wel echt heel leuk was, was dat hier van de race een hele happening gemaakt werd. In plaats van een kleine speech over de te volgen route gevolgd door een startschot, of zoals bij een enkele race, het volkslied gevolgd door een gebed, was hier een heel optreden van een bandje, gevolgd door een professionele warming up compleet met de nodige rek-en strek-oefeningen. En ook al werden de kruisingen hier niet door zes politie-auto’s met zwaailichten afgezet, er stonden wel veel meer mensen langs de route, een enorm voordeel van het later laten beginnen.

Al met al ging de race erg goed, ik was twee minuten eerder binnen dan ik had gepland, en tot nog toe heb ik nog geen blessures opgemerkt. Maar ik weet niet of ik dat later beginnen wel zo’n goed idee vind, want al was het wel erg jammer dat het na de race echt de laat was om nog terug naar bed te gaan.

Groceries

Yes, I finally succumbed to the desire to take pictures, and completely embarrassed my family today by taking pictures of the cheese section at the local Albert Heijn. I love seeing all the round yellow cheeses lined up, one row next to the other. Although I probably hate grocery most of all the chores hubby and I share (it’s second on the list, right behind ironing), I simply adore going to a grocery store in another country. I realize that Holland is where I come from, but it truly feels like another country, a notion that was confirmed today by my visit to the local Albert Heijn.

First, the carts threw me for a loop. I remember a long long time ago, when husband-dear and I were still dating, and he would visit me in Holland, he used to complain about the shopping carts kicking his behind. He provided a lengthy and complicated explanation about front-wheel and back-wheel drive and turning points to explain his inability to turn corners, which, needless to say, I just laughed at. Until today. I think I can safely say I did not make any friends at the grocery store today. It took me at least ten minutes to figure out how to turn the cart, at which point we had passed through a very busy produce section, and I had run into at least ten different people. Of course, I smiled and apologized, but I’m not sure if it made any difference, since we're no longer in the south where people say things like "Oh honey, you're fine, don't worry, these are really old shoes anyway, and I love getting my ankles bashed, I've heard it's great for your circulation".

Moreover, I found myself stopping and exclaiming at the most mundane products, such as the afore-mentioned cheese section. I think I positively scared the girl behind the counter when I got excited at the low price of cheese. I also loved the vla-section (a cross between pudding and yoghurt, used as dessert). The US has really lost an opportunity to embrace dairy when it failed to introduce vla. This specific store had rows and rows of vla; vanillia, chocolate, caramel, strawberry-vanilla, lemon-vanilla, peach and strawberries, the options were endless. Of course, I was enamoured by the candy section, and was overall amazed at how everything was just really small. No gallons of milk, pounds of coffee, supersized boxes of cereal, no, everything was medium-sized, and would barely be enough to feed my family for a week. Now it’s all fine and good to get excited over things like cheese, liquorice, and vla when you’re talk like a foreigner, but not when you speak the native language. I’m pretty sure people thought I was slightly off my rocker as I said something about Conimex Indonesian products in a volume a little louder than acceptable in a local Dutch supermarket.

Now I really liked being in a Dutch grocery store; the products were fascinating, the store did not go on for miles and miles, and so it did not take forever to double back and pick up some mustard, and I even found myself getting used to the carts. But I have to say that the whole checkout procedure was a bit of a letdown. First, the registers, all six of them, were all squeezed together in a tiny little area. Customers were pretty much standing on top of one another, and lining up in the aisles adjacent to the registers. Then there was no friendly checkout-person asking you how you were. And worst of all, there were no baggers! All your groceries are placed on a tiny little belt which fills up almost right away, thus leaving your lettuce, eggs, and other fragile purchases to be squished by items such as milk and vla. You’re expected to place your groceries into your cart at the speed of light, since the checkout-person will not slow down just because your chips are fighting for their lives. Then while you’re loading up, you’re expected to pay, deal with a dazzling options of requests about “zegeltjes” and “lege flessen”, and make way for the next customer immediately. It was frazzling, yet none of the locals around me seemed to struggle with it, and some of them were dealing with screaming toddlers while loading groceries, paying, and accepting several forms of “zegeltjes”. I vaguely remember being able to do all that too (minus the screaming toddler), but to be honest, the skill eluded me today.

So what happens when a duck can no longer walk or talk like a duck? Is it still a duck?

Playing professor

Yesterday, instead of playing tourist, I got to play professor again for just one day. Instead of bicycling through green pastures and taking pictures of windmills, I visited a former co-worker in his current position as assistant professor at a college in the Netherlands. Although it was a most enjoyable and highly productive day, I also had a great time playing anthropologist, and noticing all the differences between his school and mine back in Georgia.

Although it’s true that students are students, no matter where you go, I did notice some major differences between his little darlings, and mine. The first thing I noticed what that none of the students showed up in sweatpants or pyjamas. Now I know our students live on campus. I also realize that many of them probably wake up ten minutes before class starts; heck, it’s what I used to do. And I am also aware of the fact that several of them will probably go back to bed when they get back to their dorm room. But in spite of all that knowledge, I still cannot get used to seeing students appear in flip flops (with or without socks), flannel boxer shorts or sweats and tanks or t-shirts. Honestly, sometimes I feel like all that's missing is a robe or their favorite stuffed animal. So it was a pleasure to see every single student properly dressed. But as opposed to Georgia, there was not one student who was dressed up as though they were heading to a job interview. For some reason, there is always at least one student in my class who comes in dressed to the nines; tie and button-down for the men, and skirt and jacket for the women. That was definitely not the case at this school, where both male and female students were dressed as though they had walked right of an Abercrombie & Fitch, H & M, or Esprit catalogue. And of course I did notice scores of men in Capri pants and pink shirts (I’m beginning to get the feeling I’m missing a trend here).
Another difference between my esteemed co-worker’s students and mine was their attitude. I have to admit, and my students will glow with pride at this, but I really missed their good manners and respect for authority. Not that these students weren't bright or smart, because they were very much so, but their behavior was just slightly different from my "kids". For instance, my co-worker was giving a lecture, and the students simply would not quiet down. Now I realize that this could also be a difference in teaching methods, maybe I just like my students to be quiet, while other people don’t mind some chatter. But the fact remains that when I was telling the students something, they did not respond to the “look” that can silence twenty of my rowdiest students. Dutch students also don’t really go for the whole “dr.” thing. When my co-worker introduced me as “Dr. so and so from Georgia”, I distinctly heard one of the students, who assumed I did not understand Dutch, wonder aloud if I was going to play doctor with him later. I am not kidding. After class, when my co-worker and I explained the whole idea behind using the title (six years of blood, sweat, tears, lots of feel-good movies, gallons of tea, and lots of pep-talks), he was not so much embarrassed by the fact that he had jested at something we hold in high esteem, but that I had been able to understand him.
Besides observing students, I of course got to brainstorm about several research initiatives, and discuss the possibilities of international collaboration. It may sound odd to want to do something like while on vacation, and while I was working on my PhD I would have never thought I would stoop as low as all those odd professors, but let me tell you, it’s a lot fun.

Today, however, I got to go back to playing tourist again. My mother and I went on old-fashioned shopping spree in Deventer, where, just like the old days, I could barely find anything that fit (I used to think my body was odd, but now that I live in the US, where everything just fits right away, I’m beginning to think that perhaps my body simply isn't shaped as the typical Dutch woman's). Although I wasn’t able to find a Jamin, I did find a Drop-Inn; a tiny little store that sold nothing but Dutch candy. Needless to say, I ate very little of my dinner tonight. I also ooh-ed and ah-ed at the really old houses and churches I saw everywhere, and could not get enough of the little cobbled streets and quaint little art stores in the area around the “brink”(the large square in the middle of the town). I stopped myself from taking pictures, again, but I just know that one of these days, I am going to start giving in :)

Toerist in Nederland

Grappig hoe ik me de laatste twee dagen echt de toerist in Nederland voel. Toen ik afgelopen November voor het eerst in Nederland was sinds de verhuizing voelde ik me absoluut geen toerist. Ik voelde me eerder iemand die zich niet helemaal meer op haar plek voelde, maar dat ergens wel tegen willens en wetens in verwacht had. Ik liep door mijn oude woonplaats heen en verwachtte me weer thuis te voelen, maar in plaats daarvan voelde ik me in mijn “hoodie” en spijkerbroek helemaal niet op mijn plek. Nu is dat ongemakkelijke gevoel gelukkig verdwenen. Voor het eerst voel ik me duideljik op bezoek in (eigen?) land, en dat maakt het allemaal erg leuk.

Deze eerste week breng ik door bij mijn ouders in hun vakantie huisje in Twente, en alhoewel ik altijd wel wist dat dit een heel mooi gebied was, heb ik dat nu, als toerist, pas echt door. Zo staat er een molen midden in het dichtstbijzijnde dorp die ik al die jaren niet eens opgemerkt heb, maar waarvan ik nu bijna een foto wilde maken. Want sja, het is toch maar een hele mooie molen eigenlijk, en die hebben we niet in Georgia. En toen we gisteren gingen fietsen heb ik genoten van de door bossen omringde wegen, waar de bladeren zo dik waren, dat de zon er maar net doorheen kwam. Ook de oude boerderijen hier, met hun rieten daken en veelal groene luiken zijn echt prachtig. Vanochtend besloot ik een rondje over de es hard te lopen, en het was geweldig om over de weilanden te kilometers ver te kunnen zien. De rijen populieren, boerderijen, en velden met gele bloemetjes, en wit met zwarte koeien blaakten allemaal in het zonlicht, en waren zo op en top Nederlands dat ik echt een heerlijk vakantie gevoel kreeg. Wat me wel opviel was dat ik hier, in tegenstelling tot in Georgia, helemaal geen joggers tegenkwam, maar wel tientallen fietsers. En tot mijn grote plezier zaten er maar een paar in spandex op een mountainbike, en zat de rest gewoon in normale kledij met een mandje voorop en de regenjas in de fietstas achterop, op zo’n lekker grote Nederlandse fiets.

En terwijl ik vorige keer me nog ergerde aan de langzame service in restaurants, merk ik dat ik het nu als een soort “local quirk” zie, net zoals Nederlanders zich (waarschijnlijk) vermaken met de super-enthousiaste Amerikaanse serveersters. Ergens heeft het wel wat om lekker lang op je eten te moeten wachten; je hebt in ieder geval genoeg tijd om bij te praten! En dat is er natuurlijk genoeg te doen. Naast de nodige toeristische activiteiten, zoals het Openlucht Museum waar ik altijd van kan genieten, is het de komende tijd natuurlijk ook een komen en gaan van familie en vrienden. Nu alleen nog een Jamin vinden, en mijn vakantie kan niet meer stuk!

In Holland

Well, I am glad to say that I made it safe to Holland, and all of my luggage did too. The trip was a little more arduous than expected, it, among other things, involved a 1am phone call about a cancelled flight, being put on a standby list, and then barely making it to Newark on time. But, although I am tired beyond belief, and the internet connection is shady to say the least, I am here. I got to hug my parents and brother, and for the first time in probably two years see my mom on mother’s day. It’s been a very special day so far.

It’s funny; whenever I go back to Holland, it’s always the little things that I notice most. The fact that the lanes on the highway are so very narrow, the color of the traffic signs, and, yes, the way people dress. There seem to be a lot of men in Capri pants, and brightly colored shirts, all things which the majority of my American male friends absolutely refuse to wear. Today I also inadvertently pointed at the first yellow tag I saw, and started to exclaim that, oh my goodness, that is a Dutch car!, until I realized I was actually in the Netherlands. I also got to ride an old-style “oma” bicycle again, and almost crashed twice. Once trying to cross our gravel-covered driveway, and once while trying to use non-existant handbrakes. Dutch drivers also don’t slow down when they pass you, which was daunting to say the least. Speaking Dutch has been a challenge as well (what do you mean, you can’t say “wat is die auto doen hier?”), but all in all, it’s been great, and I’ve gotten to laugh at myself and my sudden inability to blend in a lot.

I will write more tomorrow, I need to go and spend some much-needed quality time with my family now.

To all mothers out there: happy mother’s day!

Travel Tails

I think it’s safe to say that I’m a pretty organized person. My house and office are usually tidy, and even my purse is not in too bad a shape. I will make daily to-do lists, and have yet to lose a set of keys, wallet, or even a sock (knock on wood). But whenever I have to pack for a trip, this horribly messy, chaotic and disorganized alter ego rears its head. Within minutes I manage to have the bedroom look like a bomb exploded, in spite of all the lists I made before hand. I will put a pile of clothes in my suitcase, then realize I need to get out Ziploc bags for my liquids, put them in the bathroom, and then decide I really should pack my carry-on first. Needless to say that within minutes there are piles of clothes all over the bedroom, bags are all over the floor, and the place is generally a mess. Everyone who knows me and has seen me like this, has been surprised, and to be honest, to am I. I really don’t know what happens, but I cannot seem to get my stuff together in a disciplined manner. I will misplace socks, chargers, and it’s generally best to leave me alone, since I’m usually not in the best of moods (probably because it’s so messy).

Now when it comes to packing though, I am proud to say that I am an absolute fiend. When I was a little kid, I used to watch my dad pack, and be amazed at how much stuff he could fit into his suitcase. My mother would have given up on trying to fit all of our clothes in one bag, and then my dad would show up, roll a shirt this way, push a pair of jeans that way, and still have room for an extra book for me. I decided long ago that I wanted to be like my dad, and I think I’ve gotten pretty close. I’m still not sure how he manages to roll dress shirts without wrinkling them, but when I decide that a certain amount of stuff will fit into one bag, it will. I take it as a personal insult if it doesn’t :)

So here I am, my bags are all packed, husband-dear has been instructed on when to water the plants, and I’ve put in my last call to work. And then the question always comes up: now what? I don’t leave until early tomorrow morning, am too antsy to go and do something, but obviously it’s far too early for say, bed. When I was a child, and we would go on long trips, I would get so excited, I could simply not sleep the night prior to our departure. In that respect, not a whole lot has changed. Only right now I have the added worry of not missing my flight, what on earth I am going to do on the grueling six-hour layover in Newark (I know, I know, but it was the cheapest flight, let’s all pray for wireless internet), and whether or not the strike of the luggage handlers in Amsterdam will affect me (I sure hope not, since I am usually not little Ms. Sunshine after such a long trip). A large part of me is, of course, also very excited about seeing my parents again. It’s been a long time, and I am looking forward to catching up with them. And somehow arriving at an airport and having people wait for you is such a wonderful, almost movie-like experience. I can’t wait, and let’s hope they bring dropjes!

p.s. I am planning to keep blogging during my stay in Holland (for one thing to gripe about how much I miss Georgia), but can’t make any promises, since I depend on my family’s satellite link.

Suzy Homemaker

For someone who spent the last several years pretty much always on the go, it's a real surprise to discover the joys of being a homemaker. I never thought I would know what to do with myself when faced with weeks of absolute freedom, but so far it's all been amazingly good. On Monday, when everyone left for work and school, I had a brief moment of panic (what do you mean there's nowhere that I have to be right now?!), but once I realized this freedom meant I could go wherever I wanted to, and I ended up going to the mall with a neighbor, I quickly realized the joys of all this sudden freedom. So I think I've managed to find my niche pretty well. I don’t know if it will last for all three months, but so far, so good.

As usually, it's the silliest things that make me happy. Whenever I leave for work, I always worry about the million and one things that could go wrong during my absence (yes, I am the worrywart who unplugs the coffeemaker before she leaves, and double-checks the doors are locked), so it’s nice to be inside the house and find that it’s just peaceful and quiet during the day, with nothing untoward going on; no dancing furniture or poker-playing guinea pig. :)

Another thing is the fact that I now know what the house looks like at 7am on a Tuesday morning for instance. Around that time, when the sun hits the blinds in our kitchen window, the early sunlight makes the most beautiful patterns on the wall behind the stove. It's equally nice to see the afternoon sun light up the living room (and then take a nap in it on the couch – I highly recommend it).
Another little joy is the ability to sit in a quiet house with no kids, no husband, nothing that has to be done. I’m planning on finally watching some of those movies that none of them will ever watch with me, such as the behind the scenes documentary of The Sound of Music behind the scenes – a classic, albeit not according to my three male family members. I also finally get to watch the shows like American’s Next Top Model, and the DVD set of the Gilmore Girls, which especially husband-dear despises (even though he gave it to me for Christmas, I suppose that’s true love).

Now, I never thought I would be one of those moms who would drive up to school in her boxers and a t-shirt, but honestly, I’m loving it. I really enjoy that I now have the time to drive the boys to school. I love hearing stories about their friends, or answering questions about my stick-shift. Next year they won’t be in the same school anymore (for two years anyway), so I’m truly savoring this time. At the same time, I am now also home to hear their complaints about school at the end of the day, which is possibly a little less amusing. And suddenly I do find myself put in charge of thinking up an idea for a “grammar mobile”, a daunting undertaking to say the least, but again, it’s something I have barely had a chance to do this year, and thus very valuable.

The fact that I am now in charge of all the chores is a little less joyous, for sure. Today, for instance, I have to go grocery shopping. Yay. Usually hubby takes care of this (since, surprise, surprise, I’m at work), and even though I made a fairly complete list, I just know that I’m going to come home with the wrong brand of something, and make someone very unhappy; "Dad never buys this....". But I guess that is all part of earning my homemaker-stripes.

All in all, I think it’s the balance that these three months provide that makes me happy. It’s because I know that all of this will end, that I am enjoying it so very much.

Letters and symbols

Now that I get to be homemaker for a few months, I find myself on the road at times when I would otherwise be at work. And now that my mind is not distracted by worries about failing students, data that just does not seem to make sense, and other trivial concerns like if husband dear would remember to pick my suit up from the dry cleaner’s, I suddenly have a lot more time to ponder my surroundings. And you know what has been bothering me on my recent errand-missions? The traffic signs. Yep, some American traffic signs really get on my nerves.

Like what’s up with the school zone signs that write the hours on which you have to observe the slower speed limit in tiny itsy-bitsy letters? If the safety of school children is that important, don’t you think they could have splurged on a slightly bigger sign where the driver doesn’t need reading glasses to make out the times when students will be near the road? Don’t get me wrong, I think school zones are a wonderful idea. Kids can be really unpredictable, and it’s great to know when to expect little darlings to run across a four-lane road right in front of your car. But why do some school districts have to make it so hard to figure out when to slow down? I can’t count the number of times I have misread a sign, slowed down, only to lose about ten years off my life when the semi behind me would honk its horn at me.
On the way to work, I drive through two school zones. One uses the tiny-writing signs. After ten months, I’ve figured out what the sign says, but for the first few months, I had a hard time remembering the afternoon times (2:15 – 3:50 is apparently not a logical time for me). I would always squint and try to read the sign when I passed it, but nine times out of ten, I would only catch the beginning or the ending time, and neither would be very helpful. Usually I would just adapt to what other drivers were doing, but since I’m one of those crazy people who just has to know, it was enough to annoy me. The second school zone I drive through has the flashing light system; if you need to slow down, a set of lights placed over the road will flash yellow. This works great, not in the least because it means that you don’t have to memorize the school calendar of each school district you drive through to know when schools are not in session and you’re merely holding up traffic. Unfortunately, none of the school zones in this county use the flashing lights. So just today, when I was running errands around two, I found myself squinting and slamming on the brakes twice. And no, I don’t need glasses.

And what about those signs that say “Caution. Low or soft shoulder”? Every time I see one of those I want to yell (and yes, sometimes I actually do): “Make up your mind!”. I mean, not to step on shoulders’ toes, but honestly, how many shoulders are both? We have a sign like that a few blocks over, and the shoulder there is not soft, it’s low. If you run off the road, you end up in a ditch. Not good, no. But then why can’t they just put up a sign that reads “Caution. Low shoulder”? Is the county trying to save us money by printing one kind of sign instead of two? It’s a mystery.

I also like the signs that read “Caution. Bridge may ice in winter”. First of all, I can’t imagine it ever freezing hard enough in middle or southern Georgia that drivers would actually spin out of control. I drove through southern German snow and black ice more times than I care to remember, trust me, I know. But, I’m willing to be magnanimous and give the traffic sign people the benefit of the doubt there. My second concern is regarding the fact that a) these signs are, again, tiny, and b) placed maybe 100 ft before the bridge in question. By the time you have figured out what the sign means, if you ever do, you could, at least according to the Georgia state government, be in a death-defying tailspin.

On a more serious note, when I first started driving in the US, one of the things that I noticed right away was the lack of symbols. European signs don’t use a lot of writing, while American signs do (“Caution. Children at play” instead of a picture of a child running, “Slow down. Road work ahead” instead of a sign of a construction worker). I always wondered how this worked for the millions of illiterate Americans. Or people whose command of English is not sufficient for them to understand a sign in a few seconds. If there is one thing I could change about driving here, it wouldn’t be the lack of roundabouts, or the speed limits, it would truly be the road signs. And not just because they annoy little old me from time to time, but because it’s about something more than that.

"Homeward" bound

Thomas Wolfe said it most aptly when he titled his last book “You can’t go home again”. Just like you can’t relive your favorite day, and make time go faster when you want it to, you just can’t leave home, come back and expect things to be the same. I believe this is especially true when you have moved overseas. I mean, it’s one thing to return to your hometown and find that your favorite restaurant has closed down, but it’s something completely different when you return to your home country to find that they have changed the currency, changed traffic rules, or that you don't know how to say something is cool in a contemporary manner. Somehow whenever I live abroad, going back to Holland has always had more of a shock effect to it than anything else. I will be going to the Netherlands for three weeks this weekend, and I’m already dreading what will have changed since my last visit.

For one thing, I seem to vaguely remember they had an election. Or maybe they did when we still lived in Germany, I’m not sure. Or maybe they’re about to have an election. Either way, I’ve lost track of the names of all the ministers, who the current ruling party is, and what on earth some of these extreme right-wing politicians have been up to. At times I’ll make time to read a Dutch online newspapers, and will be surprised to find that it really doesn’t do anything for me anymore. Sometimes I don’t understand why certain topics are hot-button issue, like with the burkini (honestly, who cares what people wear to the public pool?), or I will find myself completely disagreeing with political commentators I used to like.

And please don’t get me started on fashion. Now I’m not a big fashionista, I generally wear what I like and think looks good. But in doing so, I am limited to what is sold in stores here. And somehow that is always different enough from Dutch fashion to have me look out of style. Either the colors are off, or the pants aren’t the right cut, or the heels aren’t shaped just right. Or I’ll actually wear the old college shirt, sneakers and faded jeans that I wrote about a few weeks ago, to a public place, and really get stared at. Now come to think of it, I’m really not that I’m that crazy about Dutch fashion anyway. The skinny pants in knee-high boots that seemed to be the absolute culmination of style last summer are, in my humble opinion, an absolute no-no. At least for me. In all fairness, I should probably point out that southern fashion is a world of its own too. For instance, although I am pretty sure that the stiletto heel has died a well-deserved death in the rest of the Western world, it is still alive and kicking down in the deep south. The same applies to ruffled shirts and leotard prints. Hmm…before you all think I dress like Dolly Parton….I do (just kidding :) )

The lingo, of course, is the first thing you lose. Whenever I talk to my friends, I sometimes feel like I’m from the 1990s. I still want to say “wreed” for “cool”, instead of “gaaf”. Although I’m actually pretty sure that word is outdated now too. See, there you have it. I can’t even tell you what the new hip terms are in Dutch. Next thing you know I’ll regress even further, and say things like “bakvissen” (bobbysoxers) and “dolletjes” (gee whiz!).

I guess what I’m trying to say is the place that somewhere in my mind I still think of as a form of “home” becomes less and less so, and there is no better reminder of it than a trip…home?

Les jeux sont fait

De teerling is geworden. Jazeker, sinds gisteren is het semester officieel voorbij. Na een commencement ceremony van zo'n 2,5 uur is het eindelijk afgelopen. Omdat onze coordinator gelukkig besloten heeft geen summer courses aan te bieden, zijn we nu allemaal echt vrij. Voor de eerste vrije week heb ik al allerlei wilde plannen gemaakt; eindelijk naar de kapper, een manicure, wat hoognodige nieuwe korte broeken kopen (de laatste heb ik in 2001 gekocht meen ik) en de koelkast eindelijk eens uitschrobben (we moeten natuurlijk wel met beide benen op de grond blijven staan).

Ondanks al mijn geplan, blijft het zo heel subiet afsluiten van een schooljaar, en daarmee ook meteen van je werk (wij krijgen twee maanden in zomer niet uitbetaald), toch een heel erg vreemd gevoel. Het ene moment zit je tot over je oren in finals, papers, cijfers, en het andere moment val je overdag in slaap in je porch swing tot manlief een foto van je maakt. Een paar dagen terug had ik nog dramatische momenten met studenten, en nu heb ik alleen maar mensen om me heen die dingen zeggen als "zal ik een kopje thee voor je maken?" "wil je dat ik het bad laat vollopen?". (Ja, ik ben gezegend met werkelijk een geweldige familie die zwaar heeft meegeleeft/geleden). Ik ben in een dag van "Dr so and so" naar "Mrs so and so" en huisvrouw gegaan. Nou ja, ik moet niet helemaal overdrijven natuurlijk; er staat voor van de zomer ook het analyseren van een serie data en het schrijven van een artikel op stapel, maar toch. Ik heb voor mij gevoel weer echt ouderwets twee maanden zomervakantie!

Het zo heel bewust afsluiten van een schooljaar is iets dat we in Nederland niet zo kennen. Op de universiteit studeren mensen het hele jaar door af, en kun je wel een paar weken vrij nemen, maar dan heb je het ook wel gehad. Op het HBO hebben ze wel diploma uitreikingen, maar ook daar krijg je echt geen twee maanden vrij naderhand. Uiteraard kun je ook daar in de zomer een kanon afschieten, want de meeste medewerkers doen met het mooie weer aan "thuiswerken", maar je wordt nooit helemaal ge-released, wat hier dus wel het geval is.

Maar het houden van een commencement, en daarmee afsluiten van een semester, als ook de studie van honderden studenten is iets waar ze in Nederland nog wat van zouden kunnen leren. In Nederland krijgt een student die zijn of haar doctoraal of master haalt een individuele uitreiking van de begeleider. Het is daarmee heel persoonlijk, en echt een mooie afsluiter van een studie van 4-5 jaar, maar het mist toch een beetje het gevoel dat je echt iets bijzonders bereikt hebt. Het blijft toch altijd een beetje "understated", helemaal als je bedenkt dat de begeleiders in kwestie vaak nog net een oud tweed jasje op een versleten spijkerbroek weten te gooien. Daar weten ze hier in de VS wel raad mee.
Hier heeft elke school, tot soms de kleuterschool toe, een commencement, met de nodige "pomp en circumstance". Alhoewel ik zelf het nut van vijf-jarigen, die nog zeker twaalf jaar naar school moeten, in cap and gown niet zo zie, is de commencement op de universiteit toch wel heel bijzonder. Alle faculty (wetenschappelijke medewerkers) moeten in hun academic robes komen opdraven, wat echt een prachtig gezicht is. Elke robe ziet er weer anders uit, afhankelijk van het diploma en het instituut waaraan de persoon is afgestudeerd. Zo is mijn robe zwart, heeft blauwe fluwelen panelen, en een oranje met rode capouchon. Maar een collega van mij heeft een paarse met witte robe, met zwarte panelen. Ook de studenten moeten in academic regalia verschijnen, en hebben natuurlijk allemaal een capouchon in de kleuren van de school. De "procession" (het binnenlopen van de faculty en de afstuderende studenten) gebeurt natuurljjk op de muziek van "pomp and circumstance" (en ik beloof, er komt een dag dat ik niet meteen aan de woorden van "Land of Hope and Glory" van Vera Lynn moet denken), uitgevoerd door het universiteits orkest. Er worden officiele toespraken gegeven, muziekstukken ten gehore gebracht, en natuurlijk krijgt student zijn of haar diploma uitgereikt. Dan volgt uiteraard het beroemde "You can now move your tassles from right to left. Congratulations class of 2008". En dan is het echt volbracht, voor de student, en de faculty. Voor de laatst keer in een hele lange tijd reed ik mijn lange rit naar huis. Mijn travelmug staat achterin de kast, en mijn werkkleding is klaar om naar de stomerij gebracht te worden. I'm free at last!

Under pressure

I distinctly remember writing about the south as a calm, laid-black kind of place. Well, I think I may revise or adjust that opinion to reflect the lives of my students at the end of the semester.
I never thought I would see a 22-year old cry because they got a C in a class. Or hear a student beg for extra assignments so they could push their grade from a B to an A. Or see a student completely lose it, and yell and cuss over a D. But unfortunately, I have seen it all, and all just in the short span of a few days.

I have always known, thanks to several years of first-hand experience, that American students are under a lot more pressure than their European counterparts. And this is not just because the semesters in the US are a lot shorter. While in Europe, students seem to be mainly concerned with doing the bare minimum, American students have to worry about the honor roll, the dean’s list, GPAs, SATs, GREs, regents’ tests, and building a resume filled with useful extracurricular activities.
This enormous amount of pressure can get overwhelming for both students and instructors. Each student has their own story, some have to graduate or “walk” this semester, and thus have to pass all their classes, others need to maintain a certain GPA for their scholarship, others want to please their parents, and still others simply want to get that A. Some manage to achieve all these things, but some don’t, and that’s when the pressure becomes almost too much. I have lost count of how many students have sat in my office this week, distraught and disappointed, or upset and defiant, pleading for just one more chance, something which, in most cases, was simply impossible.
And this is when all those southern niceties finally disappear. It’s as though when things really matter, and crunch time is here, these platitudes only stand in the way of success. There are no more “how are you’s”, no more roundabout ways of asking what you want. Students will barge in, slam your door shut, and usually start with something like “Why did you give a(n) B/C/D/F”. There are no more sweet smiles and platitudes; instead there is raw emotion (albeit behind a closed door). Students don’t bother hiding behind politeness or making false promises to please you; they finally give it to you as they see it. At times all this emotion can get a little overwhelming. But all in all it helps to put an actual face on people who are usually too nice and too good to be true. And as I tell all my students, I wish they had been this adamant at the beginning of the semester, when it still could have made a difference. And you know what? I think some of them may have actually caught on to what I was saying.

So in spite of the pressure cooker that is these last few days of school, and in spite of the fact that I will breathe a big sigh of relief when all of this craziness is over, it is somehow, also very refreshing.