A lament (a bitty one)

It is summer, and thus PCS season is upon us once again. PCS is military lingo for Permanent Change of Station, and basically means that military members and their families move to a different base. Most people PCS, or move, in the summer, and as a result our town is once again full of out-of-state and even foreign license plates. For a tag-freak like myself, you can only imagine the fun I have figuring out the different license plates and their mottos. And the first time I saw car with a German ‘HK’ tag driving slowly around base, I was forcibly reminded of our family a year ago, in the exact same position.

Another result of impending PCS season is the fear that your friends will receive orders for another base. When you move as often as I have, making friends who are not from the local area is vital for your survival. You need someone to not only tell you about best stores, hairdressers, and dentists but also to listen and understand when you feel like you've moved to the capital of the boonies. Someone who´s been there and who can offer words of comfort when you feel completely lost and alone in a sea of southerners.

Now I have had the very good fortune of meeting two women who have helped me settle into my new home. One of them moved here at the same time I did, and so we both got to go through learning the bewildering layout of our town and figuring out where to go for carpet cleaning at the same time. My other friend, Summer, has lived in this area for a few years, and thus has been a perfect soundboard for all my questions and complaints. It's actually thanks to her that I now use southern words such as 'bitty' and other slightly less appropriate terms in my daily vocabulary. As Summer lives across the street, she is also my go-to girl when it comes to issues such as guinneapig-care and whom to call if you see a stray dog. Her li’l one gets along famously with our kids, and so the fours of us have spend many evenings sitting on our back porch, watching the kids play.

Unfortunately, the powers that be were not in my corner this time, as Summer and her husband recently told me they will be moving away. To say I was unhappy would be an understatement. Of course you always, somewhere, in the back of your mind, know that someday, someone is going to have to move, but on a daily basis, I think we all tend to ignore that voice. So when Summer’s husband told us his shop was moving, it came as a shock. Who am I going to talk to about life in the bible belt now? Who will share my fear of cockroaches, and the desire the instant you see one, to clean and bomb your entire house? Who will offer me chocolates and give me wine after a long day at work?

I know we will both find our way, and since they’re not moving to the other side of the world (which is, truth be told, a real possibility for most), we will be seeing them in the future. But it won’t be the same as walking across the street and saying hi.

Usually, I don’t mind military life. Usually, I cherish all its different facets; the opportunity to meet different people, to move halfway across the world, the security offered by the life we lead. But right now, I’m not really feeling it.

A "camp" getaway

My vacations used to include things like sailing on the Mekong river, climbing temples in Bangkok, building shelters in eastern Europe, riding horses on a dude ranch, and hiking in Wales. I used to be able to go on vacation and come back feeling educated, culturally uplifted and physically restored. Preparations for my vacations used to include learning phrases like “please” and “thank you” in a foreign language, reading up on a country’s history and culture, and buying odd supplies, such as impregnated mosquito nets, a supply of malaria medication, riding chaps, work gloves, and super-strong bug spray.

Now, a husband and two children later, just about everything about going on vacation has changed. Apart from purchasing bulk-size bottles of bug spray, of course. Right now, for instance, we are planning a vacation to, well, Tennessee. You may think, well, Tennessee is not so bad, is it? It’s got Memphis, Nashville, and let’s not forget the Great Smokey mountains. Well, yes. But we’re not going there, we’re going to Pigeon Forge. Yes, we are headed to what brochures describe as “The perfect family vacation”, but what to me, to be honest, sounds like the capital of “camp”, i.e., a place that can only be considered appealing if you revel in its perfect ability to commercialize and simplify any cultural, historical, or natural appeal it may have had. It apparently is the largest strip mall town in the US (“complete with countless factory outlet malls!”), and has unforgettable attractions such as the Ripley’s believe it or not museum, the Dixie Stampede dinner show, and of course, Dollywood. And yes, we will have planned on going to all those attractions.

Although just yesterday I asked my husband what had happened that we had gone from visiting far-away places in Southeast Asia to deciding between Dollywood’s Splash Country and the Elvis museum, I have to admit that I’m actually looking forward to my “camp" getaway. And this is not only because I know the kids will love it, it’s also because a part of me loves vacations like this. That would be the part that also adores Lifetime movies, Abba, and that will shed a tear at sappy patriotic songs like “God Bless the USA”. How that works when you consider the critical person I am on a daily basis, I am not entirely sure. All I know is that when I looked at the Dixie Stampede website, I got all excited, and immediately announced I had to have a t-shirt. After a brief moment of introspection, I think that there are two things going on. First, I love all these things because they allow me a perfect opportunity to play anthropologist. To observe people I would have otherwise never met, in their natural habitat, so to speak (and write about it in my blog). And moreover, I have the uncanny ability to love something just because it’s horrible. I will buy Eurosong music because it’s horrible and great at the same time; I love sappy Hallmark movies because I know they’re unrealistic; I own t-shirts with air force signs on them that are really too much; I can love all these things because I know they’re really “not done” from an academic critical/cultural studies point of view. It’s as though I’m not expected to do these things, and therefore I love doing them. It’s like I’m a secret cultural rebel. Now that sounds more like me. I don’t have to go to demonstrations or sign petitions to be a rebel, that’s who I am. Apparently, in order to be a rebel, I need to go to Dollywood. So should anyone ask why I’m going to Pigeon Forge, I’ll just tell them it’s to be a rebel.

Ice, ice baby

Wednesday’s to-do list

Laundry
Call furniture store
Make sure sprinklers are off at eight
Buy fridge

Yes, tomorrow I have to buy a brand new refrigerator. It's not every day that I get to say something like that!

Appliances are an interesting facet of home life in the US. And not so much because you depend on them a whole lot (a day without ice is a day with air down in the south), but because some homes actually come with all appliances included. Some, however don’t, which can lead to interesting predicaments. In our case this meant selling our appliances a few years ago, because the house we moved into came fully equipped every appliance you could think of. From the washer and dryer to the stove and even the electric kettle. So out went my brand new washer and fridge. Regrettably, however, we had to buy a new washer/dryer for our current home, and for our new home, we will, yes indeed, have to buy a new fridge. Such is life when you’re always on the move; painful and, at times, expensive.

Now, usually, the love of my life and I usually make large purchases such as fridges and washer/dryers together. We are definitely the embodiment of the “poldermodel”; all decisions are made after long and sometimes arduous negotiations. However, yesterday, after spending several days shopping for a new floor, a paint color for the kitchen, and driving across town numerous times to sign a million forms, husband-dear literally told me to please go and buy us whatever fridge I thought would work. It’s not often that I get to spend that much money all by myself, so I was a little excited. However, this was before I actually started looking. I had no idea there were that many options out there. We knew we wanted a double-door refrigerator, but do we want smooth sides or textured? White or almond? An ice-maker in the door or in the freezer? Transparent crisp drawers or not? Separate cheese drawer or just a little shelf? And how tall did we want it? And did it have to have a separate dispenser for ice and water, or could we do with just one nozzle?

Also, we have, apparently been selling ourselves way short with our current refrigerator. I can’t begin to tell you how many salesmen told that there was no way a four-person family could live with a fridge that is a mere 35”wide. The average American family has to have at least 36”, and even that is cutting it close. Maybe it’s our Dutch blood, or perhaps we are some sort of miracle, since we seem to have been doing fine with our lovely 35”, 21 cubic ft fridge.

See, this is why I like having a house that comes with all the appliances. You don’t have a choice between a white light or a blue light in your ice dispenser, and so you take what you get. We have barely looked at the stove, dishwasher and microwave in our new house. We just made sure that it’s similar to what we have now, and that it works. I don’t think we really like the style of the stove, but who cares, it came with the house, if we end up not liking it, we’ll replace it. Easy enough. Honestly, I don’t like having all these choices, especially since I’m the one who will end up having to live with the choice that I alone made. I know that whatever fridge I will buy, I’ll probably find something wrong wit hit, and then blame myself for at least a considerable amount of time.

So could someone please do me a favor, and pick one out for me? Thanks.

Een huis kopen: American style

Naast dat een huis kopen een spannende gebeurtenis is, is het ook nog eens hele nieuwe linguistische uitdaging. Ik heb de laatste drie weken meer nieuwe termen geleerd dan in de drie maanden ervoor. Termen waarvan ik de Nederlandse variant niet eens ken. Omdat we nu een huis “under contract”hebben, en “closen” (daar begint het al) in minder dan drie weken, en ik vast nog heel veel ga bloggen over het hele process, leek het mij handig om eens een kleine greep te doen uit alle vreemde woorden en begrippen die voor mij ondertussen dagelijks taalgebruik zijn geworden.

Laten we eens beginnen met de basistermen.
Waar draait het allemaal om bij het kopen van een huis? De deed natuurlijk. Nee, niet dat. Tssk. We wonen wel in de Bible Belt hoor. Dit is het stukje papier waarop staat dat het huis eigendom is van meneer en mevrouw zus-en-zo. Ik kijk erg uit naar het moment dat ik mijn eerste deed in handen heb (en ook dat klonk niet helemaal zoals ik het bedoelde).
Als je bod (of offer, zoals dat hier heet) dan geaccepteerd is, heb je het huis under contract, of is het contract pending. Zo heet de periode tussen de aanvaarding van het bod en de closing. Het “for sale” bordje word voorzien van een mooi “sale pending” bordje, en niemand kan er meer een bod op doen. Dit is de periode waarin de financiering geregeld moet worden, waarin een bouw inspectie moet plaatsvinden, en de beruchte termite inspection.
De termite inspection is een serieus moment in het hele proces. Termieten zijn een ware bedreiging hier in het zuiden van de VS, en elk huis heeft dus ook een jaarlijkse termieten inspectie. En nee, dit is geen controle om te kijken of alle termieten gelukkig zijn, zonder huwelijksproblemen of lastige tieners. Dit is heel serieus, en men maakt er geen grapjes over (zoals ik persoonlijk heb mogen ondervinden). Gelukkig is ons huis goedgekeurd, en zijn de termieten dus heel happy. Oeps. Sorry. Ons huis heeft dus geen termieten, en de kans dat het er over een paar maanden nog staat is dus exponentieel toegenomen.
Als dit allemaal in orde is, dan ben je klaar voor de closing. Dit is –het- moment supreme. Het moment waarop je officieel je handtekening onder het koopcontract zet, en je de sleutels van het huis overhandigd krijgt. Je moet een maand na de aanvaarding van het bod “closen”, en dus is onze closing date 11 juli. Tijdens de closing moeten er ook een hele serie kosten betaald worden. Dit zijn de closing costs (de kosten van de makelaar, de advocaat, belastingen, en weet ik veel wat meer), en de pre-paids (in feite de eerste hypotheek betaling). Deze kosten zijn vaak een onderhandelpunt in de VS, en hier wordt vaak het begrip haggling (afdingen) echt eer aangedaan.

Naast deze basisbegrippen zijn er natuurlijk ook een hele serie begrippen met betrekking tot het eigenijke huis. Zo heb ik van de week geleerd dat de meeste huizen in Georgia op een slab gebouwd zijn in tegenstelling tot op een crawl space. Dit betekent dat men in Georgia gewoon ergens een vierkant beton stort, en daar een huis opbouwt, en niet eerst een kelder of een kruipruimte gaat vragen.
De meeste huizen hier zijn voorzien van een vinyl siding. Huizen hebben aan de voorkant misschien wel een paar bakstenen, maar het merendeel van het huis is bedekt met platen van hardplastic in de vorm van houten planken. Voordat iedereen denkt dat onze huizen er uit zien als trailers, het valt gelukkig reuze mee. Het klinkt echt bizar goedkoop, maar als je ziet hoe vochtig het hier kan zijn, is dit wel begrijpelijk. Je kan hier nog net geen penicilline kweken tegen de muren van je huis zeg maar. Stiekem ben ik echter erg blij met het feit dat ons nieuwe huis een siding heeft hardy plank. Dat is, jawel, een hele harde houtsoort.
Ik ben er ook achter dat wij niet de enigen zijn met wall to wall carpeting. De meeste huizen hier hebben tapijt in alle kamers, en zo ook ons nieuwe huis. Ik kan hele boekwerken volschrijven over de nadelen van tapijt in de woonkamer (een hint: de woorden “kinderen” en “huisdieren” komen er vaak in voor). Vandaar dat wij er voor gekozen hebben om in de woonkamer een houten vloer te laten leggen. Als je een vloer laat leggen, dan moet je natuurlijk ook zorgen voor mooie plinten. Hier bestaat een plint uit een baseboard of een skirtboard (een recht stuk hout tegen de muur aangeplakt) en een zogenaamde quarter round (een ronding onderaan de baseboard die op de vloer ligt). En waarom heet dit een quarter round? Omdat als je het zijwaarts draait, het net lijkt op een kwart van een rondje. Juist ja. Waarom moeilijk doen als het makkelijk kan.

Als laatste hadden manlief en ik ook een hele serie uitdrukkingen speciaal voor onze zoekperiode. Het woord McMansion heb ik al een keer uitgelegd, maar ook de term goober kwam regelmatig voor. Onze makelaar was namelijk een beetje een goober; in huize DixieChick betekent dit iemand die heel snoezig en lief is, maar niet al te doortastend, en stiekem ook een beetje nerdy. En mijn man’s favoriete en veelgehoorde uitdrukking tijdens onze zoektocht, welke vast geen vertaling behoort: “What the heck was the builder thinking!”

Er zullen de komende weken vast nog tientallen woorden bijkomen. I will keep you posted. Dat betekent....ach dat weten jullie zelf ook wel:)

Flashing lights

There is a first time for everything, whether good or bad. And yesterday was my first time to be pulled over by the police. In all my years of driving, I have never been pulled over, or received a ticket (I’m still waiting for that award :)), so this was completely new to me. And as my husband was driving, and I was merely his passenger, it was an interesting as opposed to a harrowing experience. The fact that we were returning from a Hawaiian party, and were both sporting Hawaiian shirts and leis only added to the merriment as far as I was concerned (although I’m not sure my husband concurred).

So what happened to the people who believe that “rules make the game more fun!”? Well, we were driving along a dark and deserted country road, and husband-dear accidentally forgot to turn his high-beams off as a car came from the opposite direction. This would have not been a problem at all, had that car not turned out to belong to a Georgia State trooper. I have seen plenty of other cars pulled over since my arrival here in Georgia, so I was somewhat aware of the circus that accompanied a police intervention, but to be at “the receiving end” was a whole new experience. The blue lights appeared to be everywhere, and as we were waiting for the trooper to get out of his car, the light blue glare made it seem as though we were about to experience an encounter of the third kind.

If you have never seen an American police car in action, it is a completely different ballgame from anything the Dutch, German, or French highway patrol will do to you. First of all, most people in Europe don’t even realize they’ve actually been caught speeding or running a light until they receive a hefty bill in the mail, accompanied by a picture of themselves committing the offense. In the Netherlands they will take the picture from the back, which can lead to interesting discussions between couples regarding who actually drove that day. In Germany they've solved that problem; they take your picture from the front, although they will blot out the faces of any passengers. This was implemented, I believe, after a man successfully sued the German police after his wife had found out about his affair when she opened his mail and found a picture of him and his mistress speeding down the autobahn. Looking out for the much-hated cameras has become a national sport in many countries, complete with websites that indicate the different locations and news stories about people spray painting or otherwise dismantling the cameras. Second, if you get pulled over, which only occurs very rarely, you usually don’t even notice you’re being followed until a nondescript car in front of you suddenly pops up a sign in its rear window that tells you they are the police and you have to follow them. No lights, no sirens, and no cool troopers with ten gallon hats and nightsticks three feet long.

The American traffic police experience could not be any different. I can’t count the number of times I almost got a heart attack because a police car would suddenly come flying by with its lights flashing and siren blaring. They also don’t lead the offender to a parking spot or rest area like in Europe. No, they stay behind the offender who is expected to pull over immediately, even if that means coming to a standstill on a muddy shoulder right by an intersection. The police car then leaves its lights on, to warn other traffic. In Georgia, you are then, according to the, yes indeed “move over law”, expected to move over one lane, or slow down. It’s quite the experience.

So when we were pulled over yesterday, I couldn’t help but wonder how fierce the police officer would be. After all, with all that show of force, they should have a reputation to uphold. But I could not have been more wrong. The first thing the trooper said when he came up the window was; “Wow, did y’all just come from Hawaii or something?”. The second thing he said was; “And does your car come with a dimmer?”. In the end, he just gave us a warning, and wished us a pleasant night. My husband was very relieved, and I was excited to be able to add another experience to my last. Who knows, maybe bungee jumping will be next!

Soccer and anniversaries

Twenty years ago, when Holland won the European Championship for the last time, I would have never guessed that I would be watching the 2008 Quarterfinal from my home in Middle Georgia, but here I am. It’s another fifteen minutes before “oranje” (orange) starts playing, but I’m ready. I’ve warned husband-dear about possible eruptions of cheering and yelling, and have told family members I will not be answering the phone or engaging in any serious discussions until the game is over. In other words, short of a total emergency, I am staying put on the couch.

To be honest, I was never really a big soccer fan when I lived in Europe. Sure, whenever Holland made it really far, say to the semi-finals, I would watch the game, but otherwise I tended to think of the whole brouhaha that surrounded every European and World Championship as slightly over the top. I never quite related to the people who decorated their entire house with orange streamers, banners, balloons, and flags, and thought that the public outpouring of rage or grief (or both) that would follow a loss was always a little startling. I was the kind of person who would turn on the TV, and then walk away to do something, only to become aware of the national team scoring by the raucous cheers that would erupt from the apartments in my building. But, as explained when talking about Queen’s Day, when you live overseas, most people suddenly develop an orange streak. Unable to watch any of the previous matches because of other obligations, I have now marked the upcoming games in my planner, and should Holland make it, I will be there, watching them. If it means going to a local Hooters to watch the game, I will, trust me. Heck, Hooter’s colors are orange, so hey, why not, right?

Interestingly, today, the day that I have installed myself on my American couch in my American home to support my “other home”, is also the first-year anniversary of our move to Georgia. It’s hard to believe that I’ve been in this neck of the woods for that long already. Most of the time, it feels much shorter. I still struggle to find certain roads in our town, and still don’t know all the ins and outs on base yet. I also still talk about Georgia as an outsider, which although being a great source of inspiration for this blog, doesn’t help when it comes to trying to feel at home here.

I think a lot of this has to do with moving here because of the military. Part of being a military spouse means never really putting down roots anywhere. You don’t have a much of a say in where you end up living, so perhaps that is why I don’t feel really attached to my home. Yet. For I sure hope that one day, I will feel that connection with my hometown.

For now though, you’ll have to excuse me, I want to go and sing along with the anthem of that other home.

Sugarpie honeybunch

“My lovey-dovey baby..I used to be your tootsie-wootsie”
Medda ~ Newsies

Please answer the following questions.

When I walked into a gas station to use their ATM, who was the person who said; “Oh baby, I’m sorry, but it looks like the machine is out of order”. Was it:
a) My mother
b) The gas station attendant
c) My husband

When walking across campus with a co-worker, how did the Vice-President greet us?
a) Hello Dr. J…, How are you Mr. B….?
b) Hello Mr. B….., Hi honey!
c) Hello Dr. J....., Hey bud!

What does my husband say to me when I worry too much?
a) Oh honey, please don’t worry so much, it will be fine
b) Oh, you’re so cute when you worry, you’re like my own Mrs. Monk
c) Oh baby, please don’t worry so much, it will be fine

The correct answers? All b’s. Does that strike you as disturbing? Well, aside from the last one (I call my husband ‘sailor’, he calls me ‘Mrs. Monk’, what can I say, we’re just not into the saccharine-like nicknames), it sure does to me.

Here in the south we love to show you how much we love you. You are special, and we just want you to know that all the time! And besides, in addition to spreading the love, using the ubiquitous “honey” or “sweetie” is also a perfect way to hide the fact that we really can’t remember your name anymore.

I have to admit that I, too, tend to resort to the lovey-dovey trap once in a while. I try to steer away from calling students by anything but their given name, but everyone else is fair game. I call my kids “honey” or “sweetie”, even when they’re not. Don’t think it’s possible to do that? You obviously have not heard the fifty different ways in which a southern woman can inflect the word “honey”. Just keep this mind, when the stress is on the first syllable (HON-ey), you’re in trouble. I call friends honey, and I will even call other people’s children “sweetie” or “darling”.

I have noticed, however, that is some sort of unspoken barrier regarding whom you can address in such a lovable fashion. Apparently anyone who looks young enough to be in school can be called “honey”, regardless of their gender. Also, you are free to call your children “sweetie” regardless of their age. In addition, all women appear to be fair game too. However, I don’t think I have ever heard anyone call a man “sweetie”. The exception is of course a man’s wife, but that too appears to be limited to the newlyweds and the extremely ticked off ("SWEET-ie, you forgot the collared greens again?"). And you know what, I’m pretty sure that southern men wouldn’t stand being called “sweetie” by another person besides their mother or their wife either. Remember, these are those “real men” I talked about a few weeks ago, who shoot guns, ride pick up trucks and chew tobacco.

But I have to say that I do become slightly uncomfortable when a perfectly strange person, such as the gas station attendant calls me “baby”. Granted, the lady in question was old enough to be my mother, but see, even my mother has never ever called me “baby”. Now we can argue whether or not that was a mistake, but the bottom line is, when unknown women over seventy with nothing on but a smock and a pair of hotpants and who chew tobacco call me “baby”, I’m not sure what to do with myself. I think I merely smiled and said “thank you”, while slowly backing out of the grimy store.

However, when I’m addressed as “honey” or “baby” or “sweetie”, or anything other than my given name in a professional setting, that’s when discomfort turns into outright annoyance. Every time this has happened to me, however, I have been so flabbergasted that I was unable to say anything to the person in question. And what amazes me is that men are never called “honey” or even “dude”, no, it’s always the female. I’m not quite sure how I am going to solve this cultural dilemma either. You see, I am quite sure that if I were to address this issue people simply would not understand my point. After all, all other women seem to be OK with this. So instead of fixing this problem head-on, I have come up with a much more roundabout, and possibly, southern solution; every time someone calls me “honey”, “sweetie”, “babe”, or anything that does not sound professional, I am going to call them “honey” right back. And if that means calling our college President “babe”, then so be it. Right, Now where do I go and buy some guts?

Fahrenheit 451

Well, it’s not that bad quite yet, but for the first time in twelve years, Dixichick actually has a fever. This is such a rare occasion, I almost feel that a call to the local news station would be in order.

I had a sore throat yesterday, but assumed that it would, as usual, just go away by itself. So I drove to work anyway. I know, I know, it’s summer, but I had to go to a meeting where we bounced around some really cool ideas about student-organized political broadcasts. However, as I was driving back from work yesterday, I could feel myself getting woozier by the mile. By the time I got home, my head felt like a balloon, and I was driving in this hot-cold fog, which wasn’t all unpleasant, albeit probably not very safe. So even though I had all these great ideas for my blog, I was pretty much forced to take to bed right when I walked in the door. Now I wouldn’t be me if I didn’t take this opportunity to carry out some cross-cultural comparisons.

It started when my husband insisted on taking my temperature. The last time I took my temperature was around twelve years ago, and at that time all I owned was a Centigrade thermometer. Well, that thermometer was nowhere to be found, so I had to resort to using an American one. Even though I’m totally used to thinking in Fahrenheit, when I saw that I had a fever of 101, I couldn’t help but feel a whole lot hotter than I already did. When I that was only 38.3C, I, fortunately, felt a little less concerned. You have to admit that anything over 100 just sounds a whole lot scarier than something in the 30s. Anytime I hear 100 degrees, I think of boiling water, eggs, and steam, things that I would rather not associate with my own body.

Because my tonsils looked a little freaky (I will spare you all the details), the love of my life also suggested I make a doctor’s appointment. When I called the doctor’s office and was told the first available opening was Thursday morning, I couldn’t help but reminisce about European family doctors. Not that their offices are any more efficient, but they used to make house calls. The doctors were, at least in my mind, always older gentlemen carrying a battered leather briefcase. They would come sit on the edge of your bed, look in your mouth once, feel your forehead, and know exactly what was wrong right away. No need for complicated tests, a nurse to weigh you and take your blood pressure, and a long questionnaire, just plain and simple common sense. My only other option here is to go the ER or an emergency care facility. Now call me Dutch or Calvinist or claim that I’m channeling my mother’s spirit, but since I honestly don’t think that’s necessary either.

One distinct advantage of being sick in the US is the enormous array of the over the counter medications. Last night I slept like a baby after I took a Tylenol PM, and I have enough meds to make it through the day. When I was younger, I remember that all I would get was an aspirin, and besides getting antibiotics from a doctor, that was it. There were no over the counter allergy medication, no cold medicine (except for a horrible syrup), no headache medicine, nothing. Not to say that I’m all about just taking one pill after another, but it’s nice to know it’s there if you need it. And it sure helped me write my blog today, although I do need to lie down right now:)

Boekenwurm

Doe geen oude schoenen weg voordat je nieuwe hebt. Wees blij met wat je hebt. Allemaal prachtige uitspraken over voorzichtig doen en blij zijn met de spullen die je hebt. In het alledaagse leven zijn deze uitspraken mij op het lijf geschreven. Als ik zeg dat ik slecht ben in het wegdoen van dingen, dan is dat nog een understatement. Het uitzoeken van dingen om weg te doen kan voor mij een waar drama zijn, compleet met een tranendal en zwijmelen over "vroeger". Ik geef, uiteraard, de schuld aan mijn jeugd. Vroeger zijn we zo vaak verhuisd dat ik me niet zozeer hechtte aan huizen als wel aan mijn spulletjes. Dus zo heb ik nog steeds de twee favoriete knuffels uit mijn peutertijd, Jodokus en Eendje Peggy, in de kist aan de voeteneinde van ons bed liggen (in bed vond ik toch een beetje te ver gaan). En toen tijdens de laatste verhuizing een van Opa’s schilderijen die ik al jaren heb per ongeluk weggeooid is, was ik dagenlang ontroostbaar.

Maar soms komt er toch een tijd dat je keuzes moet maken tussen al je lievelingsspulletjes. Niet alles kan altijd mee. Dat geldt als je op kamers gaat, als je gaat samenwonen, maar vooral als je intercontintentaal verhuist. Bij de laatste verhuizing heb ik een zware dobber gehad aan het maken van keuzes tussen alle spullen die meekonden, en helaas pluk ik daar nu soms nog de vruchten van. Dus, om er nog een mooie spreuk tegenaan te gooien; bezint eer ge begint!

Intercontinentaal verhuizen met de Amerikaanse luchtmacht betekent dat je gebonden bent aan een bepaald gewicht. Normaal is dat absoluut geen problem, maar omdat ik de laatste jaren een toch wel indrukwekkende hoeveelheid vak-gerelateerde boeken had verzameld, en mijn ouders aan hadden gegeven dat ze nu echt van die kast met kinderboeken op zolder afwilden, was het nu echt hoog tijd om een selectie te maken tussen de boeken die meemochten. Bij mijn wetenschappelijk publicaties was dat niet zo’n probleem. Maar de kinderboeken, daar ben ik aardig wat uurtjes mee zoet geweest. Niet in de laatste plaats omdat ik bij negen van de tien boeken het weer opnieuw begon te lezen. Ik ben altijd een fervent lezer geweest, en bij bijna alle boeken had ik geode herinneringen. Wipneus en Pim las ik al seen van de eerste kinderen in mijn klas, en de Olijke Tweeling was altijd zo lekker ouderwets (zo ging er een heel boek over “hansoppen”, wat dat dan ook mochten wezen). Alle Enid Blyton boeken zaten vol met rare uitdrukkingen zoals “dolletjes”, “gemberbier” (hoe vertaal ik ginger ale? Nou zo dus), en “Matrone”, en de leminscaat boeken (Beckman, Terlouw, Hartman) waren gewoon goed. Maar ja, ze konden niet allemaal mee. Dus maakte ik met pijn in het hart een selectie. Annie M.G. Schmidt ging mee naar Georgia; Mevrouw helderder, de stampertjes, Floddertje, en Jip en Janneke hebben nou eenmaal een speciaal plaatsje in mijn leven. Ook een aantal van de Lemniscaat boeken hebben het gered; zo staat Kruistocht in Spijkerbroek hier trots naast een of andere luchtmacht uitgave. En van de Enid Blyton boeken heb ik alleen de allereerste delen meegenomen. Destijds leek het een zinnige en doordachte keuze.

Maar ja. Toen zat ik hier dus. Vijfduizend mijl van Nederland verwijdert, en geen spannend verhalen meer van Thea Beckman over middeleeuws Frankrijk om me door een donkere winteravond heen te helpen, Pitty kwam nooit verder dan haar eerste schooljaar, en ook kon ik niet meer lezen over Stach’s avonturen om de Koning van Katoren te worden. Ik vond het stiekem maar helemaal niks. Dus toen ik afgelopen maand in Nederland was, kon ik het niet laten. Met boekenbonnen die ik voor mijn verjaardag had gekregen van slimme familieleden heb ik zeker 10 kilo aan boeken teruggekocht en mee naar Georgia genomen. De Koning van Katoren staat weer trots naast zijn broertje Oorlogswinter, en ook Thea Beckman is weer iets beter vertegenwoordigt. Ze hadden tot mijn grote vreugd zelfs een omnibus van alle Pitty boeken van Enid Blyton. Even heb ik getwijfeld. Kan een volwassen vrouw zoiets eigenlijk nog wel kopen? Maar toen bedacht dat geen van mijn vrienden het hier toch kan lezen, en het dus in feite mijn geheimpje is. Voor die lange avonden hier in het warme zuiden. En mijn collectie is nog niet compleet. Ik wil de “Geef me de ruimte” serie van Thea Beckman ook weer terug, en wie weet koop ik ook nog wel het “hansoppen” deel van de Olijke Tweeling. Geef me een paar jaar, en ze staan hier weer allemaal in de kast!

Dus als je ergens leest “Een goed boek is voor het leven”, onderschat de waarheid niet. En mocht je nog boekenbonnen over hebben, ze zijn van harte welkom!

Raising kids: Southern style:

I think we can all agree on the fact that parenting is a confusing process. Throw an intercultural marriage in to the mix, and a move to the bible belt of the USA, and you know you’re in for at least a few surprises.

Today, for instance, I learned that allowing fourth grade boys to discuss their dislike of armpit hair is deemed inappropriate by most southern, Christian mothers. I was chaperoning a group of 3^rd to 5^th graders at a summer camp on base, and while decorating wooden dolls, a few boys chose to add armpit hair, an idea I actually thought was really funny. Apparently the other chaperones did not share my amusement, and asked the boys to cease their discussion. Personally, I always thought that armpit hair was fairly innocuous, but apparently not all mothers share that opinion.

Moreover, I used to always think that “crap” was a universally acceptable alternative for the “sh**”word, but I am pretty sure I have seriously offended some women at the summer camp this week by using that term once or twice. I think the worst I heard them say was “Well, sheesh”, or “Goodness me!” , or the somewhat funny “All my stars” or the more daring “Dang”. I realize that the best solution to that would be to never cuss at all (here in the south, even using the word “swear” or “curse” is pretty much unacceptable), but goodness gracious (to stay within acceptable vocabulary boundaries), I don’t think I’m capable of remaining saintly at all times (if ever), especially when I’m at the end of my rope.

On the other hand, I know that I have picked up on a few things that would surprise my Dutch friends and family. I, for instance, don’t expect strange children to call me by my first name, unless I know them really well. I’ve quickly picked up on the southern habit of having children address strange adults with “Miss or Mr (first name)”. When I was a child, I used to call strange adults either “tante” (aunt) or “oom” (uncle), or in some cases, even just by their first name. Nowadays, though, when a strange child hollors out my first name across the street, I find myself doing a double-take, after all, most southern children are taught otherwise. So, yes, I have to admit that I kind of like adding the “Miss” or “Mr” to people’s first names. Call me old-fashioned, but it somehow inspires immediate respect.

The one thing that I know takes Dutch people aback is that I expect all children, but especially mine, to say “Yes ma’am” when I give them an order. This is something my husband grew up doing, and thus raised his children to do too, and I’ve quickly adapted. However, I never really realized how much I’ve gotten used to this until today when one of the children in my group acted out. I told him to stop doing that, and when he merely said “yeah” I found myself becoming even more upset with him, for not showing me proper respect. Yes, I know, I’m becoming a lot more southern than I realize. Well, at least I’m not yet expecting my children to like dirt-track racing (please God, no), chew tobacco (don’t think so), or to eat their collared greens (mainly because I don’t like them either).

Vote for me! For me! For me!

I’ve spent the last few days, as we continued to be embroiled in our search for the perfect hosue, lamenting the fact that I have nothing to compare this whole adventure to. This became even more painfully clear when I talked to my family the other day, and had no clue how to translate “closing costs”, or what the Dutch word for “deed” is. Analyzing the world you live in when you can’t remove yourself from that same world through comparison is just a tad difficult. Honestly, I was beginning to worry that this could be the beginning of the end of my ability to compare and contrast my two homes.

Fortunately, today I literally stumbled across something that once again confronted me with the differences between the Netherlands and the US. How do you literally stumble across an example? Well, if I say “local elections” does that help anyone? For those who are still left in the dark, please allow me to explain. In the US, local elections are apparently the perfect opportunity to plaster the sides of the road with small colorful signs. And when I say plaster, I mean, plaster. Right now, our town’s road sides are literally covered in these signs. For some reason, they’re all yellow with red, blue, or black letters, and are placed maybe a few feet apart. Some signs are even placed on top of each other, which makes you wonder if the man who wants to be county commissioner is OK with the local sheriff using the top of his sign to advertise for re-election. The signs are maybe a few square feet in size, and, in most cases, sit about half a foot off the ground on little metal legs. This is not only annoying when you’re looking for a house, and mistake the “vote for me!” sign for a “for sale” sign¸ but it’s apparently also somewhat dangerous if you’re an absent-minded runner who is lost in “the zone”, and thus not looking out for knee-high signs in the grass. But, hey, it does lead to a new topic for this blog, just when I thought I was completely immersed in Georgia society, so I guess I should not complain too much.

What amazed me about these signs is that none of them include a picture. In a country where even doctors advertise their practices with a picture of themselves looking “doctor-ish” in a white coat and holding some cool instrument, and people spend thousands of dollars on their looks, I somehow expected this concern for outward appearance to also apply to local elections. Wouldn’t Georgians want a sheriff who looks the part? Someone who can instill fear in evildoers and inspire trust among the community? How do they know someone can do this if they don’t know what the candidates look like? Sure, they want a man for the job who knows what he’s doing, but I can tell you right now that very few men in Georgia will be proud of a sheriff who looks like an “uber-nerd”. After all, this is the country of pick-up trucks, guns, dirt races, chewing tobacco, and real men.
Now in all the other (albeit European) countries I have lived in, local elections entail posters with candidates’ faces in close-up taped on every streetlamp, electricity pole, and tree. You would honestly know what a candidate looked like before you knew which party he represented or what his platform was. Then again, and not to sound superficial, I’ve never quite understood why they felt they need to focus on what they looked like. The voting ballots never included pictures (now there’s an idea!), and, to be very honest, most candidates did not look very inspirational (for lack of a better word). So maybe Georgian candidates are being very wise by not putting their faces on their signs. Perhaps it is better to let the crowds judge you on your actions, and then picture a face with it themselves.

The second thing that I noticed about the local elections, besides the ubiquitous presence of the signs, is that seemingly everyone in local government has to run for election. Sheriffs, councilmen, county commissioners, and probably the local dog-catcher too, they are all chosen by the people. Coming from a nation where a lot of these positions are made up by appointees, this is definitely an odd experience, not in the least because in some cases I’m not even sure what all these people do, let alone knowing who would do the best job. Now I realize that I’m probably not totally up to speed on local Georgia government, but I have a hard time believing that many people keep up with all these jobs and their candidates. Today, for instance, I had to ask my husband what being a county commissioner entails. Apparently it has something to do with taxes and appropriation, but husband-dear wasn’t sure either. No, this is not because he does not care, but merely because military members not registered in the state in which they reside, are not allowed to vote in local elections. So the love of my life has merely been out the loop, and we both can’t vote in local elections (and that makes me feel a whole lot better)

Then I couldn’t help but wonder how on earth local residents make up their mind. Do they all seriously visit all the websites advertised on the different signs? Not to put down anyone, but I have a hard time believing that. My students won’t even read their four-page course syllabus, so would local residents with a job and a family really check out each candidate for every position? I don’t know. I know I probably wouldn’t. So I’m going to venture out and make a very daring proposal. If people are going to vote while partly, or not at all, informed, wouldn’t it be better to have someone, or a few someones who knows a great deal about county taxes, dog and criminal-catching to appoint the best candidate? When I read this as a Dutch citizen, I think, well, of course, why waste money on an election, when a mere appointing committee can do just as good a job. But when I read the proposal as a near-American, my hair almost stands on end, because this is democracy at its best. The people should decide whom they want in their government. It’s for the people, by the people, and of the people, and if those people chose to stay uninformed, that is their choice, and they should not have that choice influence their democratic rights.

Right, so now which world do I belong to? You know, I really don't know, and it's cool to be back in that position again!

Huizenjacht

Ik ben me er van bewust dat ik in dit blog er altijd een punt van maak om dingen uit Nederland en Georgia met elkaar te vergelijken. Toen ik bedacht dat ik eigenlijk wel iets wilde schrijven over onze, toch lichtelijk wilde, huizenjacht van de laatste paar dagen besefte ik me echter dat ik totaal geen vergelijkingsmateriaal heb. Ik ben, zoals je dat vast wel kan noemen, een eeuwige huurder. Het is niet dat ik niet wilde kopen, maar ik zat gewoon nooit ergens lang genoeg om die stap te willen ondernemen. En stiekem vond ik huren ook wel prima. Als gasten ooit iets zeiden over mijn woning, kon ik mij er makkelijk vanaf maken met “Ach ja, het is maar een huurhuis”. Als je koopt, of nou ja, als ik iets koop, dan heb ik toch het idée dat werkelijk overal achter moet staan. Tot de knopjes op de keukendeuren en de vorm van de plinten toe.

Maar goed, na maandenlang wikken en wegen samen met manlief, zijn we toch tot de conclusie gekomen dat we graag willen kopen. En uiteraard hebben we na uitgebreid beraad een precieze lijst met eisen, die eigenlijk heel makkelijk samen te vatten zijn: het moet eigenlijk gewoon zijn zoals ons huis nu, ook het liefst in dezelfde buurt, alleen met een extra slaapkamer, en iets meer grond. Lijkt simpel, niet waar? Dat vonden wij dus ook. Helaas kan schijn alleen goed bedriegen.

Afgelopen zaterdag hebben we vol goede moed een makelaar opgebeld. Nu weet ik niet precies hoe hard dat in Nederland allemaal gaat, maar hier laten die mensen er geen gras over groeien. Voor we het wisten zaten we bij de makelaar in de auto, en hebben we maar liefst acht huizen bekeken. Jawel, acht. Achteraf gezien was het verwonderlijk dat we er iets van hebben onthouden, want zaterdag was waarschijnlijk de heetste dag van het jaar tot nu toe, met temperaturen ver over de 100F. Tel daarbij op dat de airco van de auto van de makelaar nou niet echt fantastisch was, dat alle acht huizen leegstonden en dus de airco niet of amper aanhadden, en je kan je een goede voorstelling maken van hoe verwelkt wij ons na huis nummer twee voelden. Het was maar goed dat ik een notititeblokje bij me had, anders hadden we ze nooit uit elkaar kunnen houden. De aantekeningen werden wel steeds cryptischer. Van “very roomy dining area” en “situated on corner lot” ging het naar “curb ap”(appeal – het huis zag er leuk uit), “MBR ↓” (ouder slaapkamer deugt niet), en “NO!”. Op een gegeven moment hebben we zelfs het onthouden van adressen maar opgegeven, en zijn we gaan praten in termen van “The house with the yellow living room”, “the house with the weird room”, en “the house with the flat face”(een huis van twee verdiepingen met geen veranda).

En over vreemde kamers gesproken, iets dat ons allebei opviel, was de zo nu en dan totaal onlogische indeling van heel veel huizen. Huizen waarbij er helemaal geen ramen in de woonkamer zitten, huizen die een dining room hebben die twee keer zo groot is als de huiskamer, huizen met twee eet-gedeeltes, allebei aan een andere kant van de keuken, huizen met een keuken net zo groot als de woonkamer, en vooral veel huizen met hele grote grandioze entryways met veel gesculpt hout en marmer, en dan een superkleine ouder slaapkamer of woonkamer. Vooral de nieuwere huizen leden hieronder te lijden. Ik dacht eerst dat het aan mijn praktische Hollandse geest lag, maar gelukkig merkte manlief het ook op. We hebben zelfs naar aanleiding van onze zoektocht de term McMansion bedacht. Sinds zaterdag duidt in onze familie de term McMansion duidt op de pompeuze huizen die je veel in het zuiden ziet. Deze huizen zijn niet bijzonder groot, maar wel voorzien van allerlei (onnodige luxe), met een sjiek aangezicht in de vorm van een grote veranda en gewelfde hal met kristallen kroonluchters, maar vaak met kleine kamers, en worden vaak in een serie gebouwd. Zo’n huis willen we dus niet.

Naast warme huizen, vreemde huizen, en McMansions is er ook nog de kwestie van de schoolzones. Hier in de VS geldt de regel dat mensen die in bepaalde wijken wonen hun kinderen alleen maar naar bepaalde scholen mogen sturen, en alleen de bussen voor die scholen komen in die wijk. Als je je kinderen naar een andere school wilt sturen, moet je ze dus zelf brengen en halen. Omdat de kinderen hier al op school zitten, en we ze uiteraard op die school willen houden, moeten we er dus rekening mee houden dat we in dezelfde schoolzone blijven wonen. Als je bedenkt dat de schoolzone grenzen bij ons in de stad eruit zien alsof ze door een kleuter getekend zijn, kan je je voorstellen wat voor een zoekwerk dat is.

Maar ondanks dit alles hebben we toch al wel een aantal hele leuke stulpjes gezien. Vanmiddag gaan we naar een huis zelfs voor een tweede keer bekijken. Spannend? Zeker. Leuk? Allicht.

Ik hou jullie op de hoogte!

What's in a name?

Well, a whole lot apparently. I never knew I was this attached to my maiden name, until, well, today. Don’t get me wrong, I like being Mrs. Married name. I really do. But at home only. At work, I have been, and always will be Dr. Maiden name, or Dr. Maiden-married name if I have to. It’s what I have always been, and it’s who I am. I like it that way, my husband likes it that way, my students like it that way, everyone likes it that way. Except, since today, my work.

Before I launch into an entire diatribe, please allow me to clarify. For many years, before I was married, I worked and published using my maiden name. Because you can’t just change your name when you’re an academic (people wouldn’t know whose publications to look for anymore, Mrs. Smith or Mrs. Jones), I wanted to hyphenate my last names when I got married. That way, I figured, I could use both, and then simply drop the married name when publishing. However, because of a snafu when acquiring my military ID, I was given my husband’s name. Subsequently, all my American documentation solely contains my husband’s name, while my Dutch passport contains both. This was never a problem at work. I would fill out all legal paperwork using my married name, and then hyphenate everywhere else. I would explain saying “I had a career before I had a husband”, and everyone would smile and say they understood.

Well, maybe the smiling was another example of southern politeness, because today some people seemed to not understand anymore. Today I got a phone call from one of our secretaries that I really couldn’t hyphenate my name anymore because, well, they weren't entirely sure why, but I couldn’t. Or so they thought. But may not. But it was all very complicated either way. At first HR was blamed, since their records of me are in my married name, and all records have to be synchronized. But a phone call to a very understanding head of HR revealed that they had no problem with my hyphenated last name. Then it was a SACS (southern association of colleges and schools) requirement that all records must use the same name, until I pointed out SACS had no access to my HR records, and that all other records were under my hyphenated last name. The last thing I heard was that it had to do with the way I signed all of my forms. Apparently I might be able to keep my hyphenated last name, but then I can’t sign my paperwork using my married name anymore. I would possibly have to come back in and re-sign all my paperwork with my hyphenated last name. If that was at all possible. But they weren’t sure. The last thing I heard was someone telling me; “I really don’t see what’s wrong with changing your name to Dr. Married name anyway”.

Now slap me upside the head and call me silly, but what on earth is going on here? Synchronized records? Re-signing paperwork? Since when does your signature have to reflect your entire name? I once signed my passport with just my first name and a smiley face on the “i”. Granted, I was 12, but still. And since when do strangers have access to all of your HR records? And even if they do, shouldn’t they be able to figure out that Dr. X in one record and Dr. X-Y in another (and trust me, my last names are odd enough that there is no one else at the university with that name, I checked), is the same person? And moreover, since when does anyone have the right to tell me there is nothing wrong with adopting a different name?

I know I usually don’t rant in my blog, but I really could not help myself this time. I honestly can’t ever see this happening in the Netherlands. I remember dozens of co-workers who were married and had no problem using their maiden name for everything. Granted, it helps that in the Netherlands you never lose your maiden name when you marry. But in spite of that rule, I can’t imagine having the same discussion at my old work. So it’s definitely possible that this is a cultural issue. But cultural issue or not, I will figure this one out. If nothing else, I will just really upset the applecart, and just let all my students call me by my first name…:)

Miss Manners

Imagine you have a plate in front of you with the following foods: steak, sweet potato and corn. You are seated at a regular table with your family. How do you eat your dinner?

Do you:

a) Put your fork into a small piece of the steak, and cut right behind your fork, then, while holding the knife, bring your fork to your mouth, or;
b) Put your fork in a medium-sized piece of the steak, cut in front of your fork, use your knife to hold the steak down while you pull your fork out, then put your fork in the piece you just cut, put the knife down, put your hand in your lap and then bring the fork to your mouth, or;
c) Saw the steak in quarters, put your fork down, put one of the pieces in your mouth and then bite off a smaller part while letting the bigger part drop on your plate from your mouth?

Do you

a) Use fork and knife to scoop up the corn on to your fork, bring the fork carefully to your mouth while holding the knife, or;
b) Put the knife down, it’s corn, not meat!, and use your fork to somehow miraculously scoop the little kernels onto the same fork, which you then bring to your mouth while your hand is in your lap, or;
c) Do you throw your utensils on the floor, and use your hands to scoop the corn somewhere near the vicinity of your mouth, and laugh when half falls on the floor?

Do you

a) Put your fork into your sweet potato, use your knife to cut the sweet potato into small pieces, and then use your fork to bring them to your mouth, while still holding the knife, or;
b) Put the knife down, turn your fork sideways, and use it to cut the soft sweet potato that way, or;
c) Do you use your fingers to scoop out the soft insides of the sweet potato?

If you have answered mostly A: Congratulations! You’ve had the same strict European upbringing as I have. You always use your knife, and always hold your fork in your left hand. When confronted with a situation where you’re not offered a knife you feel confused at first, and then almost naked as you try to navigate through your courses with one empty hand. You know that when eating soup, the spoon should move away from you, and you simply do not understand how people can actually get stuff on their fork without using a knife. Admittedly, you have tried, and merely find yourself chasing your food across your plate and back. When you were younger, your parents told you to keep your hands on the table, and scolded if you accidentally put an elbow on the table (“wil je er nog een turf bij?” (would you like another piece of peat) was common fare at my house). You probably correct yourself when you find yourself slouching at the table, and you experience a small case of hives when people put the knife on the wrong side of the plate when setting the table.

If you have answered mostly B: Congratulations! You’re probably an American, or someone who has been subject to American table manners for years. You may even be my darling husband. You don’t understand the burning need to hold a utensil when you’re not using it, and think putting an unused hand on the table is wrong; empty hands should go in your lap, everyone knows this. You believe in an efficient use of utensils; why use a knife and a fork to cut something when it can easily be cut using just your fork. You also don’t quite understand why Europeans are so hung up on the correct use and placement of utensils. As long as you’re not smacking your lips, eating with your mouth wide open, shoveling you food into your mouth, or chewing while you talk, there really should be no reason to complain. You could also explain to people in category A how you eat corn with just a fork.

If you've answered mostly C: Congratulations to all toddlers! You’re only two but you managed to get online and read this questionnaire, good job! Now go and play outside!

More coming home

I like coming home as much as I like to go on vacation. I love the feeling of being at home, knowing that you don’t have to live out of a suitcase anymore, sleeping in your very own bed, and observing how much things have stayed the same, and at the same time, noticing how different they are from wherever you went on vacation.

The first thing that struck me when I arrived in Atlanta was the air. When you exit an airplane, there’s always that thin strip of sky between the jetway and the airplane, and on Sunday that meant that I was hit by a blast of true Georgia air; thick, muggy, and hot. It was a world of difference from the crispy, chilly breeze in the Netherlands, and I loved it. I know several of my overseas visitors have complained about the mugginess of Georgia, but it’s really grown on me. Anything beats weeks of overcast skies and perpetual drizzling. However, I have to admit that it took me a little while to adjust to the fact that it’s already close to 100F during the day here; the first day back I must have drank gallons of water, and surprised everyone in my family by complaining the air wasn’t on low enough. But it wasn’t long (read: half a day) before my body adjusted and I happily realized that I no longer had to debate what to wear (shorts? Long pants? T-shirts? Long sleeves?), did not have to bring a jacket anywhere, and could rely on perfect swimming weather every day. Hang on, I’m afraid I’m going to have to take the part back about the jacket. With the rise in temperature, restaurants seem to start competing in who can best imitate a freezer again, so bringing a jacket along is a necessity for survival. That I also re-learned really quickly.

I also really enjoy seeing my house again for the very first time. Somehow I always worry if everything is going the be OK during my absence. Well, somehow is not really right here. I am a worrywart at heart, and in my mind the worst possible things will happen to my home during my absence. I’ve already mentioned how I do this when I go to work, imagine what it’s like when I’m away for extended periods of time! A few years back I would from time to time call my own number to see if my answering machine picked up, reasoning that that meant the house was still there. Are you blushing? No? Well, I am. Fortunately, I no longer feel the need to do that, but some worries still linger. You can imagine my fear when a friend told me tornadoes had touched down near our home the first day of my trip to Holland. Fortunately, they never made it to our town, but I can’t bear to think what could have happened. So I was very very happy to come home, hear Gertie squeal at me, and see everything just as we left it. For a long time, I was on the move so much, nowhere really felt like a home, and it’s nice to realize that this house really does feel like home.

One thing that I did not think I would have missed this much is the convenience of living in Georgia. There are baggers at the grocery store! And a cashier who greets you and smiles when you have a hard time finding your ID. There is no driving around tiny parking lots trying to find a ridiculously small parking space, nope, there is parking everywhere, and it’s free! There are no scary teens on bicycles (instead they’re in cars, but that’s a whole different story), and the roads are nice and wide. People ask you how you are, and offer free refills. Yep, the little things make this whole homecoming-thing even more perfect.

Do I miss Holland? Of course. I had not been back this long in several years, so saying goodbye was a little harder than before. I already miss the cheese section at the grocery store, and the bicycle trails. But coming home has been an overall "mighty fine" experience

Home sweet home

Home at last. The suitcases have been unpacked, most of the laundry is done, our pantry is once again full of food, the mail has been taken care of, the guinneapig has been hugged, our neighbor has been thanked for her wonderful care of our house, and I’m going to guess that some of the dropjes have already disappeared. It used to be that the first day after coming home, when you’re trying to take care of all the things listed above and more, while fighting a jetlag was the worst part of the trip. However, recently I have come to the conclusion that the worst part of the trip actually starts when you arrive at the airport. To be honest, who really enjoys traveling nowadays? Don’t get me wrong, I love the feeling of being on the road, but the harrowing hassle that accompanies today’s travels is less than amusing.

From the first time I set foot aboard an airplane (I think I was about four years old) I loved to travel. I loved the little trays of food you got during the flight, I thought the flight attendants had the coolest job in the world (and got to dress like one of my Barbie dolls to boot!) and I loved the glamour that surrounded traveling by airplane. I mean, I even loved the smell of jet fuel. Obviously, as time went by, my opinion about traveling was de-romanticized just a little bit. Delays were little fun, as was lost luggage. I realized that being a flight attendant meant working really hard while suffering from a jetlag, and learned to bring a good book to read as very long flights did eventually get boring. But up until a few years ago, I still really liked to fly. Whenever I got near an airport, I could just feel excitement rushing through my body. But all that has changed now. Last Sunday, while we were standing in line for security, I turned to my husband and surprised myself by saying, from the bottom of my heart, “I don’t think I like traveling anymore. At all.”

So what happened? It’s not just one thing, it’s a culmination of little nuisances. It really starts while packing. I don’t know about everybody else, but I used to pack my toiletry bag in my carry-on, just in case my luggage was delayed. But nowadays I have to read look at the individual and accumulated sizes of the different tubes and bottles I want to bring, separate them in a “carry on” and a “checked “ pile, and then hunt for the right size zip-lock bags.

But compared to the contemporary airport experience, this is peanuts. I remember those glorious days when you could arrive at the airport 90 minutes before departure. You could sail into the departures hall, leave your luggage with an airline agent, and walk right up to the gate, sometimes even with your family or friends. Unfortunately, those days are no more. Nowadays it’s gotten to the point where we try to avoid early flights because they entail getting up at the crack of dawn to stand in line with hundreds of other fellow-sufferers three hours before boarding time.

Now let’s say that in a moment of temporary insanity (or frugality, take your pick) you do choose to take an early flight. Now let’s be bold and assume that you have made it to the airport on time, with all your luggage. At this point it’s not as though once you’ve recovered from getting up at four in the morning and standing in line for an hour, that you get left alone to wake up slowly. No. Instead you get to answer question after question about your luggage and yourself. And while it used to be that the agent who checks your bags would ask a few questions pertaining to your luggage while tying labels to your bags, looking at his computer screen, and talking to a co-worker, in Amsterdam they have added an additional in-depth interview. When you arrive at the gate, you have to answer an additional set of questions before you are allowed to enter the boarding area, and this time, the interviewer is very serious. These questions don’t just pertain to your luggage, but to a whole host of other issues, such as who paid for the ticket, what kinds of electronic equipment you have in your luggage, and more questions like that which, seeing the hour at which most intercontinental flights depart, should be forbidden, or at least include a free cup of espresso to awaken your brain.

The modern traveler is probably also familiar with the concept of security. While in the past all you had to do was walk through a metal detector, nowadays traveling involved taking off shoes, belts, removing laptops from their cases, explaining at least twice that yes, your bra has an underwire, and, in my husband’s case, taking off his wedding band. Although I understand the necessity of this process, it drives me crazy that in airports like Atlanta, they make you go through them twice, if not three times, depending on the terminal at which you arrive. This means standing in line, taking off your shoes, and holding up your pants several times in a row, which, when you’ve just spent ten hours on a plane, is probably one of the last things in your mind.

All in all, flying, to me, has become such a hassle that instead of feeling like my vacation has not ended until I arrive at my own home, I now feel that vacation-sensation seeping away the moment I smell the jet fuel. Where did the love go?