To all Americans...

…old Americans, young Americans, dual citizens, and you know what, if you have lived here long enough that you know what to wear when the news tells you it is going to be 65 today, this one is for you too. Let me just start off by saying that I like you. I really, really like you. You’re friendly, funny, hard-working, courageous, chivalrous, polite, enthusiastic, and did I say friendly yet? But there is one thing I really need to sit down and talk to you about. One thing that Europeans really know how to do far better than you. And I’m not talking about health care, or social security, or how to build pedestrian-friendly stripmalls. I’m talking about something far more important than that: paid leave, or as our European counterparts like to call it: vacation time.

You see, when it comes to paid leave, Americans have got it all backwards. It first goes wrong when your darling offspring start going to school. Obviously, I can’t speak for every one of the fifty states, but here in Georgia, educators seem to worry a great deal about overburdening our poor children’s minds. They call it “year-round-school”, although I would opt to change that label to “We’ve decided education is severely overrated” program. Our children do not only have a nine-ten week summer break, but they also have a week in September, a week in November, two weeks at Christmas, a week in February, and one week in April. Not to mention all the federal holidays, teacher workdays, parent-teacher conference days, CRCT prep days, and the few days the teachers need to recuperate from dealing with their students. Besides the fact that all these breaks are an incredible nuisance for working parents who are constantly scrambling for ideas on what to do with their little darlings for another week without school, and the fact that our kids now only have some seriously packed nine-week quarters, if you compare this to the European school system, European children look positively overworked. Dutch family members in our kids’ ages have a meager six week break, two weeks at Christmas, and three weeks spread out throughout the school year.

So all in all, being a kid in Georgia is really not all bad. The sun always shines in the summer, everyone’s neighbor has a pool, and there is an endless supply of bugs to bring into the house and nurture in a terrarium in your room. However, do they appreciate it? Of course not. The summer drags on for so long, the kids get bored, and the little weeks off in between merely throw them off schedule, as our oldest likes to put it. The sad part is that once they are old enough to appreciate it, the whole concept of leave is snatched away from them.

Because, and I don’t know how you smart, independent, and strong-headed Americans let this happen to you, especially since you live in a country that is probably in the top five of vacation destinations in the world, American adults have probably the lowest amount of paid leave in the western world: an average of ten days per year. Ten days!? For those spoiled European readers, that translates to two weeks per year. Two weeks to go see the family, take mini-breaks to the beach or the city, and plan your annual family vacation. And why? Why does a nation that is smart enough to have some of the best schools in the world, several Nobel Prize winners among its population, and to have conceived the Internet, Facebook, and several other things I could not live without, give itself such measly leave plans? Why don’t people rise up and demand more time off? You rose up over taxes on tea and stamps, yet you happily let yourself be deprived of the wonders of two, or maybe even three, vacations per year? Of weekends away? Of taking a day off when you’re just not feeling it? Someone please explain this to me, because I am lost.

And did you know that in The Netherlands employers are bound by law to give their employees a minimum of 21 days of paid leave? And that’s just a minimum. When I worked at a university I had approximately 35 days of paid leave. I had so much leave, I was never quite sure how much I actually had left. And you know what, it didn’t even matter, because there was more than enough. Now I don’t even get leave. Sure, I don’t have to work over summer, or Christmas, but I also don’t get paid.

So, America, I beseech you. Turn this whole thing right side up; start demanding that your kids spend at least 40 weeks per year in school, like every other child in the Western world, and then start requesting more leave for yourself. Your kids have all the energy in the world, and let’s be honest, you don’t. So do the right thing.

Southern directions

For almost two years now, I have been giving people in our part of the world the benefit of the doubt when it came to giving directions. Whenever we would get another set of directions that went something like this; "Take a right at the Burger King where the K is not lit up, and then I think we're the third road. Or maybe the second. Well anyway, we're right off that main road right there", we assumed we just didn't know the town well enough to know what "right off the main road" meant. But today I have officially decided that people in my town cannot give their directions if their life depended on it.

Now I'm not picky. I'm not one of those people who needs to know miles or number of feet, although if you tell me 100 yards, or 1.2 miles, I will know how to deal with that. I also don't need an endless list of landmarks ("You know the Ryan's on Corder? Well, turn there, and then you will see the First Methodist on your right and a Checkers on your left.."). Yes, I am a woman, but if you just tell me things like "take a left at the third light and then a right at the second stop sign, I will do fine. I have a map, I have a brain, and I can read signs, and in the past I have always done fine. I have driven through some of the largest cities in Europe, all across Germany, and, a few years ago, drove close to a thousand miles from Holland to the south of France by myself on nothing but a road map. I don't mean to sound arrogant here, but I used to think I did pretty OK driving myself around.

Until I moved here. It has taken me forever to learn the layout of this town. And when I say forever, I mean that I am sometimes still stymied when it comes to finding a place. I'm not sure what the problem is. It could be because our town is a bewildering mix of grid system and roads meandering all over the place. It could also very well be blamed on the fact that in our town, every street looks pretty much the same, with a smattering of stripmalls, a few car dealerships, a Walmart, and a dozen fast food places. But what has really set me back, and as of today, I am no longer afraid to say it, is the people's inability to give normal directions.

Just today, I was trying to find a radiologist's office (due to an unfortunate incident involving a wall and my toe, my foot need an Xray), and got the following directions: "You know where Ryan's is on First? Well, you take a right there, opposite the Checker's, and then we're right there.". I had the Ryan's and Checker's part down, I even know which corner the lady was talking about. But "right there"? Where the heck is that?

But, I'm not one to give up quickly. After hearing "right there" so often, I have developed an, if I may say so myself, uncanny ability to drive and look for what they person was describing. I have uncovered subdivision signs half hidden by shrubbery while doing 45mph, I can read those little bitty doctor's signs they put out on the roadside from a good ways away, and I can spot stores from the other side of the road. So I thought I would give it a go. And I did. I turned the corner by the Checker's (which is opposite a Walgreens's, I always wonder why no one ever mentions that), and started looking. Nothing. There was a church on my right, a law office, and a huge mall on my left. But no little bitty doctor's sign. So I called the number again, and explained where I was.
"Yeah, you're right there. We're inside the mall."

Someone please tell me why on earth you would not mention that. A mall is a landmark. It's a huge landmark in fact. It's not even a close approximation of "right there". It's a mall! That's when I gave up. The fact that I still struggle to find doctors and dentists and friend's houses is not my fault. It's the directions. Simple as that.

Life lessons

Yesterday I learned three important life lessons. First, that it can’t ever hurt go to social events, even if you don’t particularly feel like it. Second, that any booboo can be made better with the “parachute game”. And finally, to never say never.

A few months ago, I realized that my entire life was centered on work. And even though I absolutely love my job, the realization that I get up, go to work, come home, maybe work out, and then go to bed, only to do it all over again the next day, and that I would be doing this for the next thirty years if I didn’t change something in my routine, was slightly alarming. Well, it was actually enough to send me scampering for some, or to be quite honest, any social activities to do during the week, the subsequent loss of sleep be damned. So when a friend asked me to volunteer with the kids’ bible study at the base chapel, I happily agreed. So now, every Wednesday night, I come home, put on my blue and red Cubbies shirt and spend two hours watching 3 and 4-year olds. All this much to the amusement of husband-dear who, although he applauds my increase in social activities, told me he would have never ever envisioned me doing something quite this “domestic”. And it may sound odd, but hanging out with pre-k kids who love nothing more than to sit on your lap when you read them a story, or give you a hug when you come in, is a wonderful way to spend some time after a long and hectic day.

Sometimes though it is hard to find the motivation to go. Especially when my days have been filled with everybody and their brother wanting to talk to me. Days when all you want to do is go home, sit on the couch, clean out a tub of ice cream and watch TV. Yesterday was one of those days, one where students seem to fighting for the honor of being the most demanding student of the day, and so I wasn’t overly excited about going. But in the end, my sense of duty won out, and so I went.

And that’s where my second and third lesson come in. The parachute game is a game where you need a large sheet, preferably round and multi-colored, but anything large enough to cover a bunch of kids will do. A few adult volunteers hold the sheet up by its edges, and all the kids get underneath the material. The adults then move the sheet up, let it fly in the air, and bring it down on the kids, and then bring the sheet up again. And down. And up. And down. And so on. The kids absolutely loved it. They looked as though Christmas had come early. And even though some had not been having the best night of their life yesterday, the parachute made it all better. So next time I feel bad, I’m just going to find me a sheet and a volunteer, and I’ll be good.

While getting the kids set up for the game, I learned lesson number three. After having spent an apparent lifetime as a child being taught by strict and scary French teachers, I never thought I would be elated at hearing, “Mais alors, ca suffit, eh?!” (“well now, that’s enough!”) again. But when I heard another volunteer say that exact phrase to one of the girls in Cubbies, I was elated.
“Vous etes Francaise?” I asked, and indeed, the lady turned out to not only be French, but come from Metz. Suddenly, I felt as though Christmas had come early. Having spent a considerable time as a child living in the south of France, and with husband-dear having proposed to me in Metz, meeting her, in the middle of rural Georgia nonetheless, felt like coming home a little bit. Or like the parachute game. I’m still not sure.

Prairie Home Companion

Ik ben een nostalgisch mens. Zo bewaar ik graag oude dingen die totaal geen nut meer hebben, behalve dan “een herinnering”. Manlief wordt soms gek als we aan het opruimen zijn, en ik, voor de vijfde keer op rij iets zeg in de trant van, “Ja maar die heb ik al sinds ik uit huis ben, en hij staat niet in de weg, dus hij kan nog best blijven.”. Zo hebben we, alleen al in de keuken, twee identieke braadpannen, een heel oud nutteloos steelpannetje, en een plank vol oude mokken van mij. Op zolder staan nog eens zes dozen vol “herinneringen” die ik zelfs na de zoveelste verhuizing en daaraan gekoppelde opruimwoede niet weg kan doen. Ook is er niet veel voor nodig om mij aan het mijmeren te krijgen over “vroeger”. Het kan een liedje zijn, een oude jas die ik in een van die zes dozen vindt, of zelfs een geur.

Verhuizen naar het buitenland verhoogt volgens mij deze hang naar nostalgie alleen maar. Er zijn in een keer talloze dingen waar je aan gewend was die er niet meer zijn: een weiland met sloten bijvoorbeeld, of bonte koeien, of draaiorgels, of zelfs eindeloze regen, en dus ook meer dingen om te missen.Maar soms kan het leven grappig lopen, en kom je in dat verre buitenland in een keer dingen tegen van “vroeger”, die je in Nederland al jaren niet meer ziet. Onverharde wegen bijvoorbeeld, of mensen die te paard het dorp in gaan. Of een hoorspel op de radio.

Als kind was ik vroeger gek op hoorspelen. Nu kan ik een hele mooie redenering ophangen over hoe dat kwam omdat luisteren mijn kinderlijke fantasie meer stimuleerde dan kijken, maar helaas is dat niet waar. Toen mijn broertje en ik jong waren, was er namelijk gewoon nog geen televisie ‘s ochtends. En al helemaal niet voor kinderen. Dus wat deed je dan, als je uitgespeeld was en het nog lang geen tijd was om je ouders wakker te maken? Dan zette je een sprookje op. We begonnen met echte langspeelplaten. Achteraf bezien is het een wonder dat mijn ouders ons uberhaupt in de buurt van de platenkast lieten komen, maar ik ga er maar van uit een paar bekraste platen ("het was echt een ongeluk mam!") het waard waren als dat betekende dat mijn ouders iets langer konden blijven liggen. Gelukkig kwamen daar later ook cassette bandjes bij, en natuurlijk de radio met de "Ko de Boswachter sjo". Mijn broer ik luisterden naar de klassieke sprookjes zoals Doornroosje en Assepoester, maar ook naar het toch best wel enge Schateiland, en het, achteraf bezien, redelijk gewelddadige verhaal over twee jaloerse broers, Kleine Klaas en Grote Klaas, die elkaar, in hun jaloezie, letterlijk de hoofden insloegen. Ook hadden we een LP van Alleen op de Wereld, die vooral gedraaid werd als we ziek thuis waren. Helaas hadden wij alleen deel 1, zodat ik nooit heb ontdekt wat er nu werkelijk van Remy geworden is. Mijn broer en ik waren zo gek op hoorspelen dat we, toen we eenmaal ontdekt hadden dat de transistor radio in de keuken een ingebouwde microfoon had, zelf talloze hoorspelen opgenomen hebben. Hoorspelen die vooral gingen over mensen te paard, die veel dronken en veel met deuren sloegen, want het maken van de geluiden, daar ging het natuurlijk om.

Ik heb al jaren geen echt Nederlands hoorspel meer gehoord, en weet ook niet of Nederlandse kinderen nog naar hoorspellen luisteren. Onze kinderen keken ze in ieder geval op televisie, en dat heeft toch niet dezelfde charme als het ademloos luisteren naar een verhaal waar je voor de rest alles zelf bij moet bedenken. Vandaar ook dat ik, toen ik een paar jaar geleden Praire Home Companion ontdekte op NPR, ik helemaal gelukkig was. Prairie Home Companion is een cabaret programma dat wekelijks op de Amerikaanse publieke radio (NPR) te horen is. Er worden skits gedaan, er worden mini-hoorspelen uitgevoerd, en er wordt gezongen. De verhalen die je hoort zijn voornamelijk humoristisch, maar er zit er wel een bepaalde continuiteit in. Zo horen de luisteraars elke week een aflevering over het leven in “Lake Wobegon, Minnesota, where every child is above average”. Ook zijn er terugkerende liedjes, zoals het beroemde “Ketchup song” en het koffie-lied, welke allebei regelmatig in onze keuken gezongen worden. Wel voornamelijk door mij, trouwens.

Nu is het helaas niet dat ik elke zondagmiddag twee uur stil zit te luisteren. Maar het programma staat wel aan op de achtergrond, en zo nu en dan luisteren we even actief naar een bijzonder grappig stukje. Onze radio-studenten snappen er maar niks van, en zien het als een overblijfsel uit een soort stenen tijdperk, dat maar niet snel genoeg, net als de dinosaurussen, kan verdwijnen. Maar dat kan mij niet schelen. Zodra ik de stem van Garrison Keillor hoor, waan ik me terug in de tijd van Macrame, oranje keukenkastjes, en De Stuif Es In Show. Wat wil een mens nog meer?

50 ways...

....to get angry.

Besides fifty ways to leave your lover, fifty ways to lose weight, and fifty ways to spice up your resume, there are apparently also fifty ways to express your unhappiness with someone. And I would have never known about them had it not been for today's department meeting.

While discussing curriculum changes, classroom assignments, and the likelihood of getting paid for overload next semester, one co-worker brought up a slightly juicier topic, namely a senior who intends to graduate this semester, but whose intentions are, once again, seriously impaired by his inability to show up to his internship. As this is not the first time this particular young has struggled with taking on responsibility, the co-worker related how the student's supervisor had given said student a "Come to Jesus talk".

I know I have written about this particular southern expression before, and explained how it is a phrase that seems to be mainly used by older Christian African Americans who have been raised in the south. It was thus extremely amusing to hear my young, white, atheist, and Great Lakes born and bred co-worker use such a typical expression.
"Well," he corrected himself, "That's not what Sandy said."
Sandy is the student's supervisor, who happens to be a transplant as much as the rest of us. "Sandy said she read him the riot act."
Almost immediately all of us, secretly relieved to be away from such annoying topics as exit exams and GREs, jumped in on the conversation. Another co-worker remarked that apparently white people tend to read someone the riot act, while some black people call someone to Jesus. I told people that in Holland we "read someone a lesson", while my co-worker from Latin America said that down there they "take people to confession". A professor from China thought for a while after noting that in China they "show people many different colors.", while someone else looked at me, and said; "And I bet your husband rips people a new one, because that's what they say in the military".
Soon after this little discussion, we were pulled back into more serious topics, and unfortunately, our discussion about the fifty ways to get angry at someone ceased.

But all the way home, the different expressions kept coming back to me, and I kept wondering to what extent these expressions are related to the culture they come from.
Obviously, the military one is the easiest. They just don't like to beat around the bush. There is no coming to Jesus, no reading lessons, they are going to cut right to the chase and rip you a new one. Or make you do a hundred push ups, or show up to work in your blues. There's nothing colorful about that.
The Dutch expression immediately reminded of the notion of "betutteling" that I only wrote about last week. In Holland, we like to wag our finger and tell someone how horribly mistaken they are, and what better way to do that than to read someone "their lessons"? In addition, it also almost sounds Calvinist to me; "You sit there and listen quietly while I read ten sermons from the book of Psalms to explain how wrong you are." Whatever it is, it certainly took me back to the Protestant school my parents mistakenly sent me to for a few years.
The Latin-American expression also reeks of religion, albeit Catholicism in their case. And, as the Latin-American professor pointed out, Catholics sure like to go to confession, if only because once they're forgiven, they get to do it all over again.
Unfortunately, I realized I know too little about the Chinese culture to make something of their saying. Whatever it alludes to, it does sound wonderfully poetic. There is no reading, prosyletizing, or religion involved; all they do is make you see different colors. That sounds almost appealing, doesn't it?
And what to make of the two American expressions? Could it be that "reading the riot act" refers to a reliance on laws and regulations? A desire to tell someone what the rules are, and make sure they know the consequences for breaking them? For all I've seen in the past years, Americans tend to dislike laws and anyone who tries to impose them. Americans don't seem half as crazy about following the rules as the Dutch, or better yet, the Germans are. So I'm not quite sure where that comes from. And why don't all Americans use the same expression? Being Christian is not reserved to African Americans or southerners only, so why only they use that colorful expression, I don't know.

Personally, I think I'm just going to be mad from now on. Plain, simple, and very predictable. I like it.

Summertime

“Keep cooly cool boy, don’t get hot.”Ice ~ West Side Story

Although spring is still a few hours away, summer has, seemingly come to Georgia today. The sun is out, trees and grass have turned green almost overnight, and it’s warm enough for people to be walking outside in shorts and t-shirts. After several days of rain, snow, and enough frost to kill half the plants in our yard, I really like to think that we are now headed for six months of sunshine.

However, as I wrote in an earlier blog, nothing is an unpredictable as Georgia weather in wintertime, and really, that applies to the spring too. We’re not really assured of warm, sunny days until about mid-April. By then you know that summer has set in, and is here to stay at least until September. Or October for those of you who have not yet grown accustomed to the Georgia heat.

Walking across campus just now, and almost withering in my slacks, long-sleeved shirt and boots, I did realize that I will be facing an interesting, weather-related dilemma this summer. You see, in order to alleviate the boredom that comes with three months of not having to go to work, and because apparently I truly am a glutton for punishment, I decided to teach summer school this year. Summer school means, as implied by the phrase, that I will be teaching all of May and June. And therein lies the problem. In Georgia, May and June, although not as bad as August, are unbearably hot. Hot as in you will definitely want to keep your windows and blinds closed during the day, complete any outdoor physical exercise before 8am, and make sure your airconditioning is in top shape. Yet my work likes me to dress “appropriately”. In 1950s Georgia, that means pantyhose, a shirt with sleeves and a collar, no sandals, and a strict, may-a –bolt-of-lightning-come-down-and-strike-you, rule against wearing shorts. Now I don’t know about you, but when I’m hot, I like to wear sleeveless shirts, a short skirt, or shorts, and flip flops. Apparently, that’s grounds to call me a liberal and disrespectful hippie, but there you have it.

So what’s an overheated professor to do? I can guarantee you that if I do stick to the dress code, the results are not going to be pretty. I know there are some people who can be really warm and not show it, unfortunately, I am not one of them. For decency’s sake, I’ll lay off all the details, but suffice to say that husband-dear has told me, on more than one occasion that I “sure am stinky for such a little person”. Trust me, I don’t like it either. And pantyhose? In the summer? Really? I truly don’t see any of that happening. So I suppose I could bank on the fact that all the bigwigs will be gone enjoying their paid leave. As long as I steer clear of mini-skirts and cropped tops, I think that the majority of the people left will be too polite and embarrassed to tell me I need to put on hose or a shirt with a collar. After all, that would imply that they have been, gasp, looking at my clothes, or, oh my word, me, and we all know how incredibly inappropriate and impolite that is. So I’m thinking something semi-decent and cool will keep me, as well as people working in my immediate vicinity very happy. In fact, I’ve just realized that this is the perfect excuse for me to go shopping for some new breezy summer dresses. Decent, cute, and cool, what more could a girl want?

Totem poles

All I wanted was a checksheet. You know, one of those pieces of paper that lists all the classes a student has to take to graduate. It has a little section for the core curriculum, and then a section for their major classes. It’s one page, surprisingly well-organized, and a must-have for any student, or adviser during advising season. The season opened yesterday, and as usual, we have already run out of our supply of checksheets. So I decided to be pro-active, and call our department secretary to see if she could email us new checksheets. A simple request, one would think. However, it was not meant to be. Our coordinator had recently put in a request for some minor changes to the checksheets, and therefore they could not email us the new checksheets. No, they had to be approved by our coordinator first. Never mind the fact that the coordinator had already handed us and several students copies of these new checksheets. Never mind that we were able to tell her that we knew he was fine with the new checksheet. Never mind that our coordinator is out sick today. And never mind that we have tens of students in need of advisement today. We will not be receiving our checksheets until the poor man returns to work. The secretary wasn’t even sure if she was supposed to send me the old checksheet, as it was outdated.

You know, I don’t mind having a boss. I was just telling husband-dear the other day that at times I like being told what to do, because it makes my life so much easier. But I still can’t get used to the steep and intricate hierarchy that is an American university. Our coordinator is outranked by our chair, who is outranked by the dean, who answers to the Provost, and various other Vice-Presidents, who answer the President himself. It’s a totem pole that would make the military proud.

I understand that large organizations need some sort of structure. We can’t just all run around and do whatever feels right. We tried that in the 1970s, and look at what happened, it produced rebellious little people like me. All universities have some sort of hierarchy with fancy names and impressive robes. But what surprised me about this particular university is that everyone takes the hierarchy seriously. Very seriously. There is no joking around with the president or the dean. Or, at least when you do, and I have, people look at you as though you have lost your mind. There is no use of first names, no bantering, and no doing favors. Ever. Are you on a Xerox machine that won’t make more than 60 copies, but you need 70 copies and you’re in a rush? Too bad. And no one will do anything without the explicit permission of their immediate supervisor. It’s mind-boggling that people with advanced degrees are so afraid of making their own decisions, and it’s beyond irksome that you can spend days waiting on a simple answer because someone’s boss is out of town. It’s one thing to not call your boss by his nickname, as we did in Holland, or to call him “boss” as I have done in the past, but it’s another when all decision-making processes are so formalized everyone seems to leave their common sense in their cars in the morning. Sometimes I feel as though the south is stuck in the 1950s, with their pantyhose, big hair, “ma’am” and “sir” and “let me talk to so and so.”

I’m not asking for a lot here. Really I’m not. They can call each other “Mr. President” and “Dean so and so” all they want, wear their pantyhose and throw babyshowers, it’s all fine by me. All I really want is my checksheets so I can keep my students happy. But I’m guessing that’s just not going to happen today.

Rain, rain, rain

It has to be some kind of miracle, or if you don’t believe in miracles, it’s definitely something sent from heaven above, but this morning it rained every single one of the ninety miles that make up my commute. I am not kidding you; a band of heavy rain followed me down the highway for about 90 miles. It rained all day yesterday too, and so today’s downpour was quite a surprise. You see, unlike less fortunate places in the world, in Georgia the rain usually stops after about 24 hours. But not today. It seemed unfair somehow; I had only returned from the rainiest country in the world on Saturday, and I’m rewarded with 48 hours of rain.

But this morning, as I was cussing the rain, the poor condition of the roads, and semis going over 80 miles per hours spraying water everywhere, I was grateful for several things. First, husband-dear. As a married woman, I realize you should always be grateful for your spouse, and yadah-yadah-yadah, but this morning, I was truly thankful for my husband’s apparent psychic powers. You see, as opposed to me, he actually pays attention to the state of my car, and had noticed right before I left that I had just hit the 60 000 mile mark, and was in desperate, and I mean, dire, need of new tires. One of my tires actually turned out to be almost completely bald, although, and this is between you and me, that was probably the result of me spinning off the road one time during a heavy thunderstorm. But don’t tell my mom I told you that. So anyway, while I was away last week, the love of my life not only bought new floormats, waxed my car, vacuumed it out, and had the oil changed, but also had four brand new tires put on my little Honda. So as I saw other cars struggle to stay on the road this morning, my car just hummed right along, and didn’t even think about hydroplaning. It was quite amazing, especially if you consider that Georgia roads do not have the absorbent top-layer that Dutch roads do, and are thus covered in several inches of rain after even the smallest shower.

I was also grateful for the sake of our yard, and since I was feeling rather magnanimous after a week off, I was also thankful on behalf of all of Georgia. We have had one of the driest winters in years (not counting the snow), and not only was our yard suffering, Georgia’s rivers and lakes have been at their lowest level in years. Lake Lanier, the body of water that apparently supplies most of Atlanta with water, has been dropping down to record lows, and subsequently, all of the greater Atlanta area has been on water restriction for years now. But this weekend’s downpour has helped a little, and that is always good to know. I suppose. OK, so maybe I am a little too grateful for rain, but I mean, you’re stuck in a car, it’s raining, and there’s nothing you can do about it, so you might as well think happy thoughts.

So while I’m in my happy place, I am now going to be grateful for the fact that a co-worker once gave me a huge umbrella that is going to keep me dry on my way to the car. Yay. That’s all I have to say.

Betutteling at its best

Betutteling is one of those quirky Dutch words that doesn't really translate into English. Whenever a word doesn't really have an equivalent in another language, this generally signifies that the concept at hand simply does not exist in that particular culture. So after much debate with both husband-dear and some of my Dutch friends, we came to the conclusion that "grace", and thus related terms such as "social graces" can't really be translated into Dutch. Now as much as I love Dutch people, I do have to admit that secretly I believe that this lack of a proper translation relates to the notion that Dutch people really do not have the grace, or friendly manners, that say Americans have. However, before I seriously offend at least 50% of my readers, I would like to delve into the topic of the day, namely the concept of "betutteling".

Betutteling (pronounced as bah-TUT-tah-ling) can best be translated as patronizing, or condescending. However, in my non-longuist opinion, these two words don't really cover every dimension of the Dutch word. Betutteling means more than just knowing what's best for someone else, it also encompasses an assumption that the other person is absolutely ignorant about the potential dangers or benefits of the matter at hand, and involves a generous amount of talking to someone as though they've just graduated kindergarten. Now although I love Holland like no other, I do have admit, albeit with pain in my heart, that the Netherlands is truly the capital of betutteling. People just love to tell you what to do. And even though they always genuinely have your best interest at heart, coming from a society such as the US where people tend to leave you the heck alone unless you seriously tick them off, this can be very irksome.

What brings me to write about betutteling? Well, it's a lot of things, really. But what really took the cake was the sign in my parents' front yard. My parents own a summer home, which they like to refer to as their cottage. It's a on a bit of land pretty much in the middle of nowhere, which in Holland means that the nearest neighbor is about a quarter of a mile away. There's woods all around their house, and on the other side of the street, it's nothing but farms, horse stables, and endless fields for miles. Their town was recently made a part of a much larger, neighboring town, and ever since then, the betutteling has apparently gone through the roof. The first thing the new city council did was put 5 foot tall signs in people's front yards with their house number on it. The sign is huge (about one square foot), and because it's made of some sort of reflective material, you can now see their housenumber from about two miles down the road. The council didn't check with any of the residents, didn't ask for permission, or even people's opinions. One day, my parents came home, and there was the sign, right smack in between the trees. A letter in their mailbox a few days later explained that the council had done this so that Emergency Services could find the houses a little easier in the dark. And that's where the betuttelinng would drive me crazy. Has anyone here ever lived in a small town? Do you all know how things work in a small town? You call anyone, and I mean anyone, whether it's the local Chinese take-out, the plumber, or the local firehouse, and they all know exactly who you are, where you live, and what kind of car you drive. And even if they don't, all you would have to do to explain to someone where the cottage is, would be to say, "We're right down the dirt road from the Snorrewind Stables. It's a red log cabin.", and they would know where to go.
But, no. Someone of course knows better. So now my parents have a huge disfiguring sign in their yard.

But I'm sure it's all for the best. After all, what do we know?

In Nederland....

....is alles kouder, natter, bewolkter, maar wel gezellig.

Soms doe je als Neder-Amerikaan hele vreemde dingen. Zo is er een garantie dat zinnen met "me" en "zich" totaal verhaspeld worden. "Pecan" wordt, voor Nederlanders, totaal onverstaanbaar uitgesproken, en Engelse wooden vermijd ik zoveel mogelijk, omdat ik dan weet dat er een risico bestaat dat de rest van de zin dan echt Dunglish wordt. Ook loop ik totaal voor schut met een dikke jas, een sjaal, handschoenen een dikke muts op, omdat het gewoon "really fricking cold" is, ondanks dat de echte Nederlanders beweren dat het toch echt lente weer is. En als je wilt vragen waarom iemand niet rechts afslaat als het rood is, kom je niet verder dan "Mag jij niet...rood" omdat je de uitdrukking "right turn on red" je hoofd hebt zitten. Ook maakte ik mijn ouders enorm aan het schrikken toen ik op de weg vanuit het vliegveld naar hun huis bij de eerste Nederlandse auto heel hard riep, "Whoa! Kijk eens! Dat is raar!"
Mijn ouders, helemaal in de veronderstelling dat ik echt iets vreemds zag, draaiden hun hoofden in alle richtingen op om te kijken waar dit vreemde ding zich dan wel niet bevond.
"Kijk dan!" riep ik nog een keer, "Ik was helemaal vergeten dat de auto's hier nummerborden voor op de auto hebben!"
En Zondagochtend bezorgde ik mijn ouders bijna weer een hartverzakking toen ik aan de ontbijttafel in een keer opmerkte dat er toch wel heel veel rook langs de openslaande deuren walmde. Mijn vader was al half opgestaan toen mijn moeder met de blik die ze speciaal voor mij reserveert zei; "Dat is de stoom van de verwarmingsketel"
"Oh ja, " zei ik lichtelijk appelig, "Ik was even vergeten dat jij geen heat pumps hebben."

Van alle drie de keren dat ik nu in Nederland ben geweest sinds ik deze keer vertrokken ben, is deze week tot nu toe wel de meest confronterende. Ik ben een aantal dingen totaal ontwend. Zo weiger ik te fietsen in de regen, en heb ik tot nu toe altijd vrienden en familie zover gekregen dat ze me met hun auto wegbrengen. Ook vind ik het maar vreemd dat mensen zo weinig lachen, ook al begin ik dat, na drie dagen bewolking, nu wel iets beter te snappen. Markten zijn helemaal geweldig, maar de Nederlandse televisie is in mijn herinnering echt vele malen interessanter.

Maar genieten doe ik zeker, en daarom ga ik nu subiet ophouden met het in beslag nemen van Vic's computer en gezellig met haar een Hollands kopje thee drinken.


p.s. Steve, sorry dude, I'll tell you all about it when I get back.

On the road again

My bags are packed, and like John Denver, I am leaving on a jetplane soon. Unlike the poor singer, though, I do know when I will be back: in a little over a week. It's going to be a quick trip to Holland, to enjoy the company of family, friends, shop at the Albert Heijn, eat lots of boerenkool and rookworst, Dutch candy, and above all, revel in the fact that at least where I live now, it's so much warmer.

I do hope to keep you all updated on my experiences overseas, but for now; have a great weekend and remember, "Don't drive like my brother!"

It's a hard knock life

I like to think my life is busy. On particularly rough days, I’ll even secretly tell myself no on in Holland is as busy as I am. They have things like coffee breaks, lunches out in the cafeteria, ATV afternoons (for all you Americans, think of ATV as a paid furlough once a week), and 2-mile commutes they can do by bicycle. I don’t have time to eat lunch in peace and quiet, let alone in a cafeteria, haven’t had a coffee break since I was a part timer at McDonald’s in college, do have time off but then I don’t get paid, and spend the same amount of time in my car as I do with my husband each night because I have, here it comes again, a 90-mile commute. And no, having stores open 24/7 does not really help, because all it means is that you can, and will, find yourself at the Hobby Lobby at 8pm on Wednesday night, because one of your darling children needs some construction paper for a school project, or shopping for desperately needed socks on a Sunday afternoon, when you could, and by all means should, be lying on the couch. It’s a life I could have never pictured myself living in Holland. Yes, I know, it’s very sad and you are now playing the world’s tiniest violin for me.

But sometimes, on very rare occasions, I hear about someone whose life is even crazier than mine. And it always makes me feel so much better. This Monday morning I heard about one such person, while I was laying in bed, trying to motivate myself to get up. It was about ten to five in the morning, husband-dear had already gotten up five minutes before, and I was still debating the nihilistic question if getting up was even worth the effort it took at all. As usual, husband-dear had left the radio on, and NPR was still in its nighttime classical mode. By the way, you know you’re getting up early when the news station hasn’t even started its morning newsbroadcast yet. But anyway, after some dazzling symphony, the DJ told a little anecdote about the man who conducted that particular performance. I don’t know why classical DJs even speak at all, but here in Georgia they do, and you always end up learning some trivial fact, such as the fact that during World War 2, Mendelssohn statue in Leipzig was toppled by the Nazis. Anyway, this time was no different, and the DJ talked about the conductor for a little bit, whose name was Vladimir, and who served as the main conductor for the Netherlands Philharmonic Radio Orchestra (or some other prestigious Dutch orchestra that performs in the “Concert-ghabow”). Apparently, Vladimir’s wife is from Iceland, and because he likes Iceland so much, this gentleman is also the Laureate conductor of the Icelandic philharmonic. And, the DJ went on to say, Vladimir is the main conductor of the Hong Kong philharmonic orchestra, as well as serving as the conductor of some imposing orchestra in Sydney. But, the DJ added almost smugly, Vladimir most prefers his residence in Switzerland. Now assuming that a Laureate conductor has to very little besides show up once a year to have his picture taken for the annual website update, that still leaves three countries and an equal number of continents for the poor man to work on.

As I’m lying in bed, I ponder the man’s life. This is a man who has to speak about three languages to make it through his daily life. I mean, I’ve heard the Swiss like it very much when you try to speak their language, and I’m assuming his wife is like any foreign wife and insits he speaks her language a little too, and since Dutch, Australian, and people in Hong Kong don’t speak either Swiss German/Italian/French, or Icelandic, he has to speak English too. And this is assuming his own mother is not Russian or anything, because then poor Vladimir would be stuck with four required tongues. Not only that, but Vladimir also has to fill out at least four tax returns, fly a minimum of two and a maximum of 22 hours to get to his job and on top of all of that, deal with the idiosyncrasies of musicians from four different cultures.

Just thinking about this man’s life made me tired. And I realized I didn’t have to pack a passport, a suitcase, deal with jetlag, and foreign languages to get to work. In fact, I was going to come home and sleep in the same bed every night. Suddenly that sounded like a gift. And getting up had just become a whole lot easier.

Land-lovers

"You know we belong to the land... "
Curly ~ Oklahoma!

Where would you hear your dentist say the following to the hygienist:"Well, just let me know if you want to come get some pecans, I'll ride out the tractor and bush hog the grass".
Answer: In Georgia of course!
And is the dentist a part time farmer? Or perhaps a local southern boy who was raised on a farm? No, none of that. He's just a regular guy who loves the land.

Owning land, large farming contraptions such as bush hoggers and tractors, and harvesting some sort of crop is considered perfectly normal around here, even if you're a white-collar worker by trade. My in-laws, for instance, who own their business, and work at it day and night, own about ten ares, a pond, several sheds of fishing equipment, a tractor, a bush hogger, and a field where they can keep horses. Our chaplain, a man who is active duty military, and who only came back from Iraq last summer, has enough pecan trees to supply the entire congregation with a few pounds of pecans each year. And the people living behind us own four-wheelers they use to ride around their land, and make some money on the side selling, you guessed it, pecans.

It's an interesting dichotomy here in the south. On the one hand, many of the local women are almost always dressed up to the nines. Their hair is coiffed into perfectly colored curls, their nails are polished and shiny, their clothes, although they may hint of too much love for the 1980s, are always immaculate, and they seem to spend most of their days wondering from one jewelry/kitchen appliance/Tupperware party to the next. But what amazes me is when you visit those same women at their home, chances are they've just come in from mowing the back twenty, shelling pecans, buying live worms for the fish bait, or painting a fence. Southern women may look, and act like submissive little women, but really, they are everything but. Their nails will always look perfect, but they can shoot a rattlesnake as well as the next guy, and may know more about how to skin a boar than you want to know.

What surprises me, more than the dialectic nature of southern women, is the love for the land that most poeple down here seem to feel. Most people I know, including husband-dear talk about buying a piece of land out in the middle of nowhere when they retire. While in Europe, people may fantasize about a house in the south of France, or a boat, or an RV, people in this neck of the woods fantasize about owning horses, fishing in their own pond, dealing with downed trees, and seeing the sun come up on their own land. It's quite contagious too. Because think about it, doesn't a rocking chair on a porch, overlooking a field, some trees, some horses, and maybe a dirt road winding off into the distance sound great?

Dreaming of a white Georgia

Today, the unthinkable happened: it snowed in Georgia. Not just sleet, mind you, but real snow, with real, fat, white snowflakes. And not only that, but it has been snowing on and off since 11 this morning. Although life as we know it down here has pretty much come to a screeching halt because of this, it is a little miracle. I've posted some pictures and a video below - break out the hot chocolate and enjoy!

Our house in the snow (husband-dear on the front porch in his robe, but more about that later)

A snowy street

Palm tree in the front yard. We're not sure if the poor baby will make it after this winter.

Zoe was slightly confused at first, what is all this white stuff everywhere, and why is it in our yard?

Yes, I go a little nuts when it snows, and yes I was still wearing my PJs at 11 in the morning. I have to add that is highly unusual for me (or us, as husband-dear was still in his PJs too), since we usually feel obligated to knock out an insane exercise regime on Sunday mornings. The snow made it impossible for us to ride our bikes, so we had a very welcome excuse to lie around the house and watch the snow come down.


And it was really cold outside, so once mommy got her picture taken, it was time to hurry back in. Apparently, Zoe thought so too.




And good luck to everyone up north, who has real snow to deal with.