100% Dutch?

Sometimes, miracles do happen. Last week was an excellent example, mainly because husband-dear and I got to spend all of it together. In Holland. As planned. We had such a good time, I didn't even have time to blog, or update facebook, or do anything else online. Of course, we didn't find out he could come until Thursday night, but that is really a minor detail. Especially if you consider that we strive under stress. We love last-minute packing. And really, nothing makes us happier than not knowing what tomorrow will bring or where we will be.

But either way, we got to go Holland, and had an absolute blast. We reconnected with family and friends, tried to alienate as many people as possible by performing a singing-mime routine at a family party, relaxed, admired Dutch art, went to a bicycle museum, took lots of walks through a variety of Dutch landscapes that all imitated art admired earlier, and ate way too much cheese. Far too much cheese, seriously.

Now returning to any place after a year-long absence, especially if it's a place you used to call home is going to be an interesting experience. It did for me, the little budding Margaret Mead, anyway. And during this visit, the things that stuck out were vastly different from previous visits. The lack of refills no longer made me sit up and take notice, and the fact that, yes you do have to pay for every bathroom visit was nothing more than an interesting quirk, one that actually warranted a picture. No, this time, the things that made me wonder about my Dutchness, besides the snow and the ridiculously low temperatures, were much more mundane. Things like doors, accents, and transportation.

It started with the flight attendants. Usually, when you fly Delta out of Atlanta, you are blessed, to use a true southern expression, with a bubbly southern crew who will take every opportunity to let you know how much they absolutely love serving you. They adore it. And you. And simply everything else too. So when flying to Europe, one is usually not confronted with that typical European service style until landing. But not this time. Our flight to Dusseldorf was served by a mainly German crew, who took a different approach to service than we're used to at this point. Distinctly different. Very different.

It started when we commenced boarding. Instead of a southern drawl announcing that our "non-stop direct flight to Doo-sel-dorf" was about to "embark on almost immediate departure", and that we were all "kindly requested to have our boarding passes and picture IDs out, to facilitate boarding procedures", and reminded once again that "we are all so pleased to have y'all flying Delta today", we had a German-accented female voice inform the waiting passengers that "everyone must all haff their passports out. And you must haff them open to the picture page. If you do not, we vill not let you board."
OK.
And just in case you thought they were kidding, once we were allowed to board, people who did not have their passports open to the right page, were made to stand to the side until the gate agents felt like turning around and helping them. Fortunately, husband-dear and I are really good at following orders, so we got into the plane without any problems.

But the German service did not end there. Our next interesting encounter occured when husband-dear and I tried to put our carry-ons in the overhead bins. Now you should know that we have made it an art to travel as light as possible. While I used to drag half my closet on overseas trips, and at least half of that as my carry-on, I have now downsized to a small purse and a small backpack on wheels. I usually carry no more than a book, my IPod, some magazines, a pillow, and a pair of socks on the plane with me. After having lost my luggage more times than I care to remember, I've learned that no matter where I am on earth, there will be a store nearby where they sell things like toothbrushes and underwear, and so I refuse to drag a carry-on the size of a small refridgerator along with me. Interestingly, ever since I have taken that approach to travel, my luggage has not gotten lost once. I wonder if that's karma. Anyway, I digress.

So, yes, husband-dear and I were stowing our miniature carry-ons into a still empty overhead bin, when a flight attendant with a Heidi-like braid came upon us. We thought we were being extremely social by putting husband-dear's pack on top of my backpack, but apparently, this was not social enough.
"No," the flight attendant moved in front of the overhead bin, effectively pushing me to the side, "You must put them like so." she pushed and shoved at our luggage until it was positioned lengthwise, "That vay uzzer people haff room. Yes."
Yes. Ve vere vairy bad.

Now I understand that German discourse is different from American, and that when you translate all the things that made us raise our eyebrows, into German, they're really not that bad. In my opinion, German, and Dutch as well, are langagues that more commonly use orders and directions without being offensive. In fact, inhabitants of both nations will probably tell you (and me, as writer of this blog), that it's more efficient to be direct like that. Sure. But when you're in you're in Atlanta, on a Delta plane, all of that efficiency only comes across as, well, different.

As husband-dear and I debated this issue, another German-accented announcement came across the PA system, "Yes. Because zis is a full flight, everyone must put their coats on top of their luggage in the bins, not next to them, to make room for everyone."
We just about breathed a sigh of relief that we had put our coats in our checked luggage. Because I'm not sure there was room on top of our double-decker construction for a coat. And then what would we have done? Whispered to our neighbors if perhaps they could pretend that our coats belonged to them, and secretly stashed them on top of their luggage? It was a daunting idea.

But just in case there was any doubt left in our minds, we were now reassured, we were on our way to Europe!

Next blog: The story of Dutch doors and windows.