or in the deep south, you do as the locals do. Or so the saying goes. Having been on the move every few years since I was probably around two years old, adapting to local customs and traditions has become second nature. So over the years I have developed an interesting array of habits, from the French love for sitting in the street and watching the world go by, to the Dutch penchant for being far too honest, to the German-like punctuality. And over the past few months, I've been able to add several characteristics to that list.
Liking tinted car windows is one of the characteristics I adopted surprisingly fast. This doesn't come as much of a surprise, since summers here are hot enough to make pavement melt (or at least get really soft and squishy). I'm not talking about the light-green tinting you will see in most cars nowadays, I'm talking about the deep-almost-black tinting that is mainly seen in programs like "Pimp my ride" (or Georgia, apparently). Back in Europe, tinted windows used to, at best, make me think of really important politicians, and at worst, of some form of criminal, so needless to say I did not have a very positive attitude towards them. Funnily enough, I never noticed that husband's truck had tinted windows too - perhaps that was because the whole huge truck with quad cab thing was enough of a rarity. Anyway, the new car that we bought last August did not come with tinted windows, and my first response was "oh great, I don't want my car to look like that anyway". My second response, after about a day of feeling like I had driven around in a sauna, was, "Oh crap, where can I get my windows tinted, and how dark can we go?"
So much for my dislike of tinted windows.
And how about saying "Thank you" and "oh that's great!" when you're doing someone a favor? I think this falls into the southern-discourse I blogged about earlier. Now don't get me wrong, I have always been a polite person, I was taught to say "thank you" and "please", and I like to think I have been doing pretty well in that department. But here in the south, we take politeness and gratitude to the next level. You thank everyone. And I mean everyone. You thank the person who bumps into you and then apologizes. And guess what, it's contagious too. Whenever I would just visit the south, I would shrug it off as an ancient idiosyncrasy. But now that I live here, I find myself doing it more and more. So when a student calls me with a question, I end up thanking them for calling. When I call, say payroll, to correct a mistake they made, I tell them it would be great if they could get that fixed, and thank you so very much ma'am. Now I have to be honest, but I have also gotten the feeling that perhaps my adaptation here is more of a survival mechanism than an additional layer of politeness that I just picked up on (even though I'm sure my mother is proud of me). I have begun to realize it is a way of life, and you had better adapt, or else you will not get anything done.
So, thank you for reading my blog today:)
Wednesday, April 23, 2008
Monday, April 21, 2008
Birthdays and things
When it comes to celebrating major events, I know, as one half of an international couple, that these can be tricky occasions. We sometimes find ourselves talking for hours about a certain holiday, hashing out the most mundane details just to prevent nasty surprises and subsequent cultural wars. Christmas is of course the kicker; we come from such diverse backgrounds that this holiday required days of round-table discussions where we expressed expectations, pondered the different options, and came up with a scenario that was acceptable to both of us. We even conduct a little post-Christmas evaluation each year. These evaluations, although they may sound hilarious, at times lead to very revealing findings. This year, for instance. I discovered that breakfast without candles just did not work for me. Call me an idiot, but there you have it. We've had round-table talks about Thanksgiving (a fairly short one, since this is not a European holiday), Halloween, New Year's, Easter (again, an easy one), and Sinterklaas (husband-dear left that one up to me). The one major event that we have somehow never had to talk about, and yet have molded into our own, overwhelmingly European-style celebration, would be the birthday. This weekend, as we celebrated my birthday, I found myself wondering how this was possible, since there are some distinct differences between Dutch and American birthday celebrations.
For one thing, when should you open the birthday presents? I used to think the answer to this was clear-cut and simple. Until I met my husband. He thought his answer was clear-cut and simple too. Only it was completely different from mine. He scenario for giving presents was indeed very simple. You would either give the presents after work, if the birthday was on a weekday, or right after breakfast if it fell on a weekend. My scenario could not have been any different. In my world, receiving presents from immediate family is a long-standing tradition with clear rules and regulations. The first rule is it must be celebrated on a weekend. A second regulation entails the entire family getting up early, sneaking downstairs and decorating the house while the birthday boy or girl lies in bed, wide awake, listening to all the noises downstairs in excitement. The next step involves the entire family marching into the birthday girl or boy's room while singing a loud and off-key rendition of "Happy Birthday". The birthday boy or girl is then presented with all her gifts, and breakfast in bed. A bylaw involves the family pets; any cats or dogs are at this point in time allowed to jump on the bed, as an exception to the usual rules.
Although my tradition is far more complicated than my husband's, it somehow defeated his more simple celebration. So this weekend I was awoken by singing family members, each holding their presents and a breakfast tray.
Present-giving becomes even more complicated when it comes to friends and family members who come to see you later in the day. In Europe, most everyone I know opens the presents right when you get them. But some of my American friends prefer to wait until everyone has arrived, and then open presents all at once. Somehow, I feel slightly uncomfortable, as I feel that I need to make sure that my present measures up to everyone else's. And I always wonder what they do when two people give them the same thing. When you open presents right at the door, at least you could pretend (in that good old southern way) like you've never seen such a lovely doorstop/vase/corkscrew/candlestick holder before. But what do you do when everyone sees you open two of the same things? Needless to say, I still open my presents at the door, while my husband waits patiently until everyone has arrived. It's a happy compromise.
But when it comes to cake-eating, my husband's tradition won out. In Holland, once you reach adulthood, your birthday cake is usually simple, and served to people when they come in. There is no singing, and no candles to blow out. Not so with my husband's family. All of our cakes are sumptuously decorated (only last year, my husband's read "Older than dirt"), and they are only served after everyone at the party has gathered around the table and sang "happy birthday". I have to admit that being sung to somehow makes that birthday buzz that you had when you were a little child return. It's great.
Now I have to admit that I was never much in favor of the "let's sit around a coffee table in a circle and talk" kind of parties that most Dutch adults I know seem to favor. Both my husband and I are of the "you either celebrate it well, or not at all" school of thought, so that was an easy topic to agree on. I'm not sure if this is an American thing, or just a "Dixiechick and her husband thing". But either way it's great. My last birthday party in Europe involved rock-climbing and frozen margaritas, and this year, my husband suggested renting a bouncy castle, and buying a new blender so we could make frozen margaritas.
Since celebrating our birthdays never involved as much talk as any of the other holidays, I think that during our next roundtable meeting, I am going to suggest replacing the more difficult events with another birthday celebration. I mean, we have got to get our money's worth out of that blender, right? :)
For one thing, when should you open the birthday presents? I used to think the answer to this was clear-cut and simple. Until I met my husband. He thought his answer was clear-cut and simple too. Only it was completely different from mine. He scenario for giving presents was indeed very simple. You would either give the presents after work, if the birthday was on a weekday, or right after breakfast if it fell on a weekend. My scenario could not have been any different. In my world, receiving presents from immediate family is a long-standing tradition with clear rules and regulations. The first rule is it must be celebrated on a weekend. A second regulation entails the entire family getting up early, sneaking downstairs and decorating the house while the birthday boy or girl lies in bed, wide awake, listening to all the noises downstairs in excitement. The next step involves the entire family marching into the birthday girl or boy's room while singing a loud and off-key rendition of "Happy Birthday". The birthday boy or girl is then presented with all her gifts, and breakfast in bed. A bylaw involves the family pets; any cats or dogs are at this point in time allowed to jump on the bed, as an exception to the usual rules.
Although my tradition is far more complicated than my husband's, it somehow defeated his more simple celebration. So this weekend I was awoken by singing family members, each holding their presents and a breakfast tray.
Present-giving becomes even more complicated when it comes to friends and family members who come to see you later in the day. In Europe, most everyone I know opens the presents right when you get them. But some of my American friends prefer to wait until everyone has arrived, and then open presents all at once. Somehow, I feel slightly uncomfortable, as I feel that I need to make sure that my present measures up to everyone else's. And I always wonder what they do when two people give them the same thing. When you open presents right at the door, at least you could pretend (in that good old southern way) like you've never seen such a lovely doorstop/vase/corkscrew/candlestick holder before. But what do you do when everyone sees you open two of the same things? Needless to say, I still open my presents at the door, while my husband waits patiently until everyone has arrived. It's a happy compromise.
But when it comes to cake-eating, my husband's tradition won out. In Holland, once you reach adulthood, your birthday cake is usually simple, and served to people when they come in. There is no singing, and no candles to blow out. Not so with my husband's family. All of our cakes are sumptuously decorated (only last year, my husband's read "Older than dirt"), and they are only served after everyone at the party has gathered around the table and sang "happy birthday". I have to admit that being sung to somehow makes that birthday buzz that you had when you were a little child return. It's great.
Now I have to admit that I was never much in favor of the "let's sit around a coffee table in a circle and talk" kind of parties that most Dutch adults I know seem to favor. Both my husband and I are of the "you either celebrate it well, or not at all" school of thought, so that was an easy topic to agree on. I'm not sure if this is an American thing, or just a "Dixiechick and her husband thing". But either way it's great. My last birthday party in Europe involved rock-climbing and frozen margaritas, and this year, my husband suggested renting a bouncy castle, and buying a new blender so we could make frozen margaritas.
Since celebrating our birthdays never involved as much talk as any of the other holidays, I think that during our next roundtable meeting, I am going to suggest replacing the more difficult events with another birthday celebration. I mean, we have got to get our money's worth out of that blender, right? :)
Thursday, April 17, 2008
Wat doe ik aan vandaag?
Dat Amerika het land van de extremen is, daar zijn we het denk ik wel over eens. Het klimaat, de natuur, de mensen, misschien zelfs de politiek; dit land heeft werkelijk vanalles wat. Ik ben zelf ondertussen van mening dat we "kleding"ook prima aan dit lijstje toe kunnen voegen. Sinds ik in het zuiden woon begin ik langzaam van mening te worden dat op het gebied van kleding, sommige Amerikanen (en ik ondertussen eigenlijk ook wel) bijna een gespleten persoonlijkheid hebben.
Ik moet toegeven dat toen ik in het hoge noorden woonde, ik een andere mening toegedaan was. Destijds was ik ervan overtuigd dat maar weinig Amerikanen echt smaak hadden wat betreft hun outfits. In de winter was het daar zo koud dat je meer bezig was met hoe te voorkomen dat je vingers niet aan deurknoppen vastvroren, dan met het maken van fashion statements. Rokken, hakjes, en leuke strakke shirts zijn nou eenmaal niet zo geschikt voor temperaturen ver onder het vriespunt. Op een gemiddelde winterdag met zo'n 1,5 m sneeuw lopen de meeste mensen daar in dikke winterjassen, een maillot met daarover heen een gevoerde spijkerbroek, een hemd, een koltrui en een dikke trui. Met zoveel lagen kleding (die naar behoeven aan en uit getrokken kunnen worden) is het hele idee van bij elkaar passende kleding al snel onmogelijk. Maar het was niet alsof de mensen in het noorden zich in de zomer in eens ontpopten tot ware fashionista's; het tegendeel was waar. Op een of andere reden waren mensen daar zo gewend aan het dragen van comfortabele kleding, dat men in de zomer (geen sneeuw, wel heel veel blackflies) niet veel verder kwam dan een korte spijkerbroek of flanel boxershort met een wijd t-shirt en teevas.
Dat ook ik gegrepen was door deze "culture of comfort" werd me eigenlijk pas duidelijk toen ik weer terug was in Nederland, en merkte dat ik wel heel vreemd werd aangekeken toen ik in mijn schots geruite flanel college shorts, lokaal theater t-shirt, en oude badslippers naar de Albert Heijn ging.
Hier in het zuiden is het echter een heel ander verhaal. In tegenstelling tot het noorden ervaar ik het zuiden echt als het land van de dresscodes. Niet alleen banken, maar bijna elke werkplek heeft een dresscode. Zelfs universiteiten, normaal bolwerken van alternatieve kledingstijlen, doen er aan mee. Zo zijn bij ons spijkerbroeken compleet taboe, t-shirts zonder kraag zijn een no-no, en met birckenstocks hoeven we al helemaal niet aan te komen. Zo moeten dames, ongeacht de temperatuur, altijd een panty aan. Mouwloze shirtjes zijn eigenlijk not done, en het liefst zien ze je elke dag in een net jasje. Het vereist veel kleding, heel veel extra panties in je handtas, een hoge stomerij rekening, en aardig wat creativiteit om er elke dag toch weer een beetje hip uit te zien. En op hete zomerdagen heb je ook nog eens een aardige voorraad deodorant en tissues nodig.
Maar, en hier komt de gespleten persoonlijkheid om te hoek kijken, zodra "southerners" thuis zijn, gaat her roer volledig om. Net als in het noorden komen dan de oude t-shirts, joggingbroeken, shorts en sandalen of gympen om de hoek gekeken. Het is bizar hoe groot de ommezwaai soms is, en ook hoe makkelijk je er aan went. Toen ik net even naar de buurvrouw liep in een oude flanel boxershort met een college t-shirt en flipflops, en toen zij noch ik het vreemd vonden dat ook zij in een oude joggingbroek met gat liep, besefte ik, jawel, ik ben weer gegrepen door de lokale kleding cultuur. En het is heerlijk. Dus als jullie over een maand of wat een vrouw in een oude paarse joggingbroek, een fout groen college sweater, en roze teevas door de Aldi zien lopen..dat ben ik.
Ik moet toegeven dat toen ik in het hoge noorden woonde, ik een andere mening toegedaan was. Destijds was ik ervan overtuigd dat maar weinig Amerikanen echt smaak hadden wat betreft hun outfits. In de winter was het daar zo koud dat je meer bezig was met hoe te voorkomen dat je vingers niet aan deurknoppen vastvroren, dan met het maken van fashion statements. Rokken, hakjes, en leuke strakke shirts zijn nou eenmaal niet zo geschikt voor temperaturen ver onder het vriespunt. Op een gemiddelde winterdag met zo'n 1,5 m sneeuw lopen de meeste mensen daar in dikke winterjassen, een maillot met daarover heen een gevoerde spijkerbroek, een hemd, een koltrui en een dikke trui. Met zoveel lagen kleding (die naar behoeven aan en uit getrokken kunnen worden) is het hele idee van bij elkaar passende kleding al snel onmogelijk. Maar het was niet alsof de mensen in het noorden zich in de zomer in eens ontpopten tot ware fashionista's; het tegendeel was waar. Op een of andere reden waren mensen daar zo gewend aan het dragen van comfortabele kleding, dat men in de zomer (geen sneeuw, wel heel veel blackflies) niet veel verder kwam dan een korte spijkerbroek of flanel boxershort met een wijd t-shirt en teevas.
Dat ook ik gegrepen was door deze "culture of comfort" werd me eigenlijk pas duidelijk toen ik weer terug was in Nederland, en merkte dat ik wel heel vreemd werd aangekeken toen ik in mijn schots geruite flanel college shorts, lokaal theater t-shirt, en oude badslippers naar de Albert Heijn ging.
Hier in het zuiden is het echter een heel ander verhaal. In tegenstelling tot het noorden ervaar ik het zuiden echt als het land van de dresscodes. Niet alleen banken, maar bijna elke werkplek heeft een dresscode. Zelfs universiteiten, normaal bolwerken van alternatieve kledingstijlen, doen er aan mee. Zo zijn bij ons spijkerbroeken compleet taboe, t-shirts zonder kraag zijn een no-no, en met birckenstocks hoeven we al helemaal niet aan te komen. Zo moeten dames, ongeacht de temperatuur, altijd een panty aan. Mouwloze shirtjes zijn eigenlijk not done, en het liefst zien ze je elke dag in een net jasje. Het vereist veel kleding, heel veel extra panties in je handtas, een hoge stomerij rekening, en aardig wat creativiteit om er elke dag toch weer een beetje hip uit te zien. En op hete zomerdagen heb je ook nog eens een aardige voorraad deodorant en tissues nodig.
Maar, en hier komt de gespleten persoonlijkheid om te hoek kijken, zodra "southerners" thuis zijn, gaat her roer volledig om. Net als in het noorden komen dan de oude t-shirts, joggingbroeken, shorts en sandalen of gympen om de hoek gekeken. Het is bizar hoe groot de ommezwaai soms is, en ook hoe makkelijk je er aan went. Toen ik net even naar de buurvrouw liep in een oude flanel boxershort met een college t-shirt en flipflops, en toen zij noch ik het vreemd vonden dat ook zij in een oude joggingbroek met gat liep, besefte ik, jawel, ik ben weer gegrepen door de lokale kleding cultuur. En het is heerlijk. Dus als jullie over een maand of wat een vrouw in een oude paarse joggingbroek, een fout groen college sweater, en roze teevas door de Aldi zien lopen..dat ben ik.
Wednesday, April 16, 2008
Gratitude II
After yesterday's diatribe about end-of-semester hassles, I decided there nothing would be as refreshing as to sit back (albeit briefly) and again consider the small but very good things about life down here.
One of the things about life in the US that is amazing, and still pleases me to no end is the endless supply of water and sodas in restaurants. Compared to Europe, ordering a drink in the US is a completely exhilarating experience. In most places "ordering water" is an oxymoron. You don't order water, your waitress shows up, pours you a positively gigantic glass of water with huge clumps of ice and then asks you what you want to drink on top of that. The best part? It's free!
Your sodas come in an equally tall glass, and yes, they are full of ice too. Yes, this does probably mean there is less soda in the glass than you think, but the best part is that if you ask for a soda without ice, the waitress doesn't sigh, pout, or make a face, they just nod, smile, and make sure you get a huge glass filled to the brim with just plain soda.
Compared to this, European restaurant policy regarding beverages seems almost medieval. To anyone who has been to a restaurant in Europe, the following scenario must sound familiar. First, there is no getting your water while you look at your menu. Looking at your menu is serious business, and you cannot be distracted with anything as mundane as a beverage. So instead you sit at your table, and then look around for someone to serve you. Once you have finally accomplished locating a waiter, and convinced them to come over, you can finally order that water, or soda, or juice that you have been wanting. After waiting for a reasonable amount of time, after all, real cuisine takes time, you receive a glass as tall as your hand and as wide as maybe your wrist. If you're lucky there are a few minuscule ice cubes floating around in the glass, if not, you're stuck with a few ounces of lukewarm beverage. And guess what, if you ordered water; it's usually not free. Some places will actually charge you up to three dollars for your tepid tap water. Granted, sometimes they do try to make you feel better by by supplying you with an empty glass and presenting you with a luxurious bottle that has a fancy label and just enough water in it to fill that undersized glass. But the bottom line is that it's still not free.
Now in the US, the waitress will pass by your table throughout your entire meal asking you if you need refills. Not so in Europe, where acquiring a refill can almost be considered a national sport. It's one that requires a great deal of patience, a lot of hand raising, looking around for your waiter, and patience. Oh wait, I already said that. The refill is the same, stingy, size as your original drink, only they charge you the full price for it. There are no free refills in Europe. Just like there is no free parking or free bread sticks.
Maybe I'm a thirsty person. Maybe I'm just obsessed with drinking a lot. I don't know what is going on, but I can assure you that knowing that when I go out, I will have my natje and my droogje taken care of is very comforting.
One of the things about life in the US that is amazing, and still pleases me to no end is the endless supply of water and sodas in restaurants. Compared to Europe, ordering a drink in the US is a completely exhilarating experience. In most places "ordering water" is an oxymoron. You don't order water, your waitress shows up, pours you a positively gigantic glass of water with huge clumps of ice and then asks you what you want to drink on top of that. The best part? It's free!
Your sodas come in an equally tall glass, and yes, they are full of ice too. Yes, this does probably mean there is less soda in the glass than you think, but the best part is that if you ask for a soda without ice, the waitress doesn't sigh, pout, or make a face, they just nod, smile, and make sure you get a huge glass filled to the brim with just plain soda.
Compared to this, European restaurant policy regarding beverages seems almost medieval. To anyone who has been to a restaurant in Europe, the following scenario must sound familiar. First, there is no getting your water while you look at your menu. Looking at your menu is serious business, and you cannot be distracted with anything as mundane as a beverage. So instead you sit at your table, and then look around for someone to serve you. Once you have finally accomplished locating a waiter, and convinced them to come over, you can finally order that water, or soda, or juice that you have been wanting. After waiting for a reasonable amount of time, after all, real cuisine takes time, you receive a glass as tall as your hand and as wide as maybe your wrist. If you're lucky there are a few minuscule ice cubes floating around in the glass, if not, you're stuck with a few ounces of lukewarm beverage. And guess what, if you ordered water; it's usually not free. Some places will actually charge you up to three dollars for your tepid tap water. Granted, sometimes they do try to make you feel better by by supplying you with an empty glass and presenting you with a luxurious bottle that has a fancy label and just enough water in it to fill that undersized glass. But the bottom line is that it's still not free.
Now in the US, the waitress will pass by your table throughout your entire meal asking you if you need refills. Not so in Europe, where acquiring a refill can almost be considered a national sport. It's one that requires a great deal of patience, a lot of hand raising, looking around for your waiter, and patience. Oh wait, I already said that. The refill is the same, stingy, size as your original drink, only they charge you the full price for it. There are no free refills in Europe. Just like there is no free parking or free bread sticks.
Maybe I'm a thirsty person. Maybe I'm just obsessed with drinking a lot. I don't know what is going on, but I can assure you that knowing that when I go out, I will have my natje and my droogje taken care of is very comforting.
Tuesday, April 15, 2008
To sleep, perchance to dream
"I don't even know what we do, really, besides complain and wish we were sleeping"
Jamie Buchanan ~ Mad About You
It's times like these, when we're getting very close to the end of the semester, when I am always reminded of this quote from one of my favorite sitcoms.
Before I acquired a full teaching load, I don't think I could have ever grasped the insanity of the frantic hassle that is the end of a semester at an American university. My days seem to consist of nothing else but drive, work, come home, clean up, go to bed, and lament the fact that nights have become so short.
Sleep used to never be a big deal to me. I have always been blessed with the gift to sleep whenever and wherever. I can sleep on airplanes, in terminals, in lecture halls (I swear, it was only that one time), on the hot tarmac in the sun, and in the middle of complicated indie movies. In fact, when husband-dear and I first started dating, we used to stay up until all hours of the night talking, to then drive home to sleep and get up four hours later to go to work. It's hard to imagine now, but my motto used to be "You can sleep when you're dead".
Nowadays I honestly believe that if I had slept more back then, I would maybe not be so tired now:)
Let me tell you, it does not matter how well you plan ahead, this time of year has got to be the equivalent of what the April 15 deadline is to CPAs (and wouldn't you know it - that is today). All of a sudden, everything comes together, and you not just need to teach, you also have to advise, grade, prepare finals, and counsel. Your computer is covered in post-its with reminders, your desk is full of papers to grade, and your door is full of sign-up sheets for thesis defenses, advisement appointments and envelopes with final evaluation sheets. Your husband tells you that you have that "end of semester look" again, and one look in the mirror confirms his observation. Suddenly you find yourself getting up at 2 am because you have just thought of the perfect question for your final. Or getting up at 6am on a weekend so you can finish grading those case studies before everyone else wakes up, or cooking dinner while reading student papers.
I can't say that I ever experienced this kind of crunch in Europe. Somehow the semester there last longer, and there just isn't as much stuff to grade, or as many students coming in to talk to you. I also distinctly remember telling myself I would never, ever sleep less because of work. And while working in Europe, I never did. Then when last semester I found myself cutting short on those blissful hours asleep, I told myself it was just because it was the first semester teaching here. But now that I see myself going through the same thing again, I realize that perhaps this is just one of those things that are an automatic part of the life of an American college professor.
It's only a few weeks left until the end of the semester, and I am confident I'll make it. But I will tell you right now that the minute the last note of our graduation march dies away, I am going right to sleep. And nobody better wake me up.
Jamie Buchanan ~ Mad About You
It's times like these, when we're getting very close to the end of the semester, when I am always reminded of this quote from one of my favorite sitcoms.
Before I acquired a full teaching load, I don't think I could have ever grasped the insanity of the frantic hassle that is the end of a semester at an American university. My days seem to consist of nothing else but drive, work, come home, clean up, go to bed, and lament the fact that nights have become so short.
Sleep used to never be a big deal to me. I have always been blessed with the gift to sleep whenever and wherever. I can sleep on airplanes, in terminals, in lecture halls (I swear, it was only that one time), on the hot tarmac in the sun, and in the middle of complicated indie movies. In fact, when husband-dear and I first started dating, we used to stay up until all hours of the night talking, to then drive home to sleep and get up four hours later to go to work. It's hard to imagine now, but my motto used to be "You can sleep when you're dead".
Nowadays I honestly believe that if I had slept more back then, I would maybe not be so tired now:)
Let me tell you, it does not matter how well you plan ahead, this time of year has got to be the equivalent of what the April 15 deadline is to CPAs (and wouldn't you know it - that is today). All of a sudden, everything comes together, and you not just need to teach, you also have to advise, grade, prepare finals, and counsel. Your computer is covered in post-its with reminders, your desk is full of papers to grade, and your door is full of sign-up sheets for thesis defenses, advisement appointments and envelopes with final evaluation sheets. Your husband tells you that you have that "end of semester look" again, and one look in the mirror confirms his observation. Suddenly you find yourself getting up at 2 am because you have just thought of the perfect question for your final. Or getting up at 6am on a weekend so you can finish grading those case studies before everyone else wakes up, or cooking dinner while reading student papers.
I can't say that I ever experienced this kind of crunch in Europe. Somehow the semester there last longer, and there just isn't as much stuff to grade, or as many students coming in to talk to you. I also distinctly remember telling myself I would never, ever sleep less because of work. And while working in Europe, I never did. Then when last semester I found myself cutting short on those blissful hours asleep, I told myself it was just because it was the first semester teaching here. But now that I see myself going through the same thing again, I realize that perhaps this is just one of those things that are an automatic part of the life of an American college professor.
It's only a few weeks left until the end of the semester, and I am confident I'll make it. But I will tell you right now that the minute the last note of our graduation march dies away, I am going right to sleep. And nobody better wake me up.
Monday, April 14, 2008
A pig with a 'tude
Finally! I have been dying for an opportunity to get at the computer so I can tell you all about what life down here is really like. I don't want to write some philosophical dribble about roundabouts or gratitude, I want to give you the down low about life at Gertie's house. Or Gertje's house, I guess, since that's what that crazy lady who feeds me every morning calls me.
Did I just say crazy? I most certainly did. These people are lovable I guess, but they sure are different.
First, the food. What is up with all this healthy food they eat all the time? Wild rice, fish, salad, salad, and more salad. I'm surprised these people survive. Don't they know a healthy diet consists of okra, sweet tea and lots of fried food? They're in the south for crying out loud! The worst part is, I think they're trying to make me one of them. They're trying to feed me all these disgusting vegetables all the time. What is up with that?! Cucumber, carrots, apple, lettuce...and you would think that if I ignored it once, they would pick up on it, but nooo...it took them forever! For months they tried, they would talk to me, cajole me, put those disgusting slices in between my dry food, and sometimes put it right up in my face...I mean, excuse me? They also kept talking about someone named Cali who would love cucumber. I don't know who this Cali is, but I'm guessing the reason I don't is cause she's so skinny, she's invisible. Honestly people, just because you're always chewing on something full of nutrients, and complain you're not eating healthy when you get fast food like once a month, doesn't mean I want to be a health freak too. Last week they finally picked up on it when they gave me a sweet potato. Now that's what I call a snack! Then they had the audacity to laugh at me and call me a southern pig! I am not a pig! I'm a pure-bred Abyssian thank you very much. Well, either way, at least they now shower me with sweet potato. I wonder when they're going to try collared greens..hhmm..
Oh yeah, and what about all that exercising? They come home from these exhaustingly long days, complain about how tired they are, and then make outrageous statements like "yeah, I think I'll just run six miles today". Six miles?! I wouldn't run that far if someone were chasing me. Sheesh. But they love it. They're always prancing around in sports clothes, buying new running shoes, stocking up on Gatorade, and bringing home trophies. That's what I call showing off. And the worst part is not hearing them talk about mileage and weights and whatnot, but the fact that they assume I like exercise too! They put a few upside flowerpots, a hay ball, and an edible log in my cage, and then would encourage me to jump and run. At first I resisted. Nobody makes Gertie run, or jump. But, well, hmm..I guess I have to admit that I do secretly like it. It's especially funny when they're just sitting around the kitchen table, and I suddenly start racing around and startle all of them...heehee. But don't you go telling them that!
What gets me the most, though, is that weird foreign language they speak sometimes. I'm not sure why, really. And it's not like they're any good at it. Sure, the crazy lady, you know, who calls me Gertje sometimes, she can rattle away, but the man is always asking her to repeat things, and says "what" like a million times. It sometimes drives me nuts! It's like, y'all, speak English already! But the crazy lady especially likes to talk to me in that weird raspy language. To be honest, I have no clue what she's saying. I've tried telling her too, but that has only backfired spectacularly, since everyone says idiotic things like "Oooh..listen to Gertie, she likes it when you talk to her like that". Oh my goodness. It's enough to drive any respectable guinnea pig up the wall.
But I guess I shouldn't complain too much. Yeah, they're definitely out there, but at least they seem to like me. My first family didn't want me after just a few days, and took me back to the pet store. The lady there said that because I was so much bigger than the others already, they weren't sure if they could sell me again, but that first family didn't care. But then this crazy bunch showed up. The crazy lady asked to hold me, and I was all like, yeah, yeah, you're going to see someone that's smaller and cuter, and put me back down. But she didn't, and when the store lady told her that I had already been returned once, she said "Then we're definitely taking this one". And that was the nicest thing ever. Yeah, they're an odd health-exercise-foreign-language family, but they're mine...you know?
Did I just say crazy? I most certainly did. These people are lovable I guess, but they sure are different.
First, the food. What is up with all this healthy food they eat all the time? Wild rice, fish, salad, salad, and more salad. I'm surprised these people survive. Don't they know a healthy diet consists of okra, sweet tea and lots of fried food? They're in the south for crying out loud! The worst part is, I think they're trying to make me one of them. They're trying to feed me all these disgusting vegetables all the time. What is up with that?! Cucumber, carrots, apple, lettuce...and you would think that if I ignored it once, they would pick up on it, but nooo...it took them forever! For months they tried, they would talk to me, cajole me, put those disgusting slices in between my dry food, and sometimes put it right up in my face...I mean, excuse me? They also kept talking about someone named Cali who would love cucumber. I don't know who this Cali is, but I'm guessing the reason I don't is cause she's so skinny, she's invisible. Honestly people, just because you're always chewing on something full of nutrients, and complain you're not eating healthy when you get fast food like once a month, doesn't mean I want to be a health freak too. Last week they finally picked up on it when they gave me a sweet potato. Now that's what I call a snack! Then they had the audacity to laugh at me and call me a southern pig! I am not a pig! I'm a pure-bred Abyssian thank you very much. Well, either way, at least they now shower me with sweet potato. I wonder when they're going to try collared greens..hhmm..
Oh yeah, and what about all that exercising? They come home from these exhaustingly long days, complain about how tired they are, and then make outrageous statements like "yeah, I think I'll just run six miles today". Six miles?! I wouldn't run that far if someone were chasing me. Sheesh. But they love it. They're always prancing around in sports clothes, buying new running shoes, stocking up on Gatorade, and bringing home trophies. That's what I call showing off. And the worst part is not hearing them talk about mileage and weights and whatnot, but the fact that they assume I like exercise too! They put a few upside flowerpots, a hay ball, and an edible log in my cage, and then would encourage me to jump and run. At first I resisted. Nobody makes Gertie run, or jump. But, well, hmm..I guess I have to admit that I do secretly like it. It's especially funny when they're just sitting around the kitchen table, and I suddenly start racing around and startle all of them...heehee. But don't you go telling them that!
What gets me the most, though, is that weird foreign language they speak sometimes. I'm not sure why, really. And it's not like they're any good at it. Sure, the crazy lady, you know, who calls me Gertje sometimes, she can rattle away, but the man is always asking her to repeat things, and says "what" like a million times. It sometimes drives me nuts! It's like, y'all, speak English already! But the crazy lady especially likes to talk to me in that weird raspy language. To be honest, I have no clue what she's saying. I've tried telling her too, but that has only backfired spectacularly, since everyone says idiotic things like "Oooh..listen to Gertie, she likes it when you talk to her like that". Oh my goodness. It's enough to drive any respectable guinnea pig up the wall.
But I guess I shouldn't complain too much. Yeah, they're definitely out there, but at least they seem to like me. My first family didn't want me after just a few days, and took me back to the pet store. The lady there said that because I was so much bigger than the others already, they weren't sure if they could sell me again, but that first family didn't care. But then this crazy bunch showed up. The crazy lady asked to hold me, and I was all like, yeah, yeah, you're going to see someone that's smaller and cuter, and put me back down. But she didn't, and when the store lady told her that I had already been returned once, she said "Then we're definitely taking this one". And that was the nicest thing ever. Yeah, they're an odd health-exercise-foreign-language family, but they're mine...you know?
Friday, April 11, 2008
Handige tips
Er zijn een aantal dingen waarvan ik nog steeds niet snap dat ze die in de VS nog niet hebben. Dan doel ik niet op dingen zoals hagelslag of brinta (alhoewel dat helemaal geweldig zou zijn natuurlijk), nee, dan heb ik het over zaken die je leven juist veiliger, handiger, of mooier zouden kunnen maken.
Het mistachterlicht bijvoorbeeld. Totdat ik hier kwam wonen had ik me nooit gerealiseerd dat auto's gemaakt voor de Amerikaanse markt geen mistachterlicht hebben (alhoewel het feit dat toen manlief een keer in mijn auto reed, en niet wist waar ik het over had toen ik zei dat hij het mistachterlicht aan moest doen een hint had moeten zijn). Alle merken auto's waarin ik in Europa heb gereden hebben zo'n ding, maar hier heb ik er nog nooit een gezien, niet in Amerikaanse merken, maar ook niet in mijn eigen Japanner. En waarom? Het is niet alsof dit het magische land zonder mist is. Een paar weken terug hadden we nog een paar keer zulke dikke mist dat het net was alsof je door een blik erwtensoep aan het rijden was. Wat veel mensen hier doen om toch zichtbaar te zijn is hun knipperlichten aanzetten. Maar ja, dan heb je van die automobilisten zoals ik, die dan meteen denken dat er iets aan de hand is, en zwaar op de rem gaan staan. Dus heel handig is dat niet.
Nu kan het zijn dat ik iets mis, ik heb natuurlijk bij lange na niet in alle merken gereden. Het zou trouwens ook best zijn dat het mistachterlicht onder dat vreemde knopje in de zijkant van mijn stoel zit, waarvan ik na negen maanden nog steeds niet wat het doet. Maar ja, je zou denken dat er reden genoeg is om een misterachterlicht op een duidelijke plek in elke auto te doen, ook de goedkopere knalrode uitvoeringen van de Honda. Maar ja waarom het er dan toch niet zit...Iemand?
En nu we toch in het verkeersthema zitten: rotondes. Ik heb van horen zeggen dat er in New England een paar rotondes (daar noemen ze ze rotaries blijkbaar) zijn, alhoewel ik ze daar nooit gezien heb. Een ding weet ik wel zeker, hier in het zuiden weten mensen niet eens wat een "traffic circle"is, en als je het beschrijft dan vragen ze zich af waarom Europeanen zo'n gevaarlijke uitvinding handig kunnen vinden. Laat ik eerlijk zijn, naast mijn brinta en mijn drop mis ik de rotonde misschien wel het meest.
Een voorbeeld. Om bij ons op de doorgaande weg te komen moeten wij onze wijk uit, linksaf een gewone weg op, en dan weer links bij een T-splitsing. Deze T-splitsing is met een 3-baans weg die vol met heuvels is, altijd druk, en waar mensen permanent harder rijden dan de 55mph die er is toegestaan. Oversteken in de spits kan daar soms wel tien minuten duren. Ik rij dus altijd een mijl of wat om, juist om dat kruispunt te vermijden. Maar als ik dan een keer halfwakker niet oplet en toch weer bij dat stopbord sta, dan zeg ik elke keer tegen mezelf dat dit de ideale plek is voor een rotonde; het haalt de snelheid uit de weg, en bevordert de doorstroming. Maar nee hoor. De city council heeft het nu over stoplichten.
Toegegeven, Amerikanen en rotondes is niet een natuurlijke combinatie. Toen wij in Duitsland woonden heb ik aan menig collega van Dennis moeten uitleggen hoe zo'n ding nou precies werkt. Maar als ze het principe eenmaal doorhadden (kijken, voorrang verlenen en in de twee), dan ging het geweldig, en wilden ze niet meer anders. Het grappige is dat de mensen die in Europa gezeten hebben en nu hier wonen, hetzelfde idee over rotondes hebben dan ik.
Ik verwacht ook niet dat mensen hier een vijf-baans rotonde met zeven afslagen a la het Keizer Karel plein foutloos kunnen rijden. Dat kunnen Nederlanders die niet in Nijmegen afgereden zijn amper. Maar een kleine simpele rotonde hier op dat nare kruispunt zou mij zoveel gelukkiger maken. En zoals manlief altijd zegt: Happy wife, happy life!
Maar soms dan heb je ook dat je je afvraagt waarom ze hier iets niet hebben, en je dan realiseert dat ze het hier prima zonder kunnen. Het winkelwagentje met munt bijvoorbeeld. Ik kan me niet voorstellen dat als de winkelwagentjes in Nederland niet met zo'n muntslot voorzien waren, mensen ze terug zouden brengen. Hier in Georgia zijn winkelwagentjes gratis, en hoef je er helemaal niks in te doen om er een uit het rek te krijgen. En ondanks dat worden alle winkelwagentjes altijd netjes terug in het rek gezet. Om mijn moeder te citeren: En zo hoort het ook.
Het mistachterlicht bijvoorbeeld. Totdat ik hier kwam wonen had ik me nooit gerealiseerd dat auto's gemaakt voor de Amerikaanse markt geen mistachterlicht hebben (alhoewel het feit dat toen manlief een keer in mijn auto reed, en niet wist waar ik het over had toen ik zei dat hij het mistachterlicht aan moest doen een hint had moeten zijn). Alle merken auto's waarin ik in Europa heb gereden hebben zo'n ding, maar hier heb ik er nog nooit een gezien, niet in Amerikaanse merken, maar ook niet in mijn eigen Japanner. En waarom? Het is niet alsof dit het magische land zonder mist is. Een paar weken terug hadden we nog een paar keer zulke dikke mist dat het net was alsof je door een blik erwtensoep aan het rijden was. Wat veel mensen hier doen om toch zichtbaar te zijn is hun knipperlichten aanzetten. Maar ja, dan heb je van die automobilisten zoals ik, die dan meteen denken dat er iets aan de hand is, en zwaar op de rem gaan staan. Dus heel handig is dat niet.
Nu kan het zijn dat ik iets mis, ik heb natuurlijk bij lange na niet in alle merken gereden. Het zou trouwens ook best zijn dat het mistachterlicht onder dat vreemde knopje in de zijkant van mijn stoel zit, waarvan ik na negen maanden nog steeds niet wat het doet. Maar ja, je zou denken dat er reden genoeg is om een misterachterlicht op een duidelijke plek in elke auto te doen, ook de goedkopere knalrode uitvoeringen van de Honda. Maar ja waarom het er dan toch niet zit...Iemand?
En nu we toch in het verkeersthema zitten: rotondes. Ik heb van horen zeggen dat er in New England een paar rotondes (daar noemen ze ze rotaries blijkbaar) zijn, alhoewel ik ze daar nooit gezien heb. Een ding weet ik wel zeker, hier in het zuiden weten mensen niet eens wat een "traffic circle"is, en als je het beschrijft dan vragen ze zich af waarom Europeanen zo'n gevaarlijke uitvinding handig kunnen vinden. Laat ik eerlijk zijn, naast mijn brinta en mijn drop mis ik de rotonde misschien wel het meest.
Een voorbeeld. Om bij ons op de doorgaande weg te komen moeten wij onze wijk uit, linksaf een gewone weg op, en dan weer links bij een T-splitsing. Deze T-splitsing is met een 3-baans weg die vol met heuvels is, altijd druk, en waar mensen permanent harder rijden dan de 55mph die er is toegestaan. Oversteken in de spits kan daar soms wel tien minuten duren. Ik rij dus altijd een mijl of wat om, juist om dat kruispunt te vermijden. Maar als ik dan een keer halfwakker niet oplet en toch weer bij dat stopbord sta, dan zeg ik elke keer tegen mezelf dat dit de ideale plek is voor een rotonde; het haalt de snelheid uit de weg, en bevordert de doorstroming. Maar nee hoor. De city council heeft het nu over stoplichten.
Toegegeven, Amerikanen en rotondes is niet een natuurlijke combinatie. Toen wij in Duitsland woonden heb ik aan menig collega van Dennis moeten uitleggen hoe zo'n ding nou precies werkt. Maar als ze het principe eenmaal doorhadden (kijken, voorrang verlenen en in de twee), dan ging het geweldig, en wilden ze niet meer anders. Het grappige is dat de mensen die in Europa gezeten hebben en nu hier wonen, hetzelfde idee over rotondes hebben dan ik.
Ik verwacht ook niet dat mensen hier een vijf-baans rotonde met zeven afslagen a la het Keizer Karel plein foutloos kunnen rijden. Dat kunnen Nederlanders die niet in Nijmegen afgereden zijn amper. Maar een kleine simpele rotonde hier op dat nare kruispunt zou mij zoveel gelukkiger maken. En zoals manlief altijd zegt: Happy wife, happy life!
Maar soms dan heb je ook dat je je afvraagt waarom ze hier iets niet hebben, en je dan realiseert dat ze het hier prima zonder kunnen. Het winkelwagentje met munt bijvoorbeeld. Ik kan me niet voorstellen dat als de winkelwagentjes in Nederland niet met zo'n muntslot voorzien waren, mensen ze terug zouden brengen. Hier in Georgia zijn winkelwagentjes gratis, en hoef je er helemaal niks in te doen om er een uit het rek te krijgen. En ondanks dat worden alle winkelwagentjes altijd netjes terug in het rek gezet. Om mijn moeder te citeren: En zo hoort het ook.
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