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.