Almost the end

The end of our vacation in The Netherlands is almost in sight. One part of me can't wait to finally unpack all of our souvenirs and sleep in my very own bed, but another part of me is sad that the three weeks have flown by so fast. We spent some time today doing mandatory shopping (no trip to Holland is complete without the stroopwafels, brinta, and drop), and I found myself doing what I do every trip: saying goodbye to every small thing around me (goodbye Albert Heijn, goodbye sheep, goodbye town, goodbye bike).

The past three weeks have been fun, but slightly draining as well. At times I've felt it was more of a visit than a vacation. I felt like I was on tour, seeing old friends and family, as opposed to taking a break from a very hectic life back home. And although I was able to talk to some friends as though I had left just yesterday, at times I found that relationships just weren't what they seemed. Even though I knew this was going happen, it's still a little sad to be confronted by the reality of it. But I know that in the years to come, this is probably going to become easier with each visit. After all, as time goes by, I know I won't be able to keep in touch with everyone, and I know that Georgia will start to seem like my home more than it does now. In a few years, I should be able to really go on vacation here, and not feel like I'm somehow trying to find a life here that no longer exists. The good friends will stay in my life, they will come and see me in Georgia, and become part of my life now, and not be a memory of a past life. In short, there will be no need to feel like I should have "Dixiechick on tour" t-shirts made anymore, and an even greater desire to buy Delft's Blue goods.

But for now there is still one full day left to enjoy the company of my family, one last bike ride across the es, one last look at the cows, the fields, the quaint rows of houses, the traffic signs. I better go and enjoy it to the fullest!

Coins and ducks

Today it finally happened, the thing that some of my readers have been talking about: I needed help figuring out Dutch coins. It was not a major event, it didn’t last very long either, but it made me feel like I was losing my mind.

I have been using plastic or major bills to pay for everything, and have been putting any change that I’ve received in my purse. Every time I would just carelessly dump all the change into my bag, Dutch friends would look at me like I was truly going crazy. After all, some European coins can be worth up to three dollars. But I guess it’s one of those truly convenient American habits that are just hard to break. Why mess around with overweight wallets when you don’t have to? Back home I will put spare change in my pockets, in a cup holder in my car, or just toss it into my purse. Once a month or so, I will collect up all the loose change from everywhere, and still find I’ll only have around four dollars in dimes, nickels, and quarters. So change is not something I worry about, although it is always a present surprise to discover that I have enough change lying around the console in my car for a soda after work. But today, as I noticed that the collection of coins in the bottom of my purse had grown to fairly large proportions, I realized that I probably needed to start spending the money, unless I wanted to end up with $30 worth of fat and heavy European coins after we had come home.

So when I had to buy some blank CDs today, I decided to be smart and spend all that change that had been weighing down my bag. I walked up to the counter, and confidently pulled out a handful of change. The final price was 7 euros and 95 cents, something that would have caused me no problems at all a few years ago. But today I seriously found myself having to turn over every single coin trying to figure out what they were. Who knew that the twenty and fifty cent piece looked so much alike? The only difference is the edge, apparently, but you could have fooled me. And why couldn’t they have made it easier to distinguish between the one and two euro coin? Sure, one is slightly bigger than the other, but, trust me, in the heat of rushing to pay, and feeling three other customers stare at you, you can’t tell left from right, let alone two coins that look pretty much exactly the same. I ended up having to ask the sales assistant to help me out. After looking me like I was one sandwich short of a picnic, the man pointed out the value of each coin and picked out the ones he needed. And that’s when it hit me: I truly look like a fool. As a slightly clumsy, and at times overly enthusiastic person, I’m no stranger to embarrassment, but this moment really took the cake.

Looking back I realize that the mistake I made was to speak Dutch to the person in the store. The moment I decided to use my change, I should have just spoken English. Then my whole little coin-moment would have been considered cute. Now I’m sure there’s just a shopkeeper somewhere telling his family that he had a really crazy lady in the story today who had probably just been released into society after years of seclusion, because although she looked alright, talked alright, she couldn’t tell one coin from another. That’s what you get when you live abroad and want to speak your native language. The thing is, I refuse to speak English when I can speak Dutch just fine. In fact, I go out of my way to use English words or phrases at all. When I can’t think of a word, I’ll either describe what I’m trying to say, or use a synonym, but I refuse to use English. There’s nothing wrong with people who do, but it’s just not for me. To be honest, I always can’t help but wonder if someone isn’t trying to act a part. On the flight to Amsterdam, for instance, I was sitting next to a Dutch teacher who had spent two weeks in the US, and she was constantly using English words, albeit incorrectly, with the excuse that she hadn’t spoken a word of Dutch in fourteen days. That’s just not me. But I guess this means that I am going to have to accept that there will be times when people think I am a little bit crazy. Or maybe I just need to spend more time keeping up with Dutch society :)

Now I hate to bring up that same metaphor again, so I won’t…do ducks even use change?

Hoera! De Efteling

Morgen gaan we naar de Efteling, en ik moet toegeven, ik kan haast niet wachten. Ik heb zo’n zin om de Vogelrok te doen in het voorste karretje, de tulpen te zien openen en sluiten bij de fakir op het vliegende tapijt, en te luisteren naar de zingende lelies. Voor die ongelukkigen onder ons die nog nooit naar de Efteling zijn geweest, stap in je auto/het vliegtuig en ga! Nu! De Efteling is een ervaring die je niet mag missen; het is een thematisch attractiepark dat ooit begonnen is als een sprookjesbos gebaseerd op de tekeningen van Anton Pieck, en dat langzamerhand is uitgebouwd met allerlei meer spectaculairdere attracties (zoals de achtbaan de python, vliegende schepen, en wild water banen), maar dat toch hetzelfde sprookjesachtige thema in alle attracties heeft weten te verwerken.

Toen ik klein was ben ik misschien maar een keer of twee naar de Efteling geweest. We woonden nooit dichtbij genoeg om heel vaak de trip te maken, en ook hadden mijn ouders de voorkeur voor meer educatieve bezigheden zoals musea en dierentuinen. Van de paar keren dat ik naar de Efteling geweest ben kan ik me vooral herinneren dat het niet zo heel groot was, er lange rijden stonden, en dat het bijna altijd regende. Maar toch had de Efteling een bepaalde aantrekkingskracht; waar anders kon je pratende paddestoelen zien, rode schoentjes die uit zichzelf danste, en de allerengste achtbaan (toen!) van Europa? Het was echt de perfecte combinatie van fantasie en spanning, en wij zeurden vroeger onze ouders de oren van het hoofd om toch maar weer een bezoekje aan de Efteling. En toch werd het dan elke keer weer net iets anders; een orgelmuseum, of het Kroller Moller bijvoorbeeld.

De laatste jaren ben ik voor het eerst weer eens naar de Efteling geweest, en ondanks dat er veel veranderd is, is de mystiek nog lang niet weg. Ja, je kan nu inderdaad zien dat de fakir wel op heel dik ijzerdraad over de tulpen heen “zweeft”, dat de poppen in de Fata Morgana lijken toch echt aan een likje verf toe te zijn, en oh ja, dat de lelies lichtelijk vals zijn gaan zingen, maar de pratende paddestoel is er nog, en ook de Japanse nachtegaal zingt nog steeds. En uiteraard zijn er nu allerlei nieuwe attracties, zoals de Vogelrok (een achtbaan in het donker met klassieke muziek – een soort variant op de Aerosmith ride in Disneyland, maar dan eentje waar mijn ouders zich waarschijnlijk meer in zouden kunnen vinden), de Carnaval Parade (een soort “it’s a small world”-achtige ride, met net zo’n verschrikkelijk gekmakend muziekje), en de Pandadroom (een 4D attractie, compleet met enge slangen en appel-gooiende apen). Maar ondanks de veranderingen heeft de Efteling veel van zijn originele snoezigheid behouden. Het sprookjesbos is uitgebreid, en ook al zijn de meningen over de Laven verdeeld (ik blijf ze een soort enge dikke mini-mensjes vinden), de Efteling is ten minste niet veranderd in een parkeerplaats met allerlei veel te enge attracties waar ik toch alleen maar misselijk van word.

Dus toen mijn broer voorstelde om naar de Efteling te gaan heb ik de uitnodiging met beide handen aangenomen. Ik ben al een week bezig enthousiast te vertellen over het sprookjesbos, Rapunzel, en het Ezeltje-strekje, en probeer iedereen warm te maken voor de Droomvlucht en de Villa Volta. Maar terwijl ik zo aan het nadenken ben over mijn Efteling ervaring, besef ik me dat ik misschien een iets te rooskleurig plaatje geschilderd heb, en dat ik, om een teleurstelling te voorkomen, een iets realistischer beeld moet scheppen. Uiteraard is manlief gewend aan de geliktheid van Disney, en zal een Fakir die al piepend en krakend over twee dikke draden beweegt hem niet zo bekoren als dat ik nu denk. Hij deelt ten slotte niet in mijn jeugdherinneringen over het sprookesbos, toen je je nog afvroeg hoe dat toch allemaal kon; vliegende mannen, dwergen, en pratende paddenstoelen. Stiekem krijg ik ondertussen mijn twijfels of ze de Efteling met dezelfde kinderlijke bewondering zal bekijken als ik. Natuurlijk zullen alle attracties, en vast ook Ezeltje-strekje een groot succes zijn (wat wil je nog meer; een stenen ezel die munten uit zijn achterwerk schiet), maar ik weet niet of ze ooit, net als ik, in staat zullen zijn om met de ogen van een zeven-jarige door het park te lopen. We zullen het zien. Een ding staat in ieder geval al vast; de gids in mij is wakker geworden, en aan mij zal het niet liggen!

Laundry

When I first met husband-dear, he was slightly appalled by the fact that I would hang my laundry to dry outside. It’s not that he thought it was unsanitary, no, he thought it looked “poor”. The fact that I didn’t own a dryer (and wouldn’t have had a place to put it if I did) only further underlined his belief. On his first trips through the Netherlands, he was amazed by the number of people who would have their laundry hanging outside for the whole world to see. He was especially surprised that even the nicest homes would have a drying rack out in the backyard, and my argument that they probably didn’t want all their clothes to go into the dryer did little to convince him. So when we moved in together, I had to promise that a) if I would use a drying rack, I would never put it outside where everyone could see it, and that b) I would never ever hang underwear out to dry anywhere. So even though I would love to hang my whites outside in the bright sunlight to dry, I’ve kept my promise, and instead have a tiny little drying rack in the corner of our screened-in back porch, where no one can see it.

As time has gone by, I’ve gotten used to this arrangement. I put most of our clothes in the dryer, except for some of my more delicate shirts and pants, which I surreptitiously dry on the back porch. I’ve gotten “unused” to seeing clotheslines full of sheets, underwear and shirts next to people’s homes, a fact that I was confronted with only the other day when I biked past a farm which not only had a clothesline strung out in the front yard (the love of my life would have had a heart attack), but which also had the entire family’s underwear collection hanging from it. My first thought was “Wow, I can’t believe they would do that. Everyone can see it!”, while my second thought was “Wow, I can’t believe I’ve changed that much!”. I’ve slowly gotten used to the presence of laundry in yards again, although when my mother washed some of my clothes and hung them out to dry, I made her hide my underwear behind some larger clothes.

When husband-dear and I first met I was equally surprised by the fact that he took all of his uniforms to the dry cleaner’s. Even though I owned several suits and dress pants, I only took them to dry cleaner’s sporadically. This wasn’t only the result of Dutch frugality, but also because all the dry cleaner’s in my town were only open when I was at work, and tended to be situated in places that could only be properly reached by bike. Since I didn’t really feel like taking an hour off work to lug all my clothes across town on my bike, that put a damper on any dry cleaner plans I may have had. So I was surprised my husband didn’t just wash his clothes. The surprise lasted about five minutes, which is how long it took him to tell me that his uniforms required starching and lots of complicated ironing, while the dry cleaner’s had a drive-through drop-off window and only charged several dollars per outfit. It wasn’t long before I became a regular at the dry cleaner’s, a mere necessity when your work has a strict dress code like mine does. When I told my former Dutch co-workers about our dress code, their first question was how I cleaned all of my clothes, and when I told them about the dry cleaner’s, their second question was if that wasn’t really expensive and troublesome…:)

The reason for writing about laundry today is something that my sister-in-law did earlier this morning: she opened one of the upstairs windows and hung my duvet out of the opened window, to air out. For a second, all I could do was stare, because why on earth would you hang your bedding out the window? I mean, they live in a nice neighborhood, what would everyone think of them? Then I realized that this was actually a good idea, and my third thought was that I should really kick myself since I used to do this all the time, and now I was responding as though it was completely new to me. Honestly though, I can’t image hanging our bedding out the window, and not only because of what the neighbors would think. I mean, first, it would involve removing our screens which has turned out to be a huge pain (a.k.a we can’t really figure out how to take them off). This would mean all sorts of nasty bugs would find their way into our house (and I’m not that desperate for aired bedding). And second, our entire house is one floor, so it’s not like we could actually “hang out” the bedding. So when my sister-in-law asked me how we aired out our bedding, I told we either put in the dryer, or took it to the dry cleaner’s….

It doesn't walk like a duck, doesn't talk like duck, so how can it still pretend to be a duck?

Compare...and compare

When I spoke to a close friend two days ago, she asked me if I could write something about the similarities between Dutch people and Americans. According to her, all I really seemed to do was underline the differences, while there had to be some things they had in common.
When I thought about all the different topics I have written about here, I realized that she was right; all I seem to do is describe how people or things in the Netherlands are different from American people and things. Granted, there are a lot of differences between the two countries, but they are both developed, well-to-do western nations, so they have got to have something in common besides the fact that they are both populated with humans.

My focus on the differences can probably be blamed on academics. More specifically on one class that I took a long time ago on identity formation. This is where I learned that in order to create one’s identity, one has to be aware of an “other”, a person, or a group of people that one is not like and does not want to be like. I know this sounds vague and probably slightly like I’m one sandwich short of a picnic, but think about it. Try to tell yourself right now how you experience being a woman, a man, a mother, a believer, or really anything that you consider an identifying characteristic of yourself. If you just tried explaining what’s it like to be a woman, you probably ended up using the characteristics of a man to explain what you are and what you’re not (you can sit down when you use the bathroom, you have to spend more time on your hair, you have to shave your legs but not your face, you’re more likely to encounter gender discrimination, and so on). The bottom line is that in order to know who you are, you need to know what and who you’re not, and don’t want to be. I think that what’s been happening in this blog is that I’ve been pointing out the differences between my two homes in order to decide who I am, what I do want to keep from my “old” home (roundabouts and bicycling everywhere), and what I want to retain from my “new” home (politeness, the weather, the students).

But for the sake of my good friend, I did, for just a day, discard my tendency to only consider differences between the US and the Netherlands. So I started to ponder what Americans and Dutch people have in common. I have to tell you, I considered this for quite a while, and found it really hard to come up with examples. Stating that both peoples like to eat and listen to music seemed a little too simple, but when it came to finding shared cultural codes, I really struggled to find similarities. However, I finally managed to think of a few. Well, one actually. It’s sad, I know, but there you go.

The one shared characteristic that came to mind were the differences between the north and the south of both countries (and once again I managed to squeeze some differences in there). I think that after having lived in both places in both countries I can conclude that people in both places share some similarities. Sure, the southern part of the Netherlands will, unless global warming really persists, probably never grow cotton, and the people in the northern states in the US never lived in huts made of peat, but the people are somewhat the same. For one thing, northerners, whether they’re Dutch or American, tend to be sticklers for punctuality and efficiency, which unfortunately can’t always be said for southerners. When I taught at a university in the Netherlands, and a student was late for class or an appointment, we almost always assumed the student was from the south, simply because we knew they lived by a concept known as the “southern 15 minutes” (Brabants/Limburgs kwartiertje). In Georgia people don’t appear to take time as seriously as people up in New England either, and they appear far more laid back about being on time and taking care of things in a speedy and efficient manner (and honestly, why rush if you can sit on your porch with some sweet tea?). Moreover, southerners in both countries tend to be less direct and more polite than their northern counterparts. Southerners in both countries will say “Sure, no problem honey”(although Dutch people will probably leave off the honey), even when something can’t be done, while people in the north will tell you why it can’t be done straight up. It strikes me as odd that the differences within a country as large as the US are somehow the same to the differences in a country as small as the Netherlands, but, and this is a tough admission for someone who always has an answer to everything; I really don’t know why.

Well, I am going to put my thinking cap back on and think of some more similarities, because there have got to be more, and I am a woman on a mission. In the meantime, all your suggestions are very welcome.

Lesson of the day

I firmly believe you should spend each day of your life trying to learn one new thing. It can be something really simple, like what the lowest level on a PS2 game looks like, or something a little more complicated, like how to use scallograms to create a reliable scale. Yesterday, I learned three important things:
1) Some things never change
2) I look American
3) Southerners may actually be a lot more direct than you think

Yesterday I decided to visit the department where I used to work before we moved to the US. I’ve kept in touch with a lot of my former co-workers, either through joint research efforts, or on a more personal level, and so it seemed like a good idea to stop in and say hello. The moment I walked into the building it was like I was transported back in time; everything was still exactly the same, down to the messy bulletin boards and the smell of cleaning fluids. There were a few new faces, and some people had moved to different offices, but besides that very little had changed within the department. While it’s nice to know some things don’t change, it’s also slightly odd that while you’ve gone and changed your whole life around, these people, whom you all know very well, haven’t changed one iota in their daily routine; they still bicker over classroom assignments, share pots of coffee, and all have lunch together.

While at the department, I also discovered that apparently I look American now. I think I had at least five people tell me that yesterday, and I’m still not quite sure what to make of that. Should I be proud? Ashamed? Should I even care at all? Above all, it’s slightly confusing, I mean, since when is there such thing as a generic “American look”? I know that Dutch people have this idea of Americans as overweight, sneaker-wearing, fanny pack-toting people, who at times dress like it’s the 1980s, but unless I’ve lost my mind and no one has told me, I don’t think I’m any of those things. I was thinking about this yesterday as I pondered my jeans, crocs, and hoodie, and decided that it may have something to do with the extent that you care about what you wear. Having been in Holland for a week now, I think I can come to the tentative conclusion that Dutch people generally always care about what they look like. It doesn’t matter whether they’re merely heading to the post office or the dentist, Dutch people will usually carefully consider their outfit. Conversely, I think, after considering my pajama-clad students, that Americans don’t always care. Sure, when the time is right, every southern woman will pile up her hair and her make-up, pull out that skirt and shirt, and find herself a nice pair of shoes and hose. But whenever a southern woman has a day off and only has to run to the store, she won’t spend more than five minutes deciding what to wear (if that). After all, it’s only the grocery store clerk, or your professor and your fellow-suffering students who will see you. I think I’ve slowly begun to pick up on that attitude as well. Although I don’t think I will ever run to the store in my pajamas, I have begun to notice that when I don’t have to dress up for work, I don’t really care about what I put on. Sure, I’ll probably still look alright (I don’t really own a fanny pack for starters), but I really don’t care. So yesterday, it probably wasn’t the fact that I was wearing a hoodie and jeans and crocs, it was the fact that I really didn’t care what everyone else thought of me. Now if this finding is actually true, then not only have I finally achieved what I've been trying to do since I was a teenager, but I guess I would also have to say that I’m proud to look like an American.

And lastly, I know I’ve spent a lot of time in this blog lamenting the fact that southerners can be so indirect, and I’ve probably also mentioned from time to time that Dutch people are a lot more direct in their daily conversations. But yesterday, I’ve had to slightly revise that opinion though. Sure, Dutch people will say things that southerners wouldn’t even dream of saying, such as the former co-worker who commented on my crocs by saying “I’ve heard they’re really comfortable, but I don’t want to try them on because then I may find myself agreeing, and I think they are just too ugly to wear anywhere”. When you think like a Dutch person, that comment is actually fairly acceptable. Think like a southerner, and your ruffled shirt just ran for cover. But on the other hand, when push comes to shove, I found that my former co-workers are less likely to address issues that are really important because they are somehow afraid that they will upset the applecart. No one will talk to the professor who never shows up unless he absolutely has to. No one will mention the mistakes made by the administration. No one will stand up for their or the department’s rights to money or faculty. Now I don’t mean to imply that people at my school in Georgia are constantly battling every wrong, but I do believe they are more likely to speak up. In the week before I left for Holland I had a very straightforward conversation with our dean about my position and salary next year, and now that I’ve spent a few hours at my old work, I think I can safely say that I would have never dared to be that direct with anyone there, let alone someone high up like the dean. For all their charms and manners, I think southern people should not be underestimated, while it sometimes seems that Dutch people are more bark than bite.

So those were my three lessons of the day. Since that’s two more than the norm, I think that I get to play dumb today!

Marikenloop

Hardloopgek die ik ben dacht ik dat het leuk zou zijn als ik, terwijl ik op bezoek ben in Nederland, mee zou doen aan een hardloopwedstrijd. Een vakantie niet gesport is een vakantie niet geleefd, ten slotte. Dus toen ik erachter kwam dat de Marikenloop een week na mijn aankomst zou plaatsvinden, was de keuze snel gemaakt. Wie wil nou niet meedoen aan de grootste women-only loop in Nederland? Dus schreef ik me enthousiast in voor de 10k. Toen ik in de dagen voor de loop voelde hoe verschrikkelijk koud het was geworden, werd het enthousiasme echter iets getemperd. Niet dat hardlopen in de kou zo erg is, maar meer omdat ik, met mijn hoofd nog in Georgia, helemaal niks met lange mouwen had meegenomen. Ik zag mezelf al helemaal bibberend in met een vuilniszak om tegen de wind een uur lang door de bossen rennen. Maar gelukkig was het afgelopen zondag stralend zonnig weer, en kon ik vol goede moed aan de loop beginnen, en weer eens heerlijk observeren hoe zo’n race er in Nederland aan toe gaat.

Het allergrootste verschil merk je meteen als eerste: de starttijd. Terwijl je in de VS vaak voor dag en dauw al aan de startlijn verschijnt (bij onze laatste race was het net licht toen het startschot ging), beginnen de meeste races in Nederland niet voor het middaguur. Voor mensen die de avond voor een race graag nog even een doorzakkertje nemen is dit misschien ideaal, maar voor serieuze vroege vogels als ik is het beduidend minder. Niet dat ik nou sta te springen als we weer eens om half zeven in de auto zitten op een zaterdagochtend, maar het maakt je hele dag wel makkelijk. Je werkt na het opstaan een flink ontbijt weg, rent een uurtje of wat, gaat naar huis, douchet, en hebt dan nog meer dan voldoende tijd om terug in bed te duiken, een uurtje te slapen, en dan je dag weer helemaal opnieuw te beginnen. Afgelopen zondag mocht het helaas niet zo zijn. Nadat ik om acht uur wakker was geworden moest ik nog zes uur wachten tot het startschot. En sja, wat doe je dan? Wil je dan toch een groot ontbijt eten? Of misschien toch maar een grote lunch? En hoe ver van te voren wil je er eigenlijk zijn? Normaal is het een kwestie van opstaan en gaan; nu met al deze keuzes raakte ik helemaal in de war.

Gelukkig is het allemaal goed gekomen, en stond ik braaf om half twee op het warm-up veld, met als zekerheid toch maar een vuilniszak aan. En het eerste dat me opviel was dat ik er echt uitzag als een zwerver. Ik roep altijd dat ik een “running hobo” ben, maar hier was ik dat echt, zelfs zonder vuilniszak. Terwijl ik in de VS totaal niet opval met mijn running outfit, was ik hier duidelijk een vreemde eend in de bijt. De dames om mij heen droegen allemaal prachtig hardloop pakjes, met prachtige bij elkaar passende shirts en broekjes, mooi weggewerkte MP3-player houdertjes, en in sommige gevallen zelfs oorbellen in de kleur van hun shirt. Ik had de starende blikken van de mensen om mij heen niet echt nodig om door te hebben dat ik er vreemd uitzag. Ik loop altijd in een heel oud strak kort broekje, met daarover een lila wijder broekje (waarom? Geen idee eigenlijk, maar het zit lekker), dat dan weer totaal niet past bij het grijze shirt van de Base Chapel dat ik aan had. Sja, een modeshow zou ik zeker niet winnen. Maar het gaf stiekem toch wel een goed gevoel toen de wind aanzwol, en iedereen om mij heen klaagde van de kou en ik met mijn vuilniszakje nergens last van had..ha!

Wat wel echt heel leuk was, was dat hier van de race een hele happening gemaakt werd. In plaats van een kleine speech over de te volgen route gevolgd door een startschot, of zoals bij een enkele race, het volkslied gevolgd door een gebed, was hier een heel optreden van een bandje, gevolgd door een professionele warming up compleet met de nodige rek-en strek-oefeningen. En ook al werden de kruisingen hier niet door zes politie-auto’s met zwaailichten afgezet, er stonden wel veel meer mensen langs de route, een enorm voordeel van het later laten beginnen.

Al met al ging de race erg goed, ik was twee minuten eerder binnen dan ik had gepland, en tot nog toe heb ik nog geen blessures opgemerkt. Maar ik weet niet of ik dat later beginnen wel zo’n goed idee vind, want al was het wel erg jammer dat het na de race echt de laat was om nog terug naar bed te gaan.