Insomnia

Sleeping is one of my favorite pastimes. And contrary to many other things I like to do (and trust me, the Dutch person hiding inside of me hates saying this), I’m actuall pretty good at it. I mean, I can’t shoot a good game of pool if my life depended on it, in spite of the fact that my parents had a pooltable in our basement for years. Deep in my heart I also know I will never appear on Broadway (I keep myself happy by claiming that sometimes dreams do come true), and the saying “dance like no one is watching” was obviously written for me. However, when it comes to sleeping, I’m a natural. In fact, if sleeping were an Olympic Sport, I would be a medalist for sure. I’ve slept through the whine of airplane engines warming up less than half a mile away, smoke alarms do absolutely nothing for me, and I’ve also been known to incorporate whatever pesky sound my alarm makes into my dreams, thus sleeping on blissfully. When I’m tired, nothing can stop me. And I mean, nothing, not even the possibility of public embarrassement. I’ve slept pretty much anywhere, from a bus terminal tarmac in Poland, to airport lounges all over the world, to several complicated indie films at international film festivals (I used to joke I have paid possibly hundreds of dollars to fall asleep at world renown movies), to a boring business lecture, to a friend’s birthday party. And although I’m not proud of especially the last two “achievements” (although on my behalf, they both occurred a long time ago), you have to admit that my track record is not bad at all.

However, every once in a blue moon, and much to my chagrin, I won’t be able to sleep through the night. I’ll wake up sometime after midnight, and find myself unable to fall back asleep. I’ll toss and turn, and envy husband-dear snoring away quietly. Usually, I’ll fall asleep after about an hour or so of staring at the ceiling fan, but sometimes even that doesn’t happen, and I know I’m in for one of those nights. A night when sleep isn’t going to come until thirty minutes before the alarm goes off.

Last night was one of those nights. And as I laid in bed, positively jealous of husband-dear out cold at my side, and Zoe curled up at our feet making funny little dog sounds, I couldn’t help but feel somewhat elated at the fact that of all the places I could be lying awake in the middle of the night, I was in the US, the country that truly never sleeps. For those of you who have ever been wide awake in the middle of the night in Europe, you may know what I’m talking about. In Europe, your range of middle-of-the-night activities are severely restricted. Of course, you could read a book, but anything more exciting than that, and you’re, well, up a creek without a paddle. The radio will play nothing but depressingly sappy love songs that will render your already unstable being even more emotional. If you were to turn on the TV, you’re stuck watching an endless loop of some indescribably boring program (think gardening shows for old people, a rerun of a late night talk show, or a ten minute news broadcast), and don’t even think about going anywhere.

Here in the US, on the other hand, I have such a plethora of opportunities available to me in the middle of the night, just thinking about all of them made me tired. For starters, of course, there are the 100+ TV channels, with the syndication channels such as TVLand always playing cool old shows at two in the morning. Then there is the ever-reliable Walmart. What better time to shop for embarrassing feminine products, or buy that DVD you’ve been thinking about, or get those 300 pictures developed, than 3:30am? And if you don’t feel like perusing through the end-of-the-year sales, you can always opt for an early breakfast at Waffle House, or do some grocery shopping.

Now obviously, I have yet to do any of those things. The most exciting thing I have ever done when I couldn’t sleep was get up and put together a midterm exam. But usually I stay in bed, and happily consider all the things I could be doing, and then decide that they are all really too much trouble. Most of the time, when I think about putting on some clothes, getting my purse, and driving to Walmart, I’m asleep by the time I pull into the parking lot. But one of these days, I promise, I will go there. Just to tell you all what it’s like. And stock up on pantyliners of course.

Cold Turkey

“Saying goodbye, going away, seems like goodbye’s such a hard thing to say”
Scooter ~ The Muppets

After two weeks filled with family, quirky Dutch traditions, and endless conversations (in Dutch!) it was finally time to say goodbye to my parents, brother, and sister-in-law this Saturday. Now I am no good at saying goodbye. Absolutely no good. I always get upset, my stomach gets all queasy, and I cry. And when I cry, it’s not a pretty movie-cry, no, it involves a red face, red eyes, a mouth pulled into a funny-looking grimace, and lots of snot. It’s ugly. I always admire husband-dear who can just give someone a big bear hug, a pat on the back, and move on swiftly, simply reminiscing on the good times he just had.

I have always been horrific at saying goodbye. I’m not sure when my ability to say goodbye and move on disappeared, but one of my earliest memories includes a tearful car ride home from spending a few days at my grandparents. I remember being unable to stop (who wouldn’t after days of walking into the park and feeding the ducks, and being allowed to build forts up in the attic), and not calming down until I got to talk to grandma over the phone and she promised me I could come back anytime. I cried when I was eight and my first summer camp was over, I cried every time my cousin and I had spent a weekend together and it was time to go home, and I even cried when my parents, after years of bullying, moved me to a different elementary school, and I had to say goodbye to my classmates on the last day of school. Moving fourteen times or so, both across country and abroad didn’t really help either. Not only did I probably have to say goodbye a lot more than most people, I also ended up making friends from all over the world, who would all eventually move away as well, which inevitably led to more crying.

Last Saturday, it was no different. While the love of my life hugged everyone, smiling and joking, I desperately tried not to cry. It’s funny how the excitement of seeing your family for the first time fades every time you visit, but how the heartache of saying goodbye lingers. This time, though, I managed to hold most of it in until I got home and saw the eggnog I kept forgetting to offer to them.

But I’m much better now. There’s no more crying, just a slight “cold turkey” sensation. I went from tour guide, daughter, sister, sister-in-law, and obvious foreigner, to plain old me. No one can tell I’m a foreigner anymore, there are lists of chores to be done, no one to entertain the dog while I shower, and SpongeBob once again rules our living room. And the worst part? I ate almost all of the “dropjes” , and read most of the magazines they brought me. I guess it’s almost time for another trip to Holland!

D'r kan nog meer bij!

Er kan inderdaad nog meer bij. Naast mijn ouders hebben gisteren namelijk ook mijn broer en schoonzus de gelederen in huize Dixiechick versterkt. Het is een beetje passen en meten, maar er passen ook veel niet-makke schapen in een hok. Zoe heeft de tijd van haar leven met al die nieuwe mensen, de kinderen zijn zo opgewonden dat het lijkt alsof we er honderd hebben in plaats van twee, er is een minivan gehuurd, en ik heb mijn "touguide"hoedje maar weer eens opgezet.

Mensen die bij ons op bezoek zijn geweest concluderen altijd dat er hier "niet zo heel veel te doen is". En alhoewel ik het daar in grote lijnen mee eens moet zijn, kon ik het toch niet over mij hart verkrijgen om deze streek zo makkelijk af te schrijven, en dus ben ik de laatste maanden naarstig op zoek gegaan naar cultureel verantwoorde uitjes. En tot mijn grote plezier valt het nog best wel mee met het "dooie boel" gehalte van onze omgeving. Meerdere steden hebben een oud (pre-1860) centrum, compleet met oude huizen, restaurantjes, en oude treindepots. Er zijn een aantal mooie oude plantage huizen in de buurt, en we hebben zelfs een aantal theaters en alternatieve filmhuizen ontdekt (ok, het is er 1, maar toch).

Dus toen ik er achter kwam dat mijn schoonzus nog nooit in de VS was geweest, ben ik meteen druk aan het plannen gegaan. Een dagje naar dat oude centrum, een lunch in het oude en nostalgische "Grits Cafe", een tripje naar een lokale plantage, en natuurlijk een dagje Savannah. Wat schetst mijn verbazing vanochtend, toen ik vroeg wat de groep wilde doen? De Nederlanders in het gezelschap wilden naar Wal*mart. En Target. Naar Wal*mart?! Wie gaat er nou vrijwillig naar de Wal*mart? De kinderen die helemaal dol zijn op Wally's World (van wie ze het hebben, ik heb geen idee), vlogen zowat tegen het plafond op van blijdschap, maar ik kan niet zeggen dat ik nou stond te springen. Wal*mart is een winkel die ik vooral gebruik voor de praktische inkopen (kerstlichtjes, sokken, lampen), en daarnaast zoveel mogelijk probeer te vermijden. Maar nee, ze willen naar Wal*mart. En dan maar klagen dat hier zo weinig cultuur is.
En dat Amerikanen zulke cultuurbararen zijn....tssss....

Maar goed, ik moet weg, naar Wal*mart.....

Christmas Cheer

Christmas has definitely arrived at Dixiechick's home. The tree is up, the lights are on, and the stockings (including opa's and oma's) have been hung from the mantle. We are all ready for some holiday cheer, and I thought I would share some impressions with all of you.

The living room (complete with the new loveseat).



Our library area where my chair has had to make way for the Christmas tree. Zoe has already staked out her favorite spot.



Carnival de Noel!

Love Actually

Although husband dear and I could never seem to agree on whether or not the movie with the same title as this post was actually worthwhile, there was one aspect that we both really enjoyed equally: the airport greeting scenes that ran under the credits. Anyone with ample travel experience knows that intense feeling of anticipation and joy when you're waiting at the airport to meet a loved one, a feeling that is only further augmented as the time spent apart increases.

This past weekend I had the opportunity to create a very personal "Love Actually"moment. My parents flew into Atlanta just yesterday, and after seven months of separation, I had spent days, and possibly even weeks, living up to this moment. The Atlanta airport is renown for its crowds, and the incredible amount of time it can take people to make it from the actual airplane to the arrival terminal. The latter is not just due to the fact that Atlanta is, I believe, the busiest airport in the US at this time, but also because the airport consists of a bewildering terminal system, which forces international travelers to check their bags again right after pick up, then ride a tiny little train for a good twenty minutes, and then work their way through a most confusing arrivals area, to spend another twenty minutes waiting for their luggage to arrive.

So when picking people up, I always allow myself ample time. The first time my family flew into Georgia (last March), I arrived at the same time as their plane, and then spent close to ninety minutes looking for familiar faces among the hordes of people swarming into the tiny arrival terminal. So yesterday I decided to arrive a little late. And five minutes after I had taken up post a few feet away from the actual entry point, and only twenty minutes after their plane had landed, I noticed two people waving at me. I looked, and decided it could not possible be my parents. Then I realized the lady was wearing the same turquoise sweatshirt my mother has. And that the man had gray bushy hair just like my dad. So I squinted, and my heart jumped as I realized that these people were indeed my parents. And there was my Love Actually moment. I scooted under the little rope, probably ran over at least two unassuming travelers, managed to barely mumble "excuse me" before I hugged my mom.

Seeing someone that close to you after such a long period of separation is interesting. It's familiar yet strange, and it seems like you were never apart and as though you've been gone for years at the same time. It's always amazing to find that people still look, smell, and talk the same, yet it always seems to take a few moments to truly realize they are really there looking at you.

We've spent today catching up, running errands, celebrating husband-dear's birthday. It's been great, wonderful, strange, exhilarating all at once. Long live air travel!

Stormy weather

Based on the stories I write here, some of you may be under the impression that Georgia is a conservative and relatively predictable place. People always say hello and wish you a great day, lots of time is spent drinking tea on the porch, everyone goes to church on Sundays and eats barbecue chicken, and the cotton always blooms in the fall. And it is true – Georgia is a very mellow, easy-going state, where very little happens that is truly exciting or innovative. However, the one exception to this conclusion has got to be the weather.

Georgia weather is probably the most unpredictable, surprising, and thus potentially annoying facets of life down here. Of course, winters in Maine are much harsher, and the wildfires in California aren’t exactly a laughing matter either, but both can somewhat be predicted. When you live in Maine, you know it will be cold, freezing cold, from October to April. And in California, people know when the Santa Ana winds are coming, and thus know when the wildfires will start up again. Even I, who live thousands of miles away from both states, can pretty much predict both at this point. And although people living in Holland complain about their unpredictable summers, and winters, I think “unpredictable” is really not the right term to use over there. See, the Netherlands has a temperate climate, which means it will have wet and moderately warm summers, and wet and moderately cold winters. The problem with the Dutch is that they think that Holland should have warm summer sand snowy winters, and then when that doesn’t happen, they are absolutely flabbergasted. And, amazingly enough, this feeling of surprise and unfairness (“why can’t we ever have a decent summer/winter?!”) returns every year.

If you want to talk about surprising weather, you obviously need to come spend some time in Georgia. Admittedly, summers in Georgia are fairly boring. They always start late April, end Early October, and are hot and humid. But when I say Georgia weather is unpredictable, I’m talking about those six months between summers. For there is no telling what they will bring.

Take last week for instance. Over the weekend, our part of Georgia was still in the firm grip of what newscasters called a “deep freeze”. Now I’m not sure if night time temperatures of around 25F (-4C) qualify as a deep freeze, but it sure was cold. Our heater worked over time, husband-dear had to scrape car windows every single morning, and it was just parka-gloves-hat cold. Then out of blue, on Sunday and Monday, the weather turned positively subtropical. Temperatures soared into the low 70s (approx 22C), and we found ourselves walking the dog in jeans and t-shirts. Then on Tuesday, whoever is in charge of local weather, decided that was enough, and sunk middle Georgia into a storm almost as intense as hurricane Ike, which passed over our region a few months ago. Tornado watches and warnings were in effect all over the state, lakes and rivers flooded, and driving on the interstate meant navigating at least four inches of water with a visibility of no more than thirty feet. Being Dutch, I’m used to rain, obviously. But when it rains in Georgia, it pours. There’s no such thing as drizzle in the southeast, and so within hours, windows start to condensate on the inside, gutters start to overflow, and driving becomes a real hazard. Then this morning, after two days of a continuous downpour, one so bad that I had started to crack my usual “let’s go and build an ark” jokes, the rain was gone. Instead we saw clear blue skies, a bright sun, and serious wind gusts. Although everything is better than rain, I now had to struggle to keep my car on the road from time to time, and I’m not sure our wreaths will still be on our windows when I come home tonight. And guess what? Tonight they’ve predicted another “deep freeze”, while next week it is going to be in the 70s. You have got to love Georgia winters.

Canteen Tales

“Why should I care? I don’t care, what d’you have for lunch today?”
Rod ~ Avenue Q

Today, as I surveyed my lunch before starting on my first snack of the day, I realized how much my lunch-eating habits have changed after moving to Georgia. Funnily, in spite of the wide array of food available for all three meals, what I eat for breakfast and dinner is still very much the same. In all honesty, after running out of Brinta, I have been forced to eat cereal, but seeing how it’s still made with milk, put in a bowl, and eaten with a spoon, I will argue that it is fairly similar. After all, it's not as though I'm suddenly gorging myself on pancakes, eggo waffles, or hashbrowns. Dinner also hasn’t changed all that much. Thanks to the wide supply of European foods at the commissary, the grocery store on base, we can still eat “rode kool”, “zuurkool”, and other more exotic dishes such as curries, and pastas.

Lunch however, has never been the same since we moved. Maybe I was just an old-fashioned (and predictable) Dutch person, but when I lived in Holland I would always eat the pretty much same thing for lunch: a glass of milk, a few sandwiches with a variety of toppings, some fruit, and a Liga’s evergreen. When I met the love of my life, I was always amazed by his choice of lunches. I think we can honestly say that he eats anything for lunch but sandwiches. I’m not sure if this is the result a childhood spent eating too many sandwiches, or just a hearty dislike for the product, but the fact is that my husband will eat soups, leftovers, salads, quesadillas, freshly-made mini-pasta dishes, and even chili for lunch. So when we first met, he would have his, in my eyes, huge lunch, while I would “snack” (his words) on my very minimalist meal.

Then when we moved to Georgia, I was faced with a serious problem regarding my lunch preferences: the lack of good, healthy bread. Somehow on previous moves to the US, I had always managed to locate a good bakery, but so far I have had no luck here in my neck of the woods. The bread is white, tasteless, and although I’m sure it does a great job serving as fish bait, it’s obviously not made not to fit my more critical palate. Liga Evergreen is obviously also not available outside of Europe, and I have yet to locate the small bottles of milk I used to buy.

So what’s a predictable old-fashioned Dutch person to do? It’s very simple, and yet strangely familiar: I compromise. Again. From time to time I will take leftovers to work with me. Sometimes I’ll even bring some of husband-dear’s delicious quesadillas, although I don’t come near his chili or his soups. I’ve also been known to take his famous blue-cheese-walnut-raisin salad, but most of the time my lunch is an interesting mix of little bites. In the place of milk, I have taken to drinking orange juice for the vitamins, and Diet Coke for the caffeine (desperate times call for desperate measures). Then I will usually bring raisins, or maybe some carrots, a cheese rolly-polly, or some sort of cheese snack, a granola bar, an apple, a banana, and some yogurt. That’s it. My co-workers always express amazement at how little I eat, but I don’t think that that is an area where I could integrate, even if I wanted to.

So now please excuse me while I go and nibble on my raisins.