Vacationing among the Dutch (part II)

Besides women wearing leggings and men of all orientations and backgrounds wearing pink/turquoise/lilac shirts (really? I mean, really?), the one thing that really throws me for a loop here in Holland is the amount of daylight. And more specifically, the fact that there is so much of it.

Take right now for instance. It's 9:30pm, and as far as my brain is concerned, it's only about eight at night. After all, the light is only just now starting to fade, which in no way could ever take place anytime after nine, at least if you're used to my neck of the woods. And, just in case you're like me and you'd forgotten, but Georgia is a lot further south than the Netherlands. If I'm not horribly mistaken, I think its cross-Atlantic equivalent is Morocco, which is, as far as I know, not known for its short nights and long summer days.


So anyway, combine the long days with the fact that for the first few days of this week my body was convinced that the evening didn't really start until about 11pm, and you can imagine that I had really long days. And I did. And what made it worse was that it's not just the evenings that are all messed up, light-wise, but the mornings aren't much better either. As I'm sure you all know, the Netherlands is fully lit by about six in the morning, whereas in Georgia we don't really see full daylight until seven at best. So by the time I open my eyes around 8am, the sun's out as though it's one in the afternoon, and my entire body kicks into "Oh-My-God-it's-noon-and-I've-overslept" mode long enough to make any return to sleep pretty much impossible.

Now I'm not saying this is a bad thing. It's not. I've had a lot to do; lots of people to see, lots of shopping to do, lots of eierkoeken/drop/slagroomtaart/bokkepootjes to eat, and lots of running to do to make up for all that eating. So the whole sun-on-crack thing has really been, to use a southern phrase, a real blessing. After all, sleep is overrated, right?

Vacationing among the Dutch (part I)

Before I say anything else about this trip so far, I would really like to make a heartfelt, sincere, and above all, urgent appeal to all Dutch women:

Ladies (Dames). For the love of God and all that is good and beautiful on this earth, you have got to stop going along with every fashion fad that comes your way. Really. The leggings underneath dresses thing from last year was bad enough, but at least most women could pull that style off without looking like a "rollade"(pot roast with the bits of twine to keep the meat from falling apart). The current rage, however, where women simply wear skintight leggings with a top, does not provide this level of forgiveness, and ladies, please excuse me for being blunt, it's really, truly, honestly, not working for about 90% of you. If we stop counting girls under 13, then it's not working for possibly 98% of you. And I'm not trying to be mean or spiteful here. I can tell you right now that I would look like a fat little toad in skintight leggings too. But you see, that's why I don't wear them. Just because something is fashionable, doesn't mean I automatically go along with it. In fact, I'm holding on to my boot-cut jeans like they're going out of style (which, as confirmed by my sister in law, hey are in Holland), just because I know they help hide my hips and booty, which, trust me, need lots of hiding. So, women of The Netherlands, please reconsider. Reconsider the fad that is the legging. I beg you.

Anyway, as you can tell, I made it, in spite of the short turnaround. I even managed to get a good swim in, as well as some grocery shopping for my boys, before I left.

I had, apparently, forgotten how fashion-conscious Dutch men and women are, however. As well as how close people live together, how insane bicyclists behave, how small the cars are, how the concept of "personal space" has yet to be invented in this country, and how "excuse me" seems to have been eradicated from most people's vocabulary.

At the same time, I'd also forgotten how wonderful it is to sit in a cafe, have some coffee, and watch the world go by. How awesome temperatures below 85F feel, how nice it is to see family, and to not have to worry about offending someone by cussing. Oh, and above all, how there is a Jamin or at least a "snoep winkel" (candy store) in every town.

In short, besides the scary leggings, life is pretty good right now.

A quick turnaround

So for those of who started to wonder if I had fallen off the face of the earth, quit blogging altogether, or both; don't worry, I'm still here. I'm currently sitting in our office, with a pile of laundry that needs folded, and a gigantic suitcase that is half-packed with odds and ends sitting on the floor. Technically, I don't really have time to blog, or check my email, or sit still, for that matter, but I really couldn't resist.

Tonight I'm in one of those wonderful situations that only I seem to be able to put myself in. They're never entirely my fault, but, and this one is no different, I always manage to refuse to compromise so spectactularly that although I end up getting everything I want, I do end up having to, oh, go without sleep, or do the work of two days in one, or, as is the case today, come home from one trip and leave for another in about 18 hours.

You see, this year, like last, our university adopted a more "extended summer term", one which "better enables both students and professors to work though the required material", i.e., it decided to lengthen our summer term, and shorten the break between summer and fall semester to two weeks. Strangely, I'm the one of the few who balked at the idea of cutting our previous month break in half. Everyone else really took to the idea of not having to cram 16-weeks worth of material into six. But not me. I'd rather bust my butt for six weeks and have four off, then have to deal with darling students for two additional weeks, only to get less time off afterwards.

But anyway, the powers that be prevailed, and so this year we were once again stuck with only two weeks between summer and fall terms. Due to some unfortunate race planning on our part, some unfortunate scholastic aptitude issues on Ozzie's part (read: a two-week crash course in math), and some other scheduling issues involving both my and husband-dear's family, we were not able to plan our family getaway, or my trip to the Netherlands until these two weeks.

Two weeks, two trips. To quote my boys, Are you feeling it yet, Mr. Crabbs?

Indeed, last week, my first week off, was spent cavorting in the mountains of north Georgia. We came back a few hours ago, sunburned, sleepy, full of tales about white water, snakes, and toads, and with enough dirty laundry to last us a week. And guess where I'm heading at around 11 tomorrow morning? Right, the same place anyone else would go after a week filled with tubing, swimming, mountainbiking, running, hiking, and shopping: the Atlanta airport.

Now don't get me wrong. I'm very much forward to seeing my family. Especially while they're opening the million presents I bought them (apparently, I had forgotten I had bought some things already, so I went out and bought more, and whichever customs official opens my suitcase is going to think I am about to open an "All things American" store). Seriously, I do want to see them. I just wish I had a little more than 18 hours to get myself together. I mean, people, I don't even have a list! I am packing without a list. And for those of you who know me, that is just not me.

All I can say is, may God help me, and may my sister-in-laws clothes still fit me, as I know I am going to forget something.

Een beetje dom

Mijn Nederlands gaat tegenwoordig met sprongen achteruit. Zo vervoegde ik in mijn vorige Nederlandse post "ruissen" al verkeerd, en ik weet zeker dat deze post niet heel veel beter zal zijn. Nu kan ik allerlei excuses aandragen natuurlijk. Zo had ik tot vijftien minuten voor mijn Nederlands eindexamen nog nooit van het kofschip gehoord, las, en lees, ik voornamelijk Engels, woon ik ondertussen al weer lang buiten Nederland, en spreek ik thuis eigenlijk nooit Nederlands.

Maar laten we eerlijk zijn, voor een echte Nederlander is dat natuurlijk allemaal flauwekul. Want al woon je honderd jaar in het buitenland, je Nederlands moet gewoon perfect blijven. Klaar. De rest is allemaal aanstelleritus. Zelfs Jan de Bont en Femke Jansen komen hier niet onderuit, dus laat staan een onbekende miep als ik zelf.

Maar goed, de bottomline (kijk, dit kan dus echt niet. Maar ja, hoe zeg je "bottomline" in het Nederlands? De bodemlijn lijkt me niet echt een optie) is wel dat mijn Nederlands niet alleen stil staat (want zo heb ik geen idee wat men in Nederland tegenwoordig zegt als iets heel leuk is. Gaaf? Vet? Cool?), maar eigenlijk langzaamaan toch ook wel echt minder aan het worden is.

Als ik met een "echte" Nederlander praat, dan valt het meestal niet zo op. Linguistisch ben ik namelijk een enorme kameleon. Praat ik met iemand die echt uit het diepe zuiden komt, dan klink ik binnen vijf minuten net als Scarlett's jongse zus. Is mijn conversatie partner iemand uit het noorden, dan is binnen mum van tijd al het "southern" uit mijn spraak verdwenen, en praat ik met iemand die duidelijk moeite heeft met het Engels, dan moet ik heel erg oppassen om niet hun grammatica over te nemen. Dus spreek ik met iemand die in Nederland woont, dan klink ik binnen een minuut of wat weer helemaal "normaal".  Ik bedoel, u vraagt, wij draaien.

Maar het wordt pas echt interessant, kwam ik gisteren achter, als ik met een Nederlander praat die net zoals ik, en al heel lang in het buitenland woont, en een kameleon is. Dan krijg je dus een gesprek tussen twee mensen die echt heel erg hun best doen om Correct Nederlands te spreken, maar er, naarmate de conversatie vordert, steeds minder van bakken. Zelfs manlief had door dat mijn Nederlands in een keer wel heel erg Amerikaans klonk. En het erge? Ik kon er echt helemaal niks aan doen.

Het is maar goed dat ik volgende week een weekje terug naar mijn "roots" ga. Dan kan ik eindelijk weer eens normaal leren praten. Want dit is natuurlijk ontzettend (vet? ongelooflijk?) belachelijk.

The cop and the deer

So let's just call it what it is, I'm a city girl. I might not have lived in the city all my life, but I can find my way around a subway system in a heartbeat, and have no problems with jaywalking, ignoring panhandlers, or cussing out a driver who just cut me off.

Now as a city girl, there are various parts of country life that I'm completely unfamiliar with, such as guns. And hunting. And fishing. And the general notion that there are dangerous animals out there that would very much like to mess up your trashcans, snap the hands off your children, scratch your eyes out, bite you, or any other activities that will most likely land you in the ER. And, most importantly, I can't handle the idea that sometimes animals get killed.

I realize that this makes me a complete hypocrite. I'm not a vegetarian, which means I eat meat quite regularly, which means I technically support the killing of animals. It's all true. Granted, I prefer to eat organic meat, which at least guarantees that the animal whose bodyparts I'm consuming had a happy, carefree life, rolling around in the mud, the grass, or whatever their preferred method of relaxation might be. And yes, I do realize that animals that were shot during hunting season probably had the happiest life of them all. They got to skip around the woods, eat grass, play with their siblings, until that fateful day that they walked into someone's crosshairs, and were swiftly dispatched into the eternal meadows. 

But still, as you can tell, I'm just not feeling the whole hunting thing.
It's the city in me.

People who grew up in the country around here don't seem to have that problem. At least not that much. I honestly think they're just more in touch with nature, they realize people need to eat and we all can't live forever. Or something like that. My in-laws, for instance, have lived out in the country for years. My mother-in-law has raised her own horses, has adopted a true menagerie of animals, including dogs and a pig, and generally knows what needs to be done when something isn't quite right. Did the neighbor see a rattle snake the other day? Mother-in-law will pack a small pistol when going for her morning walk, because there is no way she's going to let a rattler get the better of her, her grandkids, or her dogs. Is one of the dogs incurably sick? She takes them to the vet and has them put to sleep. Granted, she'll shed a few tears, but it's nothing like the drama I experience at such moments. My father-in-law hunts deer (with a crossbow no less), and thinks nothing of shooting the snapping turtle living in their lake if it starts to threaten any of the children, while I immediately sink into a complicated personal debate if this is OK, since I'm technically against gun ownership.

I won't say I'm a wimp, but I'm just different. I'm telling you, it's the whole city thing.

And I had to think of that difference this morning when I was driving to work. One of the roads by our house cuts through a wooded area, which is densely populated with deer. Anyone around here knows that the combination of woods, deer, and a road is a lethal combination, and indeed, I have seen several deer carcasses strewn along the side of the road. But this morning I saw something I had never seen before. On the other side of the road, two trucks were pulled over, and a cop car was pulled up behind them. When I looked over I noticed that the police officer was standing by a large doe lying on the asphalt. As I passed, I saw the police officer pull out his gun, and shoot the deer straight in the head. In broad daylight, with cars flying by, he just shot the deer. I was so startled I almost swerved into oncoming traffic.

Maybe it's the city thing, but that just broke my heart. And maybe it's the European thing, but can a cop just pull out his gun and shoot an animal?

Anyway, I can hear my in-laws now. My mother-in-law would tell me the deer was probably very badly hurt, or else it would have tried to sit up, and they were just putting it out of its misery. She would then add that that is the humane thing to do, and how she can't stand people who keep badly hurt animals around when they know what's best for them is to put them to sleep. My father-in-law on the other hand would probably joke that any deer dumb enough to walk into the road should probably be put down anyway.

But me, I'm just a city girl. And I kept thinking about how our vet lives right around the corner from where the deer got hit, and couldn't someone have come and gotten him instead? I think I might just be too soft-hearted for this life. Or watched Bambi one too many times. It's sad.

Crossfit

So today I finally caved into what can probably be called one of today's hottest trends in the fitness world: Crossfit. Next to P90X, Crossfit is probably the most talked about work out trend in the US today. Everyone's either doing it or is going to start doing it tomorrow, and neither category can wait to tell you about the complete awesomeness that is Crossfit. It's intense! They're very short workouts! It will have you ready to run a marathon in less than three months! Oh, and without any running! Really!

I usually don't do fitness trends. Call me old-fashioned, but I didn't jazzercise, I didn't aquajog, I didn't rollerblade, I didn't learn how to "nordic walk" (Walk nordic? Walk nordically? Walk with a pair of sticks and a fierce look on your face?), and I've never Billy Boot-camped either. And it's not that I don't think these things work. I'm convinced they do. It's just that a) all these new trends involve buying lots of new equipment, and I'm just too cheap to do that, b) I know what works for me, namely running for a very long time, swimming very hard, and cycling, and c) did I mention that I'm cheap?

However, I have several friends who also run, bike, swim, compete in triathlons, marathons, and mountainbike races, and who are absolutely in love with Crossfit. If given the opportunity, they will wax lyrical on the topic of Crossfit for hours. They've told me how they've run marathons using only Crossfit training as a workout, how they've build stronger muscles and resolved injuries just by using the Crossfit program, how Crossfit only takes fifteen to twenty minutes a day, and other marvelous feats, such as the absolutely wonderful notion that besides some weights and a pull-up bar, you don't need any extra toys. So when my friend Lynn asked me if I wanted to do a Crossfit routine with her this morning, I said, sure, why not. After all, one does need to try everything at least once, and who knows, I might find out that I too would be able to run a sub-four hour marathon based on a 15-minute a day workout.

Today's Crossfit workout consisted of three activities, which were to be repeated numerous times. We were to start with 21 pull ups, 21 hand-stand push-ups, and then for the heck of it, Lynn decided to throw 21 squats and a 100m dash in there too. Since neither one of us can do a hand-stand push up without falling over, Lynn figured out a substitute routine: 21 dips. Now in Crossfit, time is of the essence, apparently. The idea is that you work through your routine as quickly and as intensely as possible, thus putting your body under as much strain as you can. So off we went: 21 pull ups, 21 dips, 21 squats, and a 100 m dash. And then we did it again, only this time 18 times. And then 15 times, and 12. Then we did everything 9 times, and then 6 times, and we ended our 15 minutes and 8 second workout with 3 reps of each.

It was painful. I was sweating, out of breath, and felt like I'd really put my body through something quite unique. But, and here's the thing, my body really wasn't ready to quit yet. I mean, it's used to pain lasting at least an hour or more, and 15 minutes just wasn't cutting it. Were where the endorphins? The post-workout rush? None of that was happening either. Cognitively, I totally understand that if you push your body to the max for fifteen to twenty minutes per day, you can achieve some fantastic results. But physically, my body just wasn't buying it. There was no zoning out, no therapeutic silence as I rode my bike or pounded the pavement, and no thrill at the end.

In short, will I be doing Crossfit in the future? Absolutely. Whenever I have little time, I can totally see myself engaging in a fifteen minute frenzy. But I don't see myself ever giving up my long, painful, but incredibly rewarding workouts.

And today, after I left Lynn's house, you know what I did? I went to the gym, and did about thirty minutes of weights. It's possible I'm slightly insane, but fifteen minutes just can't be right people. Plus there is no way I could feel OK about eating that bowl of ice cream I'm about to dig into after only fifteen minutes of working. Sorry.

Bureaucracy and American awesomeness

I'm still not sure how I manage to do this, but for someone who dislikes bureaucracy with a vengeance, I somehow managed to put myself in yet another bottomless well of paperwork, forms, stamps, and apostilles. I've had to wrestle with the online application procedures for birth certificates, panicked and resolved the issue of the supposedly lost marriage certificate, and have filled out enough forms to make Kafka proud.

Now I would love to say that it makes no sense, as the sole reason I postponed applying for my citizenship was my intense aversion to paperwork, but in reality, this current bureaucratic mess can be directly traced back to my, recently acquired, US citizenship. You see, although I'm definitely an American now, I am, and always will be, Dutch as well. For those of you who just went, "What?!" I'm sorry. It's how it is. Anyone who loves licorice as much as I do will always be partly Dutch, you know. Anyway, fortunately, the Dutch government allows people like me (married to a citizen of the country whose nationality they adopted) to retain their Dutch citizenship, if, and this is the big "if", the reason behind this swamp of legalities, if I apply for a "Statement of Confirmation".

I won't bore you with all the paperwork required for this statement, at least not in this post. It's a very, very long list of lots and lots of obscure documents which each need to be supplied with variety of stamps and signatures. I might be mistaken, but I'm pretty sure they, among other things, require a footprint of your oldest living relative, the middle names of your great-great-grandmother, an affidavit from the kindergarten teacher who taught you how to tie your shoes, as well as a picture of you wrestling an alligator.

Anyway, much to my surprise, I was able to collect most of the evidence they require within a month or so.  Besides that Friday afternoon when I thought I was going to LOSE MY MIND when I received an email asking me if I was absolutely sure we got married in that town on that date, because they couldn't find any records of me or husband-dear, the whole procedure was definitely within acceptable limits of frustration. Until now. Until the very final document I need.

The apostille on the authenticated copy of my naturalization certificate.

What's that, you say?
I'm so glad you asked.

You see, for some reason the Dutch government has decided that chances are that most applicants for this statement of confirmation will make up the whole "I am now an American citizen" thing, simply because they LOVE to go through complicated, legalistic procedures, and they will subsequently show up with a fake certificate of naturalization. Now, in spite of my doubts about the likelihood of this actually happening, I can go along with this line of thinking, if I try. Really hard. Anyway, I'll contend that people could, technically, falsify their naturalization certificate. Sure. But then, and stay with me here, why does the Dutch government then insist on all applications showing a US passport as well? Logically, the one government that can assess if a certificate of naturalization is real, is the American government. Subsequently, if an applicant can procure a US passport, one would -think- that therefore their naturalization is the real deal. But no. Apparently, the Dutch government is also convinced the American government is so gullible it will accept a fake certificate of naturalization with one's passport application, and that therefore the US passport one also has to procure for this statement cannot be trusted as valid proof of citizenship either.

Hence the Dutch government, in all their infinite wisdom has decided that simply showing a certificate of naturalization is not enough. No, one's naturalization certificate does not only need to be authenticated by the USCIS (read: you drive a few hours to the same USCIS office that gave you your certificate, they make a copy, put a stamp on it, and sign it), oh no, that would be far too easy. Once you've authenticated your certificate, it needs to be declared bona fide by the department of state through the placement of an apostille on the copy.

So you mail off this authenticated copy to an office in Washington DC, and wait.
And wait.
And wait.
And try to email them once the 15 business days it should take (according to their website) have passed.
And then try to call them a week later, when no one responds to their email.
And then call them again, when no one returns your call after about ten days.

And then when an answering service picks up, and tells you that no, they can't possibly give you a status update on your case, and no ma'am, they also can't promise someone will actually call you back, you decide that. That. Is. It.
It's time for action.

And as a newly-minted American citizen, you do what you could only dream of as a permanent resident: You pay a visit to your local congressman's office.

Now I didn't really say this, but the the manner in which the congressman's aide raised her eyebrows at my story, asked, "So you all need is a stamp? A stamp? Really? Wow. That's ridiculous", and then said, "Yeah, I will call the office in DC this afternoon and see if we can get this taken care of today." was almost worth all the bureaucratic nonsense I had just been through.

There are a lot of things I like about this country (drive-through banking, Steak 'n' Shake, back porches, to name a few), but I've yet to find something I like as much as being able to call on your local representatives for help. It's not some consumer organization, or an ombudsman, no it's the government itself, helping you deal with that same government. When you come from a country where directly talking a politician is as likely as meeting up with the pope, this is really, very awesome.

However, before I get entirely carried out by this, let's see if he can actually do something....I will keep you posted.