As delighted as we are to be here, the minor day to day challenges are what sometimes rise to the forefront of our minds. Now that it's been about a month of living out of suitcases, the nuts and bolts of daily life are not without frustrations. While we're able to step back from time to time and laugh, we are amazed sometimes at how difficult simple things can be when you don't know your way around in a new country.
One example of just how much we still have to learn here happened today. The lesson: Never try do an ambitious shopping trip on foot AND look after one of the kids at the same time.
It all started cheerfully enough. I headed out with Sophie this morning. We needed groceries and Sophie needed a morning nap. I figured, how hard could that be? We'd grab groceries, she'd get fresh air and then we'd be back within the hour for a grand snooze for the big girl.
Our destination: Dirk van der Broek, the "large" grocery store roughly 6 long blocks away. The plan: But first, we'd make a quick stop by Phone Master, where I needed to quickly check whether they sell one of those slick GPS navigators that cost a small fortune but can make it possible actually find a destination in this labyrinth of a city.
That's when things started going downhill. We arrived at Phone Master to discover it's closed until 1:30pm on Mondays, of course. Apparently, this is a tradition many businesses here follow as a trade-off to being open on Saturdays. A wasted detour but only 5 min. out of our way. Not too bad. Yet.
The sun was shining and I figured, shucks, why not let Sophie walk? She loves to push the stroller. So, we walked.
Thing about Sophie pushing the stroller is that she could really use one of those slick GPS navigators. She tends to weave back and forth and sideswipe various nearby objects, whether the nearest building, lamppost or parked bicycle. Her pace also sets no land speed records, either, despite being not bad at all for a 2 year-old. So we walked. And we walked. And we walked.
Probably 45 min. went by as we strolled along, making sure to stay out of the bike lanes that line every street between the main road and the sidewalk, and carefully crossing the one of a bazillion drawbridges that span the gazillion canals through Amsterdam. All in all, a very scenic trek. And we arrived at the lovely Dirk van der Broek.
By this time, Sophie not only needed a morning nap, she was wiped out. The meltdown began. "No, Daddy, I want to walk!" she screeched as I hauled her into the stroller and strapped her in, for her safety and that of everyone around us. There was no mistaking the 2 year-old American redhead as we zipped down the aisles, trying to locate essentials among the myriad more exotic Dutch grocery offerings like pickled herring and salty licorice. She had lungs, that was for certain. And a remarkable ability to project her voice.
An hour later, we'd found half of everything we needed. Utterly exhaused, poor Sophie was at wit's end, screaming and demanding to be set free of the torturous bondage this strange man posing as her father had disguised in the form of a stroller.
Having to keep her in the stroller meant that I'd bypassed the option to get a cart. A fateful decision. The carts, after all, required some deposit of a coin and there were so many people coming and going when we'd first arrived, that seemed like too much trouble. Now, after schlepping through the store with goods crammed in the underside of the stroller and ino fewer than four heavy duty plastic bags (you must bring your own to the stores here) hanging from the stroller handles, we had more weight in purchases than Sophie and the stroller combined. This meant that I had to keep both hands on the stroller handles at all times, otherwise the contraption would tip over backwards.
All we were missing was an "Oversize Load" sign and flashing yellow lights. We chugged into the checkout line and I transferred all manner of items from the stroller and bags onto the conveyor belt. Fortunately, one of the first items I'd put there was a bunch of bananas. The clerk, who like most people in The Netherlands speak English, asked if I'd weighed them in the produce department. I hadn't, mainly because self-weighing of produce wasn't necessary at other stores I'd been to. Not so at Dirk van der Broek. Prices were less but pain in the ass was greater.
With about a half dozen people behind us in line, at the clerk's urging, Sophie and I zoomed around and back through the store to the produce scale. I set the bananas on it. There was a big fat button with a picture of bananas. I pressed it. The scale display lit up with some number of kilograms that will oneday make sense to me. And then I looked for the "done" or "print" button that would generate a sticker I could affix to the bunch. And I looked. And I looked.
There was nothing that remotely hinted at being a "press here to be done with this stupid scale" button. I imagined the half dozen shoppers at the other end of the store waiting for me to return to the checkout line. In desperation, I started pressing buttons, any buttons. All buttons. Sophie started to melt down again. Nothing was working.
I practically grabbed the arm of an unsuspecting woman passing by. "Goeiemorgen," (hcchooo-ee-uh moh-hruhn) I said as pleasantly and non-desperate as possible, wishing her a "good morning," and then launching into rapid-fire English, "How do you make this print?" She immediately understood and pointed, smiling, at the obscure red button that was practically worn off at the upper right-hand area of the button panel. The letters were illegible but the wear and tear spoke volumes -- that was the fabled "press here, stupid!" button.
Sophie screaming, sticker in hand, we flew back through the store to checkout, forcing the half dozen semi-patient other customers in my line to stand aside as we pushed our way back to the front. The clerk had long ago finished scanning our items and was somehow checking out other customers. We were next. I quickly paid up. The looks behind us in line were a mixture of smirks, sympathy and annoyance, as the Dutch are known for their love of efficiency (bureaucracy aside) and intolerance of delays.
And then, the next challenge. Bagging. The conveyor belt dumps out into two zones, separated by a barrier. Our sizable quantity of goods were on one side. I began hastily grabbing and stuffing them in the underside of the stroller and, awkwardly, into the four plastic bags back in place hanging from the stroller handles.
Sophie, still mid-meltdown, began to escalate her fit. Strapped into the stroller, she now faced toward the conveyor back in the direction we'd come. She was almost completely underneath the counter on which all our groceries lay. In other words, she found herself in a small, dark cave. Dark cave + pre-exiting meltdown = extraordinary mayhem.
I could see that the sympathy had all but disappeared from faces behind us in line. The smirks became more widespread and attempts to hide them were dropped. And the scorn - who IS this idiot American? - was palpable.
My loading finally complete, Sophie still fussing like there's no tomorrow, we exited the store at breakneck speed and headed for home. My hands, oddly positioned to keep the stroller from tilting over backwards, began to cramp. The once pleasant sunshine had turned oppressive and the cool morning air was now muggy. After no more than a block underway, I was sweating like a pig. The one blessing was that Sophie had started to settle into an over-tired stupor, distracted by the bicycles whizzing by and the occasional barge chugging along the canal.
Finally, we were home. Well, almost. We arrived at our apartment building on the edge of what amounts to an Amsterdam equivalent of Central Park (not cheap temporary accomodations and fortunately ones that Josy's company is covering) but immediately were reminded that we lived on the third floor. If you've ever seen Dutch staircases, you know they're about as narrow as window blinds and as steep as Niagara Falls. And did I mention that there was no elevator?
I hauled Sophie upstairs first and plunked her in front of the TV to zone out with Dutch cartoons. And after no fewer than a half dozen trips down and back up the stairs, I had unloaded the seemingly endless pile of groceries, the diaper bag and the stroller in our tiny, cramped but, as I'm told, spacious kitchen. My clothes felt as if I'd showered in them somewhere along the way.
After putting away the perishables, I laid Sophie down for a nap. She assumed the position without hestiation and fell asleep instantly.
I went downstairs to the master bedroom and followed suit. As I drifted off, I mulled over the lesson I'd just re-learned and wondered how many more times I'd have to learn it before it truly sank in...
The update came this morning. The end of living out of suitcases is near. The beginning of living in our new home is just around the corner. Next Monday, we get to move finally to our longer-term rental townhouse on van Ijsselsteinlaan
