A Quick Run

Not unlike a few other parents here and there, I seem to have fallen into patterns of a sedentary lifestyle since our kids were born. Gone is the energy and motivation to rise before dawn and get in a 3-mile run, bike ride or workout at the gym. And with them have gone the muscle tone and clear headedness that existed during those long-forgotten days of being in shape.

But there comes a time when enough is enough. I woke up this morning determined to do something more aerobic than walking to the grocery store and back.

The skies were overcast and an occasional raindrop fell on this late October afternoon. A damp chill was in the air, not a bad climate for a quick run. I headed one block south to Graaf Albrechtlaan (hhh-rahff all-brecht-lahn) and turned west. Ten minutes later, I had reached the edge of the large park called the Amsterdamse Bos (ahm-stir-dahm-suh boss), with its biking, hiking and horseback riding trails.

I crossed over a small canal. Swans drifted along below. A woman rode by on her horse. Kids were playing with a remote-control glider plane nearby and birds were chirping in the tall trees overhead. Ah, nature. And so close to home.

I headed off down the path that went straight ahead, further west. A moment later, rather than continue on toward an expanse of three large soccer fields, I turned right and followed a small trail that bordered a lake. The trail eventually looped back to the fields and the path I’d been on.

I checked my phone, the closest thing to a watch I use these days. 20 minutes. Time to head back home. I knew I’d have to pee sometime soon. And I didn’t want to overexert myself on the first run in a long time. More of a slow jog, really, but still.

As I made my way back east out of the Amsterdamse Bos into Amstelveen, I came to one of the main streets I recognized, the Amsterdamseweg (ahm-stur-dahm-suh-vayg). Eager for some variety on the way home, I decided to jog a couple blocks north on that street before turning east again.

I passed by a grocery store we’d once shopped at and then a large office building, set back from the main road with a large field in front. Next came a small trail that turned east into a wetland or greenbelt of some kind. I followed it.

The path curved left and right a bit but generally followed the outline of a small pond and, further on, a tiny canal. Eventually, I emerged onto a main street about where I expected the next main street, Kaizer Karelweg, to be.

Funny, this street looked a lot smaller than Kaizer Karelweg (kah-hrul-vayg). Hmmnn. Well, maybe it’s just another main street I hadn’t yet discovered in between Amsterdamseweg and Kaizer Karelweg.

I continued along and the street soon ended in a T at another, slightly larger canal. Making my way to the nearest bridge up the road to my left, I crossed over and was surprised to see a sign that read “Amsterdamse Bos.” That’s funny, I thought. Who knew that there was some offshoot of the Amsterdamse Bos separate from the main park itself and isolated here in town? Well, I’ll just press on. I’m sure Kaizer Karelweg must be just ahead.

Just ahead, though, was a grassy area for field hockey surrounded by high trees that I didn’t remember ever passing on Kaizer Karelweg. Then again, the trees were so high, maybe they obscured the view from the road. Who knew? A hidden treasure here in town. How quaint. I had to pee.

I followed the path as it wound around the field. As I approached the far side, about where I expected Kaizer Karelweg to be was…another small canal, wetlands and a forest as far as the eye could see.

I looked around and saw a sign. One arrow pointed toward Boerderij Meerzicht (boo-er-der-aiiy mare-zikt), a children’s zoo we’d visited a couple weeks ago in…the Amsterdamse Bos. Uh oh. I was clearly not where I thought I was.

I looked at the clock on my phone. 35 minutes since leaving home. I stopped jogging and began a slow, determined walk in the direction of Amstelveen, or at least the direction the sign said was Amstelveen.

The sky overhead was completely cloudy now. There was no sun and no way to tell north from south or east from west.

Joggers and people with children passed by, on their way…into the park? I was now heading in a direction that felt like south but that the signs told me was east. And the signs didn’t lie. Soon I emerged onto a major street corner that I recognized as the part of Amsterdamseweg up near where it intersects with Kaizer Karelweg en route to Amsterdam. I’d managed to somehow wind my way so far north that I was nearly to the Olympic Stadium at the southern border of Amsterdam itself. I really had to pee now.

Fifteen minutes later, I was back home. Cold, tired, hungry and headed for the toilet with all due haste.

I’d learned valuable lessons. I’d become just familiar enough with the surrounding area to be dangerous. Amstelveen definitely was not laid out on a grid. And if I’d simply returned home along the same route that I’d followed to the park, I’d have never gotten lost. Then again, maybe you never really get to know a place until you get to know it the scenic way.

Who knows. Someday, I might even go for another run.

When the Ketchup Runs Out

Our friend Leslie arrived on Friday for a weekend visit. the first official guest at our new home in Amstelveen. A walk in the park. A stroll alongWe had grand plans in store for her, as Amstelveen’s quiet streets. A boat tour through bustling Amsterdam’s canals. A fine plan, indeed.

Leslie lives in Germany and had lived there for a while as a child, with various visits to other parts of Europe. So she was no stranger to The Netherlands. But since her last visit was at age 7, it would be fun to get a fresh sense of what’s afoot in the lowlands.

After a fairly good night’s sleep, despite the fact Leslie had slept on a mattress we later determined to have all the softness of a rock quarry, we set about implementing our grand plan. And implementation quickly became full of detours and diversions.

Josy decided to go get a quick haircut. It had been far too long, she said. And the salon opened at 8:30, so she could theoretically get her hair cut and be back home in no time. While Leslie, the kids and I munched on French toast, Jo headed out the door.

Detour #1 got into play when Leslie and I decided to put Ben’s bunk bed together. His mattresses had finally arrived Friday and he was so excited about having his very own bunk bed, we simply couldn’t wait. We collected all the necessary tools, parts and instructions and started our little construction project. Ben was “helping” throughout by holding screws and bolts, and occasionally losing track of them in the committed yet thoroughly distractible way of a four year-old.

At 9:30, Josy returned. And as a result of Detour #1, Leslie and I hadn’t actually gotten around to showering or getting dressed, let alone dressing the kids. Usually, Josy and I can team tag, with one of us doing whatever weekend project and the other getting the kids ready and supervising them. 10am was upon us and time was flying.

Wrapping up the bunk bed construction as rapidly as I could, with Ben and Sophie jumping around on the top bunk with all the caution of bulls in a china shop, I took a turn showering and getting ready to go. As other parents of small children will understand, it was no surprise that by the time we were all set to head out, noon had arrived and Sophie was looking seriously drowsy. Detour #2 was upon us: naptime.

For those unfamiliar with the power of naptime, let me assure you that its appeal cannot be overstated for parents of small children. Where every incentive and punishment in the book may fail, there’s nothing like a good nap to calm a child down and put them back on a path toward good behavior. All that, in turn, preserves a parent’s sanity and just makes the whole world seem like such a brighter, shinier, happier place. We’re talking Shangri-la. So, while napping meant that we had to postpone our excursion further, resistance was unthinkable.

Undeterred from our weekend ambitions by these diversions, we found ourselves at 4pm discussing how we could still head for the city center now in time for a rondvaart (“rund-fart”), or canal boat tour, followed by dinner. Full of optimism, away we went in the usual formation, each of us shouldering various bags containing diapers, wipes, kid snacks, changes of clothes or water. Ben was riding his bike, which we’d leave locked at the tram stop, and Sophie rode in the stroller.

I nearly forgot to mention Detour #3. The decision to take the tram instead of the bus. Both bus and tram go from Amstelveen to the Leidseplein (“lied-suh-plane”) area of Amsterdam. That’s where our in-depth 5 minutes of Internet research had shown at least one canal boat company to be located. The bus, while its route passed just three blocks from our house, seemed so unexciting compared to the more authentic mode of tram travel, with the nearest stop a 15 min. walk away. Or maybe that’s 15 min. when I’m walking alone. At any rate, it was 5pm before we were onboard a tram, headed into town.

When I was a kid, I always used to wonder why mom liked to aim for having dinner around 5pm. Now as a parent, I feel like I’ve been let in on her secret motivation. After 5pm, kids’ behavior begins a vicious downward spiral until they’re fed. Feeding by 5 meant keeping sanity alive.

Ben and Sophie, despite their afternoon rest and the fun distraction of riding the tram, were starting to time out as we reached the Leidseplein. No tasty snack from our collection of rations could stave off the rising tide of hunger. By the time we got to the rondvaart departure point, the kids were actively acting out, bridling at being cooped up in the stroller or constrained by the hand. When we discovered that the rondvaart took 75 minutes instead of the 1 hour advertised online, and that the next boat wouldn’t leave for another 25 min., we started looking for Plan B.

How ‘bout, I suggested, we grab a quick bite and then go on a rondvaart afterwards? That’ll take the edge off for the kids and we’ll all be much happier. With unanimous consent, we headed for the nearest authentic Amsterdam restaurant overlooking the canal – an Irish pub.

After the usual settling in that’s required when camping out with kids around an outdoor table – parking the stroller, depositing the kids in seats and shoving more snacks at them – we looked around for a server. And looked. And looked. And waited. And waited.

A squall passed by and unleashed a brief deluge. Fellow patrons scattered, abandoning the smattering of uncovered tables with the best views of the canal. We scrambled to relocate under a large umbrella twice, the second time because of the impromptu downspout that suddenly released its pent up contents over the seat that Leslie had thankfully just vacated.

“We need to go inside,” complained Sophie, who never complains, her leg and hair now wet from the downspout’s collateral damage. But inside would be no picnic, with the current Dutch tolerance for smoking and its unavoidable result – a pervasive, noxious indoor smog that hangs in nearly every establishment. Sorry, Sophie, we’ll get food in a minute, we reassured her without conviction.

Finally, the server appeared, took our order and miraculously delivered our food in what seemed like no time. Maybe it was just that we’d waited so long already, another 15 minutes felt like the blink of an eye. Or maybe it was just that the kids were getting numb with the cold. In any case, we all welcomed dinner with great enthusiasm.

Enthusiasm, that is, until the ketchup ran out.

Our kids, reportedly like a few other kids here and there, have come to regard ketchup as a staple ingredient in almost any meal. Ketchup on chicken. Ketchup on rice. Ketchup on beans. If ketchup didn’t clash with milk, I have no doubt they’d even put it on their cereal. Running out of ketchup is not an option, so we tend to stock up on it at home and keep a constant inventory.

Eating out, however, can pose a challenge for those with a ketchup dependency. In The Netherlands, unlike America, restaurant diners aren’t presented with a full bottle supply at their table. The norm among the Dutch is rather to serve the equivalent of a shot glass of ketchup. And not per person but for the entire table.

A shot glass of ketchup, as Sophie and Ben will tell you, is so inadequate as to be ludicrous. It was with stunned disbelief that they received the news that, indeed, the ketchup in front of them…or should I say the ketchup that had been in front of them for all of the 10 seconds it took to consume it…was all the ketchup that they would get at this meal.

Howls of protest ensued, followed by gnashing of teeth, moans of disappointment and interminable fussing. Such is the 4 year-old and 2 year-old way of saying, sorry, but I thought you actually said you don’t have any more ketchup and that certainly can’t be true, can it?

Fortunately, Leslie was there. I didn’t mention that Leslie is a teacher. And not just any teacher but a teacher of pre-teen Army brats near a base in Germany. It is from this experience that she’s assembled an arsenal of tricks and tactics for use in almost any curricular or extra-curricular situation.

Leslie moved into action with a rapid deployment that would impress even the most battle-hardened field commander. Within seconds, Leslie had seized Ben and Sophie’s full attention and was introducing them to a spectrum of games. “I spy with my little eye…” Josy and I just stared at her and the strange pair of happy children we didn’t recognize. She had immediately diffused the atmosphere of agitation and kept the kids engaged until it was time to go.

in the dark. The romance of Amsterdam’s canals at night would soon be lost onAnd by time to go, I mean it was time to go home. As we left our table, the rain had subsided but daylight was fading and we could see no way the kids could hold out for a 75 min. boat tour children whose customary way of dealing with increasing sleepiness was to apply greater hyperactivity.

While we had to postpone our rondvaart until the following day, Leslie helped us learn an important lesson. Somehow, in the day to day fatigue that can result from parenting, it’s easy to forget that creative solutions are always at our disposal. And when the ketchup runs out, there’s no shortage of ways to keep kids occupied and prevent apocalyptic meltdowns.

The Customer Is Always...Whatever

So here we are. Week 3 in our new home. Starting to get the lay of the land.

And as we venture out into the wilds of suburban Amstelveen, we notice various things. Things that are different here than in America.

Like the use of Smart Cars, the two-seaters that look like a Mini Cooper with the back end cut off. Like the widespread presence of bike paths, such that you need to look both ways before crossing the sidewalk. Or like the swans by the side of the canal a block away, who like to sleep right at the edge of the road – you know, right next to traffic. Where it’s cozy.

And then there’s customer service.

Customer service is a topic you'll often see voiced in complaints that Americans post on various expat blogs here. Some folks whine away, griping about how this or that retailer treated them poorly, delivered late or didn't seem to care. On and on they complain: Why can't the Dutch be, you know, more American?

Whatever their merits, these moan-fests often come across as culturally insensitive venting sessions. They leave me wondering why on earth some Americans bothered to leave their gated communities and SUVs behind, if they don't like to experience other ways of doing things.

That said, every now and then you run across someone like the Produce Guy who confirms the Dutch stereotype of "Customer service? What customer service?"

The Produce Guy is the guy at the local grocery store who's drawn the short straw in assignments. All he seems to do is stand behind the counter in the produce section, waiting for customers to request a bunch of bananas, a red onion or the gourd of the day. They place orders. He fulfills them. That is his lot.

The Produce Guy is neither happy to see you, nor unhappy. He's indifferent. He just doesn't care.

Like a good American, you haven't actually studied Dutch. You're planning to take a course. Next quarter. You've picked up a few phrases here or there that bring a smile to the faces of Dutch people you greet. You’d like to think they're smiling because they appreciate your effort. Then again, maybe they're smiling because you just tried to say "good afternoon" but actually said "I see you're still wearing those old shoes."

You approach the produce counter with some trepidation. You've been there before. You know the ways of the Produce Guy. And, frankly, he's a bit Intimidating.

But you put on your most affable face, take a deep breath and cheerfully (but not too cheerfully, for the Dutch take that as a sign of insincerity) say "gooiemiddag" (hchoo-eee-uh-middd-agggghhh), good afternoon.

“Dag,” (dogggghhhhh), good day, he replies in a surly tone. This response is a step down in formality from the greeting you offered. Not impolite but rather informal. Not exactly insulting. But not exactly a big warm fuzzy hug, a pat on the back and an invitation to come join him and his family for dinner, either.

You ratchet your smile down a notch. Two can play this game, Mister. Tit for tat. An eye for an eye. See, now you’re not getting my full smile. How do you like that?

You dispense with the pleasantries and switch to English. No further attempt at conversing in the Produce Guy’s home language. You’re gonna make him work.

“I’ll have the rest of the bananas,” you begin. There are only about a half dozen left. “And a half dozen Jona Gold apples.” You don’t even bother to pronounce “Jona” as he would: “Yo-nah.” Take that, Produce Guy.

He bags each set, places a sticker to seal each bag and hands them to you with all the warmth of a frozen herring. “Anything else?” he asks, clearly not caring one whit whether you want something else or not.

“No, thanks,” you reply, clearing not caring one whit whether he wants you to buy something else or not. Because he clearly doesn’t.

You turn and head for the checkout stand, leaving a wake of indifference equal in measure to the disaffected, dispassionate expression that first greeted you in the produce section.

Goodbye for now, Produce Guy. We shall meet again. But who cares?