An Unexpected Visit from Mom

Mom stopped by the other night.

Josy and I were in a house somewhere along the west side of Hood Canal, packing our things. We were about to move. We were either relocating or just gathering everything up after a long weekend.

For some reason, I needed to go to go uphill through the town. To get something out of the car or pick up something at the store. Josy continued putting things in our bags while I headed out.

The small town was laid out not unlike the hillside smattering of homes, hotels and roads near the ferry landing on Orcas Island. Our house was at the bottom of the hill, near the water.

I walked outside and up the steep roadway. Not far ahead in the distance, just beyond the shops and cafes that lined the street, and a forested hillside immediately beyond, the Olympic Mountains rose high in the air. This was one of those quaint towns that had both sea-level waterfront and a mountain range in its backyard.

The weather was great. Not a cloud in the sky. Warm. One of those picture-perfect Pacific Northwest days that Seattlites long for during those long, grey, wet winter days and relish with zeal in the summertime.

As I passed by an outdoor café with umbrellas shading small round tables with bar stools, I saw Mom and Dad. They had decided to surprise us. Our eyes met and they both had big smiles on their faces.

I walked up to greet them, a feeling of happiness rising up at the unexpected visit. We shared the moment with big grins all around.

A second passed and I realized this must be a dream. After all, Mom had died just over a year ago.

She looked fantastic. Like she did the year before she got sick. I told her so and she just smiled.

I looked at Dad and he was smiling too. As I turned my eyes back to Mom, she was no longer there.

I glanced back at Dad. Instantly, we both knew that Mom wasn’t here and yet had been here.

The main feeling at this moment was not one of sadness. Instead, there was an overriding sense of warmth tinged with a hint of longing.

It was so nice to see her.

Not long after moving to The Netherlands, I’d get the impulse every now and then to give Mom a call. As if time had gone by and somehow I’d forgotten to pick up the phone and check in with her.

This cognitive dissonance always surprised me. The sense, all at the same time, that I needed to give her a call and yet I knew she’d been dead nearly a year.

For months, the urge to call her would hit me. Not unlike other times when I’d lived overseas and would make the trans-Atlantic update every week or so.

And the realization she was dead would always follow, by roughly a second, the desire to call. There would be this fleeting moment in which I missed her, was looking forward to catching up and didn’t yet know she wasn’t there anymore.

While reality would hit me with sadness, the brief surreality in which Mom was still alive would leave a lingering aftertaste of happiness.

I would come to treasure these moments, despite their reminders of grief.

Nowadays, about five months after the anniversary of her death, those moments happen less and less often.

But her surprise appearance the other night reminded me how much I loved her. And how much I love her still.

What’s in a Game

When our friend Leslie visited back in the fall, she introduced Ben and Sophie to the wonders of the “I Spy…” game. Ben’s figured it out. Sophie’s invented her own unique variation.

The latest edition of “I Spy…” unfolded at dinner the other night while Josy was working late at the office. It began the way the game is supposed to be played:

Ben: “I spy…with my little eye…something blue.” His eyes fix on the ball outside on the patio. I pretend not to notice.

Sophie: “Is it…the plate?”

Ben: “No.”

Matt: “Is it the chair?”

Ben: “No.”

Sophie: Looking outside, “Is it the ball?”

Ben: “Yeah, that’s it!”

And so the game goes. The person who starts picks an object in the room, tells the color of it, and then the others have to guess which object it is.

But Sophie has her own way of playing…

Sophie: Her eyes wandering around the room, “I spy…with my little eye…something purple.” Her eyes continue to wander.

Ben: “Is it…the balloon?”

Sophie: Mulling it over, eyes scanning the kitchen and moving toward the living room…”No...”

Matt: “Is it your stockings?”

Sophie: Looking around the dining room, “…No…It’s round and there are animals in it and it’s got triangles…”

Ben: “Is it the bowl?”

Sophie: Still looking…“No.”

Ben: Pointing to the bookshelf, “Is it the book up there?” There’s nothing on the shelf that’s round, has animals or has triangles.

Sophie: Turning around to see the bookshelf for the first time, “Yeah, that’s it!”

Ben: Starting to get bored, “Let’s play Simon Says!” We had just introduced them to Simon Says a few days earlier.

Sophie: “Yeah!”

Ben: In a clearly older sibling, I’m-in-charge way, “Okay, I’ll start.”

“Simon says…Touch your nose.” Everyone touches their nose.

“Simon says…touch your ears.” Everyone touches their ears.

“Simon didn’t say touch your ears!” says Ben.

Matt: “Yes he did, Ben.”

Ben: “No, he didn’t.”

Matt: “Yes he did.”

Ben: “NO! He didn’t!”

Matt: “Ben, here, I’ll show you how it goes…”

Sophie: “It’s my turn! My turn!”

Matt: “Okay…”

Sophie: “Simon says…touch your nose.” Everyone touches their nose.

“Simon didn’t say touch your nose.”

Matt: “Yes, he did Sophie. You just said, ‘Simon says touch your nose.’” I demonstrate the game a few times, taking pains to obviously show when Simon says and when Simon doesn’t say. “The trick,” I tell them, “is when you tell people to do something but don’t say ‘Simon says’ first. You want to trick them.”

Ben: Triumphantly, “Okay, my turn! Simon says…touch your arm.” Everyone touches their arm.

“Simon didn’t say touch your arm.”

Sophie: “I want to play the ‘I spy…’ game.”

Something tells me it’s too soon for Monopoly or chess…

Late Winter's Weekend in Berlin

While I was away on a business trip, Josy and the kids hopped a train for a long weekend with her brother Marnix, his wife Lucy and daughters Helene and Lizzie. Much fun was had by all, as this short photo-movie will attest.

The Pied Pooper of Hamelin

Had a relaxing long weekend getaway with Josy's brother and his family the other day. After a bit of Internet sleuthing to find a location in between Amsterdam and their home in Berlin, we settled on a ferienwohnung ("fairy-en-voh-noong" or vacation rental house) in northwest Germany. In a little town called Molbergen.

Rolled in after dark on a Friday evening. Passed through a picture-perfect, quaint German village just before reaching our destination. The one stoplight in town brought momentary confusion, as each part of the intersection had its own stop sign as well. Does one stop no matter what? Or just go with what the light says? If the latter, then why the need for stop signs? We cautiously approached the intersection, noticed that other cars just obeyed the light, and did the same.

Not far from Molbergen is the town of Hamelin, the setting for the Grimm's fairy tale about the Pied Piper. No rodents spotted en route. Perhaps no surprise, since the Pied Piper had lured all the rats away and supposedly drowned them in a river. Or had he merely escorted them beyond city limits, to the chagrin of nearby villages that became new homes for the vermin? Unsuspecting hamlets like, oh I dunno...Molbergen?

The vacation house was part of a larger complex of several dozen houses in a semi-enclosed park-like area, complete with restaurant, gift shop and swimming pool. Neatly-kept grounds and a large playground signaled that this place might not be too bad.

Lovely setting.

But then we opened the car doors and it hit us. The unmistakable, potent odor of cow manure. And not just a whiff. An overwhelming wall of stink. There must have been a large dairy farm nearby, or at least not far away upwind.

Made the industrial "Aroma of Tacoma" back home seem like a fresh ocean breeze by comparison.

Fortunately, between the super-insulated German construction of the vacation house and the rain that started that evening and lasted the weekend, we soon forgot the secret eau de cowlette that had greeted us so unceremoniously.

All in all, a great weekend. Kids had a blast together. Lots of time in the pool. And nice catching up with Josy's brother Marnix and his wife Lucy. (Photo-movie here.)

We made sure not to let the kids wander off with any strangers playing musical instruments.

And we never did see any rats. But that bovine odor was so powerful, its source must have been massive in scope. So perhaps it shouldn't be news to anyone that the area might have its share of rodents. What with all those tasty cow pies to choose from...

Cleanliness, with All Due Gravity

I’ve resisted the temptation to tell the story of the washing machine. Not because it’s unworthy of telling. But because so many expats come to Holland and end up complaining about this random thing or that, which is different from The Way Things Are Back Home. And you just have to wonder if any of them have ever ventured beyond their borders before, to discover the world out there where people Do Things Differently.

The washing machine story, though, has grown from a mere Cultural Difference to an Unmistakable Bizarreness. And the impulse to relate the tale has shifted from Quaint Curiosity to Downright Moral Obligation.

The washing machine, you see, is a thing unto itself. It’s a German-made Bosch Something-or-Other, model number WOL-Whatever. Not unlike many other European washing machines, our trusty Bosch is compact, has a centrifuge drum that rotates through a central area that fills with water for pre-rinsing, washing, rinsing and spin-dry. It tends to use far less water than its U.S.-made counterparts, both due to its smaller size and design.

Thing is, the Bosch comes with several other Features that elude its marketing materials or owner’s manual:

1. The I-Can’t-Believe-It’s-Not-a-Jackhammer feature

After the final rinse cycle, the Bosch begins the spin cycle to force water from the clothes inside. The spin utilizes the machine’s centrifuge function, whereby the drum containing the clothes rotates at high speed like a hamster wheel and the water is effectively compelled out.

The unadvertised Feature here is that, once the spin cycle starts, the machine literally begins an ever-escalating process of bouncing, rattling and whopping in place. The Bosch’s four tiny leg supports slam with increasing frequency and force on the floor tiles, generating an incessant, rapid, whamming din that’s something of a cross between a jackhammer and automatic small arms fire.

As the parents of small children, it’s not unusual for Josy and me to need to throw in a load of laundry later in the evening. Or to multitask while working in the home office, in the room next door to the Bosch. And, needless to say, firing up a jackhammer at 10pm is a wonderful way to build close ties with your neighbors. It’s also quite handy for background noise while on the phone for work – “Matt, good to hear from you. Say, how’s that remodel going…?”

So we figured we’d do something about it...

2. The “Hey-ho, Weigh the Thing Down!” feature

Had no idea what to do, really, until we caught sight of a large concrete block in the attic. “Look, honey, a large concrete block. Seems odd they’d store a large concrete block up here on the top floor. Now, what on earth would this be used for... Hey, wait a minute!”

After a bit of trial and error, we seem to have largely perfected our Bosch stabilizing mechanism. The method goes something like this. Lay a plastic non-skid pad on top of the washing machine. Place the lid of the wicker laundry hamper upside-down on top of the pad. Inside the lid, gently heave one spare concrete block weighing approximately 30 pounds.

Be sure to adjust the washing machine’s quirky centrifuge cycle so that it rotates at 800 rpm. The danger here is that the higher 900, 1000 or 1200 rpm settings have been proven to result in the non-skid pad losing its non-skiddiness.

In turn, lack of non-skiddidity causes the upside-down wicker hamper lid to wiggle off the washing machine. The lid flips in midair. And the concrete block plummets to the unsuspecting tile floor below. An unmistakable nick in one tile bears testament to early quality assurance testing of this method.

But we’ve got it all figured out now. Slow rpm’s. Nice and easy. After all, who wouldn’t want the ability to control with surgical precision how fast their washing machine spins?

3. The “Crash Cart to the Laundry Room – The Washer’s Died Again!” feature

Every now and then, the machine just dies. All its lights go off. Its motion stops. And it becomes fully unresponsive. Did I mention that it also locks shut, effectively trapping any clothes inside, regardless of how far along the wash cycle its gone?

The first time this happened, we were shocked but also a bit relieved. Finally, we could have a mechanic come troubleshoot the crazy machine, at the landlord’s expense. Who knows, maybe they’d just haul the thing away. Well, no luck.

I called the local Bosch service center, clumsily navigated through the endless phone tree in Dutch, pressing “1” and “2” and “0” until I eventually managed to reach a human being, described the problem and made an appointment.

Just as I was about to get off the phone with the appointment scheduler, she asked nonchalantly, “Meneer (“muh-near” or sir), have you tried resetting the machine?”

Resetting the machine?

A washing machine that needs to be reset?

What was she talking about? Rebooting? It’s not like the thing was running Windows Vista.

I asked what she meant. She explained the highly complex reset process. While the quantum physics and molecular biology that underlies this action would require hours to fully explain in layman’s terms, let me attempt to paraphrase. Step 1: Unplug the machine and wait 15 minutes. Step 2: Plug the machine back in and run a new load. Step 3: Hey, look, there is no step 3.

To our dismay, it worked. Dashed were the dreams of getting a mechanic to validate on site that our machine had Features beyond what it should, all on our landlord’s tab. And the scheduler was right about everything except the 15 minutes. It actually took more like an hour. But, hey, who’s counting?

This reset process has continued to come in handy. And, with increasing frequency, the machine has needed to be rebooted several times in the last month. Who knows, if this pattern keeps up, maybe we’ll get our wish for a freebie on-site mechanic after all.

4. The “Hey, Man, I’m on European Time” feature

Last but not least, as many folks who’ve lived in Europe will tell you, European washing machines tend to take a wee bit longer than their counterparts in the New World. Sometimes up to four times as long. You think I’m kidding.

Imagine if you will… It’s the weekend. The kids are going nuts from being held captive indoors all morning by their cruel and unusual parents. You’ve made breakfast, tidied a bit around the house and just need to do a couple quick loads of laundry before taking the rugrats out to the park to let them blow off some steam. Maybe throw in a load, shower and then throw in another one. Good plan, right?

You start the load, shower, get dressed, return to the laundry room and notice the load’s still going. Well, fine, it’s just being thorough. Sure.

You spend some quality time with the kids. Read a story. Turn on some a CD of kids music with songs so catchy you’ll end up humming them all week, no matter how you try to shake them. Make a snack. And check the laundry again.

Washer’s still going.

An hour goes by and the wash is done at last. Good thing you put the machine on the “Snel” (fast) setting. The other settings actually take longer.

Because with a machine with this many Features, who wouldn’t want to savor every moment?

In a strange adaptation of The Stockholm Syndrome, whereby hostages develop empathy for their captors, we’re starting to feel a creeping fondness for the old Bosch. Never before have we had such an involved relationship with our washing machine. And even though it forces us to lay concrete on top of it in an upside-down wicker basket lid, unplug its power cord every week, and wait a full hour for each wash load to get done, these are the things that patterns are made of.

Patterns lead to habit. Habit leads to comfort. Comfort leads to the Dark Side.

Maybe we need to bring it back to Seattle with us.

Yes, Mr. U.S. Customs Officer? What is this machine among our household goods? Why, that’s a Bosch WOL-Whatever, compact, water-efficient washing machine. It’s quite something, really. Let me just tell you about its Features…

Four's Company

The kids are sad.

Today, cousins Helene and Lizzie, along with their mom, Lucy, boarded a train back home to Berlin. They'd stayed for an exuberant, fun-filled week with us in Amstelveen. Playtime lasted for seven days, interruped only by sleep, Ben going to school and Sophie going to her peuterspeelzaal (poh-ter-spayl-zahl) or toddler play group.

Marnix, Josy's brother and Lucy's husband, was in Boston visiting Oma. And the week coincided with a school vacation for Helene, so they decided why not spend the week in Holland so the kids could all hang out. What a great time it was, indeed.

It's quite a sight to see all four of these kids playing so nicely together. Rather than the unbridled chaos one might expect when four children are left to their own devices, there's actually a harmonic convergence of sorts where they all seem to entertain each other and just have fun. For us parents, it was a breeze. No more were there the periodic fussings and demandings of attention from mommy or daddy. Nah, forget mom and dad -- there are cousins to play with.

A highlight was going together to the Nemo museum in Amsterdam. More a reference to Captain Nemo than the animated clown fish, it appears. Nemo is a hands-on science museum for kids, with all manner of crazy experiments and games and distractions. Bubbles. Static electricity. And a ball factory where kids insert the spheres into Jetson-like tubes and can then watch them on conveyor belts going all throughout the intricate contraption and eventually ending up back in the production supply queue in front of the kids, ready for re-insertion in the tubes. (See the picture-movie here.)

Not sure when the next visit among the cousins will be. Maybe in a couple weeks. Maybe next month. Whenever it is, if you ask Helene, Ben, Sophie or Lizzie, it can't come a day too soon.

Winter...Finally!

At long last, we got some snow! Despite a weather forecast that called for partly cloudy and a possibility of rain, the white flakes started descending late morning and continued through the afternoon yesterday. After dumping up to 8 inches on England, the storm front deposited a leftover inch or so here in The Netherlands.

One of the local swans, possibly freaked out by the fluffy deluge, sought refuge next to a faux elf who's forever fishing in the nearby canal.

Ben got to ride home from school. Any unease with biking on snow soon passed and was replaced by increasing offroad experimentation.

With admirable resourcefulness, and with visiting cousin Helene offering guidance from her more comfortable position inside the dining room window, Ben and Sophie together managed to lump together a portly, diminutive snowman from the meager snowfall in the back yard. When handed a carrot for the snowman's nose, Ben promptly broke it in two. So, we compensated by branding the frosty gent as our beloved Alien Snowman -- the carrots being his two eye-antennae.

It's all melted by today. But for a few lingering lumps in the back yard, the slowly ebbing reminder of the Big Blizzard.

Did I mention that Josy chose today, at my enthusiastic urging, to ride her bike to work for the first time...? ; )

Christmas in Koblenz

Just returned to Amstelveen from a week's escape for Christmas in Koblenz, Germany with Josy's brother Marnix, his wife Lucy and their daughters Helene (7) and Lizzie (2).

Koblenz is located at the junction of the Rhine and Moselle rivers. A bit foggy and overcast for most of our visit but that just added to the atmosphere, somehow. Great chance to catch up and let the kids run each other ragged. We're finding that anytime we can just sit back and let the kids entertain themselves is so relaxing.

Our hotel overlooked the Rhine, with its frequent barge and cruise boat traffic, a view across the water to a castle in the old part of Koblenz and close proximity to a railway where passenger and freight trains whizzed by at breakneck speed. The pool downstairs provided additional fun. Was nice to see the kids becoming more comfortable in the water with every passing day.

If you're feeling brave, feel free to check out our short picture-movie.

Took a few trips up each river by car and train, taking tours of various castles that perch along strategic vistas every couple miles. Amazing to see such historic and fairy tale-like structures just around the bend from one another, with all the frequency and visibility of...well, what would compare in the States...a Starbucks? A Farbucks?

Now trying to plan our next get-together with Marnix and family, who are only staying in Berlin until June. Time flies. Hard to believe we've already been here four months...

Ford Tough Meets Fir Tough

If a tree falls 5,000 miles away, what are the odds it will hit your car?

Turns out, the odds were pretty good this month. Dad called while we were visiting our friend Leslie in Germany this weekend. The big windstorm that had hit Western Washington, leaving a quarter million residents without power for days, left its own mark on our Ford station wagon. And a lasting impression it made, indeed.

Turns out the damage didn't total the car. Apparently, the $75 Costco instant carport that we'd set up as a 2-year shelter helped break the fall of the weighty timber. Total impact: about $5,000, or roughly $1 for every mile between us and the incident.

Good thing we don't live on the moon.

Here are a few shots my dad took to document the scene of the crime. At least he's now got plenty of firewood... For next winter.

The Nik of Time

One of the big draws for spending a couple years in The Netherlands was to connect Ben and Sophie to their Dutch heritage. Extended family. Language. Culture.

And culture has been flying thick and fast this holiday season. It started even before Thanksgiving, with the traditional arrival in The Netherlands of Sinterklaas – or Sint Nikolaas, the Dutch version of St. Nick and the basis for the North American legend of Santa Claus.

There are a few key differences in the legends. Rather than coming from the North Pole, Sinterklaas comes from Spain. Rather than being pulled through the air in a sleigh by eight tiny reindeer, he comes by boat accompanied by a contingent of Swarte Pieten (suh-varr-tuh pee-ten) or Black Peters, who are his Moorish helpers. And rather than arrive on Christmas Eve, he shows up in mid-November and parades across the country before depositing bags of gifts on each doorstep on December 5. That’s the eve of the anniversary of the death of St. Nicholas, the patron saint of children.

The run-up to Sinterklaas, as December 5 is commonly known, is an ever-increasing frenzy of anticipation that makes the build-up to Christmas Eve back home seem downright timid by comparison. Sinterklaas’ boat arrives and he’s greeted nationwide by parades in every town. A legion of Swarte Piets runs to and fro for the next three weeks, thrusting candy and tiny ginger cookies known as pepernoten (paper-no-ten) into the hands of expectant children in every public place.

We figured we’d get the kids up to speed from the get-go. So, on December 19, the day of Sinterklaas’ arrival, we walked five blocks over to Josy’s cousin Philip’s house. We joined him, his wife, Jacobien (yah-koh-bean) and their three boys, Coen (coon), Jacob (yah-kohb) and Olivier (all-ee-veer) in watching the grand Sinterklaas parade that goes down their street. And what a sight to behold.

Around noon, parents and their extremely excited children could be seen emerging from every house and from around every corner. The sidewalks filled with all manner of strollers, eager faces and cameras at the ready.

Soon, down the road just beyond the local molen (mow-lenn) or windmill that now curiously serves as an upscale restaurant, the first glimpse of the parade appeared. A brass band. A division of Swarte Piets handing out pepernoten and other candy. And a big fire engine piloted by the local brandweer (bront-vayr) or fire department.

And then, the Big Guy himself. Sitting high on his white horse, Amerigo. Riding next to a police officer on another horse. Can’t be too careful in this post-9/11 world.

Sinterklaas has no rotundity like a bowl full of jelly. A diet free of trans-fats and high fructose corn syrup keeps this St. Nick physically fit and thin as a rod. And he’s not just decked out in a red REI fleece snowsuit, either. Sinterklaas brings a European sensibility to his wardrobe. He wears a finely tailored red bishop’s robe and hat, and carries a crosier, a long gold colored staff with a curly top.

Coen and Jacob were ecstatic. Literally jumping up and down in their excitement. Gleefully accepting handouts from the Swarte Piets. Staring in awe at the Man in Red riding by up on his noble steed.

Ben was excited too, though somewhat more cautious in his exuberance. Seeing it all for the first time. And not knowing exactly what would come next.

Sophie was and remains a bit freaked out by Sinterklaas. He’s a big man. His face is fully disguised behind a long, white flowing beard. And he sneaks into your house while you’re asleep. What’s not to fear?

We tried to reassure Sophie that the guy was only going to bring her presents and candy. But she’d hear none of it. For several nights in a row, she’d crawl into our bed seeking protection from the Red Menace.

We promised her that Sinterklaas never comes upstairs. He only puts gifts in the shoes you leave by the fireplace downstairs and he’s always so quiet he’ll never wake you up. But, somehow, that image of a tall figure messing around downstairs in the middle of the night and maybe accompanied by his gang of helpers didn’t exactly lull her to sleep.

And what’s up with all the black-face paint on the otherwise fully Anglo-Saxon Swarte Piets, she may have wondered? This aspect of the tradition is reportedly receiving growing criticism as having racist undertones and allusions to slavery. The official Dutch response has been to claim that the Swarte Piets are swart because they all deliver presents and candy down the chimney all the time. For Sophie, yet another sign of illegal breaking and entering. These men surely cannot be trusted.

Every few nights, before the kids went to bed, we’d have them leave out their shoes, sing a Sinterklaas song and leave out some milk and carrots for The Man. That’s right, no cookies. Just carrots. Maybe this explains the lack of an obesity epidemic in The Netherlands.

Ben’s favorite time came on the Sinterklaas day itself. His class filed over to the other building where the bigger kids usually go. They all crammed into a large room while throngs of eager parents stood outside, faces pressed up against the windows, jostling to see through the Sinterklaas decorations taped to the inside of the glass and watch the event unfold.

First came the Swarte Piets, with music blaring from a boom box and pumping up the crowd like the opening act of a rock concert. Mick Jagger would have envied the reception the kids gave Sinterklaas as he was led in by his helpers. The Saint then took the mike, told stories and sang songs with the kids, leaving them enraptured and awed.

To top it off, a local store had donated 120 Swarte Piet outfits to all the students at Ben’s school. These colorful garments resembled the garb of a Spanish troubadour – baggy leggings, a fluffy beret-like cap and a flowing cape. This capped off the celebration for Ben, who proudly wore his Swarte Piet costume with pride and joy – his “Smarte Pete” clothes, as he insisted they be known.

As the dust continues to settle after the Big Day, the Sinterklaas decorations at school and in stores have all come down. In their place, images of a jolly old man with a big belly, elves and reindeer are popping up. Move over Sinterklaas, Santa’s on his way.

Josy and I have anxiously anticipated the obvious line of questioning from Ben and Sophie. Is Sinterklaas the same as Santa Claus? Why the North Pole instead of Spain? Why reindeer instead of a boat? Why elves instead of a bunch of guys running around in blackface? And why is one guy fit as a fiddle but the other could stand to lose a few pounds?

But they haven’t even asked.

Perhaps that’s where the spirit of the Christmas season comes into play. At least the receiving end of that spirit. Over here, they get not just one but two different Saint Nick’s who each bring lots of goodies.

What’s not to like?

Just so long as he stays downstairs and doesn't wake anybody up.

Newly Found Footage from 1968-69

After my mom died a year and two days ago, Uncle Paul let me, Dad and sister Wendy dig through his old Super8 home movie collection to try to find footage of her. While most footage was either unusable or of other things, we did uncover about 7 minutes of family moments on two separate reels.

A couple months ago, I had the footage transferred to digital video and overlaid an audio track (none existed on the film). I'm pleased to finally post a broadband version here:



The film features:

• Vacationing on the Skokomish River -- Mom (pregnant), Dad, and sisters Wendy, Paula and Terri goofing around with our family friends the Hunts
  
  
• Shots of the beach where we grew up on Fox Island
  
  
• Various scenes of Fox Island after a winter snowstorm -- including a glimpse of Mom holding me as an infant
  

Miss you, Mom...

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?

T Minus 5 Days and Counting...

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
("fan eye-sull-stayn-lahn") in Amstelveen.

Whew.

It's always easy to get caught up in Complain Mode. Why did it take so long for the shipment to arrive in port (3 days behind schedule)? (Sure, there was Hurricane Gordon off the Azores, but we're in Complain Mode, remember.) Why weren't the movers ready to move the shipment to our new home when it cleared customs earlier today? Granted, the end of the month is the busiest time for them, but they've known about our move for, what, more than a month now -- and what about that couldn't they plan ahead for?

See what I mean? Complain Mode gets us nowhere.

So, we try to focus on Positive Mode instead. Ah, thank goodness we can finally move. Ah, thankfully Josy will only be a 5 min. drive, bike ride or bus ride from work. Ah, finally I'll have more than 6 pairs of underwear to cycle through...oh, wait, was that too much information?

We'll definitely miss where we're living now. Despite being a third-floor walk-up, which with two small children and a stroller makes going anywhere outdoors an adventure in stair navigation, it's on the edge of a park and a stone's throw from a large canal.

That said, the new abode should be great. Walking distance to all manner of things. Small canal at the end of the block. Lots of windows to let in much-needed light during those dreary Seattle-like grey winter months.

Indeed, October 2nd is a Monday to look forward to.

House...Check!

Okay, so, this is all starting to sound all about us and our every little need. As we read back over these postings, we're getting the sense that the blog's becoming a bit too navel-gazing. It's amazing how preoccupied we've been with getting basic logistics arranged so we can get on with our lives. As we do settle in more and more, we're looking forward to sharing experiences beyond such mundane, immediate challenges of getting used to a new place.

That said, we can't tell you how thrilled we are to finally have lined up a place to call home. After extensive searching with the help of a makkelaar ("mack-kuh-larrr"), or real estate agent, we finally found and have closed the deal on a rental house in Amstelveen ("Am-stell-vayne"), the city due south of Amsterdam where Josy works. Whew!

It's a brick townhouse in the northern, older part of Amstelveen. Like many homes in The Netherlands, it's small by American standards. But it does have a useful layout, with a bedroom for guests. That's handy since, every other month, we plan to host Josy's brother Marnix, and his wife Lucy and daughters Helene and Lizzie. How nice to have a place where friends and family can actually stay!

A nice place in a nice neighborhood. Park with playground a couple blocks away. Only about a 5 min. commute for Josy. A long walk from the center of Amstelveen. Just 10 min. from the airport.

What a relief to finally have a place. Now we just have to wait till our things clear customs. They arrived Thursday evening but it may take several days to become available. And, as fate would have it, the end of the month tends to be the busy time for the moving company, which tells us they don't have room on their schedule to actually move the freight to our house anytime next week.

So close, and yet so far. But it's been nice at least to visit the new digs and let the kids run around, even if we can't actually move in yet. All in good time...


P.S. Here are a few satellite photos and maps, to give an idea of where we'll be:


1. Map of Northwestern Europe




2. Satellite Image of Amsterdam and Amstelveen




3. Satellite Image of Our New Home

A Short Walk to the Store

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...

Touchdown

Landed today after an all-nighter on the KLM/Northwest nonstop from Seattle to Amsterdam's Schipol Airport. Sophie slept a little. Ben opted not to sleep at all but wasn't too bad, remarkably. Probably had something to do with the nonstop movies we fed him via the display in the seatback in front of him -- gave new meaning to the notion of "on demand."

Josy's mom, Jeltje, and her sister, Froukje, met us at the airport. Helped us with the critical path -- namely, getting espresso and croissants for us, and milk for the kids at the nearest cafe. With our blood sugar and heart rates on the rise, things started to look up.

We divided up our 18 bags into Froukje's car and a taxi van, and schlepped to our new, temporary apartment in downtown Amsterdam. After unloading all our stuff and depositing the children in front of the TV for momentary "visual sedation," we took a moment to gaze out the window over the nearby park.

Clouds overhead. Rain falling. A balmy 50-something Fahrenheit...

Just like home.