Sinterklaas Liedjes

Saint Nikolaas songs are a hallmark of the pre-Christmas season in The Netherlands. Ben and Sophie took a moment to share some of their favorite ones, which we recorded back in November. Check out this 2- minute snippet, if you're feeling brave:



I was reminded of this performance during dinner last night, by the level of Dutch that Ben and Sophie are now showing they understand and can speak. Ben, for the first time rattled off several sentences that I completely didn't follow. And Sophie launched into post-dinnertable vocal entertainment that included several new songs she'd picked up this week at her daycare.

Josy and I just looked at each other in awe, as we both realized that our children have become bilingual. One of our biggest goals for moving over here.

Here's hoping that they continue to retain the language and a connection with the culture and extended family once we return to the States in July/August...

A Pox on You...

"Daddy," said Sophie, her face showing a puzzled, slightly horrified expression, "I don't like your face."

And who could blame her. It was covered with pustulent boils and 5-days of pre-beard growth, making me look like more of a Haight Ashbury paintball casualty than, well, just her dad.

Today as I write, about a month after my grown-up bout with the chicken pox, the boils and facial hair are thankfully gone. (About this photo at right - I've always wanted to take a picture halfway through shaving off a beard.) And while energy has returned to normal, the faintest lingering topical discolorations remain - the last reminders of two weeks of insatiably itchy, sleepless, listless and lethargic fun.

I won't dwell on the tedious pleasantries of the pox, but suffice it to say that the rumors are true that it sure can be tougher as an adult than as a kid. Of course, there are many worse things that people experience health-wise, but I can't tell you how much I wish I'd gotten the vaccine.

One friend of mine who had the pox in his 30s said, "I thought I was gonna die!" I'm not sure mine got that bad, but it was even less fun than doing taxes.

Amazingly, since getting the pox, I've discovered that our elderly neighbor, our housecleaner and our part-time nanny have never had it either. And this in The Netherlands where they basically don't believe in vaccinating against this disease, which means that if you ever set foot in a primary school or daycare, you're playing with fire.

The stats on the Centers for Disease Control website don't paint a pretty picture for adults who get the pox -- much higher incidence of complications and morbidity the older you get, especially for those over age 50. Good thing I'm still 39.

Funny, but one of the most striking memories I have of the pox was the day I got my appetite back. Somehow, the act of making (and keeping down) a fried egg and cheese sandwich as the first real breakfast in a week was such a huge pleasure. How nice it can be to feel human again. And how easy it can be to forget what it's like to be sick.

It's Thanksgiving - Please Pass the Chicken

As Americans, living in The Netherlands on Thanksgiving Day is a bit surreal.

Absent are the omnipresent Thanksgiving decorations that adorn the schools, shopping malls and public places back in the States.

And the Dutch don't exactly get fired up about Pilgrims, despite the history of Pilgrim leaders living in Holland after fleeing England and before settling in Massachusetts.

(Truth be told, I didn't actually remember that - I just pulled it from Wikipedia. Josy, when reading this, couldn't believe my ignorance - apparently, this historical nugget isn't lost on Massachusetts natives like her.)

The day itself comes as something of an afterthought. A workday not unlike any other November workday. Oh, but wait, it's Thanksgiving - shouldn't we celebrate...?

While we'd talked for weeks about doing something special on Thanksgiving weekend, plans had a way unraveling the closer we got to the day itself. The hot idea of heading to Paris and EuroDisney for the first time got derailed when French train workers went on strike and highways turned into parking lots. Josy and I got preoccupied with work. The kids got sick. And, finally, Thanksgiving arrived and oh, look at the time, it's 4:30 in the afternoon.

I did the only thing a self-respecting Yank could do in this situation. I immediately headed to the store to buy the closest thing they'd have to a Thanksgiving dinner.

I waited patiently while Dutch shoppers at the meat counter ordered ahead of me. What on earth was that? Filet americain? God knows how they came to name this raw ground beef delicacy, eaten uncooked, after a country where nobody in their right mind would risk a slow, painful death by e.coli. To each their own - Josy loves the stuff.

Then again, she also can't get enough of drop, the Dutch candy that tastes a bit like American black licorice but roughly 1.75 trillion times more concentrated. And it comes in a spectrum of varieties, from the milder Really-Incredible-Horse-lick-Salty to the more extreme So-Salty-You'll-Shrivel-Up-Like-a-Slug-No-Really. Needless to say, I prefer red licorice.

My turn came. When I asked for a whole chicken, the clerk looked at me with a smile and asked if I might prefer turkey. Turkey? I nearly did a double take. They had turkey?

Maybe this shouldn't have been such a surprise in an area known for expats. But just because they had expacts, they didn't keep the stores open past 6pm or bother to stock more than one or two brands of any one item. Yet, turkey?

Alas, the smallest option was a 2.9kg bird that would probably take 3 hours to cook. Way longer than the kids would ever stand to eat. And no whole chickens remained. Chicken legs and thighs it would have to be.

Somehow, we managed to pull the key ingredients together. Stove-Top(TM) Stuffing. Cranberry sauce made from fresh cranberries. Pumpkin pie and crust - all of which I made from scratch because, well, they might stock turkey here on Thanksgiving but don't get your hopes up about pie crusts.

The Pilgrims would've been proud. If they'd ever bought in to the whole Thanksgiving mythology that a budding nation eventually fostered.

And the kids seemed to enjoy it, too. The pie, mostly. After downing his first piece in roughly 0.2 seconds, Ben sat back and appeared to gather his thoughts for a moment. "Daddy, can we really, really eat the whole pie tonight?"

Top 10 Memories from Our Summer Vacation

10. Rain, rain, go away.

The sun never shines on the 4th of July in Seattle. When it did this year, that should've been our first warning. When two weeks of sunny and even hot weather followed, that should've been our second warning. By the time we flew in from Amsterdam on July 12th and headed out camping at Fort Flagler with Matt's dad and sister Wendy on the 16th, the rains returned. At least our new tent held up and we could take shelter in Grandpa Dean's camper trailer.

9. Seeing old friends.

Matt's 20-year high school reunion took place two days after we arrived in Seattle. Recovering from jet lag is one thing when traveling alone. When traveling with kids in tow, it takes on a whole new meaning. Extended sleep deprivation did wonders for memory ("What's your name again?") and made a fun but already surreal experience even more surreal.

8. Can you hear me now?

As fate would have it, our trip coincided with Matt's company closing an investment round. Rather than taking advantage of the periodic "sunbreaks" to stroll on the beach, fly kites or just hang out with family, Matt was instead on his phone and laptop for hours each day. His makeshift "office" -- a covered picnic shelter with unobstructed views (no walls), fresh air (exposure to rain) and a feeling of being at one with nature (bird droppings everywhere).

7. Wendy's graduation party.

Big Sistah just graduated with a mastah's degree in psychology of animal behavior. Threw a blowout party for family and friends at her Vashon Island log cabin retreat. By also spending the night there with Ben and Sophie, we gave her new fodder for animal behavior observations...

6. Wildlife.

Deer near the campground. Bald eagles overhead. And a visit to the Sequim Game Park, which is filled with a diverse yet rather beleaguered-looking array of animals - from roaming buffalo that sidle up to your car to peacocks that flash their feathers like you're the hottest bird that ever happened to drive by their roost. One llama in particular took a special liking to Grandpa, or at least to his bread handouts.

5. Ben Franklin would be proud.

Grandpa treated Ben and Sophie to their first kites. Had good winds one afternoon. Of course, they were spurred on partly by a large thunderstorm that was passing some miles to the west. At one point, it seemed the thunderhead was getting too close for comfort and we made a quick dash for the car. But the foreboding, dark storm mainly just provided an impressive backdrop.

4. Please, sir, may I have s'mores?

Few things motivate children more than food. And when it comes to camping food, there's nothing that competes with the combination of graham crackers, chocolate and roasted marshmallows. Don't want to clean up those toys? Don't forget what you can have tonight if you do. Not gonna finish your breakfast? Remember the s'mores. Don't want to nap? Don't forget what good nappers get at the campfire later...

3. Daddy, why do you have to be on the phone all the time?

This is really just more of #8 above. But it's a question no parent wants to hear. One that unleashes feelings of guilt without end and fears of childhood scars. Visions of future counseling sessions in which the then grown-up child wrestles with deep-seeded feelings of abandonment by distant parents who were preoccupied with work, even on vacation. Parents who later develop odd-shaped tumors on the sides of their heads from over-exposure to mobile phone transmissions.

2. Who needs Tylenol PM when you've got legal documents to review?

The sheer mind-numbing properties of a well-drafted stock purchase agreement cannot be overstated. Anyone with insomnia or restless leg syndrome, or who drank too much coffee late in the day only needs to peruse a legal document of this kind to experience an immediate and overpowering urge to close one's eyes and enjoy a fast track to REM sleep.

1. Someday, we'll have a real vacation.

Despite these endless complaints, there were more than a few wonderful moments and family bonding times. More s'mores around the campsite at Grandpa's house, countless hours of fun with two electric remote-control cars Grandpa gave Ben and Sophie, and unbridled frolicking on Grandpa's front lawn. Next time, we'll have even more of these moments...

Who's Bigger Now?

Sophie turned 3 on May 7. In a testament to our uncanny inability to plan ahead more than a half hour, we threw a momentous celebration consisting of Sophie, Ben, Josy and myself. The nice thing about being 3 is that birthday expectations are pretty much a blank slate.

She had a blast.

The highlight of the day consisted of a trip to the local bike store where Ms. Sophie got to pick out her very own, first-ever bicycle. A purplish-pinkish girly-girl model with training wheels fit the bill.

Ben proceeded to ask her every couple minutes if he could ride it. "Noooo, Ben!" she'd shout, gripping her new fiets ("feets," or bicycle) with unprecedented determination.

Sophie managed to ride the bike for the entire 10-block distance back home. At first needing a hand on the back for stability. But after 3 blocks, she only needed the faintest touch from a finger on her shoulder for the appearance of reassurance.

On the last block before home, I managed to surreptitiously remove my finger from her shoulder. Almost without knowing it, Sophie was riding her "big girl" bike all by herself.

Not to be outdone, upon arrival at the house and after further refusals by Sophie to let him take her new vehicle for a spin, Ben proclaimed that he wanted us to take the training wheels off his bike.

We were pretty sure he was ready. For the past couple months, he'd been riding his bike in such a way that his training wheels wouldn't touch the ground, except for going around corners. This often resulted in him swerving unpredictably in persistent efforts to keep the training wheels aloft while going over uneven ground. And, on this day, after his fifth or sixth request, we decided he was serious.

Ben took to his training wheel-less bike like a fish to water. Nearly fell a couple times when mounting the bike or coming to a stop. But otherwise looked like he'd always been riding in this "big boy" way.

I took him for a short ride up the neighborhood canal to check out some wild ducklings that had just hatched. We passed Josy and Sophie out on the sidewalk. From the look on Josy's face, I could tell that Sophie had been fussing. It was well past her naptime.

Only the joy of riding her new bike had kept Sophie going. But even the smooth sidewalk had become a rocky road as Sophie fought increasing fatigue while struggling to keep her balance.

That said, the power of sibling rivalry knows few bounds. Sophie took one look at Ben on his bike and said, without hesitation, "I want my training wheels off, too!"

Bored of the Flies

There's only a handful left. Bodies are scattered everywhere. Tiny, stiff reminders of the buzzing annoyances that have plagued our ground floor kitchen/dining room/living room all week long.

It all began last weekend. We started noticing an unusual number of flies indoors. The weather had been sunny and warm for weeks, and we chalked up the flies' presence to having left our windows open without screens.

And then their numbers started to rise. Dramatically.

Monday, Tuesday - Maybe a couple dozen, mainly on the south end of our ground floor. Congregating near the large foot-to-ceiling window. No obvious sign of where they were coming from. No rotting fruit on the counter. No open food containers. No signs of them in the cupboards or pantry. A mystery. Rains had returned, deterring us from opening the windows and doors to shoo the rascals outdoors.

Wednesday - Our housecleaner arrived and was totally grossed out. Somewhere between 60-80 flies had taken up residence along the southern window and the window of the kitchen door. Her face paled when I asked if she'd mind just vacuuming them up. Bless her heart, she went ahead and "hoovered" them, sucking up dozens into the cramped dark coffin of the vacuum bag, buried alive.

Friday - Desperation began to set in. Despite the thorough housecleaning, the problem had gotten worse. Much worse. Literally, more than 100 flies covered the windows and curtains.

Two school friends of Ben came over to play. They raised more than one eyebrow in amazement at the peppered pattern of flies covering the window glass and curtains. I started mulling over various ways I might explain all this to their mother when she returned to pick them up. I could just see word getting around - "The Eldridges... Nice family. Shame about all the flies, though..."

I called an exterminator, wondering to myself why I hadn't done so sooner. But after describing the problem, he said it was almost certainly due to having a dead animal somewhere under the house or in the nooks and crannies where the heating pipes run. He advised calling a plumber or heating system installer instead.

The exterminator's opinion echoed that of our landlord's father, whom I'd called earlier. And it occurred to me that rather than hire someone to rip up floorboards and trace our heating pipes into the nether reaches of our Netherlands' abode, the better solution might just be a waiting game. After all, there was no smell whatsoever - whatever dead critter was ensconced in hard to reach places was certainly so tucked away that the search would cost an arm and a leg to find it. And the flies just might die off after their maggots had finished devouring the nourishing corpse.

This wasn't an easy decision. The plague had reached nearly Biblical proportions. It was just so disgusting, words can hardly express the feeling of walking downstairs and into the presence of more than a hundred nasty flying varmints.

But fortunately the weather cleared up just enough to open the sliding door of the large window, and the kitchen door. Waving my hands and shouting like a madman, I managed to usher the vast majority of flies outside, to infinity and beyond.

And the strategy seemed to work. By evening, only a half dozen flies could be seen. This morning, they'd declined to one or two.

All the fun of a trip to the garbage dump, but without the garbage, the stench or the price of admission.

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?