Start Absconding!

My armpits are sore in places I didn't even know I had armpits, thanks to a totally glorious and totally exhausting weekend class we just took called Start Yachting.

But I can't really choke back the bile regarding the use of "yachting" as a verb, so I prefer to think of this more as Start Absconding Via Sailboat to Tiny Island Nations in the Middle of the Pacific.

On a very practical level, this meant spending 2.5 days on a 40-foot boat in the Ijsselmeer, a large, windy, lovely ocean-turned-lake (see ambitious engineering of the Dutch, early 20th century) within sailing distance of Amsterdam.

Other than having to negotiate a complicated and congested system of locks in one of Amsterdam's busiest waterways while steering a 40-foot boat for the first time, it was a perfectly lovely, relaxing, sunny weekend out on the water.

Vanuatu, here we come!

IVM

Every once in a while, I have a watershed moment when it comes to learning Dutch.

Someone will say something for the third time, or correct me for the seventh, and I will say, "Ohhhhhh...now I get it!"

Another type of watershed comes when I learn something that can be applied easily and correctly in the Dutch emails I write.

Learning "alvast bedankt" — thanks in advance — marked a major improvement in my Dutch correspondence.

But the crown jewel is a simple abbreviated phrase that people use all of the time: ivm, or in verbinding met.

The phrase literally translates to "in connection with," but that fails to demonstrate how amazingly all purpose it is.

There's the literal use: I'm sending this email ivm our upcoming meeting...

It can mean "in reference to" or "with respect to" as in: ivm your recent request for this document...

It can mean "because of": ivm new rules on deposit insurance...

(See what an exciting job I have?)

Basically, any time one needs to express a relationship between two things or slightly passive-aggressive causation, ivm is a three-letter savior.

It's especially handy because it's a descriptive phrase, not a conjunction, which means one doesn't have to change around the word order, add a dependent clause, or do anything else that will cause one's English-speaking brain to explode.

And — here's the best part — it's pre-prepositioned.

Sadly for me, there is not a direct relationship between Dutch prepositions and English prepositions.

For example, you don't ride to work on the train, you ride to work with the train. You don't send a message to someone, you send a message on someone.

It really pains the mind.

It also pains any Dutch listener who is on the receiving end of the wrong linking words.

I don't like to think of the percentage of my Dutch-speaking hours I spend fumbling around ivm (see how handy it is?!) prepositions.

The great thing about ivm? The preposition is already taken care of in a nice little acronym.

All of that is a long way to say that ivm our compulsion to cook elaborate meals using hard-to-find ingredients, we spent yesterday on our semi-annual pilgrimage to the Oriental Superstore in Arnhem.

Its sketchy name aside, we *love* this superstore.

It's the size of a modest American grocery store, which is a marked improvement from most of the tokos* in Nijmegen, which are generally the size of a modest 7-11.

(*I've waxed lovingly about tokos before, but just as a reminder: it's the word the Dutch use to describe tiny grocery stores that carry Chinese, Indonesian, Surinamese, Indian, or other miscellaneously non-Dutch food items.)

This SuperToko is large enough to have the kind of weirdness that makes schlepping all the way to Arnhem on a bus (or via a 3-hour bike ride— not that we were dumb enough to do that last time) worthwhile.

Such as Indonesian-style Kentucky Fried Chicken breading:

I acknowledge that Kentucky Fried Chicken is more than a little bit fraught as an export to Indonesia.

At the same time, I can't help but feel mystified and amused about an American-style chicken recipe adopted wholeheartedly by Indonesians that's been packaged and marketed for sale in the Netherlands.

As far as I'm concerned, it's the sign of a great toko if the Kentucky Chicken section is as large here as it is in grocery stores in Indonesia.

Sex & the Schlumpy

Last week, I won the "who can take minutes for a meeting that will be in fast and complicated English?" sweepstakes at work and went on a two-day junket to Amsterdam.

This was fun for a number of reasons, almost none of them having to do with the meeting or the minute taking.

For one thing, it was sunny in Amsterdam for the first time in my experience, which made my evening stroll around the canals about 7 times nicer than any other canal strolling I've done.

For another thing, I was reminded of how much more diverse Amsterdam is than other, smaller cities in the Netherlands. It was pretty awesome, for example, to walk past a guy with giant dreadlocks speaking Dutch with a Jamaican accent.

This may sound a little strange, but it was also fun to fit in at least a little more than the plain old regular tourists, of whom there were many.

Having said that: as I suspected, people in Amsterdam are a lot more likely to switch into English upon hearing my very American r's and generally imperfect Dutch.

This is in strong contrast to Nijmegen, where we're quite close to the German border and shopkeepers will occasionally assume that I'm German when I trot out my Dutch.

I feel a sort of amused pride about this, mostly because I like to think if my American accent were totally hideous, it would be clear to them that I hadn't just hopped over the border on a shopping junket.

(As a side note: it's an endless source of amusement to me that Germans visit this part of the Netherlands in order to go shopping, while the Dutch cross the border into Germany to go shopping.

From my admittedly American perspective, both countries have outrageous prices and crappy selection, so why on earth would anyone bother driving 45 kilometers for either?)

Speaking of German, the bank where I work has a German branch, and so about once a week, an email written in German will come across my desk.

Almost 15 years ago, I took an extremely painful German class for a laughably short period of time before studying abroad in Vienna for a laughably short period of time.

This is a long way to say that I do not speak German. At all.

However, one seriously added bonus of learning Dutch is that I can now understand most German emails — if and only if I look at the words kind of cross-eyed and don't think about them too deeply.

For example, a final decision in Dutch is an uiteindelijk besluit, while in German, it's an Endbeschluss. For me, that's close enough to get the idea.

But going back to my Amsterdam outing: I was delighted to find a small, hip and otherwise lovely Japanese restaurant in the neighborhood of my hotel.

Everything about it was great: the owners were friendly, it was tiny but there were still plenty of tables, and no one complained about me not having a reservation. (Okay, the sushi was just mediocre, yet still better than I expected!)

But I noticed right away that the other women in the restaurant, of whom there were many, were ALL wearing very high heels and very short, sexy dresses.

I should preface this by saying that we're planning a trip to Paris in July, and I've started to feel paranoid about needing to at least make an effort, fashion-wise. Like maybe I should buy a dress or two and wear something other than Birkenstocks.

John's reaction to this latest installment of Autumn-has-lost-her-mind theater was: um, it's not like anyone's going to think we're Parisian.

Okay, fair enough, point taken. But at the very least, I would like to avoid embarrassing the friend we're visiting when we're there.

But in Amsterdam, I was really surprised by the hard-core outfits on a Tuesday night. My first thought, of course, was wait, am I inadvertently having dinner in the red light district?

After a moment of panic, I decided that no, people really were just dressed to the nines (or as another friend likes to say with regard to overdressed elderly Russians, "to the 11's").

This, perhaps it goes without saying, was in extremely sharp contrast to my usual schlumpy self in jeans and my favorite Dr. Pepper t-shirt.

I always thought that Amsterdam was known for being a just-be-yourself, anything-goes kind of city, but maybe it was more cosmopolitan than I thought.

Outside of the restaurant, the fashion insanity continued: I started seeing men in tuxedos along with the ladies in the dresses, and I thought, okay, is this some kind of weird Dutch prom for adults?

Then I turned a corner and came upon a giant crowd of people standing around a pink carpet just outside of a movie theater.

There were lights, there were cameras, and fortunately for my fashion self-esteem, it quickly became clear that all of the women in a 10-block radius were taking part in a Tuesday-night premiere of Sex and the City 2.

I was briefly surrounded on all sides by Carrie Bradshaw look-a-likes, which was frightening enough as it was.

To complete the nightmare from which I couldn't wake up, they were all chattering away in Dutch.

Luckily for me, I was wearing my favorite pair of all-purpose hiking sandals and could run quickly and quietly in the other direction.

Speaking of fashion, one of the highlights of this week (and honestly? possibly the highlight of the year) was discovering the Eurovision Song Contest.

For Europeans, this is seriously old news, but for us, it's like discovering what it's like to eat hot chili flakes on pizza at age 32.

Your joy from the deliciousness is mitigated only by bitterness at having missed out on, say, 25 years of enjoying it.

Just as a hypothetical example.

The Song Contest is relatively self-explanatory: once a year in the spring, 39 countries in Europe (and slightly beyond) put their national pride on the line with a band and a single song.

The format is simple: two semi-finals to narrow the field to 25, and then a final competition. The judging formula is not even remotely simple, although the tolerance for complicated voting systems in Europe is much higher than it is in the U.S., so maybe I'm not the best one to comment on this.

John and I inadvertently happened upon a broadcast of the semi-finals this week, and we found that we couldn't turn away. I was transfixed, open-mouthed, well past my bedtime, by the utterly bizarre combination of costumes, choreography, and music.

The least interesting acts were ones that were — at least to my ears — clearly derivative of American rock bands.

The most interesting ones were just plain crazy.

It's hard to choose, but one of my favorites was the sexy Doublemint twins from Finland in all-white outfits playing accordion and staring at the cameras like deranged elves.



Musically speaking, I found myself quite taken with Malcolm Lincoln from Estonia, and no, it's not just because I have a thing for Estonia.



But the pièce de résistance was Aisha from Latvia, whose song "What For?" explored deep existential questions with the following lyrics:

I’ve asked my angels why
But they don’t know
What for do mothers cry and rivers flow?
Why are the skies so blue, and mountains high?
What for is your love, always passing by?

I’ve asked my uncle Joe
But he can’t speak
Why does the wind still blow and blood still leaks?
So many questions now with no reply
What for do people live until they die?

What for are we living?
What for are we crying?
What for are we dying?
Only Mr God knows why

What for are we living?
What for are we dreaming?
What for are we losing?
Only Mr God knows why
But his phone today is out of range

And so on.

But the lyrics alone don't do it justice; the singing is what the British announcer on BBC referred to as "Deep Root Canal: The Musical."



To my great disappointment, none of these candidates made it to the final competition on Saturday.

How could that have happened, you ask? I think it goes without saying: only Mr. God knows why.

In de Buurt

Ever since we moved to our apartment in Nijmegen, I've wanted to write something that gives you a feeling of what it's like in de buurt, or in our neighborhood.

As a side note, one of the things I genuinely do like about Dutch is how one can see — when one is sitting peacefully on one's couch on a Sunday morning, not when one is suffering through small talk with one's co-workers — how closely the English language is related to it.

I'm no linguist, but I suspect, for example, that the word suburb is closely related to the Dutch word buurt, and also that the "bor" part of neighbor is, too.

We live on a street in Nijmegen Oost (aka Nijmegen East) called Museum Kamstraat, named after — and this is tricky, so stay with me — Museum Kam, which is just down the street.

As a side note, I was delighted to find that there is an Arnoldstraat in Nijmegen, and that it happens to be an extension of Museum Kamstraat.

I was delighted, that is, until John gleefully pointed out that Arnoldstraat doesn't actually have anything on it; it's just an unadorned, 30-foot stretch of pavement connecting two other streets.

As a side note to my side note, it turns out that Arnold is a somewhat common first name for men in the Netherlands.

On the plus side, this means that I can just say it slowly and people understand me without me having to spell it. On the down side, I get a LOT of mail addressed to Mr. Autumn. And by a lot, I mean pretty much all of my mail.

Most people do (eventually) understand my first name, but when I'm not standing in front of them, displaying physical features that strongly suggest my first name is not Arnold, I think it's easy to focus on Arnold and just ignore the unfamiliar word next to it.

All of that is a long way to say that I like having an Arnoldstraat in the neighborhood, even if it is the most boring street in the entire city of Nijmegen.

For its part, Museum Kam is a beautiful, strange building with all sorts of crazy Roman decorations.

As it turns out, Mr. Kam was an amateur archaeologist with a huge collection of artifacts from when the Romans founded Nijmegen.

(In case you're planning your next pilgrimage to see the Roman artifacts of Nijmegen: most of the collection was moved in the 1990's from Museum Kam to the Valkhof museum, which is Nijmegen's big art and architecture museum, and so now the Kam is only open on Thursday afternoons and by appointment.)

Much of Nijmegen was bombed to smithereens during WWII, so most of the buildings in our neighborhood have a charming if not all that aesthetically pleasing, built-in-the-50's-and-60's feel to them.

Museum Kam is a notable exception, as is the giant, ominous school building we can see from our living room window:

This school is on Berg en Dalseweg, which is one of the four or five main streets that radiate outward from the center of the city.

Berg en Dalseweg literally means "Mountain and Valley Way", but this being the Netherlands, it's hard to say that with a straight face.

A more accurate name might be "Still Extremely Flat But Not As Flat as the Rest of the Netherlands Way."

Berg en Dalseweg is a main street, but it's still primarily residential, with just a couple of restaurants and a couple of shops.

One of these is Spare-Rib Grill Van Dam, a terrifying business that offers "American take away." John and I have not yet worked up the courage to try it, but I really feel it's our patriotic duty to do so.

At least once. Possibly with a lot of beer to help us choke it down.

Another Berg en Dalseweg highlight is Cafe Trianon, a charming old restaurant / bar with outdoor seating and an eclectic series of live music offerings. When I say eclectic, I really do mean eclectic.

Jazz oboe, anyone?

Last but not least, we're just a few minutes' walk away from the Nijmegen Oost shopping district, home of my much-beloved and also much-reviled Albert Heijn grocery store.

I don't really like to think about how many trips I've made to this particular place of business in the last year, but I estimate that it's about 327.

We took this photo on a Sunday, when AH is only open from 4 to 8, so it sort of misses the overflowing chaos of bicycles and cars and parents with small children trying to buy groceries in a store made up of about 8 aisles.

My frequent complaints about AH and the principles of personal space that do not seem to apply inside of it aside, I really do appreciate having a major grocery store within easy walking distance of our apartment.

But wait! There's more!

Our local hardware store, Doeland (which, hilariously, translates to "Do" Land) is next door to the Heijn.

In our case, a more accurate name would be "Try to Do, and Then Go Back to the Hardware Store for More Supplies" Land.

There's also a bakery, an aromatic seafood place that sells raw herring and other Dutch delicacies, and Kruidvat (our local drugstore, which, as you know, is dead to me).

Across the street, we have a newly opened wine shop as well as Bruna, a book / stationery store where I'm able to buy frightening Dutch greeting cards for pretty much any occasion.

Passed your driving test? Check.

Been awarded a swimming diploma? Check.

Moving in together? Check.

Been married for 12.5 years?

You've got to love the Dutch: there's a card for that, too.

Mind the Gap

About a year ago, when we first moved into our apartment, I wrote about how spending the weekend installing clothes rods in our closets didn't exactly fit my image of our new life in Europe.

(As you may remember, it specifically didn't fit my image of a "hanging about in cafes, visiting art museums, hopping on a train to Prague for the weekend" sort of life in Europe.)

After my recent spate of complaining about drug stores and consumer goods and weather, I'm beginning to realize that my actual European-living self doesn't completely fit the image I had for my European-living self, either.

When John and I sat down at our kitchen table in Madison two years ago for our "where next?" throwdown, I think it's safe to say that we didn't have a specific idea of what living in Europe would be like.

It was just that the Netherlands sounded a lot more interesting than, say, moving to Ohio. It seemed like a fun adventure and a rare opportunity to experience another culture, and with 9 weeks of vacation time each year, we were pretty sure we could travel to our hearts' content.

Over time, though (and by "time", I mean the half-year blur in which we wrapped up two jobs, put our house on the market, held 5 garage sales, and in John's case, wrote a thesis), we started to develop an idea of what the experience could be like.

Also, a surprisingly common response to our "we're moving to the Netherlands" announcement was a troubled look and some variation on a very confused "Why??"

So we found that it was helpful to come up with an explanation that might be more persuasive than "Why not?"

The more we thought about it, the more it seemed like life in the Netherlands would inspire us to be more physically active, have a significantly better work-life balance, develop a deep understanding of another culture, and jet off at a moment's notice to any major or minor city in Europe (or northern Africa, for that matter).

Plus we would have the moral and political satisfaction of living in a country with a healthy middle class, almost no poverty, and universal health care. And we would speak a second language, which would be difficult but meaningful challenge.

Almost a year and a half into the experience, life in the Netherlands has instead turned me into a quasi-libertarian Oreos addict who would give up her first-born child for a Netflix subscription.

It's a funny thing, that gap.

In some areas, the reality in our daily lives does meet my expectations.

For one thing, we are definitely more physically active. I now feel perfectly comfortable riding my bicycle in all weather conditions and in all types of clothing. And with all combinations of furniture, appliances or food bungee-corded to the back.

In Madison, in contrast, I generally weaseled out of my bike ride to work if it was too hot, too cold, or there was any chance of precipitation. Or if I didn't want helmet hair or needed to wear something nicer to work than khakis and a button-down shirt.

Another hindrance in Madison was that when I mentioned riding my bike that morning, the first follow-up question was generally, "Oh! Is there someplace here where you can shower?"

Maybe it goes without saying that people don't ask that awkward question in the Netherlands.

In terms of work-life balance, it's still hard to say whether moving to the Netherlands has made it better or worse. My job is still quite new and exhausting, so I don't know how it will feel once things settle down.

Although one of my biggest and most vocal complaints about working in the U.S. is how little vacation time people get, John's bonanza of vacation days has raised an entirely different issue: it's nearly impossible to get anything done when you're on vacation nine weeks each year!

When we get to "develop a deep understanding of another culture", things start to go off the rails a little bit. Technically, yes, I suppose my understanding of Dutch culture is deeper than it was when we moved here.

But I've been somewhat horrified to discover that the more exposure we have to Dutch culture, the more I crave American culture. (Hence the Oreos and the Netflix. Which I have to say are pretty appealing, even when one is not under siege.)

I hate to admit this, but I think I was operating under an assumption that Dutch culture was fundamentally the same as American culture, only with a lot of bicycles and a commitment to universal health care.

I acknowledge that this is a screamingly American assumption, but there you have it. It just didn't occur to me that there would actually be fundamental cultural differences between the U.S. and the Netherlands.

(I know, I know: Holy cultural chauvinism, Batman!)

Not surprisingly, Dutch people ask me all the time about the differences between the U.S. and the Netherlands. I find them painfully difficult to describe, especially when speaking in my slightly-better-than-primitive Dutch. It's not all that easy in my slightly-better-than-primitive English, either.

Maybe the best way to describe the differences is to simply say what I miss:

I miss the energy and restlessness that comes from being able to invent and re-invent yourself, and from working hard to get ahead. I miss the steady drumbeat of entrepreneurship and the consumer freedom that goes along with it. I miss having both tremendous risk and opportunity — socially, creatively, and economically.

Needless to say, there's a huge down side to the American culture of risk and reward. One of my Dutch friends who lived and worked in the U.S. described it as "economic terror": if something goes wrong with your job or your family or your health, you're pretty much on your own.

Whereas in the Netherlands, you might not have as much freedom to take risks, but you can be reasonably certain that in a personal crisis, you're not going to lose everything.

This is related to the moral and political satisfaction I had hoped to have when moving to a country that supports so many social policies that I so fervently believe in.

On one hand, I do feel proud and satisfied to live in a country that does so much stuff right.

On the other hand, I'm beginning to see how the Netherlands' social support system is part and parcel of a culture that puts the needs of the of the society above the needs of the individual. Which gives me a new appreciation for how difficult it is to integrate meaningful, society-centric policies into an individual-centric culture like the U.S.

My jokes about becoming a libertarian aside, I do find myself chafing at the level of government involvement in what I consider to be personal decisions.

What do you mean, I can't have a sidewalk sale whenever I want to?!

What do you mean, stores aren't allowed to do business on Sundays?!

What do you mean, I'm required to retire at age 65?!

I also learned recently that I'm required to give two months of notice at work if I want to quit my job. Two months! I nearly laughed out loud in the HR debriefing.

All of which is a long way to say that there are times when I just need to sit on the couch and watch South Park to restore my faith in the glory of individual freedom.

I also mentioned our idea of jetting off to other countries at a moment's notice. This gap between expectation and reality is a little sensitive for me, since much of the appeal in moving to the Netherlands came from the more-or-less unlimited opportunities for travel.

Don't get me wrong: since we moved, we've been on the move! We've taken trips to Poland, Slovakia, Germany, Indonesia, South Africa, and the UK, and we're looking forward to weekend jaunts to Stockholm and Paris this summer. (John's also had a series of work trips to Argentina and France, and we've also made it back to the U.S. a couple of times.)

The reality, however, is that we still have closet hardware to install and clothes to wash and trips to the grocery store to make every weekend. Which means that the idea of leaving for Rome at 5 p.m. on a Friday and coming back at 9 p.m. on a Sunday is appealing...but also sort of exhausting.

And despite my great desire to see the world, there are times when the last thing I want to do is hop on a plane to Croatia, where the chances of me being able to communicate effectively are even lower than my chances of communicating effectively in Dutch right here in Nijmegen.

As a related side note, we've also discovered that our appetite for adventure is substantially less in our country of residence than it is when we're on vacation.

If we were in, say, Estonia, and someone offered us a deep-fried ball full of thick veal gravy, we might give it a raised eyebrow or two, but I have no doubt that we would eat it and gleefully document the event.

In the Netherlands, where said item appears regularly on the lunch menu at John's cafeteria, we have but two words for that particular form of Dutch culinary hideousness: "No" and "way".

And last but not least, there is speaking another language.

Technically, this has been a success: I can generally function in Dutch in the workplace (+/-), and I can make it through most interactions with my neighbors or at places of business in Nijmegen.

But: my day-to-day experience as a Dutch speaker is not quite as noble and glorious as one imagines when discussing language study over a beer in Madison, Wisconsin.

For one thing, there's a big difference between being able to function in another language and being able to actually express oneself in another language.

And there's also the part where if I've had to speak Dutch for more than an hour at a time, all I want to do is go home and crawl under the bed and pretend I'm a sea urchin.

Who doesn't have to worry about conjugating verbs in any language.

Armageddon

You know that whole April showers bring May flowers deal?

From our outpost in the Netherlands, I fear that the reality is something more like Armageddon-like storm clouds in April foreshadow continuous rain until June.

It doesn't rhyme, but it does have sort of a catchy meteorological lyricism. If I do say so myself.

Speaking of Armageddon, we've been enjoying the very best kind of weekend: the kind that's four days long. For reasons we don't really understand, Easter is a major holiday in the Netherlands, and so we were sprung from the bonds of working on Good Friday and Second Easter Day (otherwise known as the day after Easter).

We started our Easter off with a major treat: a heartfelt delivery of homemade cookies on a scary Bambi plate. Much to my delight, our downstairs neighbor really outdid himself with the decorations.

Unfortunately, it was beyond the bounds of my Dutch vocabulary to grill Marek on the anatomical details of his cookie cutters. So we're not really sure what the non-bunny, non-egg Easter shape is supposed to be. A ham, perhaps? Or a festive Easter slug?



From there, we moved on to what might be the coolest art installation of all time: art-crumbles.nl.

The basic idea is that 30 or so artists have installed their work in an abandoned, unheated, unlit, immensely creepy old school on the outskirts of town.

To get there, we hopped on our bicycles and headed in the direction of the aforementioned Armageddon, although we managed to reach our destination and slip into the building before the skies opened up.

The building itself was a piece of art, with classrooms and cafeterias and hallways in various states of disrepair. There were a few signs of vandalism, but it looked more like the school had been closed up after the last day of classes ten years ago and left to be reclaimed by the brambles growing up around it.

The art, which was hidden away in hallways and dark classrooms, ranged from tiny wax figures to installations the size of a giant lecture hall:

Some of them were kinetic, like the symphony of small appliances hooked to a record-player-like contraption that controlled their movement. Or the totally freaky merry-go-round with legless horses, going in reverse.

Others were interactive, like the narrow hallway filled with long ropes attached to bells in a grid at the ceiling.

Since the entire city of Nijmegen is shut down for Easter and Second Easter Day, we half-expected that we would arrive to a boarded-up building and a note on the door to the effect of "Even though we said we would be open every Saturday and Sunday in April, it's Easter! Go home, you freak!"

(I'm not exaggerating when I say that everything is closed. We went to the grocery store five times on Friday and Saturday to make sure we had all of the ingredients we would need for the long weekend.)

Instead, we were pleasantly surprised. Not only was it open, but it was full of people of all ages, including little kids with their parents, older couples, and teenagers. People even brought their dogs.

As it turns out, nothing says "Family Easter Outing" like edgy contemporary art in a dark, scary, abandoned school building!