The Dutch call it "the crocus-holiday" -- the last week in February is a vacation for schoolkids and their parents. I haven't seen any crocuses yet save at the Bloemenmarkt, Amsterdam's floating flower market, but we are taking advantage of the break to enjoy a last (I hope) gasp of winter: skiing in the Swiss Alps. We'll be staying at the home of my mother's best friend from high school, who just happens to live in a chalet on the border of Switzerland and France.
So this channel may go dark for another week or so. Hope to have some great photos (and maybe a story or two) when we return.
Sunday, February 21, 2010
Wednesday, February 17, 2010
Bicycle update
1) Monday, first day riding to school with the kids. Zander seemed to struggle; claimed his legs didn't work right in the early morning. Turned out he had a flat tire. And I mean flat.
2) Wednesday: Rode home from the school with Clara seated behind me on the pannier rack. I must be going native.
2) Wednesday: Rode home from the school with Clara seated behind me on the pannier rack. I must be going native.
Tuesday, February 16, 2010
Listening to Amsterdam
Sounds. I've never thought of myself as being particularly oriented towards auditory experience, but even before we arrived in Holland I found myself looking forward to some of the sounds that would be different here. Police and ambulance sirens. The announcements in train stations, which are often preceded by a sort of musical arpeggio. And of course, the sound of people speaking in Dutch.
I was going to wait to write about sounds until I had made some recordings I could post, but it is very difficult to catch the best sounds. They pass quickly, and frequently I am not conscious of them until after they have passed and I hear the imaginary echo in my head. So if I wait to mention this until I have a decent library of recordings, the thought will probably pass me by, too.
Clara's very first experience of Europe was a sound. We were coming along the jetway from our plane at Schiphol Airport when we heard a siren in the distance. "It sounds like a movie," she said, and I had to agree. The two-note repetition of a European siren (I think the interval is a fourth), which doesn't swoop like an American siren, is fixed in my mind in association with movies about the second world war.
Another sound that has become a friend to me here is the recorded voice of the man who announces the stops on the trams. It's the same voice on all the lines, a rich, deep, friendly voice, a little bit cultivated, and very precise. At some of the stops he repeats his announcement in English, and I love the sound of his British-inflected English in a Dutch accent as he says, "While exiting the vehicle, please remember to check out with your public transport chipcard."
My bedroom on the second floor of our apartment (first floor to Europeans) overlooks the street, and it's a quiet street so pedestrian voices carry. Not being able to understand their Dutch makes it easier to sleep through the conversations, but English words are often thrown casually into conversations and the recognizable phrases that float up to my room are always a welcome surprise.
Other characteristic sounds I can hear from my window are bicycle bells (just like the one you had on your tricycle as a child) and the rattle of chains as people lock and unlock their bikes from the long racks in front of our building. Everyone here (us included) uses heavy, heavy chains and padlocks to deter thieves. Taking the chain on and off always makes me feel a little like Marley's ghost.
The sound of footsteps echoing down the street is a really pleasant sound, one that speaks of long narrow streets, infrequent car traffic and nice shoes (it is astonishing how many women wear heels here, both on their bikes and along brick-paved streets). Our neighborhood, De Pijp ("the pipe") is said to be so named because of its long, pipe-like narrow streets.
This morning I went to the street market on the way back from dropping the kids at school, and the vendors were still setting up. The sounds of the vendors calling to one another, laughing and joking, punctuated by the occasional crash of a piece of lumber falling into place (they set up huge canopies for their booths) or the beep of a truck backing up to a loading dock made me feel like I was in a movie. You could construct the entire story of market day using just the sounds.
But my very favorite sound is the sound of a motor scooter accelerating down a long, empty street. It's a sound I associate with European cities (although perhaps also with San Francisco). I'm certainly not a motorhead in any sense of the term, so I don't know what it is about the sound but it seems to speak of freedom, playfulness, a touch of danger and a dash of devil-may-care. Do you remember the New Wave film Diva, about a young postal delivery boy who finds a bootleg tape of an aria in the satchel of his scooter? Perhaps that's where my fixation on this sound began.
It's a romantic, evocative sound. I'll do my best to capture it and post it here but for now you just have to imagine it. Or go see Diva.
I was going to wait to write about sounds until I had made some recordings I could post, but it is very difficult to catch the best sounds. They pass quickly, and frequently I am not conscious of them until after they have passed and I hear the imaginary echo in my head. So if I wait to mention this until I have a decent library of recordings, the thought will probably pass me by, too.
Clara's very first experience of Europe was a sound. We were coming along the jetway from our plane at Schiphol Airport when we heard a siren in the distance. "It sounds like a movie," she said, and I had to agree. The two-note repetition of a European siren (I think the interval is a fourth), which doesn't swoop like an American siren, is fixed in my mind in association with movies about the second world war.
Another sound that has become a friend to me here is the recorded voice of the man who announces the stops on the trams. It's the same voice on all the lines, a rich, deep, friendly voice, a little bit cultivated, and very precise. At some of the stops he repeats his announcement in English, and I love the sound of his British-inflected English in a Dutch accent as he says, "While exiting the vehicle, please remember to check out with your public transport chipcard."
My bedroom on the second floor of our apartment (first floor to Europeans) overlooks the street, and it's a quiet street so pedestrian voices carry. Not being able to understand their Dutch makes it easier to sleep through the conversations, but English words are often thrown casually into conversations and the recognizable phrases that float up to my room are always a welcome surprise.
Other characteristic sounds I can hear from my window are bicycle bells (just like the one you had on your tricycle as a child) and the rattle of chains as people lock and unlock their bikes from the long racks in front of our building. Everyone here (us included) uses heavy, heavy chains and padlocks to deter thieves. Taking the chain on and off always makes me feel a little like Marley's ghost.
The sound of footsteps echoing down the street is a really pleasant sound, one that speaks of long narrow streets, infrequent car traffic and nice shoes (it is astonishing how many women wear heels here, both on their bikes and along brick-paved streets). Our neighborhood, De Pijp ("the pipe") is said to be so named because of its long, pipe-like narrow streets.
This morning I went to the street market on the way back from dropping the kids at school, and the vendors were still setting up. The sounds of the vendors calling to one another, laughing and joking, punctuated by the occasional crash of a piece of lumber falling into place (they set up huge canopies for their booths) or the beep of a truck backing up to a loading dock made me feel like I was in a movie. You could construct the entire story of market day using just the sounds.
But my very favorite sound is the sound of a motor scooter accelerating down a long, empty street. It's a sound I associate with European cities (although perhaps also with San Francisco). I'm certainly not a motorhead in any sense of the term, so I don't know what it is about the sound but it seems to speak of freedom, playfulness, a touch of danger and a dash of devil-may-care. Do you remember the New Wave film Diva, about a young postal delivery boy who finds a bootleg tape of an aria in the satchel of his scooter? Perhaps that's where my fixation on this sound began.
It's a romantic, evocative sound. I'll do my best to capture it and post it here but for now you just have to imagine it. Or go see Diva.
Sunday, February 14, 2010
Snow day
Snow this morning. Sunday mornings are always quiet here, and the snow muffles things further. Went for a walk and took my camera. Unfortunately, I forgot to charge the batteries -- but I got a couple of nice shots before the camera died.
Friday, February 12, 2010
Minor challenges
I know there are many things you might expect to read about in this blog that I have not yet addressed: Van Gogh, Anne Frank, extraordinarily tall people, tulips, cheese, "coffeeshops" (sorry, if we do sample that side of Amsterdam, you won't read about it here), the beauty of this amazing city, the "Muslim problem", legal prostitution, my attempts to learn Dutch. I do hope to get to many of these topics. But as far as I can tell, the best way to blog -- or at least, for me, the only sustainable way -- is to write about what happens to be on my mind on a given day. And today it's all about struggle.
Don't get me wrong: every time I think about complaining--about ANYTHING--I remember how incredibly lucky I am to be here, and do my best to let it go. Every day here is a gift.
That said, it is not always easy learning to manage family life in a foreign city. For starters, not knowing the language means everything takes twice as long. Again, one can't complain; the Dutch are almost always able and happy -- proud, even -- to speak English with you.
So language is only an issue when it comes to the written word. Such as on the tram, when you are staring at the button on by the door, wondering if the caption beside it says "Press this or the driver will not stop when you want to get off," or "Press this only in an emergency or face prosecution and stiff fines." Or at the supermarket, where I've given up on hauling out my dictionary to read the ingredients and now simply trust my instincts.
But I am still wondering what was in those strange-tasting hamburger patties I bought last week.
It took me a week to learn how to use the clothes washer. I couldn't turn it on, even after taking my laptop into the bathroom so I could type all those instructions into "Google Translate" while perched on the (closed) toilet in front of the darn thing. The handyman had to explain it to me. And I still don't understand the dryer -- everything seems to get about 80% dry and then tumble around intermittently for the next 3 or 4 hours with no further drying. I take it all out and hang it over the stair rail.
Don't even get me started on the phone. Every time I call my voice mail, a pleasant female voice tells me to "toots zeven" for something something and "toots negen" for something else, along with 7 or eight other options, and I give up in frustration. I think I'll just let all the messages pile up until I throw away the phone when we go home. I don't get that many calls, anyway.
Internet banking is a fascinating experience. They give you a little device called an e.dentifier that looks like a calculator. You have to log into the website, then put your bank card into the e.dentifier, which talks to your computer -- the device gives you a code that you type into the computer, which then gives you a code that you have to type into the device. Marvelous, ingenious . . . but WAY more complicated than it needs to be.
I've always had a romantic vision of food-gathering in Europe: the daily visit to the bakery and the butcher and the grocer, the little string bag for your purchases. But this notion was not based on the reality of feeding a voracious family of four. In actuality, while there is indeed a bakery and a cheese store and a nut store (really! a nut store!), I mostly go to the supermarket up the block, because that's the easiest way to find the many things I need like lunchbox supplies and toilet paper. And I have to go there just about every day. The Dutch may be big (very big) but their food comes in very small packages. So we run out quickly.
I ought to be thankful for the compact sizes, as I am a cheapskate who always goes for the bargain size when it's available and would surely injure myself trying to sling it over my shoulder to carry it home. Even without 120-oz laundry soap jugs, I am a lousy judge of what I can comfortably carry and often find myself struggling up the block like an overworked burro. The payoff will come with the warmer weather, when I can show off my newly-defined biceps and deltoids.
As for getting around, I love that I can walk, bike or take the tram everywhere, but the car-free urban lifestyle gets exhausting: I have to plan out each day like a military campaign. Without a car to throw everything into, I need to carry everything I will need for the day: laptop, lunch, maps, snacks, soccer gear (for Zander, not me!), etc. There's also an edge of anxiety that comes with not yet knowing the transit system well enough yet to improvise: if I have errands to do, I search up all my addresses and tram routes on the Internet the night before and carry them around on Post-it notes.
And it's COLD here. Very, very cold and slippery. I went down on an icy patch yesterday, bike and all. My first concern was for the just-repaired laptop I was carrying on my back (fine); my second worry was for my new (used) bike (also fine). Myself, a little bruised. But also fine. Fine, fine, fine.
Really, fine. After all, I'm in Amsterdam!
Don't get me wrong: every time I think about complaining--about ANYTHING--I remember how incredibly lucky I am to be here, and do my best to let it go. Every day here is a gift.
That said, it is not always easy learning to manage family life in a foreign city. For starters, not knowing the language means everything takes twice as long. Again, one can't complain; the Dutch are almost always able and happy -- proud, even -- to speak English with you.
So language is only an issue when it comes to the written word. Such as on the tram, when you are staring at the button on by the door, wondering if the caption beside it says "Press this or the driver will not stop when you want to get off," or "Press this only in an emergency or face prosecution and stiff fines." Or at the supermarket, where I've given up on hauling out my dictionary to read the ingredients and now simply trust my instincts.
But I am still wondering what was in those strange-tasting hamburger patties I bought last week.
It took me a week to learn how to use the clothes washer. I couldn't turn it on, even after taking my laptop into the bathroom so I could type all those instructions into "Google Translate" while perched on the (closed) toilet in front of the darn thing. The handyman had to explain it to me. And I still don't understand the dryer -- everything seems to get about 80% dry and then tumble around intermittently for the next 3 or 4 hours with no further drying. I take it all out and hang it over the stair rail.
Don't even get me started on the phone. Every time I call my voice mail, a pleasant female voice tells me to "toots zeven" for something something and "toots negen" for something else, along with 7 or eight other options, and I give up in frustration. I think I'll just let all the messages pile up until I throw away the phone when we go home. I don't get that many calls, anyway.
Internet banking is a fascinating experience. They give you a little device called an e.dentifier that looks like a calculator. You have to log into the website, then put your bank card into the e.dentifier, which talks to your computer -- the device gives you a code that you type into the computer, which then gives you a code that you have to type into the device. Marvelous, ingenious . . . but WAY more complicated than it needs to be.
I've always had a romantic vision of food-gathering in Europe: the daily visit to the bakery and the butcher and the grocer, the little string bag for your purchases. But this notion was not based on the reality of feeding a voracious family of four. In actuality, while there is indeed a bakery and a cheese store and a nut store (really! a nut store!), I mostly go to the supermarket up the block, because that's the easiest way to find the many things I need like lunchbox supplies and toilet paper. And I have to go there just about every day. The Dutch may be big (very big) but their food comes in very small packages. So we run out quickly.
I ought to be thankful for the compact sizes, as I am a cheapskate who always goes for the bargain size when it's available and would surely injure myself trying to sling it over my shoulder to carry it home. Even without 120-oz laundry soap jugs, I am a lousy judge of what I can comfortably carry and often find myself struggling up the block like an overworked burro. The payoff will come with the warmer weather, when I can show off my newly-defined biceps and deltoids.
As for getting around, I love that I can walk, bike or take the tram everywhere, but the car-free urban lifestyle gets exhausting: I have to plan out each day like a military campaign. Without a car to throw everything into, I need to carry everything I will need for the day: laptop, lunch, maps, snacks, soccer gear (for Zander, not me!), etc. There's also an edge of anxiety that comes with not yet knowing the transit system well enough yet to improvise: if I have errands to do, I search up all my addresses and tram routes on the Internet the night before and carry them around on Post-it notes.
And it's COLD here. Very, very cold and slippery. I went down on an icy patch yesterday, bike and all. My first concern was for the just-repaired laptop I was carrying on my back (fine); my second worry was for my new (used) bike (also fine). Myself, a little bruised. But also fine. Fine, fine, fine.
Really, fine. After all, I'm in Amsterdam!
Thursday, February 4, 2010
Getting lost
It didn't take long to crack my fear of biking in Amsterdam. The secret is in the planning. The first few times out I pored over the map beforehand to find the most direct route to where I was going, with a secondary goal of staying off the busiest streets, but I've now learned that I was operating on the wrong principles. Most direct is not necessarily better, and busy does not necessarily mean dangerous. The important thing is to find a route that offers a good bike lane, and there are lots of them here. Some of the busiest streets have the best bike lanes, sometimes even a separate lane with a divider buffering it from car traffic. Better yet, Amsterdam has some veritable bike highways, with two-way bike traffic and no cars. Some of these routes even pass under the main thoroughfares, so there's no stopping at intersections. It's worth taking a slightly longer route to where you're going to take advantage of these.
Isn't it interesting that in the US, where everything is big and spread out, most of our cities can't get it together to create rights-of-way for bikes, whereas in the tiny, cramped, entirely built-out environment of Amsterdam, there's room for bike lanes just about everywhere?
I'm pleased to report that I've mapped out a 15- or 20-minute bike route from our home in De Pijp to the kids' school that only requires us to stop twice at intersections, and that includes a bikes-only section along a canal and a passage through the lovely Beatrixpark. I think I can go ahead and purchase a bike for Zander now (Clara already has one, a purple-pink beauty) and proceed with the bike-to-school plan without my parental anxiety meter going off the chart.
Anyway, back to the part about getting lost. I love maps, and am pretty adept at using them to get around, but the streets here are small, with long names that change every few blocks. The kids' school, for instance, is on Prinsesirenestraat; go a couple of blocks and it's called Fredroeskestraat, then quickly changes to Usbaanpad. To capture all this information, the maps use very tiny print, presenting quite a challenge to my never-mind-how-old-they-are eyes. So I get lost.
The good news, though, is getting lost is one of the best ways to see a place. As you slow down and cast about for landmarks, you begin to notice more details. The edge of anxiety that comes from being lost -- in a foreign country, no less! -- adds excitement. And not knowing where you are going means you don't know what you will find.
This morning after dropping off the kids, I decided to ride my bike to the Mac repair store to check on the status of my beloved laptop, which crashed last week (hence the lack of photos to date on this blog; luckily, I backed up a few days before the crash, so I hope soon to be reunited with both my computer and my photo archive). It was an arrogant move -- the trip would take me through totally uncharted (to me) neighborhoods on the outskirts of the city. So of course I got lost.
And I'm so glad I did! I rode for a while on a kind of bicycle beltway -- the tweewieler I-270 (or Rte. 128) of Amsterdam, with commuters in business attire whizzing along in both directions, messenger bags strapped across their shoulders and jaunty, oh-so-European scarves flying. Then, suddenly, I was meandering through a neighborhood of small suburban homes. Something about the houses drew my attention -- it took me a moment, though, to realize that they were all houseboats! It was a houseboat suburb. And unlike the houseboats along the canals in the central city, which while their fixtures often give them an air of permanence, still generally look like floating boxes, these houses seemed as much a part of the land as the water: they had yards, with trees and other plantings. And they were built of -- stone? and brick? Maybe they were less houseboats and more built-in-the-water houses. I'll go back another day with my camera and investigate further. In any event, it was quite exotic, as suburban developments go.
It took me a while to get my bearings, but I discovered another principle for navigating Amsterdam: use the waterways to orient yourself. The web of canals is easier to follow on the map than the web of streets; once you can find a body of water, and figure out what it's called, the rest is easy.
Let's hope it doesn't get too easy; I'd prefer to continue getting lost.
Isn't it interesting that in the US, where everything is big and spread out, most of our cities can't get it together to create rights-of-way for bikes, whereas in the tiny, cramped, entirely built-out environment of Amsterdam, there's room for bike lanes just about everywhere?
I'm pleased to report that I've mapped out a 15- or 20-minute bike route from our home in De Pijp to the kids' school that only requires us to stop twice at intersections, and that includes a bikes-only section along a canal and a passage through the lovely Beatrixpark. I think I can go ahead and purchase a bike for Zander now (Clara already has one, a purple-pink beauty) and proceed with the bike-to-school plan without my parental anxiety meter going off the chart.
Anyway, back to the part about getting lost. I love maps, and am pretty adept at using them to get around, but the streets here are small, with long names that change every few blocks. The kids' school, for instance, is on Prinsesirenestraat; go a couple of blocks and it's called Fredroeskestraat, then quickly changes to Usbaanpad. To capture all this information, the maps use very tiny print, presenting quite a challenge to my never-mind-how-old-they-are eyes. So I get lost.
The good news, though, is getting lost is one of the best ways to see a place. As you slow down and cast about for landmarks, you begin to notice more details. The edge of anxiety that comes from being lost -- in a foreign country, no less! -- adds excitement. And not knowing where you are going means you don't know what you will find.
This morning after dropping off the kids, I decided to ride my bike to the Mac repair store to check on the status of my beloved laptop, which crashed last week (hence the lack of photos to date on this blog; luckily, I backed up a few days before the crash, so I hope soon to be reunited with both my computer and my photo archive). It was an arrogant move -- the trip would take me through totally uncharted (to me) neighborhoods on the outskirts of the city. So of course I got lost.
And I'm so glad I did! I rode for a while on a kind of bicycle beltway -- the tweewieler I-270 (or Rte. 128) of Amsterdam, with commuters in business attire whizzing along in both directions, messenger bags strapped across their shoulders and jaunty, oh-so-European scarves flying. Then, suddenly, I was meandering through a neighborhood of small suburban homes. Something about the houses drew my attention -- it took me a moment, though, to realize that they were all houseboats! It was a houseboat suburb. And unlike the houseboats along the canals in the central city, which while their fixtures often give them an air of permanence, still generally look like floating boxes, these houses seemed as much a part of the land as the water: they had yards, with trees and other plantings. And they were built of -- stone? and brick? Maybe they were less houseboats and more built-in-the-water houses. I'll go back another day with my camera and investigate further. In any event, it was quite exotic, as suburban developments go.
It took me a while to get my bearings, but I discovered another principle for navigating Amsterdam: use the waterways to orient yourself. The web of canals is easier to follow on the map than the web of streets; once you can find a body of water, and figure out what it's called, the rest is easy.
Let's hope it doesn't get too easy; I'd prefer to continue getting lost.
Tuesday, February 2, 2010
School in Holland
School in Holland is amazing! Zander and I both agree.
When you step in the door, welcoming, kind kids are immediately at your side, telling you where your next class is (or where your class is, in the primary school). They show you around, help you get your books, and sit next to you in class (many have asked me for each class these two days of class!) By the end of the day Monday, I felt like I had known them for a long time!
Classes are pretty easy (even in some of the hard ones (geography, for instance), the teacher explains it easily, helping you along. There are less heavy books, and less homework!
Going from class to class in MYP (Middle Years Program), people just bring shoulder bags with their books inside for each class.
The gym is nice, you have to take a bus to get to it! The classes all have smartboards, and the teachers are quite nice. We do fun experiments in science (for instance, today we worked with microscopes. Our teacher explained to us how to use them and what the pieces were of the microscope, then set us free to examine seaweed leaves! After that, we were allowed to look at whatever we wanted (hair, cotton swabs, sponge, velcro, soap). It was very cool!)
At an international school, since everyone is used to/has experienced coming and going, they get how it feels to be new, and help you along.
Over all, schools are nice, and so are the people in them. It's a great experience!
My Fiets is My Only Carriage
Of course I knew before coming here that Amsterdammers love their bikes. I didn't fully understand what that meant, though. They use their bikes the way we use our cars. Bikes are the default mode of transportation. We arrived in terrible weather -- in three weeks, I think we've seen the sun twice. We've had snow, sleet and hail -- and they don't salt the roads like we do. Some days there's slush, some days ice, but it's always slippery. Nevertheless, the natives are zipping around on their bikes. And talking on their cell phones. And carrying things! Big things, like potted plants, DVD players, bags of groceries. The other day I saw a man riding while holding a cat in a pet carrier at his side.Many of them are also transporting multiple children. The kids ride on the handlebars, on the bar in front of Mom or Dad, on the luggage racks, and in these wheelbarrow-like contraptions attached to the front of the bike.
And no one -- NO ONE -- wears a helmet. I have seen exactly one helmet in three weeks.
Part of what makes the Dutch feel safe on their bikes is the cultural presumption in favor of bikes. Speed limits for cars are low, there are bike lanes on many major streets, there are bike lights and bike crossings, and the ubiquity of bikes means cars -- and pedestrians -- are constantly on their guard for hurtling tweewielers.
Dennis and I purchased traditional Amsterdam bikes -- called Oma fiets, or Granny bikes -- within a week of arrival. We got a bike for Clara this weekend, and are still looking for one for Zander. The plan is to ride together to school, which is 40 minutes away by tram but 15 minutes by bike. But after riding around for a bit myself, I am certain we won't be doing this at least until the ice is gone (Dennis has taken a couple of spills on ice while riding his fiets to work).But further, I anticipate weeks of practice. The roads are intimidating! You stop at an intersection, and by the time the light turns green, you are surrounded by 8 or 10 experienced bikers, tall Dutch people who can put a foot on the ground at a stoplight without coming off the seat, pedals perfectly oriented for a fast take-off (remember when you had a foot-brake bike? You can't rotate the pedals backwards to get into take-off position!) You have to plan ahead as you are coasting to a stop, otherwise your start will be an embarrassing and potentially dangerous hop-skip-wobble as you maneuver one of the pedals to the front where you can push down and get some momentum.
Then, once you are in transit, you are constantly being overtaken by daredevil Dutchmen and Dutchwomen passing you on the left, startling you out of your reverie or canal-gazing trance with a jingle of their bell. Not to mention the motor scooters, which back home seemed the greenest alternative, but here seem like the Hummers of the bike lane, rudely muscling in with their loud motors and exhaust and heart-attack-inducing horns. . .
OK, I'll stop. I actually LOVE being able to bike around this city. When I don't feel overwhelmed, I feel empowered. But will I be able to let my kids do it? I think I'll shop around a bit more before deciding on a fiets for Zander. And there MUST be a store somewhere in this city that sells helmets.
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