Wednesday, March 18, 2009
Few places here have comfy chairs.
Few places here have comfy chairs. I don’t get it. The apartment where we’re staying--not so comfy--Pete’s been getting knee spasms b/c of the particular build of the couch. The place where we're moving to--very stylish but also not comfy. I blame Ikea. We just came home from viewing another apartment which had fabulously comfortable chairs of all sorts – including a reading settee set in a bay window…but the location was too far out. Hpmh. Fortunately Pete’s work is giving everyone (a little randomly, I daresay) a Fatboy beanbag chair. Am very excited about the comfort possibilities this presents.
Tuesday, March 17, 2009
St patty's gone bust
St Patty’s Day has been a total bust. Wandered thru town all day today trying to find either Guinness, Baileys, or green cupcakes. Barring those, looked for green icing (or white icing plus green food colouring) but also to no avail. Very sad… Finally found Guinness at an “Everything British” store, but were 3EUR a bottle and as I don’t even like Guinness, there was no way I was gonna pay that! It was nice, however, to speak with a British shopkeeper. In many ways I feel like I do in stores in Montreal – apologetic for being English. In Montreal this anglophone guilt is lessened by the fact that I can and do speak French, but here, I feel personal guilt of English cultural domination and wish to exempt myself from any claim to linguistic manifest destiny… Surely only a Canadian could be so apologetic.
Friday, March 13, 2009
Expats are good to find Pt 2
Pete and I spent the weekend with a curious lot who we are growing to love – a Canadian logician (theoretical, not applied, don’t you know), a (singing) British radio chemist, and a sweetheart of a Dutch freelance journalist. The Canadian, Spenser comes from the Greater Toronto Area and I was surprised how quickly I identified and felt grateful for his Canadianisms... British Lyn the radio chemist is generously aware that things here are even more perplexing for us in Holland than they are for him; and he helpfully explains all manner of European trivia (more of this to come below).
Spenser spearheaded an epic (his words, not mine!) roast of apple and prune stuffed duck for us all on Saturday night. The outcome of this culinary feat had to wait for Sunday, however because, after microwaving the thing (they call it a magnetron here!!) and baptizing it in boiling water, we still couldn’t defrost it on time for same night prep.
We therefore spent Saturday watching the Irish (?) TV series “Father Ted” on DVD as introduced to us by British Lyn. It’s an offbeat situation comedy depicting the lives of three somewhat naïve, rather repressed Irish Catholic priests living together on a remote island off the west coast of Ireland. Um, weird. Weird and strangely enjoyable. Really, very funny…check it out if you get a chance.
One particular bizarre and hilarious episode centers around the Eurovision contest, an annual competition held in Europe (not only the EU) in a bid to foster greater European unity. From what I can tell, however, much of it all disintegrates into kitsch, controversy and tears for all involved; it is generally thought of as a bit of a joke in Western European countries. This particular Father Ted episode sees our Irish priests entering the contest with the following self-composed song, delivered almost entirely in one single note:
My Lovely Horse
My lovely horse, running through the field
Where are you going, with your fetlocks* blowing in the wind?
I want to shower you with sugar lumps, and ride you over fences
Polish your hooves every single day, and bring you to the horse dentist
My lovely horse, you're a pony no more
Running around with a man on your back, like a train in the night
* fetlocks, I believe, form part of a horse’s leg bone and, as such have difficulty ‘blowing in the wind’...
You really must see the Utube clip of the song and attendant dream sequence music video:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZQmIWMwKCtA&feature=related
Speaking of horses, and any parts thereof, a day prior to all this I had prepared horsemeat sausage for Pete. I had obtained it on an outing with a friend during which our only goal was to find the free ferrying system and ride the waves wherever they may lead. They took us across the harbour for a disappointing three minutes’ worth of ride (but it was a free three minutes!!! And if you went back and forth a number of times it could be a nice long cruise!) to North Amsterdam wherein sprawls a worrying mix of port refuse, industry and almost-suburbia-box stores. One might say we set out on an epic quest (though I wouldn’t) and that we were greatly disillusioned. The discovery of the horsemeat, however, and the free sample that sealed the deal did make up for the letdown considerably.
Incidentally, Spenser has offered to mastermind future preparations of out of the ordinary animal meats. I am a bit worried by British Lyn’s eagerness to cook swan next time. Apparently it’s out of the question in Britain, the regency having claimed all swan in British waters as belonging solely to their own person…
Spenser spearheaded an epic (his words, not mine!) roast of apple and prune stuffed duck for us all on Saturday night. The outcome of this culinary feat had to wait for Sunday, however because, after microwaving the thing (they call it a magnetron here!!) and baptizing it in boiling water, we still couldn’t defrost it on time for same night prep.
We therefore spent Saturday watching the Irish (?) TV series “Father Ted” on DVD as introduced to us by British Lyn. It’s an offbeat situation comedy depicting the lives of three somewhat naïve, rather repressed Irish Catholic priests living together on a remote island off the west coast of Ireland. Um, weird. Weird and strangely enjoyable. Really, very funny…check it out if you get a chance.
One particular bizarre and hilarious episode centers around the Eurovision contest, an annual competition held in Europe (not only the EU) in a bid to foster greater European unity. From what I can tell, however, much of it all disintegrates into kitsch, controversy and tears for all involved; it is generally thought of as a bit of a joke in Western European countries. This particular Father Ted episode sees our Irish priests entering the contest with the following self-composed song, delivered almost entirely in one single note:
My Lovely Horse
My lovely horse, running through the field
Where are you going, with your fetlocks* blowing in the wind?
I want to shower you with sugar lumps, and ride you over fences
Polish your hooves every single day, and bring you to the horse dentist
My lovely horse, you're a pony no more
Running around with a man on your back, like a train in the night
* fetlocks, I believe, form part of a horse’s leg bone and, as such have difficulty ‘blowing in the wind’...
You really must see the Utube clip of the song and attendant dream sequence music video:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZQmIWMwKCtA&feature=related
Speaking of horses, and any parts thereof, a day prior to all this I had prepared horsemeat sausage for Pete. I had obtained it on an outing with a friend during which our only goal was to find the free ferrying system and ride the waves wherever they may lead. They took us across the harbour for a disappointing three minutes’ worth of ride (but it was a free three minutes!!! And if you went back and forth a number of times it could be a nice long cruise!) to North Amsterdam wherein sprawls a worrying mix of port refuse, industry and almost-suburbia-box stores. One might say we set out on an epic quest (though I wouldn’t) and that we were greatly disillusioned. The discovery of the horsemeat, however, and the free sample that sealed the deal did make up for the letdown considerably.
Incidentally, Spenser has offered to mastermind future preparations of out of the ordinary animal meats. I am a bit worried by British Lyn’s eagerness to cook swan next time. Apparently it’s out of the question in Britain, the regency having claimed all swan in British waters as belonging solely to their own person…
Thursday, March 12, 2009
Expats are good to find
It’s all well and good to go for full immersion in a new culture, but I have found such joy meeting expats in this multinational city. I’ve just come home (slightly tipsy, in fact) from a fantastic dinner with a fellow Canadian I met at a recent book club (held at Waterstone’s: “The source for Books in English” as the ad line has it). It turns out we both did our undergrads in Montreal and trained for Secondary teaching at the Ontario Institute for Studies in Education. Moreover, as the evening wrapped up, we realized we take the same tram (aboveground light rail- excellent system) home; get off at the same stop; and…wait for it…live on the same street. We had first rate conversation and made plans to do more together.
I’ve been reflecting that it stands to reason that the expats who find themselves drawn to living abroad and to this city in particular are likely to be kindred souls on some level. For starters, a measure of adventure is likely to be shared. Perhaps I will resolve to guilt myself less about all the foreign nationals I’ve met in proportion to native Amsterdammers and simply enjoy the fantastic range of individuals I am meeting on a daily basis. They do constitute an entire third culture (or many layers thereof, if you prefer).
As I’ve mentioned, I’ve been spending much of my time sitting in cafés reading and writing poetry etc. I’ve neglected thus far to mention all the varied people I’ve met at these cafes. There’s the Greek man with a Bulgarian/Polish/German/Dutch partner (she speaks all of the above, plus English) who has given me excellent travel advice. There’s an extraordinarily intuitive musician (an artist, really, in the broadest sense) originally from New Zealand with whom I have begun some collaboration, and the sweet Dutch man with his South Carolinian wife who work with the city’s down and out. I have been blessed by these lives and am grateful for the different kinds of light they shine on my life as I engage in my daily navel gazing! If traveling doesn’t change a person in their essence, the mere fact of a broadened perspective must make a person more gracious, more able to love, more aware of areas for growth. Again, I am grateful for all those I’ve met thus far.
More must be said about the café itself in which I find myself so often during the week. But I don’t feel like writing about that right now, as I am sleepy!
I’ve been reflecting that it stands to reason that the expats who find themselves drawn to living abroad and to this city in particular are likely to be kindred souls on some level. For starters, a measure of adventure is likely to be shared. Perhaps I will resolve to guilt myself less about all the foreign nationals I’ve met in proportion to native Amsterdammers and simply enjoy the fantastic range of individuals I am meeting on a daily basis. They do constitute an entire third culture (or many layers thereof, if you prefer).
As I’ve mentioned, I’ve been spending much of my time sitting in cafés reading and writing poetry etc. I’ve neglected thus far to mention all the varied people I’ve met at these cafes. There’s the Greek man with a Bulgarian/Polish/German/Dutch partner (she speaks all of the above, plus English) who has given me excellent travel advice. There’s an extraordinarily intuitive musician (an artist, really, in the broadest sense) originally from New Zealand with whom I have begun some collaboration, and the sweet Dutch man with his South Carolinian wife who work with the city’s down and out. I have been blessed by these lives and am grateful for the different kinds of light they shine on my life as I engage in my daily navel gazing! If traveling doesn’t change a person in their essence, the mere fact of a broadened perspective must make a person more gracious, more able to love, more aware of areas for growth. Again, I am grateful for all those I’ve met thus far.
More must be said about the café itself in which I find myself so often during the week. But I don’t feel like writing about that right now, as I am sleepy!
Concerning apartments
When it rains the apartment here smells of cat urine but it's cozy. The place--our temporary flat-- feels like an old cabin in cottage country: the ones built in the 70s with leaks and stains on the ceiling. For a while we mistakenly believed that the place was rather run down. Quite the opposite, however; this 1970s cabin of ours is highly desirable. It boasts three bedrooms, one of which has been added to the back (we are on the ground floor so the room can run out into the
small backyard). At bedtime cats in heat wail on the roof directly above our bed. Am reminded of Eliot's Prufrock.
I asked a friend who has skylights in his room whether he can see the stars here at night. He believes he might would the clouds only oblige him and disperse. Most nights I can't see much of the moon, myself; when it shows, more often than not it's watery and diffuse. I recently saw a one-in-a-lifetime special exhibit of Van Gogh's night paintings; I think the skies of his homeland haunted him as they do haunt me. A singer friend of mine who lives on the fourth floor (the tallest level of most buildings here) tells me that nature bares itself to her through the skies here...there is little grass and forest...but the sky is a entity to be reckoned with, as it is in the prairies back home.
It's wet here and cold, and somehow eases what went before. I am grounded in this country. My body, too, loves it, as my body loved Glastonbury. My water-husband, of course, feels more at home here than anywhere. The Thiessen crest shows a Tree planted near water -- Pete thinks he's always been trying to get back and plant himself by these (or any?) waters. It helps that the crest/family originates in the Netherlands. Am a long way from the plains of Western Canada...
We've finally found our own flat and are told we're lucky to have found it in so short a period; we cannot, however, move in until May. The location, I am told, is nice too. It's a two bedroom, but the second bedroom is tight and narrow -- kind of like in the condos they keep building back in Toronto, each buyer apportioned out her own personal matchbox of living space (why? i ask, why?).
small backyard). At bedtime cats in heat wail on the roof directly above our bed. Am reminded of Eliot's Prufrock.
I asked a friend who has skylights in his room whether he can see the stars here at night. He believes he might would the clouds only oblige him and disperse. Most nights I can't see much of the moon, myself; when it shows, more often than not it's watery and diffuse. I recently saw a one-in-a-lifetime special exhibit of Van Gogh's night paintings; I think the skies of his homeland haunted him as they do haunt me. A singer friend of mine who lives on the fourth floor (the tallest level of most buildings here) tells me that nature bares itself to her through the skies here...there is little grass and forest...but the sky is a entity to be reckoned with, as it is in the prairies back home.
It's wet here and cold, and somehow eases what went before. I am grounded in this country. My body, too, loves it, as my body loved Glastonbury. My water-husband, of course, feels more at home here than anywhere. The Thiessen crest shows a Tree planted near water -- Pete thinks he's always been trying to get back and plant himself by these (or any?) waters. It helps that the crest/family originates in the Netherlands. Am a long way from the plains of Western Canada...
We've finally found our own flat and are told we're lucky to have found it in so short a period; we cannot, however, move in until May. The location, I am told, is nice too. It's a two bedroom, but the second bedroom is tight and narrow -- kind of like in the condos they keep building back in Toronto, each buyer apportioned out her own personal matchbox of living space (why? i ask, why?).
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