The Sint

The Netherlands has some pretty unusual holidays.

We have Queens Day, where everyone celebrates the Queen’s birthday by wearing orange and selling items in a flea market. We have Second Christmas, where everyone shops for furniture at Ikea.

And then there is Sinterklaas.

Much has been written about St. Nicholas.  Many cultures celebrate him calling him by names such as “Santa” or “Father Christmas”. But no one, no one, comes close to the imagination and creativity of the Dutch.

In Holland, Sinterklaas arrives well before his feast day, usually in mid November. Does he arrive by sleigh with elves from the North Pole? Don’t be ridiculous. He comes by boat, from sunny Spain, with his white horse, and his troop of Swarte Piets (read here, white Dutch men in black face).





Swarte Piet

 So starting in mid-November, Sinterklaas and his troop of “Black Peters” travel from house to house at night. The Piets jump to the rooftops and climb down the chimneys checking on the behavior of children in the house. They may leave a small treat in a child’s shoes left by the fire. Or, if a child is bad, they may leave a small bundle of sticks, a reminder of the beating that Piet may give that child if the offending behavior continues.



If a child should meet with the Sint at school or at a party, he will read from the “Big Book of all the Children in the World”. In that book, the Sint has a list of all behavior good and bad. The Sint will lean into the kids a little about what needs to be done differently and praise the child for what has been done well.

On the eve of December 6th, Swarte Piet comes to the door, rings the bell, and throws in a burlap bag of gifts and poems, along with a shower of ginger cookies.

If a child has been bad, so the legend goes, Swarte Piet will grab that child, throw him in the sack, beat him with a switch, and carry him off to sunny Spain. Personally, I wouldn’t mind the sunny Spain part, I haven’t seen the sun since August.



Gifts wrapped to identify the recipient

 I love this holiday for many reasons. First, in Dutch style, it is family oriented not gift oriented. A Sinterklaas celebration is a time to gather the family. Even families with older children have fun writing poems that tease the recipient. Gifts may be disguised as almost anything. If a person loves the guitar, the gift may come hidden as a giant paper-mache instrument. Or a gift may be hidden in the house with only clues given for the location. A meal is shared. Traditional songs are sung. Families with children of all ages look forward to this night all year.



The Piet Band

Second, it is NOT a politically correct holiday. In the United States, traditions are frequently so politically correct that they have all of the texture and diversity of oatmeal. The Dutch know that Swarte Piet is shocking to many people. But they value the tradition over political correctness.  This mischievous character is the Ying to St. Nicholas’ Yang. He is foolish and playful. At our church service on Sunday, a Piet amused himself while the priest spoke by walking along the altar rail like a tight rope. The children love him; and the children within the grown-ups love him as well.

Third, as David Sedaris wrote in his essay “Six to Eight Black Men”, the Dutch have the very best bedtime story.  I have personally had the privilege of telling my 10 year old son, “Well, The Sint is coming tonight. He might bring you presents, or he might throw you in a sack, beat you with a stick, and drag you off to Spain. You might want to pack a few things, just in case.”



A gift tagged with a poem for Jack

 So now we've moved on to decorating for Christmas. My three year old Audrey is thoroughly confused as to whom Santa might be versus Sinterklaas and if any Swarte Piets might be coming down the chimney to fill her stocking with candy. 

All is well, though. My children have learned a little about a completely different kind of holiday, cultural diversity, and bonding as a family over a few small gifts tagged with a poem from St. Nick.

Mind the Gap

The Tower at night

We finally did it.

We took the kids on a full-fledged metropolitan holiday.

I admit I’ve been avoiding it like a third rail. I had deep seated fears of losing a child in some horrible way: a misstep off a curb, separated in a crowd, a tumble down a retaining wall into the river. I’ve got a good imagination and cities just always seemed so, well, big and full of hazards. Farms and old battlefields seemed much more reasonable.

My kids proved me wrong.

Here are the top 15 things I learned about taking kids to London:

15. Massive seething crowds in Victoria Station will stress a mom out ten times more than husband or kids.

14. Kids will always eat “fish and chips”.

13. The 30 minute London Eye “flight” will entertain your kids for approximately 15 minutes.


View from The Eye

 12. Your three year-old will run for miles in underground tunnels, jump up and down stairs, and launch off escalators with boundless energy. If you ask her to come into the next room to get her hair brushed, she will complain it is too far.

11. The scavenger hunt in the crypt-filled Westminster Abby is much more interesting than one in the Egyptian rooms of the British Museum. Audrey is still talking about the “dead treasure hunt.”

10. Your ten year-old can become your expert subway map reader.

9. If you are a kid, a taxi ride can be the most exciting part of the day.

8. Yeomen and guides at the Tower of London love to talk about the history of the place. Give them a ten year-old with an interest in the topic and they can talk all day.

7. The moving walkway that pulls tourists along in front of the cases of the Crown Jewels can be its own kind of amusement ride.

6. Poles on subway trains make good places to dance and spin.


5. The Texas Embassy Cantina on Cockspur Street makes a fine Thanksgiving dinner and serves a mean margarita;)   Margaritas may become a new Thanksgiving tradition in this family.



Skating at The Tower

 4. Three rubber bouncy balls can entertain three children in a carpet-free split-level “flat” for hours.

3. You can make your seven year-old daughter laugh out loud by telling her that in England police are called “Bobbies” and trucks are called “Lorries”.



2. Ice skating, even done badly, in front of the Tower of London ramparts at dusk is delicious.

Ok, and number one:

Having your kids fall asleep on the couch in an exhausted heap at the end of an adventure filled day is immensely satisfying.


So, London was not nearly as scary as I thought it would be. But now, where to next? I must think….

Through the window at night

You would think that a small country stuffed with 17 million people would be obsessed with privacy.

In many ways, it is. The Dutch are very aware of privacy in their gardens and certainly the security of their bank accounts.

But, then there is the situation of the front windows.

Almost every house in our village has a large front picture window. This is a good thing considering how dark it gets here in the winter. We need all the light we can get in these houses.

But almost no one covers these windows. No sheers, curtains or blinds separate passer-bys from the house inhabitants. Every person out for an evening stroll can look right in on the tableau of a family eating their dinner, watching tv, or in the case of our house, having a big argument over why a certain 10 year old should be “forced” to study Dutch.

I’ve heard several explanations of why the Dutch do not cover their windows.

The first was historical, stating that during the Spanish occupation of Holland in the 16th century, all Dutch homes were ordered by law to have undressed windows so that the Spanish occupiers could enforce a nighttime curfew and prevent the rebellious Dutch from organizing.

The second was cultural, that Dutch families were so proud of their tidy and cozy (in Dutch “gezellige”) homes that they encouraged all of their neighbors to look in and see.

The third was a kind of subtle boastfulness. The Calvinistic Dutch, as a rule, do not like to be conspicuous. It is not very Dutch to own a fancy car or wear an expensive watch. Even Princess Maxima will occasionally ditch the limo and ride a bike to my grocery store sans tiara. This does not stop the Dutch from being competitive, though. Maybe they keep their curtains open at night so that everyone can see how affluent they've become.

Whatever the reasons for the naked windows, tradition or pride, naked these windows are.

When we first arrived, Walt looked dubiously at our blaringly empty living room window and it's immediate view of the sidewalk. He’s always been a private person. Of course I naively reassured him, “Oh Sweetie, these people have been living on top of each other for so long, they must know not to look in the windows at night.” I couldn’t have been more wrong.

Do these neighbors, friends, and outright strangers avert their eyes as they parade past my house? No, they look right in. You can almost hearing them asking, “Hey, watcha eating? Is that a cannoli?” I’m surprised I’ve not yet found nose prints on the window. Strangers will frequently stop and admire what we are watching on tv. Friends biking past will smile and acknowledge me as I’m straightening up the house in my bathrobe and bunny slippers. I’ve stopped coming downstairs with a towel in my hair.

The thing is I love that naked window. It’s huge. It brings an extraordinary amount of light into the house on the darkest of days. It looks out on two lovely pine trees. It breaks my heart to think of covering it with sheers and diffusing that low clear light found only here in Holland.

Tonight I’ve been looking out into the darkness, watching my neighbors watch me as they walk their dogs. One stopped to wave.

Maybe it’s time.

The Christmas Market in Aachen, Germany

 I spent yesterday in Aachen, Germany enjoying the Christmas Market there.   Here are a few images of my visit.

Hand cranked Street Organ.  Don't be fooled by his big smile,
this guy was working hard.

The window displays here were so beautiful,
I had to include a few.

Lekker!

Fresh Roasted Chestnuts!  Despite their lovely aroma,
I've learned they are the one food I can't stand.

In this ancient city, this modern fountain added some whimsey.



Detail of fountain



Hand blown Christmas Ornaments

Candy Shop

These Springerle molds remind me of my Grandfather and his
rock hard anise Christmas cookies

The patterns haven't changed much in the last 200 years.

Aachen Cathedral - Contruction of inner octagonal
church completed in 800 AD.



The Throne of Charlemange



Ossuary of Charlemange

Hope you enjoyed the photos.  Aachen was just amazing.  I'm looking forward to going back sometime soon with the whole family!







This is Halloween

Halloween has never been my holiday.

I’ve never been one for dressing up or planning a big party. Even getting the kids their costumes was a chore. But living abroad changes things. I’ve realized that Halloween, although a Celtic holiday in origin, is part of my American identity.

The Dutch, being Dutch, do not celebrate Halloween. The closest thing they have is St Martin’s Day. On eve of November 12th each year Dutch children carry lanterns in groups and travel door to door. There they sing songs about St. Martin, a fourth century saint, in return for candy. This has not happened at our house yet, but I’m waiting.

St. Martin's Day in NL

In most of Holland and the surrounding Netherlands, you will not find jack-o-lanterns or spooky decorations. Candy corn is a rare and valued commodity. This is mostly procured by families associated with the American Embassy who have access to the commissary at the US military base in Germany. Lucky sods.

Because I live in a bit of an ex-patriot community, the local shop owners try to cater to American tastes. Last year a tiny costume shop opened in our village. Now, for the first time, it is possible to get cotton spider webs and scary masks without making a special order to England. Even the candy shop now has a limited selection of skeleton licorice and ghost shaped marshmallows.

My children’s school makes Halloween happen here by sheer force of its will. They organize candy donations, petition hundreds of families to open their homes, make a map of participating households, and distribute bags of candy to each open house. Each participating family must be registered on-line and then donate 2 ½ pounds of candy per kid to the school collection site.

Our local cemetary

Expats come in from all over the area to trick-or-treat in our village. The street parking disappears. As evening approaches, hundreds of ghosts, fairies, and witches appear out of nowhere. On some streets, you could lose your children in the crowd. The line at the doors can be 10 children deep. Two families I know kept track of how many children came to their door this year. One family told me they had 420. Another said they stopped counting at 500.

 Although Halloween is not uniquely American, it seems the tradition of the adult Halloween costume party is. My German friend is fascinated by the psychological need of adults to create another persona, an alter ego, through costumes. She believes that since Americans do not celebrate Marti Gras or Carnival, they attach their need for an evening in costume to a holiday otherwise reserved for children. Our American need for an alter ego must be very strong here. There were many costume parties and the adults came out in the most amazing array of thoughtful and creative disguises.

This year, we had a wonderful Halloween! Jordan designed her own costume. She and I spend a few afternoons making child sized butterfly wings out of discarded cardboard and construction paper. Audrey spent a happy hours in our dress-up box choosing items for her princess costume, only to change her mind a the last minute and dress as a ballerina.


Walt and our lovely hostess in costume



For the first time in years, Walt and I went to a costume party in costume. We spent the week before Halloween planning and ordering accessories. Walt even bought face paint and started viewing tutorials on youtube.com about applying makeup.

It has become meaningful to me to decorate with pumpkins and jack-o-lanterns, to give time and thought to costumes, and most importantly to participate. There was something so comforting about celebrating this holiday. More than Thanksgiving or Fourth of July, this holiday has come to mean home to me. And I am so proud to share it.

Gutentag, Auf Wiedersehen, and Gesundheit

Unlike my European friends who speak two or three languages fluently, much of my practical education in foreign language came from watching American television in the 1970’s. I can thank “Miss Piggy” for my 10 words of French, and I can thank “Sergeant Schultz” from Hogan’s Heros for my 5 words of German. Limited though my German vocabulary may be, last week I was determined to use all five words during my trip to the Black Forest.

Germany, what a large country! Good thing it’s legal to drive as fast as your little car will take you. Walt LOVES to drive there, go figure.  I found that driving was a white knuckle experience along those “autobahn” highways. I love to go fast and all, but if I were going 100 mph, the cars flying up behind me and flashing their high beams were going an easy 140.  At one point I had to painfully pry my hands out of their death grip on the steering wheel.  It was time to find a slower lane.

Despite our speed, it seemed to take forever to get to our little farm in the Black Forest. Maybe this was because I was once again traveling with small children. Audrey is going through a phase (ok, I hope it’s a phase) where she finds out how to annoy a person and then makes a sport out of it. Her victim this trip was Jordan.  Poor thing.

The farm we called home for the week was a lovely place. Nestled in the foothills of the Alps, up a long winding one-lane road, sits the most picturesque little dairy farm. God bless Gisela, the farm’s co-owner. In addition to milking the twenty cows twice each day, she also manages four guest houses, offers breakfast daily, and bakes all of her own bread for the week in an ancient wood burning oven. Oh, and she makes her own jam.

The farm was in a great location and offered a cozy and relaxed place for the kids to explore. The barn kitties were such a huge hit that I’m lucky I didn’t find one in a suitcase when we got home. Audrey and Jack both learned how to milk a cow. Jordan decided kitties were safer than cows. Lord knows, they smell better.

Gisela’s father would come to the barn each night at milking time to regale each of us with his stories of the old days. He was born on this very farm in the 1930’s and had no doubt seen a world of change from pre-Nazi Germany to the present day. I would have loved to sit him down and hear about his experiences; he was dying to tell me. But as I speak only English, and he spoke only German, we were both stuck. I did try to impress him with my dazzling German linguistics, but there is only so far that five words will take you.

Our first morning out, we hiked to the Cloister Ruins at Allerheiligen by way of the Allerheiligen Waterfall.  The one kilometer hike started below in the valley and followed the small river through the forest to the top of the mountain . It was easy to imagine the fairytales of the Black Forest as we climbed the damp and mossy trail along the falling water. Snow White, Hansel and Gretel, or Red Riding Hood could have been just past the next turn in the path.

The Cloister Ruins were dramatic. A full half of a church still stands. Built at the end of the 12th century, it was struck by lightning and destroyed in 1804. Jack was amusing himself standing in a large stone trough-like thing on the cloister floor. I smiled and asked him what he thought this was. He guessed, “a watering trough for horses?” He jumped about a mile when I told him it was a sarcophagus. Ewwww.

Everywhere we went, I continued to drop my little gem stones of German. I’d smile and offer a passing stranger a bright and merry “Gutentag”. I was so Continental! I was so sophisticated! They would respond with some mysterious pleasantries, and I would nod knowingly.

I’m hopeless. I remind myself of the young men and women on the streets of Beijing that would cross the street just to greet me with a friendly, “Hello!”; this being their one and only word of English.

Maybe it’s ok to be an unsophisticated American speaking only English with my broad flat “A’s”. I think it is more important to try, to reach out, to make eye contact, and attempt politeness no matter what the language. Bridging the gap between an American mom on holiday and an elderly farmer from the foothills of the Alps may be as simple as a smile and a nod. To be open to the world and accepting of any experiences it might bring me, this is a lesson that transcends language. It is the reason I travel.  And maybe, just maybe, it is a gift I might bring to my children.

Fietscultuur

 

The bike shed at the school

Who knew that it would be a bike to change my life. The travel, the language, the history here in Holland has all been wonderful, but the biking has struck me to the core.

My first morning in this house, I heard them coming: the disembodied voices of school students laughing and talking. Naively, I could not understand how they could be coming so quickly. Then, out of the early morning mist, they passed me, 20 at a time, on bicycle. Lean and fresh and beautiful, these children bike to school in a country where public school busses do not exist.



On Sunday mornings, elderly men and women put on their Sunday hats and coats and bike to church. They ride gracefully, elegantly pushing off with their right foot while standing with their left foot on the pedal.  They then then ease onto the seat in one effortless movement.



The bikers here smile for no apparent reason other than the joy of being alive.



Moving bike for hire in Haarlem

The Dutch will bike carrying almost anything. Sometimes I think they challenge themselves to see what they can bring home by bike and then brag about it to their friends. “Of course I bike to class with my yoga ball.” Or, “That 2 meter tree I just planted? I brought it home from the nursery by bike. Took me a while to figure it out, but I got here.” Maybe it is understood that you would first work out how to bring some impossibly large item from point A to point B by bike. Is it an admission of defeat for a Dutchman to use a car?

I recently saw a man on a bike towing a small trailer for his golf clubs. Now there is a dedicated sportsman. By the way, it was pouring rain.

Friends on a Sunday Outting

Business men in suits, soldiers in camouflage, and policemen in uniform pass me on the bike path each morning. In the afternoons, I might see an officer riding home with a bouquet of flowers for his sweetheart strapped to the book rack of his bike .

Lovers of all ages hold hands as they bike side by side.

When I first arrived I hadn’t been on a bike in 20 years. Now it’s hard to remember a time when I drove a car.

My Beloved Bakfiets

 My bakfiets seats four children, or two children and five days worth of groceries. It is my minivan. I prefer my bakfiets to the car in every circumstance and weather, except high wind or ice. The beautiful thing about this bike is the more weight you put in the box, the better it rides. Really.

The gas station I passed yesterday offered regular unleaded gasoline for 1.49 euro per liter. At today's exchange rate, this works out to $8.10 per gallon. Hmmmmm. Biking is good for more than just my health.

Audrey and I have conversations as we bike from place to place. I point out the animals we pass on our way. Swans, both black and white, swim silently in the canals. Gray herons hide in the reeds. Occasionally we will see a huge stork searching for frogs and snakes in the long grass of a field.   On the bike path to the preschool there is a lovely children’s farm complete with goats, pot-bellied pigs, sheep, and chickens. There is always something to talk about.


Along the path to the beach

Our beach is 5 km away. There are two small parking lots for cars. On a beautiful sunny weekend day, the road to the beach becomes gridlocked. Sometimes the police have to close the road due to traffic. The bike path, on the other hand, is wide, easy, and completely separate from the road. It offers views of the wild and windswept dunes. The scent of roses, horses, and  the sea hangs thick in the air.

My car sits in front of our house collecting sap drippings and pinecones from the blue spruce above it. I smile.

“From my cold dead hands,” my friend Nicky told me when I first arrived. What? I must have missed her meaning.  “They will take my bike from my cold dead hands,” she repeated.

And I understand exactly how she feels.



The Mommy Bikes at the school shed