Up, Up, Up and Out of My Comfort Zone: Traveling to Nepal

Life is full of stages and milestones. One of these is the day your children outgrow your own travel lives and go to places you have never seen. We reached that stage a few years ago, when Ben went to Haiti and Rachel went to Poland. And then South Africa. You tell your kids you want them to achieve more than you ever did, and go places you have never been. Then they actually do those things, and you wonder if you really meant what you said. You feel a little like the dowdy aunt who has never been further away than her own hometown. So when Rachel - a junior in college - announced that she wanted to study abroad, we chimed in, "Great!", since Peter and I went to school back in the day when few brave souls did that. And then came her list of possible study destinations: Morocco, Nepal. Wait...what about Prague or Berlin, like all the other kids, I wondered. She wanted to go to Nepal, she decided.

I think this may be when Rachel first became interested in mountains. We were in the Rocky Mountains in Colorado. I look so happy. Little did I know that when I returned to NJ. I would be felled by giardia, an intestinal thingy. I'll spare you the details. Suffice it to say that all the baby weight came off, and I was a shadow of my former self. Are you seeing a pattern here? Just one of the joys of traveling.

And then the earthquake hit in April 2015, and we thought for sure the trip would be cancelled. Instead, the program, which undertook heroic efforts to get all the students on flights home just last spring, was ready to get back on the horse and do it all again. Now all those platitudes I had spewed about seeing the world, and experiencing new things flew out the window as I weighed in and told Rachel she should reconsider her plans. Luckily, Peter had the good sense to talk me out of my bad sense; before I knew it, we were getting Rachel hooked up with vaccines for rabies and Japanese encephalitis, among others, and buying enough bug spray to cover a small army of American arms and legs. 

Many of you asked me if I was nervous when Rachel went. Honestly, after dealing with all of the logistics of getting this U.S. citizen-college-kid-with-folks-living-in Amsterdam her visa, plus the above-mentioned vaccines, and finding the items on the extensive packing list, I was more relieved than anything else. I felt like I had really accomplished something when she was finally launched. The reality of how far away she was, and in what a different world came to me slowly. She had limited access to wifi. She was supposed to wear long skirts, not shorts. And her Nepali father - she lived with a Nepali family for most of the four months she was there - insisted she be home at 7 p.m. the first time she went out to dinner with some friends. And she complied! That's when I knew she was really in a different world!

And then there was this photo she sent us of her dolled up to go to an event with her Nepali family. The mother part of my identity couldn't help but notice the background: her room is immaculate. Again, this was a different world than the one I associated with Rachel. 

The timing of her semester abroad coincided with another milestone in our lives: our 25th anniversary. Last year, we talked about celebrating in the south of France, in some sort of luxurious spot. I pictured a chateau, and imagined sumptuous dinners..and lunches...and breakfasts; the whole experience was firmly well within my comfort zone. In fact, we were thinking of a super-comfort zone. Or maybe we would go somewhere a little more exotic, like southern Spain or Portugal. As the anniversary approached, and we looked at the calendar, we realized we would spend it instead in Nepal. It just felt right to experience at least a small part of what Rachel had taken in during her semester there. It wasn't where we pictured celebrating, but then it somehow seemed a perfect celebration of our quarter-century of marriage. After all any marriage doesn't go quite as you planned, and you end up making compromises  - often involving the children. In the end, it's the being together that counts, right?

From the moment we arrived in Kathmandu, the capital, I knew I was way, way out of my comfort zone. Rachel had told us about the motorcycles, the constant honking of horns, the smog, the chaos that made crossing the streets an adventure. I smiled and thought it couldn't be as bad as all that, and certainly not much worse than a crowded street in Amsterdam. Oh, how wrong I was! Kathmandu is like Amsterdam on steroids. There were motorbikes and a few regular bikes, there was trash along the roads, and many signs in English. That was all distinctly like Amsterdam. But despite a recent report suggesting the air quality in Amsterdam is below EU standards, this is nothing compared to the air in Kathmandu. Many, many people walked around sporting hospital masks. But the honking of all those cars, motorbikes, and buses was the thing that most announced to me we were in a different world. It was like a language I didn't understand. Did a honk mean, "Move over!" or, "Watch out! I'm changing lanes!" or, "Hello", or just, "I feel like beeping." It seemed to mean all of those things, just not in any particular order. Or it was like a really chaotic jazz arrangement that makes you look forward to the time it ends and you can get some quiet time at home. Here's a recording I made one afternoon so you can hear what I mean:

The traffic is not an important part of our trip, but just the first thing you notice in your jet-lagged state as you leave the airport, and also when you head out to see the sights. What stands out most about the trip is the warmth and hospitality of the Nepali people. Yes, we had been told that before we arrived, but it was still surprising and wonderful nonetheless. Perhaps the chaos on the streets and sidewalks made our entry into our lovely oasis of a hotel, Dwarika's, all the more welcome. The hotel is filled with woodwork salvaged by the owner, most of which was originally part of ancient temples. I knew from the moment we entered, were draped with white silk scarves, and handed a glass of fresh mango juice that I was going to love this place. I got a lot of chances to practice the only word of Nepali I knew: Namaste. It seems to mean hello, goodbye, welcome, and peace at various times. In my yoga classes, they told me it meant, "I honor the light that is in me, in you." Whatever the exact meaning, I loved the bow and folded hands that went along with the words. And as I have shared before, the concept of service with a smile is not what Amsterdam is known for, so the warm reception we got everywhere in Nepal felt even more luxurious.

Yup, I did swim laps in this pool. Wouldn't you have?

I think Nepal has long had a reputation for having kind, gracious citizens who welcome tourists. Perhaps they have become even more grateful to see foreign travelers after the April 2015 earthquake. Our wonderful guide Sohan told us that tourism over the past year has shrunk to next to nothing, and is just now starting to grow a bit. We saw signs of the earthquake's effects in many places, especially at some of the sacred temples that attract many tourists. Along with those sacred places, the street nicknamed Freak Street - where the hippies hung out in the 60's and 70's - was also destroyed. It may be tempting to blame the lack of rebuilding on the inept government, and our guides certainly explained that the government was largely to blame for the snail's pace of the rebuilding efforts. On the other hand - having traveled to New Orleans a full year after Hurricane Katrina and seen mattresses piled on front lawns along with mountains of garbage - Americans can't scoff at the inability of developing nations to better handle disasters. We are certainly no beacon of success on that score.   

On the other hand, you could look at the destruction of these beautiful temples and places in another way: it's amazing that structures that were built hundreds of years ago are still (mostly) standing. 

It's amazing to think of the genius that went into designing and building this wedding-cake-like structure.

I love the doors in Amsterdam, but this one is in a different category of beautiful.

I don't know what goes on behind this door. I was honestly so nervous to even be seen near it that I rushed the photo and cut off some of the letters.

I loved the fact that animals were everywhere, both in the sculptures adorning the temples and actually crossing the street, or, in one case, a highway along the lines of busy Route 22 in New Jersey. Plus, whenever I missed Casey, there was a lookalike at the ready for me to say hello to.

And religion was out and about wherever we looked: from the Tibetan monks (and regular citizens) walking clock-wise around the Great Boudha Stupa and kissing the monument, to the shops selling all manner of religious items, you were constantly aware of the importance of prayer and gods in the Nepali culture.  

Our guide Sohan told us this is a monument to the god of teeth. You come here to pray when you have a toothache. I said a quick blessing just in case the gods were listening. I am not a regular flosser, so I figured a prayer couldn't hurt.

The man who owns this shop explained that this healing bowl could cure whatever ails you: headaches, backaches, stomach pain. Here, he demonstrates how clanging the mallet on the bowl can cure a migraine. Or cause one? We purchased a bowl and can " treat" you to a session if you come visit us in Amsterdam. 

After just two days in Kathmandu, we were (sort of) ready for our trek. As we lingered over our breakfast in the outdoor courtyard of our gorgeous hotel in Kathmandu, watching the staff scurry around to water and care for the beautiful plants, Peter said, "Remind me why we are leaving this place to go somewhere with diseases, bad food, and uncomfortable places to sleep?" or something along those lines. 

In keeping with the religion-is-everywhere theme, I want to point out we flew Buddha Air to the city of Pokhara to begin our trek. Since I do not love flying in general, and certainly not flying on small planes, I made good use of whatever prayers in whatever religion came to mind. We could have gone by car, but were advised that it was at least six hours, and the roads were bumpy. Miraculously, after being told that flights are often cancelled because of bad weather, ours took off and landed exactly on time. 

Our fears about the trekking part of our adventure turned out to be for naught. It was definitely a highlight not just of the trip, but of my time here on earth. Actually, it was really trekking-lite, since we only had time for a three day excursion. No, we did not make it to the top of Everest. Still, we got a sense of the mountains, and a glimpse into the lives of the people who live in the villages tucked into them. We felt like giant, awkward white animals, decked out in our hiking boots, floppy hats, walking sticks, and sunglasses. I would have given anything to know what the villagers thought as we passed by with our guide Mekh Gurung and his assistant, the porter who schlepped our small bags. Children came out to watch, and I regretted I didn't have books or crayons to give each of them. I gave a few of them the chocolate left over from our lunches. One little girl of about seven followed us for a long while. If I had been applauding myself just before then for keeping up a steady pace, those thoughts were dashed when I realized I was walking at the same pace as this tiny girl in too-big-for-her flip-flops. The two of us had an entire conversation in smiles. I rooted in my bag for something to give her, and found the bag of peanuts also left from our box lunch. She held them and smiled, then said something. The guide told us she wanted us to know she was saving them until she got home. She wanted to share them with her brothers and sisters. You can't help but feel grateful for all you have when you see what these kids lives are like. 

Our guide also told us about how he recently linked up a British trekker to a village school destroyed by the earthquake. Thanks to our guide's determination to help and serve as the go-between, the British school principal was able to donate funds directly to the school, and it's now back in business. Mekh was so proud of this story, and I was so happy to know that there are stories with happy endings there.

Here we are modeling three ways to wear the trekking scarf. I feel like part of The Mod Squad, (one of the best TV shows of all-time, right?).

I was really proud of myself for walking over this swinging bridge without holding on for dear life. What a view of the hills and water below! Peter took a lot of amazing photos.

Contrary to Peter's fears before we left, the lodges we stayed in were wonderful. They were immaculately clean, and comfortable. We were the only guests, which was welcome in some ways because it was so quiet, but made us sad for the owners who could have used the business.

How's this for a view from your front window?

One afternoon, after trekking was over for the day, the monsoon arrived a little early. We put on every stitch of clothing we had brought with us. Then we covered up in blankets to read while the mountains covered up in fog. 

These are a few of my favorite things.

The fact that we went to bed by 9 p.m. (the time that the electricity cuts out due to something they call "load shedding") to the steady sound of rain and no view at all made our wake-up call even more astonishing. Our trekking guide, Mekh, told us coffee would arrive at 6:30 so we could get an early start. He hoped it would be clear for us. So when we woke to a pounding on the door and Peter saw it was only 5 a.m., we wondered what on earth was wrong. We opened the door to find Mekh standing there with a proud smile and the Himalayas gloriously laid out in front of us. Coffee arrived soon after. What could be more perfect? 

The photo that leads into this blog post is also from that early morning wake-up call from the mountains.

I'm just going to admit here and now that before we got to Nepal, I was not entirely sure what trekking was. Wasn't it just hiking? Or was there something unique about trekking that made it different from plain ole hiking? I think trekking just means that you hike from place to place and sleep over someplace in the mountains in between hikes. In the case of the 20-somethings we saw lumbering around with backpacks and tattoos, their lodging was no doubt much less comfortable than ours. I associate the term trekking only with Nepal. Maybe trekking also has something to do with the fact that someone carries your belongings. I was a little uncomfortable with this idea, but realize that this is an important livelihood for the sherpas and porters. Although many people use the word sherpa to describe all of the guides in Nepal, a sherpa is technically a particular ethnic group in Nepal known for its mountaineering skills. While we were trekking along, I did a lot of thinking - trekking in those mountains is a perfect venue for doing a lot of thinking - about how a guide/sherpa is a lot like either a mom or a teacher. Let's start with the ways a guide in Nepal is like a mom: 1. He carries all the stuff; 2. He knows how to get where you are going, so you don't have to worry about the directions; 3. He has the breakfasts, lunches and dinners ready for you when it's time to eat; 4. He holds your hand when you are coming to a steep part of the climb.

Our guide Mekh was full of hidden talents. He carried a bird-watching book and binoculars, and was thrilled to help us identify the many colorful birds we saw as we hiked (I mean, trekked). He also treated us to a lecture series each evening, with topics ranging from marriage in Nepal, to politics - and after explaining the state of affairs in Nepal, yes, he did ask about Donald Trump -  to religion and education. He was a wealth of information. So here are the ways in which I decided that a trekking guide is like a really good teacher: 1. He knows a lot about a lot of things (those nightly lectures); 2. He leads by example: he is doing all that climbing, not just telling you to do it; 3. His compliments are perfectly timed to push you. Ex. "You are doing great," when you had just thought your legs were going to stop for the day and not start back up again; 4. He can push you to do things you didn't think you could do just by using a matter-of-fact voice. Ex. "So we'll have coffee at 6 a.m. and then get started by 7." I could go on and on about Mekh, but I have just bestowed the highest compliments I could possibly give him by comparing him to both a mom and a teacher. I'm happy to point you in his direction if you go to Nepal. You will see for yourself what I mean.

I loved the rice terraces, which climbed up the mountains like stairways. 

The highlight of the trip (other than the trekking) was meeting Rachel's Nepali family. I felt like I was in a movie, and standing outside myself, watching it all happen. Let's start with the fact that the house where she lived had no street address. Somehow, our driver was expected to find it. Also, we were beginning the adventure from our last hotel: Shivapuri Cottages, perched up on the hills overlooking Kathmandu. A beautiful location to spend our last two days in Nepal, but not exactly an ideal spot when you had to walk ten minutes down a steep-ish path just to get to the truck that would drive an hour to get us to the house-without-an-address.  

There were some others walking down the path when we left for the big meet-up dinner. Peter felt a tug on his pants as we walked. One of the goats mistook him for dinner. 

Just like it works in the movies, we bumped and grinded over the paved and unpaved roads until our driver graciously loaned to us by Shivapuri Cottages suddenly parked the van on a corner and jumped out. "This is when someone runs in and slits our throat," said my faithful traveling companion for the past twenty-five years (Peter). Actually, it was the corner where the driver leaped out to call Rachel's Nepali father, and confirm we were in the right spot. And suddenly, there was Rachel and her wide smile, waving. The rest of the evening was a blur. We were ushered in, invited to sit, draped with garlands of flowers, dabbed with red paint on our foreheads, given glasses of Coke, then cups of tea, and then a delicious dinner consisting of many, many bowls of food. We exchanged gifts, marveled at Rachel's ability to speak Nepali, and took photos. Many photos. There was a photo session in the living room, then another up on the rooftop. The warm bond between Rachel and her family was wonderful to see. Peter and I were so grateful to them. They had taken her in and showered her with food and love for close to four months. Before we knew it, it was time to say our goodbyes. I know it must have been so hard for them to say goodbye to Rachel, and for her to say goodbye to them. Who knows how long it will be before she can return? This is one time when Facebook is a godsend! She can at least stay in touch with her second family that way. Her Nepali parent's two-year-old grandson called Babu (Nepali for baby or little boy), who lived with the family was so attached to Rachel. His mom sent Rachel a Facebook message to let her know the next morning after she was gone, Babu stood outside her door, calling, "Didi!" (older sister in Nepali). That scene definitely belongs in the movie.

The hat is a gift to Peter from Rachel's Nepali family. Rachel and I knew Peter would love sharing the photo with all of you on this blog.

We spent our last day enjoying the hospitality at Shivapuri Cottages, run by Steve Webster, a Brit who came to Nepal years ago and stayed. That seems to happen to quite a few brave Westerners, like my friend Pamela's brother Tom, who joined the Peace Corps in the 70's and has been there ever since with his wife Carroll and their two sons. He is a photographer and took these amazing photos after the earthquake with one of his sons. Steve joined us for dinner on our last night, and talked about the life of an expat in Nepal. Just like our pattern in Amsterdam, he tends to socialize mostly with other expats, with a sprinkling of Nepali friends. He talked about his frustrations with the unreliable infrastructure in Nepal, but his love for the country also shone through. If you go visit, he and his über-organized, warm, and knowledgeable manager Sohan can help you plan your trip, just like they so patiently did for us.

This is the view from Shivapuri Cottages. Just stunning.

In so many ways, this trip took me up and out of my comfort zone. For one, it was the first time in ages I had been in the mountains. As you probably know, the Netherlands lies mostly below sea level. There is something about being able to look up at huge, snow-covered mountains to give you a sense of how tiny and unimportant you really are. My friend Pamela from Santa Fe used to tell me that what she missed most about home while going to college in Massachusetts was the feeling you got from being close to mountains. I think I finally know now what she meant. In addition to the height, this trip put me back in touch with the heat. We left during a particularly chilly spring week, when the morning temperatures dipped into the 30's. When I checked ahead to see what the weather in Kathmandu would be like I saw sun symbols and the 90's. Somehow, my body survived that drastic shift. Then there were the stomach issues....I pushed through and consoled myself with Rachel's reminders that what I experienced was nothing compared with what she and the rest of her merry students had survived. And there were the minor things like the leeches that appeared the morning after the heavy rains. Our guide and also our porter dutifully plucked each one off our boots. I thought leeches were creatures of medieval times, but apparently they are alive and well in Nepal.

Despite those challenges - maybe in part because of them - I urge all of you to visit Nepal. The people are gentle and friendly, the food is delicious, and the mountains are spectacular. There were a few songs written about Nepal back in the days of the hippie trail, which as coincidence would have it began in European cities like Amsterdam and continued on to Nepal and India. The most famous are two songs called (and misspelled) Katmandu: one by Bob Seger and one by Cat Stevens. I'm going to pass on those songs and choose instead this classic by the Staple Singers, I'll Take You There. Thanks, Anna, for sending it my way. The song says, "I'll take you there," and tells us, "Ain't no body cryin'...ain't nobody worried." I'm not actually going to take you there. You'll have to make your way there on your own. And I don't think the people in Nepal are without worries. But I promise you if you go, you will not be sorry.

So let's get back to the milestone aspect of the trip. It was certainly a milestone to see Rachel doing something neither Peter nor I had ever done: living with a family, sharing their language, their food, their culture. And as far as a destination for a 25th anniversary, I can't think of a better place to celebrate that milestone. I think back to what my wise father once told me was the secret ingredient to a good marriage. He would always pause at this point for effect...then say..."Luck". After all these years, I guess I would have to agree with him. I'd also add that having the means to travel together certainly helps. You can get out of your own space and have some adventures that will carry you through some of the more rocky terrain you will no doubt sometimes face.

One other important reason to travel is the ability to appreciate the life you have at home. I wish there was a way to hold onto the  feelings of gratitude you have for your family and creature comforts when you see how little many people around the world have to call their own. I wish there was a way to hold onto just a piece of those feelings as you walk back into your comfortable life at home. I'm hoping that by writing about it, I'll be able to hold onto that gratitude just a little longer. The following song is a tribute to finishing up the trip to Nepal, and celebrating our anniversary. Who better than Elton John and those dancers in their 80's outfits to remind me that just to be still standing is something to celebrate?

Thanks, Peter, for the wonderful photos you loaned me for the blog, for all the adventures in Nepal, and helping me stand for the past twenty-five years! I'm one lucky gal.

What a Difference a Year Makes: Springtime in Amsterdam

Springtime in Amsterdam is a fickle friend. One day she's here, showing off her colors. The next, she has disappeared behind a rolling band of clouds, producing hail, sleet, and snow. And forcing me to break out my winter coat, hat, and gloves on April 29th. But when she is good, she is very, very good. This year, Springtime has not disappointed, even with her on and off again moods. It (almost) makes the long, long winter months worth slogging through. And as I sit here writing, at 9:30 p.m., it's not even completely dark out yet. That perk alone makes the short winter days worth it.  

Last year, I experienced for the first time the syndrome probably unique to expats: Keukenhof anxiety. As I reported last year, Keukenhof is the giant flower gardens south of Amsterdam that are the largest tourist attraction in the Netherlands. Expats are always worried: Have you been to Keukenhof yet? When are you going? Last year I went by car, and only saw the gardens themselves. I took the obligatory photos, standing in the giant yellow clog, surrounded by glorious flowers (most famously, tulips) of every hue. I heard from others that the real way to visit Keukenhof is to bypass the manicured gardens and lines of tour busses, and head straight to the flower fields on bikes. Sadly, the rain conspired against me every time I tried to set off for that true experience last year (O.K. it only forced two bike trip cancellations, but still). 

This year, I was determined to get out in those flower fields. I worked my way up to the challenge. The first time I went, I travelled with friends via Uber. Yes, it was, as Rachel would say, a very "bougie" (bourgeois) way to travel the 30-something kilometers. That's 20-something miles for the metrically challenged...as in...me. The advantage was we could get there before the crowds, and be the first ones at the bike rental shop. At last, I was out in the flower fields! The tulips weren't out in full force yet, but oh the smell of those hyacinths. And I was on a bike! Before I knew it, we were stopping for lunch and admiring the fact we had managed to cross, "Bike in the flower fields of Keukenhof" off our ever-expanding expat bucket list. 

Then Ben came to visit, and took his elderly parents to a bike shop to help us treat ourselves to some fancy hybrid bikes. Hybrids aren't quite the road bikes used by professional racers and riders like Ben, but they are a lot lighter and swifter than our clunky Dutch bikes. So who was I to quibble when he announced one morning that we were going to bike to Keukenhof? On the way down, I was thrilled to be riding with the big boys, which on that quiet Wednesday morning actually just consisted of Ben. We passed through the outskirts of Amsterdam, and hugged the road past the airport. Amazing that even on the roads near the airport, there are wide bike lanes and fields. Quite unlike slogging through the traffic to get to JFK. The smell of fertilizer kept all of my five senses from enjoying the trip. Most of them did. 

Ben is modeling the bike shirt we treated him to after he helped us buy our bikes. Surprisingly, in a city filled with cyclists, there weren't many places that sold hybrid bikes for old folks like us. 

When you ride big girl bikes like my new one, you wear a helmet. That's because you can actually get going kind of fast. Or at least Ben could.

What goes there, must come back. The ride home was a lot harder than the ride there. At one point, in a small village we passed through, we had to slow down to let a really old man inch his way across the street. An example of foreshadowing, I wondered, as I thought about how I would feel the next day after our 50+ mile roundtrip ride.  Surprisingly, I didn't feel too terribly sore. Mostly, I was just really proud of myself, as my friends here who have heard me endlessly tell and repeat this story can attest to. 

What's springtime in Amsterdam without the obligatory shot in front of a windmill? 

Tulips are everywhere in Amsterdam these days. We're not quite at the tulip-as-gold level of the 17th century, a time infected by tulpenmanie or tulipmania. In those days, a prized tulip bulb could sell for three hundred guilders, or ten times the yearly salary of a skilled craftsman. I love flowers as much as the next gal, but not at that price. There was a "tulip crash" after that, as you can well imagine, and the prices plummeted. Although it remains one of the most-recognized symbols of the Netherlands, you didn't always see them out in full force in Amsterdam. Last year, a garden designer named Saskia Albrecht organized a tulip festival here to bring tulips back to Amsterdam. Her goal is one tulip for every resident, or eight-hundred thousand tulips. She has almost reached her tulip goal: this year, there were a half million tulips planted in 60 locations In addition to the official displays, there are tulips at every grocery store, in front of many homes, and sprinkled through the parks. At my favorite flower stand near our house, they are currently selling for three bunches for 5 euros. How can you not fill your house with them, at that price? At a recent gathering of our Dutch conversation group, my friend Vera had us singing along to this song, a Dutch classic. Here are some of the words, in case you are moved to sing along, too: "Wat mijn mond niet zeggen kan, zeggen tulpen uit Amsterdam." ("What my mouth can't say, say tulips from Amsterdam."). A tulip speaks a thousand words, right?  

Spring is also when these bouquets of tiny children in bright "don't lose me" vests come out of hibernation.

And in springtime, the families of ducks emerge and we expats obsessively monitor their growth. I seem to recall that ducks made quite a few appearances in this blog last year. 

You might think in a country that never really heats up, few people would spend time at the beach. In fact, they love the beaches here. A day at the beach isn't about slathering on sunscreen and baking on the sand. Rather, it's more about wrapping up in layers and walking for miles. On a fine, sunny day, we took advantage of one of the last days you could let your dog run with abandon on the beach without a leash, at least on this beach. As far as I can make out, this doesn't mean you can't bring your dog to the beach during the "high season" (late April until early October). It just means, heaven forbid, they have to be on a leash. Casey tolerated the tram and train rides we took to get to Zandvoort aan Zee, but he loved the beach. You can see from the photos just how wide it is, and how uncrowded. Photo credits on the last two photos to my new friend Nancy. Just an aside: Nancy and I were "set up" by my dry cleaner, who told me about a new American lady in the neighborhood with a nice dog. After one walk in the park with Nancy and her nice Golden Retriever Zoey, we were already planning a date to go to the beach. Of course, I had to invite along another friend Michele, with her nice Golden Retriever Ella. I can do some excellent matchmaking of my own, too.

While everyone else marched along, Casey is the only one facing the camera (Nancy). He had figured out she was the only one "packing" (treats).

Another hallmark of springtime here is the uptick in boat rides. Last week, I had the chance to attend the TedXAmsterdamEd conference again. Last year, I made my way there in a driving rain storm, by myself. The teacher friend I had planned to go with bailed out at the last minute. Despite the dreadful weather, I loved hearing about education initiatives in the Netherlands, and connecting with other teachers (even if I wasn't teaching at that point). This year, I set off on a sunny day with another teacher friend: Darlene. When we were asked which afternoon breakout session we wanted to participate in, we chose the one that was taking place on a boat. Our selection process reminded me of my childhood, and the way our ever-conscious-of-pennies babysitter Julia ordered from a menu: she ran her finger down the prices on the right hand side, then slid it across to see what food corresponded with the lowest price on the menu. And that's what she ordered. In other words, it mattered not to me what the topic of the session was. It was taking place on a boat, and involved a boat ride around Amsterdam, and that was good enough for me. As it turned out, we did have a great discussion about solving the big challenges in education. 

Here we are solving the world's education problems, along with the two 20-somethings we were seated with. Every so often the facilitator told us to take a break from our "intense deliberations" to look at the sights along the canals. I didn't need any convincing. I found out that day I can do some really high-level thinking when I'm on a boat on a beautiful day. That gives me an idea for a floating school. Anyone else in?

And speaking of boats, a blog post about springtime in Amsterdam would not be complete without some mention of King's Day in Amsterdam. It's the celebration of the king's birthday, when everyone wears orange (in tribute to the House of Orange, the Dutch royal family), drinks a lot, and - if you are lucky - gets out on a boat to take it all in. Last year, I wrote about how I walked the crowded streets with Peter and my friend Rebecca, trying not to lose each other amidst the frenzy. I wrote about how when the boats passed by with their pounding music, I secretly wished for one with classical music, excellent food, and a place down-below to go sneak in a nap. What a difference a year makes! This year, thanks to my friend Lauren, organizer-extraordinaire, I was out on a boat myself. This year, instead of standing on shore peering inside the passing boats, I was inside a boat looking out. It was a very different perspective. We did have excellent food, just like in my dream boat, but sadly, we were without music. We had to rely on the kindness of the other boats' pounding techno music to sustain us. As is often the case with expat voyages, some of the other inhabitants on our boat consisted of visiting friends and family. At any given time, someone always has friends or family visiting. These visiting additions were lucky to have this canal-side view of this uniquely Dutch holiday. 

Here we are getting ready to set sail.

These guys must have been really happy to be bundled up inside those Tigger suits. It was windy and cold on King's Day. We were just happy that the driving rain that was predicted never really transpired. Well, not until the very end of the ride, anyway.  

Kapitein Pieter kept us on course throughout the four-hour boat ride. There were some tense moments when we docked to use the "facilities" and a disgruntled passenger on another boat wanted to march over our boat to get ashore. Pieter held his ground, although a lot of angry Dutch words were hurled at us before we went on our merry way. On a separate note, I think we won the contest for best food spread. Actually, it didn't appear there were many other contestants. I mostly saw beverages aboard the other boats. Their loss. 

This photo will prove to Peter's relatives that he does in fact still exist. Photo credit to Seanette for this rare photo op. Fashion credit to Vera for creating my orange tiara. I felt like a queen for the day. Peter took the first two King's Day photos, and a lot of other fantastic shots, too. That's why he is never in the photos.  

Anyone over a certain age has a hard time remembering that the holiday is called Koningsdag, or King's Day nowadays and it's celebrated on April 27, the King's birthday. The reason they have a hard time is because until 2014, there was a queen ruling the roost, so the holiday was Queen's Day and it was celebrated on her birthday: April 30 . In fact, there are some tourists who are using some outdated guidebooks who have shown up for the party on April 30, only to find that they literally missed the boat. The city, always on the lookout for people who are just a little off, will, however, kindly provide you with a belated celebration if you can prove you relied on outdated information. Only in Amsterdam.

In some ways, last spring feels like a long time ago. Our first year here was full of "firsts", and maybe that made the that first year go by just a little more slowly. Now, I'm doing most things for the second time, prompting many of you to comment that I could just redo the same ole blog posts, this time from my older and wiser perspective. So what have I learned after two springs in Amsterdam? In general, I'd say I don't sweat the small things as much this time around (and due to the mostly mild weather, I don't sweat much at all, unless working out). Whether it's feeling brave enough to jump on the bike for a long ride, or "in it" enough to be included on a King's Day boat, I feel a little more settled, a little more a part of life here. I looked around on that King's Day boat, and realized, "These people are my friends." It was a great feeling. And yet, I still feel a part of life at home. After news of Prince's death hit, I loved getting emails from old-time friends, sharing favorite songs and memories. Thanks, Sabrina for introducing me to this Prince cover of Joni Mitchell's A Case of You. Just beautiful. It brought me right back to our love affair with Joni Mitchell, and our more grown-up crush on Prince. 

In a true expat moment, that same week I was in a Zumba class, filled mostly with Dutch ladies of all ages. The teacher ended the class with this Prince song, and it seemed like every single lady knew every single lyric. So I'll leave you with this video version, lyrics included, so you can belt it out at the top of your lungs, too, in memory of Prince. Happy Spring to all of you. I hope your days of purple rain are few and far between.

I love this New Yorker cover. Just love it.

Even Casey has learned to take advantage of the rays of sunshine when he can. Photo credit to Ben for this outstanding shot of our favorite Amsterdam hond (dog). In just one short year, he has truly made Amsterdam his home. Still, I wonder if he ever has thoughts of the old days and the old places.

I've Got Work to Do: Teaching in Amsterdam

What does this have to do with teaching, you ask? There was no school the last week In February because it was Crocus Week. They do have a lot of breaks from school (one is often "on holiday" here in the Netherlands). Luckily, the crocuses had checked the schedule, so they knew when to bloom.

Once a teacher, always a teacher? When I first announced to my teacher colleagues in New Jersey that I was considering moving to Amsterdam, they were unanimous in their glee. When I expressed my reservations about packing up and moving abroad, I heard comments like, "Can I go instead?" and "Are you crazy? Of course you have to go!" And once I let on that we were going to take the leap across the pond, I heard, "Can you squeeze me into your suitcase?" I don't think teachers, on the whole, are known for their reckless or even adventuresome spirits. Rather, we tend to be creatures of habit who like the comfort of doing what we did every day of our lives as kids. Is it any wonder we chose to make going to school a profession? After all, most of us were pretty good at it. I tend to think the envy I heard in my teacher colleagues' voices had everything to do with the sorry state of affairs in education these days. We were in the thick of new regulations on testing, and teacher evaluations, and were feeling the stranglehold of those two straps being tightened around our brains.

The move also coincided with a barrage of teacher-dissing, starting with the governor of our fine state of New Jersey, but seeping down into the regular folks at the grocery store and the pool. So it made sense - at least to me - that I decided to take a break from teaching when I first arrived. Would I miss it? Would I find something else I loved more? The truth is, I didn't miss it, at least at first. I was too busy getting settled, meeting new friends, and learning to speak Dutch. 

Yet I always found myself peeking at the schools I passed by, wondering what it was like to be a teacher here. Is it like teaching in Finland? I have read a lot about how Finland treats their teachers like real professionals. Imagine that. Apparently, all of the students at the head of the class in Finland want to become teachers. And the salaries reflect the high regard in which teachers are held. Is it any wonder the students in Finland consistently score near the top of the world when compared to their peers in other countries? Recently, I have dipped a toe in the teaching waters by working twice a week at the International School of Amsterdam. More on that gig later. But first, a little background about the education system here, from my outsider-perspective. 

From a child's point of view, the education system here is darn good. They don't get much homework at the elementary school (in Dutch basisschool) level, because parents and schools believe that kids should have a lot of free time to play. I see a lot of kids outside after school, playing hopscotch, kicking a soccer ball or knocking a field hockey ball around. Sadly, we just don't see much of that anymore in the New Jersey school district I taught in. Compulsory education begins at age five, but many kids go to school starting at age 4. Most Dutch elementary schools close at 12 or 12:30 p.m. on Wednesdays. That makes it hard for working parents, but what a gift that is for kids. You can see their happy faces in the bike lanes, in the cafés, and on the sidewalks on Wednesday afternoons. In general, I think kids here are given more free-range here than in the U.S. 

This little guy seemed to be riding the #170 bus by himself. It's possible that the slighter older kid by the door was his brother and there did appear to be someone at the bus stop waiting to pick him up. Nevertheless, I couldn't help but think this would never happen in the U.S. I, myself, recently got over my fear of getting on a bus here. There were just too many questions: Where is the stop? Where do you pay? How will I know when I have reached my destination? Seeing a five-year-old riding a bus on his own tends to make your bus anxieties feel a little silly.

These gals on matching pink bikes were racing each other on the homestretch to the International School of Amsterdam. Might I also add that they were leaving me in the dust. I think they were in 2nd grade. I don't think there was an adult hovering over them, or in fact anywhere on the route to school.

In general, I think Dutch kids spend more time outside than their U.S. counterparts, even during the school day. Last year, I used to see one particularly energetic P.E. teacher and her class out running in Vondelpark. When their booty camp was finished, they got on their bikes, presumably to ride back to school. They didn't look too upset about the tough workout. I assume it was a P.E. teacher. If that was a math (or maths, as they say here) class, then I am jealous. I also saw one class out sweeping the sidewalk and picking up trash. You know that would never happen in the U.S. We are too busy with test prep.

I think Cinderella was surprised that I wanted to have a photographic record of Amsterdam school kids cleaning the sidewalks. Not pictured is the teacher who kept the troops in order, and reminded them to clean instead of just chat. I would like that job.

It turns out that the idea of giving kids time to play outdoors is not a new one. The concept of an open-air school began in the years leading up to WW II as a way to prevent the spread of tuberculosis. They were mostly built in areas outside the city, but this one is right in our neighborhood, Oud Zuid. 

I can think of a lot of former students from the U.S. who would benefit from going to a school in which outdoor play is a big part of the school schedule. As the kid who was always begging the teacher, "Can we have class outside?", I would have loved this type of school.

There seem to be some interesting educational experiments going on in the Netherlands now. For example, there is this democratic school, where the kids decide how they want to spend their days. They use something called Nonviolent Communication there, and, according to the website, "hang out" with each other. Despite the "anything goes" vibe, I'm interested to see how this all works in practice. Hopefully, I can arrange a tour and will write a sequel to this blog post.

As in the U.S., the Netherlands is struggling with educational segregation. Unlike our system, where most kids go to school in their own neighborhood, and choice is available to relatively few families, parents here are free to choose which school their child attends. Apparently, this has led to "white" and black" schools, and the government is figuring out ways to help make the schools more integrated. So, sadly, our problem with segregated schools is theirs, too. 

One area in which they are way ahead of us is in sex education. The media was all over the story of how sex ed starts in kindergarten in the Netherlands. Yes, and no. They do have a "Spring Fever" week focused on sex ed, and classes do begin in kindergarten. But they are learning in an age-appropriate way, not visiting the Red Light district. I'll climb up on my soap box and say that the teen pregnancy rate here is one of the lowest in the world, so I guess these kids are listening to their teachers.   

As an outsider with a slim grasp of Dutch I would obviously not be able to teach at a Dutch school. That is why I am teaching instead at the International School of Amsterdam (ISA). Actually, the school is not located in Amsterdam at all. Instead, its nestled in Amstelveen, a quieter suburb located about a 35 minute bike ride away. It feels strange to be "subbing" after ten years of being the captain of my own ship. Imagine my surprise when I was called in for an interview to even become a sub. And that was only after I completed the voluminous paperwork required. As Peter is fond of saying when there is a lot of ado over issues, "They picked a pope with less fanfare." Being a sub, or "cover teacher" as it is known at ISA, is like babysitting for your sister's kids before you have your own. You're not the same grown-up the kids are used to, but you are "sort of" like the one they are used to. Or you're like the "and guest" (the "plus one") on an wedding invitation. No one really knows your name, and yet, you there you are at the party, right along with all the "real" guests. 

At the British School of Amsterdam, they refer to subs as "supply teachers". That makes me think that teachers there are on the same level as pencils and highlighters, no more or less important. You might think, "What's in a name?" but maybe in this case, the kids are less likely to show respect to someone who matters as little as a post-it. Then again, the U.S. term sub is no better. It conjures up (at least for me) an image of sitting on the bench waiting to be called into the game...on a cold day in November. But not everyone suffers from those same long-ago lacrosse game traumas, so I guess the name isn't as painful for them. And speaking of names, some of the classes at ISA refer to their teachers by their first names. That took some getting used to. 

While you wait for the school to call you in, it's like being in 6th grade and waiting for a boy you like to call you back (if memory serves). Actually, I'm not even sitting by the phone waiting for the call. Instead, Sheela, my "date" from the International School emails me: "Are you free Tuesday and Thursday?" Then my heart skips a beat (not really) and I bask in the glow of being able to teach a few days a week without spending what feels like every waking minute planning and preparing. I love being able to get some exercise by riding my bike for the thirty-five or so minutes it takes to get to the school. On the way home, I take the scenic route. I have to pinch myself to believe that this is really my life.

Lest you think I am always pedaling in the sun, you can rest assured that I am also pushing into strong winds, or getting pelted with rain some days.

The school itself is a teacher's dream. Each grade level is clustered together like a village with a shared space in the village center for tables, bookcases filled with new books, and - for each grade level - amenities like a copy machine, and paper cutter. Sorry to bore all of my non-teacher friends with this minutiae, but the sheer abundance of supplies and the dreamy lay-out of the classrooms is just mind-boggling. 

Here's the brand-spanking-new Professional Development room. I peered inside and saw large tables that everyone could fit around, another copy machine, and a coffee machine. And then I had to hightail it away, when someone came to the door. I didn't want to let on just how much envy I was feeling at that moment.  

Here's the little terrace outside the teachers' room. I guess they assemble out there when/if they find some rays of sun shining through. 

I saw this refrigerator dedicated to beverages in the teachers' lounge. This speaks for itself. 

As you can see, a teacher's life at the International School is just a bit different than a teacher's life in the U.S., at least the life I led at my school. And what about a student's life? From what I have observed, that's quite different, too. Here are just a few of the differences I have noticed: each student at the elementary level has two recess periods a day. The cafeteria serves food that looks delicious. (And for the teachers, there is yet another coffee machine where you can make yourself a latte or a cappuccino. But I digress....). There are no standardized tests. Which means no test prep. Which explains the time for the two recess periods.  

There is hummus and veggies and pita. Oh my! And pasta with pesto. Some kids bring their lunches. During "cafeteria duty" one day, I saw kids eating sushi with chopsticks, and kids with gnocchi, among other international treats. It all looked good to me.

Imagine my surprise when the sub plans said I was to take the class swimming. At the appointed time, we left the building, boarded a coach bus, and were chauffeured to the pool, a few blocks away. All Dutch kids are supposed to learn to swim; that is the most grueling state exam they have to pass. I wonder if the swim teachers cram for that test.

There is so much attention to detail inside the school, like this wall of plants. There are also nooks everywhere, filled with cozy chairs and couches. 

I showed this photo of the lower school library to a U.S. friend who was a librarian. Together we sighed a lot when we thought of all the brand-new books these kids have, and all the space they have to get lost in books.

Actually, there is no in-house chocolatier at the school. I took this shot at the Amsterdam Chocolate Festival. But with all the other amenities, I wouldn't be surprised if there is a chocolate station coming soon. They do sell Tony's Chocolonely bars after school in the front hall. For all my Amsterdam friends, you know just how truly special that is.

The Maplewood, N.J. teacher inside of me yearns for a world in which all kids go to school in a place that looks like the International School of Amsterdam. I understand that when resources are scarce, it's hard to justify spending them on physical resources like comfy chairs and puppet theaters and colorful shelves. On the other hand, I think there's something to be said for the broken windows theory when it comes to education.  Basically, the theory says that when you see litter and "brokenness" around you, you are less likely to take care of your environment, and possibly even more likely to commit more serious crimes. When it comes to education, the theory says students whose physical surroundings are a disaster will soon "fit in" with their environment. The big boys and girls at Johns Hopkins said it so well: "The findings of the current study suggest that educators and researchers should be vigilant about factors that influence student perceptions of climate and safety. Fixing broken windows and attending to the physical appearance of a school cannot alone guarantee productive teaching and learning, but ignoring them likely greatly increases the chances of a troubling downward spiral." In addition to the books, and endless supplies, I wish all kids had access to the technology these kids do, and to teachers who have a morning together every Friday to plan and discuss (the kids start later each Friday). And did I mention the drama classes and Mindfulness workshops these kids have each week? Now I'll come down off my soapbox.

The student body at this school is also very different from what I am used to. In every classroom, I saw a bulletin board that looked something like the one below. What a wonderful opportunity these kids have to meet people from around the world. The optimist in me hopes that with more and more of these international schools around the world, kids will think the country where you are born is just another interesting thing to talk about, not a reason to hate each other.

I was surprised at how few of the students, at least in the classrooms I have taught in, are from the U.S. That meant there were few kids I could trade "Can you believe it?"/Donald Trump stories with.

With all of the traveling they do, and the exposure to different cultures, I think these kids seem more grown-up to me than the ones I taught in New Jersey. Here's a note that I found on the floor of a 2nd grade classroom when I was tidying up at the end of the day. She has, "always loved this guy"? Wait, she's in 2nd grade. And is Luke, the title of the note, the one she secretly loves? I have so many questions for this precocious second grader. So many.

I feel a certain connection to the kids at ISA who are from distant lands and struggling to learn English quickly. They're smart, but they can't always show it, since all the classes are taught in English. It's amazing how they deal with what must inevitably be a very frustrating life, at least until they catch up. They are inspiring to me. Just today, I heard two boys whispering in Russian. One was trying to help the other understand the directions on a math assessment. I'm still struggling to make myself understood in Dutch while ordering a sandwich in a restaurant. Bravo, boys! The students at international schools also have to learn to say goodbye over and over again. The kids have to pack up and move on when their parents do. It must be hard for them to manage the constant flow in and out of classrooms. And hard for teachers, too.

In addition to "guest teaching" (isn't that a better term?) I'm also tutoring two French children in English. Funny that even my rusty French - not used since I was in high school, except for the occasional resurfacing when we have gone to Paris - is better than my Dutch. What better way to teach an eight and a six-year-old that when it comes to learning a new language, you don't have to be perfect. You just have to try to muddle along and give it a go.

Last week, they were learning the names of jobs and what people who hold those job do. When we got to the job of "policeman" and I asked them what he or she does, they both responded, "A policeman helps people when there are terrorists in Brussels." How sad is that? What a world these kids live in. Luckily, the chocolate eggs I gave them for Easter cheered them right up. Too bad that won't work for all of us.

I think it's no accident that some of my closest friends here are teachers. They're not teaching now, but we still speak a common language. They know what it means to use your "teacher voice" even if the only "student" hearing them use it these days is their dogs. And just like teachers tend to figure out who we are - even when surrounded by people from all walks of life - so, too, do they stick together even when one of them is "on sabbatical". So teachers in the U.S., I do feel your pain when it comes to testing week, or early mornings after late-night parent-teacher conferences, or all of the plate-spinning you do to stay alive. I also feel your envy when I talk about my life here, and I wish I could have brought some of you along for the ride. One thing I can tell you is that I do miss that indescribable bond you have with a class, even if I certainly don't miss the indescribable amount of last-minute minutiae teachers have to attend to.

When you're a sub, its a little like being an understudy for a Broadway show. When that little scrap of paper floats out of the Playbill telling you the role usually played by Stockard Channing will be played by Suzanne Vine, your heart sinks, even if you try not to let it. That's how the students I teach these days must feel when they see me. Hopefully, by the end of the day, they have enjoyed the show just a little. Who knows what the future will bring me? For now, I'm enjoying the part-time gig. Perhaps the mountain of paperwork that ISA required wasn't such a mistake. I usually feel like I am being asked by absent teachers to teach in their stead, and not just pass out papers. Sometimes, I daydream about my school district calling to serenade me à la Boz Scaggs. Now that would be a dream come true!

"Go away, go away
Far away, so far away
It's too late to turn back now
And it don't matter anyhow

'Cause you were right, I'm to blame
I can't go on the same old way
Can't keep up the same old game."
 

And for my friends in Amsterdam, this song is for you. You can play it on the days I'm out teaching.

Ode to an Amsterdam Brunch and Earth, Wind & Fire

As I have so often explained, the winters in Amsterdam are tough. Day after day of damp grey days, punctuated by downpours that seem to coincide with the times I decide it's safe to hop on my bike. We are always scheming about ways to beat the winter blues here. For some, that means dashing off to places with blue skies to either sun or ski with names I have slightly heard of, but could never point to on a map (Mauritius and Lech, to name two that people I know have been to. I smile and pretend I know just how beautiful those spots are, then run home and google them). For me, that means finding Amsterdam places that serve a heart-warming brunch. 

Brunch is a relatively new phenomenon in a country that thinks chocolate sprinkles on bread, or a roll eaten while biking is a good breakfast. Here is the breakfast that Rachel's friend Liz brought back to the U.S. after her visit here.

I love this video of American kids trying out breakfasts from around the world. Notice what happens at minute 3 when they discover a proper Netherlands breakfast. The highlight for me is when a little girl asks, "People have this for breakfast?" with such a gleam in her eyes. Yes, they do!

Brunch - or even better - any-time-of-the-day breakfast has always served an important role in my life. In fact, on a recent trip back to the U.S., I cut short a conversation with someone I hadn't seen in months just to get to the local bagel shop before they stopped serving egg sandwiches. A gal has to have her priorities straight, right? Maybe that breakfast love harkens all the way back to sleepover days, when the morning-after, my mom (or the mom of whoever was that night's hostess) would crank out pancakes for the sleepy crew huddled around the kitchen table. I would always seem to be declared the winner when the final count was in as to who ate the most pancakes. In those days, that was a real source of pride. In high school, we often stopped by the Princetonian Diner for breakfast after a party. The absorbent qualities of eggs, toast, and hash browns were no doubt much appreciated by my bloodstream. Then there was the Sunflower Café in Cambridge, Mass. where I think we ate brunch, but is better remembered as the place we often lugged a gallon jug of BYOB white wine to drink with our dinner. This was in an era before boxed wine, or we would have brought that with us, too, no doubt. I can't say I moved to San Francisco after college just because of all the amazing breakfast places, but I do know that those places helped me get through some lousy weather and a difficult in-between stage of life. I have long dreamed of opening an all-day breakfast spot that doubles (triples?) as a bookstore and a place to hear live music. It will be called Suzanne's. So it only made sense that when I moved to Amsterdam, I would begin to build new memories by developing a connection to the food. And what better place to start than with breakfast?

I'm not alone in my tendency to link food with memories. One scholar has written a book about how our brains link food to memories, making it easier for us to unearth them. So while I can't remember a blessed thing about the Contracts class from my first year of law school, I can tell you by chapter and verse about the meal Peter and I ate in Rome over 25 years ago. Or about the many swoon-inducing breakfast items at Mama's Royal Café in Oakland, California. O.K., maybe swoon-inducing seems exaggerated. I do know that I had to nap after many of those breakfasts, when the carbs wore off and a bone-numbing fatigue (which we coined the "pancake coma") set in.  

Someone should write a book about how you can pass on important qualities to your children like the love of a good breakfast. Both Rachel and Ben have inherited this crucial gene. This was actually the coffee/tea reading hour Rachel and I found ourselves needing at CT Coffee and Coconuts after our brunch at yet a different spot in the neighborhood called de Pijp. Eating a good brunch can be exhausting, can't it? CT Coffee and Coconuts is a giant coffee and breakfast/lunch place (three stories high) housed in a former movie theater. It's a hip and happenin' place, and one that makes you wonder if anyone in this city has a full time job.

Brunch is perfectly suited to the lifestyle of a visiting twenty year old, for whom noon is an early wake-up call. It's also perfect for jet-lagged visitors of any age, for whom noon is really 6 a.m. according to their U.S.-timed bodies. And finally, it's the ideal meal for a person who is not working full time, or most of the time. In other words...me.

This was taken at the mother of all Amsterdam brunch places: Bakers and Roasters. A New Zealander and a Brazilian share the helm, and turn out some amazing and gorgeous brunches. Some of the waiters are from Down Under, which I found out only after I tried to practice my Dutch and was met with an even more perplexed stare than usual. 

There are actually quite a few brunch and coffee places run by folks from Down Under. Another gem, this one run by an Aussie, is Drovers Dog. It's a cozy (or as they say in Dutch, gezellig spot), filled with a friendly wait staff and colorful, delicious food. In fact, the brunch at Drovers Dog is the cover photo for this blog post. That may not be quite as sexy or prestigious as scoring the cover of the Sports Illustrated swimsuit issue, but in my book it's close. Afterwards, you can hop right on the #2 tram and head to the Rijksmuseum, just like Rachel and I did. We had been trying to fit a trip to the library (housed inside the museum) into our "busy" schedule. 

Imagine how inspiring it is to study inside this library. Plus we needed some proof that I do something here in Amsterdam besides just eat.

Not to be outdone by the the Down Under contingent, the Brits have their own star in the brunch firmament. Actually, there are two of them. Greenwoods has twin locations In Amsterdam, both alongside canals. I have eaten at each of them several times. They are perfect places to meet your own children, or their friends, for brunch, since they are so centrally located. Plus they serve a darn good proper English breakfast. I have remarked in other posts how surprised and delighted we were that so many of our kids' friends have looked us up while frolicking in Amsterdam for a weekend. They, too, just like I did in days of old, understand the role of a good breakfast in soaking up alcohol in the bloodstream. This place has a great selection of teas, for those who are not in the hangover recovery program. I do know that there is a list of best boozy brunches in Amsterdam, and I have a friend who has started to work her way down that list. Unlike many breakfast places in the U.S., almost all of the ones mentioned here serve booze. I don't like to mix my breakfast with alcohol, but if you do, just say the word. You'll be served with a smile.

The addition of the baked beans and the sausage are a dead giveaway that we are in the company of Brits. And on a important side note, the homemade soda bread, appropriately situated as the centerpiece of the table, is to die for. The plate on the left with lunch on it when breakfast was an option does not belong to a genetic relation to me, of course. That's just not how we roll in the Vine-Drucker household.   

There are a few other spots that require a mention. I can only conclude that I have no photos of our breakfasts at these spots because we were just too hungry to pose our food before devouring it. One is called Omelegg (again, two locations) where the signs boast that you can, "Get your egg on". Yet again, Ben Drucker was way ahead of his time when it comes to the subject of eggs, blithely downing five eggs a day when many of us still worried about cholesterol. With the recent findings by the experts about how dietary cholesterol is no cause for concern, we can all visit Omelegg as often as our little hearts desire, and not worry a bit about hurting those hearts in the process. Another one of my favorites is Staring at Jacob, which is the hands-down winner in the best name contest. The cafe overlooks the Jacob van Lennep canal in the Oud West (Old West) section of the city. There are no cowboys there, but a ton of great spots to eat. The brunch at Staring at Jacob is as wonderful as its name. I need to schedule another trip there soon to test out the brioche french toast. For research purposes, of course. 

My latest discovery in the Amsterdam brunch world is Dignita. I love it for so many reasons. Let me count the ways: 1. It's within walking distance of our house; 2. 100% of the profits go to supporting an international organization called Not For Sale, which fights against human trafficking; 3. They serve brunch all day in a gorgeous place with a view of their garden and absolutely outstanding food. 

Anytime I have been served something for brunch that comes in a cast iron pan I have never been disappointed. And that little number in the background is a potato hash pillow, topped with poached eggs and a lemon hollandaise sauce. Yes, you need to book a flight soon if you don't already live here.

My friend Don arrived here on four hours of sleep, and promptly downed two cups of coffee at our place before killing off two double espressos with his brunch. No one loves a good brunch more than my dear friend Don, believe you me, and he gave the seal of approval to this one. Don and I went to both high school and college together. That's a lot of shared history, much of which involves food.

While this post may mostly appeal to Amsterdam friends who can make use of this list, I hope the rest of you will read along and get a vicarious thrill, or be motivated to book a flight here. However, I don't want you to get your hopes up and think a luxurious spread is the norm when it comes to an Amsterdam breakfast. In fact, breakfast in Amsterdam isn't always a many splendored thing. It's often a simple sandwich, a broodje (roll) or if you want to get fancy, a krentenbol (raisin roll). All of those choices can be eaten while you ride your bike, which a plate of eggs cannot. Or, at least, I haven't seen that yet. For those who are wondering, I do not eat and ride. I need to "keep my wits about me" (as my mom always warned me to do when I went into New York City). This caution-while-bike-riding comes from a gal who often ate her lunch behind the wheel of a car. I am just not up to the task of multitasking while riding my bike...yet. 

Brunch here isn't exactly like its U.S. counterpart They do serve eggs, or course, which are delicious and often have a feather lurking in the carton, so you know they're fresh. There is bacon (spek) and pancakes, but Dutch pancakes or poffertjes aren't like our big, fat American pancakes. They are tiny, silver-dollar sized, not just dusted, but drowned in powdered sugar. In a country that places rolls and sandwiches on a very high pedestal, it's odd that the bread isn't outstanding. There is a French bakery, Le Fournil de Sébastien, where you can often find a line snaking out the door, so clearly I'm not the only one who finds the native bread a little lacking. And we are still waiting patiently for a New Yorker to move here and bring a proper bagel to Amsterdam. Apparently, there is a "bagel diaspora" going on elsewhere in the world, but alas, no one with that expertise has resettled here. Whenever I eat a bagel, it makes me homesick. Recently, I came across this line in Colum McCann's Transatlantic, my International Women's Club book group choice this month: "It was not at all what Lily had wanted the city to be." Exactly! Those bagels are not at all what I want them to be. By the way, I loved the book. 

The sign above the bread means, "Bread, a tradition." I'm hoping that that tradition finds its way into more Dutch bread. I took this quick photo right before the young woman said, "Geen photos." ("No photos."). Maybe she realizes that their bread recipe is just too valuable to share. 

Here's the krentenbol I brought for breakfast when I subbed at the International School. Stay tuned for more news about that new adventure in my next post.

My final two entries don't really count as brunch destinations, but I need to mention them. The first is Kapitein Zeppos which is the definition of both cozy and eclectic. I was introduced to it when I had been here less than a week, by Emma, the sparkling daughter of a teacher friend in New Jersey. It is so tucked away that Peter and I couldn't find it at first. And it took me awhile to go back, because I couldn't find it again. It's a local hangout filled with plants and interesting knick-knacks where you can eat delicious soups and sandwiches, so it goes against my breakfast religion. But it's worth crossing over to the lunch side of the tracks for this place. I may have to do a separate post on lunch in Amsterdam, but for now I'll just say that with all of the colorful choices on the menu, it always looks to me like at least 50% of the clientele at Kapitein Zeppos orders the croquette sandwich. It's basically fried dough cylinders with what tastes suspiciously like molten-hot cream of mushroom soup inside, served on a roll. It's a beloved Dutch treat. I'll stick to the grilled sandwich with goat cheese, walnuts, arugula, red peppers, and honey, thank you.

When my friend Cristina saw this "Lunch at Kapitein Zeppos" picture, which Rachel posted on FB, she immediately insisted I take her there. 

And so we met there last week. On a cold and rainy day, it made us feel sunny inside.

And finally, we have a excellent place to have dim sum, thanks to my friend Vera. All of our expat friends here are so generous about sharing their tips for where to find the best food in town. Vera steered us to Oriental City on a Sunday at noon. Based on the number of Chinese families there, I'd say this is the place to be in Amsterdam when it comes to dim sum. I'm also basing that on the groaning table of food we managed to pack away. I loved how you have to bite into each little pillow to discover exactly what is inside, since by the time they arrived, I had forgotten what we ordered. Even then, many of them were mysteries. We had to go home and nap after this outing. 

Vera, on the right, is the driving force behind our Dutch "Babbel" group:  a group of American expats who eat, drink, and try to chat in Dutch. We are gently guided by Vera, who is German but married to a Dutchman. I think we were supposed to speak Dutch on this outing, but the dim sum took precedence. Lauren, left, wins the award for most likely to say "YES!" when you ask her to go anywhere to do anything, especially if food is involved. I love that! Then again, she would probably say the exact same thing about me.

As you may have inferred if you have been reading my blog for awhile, I have a special fondness for the musical hodgepodge of R&B/soul/funk/disco/pop. So the news that Maurice White - the heart of Earth, Wind & Fire - died earlier this month brought back so many memories of his songs and exactly where I was when I listened to them. There were a flurry of emails that went back and forth between my high school friends, all set in motion by the loss of this man whose music was so important to us. That made me think about how music, just like food, can both trigger memories and help reinforce them in your brain. For example, when I hear I Heard it Through the Grapevine, I am instantly transported back to a day when my friend Laura serenaded me with her version: I Heard it Through Suzanne Vine. If those theories about the connection between food and memory hold true for music and memory, then my memories should be strongest when they involve both food and music. Maybe that's why I can so clearly remember my dad playing the cello at the crack of dawn, and his simple post-cello breakfast of orange marmalade and butter on crackers. I will always remember when my friend Sue told me that her son's school near Buffalo, N.Y. allowed the kids to eat during class. I was so impressed, and wished I could have gone to school there. Had I been able to eat brunch and listen to Parliament Funkadelic during law school classes, things could have turned out quite differently for me in life. 

The song September is a double trigger: a link to both high school days, and also the beginning of the school year, when I would blast it on my iPod as I set up my classroom at the end of the summer. And that accounts for why I know every note and every syllable. Thank you Maurice White and Earth, Wind & Fire, for making a white girl from New Jersey feel like she was full of soul.

You may think that this post was a lot of ado about food. After all, breakfast is just a meal, right? That's where I think you are mistaken. This brunch search, which I began soon after arriving here, helped me get to know the city. My Amsterdam friends often remark that I seem to know more tucked away places to eat than the average bear. During my many wandering walks and bike rides, I like to peek in windows and look at menus. It's an old-fashioned way to find new places, but I like it better then just doing a Google search while siting on my rear. 

Along with discovering all of these breakfast places, I have also been making new music memories. I love my old songs and the friends and family associated with them, but this move has been all about making new friends and lasting memories to sit side-by-side with the old. In that spirit, last week, I saw the Israeli singer-songwriter and "musical ambassador" Idan Raichel play to a packed crowd with a new friend. Raichel believes that through musical collaboration, he can help break down the barriers between people of different backgrounds and religious beliefs. I loved how he told stories in between songs, including one about a young Dutch woman who posted a video on YouTube of herself singing one of his songs. What impressed him was that she had to learn the song phonetically, because she spoke not a word of Hebrew. He was so touched that he found a way to get in touch with her, invited her to the concert, and brought her up on stage to sing with him. I hope I'll never forget this new memory about the power of music to bring folks together. I took a short video so you could hear what I mean.

So, you see, this post wasn't really only about breakfast. It was also about memories, and music, at least secondarily. I'll end with a new song (to me) which I associate with the "cooling down" at the end of the Zumba classes I took with Rachel when she was here. Nothing like a singer's name with a missing vowel to make you feel hip. I don't care if the lyrics are about drug addiction, as some say. "I can't feel my face when I'm with you," makes me think about how hard I laugh sometimes when I'm with my daughter. And this week, I also had it in my head when I was out on my bike, and a sudden hailstorm started pelting my face. The point is, I'm still making those memories, here in Amsterdam.

P.S. At the risk of sounding like my parents, I think the music from my past is - simply put - better than what I hear today. Here's the last word from one of the links to my past. It's one of the greatest food-related songs, although I'm pretty sure they aren't really talking about cutting cake.

London/Indian Food Calling

With the holidays behind me, and dreams of dozens of 20-year-olds in our Amsterdam apartment no longer dancing in my head, I decided to go back to a journey I never blogged about. In early December, we headed to London for the weekend. Lucky me! I have been to London several times in my life, and each time I think back to my first visit, back in the late 70's. If memory serves me correctly (and it does so so rarely these days) it was a trip filled with mishaps. Then again, I have been accused more than once by those nearest and dearest to me of greatly embellishing my past just to get a laugh. Really? Without those little "tweaks", when would we ever have a good family story to share? And those embellishments are what makes this blog sing, after all. Anyway, back to the Vine Family/my maiden voyage to London. I seem to recall that when we took our first ride on one of those double-deckers, we somehow managed to leave my older sister, Jennifer, behind on the curb. As the bus inched out into the traffic, I can recall looking back at her horrified face. I just can't remember how we managed to scoop her up, and just how many city blocks it took. I also remember astonishingly bad food, and that my brother had to walk into a pub on tip-toes so that we could eat there. Somehow, that story doesn't quite ring true, since it would have been obvious to anyone that he looked exactly like what he was: a ten year old kid tottering into a pub on his tip-toes, trying desperately, but unsuccessfully, to look 18. London has certainly changed a lot since the Vines brought their New Jersey vibe there those many years ago.

When you think of London, you might think of the Tower of London, Big Ben, the theaters in the West End, or walking along the Thames. We did none of those things on our recent trip. Call it the beauty of living smack dab in the middle of Europe: you don't have to cram absolutely everything into one visit when you live close enough to go places for the weekend. So when our U.S. friend Howard mentioned that he would be in London on business, and asked if we wanted to join him for the weekend, we didn't hesitate. The answer was, "Yes!"  Had we looked at a calendar, we would have seen that we had committed to heading out on a Friday morning, after having just returned from our U.S. Thanksgiving tour. Or that we had just seen Howard in the U.S. on that tour. No matter. London was calling, so off we went.

A big part of our agenda was rekindling our love affair with Indian food. Last year, I met a food blogger who spoke at one of our American Women's Club meetings. When we broke into small groups, a bunch of us fired restaurant questions at her: What are your favorite spots for brunch? For Thai food? And how about Indian? She was brimming with suggestions for each of our questions, but when it came to Indian food in Amsterdam, she answered mysteriously, "Head out to Schiphol..." [Amsterdam's main airport]. A good Indian restaurant at the airport?, we all wondered. Then came the punchline: "And jump on a plane to London!" In essence, that is exactly what we did.

Luckily, Howard applied the same due diligence called for at his job with the S.E.C to the task of finding excellent Indian food. 

This restaurant, Sheba Brick Lane, was as its name suggests, right on Brick Lane, which consists of lots of little Indian restaurants standing one after another, like parched and eager 4th graders lined up at the water fountain. More on lining up later in this post....Oh, and did I mention that this was lunch? And that we also ate Indian food for dinner that very night? More on that later, too....

One thing all long-ago visitors to London liked to complain about was the food. But that was then, and today, it's a different story. Our first stop - once we threw down our bags - was lunch at a miniature restaurant called Honey & Co. which turned out Middle Eastern food as delicious as it was spicy and colorful. After such a inspiring start to the culinary tour, we set off on a walk. For those doubters who still think of bangers and mash when they think of eating in London, you need only visit one of the Ottolenghi shops. For my food-fan friends, you know this man as the author of the cookbook that shares his name, or the equally spectacular Jerusalem or its sequels. The photos alone in these books make you want to jump inside and start eating. If you are lucky enough to have a partner/personal chef in the house like Peter, you will have tasted some of the recipes. They often require special reconnaissance missions for ingredients you've never heard of, like za'atar, an essential spice in a dish Peter cooked up one evening. Our mission was to visit one of the shops in London, right near the embassies. It's a posh neighborhood, filled with posh people and now with the arrival of this Ottolenghi shop, posh food.

I can tell you this food didn't just have a pretty face. After all the gawking I did, it just wouldn't have been right not to try a dessert...or two.

We also found some evidence that I have roots in this posh part of town. It's an inside family joke, that my mother's Austrian-Jewish name was not really Grossweiner (yup, that's her maiden name), but rather Grosvenor. And Grosvenor (pronounced Grow-ven-ur) is always pronounced with a British accent, the posher the better.  

Here I am paying tribute to the posh branch of the family.

It wasn't all food and more food in London, although with that Indian lunch and a South Indian dinner at a placed called Chettinad literally under our belts, the trip had already proved itself a roaring success. We did break things up with a dinner at a BBQ joint (yup, you heard that right) called Blues Kitchen. This restaurant prompted Howard to remark, "Leave it to the Brits to make Southern food better than we can in the U.S." This place was hopping, even though we hopped out just as the live band was getting started. Past my bed time.

All of that food required a lot of walking to prepare for the next meal, so it was a good thing we had booked a walking tour for the following day. Again, we went off the beaten path, to the East End of London for a street art tour that Howard and his partner in crime, Kate, had both taken before. I must admit I was skeptical when Howard first announced this plan. How many examples of graffiti could I look at before I would find myself thinking back to all the juvenile defendants I represented who stood accused (wrongfully, of course; always wrongfully) of spray-panting their "tags" all over Brooklyn? First off, I learned the difference between graffiti (a name or more usually a nickname) vs. street art (a work of art painted or sprayed on a wall). Some graffiti artists crossover to street art, and some stick to their original specialty. 

At the top of the building is some graffiti. And the round painting is street art. How on God's green earth, as a favorite law school professor used to cry, do those guys or gals climb up so high to draw? No graffiti artist ever must suffer from my fear of heights.

In addition to taking us on an amazing street art tour, Lily, our tour guide, also filled us in on the history of the East End of London. Her knowledge was impressive, considering she is from Paris. She spoke excellent English, with a British accent to boot. She showed us the houses originally owned by  Huguenots running from Catholic France. Later, Jews escaping religious persecution settled in this East End neighborhood. And several waves of immigration later came the Indians. Now, towering construction is going up everywhere, gentrification pushing out the artists and the immigrants.  

Here's our tour guide, Lily, who is herself an accomplished street artist.

Speed is of the essence when you are a street artist. These silhouettes are done back in your studio/apartment. Then when you find the perfect wall, you spray paint around the pattern that you cut out. 

This wall shows two different artists' work. And a graffiti artist's work creeping up at the bottom.

Our tour guide proved her street art chops when she showed us one of her own pieces. She loves underwater scenes. Just beautiful, don't you think?

I find it strange that street artists paint over each others' work. That just seems wrong. Can't they each just find a blank wall of their own? This thinking proves why I could never be a street or a graffiti artist. And, oh yes, there's also the fact that I can't paint.

These twins were also on our tour until they peeled off for a nap. I must say that afterwards, I missed them and their insightful comments, which were really more in the way of insightful looks. 

This tour was full of new things for me to think about. I never knew that street art could also include sculptures or even stickers. There is a group of artists in London who slap stickers up on street signs. Apparently, if you are caught spray painting, there's a big fine, or even an arrest in your future. However, if you just put a sticker up, and can quickly take it down, the police are apt to let you do just that and then go on your merry way.

We loved our tour of the East End so much that we decided we could trust Howard when he urged us to check out the Camden Market the next morning. It's an impressive jumble of jewelry, clothing, and food stalls, that even more impressively was open on Sunday morning starting at 10 a.m. Armed with my new-found knowledge about street art, my eyes were peeled for anything I might find.

This probably comes under the category of advertisement instead of art, but it was clever and colorful and I loved it.

Again, a KFC billboard is hardly street art, but it's just the whole mess of color everywhere you looked that appealed to me. 

Even the term street art has become more of a household phrase now that the artist Banksy is in the house. Banksy is an anonymous guy whose paintings are worth a ton, and who has maps and web sites devoted to finding his art in London and around the world. I came back to Amsterdam thinking about whether there is as much street art here as there is in London (there is not) and why not. Apparently, there used to be a lot more until the city recently decided to "clean up" some buildings, and the art was lost. I'm not sure how I would feel about a painting splashed on the side of a historic canal house, but on a wall of an otherwise boring rectangle? Now that's a different story. During the recent street art clean-up, the heart of Amsterdam's street art scene was demolished. It turns out that even in tolerant Amsterdam, luxury condos trump buildings filled with squatters and covered with street art. I guess I have to go all the way to London again to get my street art fix. Actually, it's not that there is no street art at all in Amsterdam. It's just that there is now a lot less. Rachel and I did see a great exhibit at the Amsterdam Museum called Graffiti: New York Meets the Dam. We discovered there that there is also a street art museum in Amsterdam. I would like to check that out someday soon. It seems odd that in a city that prides itself on its vast treasures in art museums and on its tolerance for individual freedom that street art is not supported and nurtured. If you think about it, it's the ultimate democratic art form: accessible to anyone and everyone who is able to come to the city and wants to see it. There is no admission ticket necessary. 

And the beautiful thing about most street art is that it's not just designed to be a background, another pretty face on the wall. Most of it is meant to challenge you as you go about your daily business, walking the streets. It makes you question your assumptions about issues, and to just maybe change your way of thinking. This is hard work for someone like me who is mostly a word person. You could probably divide most people into two camps: "word" or "picture" people. By that, I mean you either gravitate towards words (books, newspapers) or to pictures (art, films) to both help you express yourself, and to make sense of the world. And what about a music pile? I sort myself into the word pile, with a few music cards thrown in, I guess. Along these same lines, a friend once told me she divided the world into police vs. non-police people. Police people are always minding another's business, noticing who is doing what wrong at any given moment. Non-police people just mind their own business. I'm a police person in a city dedicated to a non-police approach. This is a side note, but such a true one. This is just one of the beauties of writing a blog: you can go off on tangents to your heart's content. 

I love looking at art, but I must admit that I often don't "get" it, in the same way some of my students used to say they didn't "get" the meaning of a book. My dad looked with a skeptical eye at most contemporary art. He once famously remarked, "I could do that!" while looking at a very famous example of modern art: a block of color on a canvas. I'm the opposite. I look and say, "I can't even do that!". I have long lamented my anemic artistic skills. I have such admiration for friends and family who can not only draw, but who love to do it. Now, with more time on my hands, I'm thinking it's time to change that. I think I'm not alone. There is a new trend towards adult coloring books, and I don't mean "adult" in the pornographic sense. Rather, these are coloring books to help grown-ups like me relax and draw, without the pressure of having to create a work of art. How perfect! And I'd like to add that I understood every word on the cover of this Dutch version that I just treated myself to.

I'll translate for you: "Creative Coloring book for big people. Who says that coloring pages are only for children?" Who, indeed!

You don't need a page-long editorial in the New York Times to tell you this artist's views on the recent wave of immigration. 

In addition to marveling over the many delicious food options, and all the street art, I couldn't help but notice the other charming things about London that make it so very different from Amsterdam. Let's start with the concept of a line, or in British parlance: a "queue". People in London form neat and tidy lines to march onto the subway (the Tube), to ride the towering escalators out of the bowels of the Tube, and, well, virtually everywhere. I've heard that the Brits who live in Amsterdam are astonished at the lack of tidy lining up that goes on in the Netherlands. This British fellow wrote about his astonishment in a recent article in an expat newsletter.  I have to say, to my Dutch friends, I line up with the British when it comes to this issue. I guess it's the teacher in me who loves a straight (and, while we're at it, a quiet) line. 

Some other things that seemed typically British to me:

I don't think these phone booths are still functioning. They may actually be wifi hotspots now. That's kind of sad. Not all change is good.

There were tons of shops with all things 70's for sale. I could have made a mint if I had just saved my bell bottoms and vinyl and sold them here.

I saw many women dressed stylishly. The men...not so much.

And I thought the Dutch had cornered the market on inadvertently off-color signage. This sign was perhaps purposefully crude. Who really knows? 

Let's face it, it is nice to visit London just to hear some good old-fashioned English. While it is true that most Amsterdammers speak excellent English, they do speak Dutch to each other. And that seriously interferes with my ability to eavesdrop on conversations (as I have so often pointed out). You just have to love listening to a British accent. It makes one sound so darn clever, doesn't it? And Downton Abbey has just made it all the more clear that Americans don't sound nearly as smart as the Brits. As the following video clip reveals, we Americans sound pretty darn dumb to the ear.

Living in Amsterdam gives us the chance to revisit places I first saw years ago. It's a chance to see how much some parts of the world have changed, and to realize how much more - or at least how differently - I appreciate travel as an older, "bigger" (according to the coloring book) person. It's also a chance to engage in a little revisionist history, smoothing out some of the wrinkles from the earlier family visits (whether with my parents and siblings, or with my own family), remembering more of the peaks and conveniently forgetting some of the valleys, or at least turning them into funny stories. So, thank you, London, for serving as the first overseas trip for me as a teenager, for my kids when they were teenagers, and for the recent street art/Indian food gig. I'll close with Britain's finest export ever: the Beatles. They sang it so perfectly, with that I-could-listen-to-it forever accent. "There are places I remember, all my life, though some have changed." You've changed, London, and I've changed. I think that's a good thing, don't you?

This post is dedicated to my parents, who travelled to London and so many other places together. They look like Glenda Jackson and Walter Matthau here. I love that my dad looks so British. I'm sure he had my mom to thank for his dashing attire. They are my travel muses.