Sharing My Secrets Before I Go: Amsterdam Confidential

You can find these cows in the Hoofddorppleinbuurt. How’s that for a mouthful of Dutch? 

With only a few short months to go in our Amsterdam adventure, I’ve already begun plotting my exit strategy. I’m revisiting favorite places and trying to get to the corners I have missed. I’ve watched many an expat do the usual frenzied expat dance: giving away spices, and appliances with European plugs, attending going away parties like a busy debutante. In addition to the usual giveaways, I’m also giving away some of my Amsterdam secrets. I don’t pretend to be the only expat to have discovered these places. But for some of my friends who stay closer to our neighborhood bubble, here are some spots you can venture to when you want to get away. And for friends coming to Amsterdam for a visit, try to squeeze at least one of these secret detours onto your Canal Belt/Museum Quarter path. You’ll feel like a local. 

Paul Simon, there may also be 50 ways to leave your country. Surely, one strategy (which believe me, I have considered) is just to “slip out the back Jack”. Wouldn’t leaving without any pomp and circumstance make the transition back to the U.S. easier? That’s my fantasy, anyway. The drum solo at the beginning of the song? Fantastic!

Time to explore my secrets. My first piece of advice to you is find some parks in parts of town you don’t know, and try them on for size. We live right near Vondelpark, and it’s wonderful. but it’s no secret. I like to stretch my wings in other parts of town.

Sarphatipark in de Pijp. Go there. During WW II the park was renamed because Samel Sarphati was Jewish. The name was restored in 1945. At least that part of the story has a happy ending.

It’s amazing how quickly you can feel like you are in the countryside, even inside the city limits of Amsterdam. I found this little animal farm in the corner of Rembrandt Park.

Erasmuspark is in Amsterdam West. It’s worth the trip, and I promise the West isn’t so wild anymore. It has been discovered by families, and old folks like me. You really don’t need to be Admiral Perry to go there.

I caught up with an explosion of crocuses in Frederik Hendrikplantsoen on a crazy late winter afternoon when spring came unexpectedly early.

This park, De Braak, is not actually in Amsterdam. It’s in neighboring Amstelveen. I caught it in all its splendor one day this Fall. Don’t miss this park.

In addition to hunting down parks, I like to find street art on my secret travels. There is none in my neighborhood. But if you keep your eyes peeled, you can find some outside of our neighborhood bubble. I took a bike ride about a month ago, thinking while I pedaled about how I’m getting ready to move away. And that it’s O.K. And then I saw some great sights around town. And suddenly I’ve got Dolly Parton, my soon-to-be-Nashville-neighbor, on my mind as I passed by one pretty sight after another:

All you gotta do is smile that smile
And there go all my defenses
Just leave it up to you and in a little while
You're messin' up my mind and fillin' up my senses
Here you come again lookin' better than a body has a right to
And shakin' me up so that all I really know
Is here you come again and here I go

I found this in the Bos en Lommer neighborhood. This is the definition of whimsical.

I found this modern version of traditional Dutch/Delft blue tiles in the neighbor known as De Baarsjes. It’s hip and happening there.

This colorful sign telling you to, “Get Off Your Bike” is also in De Baarsjes. I assume the Dutch ignore it just like they do the more mundane ones in our neighborhood.

Nelson Mandela keeps a watch over Oost, Amsterdam’s East side.

I’m sure when we come back to visit Amsterdam someday, parts of the city will look completely different. One of those is surely Zuidoost, the area of the city that’s also home to the soccer stadium and the huge concert venues. For now, it’s a part of the city I’m pretty darn sure I’ll never run into any of my expat friends. For that reason, I feel “brand new” when I visit this part of town. Al Green would be proud of me.

If you live in Amsterdam, or even if you have just visited, you have probably visited the Foodhallen. But have you tried World of Food, in Zuidoost? There is some seriously delicious food there, mostly African and Asian. And unlike at the Foodhallen, you can find a seat. After much deliberation, I chose Liberian food. Looks like the food is the chef’s childhood secret. It’s nice when even the food I eat fits in with the theme of my blog post.

After you hit World of Food, you can find Nelson Mandelapark. And work off all that Liberian food.

Now it’s time to explore the island life in Amsterdam. It’s not lonely there, despite the title of the Sam Cooke song, above. Even when I’m on my own on my secret Amsterdam travels, I don’t feel lonely. I actually like being on my own when I’m in explorer mode. I think I notice more when I’m by myself and not talking. Without my mouth to contend with, my eyes can really concentrate. They see more than they do when I’m with a friend. On the other hand, when I’m alone, I can really get lost, not just in my thoughts, but actually lost. As in not-even-Google-Maps-can-come-to-my-rescue lost. In my defense, I think the circuitous streets in some parts of Amsterdam are partly to blame.

The first island on my secret list is Prinseneiland. It may not be a secret to long-time residents, but it’s relatively new to me.  Don’t ask me how to get there. It’s up near Westerpark. You might get lost on the way, but it’s a good kind of lost. There are lots of interesting buildings and nooks and crannies to look at as you try to find your way.

Prinseneiland from the water, on a boat ride. I love the way Dutch architects mix in the new with the old. The modern brown house is flanked by two traditional Dutch homes.

The next stop on the island tour is the Oostelijke Eilanden, or Eastern Docklands. Some famous modern Dutch architects have put their own spin in this part of town on the classic Dutch canal houses and bridges. It’s one of those Amsterdam neighborhoods where I feel like I’m bringing the median age way way up when I visit. I love the fancy ironwork and the fanciful bridges. Unlike on the windy cobblestone streets in the original Canal Belt, the streets in this Canal Belt redux are nice and new and smooth. I still couldn’t keep up with Ben, but it was a little less stressful to try.

And if I feel old in the Eastern Docklands, I feel like the ancient mariner in the area known as NDSM, a formerly industrial area (the Amsterdam shipyards) in the North that is now home to a high percentage of hipster visitors and residents. You can take a ferry across the IJ River and find yourself in a different world than where most of us expats nest. There’s the Botel, a hotel in a boat. Or Sexyland, a music venue, where I’m pretty sure I would get carded for being too old. There are graffiti artists and shipping containers that serve as apartments and all sorts of funky places to hang out with 20-year-olds who worship vestiges of the 60’s - like Volkswagens and tie-dye. Any day now - which in Amsterdam could also mean in a few years - the world’s largest street art museum will open in NDSM. Until then, this mural of Anne Frank graces one wall of the museum-in-progress. 

Perfect music for the new islands of Amsterdam.  

And now back to dry land. And the area of town known as Nieuw West, or New West. Rachel discovered this place in Nieuw West a few years ago. It checks off all my boxes for secret places: a little out of the way, funky, serves good coffee. I’ve included hints about this place in previous posts, but now I’m ready to reveal the exact location. It’s called Het Rijk van de Kezier Cantina. Treat yo self.

O.K. Those are all my Amsterdam secrets for now. I have to leave something to write about in these next few months, don’t I? And give you a reason to keep reading. In addition to my Amsterdam secrets, there are other secrets I’ve been hiding. It’s not a secret to all of you, but many of you don’t know there’s a reason I haven’t been traveling and writing for awhile. Rachel had lung surgery on March 11 to remove a nodule - related to her rheumatoid arthritis - from her lung. We called it her RBG surgery, since Ruth Bader Ginsburg recently had similar surgery. In fact, Ruth was with us in the waiting area pre-surgery. I kept thinking that if an 86-year-old woman could be back on the Supreme Court after a few months, Rachel Hannah Drucker (RHD) could be back at the elementary school where she works in much less time. 

The surgery went well, and Rachel came through like the champ that she is. Going through this ordeal as the mom is not the same as being the patient. I’m not the one who went through the physical pain. But for those of you who have (unfortunately) been through something like this with someone you love, you know it’s not easy. You’re trying your best to seem strong on the outside while falling apart on the inside. Fortunately or unfortunately, I’ve had some practice with this when Rachel had scoliosis surgery when she was in high school. We look at that photo of us- in our blue hospital gowns and tired faces of worry - every year on her Surgiversary. Now we’ll have another one to-um-celebrate? That’s not exactly something they prepare you for in Parenting School. I often feel lost when it comes to how to deal with all of this.

On the flight from Amsterdam to Boston just before the surgery, I watched the documentary RBG. The tears started flowing when I got to the end and heard the theme song. Truth be told, this is far from the first movie I have cried over during a flight. In this case, I felt totally justified. But I also cried during the Mister Rogers documentary, and during some pretty fluffy stuff that is hardly tear-worthy. Go ahead and ask around and you’ll find out lots of us cry on planes. So of course I had to do a little research, and it turns out crying on a plane is the subject of some actual research. One of the experts on crying just happens to be Dutch. Take a little look-see on Google and all manner of articles from scientific journals like the prestigious CNN Traveler will tell you you are not alone in your in-flight tears. It could have something to do with the altitude, but probably more with feelings of separation, and being out of control, and in the hands of an unknown pilot. All I know is the movie and this song in particular made me cry. “When you feel you're taking all that you can take/And you're sure you're never gonna catch a break/And the tears are rivers running down your face, yeah.”

Has this experience really made Rachel, or her parents, stronger, as some of you have suggested? I’m not sure of that, but I hope so. I also hope this brush with illness will make us appreciate the joys of life that much more. I think that’s what Kahil Gibran is telling us in his poem On Joy and Sorrow. Here’s part of it: 

“Some of you say, ‘Joy is greater than sorrow,’ and others say, ‘Nay, sorrow is the greater.’

But I say unto you, they are inseparable.

Together they come, and when one sits alone with you at your board, remember that the other is asleep upon your bed.”

I can tell you that when sorrow is asleep upon your bed, you don’t get much rest. I’m looking forward to some rest, with joy by my side. Thank goodness for writing and reading, which can help you keep your sanity when it seems to be slipping away under a cloud of anxiety. Wait until you read the young-adult novel Rachel began writing almost immediately post-surgery, about a kid with rheumatoid arthritis. It’s going to be amazing. And reading gave us both a chance to get out of the hospital and inhabit other worlds. We escaped through our books into worlds where doctors didn’t give conflicting information, nurses didn’t wake her up at 5 a.m. to weigh her, and there were definite answers to lab results. I’m going to let you in on a secret which I’m sure you know: these expat days are happy and carefree until they’re not. I’d trade in every adventure for good health. Wouldn’t you?

Pure joy, one week post-surgery. Thanks for all the love and support. This post turned into something other than just a reveal of my Amsterdam secrets. Thanks for listening. Now go explore! 

Italy: the Gift That Never Disappoints

When you have a deadline for returning to the U.S., you feel a mad rush to visit all those places you haven’t yet seen. It’s not as if you will never travel again to Europe, but somehow it feels that way. So with one of our favorite travel weeks - between Christmas and the New Year - open and unplanned for, we felt a sense of expat panic setting in. Where to go? What to see? With that kind of First World pressure bearing down on us, we chose the only sensible route a soon-to-be repat can follow: we chose to revisit Italy. What better place to go when you’re starting to feel the anxiety that comes with a move? Sure, we could have gone somewhere we haven’t been before. But then there’s Italy…. Just too good to be true. Lauryn Hill went to the same high school as my kids, so I chose her smooth version of this song. Forgive me, Francesco Castelluccio (aka Frankie Valli).

Despite the chilly temperatures, as soon as we arrived in Bologna, our first stop, I knew we had made the right choice. Bologna, in the northern Emilia-Romagna region, is known as the food capital of Italy. That’s high praise indeed for a country that’s known already as the place to go for good food. Sorry, France.

Bologna is full of covered walkways, known as porticoes. In fact, there are over 30 kilometers of them in the city. Some of them date back to the 11th century. They were originally built to let homeowners add onto their homes without paying the taxes that were required if you built out into the street level. And merchants needed the space to show off their goods, so porticoes made good economic sense. Nowadays, they serve as architectural umbrellas during rainy weather. Thank you, Bologna!

The Italians like to stroll. In the lazy hours before dinner, they walk without a seeming purpose or destination. I think it may be to build up an appetite for yet another big meal. The porticoes were full of families during the pre-dinner hour. Here is what they look like during dinner time. Dinner is sacred in Italy.

Bologna is known for its university, which is the oldest university. In the world? In Europe? Who knows! There is a university in Morocco that was founded even earlier, but it’s no longer operating. Bologna’s has been around since 1088. And is still going strong. The student population swells the town into a city when they are around. When we visited, most were home on break, probably doing what we planned: eating and drinking ourselves silly on traditional Bolognese food.

In a city where the university is so important, it’s no surprise that education is revered. The population of Bologna is very educated, and book stores abound. That adoration for the power of education reached new heights in Bologna. Some law professors’ graves were raised to the sky, so everyone would have to look at up them. You’ve got to love a place that takes such good care of its teachers.

But let’s face it: we were not there to get an education, but to eat. The food is displayed with such loving care. It’s clear from watching the locals shop how much they adore their food. In fact, Bologna takes its food so seriously that the original recipes for the Bolognese specialities are housed in their City Hall. 

As I know I’ve mentioned before, many of my childhood food memories are centered around the Italian restaurants we loved in my hometown Trenton, N.J. Those were the days of tomato pies (the name for pizza in Trenton), towering lasagnes, and lots of spaghetti and meatballs. Not fancy Italian, but delicious. And there were lots of songs to go along with the food. “When the moon hits your eye like a big pizza pie, that’s amore.” Or, as my father sang in the shower, “That’s Bud Millner.” He wrote a version of the song for his friend Bud and liked to sing it to us. To me, my dad was every bit as suave as Dean Martin, minus the cigarette dangling from Dean’s lips and the glass of scotch that was never far from his hands.

While in Bologna, we headed over to Fico Eataly World, on the outskirts of the city. It’s the largest “food park” in the world, and nicknamed the Disney World of food. This is one amusement park I looked forward to visiting.

This Eataly was so huge there were free bikes you could hop on to help you see all the sights.

In addition to the bikes, there were several other ways to work up an appetite, including this mini-golf course, and an indoor volleyball court. Or you could just work up an appetite by eating.

Gelato University! I’ve finally found a course of study worthy of a PhD.

Here’s the star of the show in most Bolognese restaurants: tagliatelle bolognese. It was out of this world.

From Bologna, we headed to Modena. It’s all about local hero Luciano Pavarotti there. And Enzo Ferrari, if you love cars, which we do not. Here’s Pavarotti singing the song that celebrated the first funicular to travel up Mount Vesuvius. A funicular, which is like a chairlift, which runs up a moutain capable of exploding hardly seems like a good idea. While looking for a version of the song, I learned the Grateful Dead also sang a version. That hardly seems like a good idea either.

I ran into Pavarotti a few times while we were there. 

Modena may be a little more introverted than its neighbor Bologna, but the food there was just as wonderful. We couldn’t snag a reservation at Osteria Francescana - which sat atop the list of the world’s 50 best restaurants at #1 a few years ago - but we did find it on a tucked-away corner. We weren’t the only ones taking a photo of it. It’s like a church of sorts to Peter, a holy place we stood outside of in awe. While we didn’t get to eat at the holy Osteria, we did worship at the less fancy, but still delicious sister restaurant. While we were there, in walked the chef’s wife, son, and mother-in-law. Peter knew them because he watches Chef’s Table on Netflix. Let me tell you, if you aren’t a fan: this sighting was akin to siting next to the family of royalty. Too bad the king himself wasn’t there.

The Church of Osteria Francescana.

We wandered the outdoor market in Piazza Grande, the main square in Modena. It seemed as if everyone in town was also there, enjoying the blue sky and the eclectic mix of goods for sale. There was everything from chandeliers to U.S. presedential victor and vanquished dolls.

You’ve heard me brag before about the yearly quest Peter undertakes to make my birthday special. This year, I spent my birthday morning watching Parmigiano Reggiano being made and tasting as much as I could get my hands on with without totally embarrassing myself. It was only 10 a.m. when I was let loose on those samples, after all.

The workers work in teams so they can get to know each other’s rhythms.

Each wheel of cheese, called a baby, is lovingly swaddled in muslin, and periodically unwrapped and re-swaddled so it stays round. The wheel is stamped with the date it’s produced, so the owner can keep careful track of the age. So I actually got to meet a room full of wheels of parmigiano that share my birthdate. Very exciting.

The cows eat a special high quality diet - they are Italian, after all - to help keep the Parmigiano Reggiano the best of the best. This cheese has nothing in common with the stuff we used to shake from the green container. Although - truth be told - I ate a lot of that back in the day.

A robot is used to turn the wheels of cheese that are left to dry on tall shelves. It also dusts the shelves. Very useful.

From parmigiano to balsamic vinegar! Now that’s a birthday party. We spent the late morning at Villa San Donnino where balsamic vinegar is produced with the same attention to detail we saw in our parmesan visit. There was a $200 bottle for sale, which the guide told us lasts a long time because you use it very sparingly: a few drops on cheese or on top of your risotto. Or as a digestive after your huge dinner. I think it’s cheaper just to lay on my stomach until I feel better.

We saw Pierce Brosnan’s vinegar in barrels, aging nicely. Just like he is. Apparently, he paid a visit to the villa, and was so captivated, he had to have his own balsamic vinegar.

The owner of the Villa kindly allowed us to look around his home, which was built by his grandfather in the gorgeous Art Deco style.

Found my house in Modena. I could be very happy here.

The next day, we said Arrivederci, Modena and took the train to Naples. It was a shorter-than-short stay in Naples. We only got a glimpse of it as we were driven out of the city towards Pompeii. I was in the process of rereading Elena Ferrante’s My Brilliant Friend - that brilliant first book in a brilliant series based on the author’s life in Naples - and even those few minutes gave me a little taste of the chaotic decay and frenzy of the city, at least around the train station. I would love to go back just to see more of the scenes Ferrante depicts. For other Ferrante fans, here’s a great photo essay I found. Apparently, the books and the series on HBO are bringing some much-needed tourism to Naples. Who wants to join me on a Ferrante tour?

For now, let’s get to Pompeii. I’ve wanted to go there for forever. When I was a child, I wanted to be an archaeologist. I think it all circles back to Pompeii. My 5th grade history teacher, Mrs. Rothrock (I’m not making that name up, folks) taught me about Ancient Greece and Rome, and when I heard about the excavations in Pompeii, I thought I had found my calling. Then reality set in. Is it too late for a career change? As a kid, I was fascinated by the idea that lava poured in and covered the residents, some in mid-bite of their dinner. Well, it turns out a lot of that information is myth. There was no lava. People were covered by ash from the eruption of Mt. Vesuvius, not lava. And many of the residents with money had already cleared out because the eruption was preceded by an earthquake, which served as a warning they should evacuate. The servants who were left behind to safeguard the properties made up the majority of the casualties. These weren’t the only surprises we encountered at Pompeii. We were also surprised by how large Pompeii is, how well-preserved many of the structures are, and how vivid the paint still is in some of the ruins. The city was destroyed in 79 A.D., covered with volcanic ash, and yet you can still see mosaics, the streets, and the Pompeiian Red Light District, among other details. Those Romans built things to last. 

Vesuvius looming large in the distance. The weather was brisk, but this meant there were fewer visitors. This helped me imagine what the city must have looked like centuries ago, before tourists bearing iPhones flowed in. And I’m hearing the lyrics from Pompeii: “But if you close your eyes/Does it almost feel like/Nothing changed at all?”

The clouds made for some ominous shadows. Just like the lyrics in the song: “Grey clouds roll over the hills, bringing darkness from above.”

Here is an example of the vivid paint and murals still visible in some of the ruins.

Next stop, Sorrento. Try not to arrive on New Year’s Eve, like we did. The crowded curving roads were filled with cars of folks coming to town for the fireworks. The display sounded spectacular. We had had a few very long days, and celebrated New Year’s Eve in style like the old people we are: with our blankies wrapped comfortably around us in the hotel room.

It’s all about the views in Sorrento. I loved the blues and greens. My only regret is that it wasn’t warm enough to get in there and swim. Next time.

I see Sophia Loren and Enrico Caruso, I think. Who is the first guy? Robert DeNiro? John Lennon?

The crowds were lined up for this puppet show. It’s unclear why Marge and Maggie Simpson are included with the rest of the cast of characters.

I was in citrus heaven while in Southern Italy. I loved that I could squeeze my own juice for breakfast.

Throughout our visit, we saw families with children eating at what Americans would say was a late hour: 8 p.m. or so. The children were almost always extremely well-behaved. This probably has a lot to do with Italian children’s love of food. We actually saw one little boy licking his lips in anticipation as he watched the waiter place his bowl of risotto in front of him. Later that same evening, I had the chance to lick my lips, too, when my dessert of “carrot cake” arrived.

Happy birthday to me!

How wonderful to finally get to see Sorrento, a place I only knew from the song Come Back to Sorrento. I remember hearing it when our babysitter Julia - a woman of a certain age - watched her beloved The Lawrence Welk Show. The commercials during the show - for Geritol, some kind of tonic for old people, and Sominex, a sleep aid - tell you all you need to know about the usual demographic who watched. I loved it. That tells you a lot about me as a child.

From Sorrento, we boarded a ferry and spent a day on the Isle of Capri. I found my house. It’s the one perched on the cliff, with the swimming pool cut into the rocks.

The blues!

The tile floor in the Chiesa Monumentale di San Michele was stunning. I didn’t think anything indoors could come close to the scenic views of the water and cliffs, but this tile floor came awfully close.

Our last stop was the Amalfi Coast. We wisely left the driving to a tour company’s mini-bus driver. He had experience navigating both the winding one-lane roads and the Italian drivers who weren’t always gracious about pulling over. Along the way, our guide pointed out the villas owned by the likes of Sophia Loren, Rudolf Nureyev, and Wagner, among others. And we saw Café Positano, where he claimed the Rolling Stones wrote Midnight Rambler. I often think guides could make up any old nonsense and we would just nod in understanding. But I did look into it, and found Mick Jagger said the following about the song: “That's a song Keith and I really wrote together. We were on a holiday in Italy. In this very beautiful hill town, Positano, for a few nights. Why we should write such a dark song in this beautiful, sunny place, I really don't know. We wrote everything there….” Sorry, tour guide, for doubting you.

Everywhere you looked in Positano, there were sights to inspire you. I get it now, Mick. I get it.

On the ride back to Sorrento, it started to snow. The guide explained to us that the already treacherous winding roads were now going to be icy as well. He turned on some music, a greatest hits of Italian singers, while we all watched the road and tried our best to relax.

So did we regret going back to Italy even though there are so many other places we haven’t yet visited? And so little time? Not one bit. It was the week of comfort and beauty (not to mention food and wine) we needed. The clock has begun to tick on our move back to the U.S., but I’m O.K. with that. We’ve seen a lot (and missed a lot). But I’m going to focus on the seens and not the misses for now. And will I move back to the U.S. a different person? According to a recent article that has made the expat rounds, I guess I will. It seems the one difference between people who have lived abroad and others is we have a sharper “self-concept clarity”. Confronted with a new culture and a new way of seeing the world, we have to think a lot about who we are. And that helps strengthen our sense of self. So I’m going to go back this summer with that stronger self. They can’t take that away from me. That’s what I call a gift.

In the six weeks since we returned from Italy, there has been so much to worry about: the usual chaos in the world, illness in our family, dear friends who said forever goodbyes to fathers and husbands. Writing helped me forget for awhile. I hope reading did the same for you. It’s one way to fight back against the sadness.  

From Tuscany to Tennessee: Stepping Into and Out of My Comfort Zone

I heard it through the grapevine….

We set the clocks back here at the end of October. That means the sun will set at about 5 p.m. and creep back ever closer to 4 p.m. by the end of December. To help make that reality less frightening, I’ll take us back to Tuscany, where we spent five glorious sunny days in late September. I didn’t write about it at the time because everything I could think to write seemed trite and tired. Pretty as a picture? Warm climate and people? Comfort food to cure whatever ails you? Yes, yes, and yes. And while it may seem like it’s all been said, I’m going to say it yet again. Because in these dark days of roaring forest fires and raging hate speech, who among us can’t use a little Tuscan comfort?

Our trip - like most voyages to Tuscany - began in Florence. If we think tourists are taking over Amsterdam, it’s nothing compared to what goes on in Florence. And yet. And yet. There’s a reason the crowds form their own river alongside the real river bisecting the city, the Arno, to snap that perfect selfie. The sculptures all over the city, the red-roofed buildings with the light reflecting off them: it all transports you back in time. You feel like you might see a Medici stroll down the street at any moment.

When in Florence, you can stretch your wings if you go a little ways outside the city, to the town of Fiesole. A 30-minute bus ride will take you up and away with stunning views of Florence spread out in front. Our bus driver - the Mario Andretti of the Italian public transportation system - took those hairpin turns as if he were in a little red Ferrari, not a cavernous bus. Hold on tight, or for dear life, and you’ll be fine. Once off the bus, you walk up and up to get that view. You have to hand it to the Italians, who find ways to weave art in everywhere. In Fiesole, the covers to the gas meters were works of art.

Fiesole also has some well-preserved Roman and Etruscan ruins. We were grateful to Mother Nature for arranging the blue sky that set off the ruins perfectly. In the summer, there are concerts in the Roman Amphitheater. Sorry we missed out on seeing one of those, but not sorry to have missed the crowds. We nearly had the whole ancient world to ourselves in late September. Fiesole has been around since the 8th century B.C. and it’s still going strong.

One of the best things about living far away from home is you get to actually spend more extended time with family and friends who visit. So while you might not see them as often, when they do come, it’s not just a dine and dash. In a few days, you can see more of them than you might if you had never left your U.S. home. It’s the quality over quantity advantage to living abroad. We wandered around Florence and Fiesole with Peter’s sister Wendy (yup, they know about the Peter Pan thing) and her husband Bob.

Imagine a world in which your sister tells you she will be in Florence, and you can go join for a few days. We are beyond lucky to be living this life. Plus there were two more mouths to help out with the bottles of wine, since I don’t pull my weight in that department any more. I know some of my friends from the ancient days will find that news surprising.

Another advantage to traveling with others is you can finally get a photo of the two of you together.

And now I can finally fit in this beloved song, Peg by Steely Dan. Laura, this one’s for you:

“This is your big debut
It's like a dream come true
So won’t you smile for the camera
I know they're gonna love it.”

Getting out of Florence and into the hills of Tuscany was our goal on this trip. After grappling with a little bit of traffic, we were on our way to San Gimignano. One difficulty about traveling in this area is deciding which quaint village to choose as your destination. San Gimignano has been the popular girl in the Tuscany hills for quite a while. The giant tour buses pull up in the late morning and disgorge passengers from all over the world to gorge on gelato at an ungodly early hour. But that’s why staying in San Gimignano is wonderful. You get to see this gorgeous medieval city perched on a hill before and after the day-trippers leave. Otherwise, we’d be singing a different tune, one along the lines of": “It took me so long to find out. And I found out.”

You can tell it’s early morning in San Gimignano because of the scant numbers on the steps of the church in the piazza.

We took a long walk to get this shot of San Gimignano in the distance. We wished there were walking paths, since we had to share the road with cars and trucks. I don’t know how anyone has the stomach to bike these hills, but we saw plenty of cyclists. God bless.

Obligatory laundry shot. Why is it someone else’s clothes drying on a line look so picturesque?

You really see why this part of Italy is so full of visitors. Everywhere you turn, there’s another gorgeous greyish-green hill crowned with dark green cypresses, all there for the photo-plucking. I thought back to a passage from a book I read recently, The Happiest People in the World, by Brock Clarke: “…And the spectacle is so great that even the skeptical end up taking too many pictures.” He was writing about a slice of Denmark, not Tuscany, but the words fit.

Sorry to partially block your view of the hills with our bodies. Notice I am wearing Tuscan colors so I blend in. Sort of.

We headed next to Volterra, a town a lot less discovered than San Gimignano, that is until it showed up in Twilight New Moon, the sequel to Twilight, the swooned-over-by-teens vampire best-seller. When it came time to make the movie version, however, Volterra was passed over in favor of another hill town, Montepulciano (which, like the vampires, we also visited. You’ll see it later in this post).

They did film a scene in Volterra, complete with a faux medieval square right inside the actual medieval square.

As per my usual routine, I searched for and found my home. Here it is, complete with a rooftop patio overlooking the Volterra hills. Come visit me!

The blue was music to our eyes.

This is ribbolita, the Tuscan vegetable and bread soup that is comfort in a bowl. I tried it several times in our five day journey. It truly does stick to your ribs. But no worries. I was always hungry again by dinner time.

When you are traveling in these parts, it’s easy to think Italy is perfect. That may actually be true if you are just passing through, but not if you live there, I’m told. Nowadays, there’s not just the sluggish local services that keep you from declaring Italy a perfect paradise. There’s also the national government which is veering far right, and has even recently loosened gun laws. This is one aspect of U.S. culture you’d think no one would want to copy. It was hard to escape politics even on our vacation. One afternoon, we returned to our hotel for a siesta. I passed the time not by resting, but instead by watching the Kavanaugh hearings. I felt like I had to, as a citizen of the U.S. It will take more than a comforting bowl of pasta or ribbolita for me to recover from that experience.

One way to deal with the catastrophe-a-day news cycle from the U.S. is to try to forget it all. That’s what I did on this trip. The next day, we were off to yet another picturesque town: Pienza. Although Pienza has a starry past (Russell Crowe’s Gladiator was filmed just outside the city walls) it was much less crowded than our other stops. At times while we were wandering, we had the streets nearly to ourselves.

I found an Italian version of a Van Gogh painting on one of the city walls in Pienza.

A bench with a view.

This is a school. Can you imagine the lucky students and teachers who get this view from the classroom windows everyday? I wouldn’t be able to get much work done.

At a tiny restaurant in Pienza that evening, La Buca di Enea, we enjoyed the homey food the chef prepared using recipes he learned as a boy while cooking alongside his grandmother. Out of the corner of our ears, at the only other filled table, we heard the familiar loud sound of Americans. We listened more carefully, and detected their Texas twang. We quickly lowered our voices, worried - post-Kavanaugh hearing - that our fellow Americans would be celebrating his performance. As my mom would say, “Don’t assume.” It turns out they were Democrats, and disgusted with what is going on in the U.S. They had a lot of questions for us about what they would have to do in order to live abroad.

Last stop on the comfort tour was Montepulciano. Just saying the name of the town makes you feel happy. We toured a family-owned winery where our millennial guide told us about how he learned the business from his grandparents. Then over a four-course lunch with stunning views of the hills, we tasted some of their wines. Or maybe all of them. An American couple seated next to us - we saw more Americans on this trip than on any of our other trips combined - looked astonished at the amount of food showing up at our table. We explained we don’t eat lunch like this every day, that it was part of our tour, and that we were skipping dinner that night. Yeah, right.

This was just the starter, a bruschetta party on the plate. It was all down (or up) hill from there, depending on your attitude towards food.

I didn’t use a filter on that sky. That was the color. Unreal.

It’s hard to be unhappy when you look out over those hills.

“I got this feelin' inside my bones
It goes electric, wavy when I turn it on
All through my city, all through my home
We're flyin' up, no ceilin', when we in our zone.”

And it’s also hard to be unhappy when you watch the dancing in this video.

So I’ve brought you into my comfort zone in Tuscany. Now it’s time to move onto the Tennessee part of the title. Yup. Surprise ending. At the end of the summer, we will be moving to Nashville, Tennessee. Peter’s company, Akzo-Nobel, is moving their U.S. headquarters from Chicago to Nashville and we’ll be moving along with the office furniture. After what will be nearly five years in Amsterdam by the time we pack our bags, we are ready. Or as ready as we will ever be. We’re ready to be closer to our kids, and the rest of our family. I’ve come to realize it’s the clock, not the ocean, that most separates you when you’re an expat. It’s a strange feeling to know I’m a quarter into my day when Rachel is just getting up. And then three hours later, Ben starts his day. It’s like we are leading parallel lives that are never quite in sync. We’re ready to be in the same time zone, so staying in touch isn’t as complicated and we’re not always wrestling with jet lag when we do visit.

When I think of the time difference, I remember back to when I lived in San Francisco for a few years, post-college. Each and every phone conversation with my Dad began with his question, “What time is it out there?” We laughed each and every time, but underneath the humor, I think he was onto something. It is the time difference that most separates you, so why not put it front and center in the conversation? He was both wise and funny, my dad.

I recently saw this photo for the first time. My dad, at age 11, is holding up his sister Ruthie, while my grandmother Sadie looks right at us. I love thinking about what he was like as a little boy. Was he wise and funny even then?

In answer to the anticipated question, no, we’re not ready for the crazy political climate. How could we ever be? But since the mess in the U.S. might not be cleaned up anytime soon, we just have to dive in. The move to Nashville may present us with as much culture shock, if not more, than the move to Amsterdam. Southerners, Republicans and Gun Owners! Oh my! Actually (thankfully) Nashville is navy blue and not Republican. But the South will still be a foreign country to me. I’ll need to keep up my second-language learning. I only know a tiny bit of Southern (after “Y’all” and “Bless your heart” I’m out of options). Not to worry. I have some expat friends who hail from the South who have promised to tutor me, to help get me ready for my new life.

We’re still in the is-this-really-happening? phase of things. It might also be known as the receiving-lots-of-info-from-friends-and-family-about-the-place-you’re-heading-to phase. In part, that’s because Nashville has been getting a lot of press lately. Although it was passed over by Amazon as a Second Headquarters hub, it will be an Amazon hub-let. I’ve recently learned there are quite a few celebrities who call Nashville home, including Justin Timberlake (go back and listen to his song, earlier in the post, to hear his Memphis, Tennessee drawl), Reese Witherspoon, and Nicole Kidman. I’ve scoped out restaurants and coffee places to try out, with or without these celebs. Have no fear. There will be more than enough content to keep Suzanne Vine’s Nashville, Etc. up and running.

I think things have changed in Nashville since this movie came out in 1975. There are a lot more transplants like us taking over, for one.

When I think about making the switch from Northern-to-the-bone to Southern belle, I think back to the country singer Mary Chapin Carpenter. We went to the same fancy prep school in Princeton, N.J. She was two years ahead of me, and I remember her playing the guitar at school assemblies. How cool was she, in that world of preppy lacrosse players, in her clunky work boots, singing Joni Mitchell songs? Somehow, her record label decided to market her as a country singer, and this Princeton-born and raised resident now has five Grammys for country music under her country-western belt. So maybe there’s hope for another Northeastern gal to find her way down South, too.

I’ve already begun to embark on my Nashville Preparation Plan. My two year stint in San Francisco is my only other experience (other than college) with a U.S. life outside my comfort zone in N.J. I learned from my days in San Francisco that the feeling of loneliness is not all bad. It makes you appreciate the family and friends you have, and forces you to make a new life for yourself. Maybe having to go out and make friends as an older person is like learning a new language: it keeps your brain happy.

As part of that Nashville Preparation Plan, I’ve had to go on a Taylor Swift binge, since I scarcely know her music and she lives in Nashville. Taylor and I have something in common. She wasn’t born and raised in Nashville either. That’s probably the only thing we have in common, but it’s a start. She writes a lot about breaking up and beginning again, both of which I’ll be doing this summer. I’m trying to figure out a way to let Amsterdam down easy. I imagine he might be singing these words to me, rather than Taylor Swift’s:

“Don't you know that I heard it through the grapevine
Not much longer would you be mine
Oh I heard it through the grapevine and I'm just about to lose my mind.”

Y’all should come visit us in Nashville! Until then, there’s lots more of Amsterdam to discover. I plan to “make the most” of our remaining time here, whatever that means. It’s not quite time yet to begin again.

Happy Amsterdamiversary to Me: Peripheral Pals and Lessons Learned

I just celebrated my 4th anniversary in Amsterdam on September 3. I use the word “celebrated” loosely, since the day came and went without any fanfare. I feel like I should mark it with at least a celebratory blog post. With constant reminders from Facebook and Google about our anniversaries of this and that, it’s hard to get jazzed up about yet one more milestone. But if you had asked me when we arrived if we would be here four years later, I would not have bet money on it. And yet, here we are. So let’s get the party started with The Little River Band. Had I known this is what these guys dressed like, I would have thought twice about loving this song back in the day.

The life cycle of an expat in Amsterdam tends to follow a familiar pattern. Year One is filled with confusion, and questions about everything from where to find a dentist, to why the most-available toilet paper brand for adults has little puppies on it. With all of those burning questions on your mind, the year whooshes by. Year Two is full of travel. You realize you are astonishingly close to all these places you’ve been yearning to see, and it’s cheap to get to them. So, off you go. By Year 3, your friends are starting to “move back”, and more come, and you finally “get” what everyone has told you about the revolving door of expat friendships. By Year 4, you are like an aging rockstar (I’m thinking of the Neils - Diamond and Young): people say, “She’s still around?” We are just beginning Year 5, so I can’t weigh in just yet on what that will mean.

So far, I’m using Year 5 to find more undiscovered (by me, anyway) spots in Amsterdam. Stay tuned for a post about those discoveries.

Much has changed in Amsterdam and in the world, since I arrived in September 2014. In Amsterdam, there are more tourists, more English spoken, and better food. In the world, there is…well, let’s just say I sometimes wonder what our move here would have been like without the steady stream of, “Can we move in with you?” and “Don’t ever move back!” texts and emails from our U.S. family and friends.

Here are Casey and I at Newark Airport before departing for our big adventure. Little did we know what we were getting ourselves into.

I like to think I have changed just a bit, too. I arrived without knowing a word of Dutch, and have emerged four years later with the ability to carry on a conversation with the rough equivalent of the vocabulary of a toddler. I arrived without knowing a soul, except for Peter, and have made some wonderful friends. I arrived without ever having lived outside the U.S. - unlike many of my expat friends, who have been down this living-abroad road at least once before - and made myself at home, or sort of. I’m thankful for the golden opportunity to live in a different country, complete with a different culture and different attitudes towards issues both big and small. I’ve learned to adapt. I’m proud of all that. While here, I’ve learned a lot about myself, and a thing or two about the Dutch, some of which I will share with you. In the words of Sir Elton John, with four years under my belt, I feel like a true survivor:

“Don't you know I'm still standing better than I ever did
Looking like a true survivor, feeling like a little kid
I'm still standing after all this time.”

Here am I (on the left) looking like a little kid in my very favorite photo of my sister Jennifer, my brother John, and me. The backstory is there was a giant fight pre-photo about which sister would get to put her arm around John. My mom decided it should be Jennifer since she is the oldest. At the last minute, just before the photographer snapped the photo, I reached out to hold his foot. Victory!

And yes, I did use this song once before in a blog post. I’m revisiting some of my faves in the spirit of the best of “Best Of” lists.

Sometimes I think back to the me who arrived four years ago and wonder how I made it to today. Thank goodness for Casey, who was my best friend besides Peter - or, you could say, only friend besides Peter - in those early months. With Casey at my side, I gradually ventured out into the city and met the posse of what I call my Peripheral Pals. They are the people in this city I met in my wanderings. They made me feel welcome and kept me from feeling lonely and lost in a sea of long, raucous-sounding Dutch words. Most of them doubled as my informal Dutch teachers. Some are native Dutch speakers, and others are transplants. They gently corrected me, and complimented me on my efforts to speak. They probably laughed a lot as soon as I left their sight. No matter. This blog post is dedicated to them. Let’s get on with the lessons I’ve learned and I’ll introduce you to some of my pals.

The Dutch make a big fuss about dogs (but not about babies).

Jeroen, pictured above, owns the pet store in our neighborhood. He also serves as the informal mayor, greeting everyone who passes by from his perch on the chair in front of his shop. When there is no one to talk with, he sits and whistles. Loudly. He singlehandedly shatters the stereotype that the Dutch are stoic and unfriendly. His whistle is the siren call bringing all the neighborhood dogs and their owners in for treats, which he throws out with abandon, saying, “Het is mijn schoonmoeder!” (“It’s my mother-in-law!”). When you order a large bag of dog food from Jeroen, he’ll deliver it on his scooter, pictured next to him in the photo. There’s no need for him to ring the doorbell. I can hear him whistle as he approaches.

I don’t know what I would have done without my vet pals at Dierenkliniek Vondelpark. It’s an all-female practice, although that’s not why I chose them. They are just a few blocks away from our apartment, and just the nicest, dog-lovingest people in the world. Although Casey has had his share of medical turmoil inside that building, he stills pulls my arm nearly out of the socket so we can visit. We are there almost every week, even if it’s just to say hello and grab a treat. Joy, above, is just one of Casey’s many BFF’s there. When I didn’t know a soul in the city, they were my go-to girls when I needed some human contact or some other help. In those early days, I received a big bill in the mail, complete with a long description in Dutch. Thinking it was the dog tax, I wondered why it was so high. I brought it over to the office. With a smile, one of the assistants explained it was our heating bill.

Dutch people really love other people’s dogs, not just their own. I’ve had so many people stop to ask after Casey. They wonder how old he is, and ask if they can give him a treat. I’ve also noticed no one seems to fuss about other people’s babies. I guess that’s an American thing. Your baby is your own business in Amsterdam. Your dog belongs to the world. And gets to go in almost every shop and restaurant with you.

Feel free to ooh and aah over these two American kids.

Flowers (not diamonds) are a girl’s best friend in Amsterdam.

While some things are very expensive here, you have to love how cheap and gorgeous the flowers are. I still can’t get over it. Buying flowers isn’t just an occasional treat you give yourself, or something you do when you’re having friends over. It’s a weekly routine and an absolute necessity in the dark days of winter. I pop into flower shops outside my neighborhood, but my regular stomping ground for flowers is Rembrandt Bloemen. Nico and Kevin know their flowers, and put up with my attempts to talk both flowers and Dutch. Even when I buy enough to flower every room in our apartment, I spend less than 30 euros. They usually have a treat for Casey, and if not, Nico gives him a piece of biscotti. No wonder Casey is supporting my flower buying habit.

There are mixed feelings in Amsterdam about the expat community. Very mixed.

You may have read recently about efforts in Amsterdam to clean up the tourist industry. The locals have had it with the streams of tourists who clog up the center of town. Some locals have combined their tourist anger with an underlying resentment against the expat community. For the past six months or so, there has been a proposed change to a tax law kicking around in the government. That proposal would have reduced the number of years expats would get a reduction in their Dutch tax bill. Hot off the press, the government seems to have seen the light and delayed any changes until 2021. The proposed change in the “30% ruling” had expats feeling like they were being shown the door after 5 years, when they were promised 8 years of tax incentives to stay. Expats are bearing the brunt of the resentment longtime locals feel over soaring rents, and noisy home renovations, although we’re surely not the only reason for those signs of ”improvements” to the Dutch economy .

Skip the first 50 or so seconds of this video to get to the poppin’ music. “I can’t believe all of the things they say about me. Walk in the room, they throwing shade left and right.”

“Sport” is important here. So is smoking. Find that oxymoronic? We do!

I had this idea before moving here that the Dutch wouldn’t need to join gyms. With all that cycling around, they would look way down from their noses perched on their six-feet tall bodies at the idea that anyone would need to work out indoors. And they would think me especially frivolous for taking Spin (indoor cycling) classes. Boy, was I wrong. They take their sport very seriously here, and the gyms are packed. And for many people, except for the real cyclists on fancy bikes, the day-to-day cycling is just the way to get from here to there, not the actual exercise portion of the day. Soon after we arrived, I joined a nearby gym, where I met two of my very favorite Perpheral Pals, Sita and Sanna. In the very beginning, they were sometimes the only people I talked to during the day. Thanks to them, I know how to count in Dutch pretty darn well. And I’ve been here so long Sita has now moved on to another gym, and Sanna is expecting her second child. In true Dutch-badass-woman form, she was teaching Zumba classes right up until the end, as you will see from the video below. When I felt like I knew no one, and understood nothing, I knew that in their classes, I could expect some combination of familiar American tunes and Dutch hits. It was the perfect mixture of American and Dutch culture, along with the universal language of booty shaking. And laughing, of course.

How does the Dutch love of sport square with smoking? It doesn’t. In an odd juxtaposition to the American eye and nose, so many Dutch people smoke while they are biking. Just think how fit they would be if they could eliminate the cigarettes from their daily diet. I recently read that 23% of people over the age of 25 here smoke. I’m not sure what the statistic is in the U.S., but that certainly seems like a lot of smoking. I wish we could stay in Amsterdam long enough to see smoking prohibited at outdoor cafés. If the Dutch Health Minister gets his way, this might happen someday. I’m not holding my breath. Or actually, I am when we try to sit outdoors at a restaurant and enjoy the long summer evenings. Soon, engulfed in a cloud of smoke, we retreat indoors.

The bigger your surroundings, the more you need your little corners. There are lots of those nooks and crannies in Amsterdam.

I’m not ashamed to admit I loved the T.V. show Cheers. I know it was just a silly sitcom, but the writers were really onto something when they came up with the concept. For those of you who are too young or too highbrow in your T.V. tastes to know, this early-80’s-into-the-90’s show was about a group of friends who hung out at a bar in Boston called Cheers. My theory is the bigger the place you live in, the more you need to find your people. Ask anyone who grew up in New York City and they’ll tell you they had a coffee shop, a Chinese restaurant, someplace they went over and over, even if it wasn’t the best in the city. They went over and over just so someone would recognize them and treat them like a friend, not a stranger.

I think my Cheers in Amsterdam is our local Saturday outdoor market, the ZuiderMRKT. The funny thing is no one there actually knows my name, and the only reason I know their names is because I asked them for purposes of this blog post. But even if they don’t know my name, they know me. I’m the American lady who comes with her husband and buys her weekly dose of cheese, nuts, bread, and other treats. And I’m the one who buys those things while speaking Dutch. I decided early on that even if I didn’t speak Dutch anywhere else, at the Saturday market, it was Dutch only. I made a lot of mistakes, and my pals there were very kind. But eventually, I made myself understood, as evidenced by the bag bursting with goodies I return home with every week. These Peripheral Pals greeted with me with smiles every week, and made me feel proud for trying out my Dutch with them.

“Sometimes you want to go 
Where everybody knows your name, 
And they're always glad you came; 
You want to be where you can see, 
Our troubles are all the same; 
You want to be where everybody knows your name.” 

Katja and her husband run The Nuthouse. They sell nuts and dried fruit, and give out free samples. What could be better?

Martin makes his own cheese at his farm. I haven’t had any that weren’t delicious. Once, on a visit to my U.S. doctor post-Amsterdam move, she told me to watch my cheese intake. Like that was ever going to happen while I was living here.

While I made a point of asking for everyone’s name for the blog, I couldn’t remember what The Raspberry Lady said. That’s because she will always be The Raspberry Lady to me. If you visit the stand, treat yo self to all manner of raspberry jams and desserts. Just don’t forget the jams can’t go in your carry-on luggage. We made that mistake once and I almost sobbed when I saw the security agent confiscate our beloved jar. This is a tragedy that I will never forget.

They drink a lot of coffee here. And so do I. Coffee helps you meet people.

I think I may have told you in a previous post that the Dutch lead the world in coffee consumption. Apparently that is no longer true, or maybe never was. But they do rank right up there, along with countries with similar climates (Finland, Norway, Iceland, and Denmark). Going out for coffee is a big part of the social life here. While the to-go cup has recently emerged as a thing, it’s much more likely the Dutch will sit down, take their time, and drink from a real cup. And they will talk to a friend, instead of staring at a phone while sitting alongside a friend. This is one of the best parts of living here, and the best quality the Dutch have. They value conversation over screens. I hope they don’t pick up the bad habits of Americans on this score.

Even when I had no friends here, I went out for coffee. This gave me the chance to strike up conversations with the folks making my coffee and gave some shape to my wide-open days. I guess I was a rare breed at the zoo: an old lady amidst the millennials. I’ve gotten to know the corners of the city by searching out new places for coffee. One of my favorites is Sweet Cup Roastery, an island of sanity in an insane part of the city, The Leidseplein, known for its coffeeshops offering a different brew than coffee. The owners are well-read and well-filmed. (Is that what you call someone who knows their films?). The place smells wonderful, thanks to the freshly roasted beans and the baked goods. I love that I caught their dog, Sjefke, not just with the usual exhausted-Bassett-hound-look on her face, but in actual mid-yawn. She needs a cup of Sweetcup coffee to perk her up.

My fantasy about what all the young baristas are thinking when they see me:

“Conversation is going 'round
People talking 'bout the girl who's come to town
Lovely lady pretty as can be
No one knows her name she's just a mystery
I have seen her maybe once or twice
One thing I can say thought she's very nice
She's a lady one I really want to know
Somehow I've got to let my feeling show
(She's fresh, fresh) exciting….”

There are lots and lots of people in Amsterdam who originally hail from somewhere else. They make life here more interesting. Plus they understand how hard it is to learn Dutch.

This is Zeynep, who runs the dry cleaner/tailor shop in our neighborhood. She moved to Amsterdam from Turkey when she was a child. She has been one of my very favorite Dutch teachers and pals. Dry cleaning is much more expensive here than in the U.S. Then again, the bill comes with a free Dutch lesson, and many smiles, so maybe it’s not all that expensive after all. It’s all part of an expat’s ongoing Pros and Cons list. Maybe dry cleaning is expensive, but wine and beer is cheaper. Priorities, people.

Sean came to Amsterdam from Australia and is the owner of Small World Catering, home to the best sandwich in Amsterdam. It’s a teeny little place, and Sean fills it up with his booming Australian voice and his spot-on sarcastic sense of humor. When I’m craving one of those sandwiches, and some humor - which even the Dutch would probably admit is not their specialty - I head to Small World. Sean caters both to the locals, with his Aussie-accented Dutch, and the tourists. I always leave with a smile on my face.

The Dutch are fond of telling me (and you?) what to do. Is this the infamous Dutch honesty and directness we all hear so much about?

Over the past four years, I have had people give me a lot of advice. Much of this advice has centered on Casey (where he can and can’t relieve himself, why he should be on or off the leash, whether I should or shouldn’t treat his elderly teeth). It’s usually done in a matter-of-fact, “This is the way to do it” manner. The Dutch are fond of dispensing unasked for advice. Maybe that’s their way of being friendly. Or maybe it has something to do with the egalitarian society, where everyone’s opinion is valued. I used to take it personally. Did I have an American flag on my forehead? What made them think I needed this advice? It’s easy to think of this advice-dispensing as a Dutch thing. On the other hand, maybe I have it all wrong. When you are an outsider, you are quick to conclude that these ways of being are somehow a cultural thing. Dutch people…. Americans….Is it possible I’m just encountering a lot of people who find it necessary to weigh in on everything they see and this so-called Dutch fondness for giving unsolicited advice isn’t really a thing? Is this just the way people are and I never noticed it before? That’s certainly possible…. Still, I’m usually not in the mood for advice from strangers. Can’t they keep that wise counsel inside their heads?

“What you sippin' on that got you talking crazy? Lookin' at me sideways, always coming at me.” Whether it’s a Dutch or just a 21st century thing, “Your mama raised you better than that.”

In my head, I’m dancing just like the gals in the video (below) when I’m at Zumba class. Then I look in the mirror.

Here’s an example of Dutch honesty in the world of advertising at a nearby shop. I haven’t seen this approach in the U.S.: shaming me into coming in to buy some new clothes. And say what you will about me, but I really don’t think Rachel Drucker could look better. Do you?

Even while I’m sharing these lessons-learned with you, I’m mindful you have to be careful when you trash-talk about a country. The country you come from is like your mother: you can criticize it all you want, but when others do, you immediately jump to her defense. My friend Vera and I came up with this brilliant analogy one afternoon over coffee. So I can say Americans are loud everywhere, and annoying in restaurants when they order this and that on the side, or ask for this or that as a substitution. But when a Dutch person says this, it might raise my hackles. Then I start getting defensive and explaining we are used to better service. And the same goes for my criticisms of the Dutch. They can complain all they want about their “honesty” but if Americans chime in, well, that’s a different story. Then they start getting all explainy and tell me brutal honesty is better than indirect, behind-your-back gossip. Oh, mother!

When you weren’t born in a place, you have an outsider’s perspective. You notice things natives might not. You also might tend to generalize when you do notice those things. So rather than think, “Oh that person is telling me what to do,” I think instead, “The Dutch like to tell me what to do.” The noticing-more part is the beauty of being an outsider. The generalizing part is maybe not so nice. I find myself noticing a lot here: the good, the bad, and the ugly. I’m hoping I don’t lose that ability to notice more when we move back to the U.S.

Here’s an example of The Bad. I notice that lots of folks park in the handicapped zone. That’s because they are always in a rush to get to important things like a breakfast date with their friends. Is this a Dutch thing or a people thing?

And here’s The Ugly: I notice people are often too busy to put their garbage and recycling into the bin, so they leave it propped outside so the birds can pick it apart and leave it strewn all over. Or they manage to throw the glass bottles against the recycling container (maybe tossing as they ride their bikes?) so there are glass shards all over the ground, just waiting to attack Casey. Who is too busy to put a bottle into a slot? Dutch people? Or just people? I will give the Dutch ingenuity credit for the fake grass and flowers surrounding some of the bins. As soon as those went in around the ‘hood, there was less trash. Brilliant!

But there is a lot of The Good: how could you not notice sights like this as you make your way around town?

People like to come visit Amsterdam. Your guests are your chance to show off your city as if you belong here.

Visitors play an important role in the life of an expat. The famous quote from Benjamin Franklin - “Guests, like fish, begin to smell after three days,” only describes a part of their story. When you are feeling most disconnected from your U.S. roots, they come to connect you all over again. But they also serve another purpose. They help us remember what we love about this place. Suddenly, you see the world through their eyes and appreciate your new home all over again.

When it comes to visitors, I aim to please. If you have a burning desire, I’ll make it happen. What happens in Amsterdam stays in Amsterdam, Tess.

Here’s a few of the summer visitors whose desires I tried to fulfill.

So as you can see, with four years under my belt here, I’ve learned some lessons. I’m just not sure if those lessons apply to anyone else but me. More important than the lesson-learning are the terrific peripheral pals I’ve collected. I’m calling them peripheral only because they haven’t crossed over into friends territory. They haven’t come over for dinner, and most of them don’t even know my name. The strange thing is, while you may hang onto some expat friends even when you leave, you may never see your pals ever again once you head out. It’s like my friends from sleepover camp. Once I left the confines of camp, I didn’t see them again, or at least not until we descended on camp the next summer. This was in the olden days before you could stay in touch electronically. But just because my peripheral pals may be temporary, that doesn’t mean they haven’t been important to me. It’s just that they are connected to this place and this time, and when we go, I’ll have to leave them behind. And then I’ll just have to find some new ones wherever we land next.

At a recent going-away party for a dear friend, I was introduced to this quote. Beautifully said.

I’ve held back from quoting songs from Hamilton in every blog post, and really in every conversation I have. But here goes:

“All alone, across the sea.

When your people say they hate you,

Don’t come crawling back to me.”

“I'll keep working my way back to you, babe
With a burning love inside.”

Summer skies in Vondelpark near our apartment. I think I’ll notice things like this wherever we are, even when I leave my rose-colored glasses behind.

Fjord Frenzy: Finding My Way in Norway

I spent a lot of time at the dentist's office as a child. With a long line of dentists in the family - from my grandfather, to my great-uncle, to several of my dad's first cousins - you might think I would be blessed with good teeth. But I single-handedly managed to keep our dentist (“Cousin Ted”) in business with my mouth stuffed full of cavities. The one good thing to come out of these flawed dental genes was the amount of reading I did in the waiting room. I loved those Highlight magazines he had strewn around, and I think that’s where I first heard the beautiful-sounding foreign words fjord and Aurora Borealis (and if not, this post gave me another chance to complain about my faulty teeth). I imagined the Aurora Borealis as rainbow-colored lights, and pictured myself in a boat, winding my way through the fjords to see them. Was the fjord the water running through the mountains, or the mountains themselves? Who knew? All I knew is I wanted to go.

For those of you who want to catch up on your your fjord facts, you can watch this video. I learned the word comes from a Norse word meaning, "where one fares through". 

So "fare through" we did, albeit decades and decades after I first got the idea. The seed was planted because of a children's magazine article? That seems like a flimsy way to decide where to go in this world. But most of our decisions about where to visit seem based on these feather-light ideas that for some reason stay with us over the years. We all seem to be searching for that perfect world. It's some imagined idea in our talking heads:  

"Well, I know what it is, but I don't know where it is.
Where it is. Well, I know where it is
But I don't know what it looks like
What it looks like."

In a nutshell, Norway is gorgeous, full of fit Norsemen and women, and very expensive. I could end this post here, since that tells you most of what you need to know. But instead, I'll take you on a journey through those fjords. Just to be clear, you cannot see the Aurora Borealis (or Northern Lights) in the summer. For that treat, we will have to return in the winter. Even then, you aren't guaranteed to see them if it's cloudy, or if they are just too shy that night to come out. But in the summer, you are guaranteed to see the mountains, so there is no chance of disappointment if that is your goal.

Peter also had a hankering for Norway. It's really a photographer's dream, what with the mountains and the waterfalls, and the clouds thrown in for atmosphere.

Let's talk about mountains. We now live in a country that is not just flat, but below sea level. This means I can usually ride my bike without any problem. It also means there are no mountains to gaze up at it. When I think about the effect of living in a place without mountains, I think about my college friend Pam who grew up in Santa Fe, among mountains. She would always return to Boston after a summer in Santa Fe talking about how much she missed her New Mexico mountains. When you are in the mountains, she said, you think about how small you are in comparison. It really puts things (your problems, your power) in perspective. That might help explain why the Dutch have such a can-do, ain't-no-mountain-high-enough attitude towards life's difficulties. Just do it, they say. With no mountains to remind them how tiny and insignificant they really are in the grand scheme of things, they feel important and in charge. There's something to be said for that confidence, as fictitious as it really is. In Schiphol airport in Amsterdam, you can easily spot the folks heading to Norway. They are the ones wearing hiking books and carrying backpacks. Off in search of mountains. 

Our Norway trip actually didn't start with mountains, but with water. Oslo, the capital, has a newly renovated waterfront, with over 5 miles of paths along the water. On the way to a food hall, you can take in the boats on the water and the street art on the shipping containers along the shore.

We arrived unfashionably early to the hipster foodhall. So did these gals.

No such thing as global warming, you say? Oslo suffered through record-breaking heat this spring and summer. Luckily, they have that waterfront to jump into. Either these swimmers are a lot thicker-skinned than we are, or the water is a lot warmer than you would have thought. The new construction in this area looks like it was finished five minutes ago. In some parts of the city, it looks like hipster Brooklyn was just plunked down smack into Oslo.

Oslo is overflowing with new construction, a sign of their booming economy. No wonder they don't want to take Trump up on his offer to come to the U.S. Norwegians just aren't moving to the U.S. these days. Why would they? Life is good at home. Who would choose to deal with our nonsense? In the late 19th and early 20th centuries, many Norwegians eager to start a new life emigrated to the U.S. According to this article, those early settlers were among the poorest immigrants in the U.S. Once they left Norway, the folks left behind had less competition for jobs, so Norwegians got wealthier. I wonder if Norwegian spouses had misgivings about their move to the U.S. "She gon' make you move to Miami", like in the song, below? Most Norwegians went to Minnesota, Wisconsin and North Dakota, but I couldn't find a song about leaving for those places.

In addition to lots of street art, new construction, and boats, Oslo also has tons of statues. In fact, there were statues all over Norway. Who are all these people, I found myself thinking. Some were regular folk, like the cyclist, but some were clearly movers and shakers in Norwegian history. This is not a country whose history is on the tip of my tongue. 

Why isn’t there a statue like this in Amsterdam?

Mother and child, in Bergen.

And then there’s Maude.

These are not technically statues, but I’ll include them here. These teddy bears are part of an art installation called #huglife. The bears are meant to bring “warmth, happiness, and innocence” into the big, bad city of Oslo.

Trolls also aren't statues per se, or at all, but no blog post about Norway can possibly leave them out. We saw them everywhere, especially at the souvenir shops. I couldn't help but remember the Troll dolls we collected during the late 60's and early 70's. They were invented by a Danish man, so I guess trolls are a big part of Danish folklore, too. Who on earth could ever have predicted that children in the U.S. would find these strange characters so appealing and trolls would become one of the most beloved fads? They ranked right up there with wax lips in my book. Just another sign of how strange we children were in the 60's and 70's. 

Back to Norway we go. What a gorgeous country. Even the language itself looks pretty, with all the ø's and å's sprinkled into the words. Everyone, it seemed to us, speaks English. In a country with only five million residents who speak a language no one else speaks, this seems eminently sensible. Good lord, by comparison, the Netherlands, at 17 million, seems huge. A lovely, friendly barista at a place in Oslo where we stopped for coffee - and boy does Oslo have a lot of good coffee; also eminently sensible in a country shrouded in darkness for so much of the year - told us she honed her English skills watching American TV as a kid and imitating the accents she heard. With so much of the world forced to speak English these days - O.K. in part because it makes good business sense, but also because Americans refuse to learn second or third languages - we hear a lot of variation in accents.

We chatted with the local second-language expert in Oslo (the same barista) about what causes one person to speak English like a local and leads another to speak with a thick accent from their first language. Poor Henry Kissinger is often discussed when the subject comes up of accents that cling on for dear life. How could such an educated man, surrounded by English speakers, retain such a "heavy" German accent? Was he just not trying hard enough? Many people think - we certainly did - that if you learn your second language early enough in life, you can speak it more authentically, unaccented by your native language. Turns out age is only one factor. Kissinger moved to the U.S. at age 15 to escape the Nazis, but his German accent followed him here. Apparently, his brother, only a year younger, learned to speak English without an accent.

Henry Kissinger was the second most famous graduate of George Washington High School, in NYC, after that beauty on the right: my mom. I sure didn't look like that in high school. That's my grandmother on the left, looking proud. My mom would be the first to tell you George Washington wasn't exactly the crème de la crème of NYC high schools, but in those days it was fine. I wonder if Henry (or another alum, Harry Belafonte) would agree.

More street art in Oslo. And also how I feel when I try to sound Dutch whilst speaking Dutch.

Why the difference? One theory is poor Henry was shy as a teen, and reluctant to speak, so he didn't practice enough at a time when his brain and mouth were flexible enough to form the new words without an accent. I can relate, Henry. I can relate. The top gun on research into retaining accents says the most important factor in speaking sans accent is hanging out with locals, listening, and then imitating them. "You are what you eat .... phonetically", he concludes. Food for thought for me, when it comes to speaking Dutch.

When you travel (or live abroad) you do a lot of looking around at people because you can't always (or often) understand what they are saying. I do this especially when we are having breakfast. It's the grown-up version of staring at the cereal box. At one hotel on this Norway trip, I saw a young woman who was deaf having breakfast with her hearing family. She lives life every day like a visitor in a foreign county, unless she is with someone who can sign. Imagine what that must be like? Have you noticed how firmly in the "etc" territory of this blog we are here? 

But I promised you mountains, so let's go, shall we? From Oslo, we headed out on a train ride known for being one of the most scenic in the world: the Flåm Railway. Just to show I'm not just a word person, but a numbers gal, too - Ben! - here are some railroad numbers: 80% of the trip takes you up and up on a 5.5% gradient through 20 tunnels. At some point, they let you off to take some photos of a waterfall. There, it was every man (and woman) for himself among the crowds of mostly Chinese tourists who were determined to get the perfect selfie. Peter and I talked about how travel has changed so much recently, and certainly in our lifetimes. For one, "in the olden days" most people didn't have enough money to venture very far. With budget airlines and AirBnb's galore (among other factors) travel isn't just for the very wealthy. And governments like China and Russia who formerly kept their citizens from getting out and about are now opening up their gates for people to explore the rest of the world. That's a good thing, of course, even if it does make for some fierce tourist-crowding. In addition to the different people traveling, there is also, of course, the phone that has changed the way we experience our travels. Suddenly, all of us are Ansel Adams. I'm as guilty as the next person. I see people taking photos and I feel the pressure to perform, too. If I don't have an iPhoto of my experiences, will they really count? And how will I share them with you? It's all very perplexing in these days of constant-documentation and sharing of our lives.

Luckily, we spent a few days in heaven after that long train ride. At a lodge called 2/92 Aurland - the former family farm of a builder named Bjørn who specializes in mountain cottages - we were far away from the madding crowd. We hiked during the day, and spent evenings at a communal table, along with a family celebrating the dad's 50th birthday, two honeymooners, and a professor from Canada and his Irish wife. That communal table was spread both nights with delicious food cooked by a young Swedish chef covered in tattoos and full of ideas for updating traditional Norwegian food. The young man who greeted us at the door and toted our bags up to our room was from Nepal. The lodge owner/builder has spent a lot of time trekking in Nepal. Turns out Norwegians - who grow up hiking the way the Dutch grow up cycling - need a place to hike when it gets too dark and cold in Norway. When it came time to lug construction equipment up into the mountains of Norway, he knew the sherpas he had met in Nepal were perfect for the job. 

A river runs through the property, and it’s known for its excellent trout fishing. We didn’t try our hand at it, but we did eat fish almost every night while in Norway.

When I first saw these Nepali prayer flags and didn’t yet know about the owner’s connection to Nepal, I thought it was an example of what Rachel and her friend Nancy have christened “namaste bullshit”. It’s a catch-all for the overuse of yoga lingo, and pseudo-spiritual stuff. I love that phrase so much and was just waiting for the right moment to work it into a blog. Namaste.

The view with breakfast.

Some of the Swedish chef’s handiwork. All of the berries are from the lodge’s gardens and the bushes that grow wild in the area. He sheepishly put the plates down in front of us and apologized for getting carried away and making such a large portion. He predicted we couldn’t possibly finish it. Challenge accepted, Swedish tattoo guy. I’m sure you know how this story ended.

With all of that eating, hiking was essential. We passed only two other hikers on the first day's hike, and assumed this was because we were in a quiet part of the country. It turns out even in more travelled areas of Norway, you can find solitude within fifteen minutes. Our hiking guide, an employee of the lodge, explained the rules of Norwegian hiking etiquette to us this way: if you encounter someone in your own neighborhood at home, it's perfectly acceptable to cast your eyes down and avoid eye contact. If you see anyone on the trail, you make eye contact and say a hearty hello. There are also hiking rules printed inside the wrapper of the iconic Norwegian hiker's chocolate bar, Kvikk Lunsj (Quick Lunch). This Norwegian staple is similar to the American Kit-Kat bar. Our hiking companion told us after World War II, Norway began to encourage hiking, but there were a slew of hiking deaths in the late 60's. The hiking safety rules were part of a campaign to increase safety on the mountain trails. I can tell you that in addition to being informationally superior to the Kit-Kat, it is also far superior in the taste department. 

We had the whole mountain top to ourselves for a picnic lunch. Those sheepskin (or reindeer?) rugs are everywhere in Norway.  It makes for a comfy seat after a long hike. The only problem is getting up afterwards to take the long hike back home.

What I love about hiking, other than the views you can see, the peace and quiet, and the feeling you have when you are finished, is the time you have to think. Something about the scenery and the one-foot-in-front-of-the-other rhythm helps me come up with some of my best ideas. It's only when the hike is over that I realize my ideas maybe weren't actually so earth-shatteringly wise. Our guide Britt-Marie works summers at the lodge and is a high school teacher during the rest of the year. On the hike down, we solved the world's education problems. We really did. This kind of deep thinking and wisdom only comes to me if the hike isn't too scary. If the path is steep, every bit of my wisdom and energy goes into surviving the danger. We didn't go on any of those kind of hikes in Norway, thankfully.

We set off on our own for our next hike.  Britt-Marie suggested we take two of their bikes and ride "until it gets too steep and just leave the bikes on the trail." She smiled while I questioned and re-questioned her about whether the bikes might get stolen. We do live in Amsterdam, I explained, where bike theft is the norm. We left those Norwegian bikes on the side of the trail just like she said. They were right there, of course, when we returned. 

It was so kind of the clouds to pose for a photo while we were riding home.

You can channel your inner Sal when you are in Norway. There were blueberries and raspberries on the hiking trails. What could be better?

From the ferry to our next stop, Bergen, we had a different view of the fjords. I loved the cloud-shadows on the mountains. You get a different perspective when you are down below looking up, instead of hiking up and looking down. The two perspectives are equally stunning, although on the ferry, there was none of the peace and quiet we found on the hikes.

Our ferry docked in Bergen, a lovely city overrun with others who had also just gotten their sea legs back. However, just like on our hikes, once we got a bit off the beaten path, we were treated to quiet again. I think I've mentioned a few times my theory (probably arrived at on a hike) about colorful buildings and grey climates. I've noticed a correlation. When you know you will be staring at grey skies a good part of the year, you paint your houses fanciful colors to cheer you up. This theory falls apart when it comes to the Netherlands, where I don't see many brightly colored houses and I do see a lot of grey skies. There are exceptions to every rule, my friends. In any event, Bergen had a lot of brightly colored houses and other colorful things to cheer up the eyes.

Photo by Peter Drucker. Love this one.

And maybe the gloomy weather is also just the right climate for street art. Poor Dora the Explorer looks a bit sea-sick.

In addition to bright colors, good food is a comfort during long grey days. It should be a requirement to have delicious food in places with deliriously bad weather. Unfortunately, that doesn't seem to be the way the world shakes out. Why should Italy and Spain and southern France get to have such good weather, and such good food, too? That seems like an abundance of riches. Of course I understand the effect of sunlight on fruits and vegetables, but I'm just talking about basic fairness. So in a country like Norway, why should they have to subsist on lots of pickled and cured things? Shouldn't they get a little slice of heaven now and again? We noticed a lot of the food we ate was salty. Very salty. We wondered if years of eating salted, cured foods had rendered modern Norwegians so tolerant to salt they have to dump it into dishes rather than sprinkle it. Just a thought.

Actually, we ate quite a lot of delicious food, thanks to some young chefs reinventing and updating traditional Norwegian dishes. They even invented a name for their new cuisine: Neo-Fjordic. We met one such chef in Bergen at the much-beloved-by-the New-York-Times Lysverket.  It's not every day you get to chat it up with a much-tattooed-chef, nor is it every day your chef smiles widely, revealing a gold tooth. He was taking the day off from the kitchen, and traveling incognito as a server. But since I do my research - when you grow up with a mom who reads the New York Times like some read the Bible, you either follow her down that religious path or you risk excommunication - I knew all about him. He gossiped about some celebrity chefs and confessed his frustrations with the business of keeping a restaurant afloat. Let's just say it seems chefs are more fearful of being upstaged by other chefs than actors are of their rivals. And let's also say how thrilling this was for Peter to get to talk food with this chef. The food at the restaurant was sensational. And, p.s., also a little salty.

Now let's get back to the issue of tourism after our break for food. It does seem that Norway has a more resigned attitude than Amsterdam towards the waves of tourists who descend. In Bergen, we took a funicular tram up to Mount Fløyen, along with a smorgasbord of tourists from Italy, Spain, China, Russian, and the U.S., among other foreign lands. I asked our hiking guide, Gerda, if the locals resent all of the tourists who crowd Bergen in the summer. She told us the mountain was like the Central Park of Bergen and locals find their spots where they can avoid the crowds. Indeed, once we left the Visitor Center area, we saw very few people, but quite a few goats. We learned that in September, before winter sets in, farmers in Norway have to find their goats who may have wandered off. Gerda told us some farmers have put chips in a few goats so they can now use GPS to find them. The teens tend to wander off and others meet their makers (lynx) out in the fields. Gerda attends a goat collection party that a farmer friend has back in the town - Voss - where she lives. Sometimes the differences between countries and customs are blurred and sometimes they are very clear. In this case, while listening to her tales of goat collection parties, I realized I was definitely not in Amsterdam, or N.J., anymore. 

I was also glad to know the Norwegians have fond memories of Obama. I think for a Norwegian to name a goat after you is very high praise indeed. 

Everywhere we hiked in Norway, we found wooden benches along the way where you could rest your bones and take in a lovely view. On Mount Fløyen, the benches are maintained by a group of retirees who meet up to socialize and work on the upkeep of the many benches. This partnership helps the retirees keep a sense of purpose in their lives, and also helps the hikers. The men do not take the tram up to the top of the mountain. They each arrive on their own two retired feet. In addition to a love of salty food, this ability to hike like a mountain goat is in their blood.

We saw lots and lots of trees, and now I understand where the Beatles got the idea for the title of this song.

Despite the unprecedented heat in Norway this summer, cold weather is on the horizon. You can't forget that when you see the thick sweaters for sale everywhere. Even the trees were wearing sweaters.

To reach our last stop in Norway, the lovely little town of Ålesund - with that fanciful circle over the letter A - we jumped aboard our first overnight ship. OK. It was a cruise ship. With all due respect to our family and friends who love cruises, this made me feel like I had crossed a line into a much older, more sedentary stage of life. Surprisingly, there were many families and young couples on board, so I didn't feel too creaky. Still, I worried I was now a member of a club I wasn't sure I wanted to join: people-who-have-cruised. I had heard all about the over-sized eating that goes on when you are afloat. Let's just say the the pile-your-plates-high breakfast buffet that greeted us in the morning was not for the faint of heart. There is something about a cruise that brings out the beast in all of us. 

Here she is. Believe it or not, our ship was like a tiny Dutch cup of coffee compared to some of the jumbo-sized ships we saw on our travels. 

Even in a small town liked Ålesund, the locals seem to cheerfully accept the total disruption to their lives when one of those mammoth ships pulls into town, disgorging thousands of visitors. I guess this mega-tourism has kept Norway afloat for so long they've become used to it. 

Ålesund seems wisely to have taken on a brand, The Art Nouveau Town, to give tourists something to do when they jump ship. Like a phoenix rising from the ashes, Ålesund was rebuilt in Art Nouveau style after a fire in 1904 destroyed most of the city. Everywhere you turn you see lovely details on the buildings. We appreciated having something to do - look around at the architecture - while a steady rain kept us from hiking.

Whenever I said the name Ålesund, I heard this song in my head:

It turns out there really is a song titled Alesund. It doesn't get inside your head the way Elvis Costello's Alison does, but here it is:

While I love to plan ahead for our trips, I also like to be surprised. I had no idea Norway has a cinnamon roll, called a Skillingsboller, served wherever I turned. It's not as sickly- sweet as a cinnamon bun from the U.S. Chase all comparisons to a Cinnabon out of your American heads. The dough that is the true genius behind the skillingsboller has more heft to it than a danish pastry. Who wants to open a skillingsboller shop here in Amsterdam? I'll be your best friend.

Oh, Skillingsboller, where have you been all my life?

And now for two final Norwegian sculptures. The first, in Alesund, is titled Søster og Bror (Sister and Brother). That's not a subject I'm accustomed to seeing in a sculpture. The subject of the second sculpture, which we saw in Bergen, is definitely a first for me when it comes to sculptures, though not sadly not when it comes to humans.

Sister and brother. I miss mine.

At first I wasn’t sure what I was looking at when we happened upon this statue. It is indeed a statue of a homeless man, and allegedly the most photographed statue in Bergen (although I’m not sure how you would measure that). The plaque in front says, Ingen er bare det du ser (“Nobody is only what you see.”). This statue commemorates a different Norwegian citizen, not the wealthy, nor the happy ones we read about. Norway topped the list of happiest nations last year, and slipped a bit to 2nd place in 2018.

All in all, Norway more than lived up to my expectations. I met my first fjords, got my mountain fix, saw a few waterfalls and a rainbow, and enjoyed the cool weather after the unprecedented heat in Amsterdam this summer. It's always an interesting change in perspective, to go from expat to tourist. There is a clear pecking order in every country and when we venture outside Amsterdam, we're changing our position in that pecking order. At the top of the heap is The Local, especially the resident who has been around for generations. I've noticed there's a resurgence in wearing traditional garb in Europe. I think it has to do with some desire to return to the "golden age" when the country was authentic (i.e. without "others"). After the locals on the ladder come people who live and work in a country, but who are originally from elsewhere. That includes us Expats. Then comes the Tourists. Recently in Amsterdam, there has been a lot of talk about how to rein in tourism. It's ruining authentic Amsterdam, the locals say. While I'm the first to criticize the tourists in Amsterdam, who can't ride bikes properly, smoke everything in sight, and roll their suitcases everywhere, I'm also a tourist whenever I venture beyond Amsterdam. And to a long-time Amsterdammer, I'm really no different. Just a tourist who has overstayed her welcome.

That leaves Immigrants to take their place at the bottom of the list. We seem to turn into cutthroat middle-schoolers when it comes to how we treat anyone who is new or different, securing our position by shunning those we perceive as being below us. I'll try to remind myself not to revert to this cruel middle-school attitude the next time a tourist blocks the bike lane to snap a selfie. 

It's hard to choose the time over the past year or so I felt most embarrassed to be an American . In recent days, Betsy DeVos is trying desperately to bully her way into first place on the list. But surely the decision to separate immigrant children from their families at the border ranked right up there. The borders may be opened wider for tourists these days, but they sure aren't if you're an immigrant. 

If I walked down the streets of Bergen dressed in one of these, would it help me fit in?

When I was writing and thinking about the precarious position of immigrants these days, I remembered an interview I read with the author Mohsin Hamid. He wrote the novel Exit West, which is at the top of my Must Read list. He said, "We are all migrants, all of us. We move through space and time. So I have experienced a situation not completely unlike Nadia and Saeed’s [the main characters in the book], more than once, several times. Not the desperation and the danger that they experience. But the apprehension of leaving a place I have called home. There is something violent in moving far away, just as being born is violent. You leave something behind, and the you that has moved is not the same you as before. Certainly you will be seen differently in the place you are going to." There may be little in common between the experience of an expat who moves voluntarily, and a Syrian refugee. But if we could learn to see what our experiences have in common - namely, that sense of apprehension, of being seen differently, of being a different "you" once you are away - then that's at least a start. As the statue of the homeless man reminds us: "Nobody is only what you see."

I love this mix produced by Lin-Manuel Miranda, the genius behind Hamilton. It was inspired by the Hamilton song Yorktown (The World Turned Upside Down) and the lyric, "Immigrants: we get the job done." 

Where there is a rainbow, there is always hope. Photo credit for this beauty to Peter. And thank you to the town of Ålesund for providing the scenery.

Speaking of getting the job done, in case you didn't notice, I changed the title of the blog ever so slightly. The "etc" takes into account my travels outside of Amsterdam's borders, and my frequent detours to discuss everything from family to food to politics to books. Thanks, as always, for reading. 

In a country with so much bounty (mountains, fjords, cinnamon rolls), who knew there was also the perfect job just waiting there for me? I do realize I'll have to do something about my pants before my first day on the job.

We will miss you, Aretha. This song is the best of the best. The song that can lift my spirits no matter what.