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. — 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… — 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 cou… — 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. — 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.