Last One Home is a Rotten Egg: Enjoying Some Lasts and Firsts
I can still hear that sing-songy childhood threat, “Last one home is a rotten egg!” ringing in my ears when I think of summer nights spent outside. I must have been a very literal child, because as soon as someone shouted it out, I raced. I was genuinely afraid of being a rotten egg, or even worse, smelling like one. And that’s the phrase I hear in my head these days when I think of our move back. Many of our friends have already made the move. Can we get out of Amsterdam before I turn into a rotten egg? I sure hope so.
The days leading up to the end of an expat life are a bit like the months before starting kindergarten or college. In the days leading up to those two educational milestones, everyone asked how you felt. Were you excited? Nervous? Both? How silly to pepper a five-year-old with those kinds of questions. If you were anything like me, you didn't even really know what kindergarten was. Like many kids- I assume - I pictured a huge garden filled with every imaginable flower. Imagine my disappointment when I was greeted by my teacher, the grim Mrs. Stephenson at the door of a dull classroom. I never really forgave Mrs. Stephenson for not teaching outdoors in the beautiful garden of my mind. (While I’m on the subject of Mrs. Stephenson, what was her other crime? Writing on my report card that I didn’t, “skip in the prescribed manner.”).
The gulf between the glossy images of college in my head and the actual experiences were only a little narrower than the kindergarten ones. At least I had learned to skip by then. But just like in the pre-kindergarten days, everyone in the pre-college period stopped asking about anything other than the upcoming transition. Life came to a standstill. What does any of this have to do with my move back to the U.S.? “Moving back" is exactly like the time periods pre-kindergarten and pre-college. Conversation about anything other than the move has come to a crashing halt. The move is the only thing anyone asks me about these days. Am I happy? Sad? Excited? All of the above? I don’t know. And I have no idea what to expect. Can we just go back to talking about other important things like we used to, like the weather and cheese?
Since my last post, I’ve been racking up some last visits. With each experience, I find myself thinking, It’s the last time I’ll __ [fill in the blank with a variety of Amsterdam adventures]. I try to engage in this Last Time thinking in a way that’s not designed to make me teary. Instead, I want to make sure I appreciate everything as much as possible.
I’ve noticed a variety of ways expats tackle the moving back emotions. There’s the “Happy as a clam/happy in denial” version, where you pretend you are 100% overjoyed to be moving and leaving. When someone asks if you will miss the lifestyle here, the easy access to travel, the flowers and the cheese, you smile and then change the subject. You are afraid the mask will come off and everyone will realize you’re not as happy as you pretend to be. There’s the “Going back kickin’ and screamin’ approach”, where you deny you ever had mixed feelings about living among the Dutch and feeling like an outsider a lot of the time. Instead, you wash all those mixed feelings away and focus on how sad you will be to leave. And then there’s the “Mixed feelings” approach when you actually admit to having them. Then watch how quickly people’s eyes glaze over as you explain how nice it will be to live closer to family even if you will desperately miss the expat lifestyle and the travel. I’m trying on all three approaches for size. Mostly, I’m pretending not to worry. Take it away, Talking Heads:
“No need to worry
Everything's under control
O-U-T! But no hard feelings
What do you know? Take you away
We're being taken for a ride again.”
A few of my recent lasts have involved flowers. I will truly be sorry to leave the land of 50 tulips for 5 euros (during the height of the season). I’ll be even sorrier to leave a place where flowers aren’t just for special occasions. They are just one of the ways you get through the dark winters here. And even when the weather wasn’t grey, buying flowers was an almost weekly ritual for me. I’ll either have to give up that habit, or make a huge dent in our retirement funds.
Every Spring I admire the wisteria waterfalling down buildings in the city. Was this an especially good spring for them because of a relatively sunny late winter? Or did they just look especially gorgeous to me because I knew I would be leaving them behind?
Last bike ride to the tulip fields. In just our five Springs here, I have seen many more cyclists riding in the fields, stopping to tromp through the tulips despite the signs telling them not to. The explosion in tourism in Amsterdam spills out into the fields in April and May, thanks to the selfies everyone posts on FB and Instagram. The Dutch farmers have been trying to stop the trespassing feet from ruining their fields, enlisting the help of the Dutch Tourist Bureau. They seem to be blaming millennials, but I’ve seen plenty of mid-life tulip crashers, too. Ben reluctantly agreed to stop pedaling to take this photo with his mom. No tulips were harmed in the taking of the photo because we stood on the edge of the field. Ben looks like he might be in pain though. Maybe it’s not because of the enforced photo session, but because he knew it was his last trip to our home in Amsterdam. We may never know the truth.
While Ben was here, we also took our last-ish weekend trip…to Berlin. We’ve been saying for awhile that we wanted to go, but somehow never made it happen. There was no more time to make excuses, so off we went. The word you often hear to describe Berlin is gritty. While I would agree with that conclusion, I could see that much of the grittiness is giving way to gentrified shine. The weather was glorious, so it didn’t look quite as gritty as I imagine it would on a more typically grey weekend. With blue skies to enjoy, we didn’t take full advantage of the many fine museums there. Instead, we did a lot of walking. And we saw lots of street art. The street art lived up to its reputation.
Be nice to your Mom. Pose for a photo with her. With all that walking, you need to fortify yourself with coffee, right? There was a lot of good coffee in Berlin. Have I overused the word hipster in my blog? Well, I need to drag it out once more to let you know there was a lot of hipster action in the Berlin coffee scene.
We walked the 1.4 kilometer section of the city - the Bernauer Strasse - where the wall stood between East and West. As you walked, you learned about the history of the wall through photographs and text. Obviously I had heard about the Berlin Wall, but didn’t really understand that it ran right through a neighborhood, suddenly dividing former neighbors into East and West Germans.
We did visit, but were disappointed by Berlin’s official monument to the Jews murdered during the Holocaust. Named The Memorial to the Murdered Jews of Europe, it consists of concrete slabs of different heights. The problem is there are no signs explaining the purpose of the monument and giving visitors some guidelines on appropriate behavior. Apparently, the sculptor wanted it this way. He didn’t want to dictate how people should think or act there. We saw children playing hide and seek, tired tourists sitting on the slabs to check their phones, and lots of selfies snapped. To us, it seemed like a wasted opportunity to teach people about the Holocaust. And to honor the memories of the people who died and their surviving families.
We found our tour of the Jewish Quarter much more meaningful than the Memorial. The tour was like a treasure hunt. Had we not been with a guide, we would have missed most of the clues that told us we were looking at Jewish sites.
It’s not just my time for lasts. It’s also Casey’s. Earlier this month, we said goodbye to his beloved dog walker/pal Chantal. Since the time they first met, both have changed. Chantal now has a baby. Casey now has a lot of grey hair and arthritis. When she told me she was leaving the job starting in May, I was secretly happy. It’s easier to leave when life doesn’t just go on as before. Since Casey is leaving, having Chantal leave too makes it somehow easier for us. Would it be wrong to wish the whole city of Amsterdam would move away too, just drift away down a canal so that there would be nothing left to miss?
In case you were wondering what dog care is like here, let’s just say Casey has also enjoyed the expat life. When we travel, he goes out to a house in the country, complete with plenty of space to wander about and a plush room to sleep in. I hope his snoring doesn’t bother his roommates. No wonder he’s so happy to see us go away. It’s a dream come true for him out on that farm.
“As long as I know I have love I can make it.”
It was also my last King’s Day on April 27. Last year, I chose to miss it, electing to fly back from the U.S. on the happy day, and arrive in Amsterdam the day after all the drunken festivities. I overheard a pair of Dutch woman at Newark Airport checking into my flight, chatting away in Dutch. When I asked if they were sorry to miss King’s Day, they rolled their eyes in unison and said they’d had enough King’s Days (or Queen’s Days) to last a lifetime. I’m almost at that point after only a few years, but I dragged myself out this year because it was The Last. Peter and I ended up having a lot of fun dodging both the crowds dressed in orange and the multiple rainstorms.
You might say I’m focusing on the everything-I’ll-miss-about-being-here. You might say that’s just going to make it harder to leave. You might be right. When I do start to feel blue, I can tell you this song is an instant mood-booster. Just the name of the genre alone - retro-funk - makes me happy. And the song gives me a motto to live by in my remaining months here. Instead of “blame it on the juice”, I’m going with “blame it on the move”. That gives me free rein to say what I want to everyone at every moment, both to Dutchies and to expats. Enjoy the song. I sure do.
I’ll end with a First. I finally made it to Kinderdijk, a town about an hour south of Amsterdam famous for its windmills. Wait (you might say if you don’t live here): Isn’t the Netherlands full of windmills? Well, it is, but there are more in Kinderdijk than anywhere else in the Netherlands. Nineteen to be exact. So you get a lot of windmill bang for your buck when you visit. I was thrilled to cross it off my list. I am equally thrilled to no longer need to hear my friend Seanette wonder how I could possibly have lived in the Netherlands for almost five years without having been to Kinderdijk. Mission accomplished, Seanette.
As our deadline approaches, Peter tells me I’ll feel better if I list in my head the things I don’t like about living here. He says that will make it easier for us to go. That’s a sensible approach, and one I remember from the olden days, listening to The Young Rascals. It would also have been sensible if that young man had gotten his teeth fixed once they struck it rich with a hit song.
“Whenever I am away from you
My alibi
Is tellin' people I don't care for you”
“Maybe I'm just hangin' around
With my head up-upside down”
So after all my complaining about how much I’m asked about the move, here I’ve gone and focused a lot of this post on it. Indeed, I’m sure it won’t be the last time I write about leaving. I wrote most of this post before we set off on a reconnaissance mission to Nashville. It was my first time there. I think I’m getting excited about the move. Am I also sad about leaving Amsterdam? In denial? Having mixed feelings? All of the above? Who’s to say? I’m still enjoying my firsts and lasts.
Would I lie to you?
Would I lie to you honey?
Now would I say something that wasn't true?
I'm asking you sugar
Would I lie to you?
Here’s a sneak peak of what’s to come. After a week in Nashville, I can say with confidence they have plenty of murals to photograph, lots of good food, and (hopefully) a house for us to live in. Stay tuned for Suzanne Vine’s Nashville.