View from my window as I write this |
Last week I was asked to write another article for ExpatArrivals, this time in a more serious tone on the Pros and Cons of living in the Netherlands. Easy I thought, I've been here nearly a year I already know all the pros and Cons. I was a little taken back when my contact suggested a deadline. A deadline for me? surely not, I'll finish it in a day or so. Well the deadline is the 18th of July, I've been working on it for four days and only have the bare bones of an article put together. I'm beginning to wonder if I've bitten off more than I can chew.
Of course I heard of this Dutch
bluntness, I even read about it in my Welcome
to Holland book, many of the expats websites talked about it, some even
called it rudeness. But I always assumed (I doing it again, making an ass of
myself) that it was either a trait only found in the major cities or (and this
is what I really thought) that the ‘rudeness’ experience by some expats was
somehow a reflection of their own behaviour.
That was before!
Last Sunday while Andy was off
with the Igad winning team in Cambridge making this fab game:
.
I was filling the lonely hours with Stephen King (great author but no substitute for human companionship), when somebody stuck their finger in our doorbell. Peering through the spyhole I saw my 80 year old neighbour. Her finger still stuck on the doorbell as I opened the door.
.
I was filling the lonely hours with Stephen King (great author but no substitute for human companionship), when somebody stuck their finger in our doorbell. Peering through the spyhole I saw my 80 year old neighbour. Her finger still stuck on the doorbell as I opened the door.
My neighbour is an ex teacher,
who speaks beautiful English and likes to pat me on the head when I manage to
say goedemorgen (goodmorning) with anything like a decent accent. This morning
however she appeared to have forgotten my lack of Dutch, she was agitated and swaying
from foot to foot.
‘Komen, komen’ (come, come – I know
that much) she said tugging my arm.
So I did. I grabbed my keys and
followed her into the lift. Once it was clear I was following her she relaxed,
and with a perplexing look proceeded to examine my lunchtime attire. Taking in
the unbrushed hair, stained jeans, baggy top and knowing me - toothpaste stains
on my lips. It was just like watching a light-bulb moment in a comic, as excitement replaced confusion in her eyes and a big Joker like grin spread across her face.
‘Ah you have a baby in you’ My neighbour
said patting my tummy.
With the help of sign language I explained
it wasn’t a baby 'in me' but the result of putting too much food in my mouth.
Me - apparently |
Did she look embarrassed?
No - did she hell!
Instead I had a lecture on eating
habits and riding bicycles (funny how her English came back then) and I slunk
back to my apartment and put a self-pity quote on Facebook.
In the shadow of the Grote Kirk |
There are times in an expats life
when Facebook becomes a saviour. There a time in an expats life when family are
the saviours.
There is a woman I know who lives
in a little village on the outskirts of Worksop. At times I know I disappoint
her, I’m not especially demonstrate and I don’t like to talk about emotions –
in fact I’m down right prickly if cornered. But with the safety of the blog
behind me I can speak freely and say - I wake up every single day grateful that
she is my mum. There has not been a single day or event when she could have
tried harder or done more. As a mum she is an enabler, an inspiration and
impossible to emulate. If I had one wish – it would be that she would to put herself
first, if only for a little while.
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