Mid-Week Moment 07: Not So Fast Food




Centraal Station: With hungry tourists and commuters going through the main train station, it's a popular place for walking burgers. 

 

End of Week 06: Thank You for Sharing

Thursday afternoon quickly preceded project to project, task one to task two, with only the Monocle Weekly podcast to dispel distractions, including the lingering thought of last night’s discomfort. Sitting with an acquaintance for drinks and appetizers in a local restaurant, only discovered by wandering away from the foot traffic of De Pijp, my American tongue stood out above the collective Dutch guttural as if wearing a tailored white suit with gold buttons and white patent oxfords. A five-minute exchange in Dutch over the daily specials enthusiastically occurred between my acquaintance and the waiter as my glances only followed the sound of the two voices, catching a recognizable word every paragraph or so.

The first fifty minutes of the Monocle podcast walked me away from this memory and into their sound studio, which only was concerned with boutique news and polished reporting. My ears comfortably followed and my mind was at ease as I clicked away on Adobe Illustrator until Andrew Tuck began his piece. Sympathizing with the British diplomats and their problems with foreign languages, Mr. Tuck admitted that “I too have had a pitiful on off relationship with foreign languages and can honestly claim to be master of none.” Andrew, we should talk.

Growing up in Southern California, learning Spanish as my required high school foreign language sounded reasonable, however following in a former French Club President’s footsteps, which happen to be my brother’s, I studied French for four years to then forget French over the next seven. After its slow death, Italian stepped up, a genuine interest of mine vocalized so adamantly that a former beau gifted a beginner, self-study language course to me for Christmas. Fifteen lessons in and halfway through the program, the move abroad threw me from my disciplined routine, and for the last three months my Italian language software rests undisrupted on my Mac desktop.

For a number of people in Europe, including a notable percentage of colleagues in my office, English places as a second, third, or even fourth language after German, Russian, Turkish, French, or even Hindu, and supposedly, to those colleagues’ evaluations, inadequately spoken. Though California stands as my native tongue and Bostonian as my second, English in my case occupies all of those places. That Thursday afternoon as I glanced around reminded of this fact, and I could relate to Andrew Tuck grumbling that in the office “everyone [seemed] to be fluent in not just English, but Japanese, or Russian or Portuguese.” We both agreed that “it’s irritating” especially when looking back at the number of unsuccessful attempts to break away from just plain, twangy English.

The next morning I awoke fitfully at 5:45 am.

My day started earlier than usual and armed with a Starbucks Macchiato met sojamelk, my online search began for free material on the Dutch language. Scraping off the last of my caffeinated beverage’s foam, my clicking continued only to discover that Dutch did not rank high on the languages the online community aspired to learn. Searches easily found quality sites for German, French, Chinese, and Arabic while Dutch websites looked like beta versions from the early 2000. The Dutch language’s lack of popularity did not just happen overnight, but actually started four hundred years ago during the European colonization period.

Unlike the French, Spanish, and British, the colonial ambitions of the Dutch, extending to the Americas, Africa, and Indonesia, barely left a trace of language. Practicality caused this disappointing result as the dominant language for trade in those areas was already set and with no need to change. With twenty three million native speakers and five million additional speakers extending to other populations such as Belgium, Suriname, and South Africa, the latter in the form of Afrikaans, Dutch, though charming, does not carry the weight or intrigue of other languages. Who would have known that the results of European activity back in the 16^th and 17^th centuries would affect my 2011 search results on Google.

Two months prior to landing in the Netherlands, these facts influenced my degree of immediacy to learn the language, further affected by the ease of getting around the Netherlands with only English. However knowing the basics of Dutch would be advantageous for those polite remarks, pleasant greetings, and hopefully not too frequent apologies. In the gym under my Massachusetts office, the podcast ‘Laura Speaks Dutch’ streamed through my headphones as I peddled on the stationary bike closer toward knowing a little more Dutch. As most of my coworkers went to the gym during lunch and my workday ended later than many, I quietly attempted the words out loud:

Who de more hen (Goedemorgen/Good morning)

Who heart het met u? (Hoe gaat het met u/How are you)

Dank cue vell (Dank u wel/Thank you)

Tot zeens! (Tot ziens/bye)

Sometimes walking from the train station to my office, after looking around to make sure no one followed in my path, the same podcast fed me phrases and those same phrases are orally attempted. However by a certain point, understanding the mechanics of grammar leads a language learner away from just parroting expressions into forming concrete, unique thoughts.

On that Friday morning with my Starbucks Macchiato met sojamelk, three twenty-something page articles from Wikipedia were sent to the printer at my office.  I could hear the printer clicking and snapping as the articles materialized on the output tray, stacks so thick my stapler struggled to punch all the way through. The office remained quiet - no one suspicious of my mass-printing job – with only the words of Andrew Tuck to fill the silence. After taking Spanish lessons for a number of months he was able to construct understandable sentences and delighted on “the fact that I [could] say something, anything…and that someone [understood] me [was] just an all around amazing thing.” Andrew Tuck, thank you for sharing your story, as I too only hope one day to do the same at that local restaurant only found by wandering away from the frequently traveled streets. 

Weekend 06: On the Canal





On the Amstel: Boats parked at the Amstelhaven where patrons of the restaurant can arrive by foot or by boat.

  




Keizersgracht: An observer of the canal buses full of tourists passing through his neighborhood.

  

Mid-Week Moment 06: The Faithful Lock




Secure, hopefully: My chain, key operated lock is worth almost as much as my rusty bike.

 

End of Week 05: One Month, Two Hot Chocolates

Café de Pijp invited a reserved crowd Sunday afternoon into its spacious, 1970s interior suitably enclosed by wood paneling and geometric wallpaper.  Weaving through the circular tables on the lower floor, my colleague and I eagerly approached the upper platform, where booths, window seating, and petite, three-person tables remained vacant. We immediately threw our extra baggage onto the third chair and flipped through the fingerfoods menu, our energy supply dwindling from a three-hour circuit around the Rijksmuseum. After tediously reading every placard for every art and artifact in the museum, it was easy to skim the short menu and decide. “Baked nachos, yes, and can you make a macchiato?” tumbled from my mouth, only to be met with “well, yes I can, however it would take too much time and we are busy.” I looked beyond the waitress, noticing the scattered empty tables, only to shrug off the remark – eh, Dutch service.

“Make it two hot chocolates, alstublieft”

Nothing really matched in the 70s. Disco, the Brady Bunch, and hippies all coexisted with their polyester pants, bellbottom jeans, and John Travolta hairdos. In this café, that lightly harkens to your uncle’s basement refurbished into a man's entertainment room, the odd combination of food, nachos and hot chocolate, fit into the whole Café de Pijp vibe. My point was confirmed as two individuals move to the table below ours with an already started game of Dutch Scrabble.

As my mind drifted into thoughts of the times before my time, he walked up the stairs – I knew him? I knew him! Though we met previously at a number of Meetups for expats, we shook hands as I unsuccessfully surfed my memory to introduce my colleague.  She chimed in, thankfully, followed ten minutes later by a ‘don’t worry about it’ after my apologies drifted over the baked nachos. Blame it on the 70s décor or the temperamental Sunday weather, but don’t dismiss the perfect scene for my first it’s-a-small-world occurrence in Amsterdam.

Over a month passed since waking up Sunday morning on my one-way KLM flight from Boston, a city actually comparable in size to Amsterdam. But this capital of canals really is a small world, a consideration everyday as I wiz by pedestrians on my rusty bike or board the tram heading toward central station. Moving to a city unrepresented in my friend network only meant throwing out any previous social inhibitions to hopefully find a new loyal set of acquaintances. A task where during its progress led to nights with individuals from Denmark to Portugal, Argentina to Canada, and Russia to Greece.

Everyday I walk out of my apartment with a map and umbrella, equipped for the expected daily conditions, however over this first month numerous chores to set up a new life required an extended set of tools. Looking back, much has been accomplished:

Set up a bank account, got paid;

Established a Dutch phone number, gave out my Dutch phone number;

Gave someone directions, got someone lost;

Found an apartment, cursed at its price;

Bought a bike, crashed into a pedestrian;

Started a blog, should tell more people about it;

Invited to China for two weeks, need to get a visa;

And got my haircut, met a Connecticut transplant.

Not too bad. Most tasks performed in a patient state, however the first panicked, long distance phone call home over the extensive list of unknowns and irritations occurred within my first week. My mom, understanding yet stern advised, “I completely expected this to happen…[however] many people would die to trade in their problems for yours.” I know. I know and now I feel foolish- I know, I know this all comes with the deal. Though my formal offer for the job left these tribulations unlisted, counsels from numerous colleagues and family members filled in where the offer left off.

Across the table, my colleague relayed a similar story of initial frustrations, a gesture more comforting than she probably realized. We both went through this right of passage alive and now sat with a hot chocolate quickly cooling down in a tall glass as we wonder where the waitress went. Looking around, our waitress remained unseen; fifteen minutes passed by and our wallets waited on the table. The first month saw a notable amount of progress and hopefully month two will experience the same productivity. Well, if month two doesn’t pass by as we wait for our check.

“Mevrouw!?”

Weekend 05: The Rain Continues



Downpours: The record summer rainfall continues into the autumn months.





Crossings: A neighborhood family bounds across the wet pavement in the lull of Sunday showers.

 

Mid-Week Moment 05: The Streets Below




Rembrandtplein: A view from the bank's roof onto the street activity below.

 

End of Week 04: The Back of a Bike

A bike never seemed so sweet when deprived of a V8 engine.

Though Amsterdam’s width could be crossed by foot in under an hour, a bike facilitates any route through expediency and unexpected authority. A flat cityscape encourages two-wheeling, observed by pedestrians who hasten out of the way and snow sweepers that clear bike paths before streets.  Living in this land of bikes, I began to admire its mechanical efficiency and straightforward use: just hop on and pedal.

Or, in another case, just hop on and hold on. It only took two weeks in Amsterdam until my first hop on and hold on occurred. I sat above the back wheel on a rod platform, gripping the bike with one hand and holding two jackets in the other, the sharp turns over tram tracks or close encounters with disoriented pedestrians did not rock my comfort. It compared to the illusive security found in the back of New York taxis, a Seinfeld skit from years ago, where street numbers decrease by the tens as anxieties fall behind with the faded honking and muddled street commotion. Somehow the risk of falling unprotected onto naked pavement felt safer than driving completely shielded during an East Coast freeze.

Before trading in my car for a bike, perpetual frustrations from Massachusetts’s cruelest winter since the Bee Gees practically culminated in my guiltless break from the state.  During the cold months my commute reduced to various rental cars as two accidents decommissioned my vehicle, leaving me frustrated and bounded by weekly paperwork from my insurance agency. Jokes circulated around the office concerning my car luck and the calendar built around the days between snowstorms - selected days unrelieved from continual assault. Each morning that two-dollar cup of café coffee, though overpriced considering a free one could be made at work, marked the end of a difficult journey with a caffeinated reward. An indelible routine developed, which even continued while commuting by train in the Netherlands.

Gratified and carefree, I embraced my tram-to-train-to-foot commute from Amsterdam to the Hils even with its longer travel time and structured schedule.  Podcasts, music, and casual thought occupied my to-and-from, activities that would otherwise be carved from free time at home. However, my morning still ended with a dependable cappuccino “met sojamelk” from one of four cafes serving Starbucks coffee in the Netherlands, a scarcity that baffles any coffee addict expecting a Starbucks on each corner of a city block.

Searching for a coffee shop on the Internet only leads to finding, well, coffee shops, but ones without lattes. Weekend coffees are stumbled upon more than planned, sometimes when wondering back toward your intended path or speeding down cobbled streets on a rickety bike completing a Saturday of errands and exploring. After my first ride on the back of the bike, I realized the need for my own and purchased a rusted one-speeder a week later. One worth nearly the same amount as my lock and cursed to disappear and resurface on the bike black market. Yes this actually exists, and stories circulate about men selling twenty-euro bikes outside of bars at 2am, which is more of an irritation until this too seems a reasonable buy after a stolen bike.

It’s a simple way of living; where the laws of 'from culture comes crime' and 'with a morning comes coffee' still apply, however unembellished with the anxieties that formerly followed my daily commute. Set train schedules, limited Starbucks availability, and bikes instead of cars open the opportunity for noticing authentic surroundings and stumbling upon a curious shop. It even lends to those nights of freewheeling when getting home on the back of a bike seems a safe and reasonable option.

Stop thinking and embrace it. 

Weekend 04: Furniture Lift

Off the Ground: A group and gathered audience watch as the couch begins its ascent toward the apartment. 

Hook and Loop: Amsterdam dwellers hoist furniture into their apartment with hooks suspended above.

Mid-Week Moment 04: From the Rooftop

End of Week 03: Apartment Speed Dating

Apartments in Amsterdam fluctuate from the conventional quaint to the dirty charm and even down to the out-of-the-way refurbished, a range that received complete recognition during my Friday morning housing search.  Previewing each option the night before only excited my impatience and I could not prevent my natural curiosity from coiling around the Google search results with the hope to deduce compatibility through the available images and descriptions.

Could I just stay in my temporary apartment? We actually get along quite well. Located down the street from Nieuwmarkt and Chinatown, and only a fifteen-minute walk to Amsterdam’s central train station, my towering, three-story temporary apartment fits into the living abroad ideal. Its vertical layout sections out specific living spaces per floor, each connected by narrow, spiraling staircases, which could present a problem with those late, disorderly nights, but so far only make a glass of water a second thought. However, my relocation agent warned me against becoming to fond of my Nieuwmarkt hide away with a price tag two times my maximum budget. Clearly, it’s time to let go and do some apartment speed dating.

After months of living out of black suitcases, my expectations around finding an apartment loosened. It seemed as if any first suitor would satisfy my desires, however as the elevator chimed for the 7^th floor of an imposing, freshly constructed apartment building behind Amsterdam’s central train station, a pencil line shot across Westerdoksdijk 397, the address of the first apartment on Friday’s list. Though a spacious apartment flooded with natural light, it lacked the specific Amsterdam charm desired. With strengthened expectations and clearer thoughts after the jolt to reality from this failed first round, my real estate agent and I continued the pursuit.

To the west of the center my agent drove, toward Wachterliedplantsoen, the streets absent of the normal day walkers who probably opened their windows this morning to views of the French Riviera or seascape of Spain’s Eastern coast.  As the entire city escapes their everyday living during the vacation months, I on the other hand, braved to secure a base for the next two years.

It’s just too far out, I thought, stepping out of the car, my real estate describing the area as diverse, up-and-coming, and only a bike ride away from the main parts of Amsterdam. Words for: this explains the cheaper rent. My tainted heart climbed the maroon carpeted staircase to the third floor only to be met with unexpected delight. The door opened to an easy, modern apartment, equipped with the needed furniture and accessories. “It even has a stapler” my real estate quips as she pulls one out of a drawer - okay, one of those did make it into my shipment from the States – however the collection of stray furniture from Craigslist, friend’s basements, and former apartment dwellers, pieces bought at prices less than selected garments in my closet, did not.

Click, bedroom, click, bathroom, click, kitchen with gas stove, click, a laundry basket. Days passed after that Friday morning housing pursuit without one glance at my ritualistic house-hunting photos, not even worth their space in kilobytes. Only instinct, and of course that practical matter of price, wagered in on my semi-logical decision. As we drove away from Wachterliedplantsoen, my instant infatuation with the apartment dragged, only further drawn out by my questions as if the answers would relocate the perfect apartment to a more suitable location. A long distance relationship would only end in final good byes, thus the apartment needed be closer to the main areas of Amsterdam.

Through a dodgy entrance guarded by a security camera that only made me feel more insecure we briskly walked toward the third contender, conquering the hallway maze to follow. Located in the Joordan, a district that effortlessly wins over tourists and continually comforts the locals, the apartment easily satisfied the location card. One wall of this studio apartment practically opened up onto a picturesque canal, however its theatrical furnishing left behind by a former film student only seemed entertaining for the present and I could sense my real estate agent’s impatience toward its youthful wit.

Click, a large banana sculpture.

Luckily, one more chance honored the Joordan as a place on Williamstraat remained, the fourth on the dating list, situated across from Espressobar Lunchroom Tazzina High Tea, a shop with a name that could not be more comprehensive. We stood outside the apartment confused: it remained locked and the owner, who supposedly committed to meeting us, remained absent. Three knocks, two phone calls, and two disappointed glances later we walked into EspressobarLunchTea-somethingerother for a reliable cappuccino and macaroon. As we waited for our beverages, looking onto the apartment across the way, my real estate agent piped up and offered to show it next Monday. Being stood up on the first date is unappealing and I respectfully declined.

The fifth apartment near Vondelpark, the main park in Amsterdam near the museums, ranked above my price range and I knew to keep my guard as to prevent myself from completely falling for this option. With high ceiling, a spacious balcony, and Italian decorative tiling, it almost felt too sophisticated, well, except for the Dutch fraternity living next door. At eleven in the morning, the presence of stale beer, men in flip flops, and songs blasting by the Backstreet Boys threw off the expected cadence for such a refined neighborhood. My real estate laughed it off explaining the start of university, which also confirmed the motivation behind random group screamings I have heard numerous nights since then.

Maybe when forty comes around Vondelpark would fulfill those hopes of playing classical music while sipping port on the porch overlooking a ceiling of trees, however this rambunctious twenty-something year-old prefers quality beer, honest wine, and more industrial settings. I looked down at my list only to realize one more contender remained on my Friday morning apartment speed dating tour. Vincent Van Goghstraat, a street the size of a paperclip in De Pijp with a name that completely screamed Amsterdam, could be the one to satisfy all of my delights, but would anyone take me seriously with such an address?

Weekend 03: Ciclo Rijwielhandel




Workshop: An assortment of bicycle parts are stored, tucked away, and collected. 

 



Used and Repaired: Hundreds of refurbished bicycles hang from the ceiling and crowd the floor in the shop's limited space.

 

Tools: Thoughtfully arranged and maintained, the needed tools hang waiting.