A Shroom of One's Own

(I am sorry, Miss Virginia Woolf)

A foreign correspondent par excellence has to camouflage himself trying habits and customs of the place where he momentarily lives. A professional conversationalist as well as a great connoisseur of journalistic techniques, the brilliant modern reporter can cheat in many languages.

As Ryszard Kapuscinski puts it on his book Imperium talking about his dangerous mission in Nagorno Karabach dressed like an Aeroflot pilot:
"If a Russian patrol starts to talk me, it's not a big deal: I pretend to be Armenian and I answer in Russian with an Armenian accent. If an Armenian patrol starts to talk me, it's also not a big deal: I answer in Russian but with a Lithuanian or Latvian accent".

That's exactly what I did in these five Dutch months. No, I did not learn Russian. Or Latvian.


Yet,

I cycled a lot, pedaling backwards to stop.
I ate cumin cheese, pindasaus, bitterbal, frikandel, vla, hagelslag and stroopwafels.
I went to the National Cheese Museum (in Alkmaar).
I also went to the National Bicycle Museum (in Nijmegen)
I made pannenkoeken (in Utrecht).
I did the Herring Ritual (in Den Haag).
I survived to a Febo's kipburger (in Amsterdam).
I drank Grolsch, Bavaria and Jupiler.
I joked on the Belgians and dated a girl from Friesland.
I gave money to local celebrities Albert Heijn and Super De Boer.
I got tired of chipknips, strippenkaart and welpies.
I wore in orange more often than necessary.
I blew in a plastic horn cheering up for Holland.
I read the most intellectual free press.
I pretended to be one of the tallest person in the world.

Thus I can say that except for carrying a local blond lady on the back of my bike I behaved in a typical Dutch way. What? Wat? Are you telling me there is something else I forgot to try?

Excuse me, did you say drugs?
Well, it's not my style, you know.
I am not Norman Mailer or Truman Capote.
But you have a point.

Listen,
I tried mushrooms days ago.
Those mushrooms.
Together with three colleagues from Munich, Vienna and Toronto we made a focus group.

As we crossed the threshold of the closest smart shop we were immediately asked
"Where do you wanna go?
"Sorry?"
"I mean, what kind of trip do you wanna try guys?" said the shop owner (we will call him Leopold).
A travel agency, we assumed.

Silence. Embarrassment. Two steps forward. Six steps back.

"Wait! - Leopold yelled- "Aren't you looking for mushrooms?"
"Yup"
"Well, so you are in the right place!" Smiled the shop owner moving his long ponytail.
Lesson number 1: speak the lingo.

"May I suggest you these Thai? They give you an excellent ticket to ride".
"Oh, do you really import them from Thailand?"
"Ehm, actually we cultivate them here."
"Oooh"
Lesson number 2: do not get fascinated by exoticism.

"Have a nice trip!"
"Thank you, Leopold".
"And don't forget to tell me what you will see!"
"Sure. Doeg!".

But we did not send him a postcard.

We had the Thai mushrooms in my room and then spent hours laughing at the Oog in Al (Bambi Park for insiders). We shared a childish happiness and a bowler hat while three generations of Dutches were staring at us from the benches around. What a perfect disguise we had!

All that I can say by my side is that when I am under mushrooms I can see every detail and feel every smell in a clearer way. The colours of flowers. The perfume of sun tanned skin. The stripes of a t-shirt. The aroma of Euroshop hazelnut chocolate.

Someone in our focus group saw a lot of action happening in the sky among the puffy white clouds. Someone else stared for a long time to a pair of jeans trying to convince us that there were blue dots moving in waves and circles. I tried to get the same show on a pair of socks but it did not work. Perhaps I looked there during an intermission.

Once an important poet (T.S. Eliot?) wrote that anticipation of pleasure is better than its fulfillment. That's utterly true. And not only about love.
I was not expecting that much from our Leopold's Shroom Day, but as a reporter I am quite disappointed. I guess I chose a wrong angle.

Persepolis, Utrecht

The black and white cat sits on the counter.
She is quietly licking her right foot. Then she passes it on her snout.
From right to left. From left to right. Up and down.

A customer places a couple of yellow plastic bags on the conveyor belt.
The small golden bell around the cat's neck jingles as she jumps on the floor.
She is smooth and well-mannered, but cannot be of any help.

A man approaches behind the counter. He weighs the two bags on a scales while whistling.
Coins pass from one hand to another one.
"Dank je wel.
"Alstublieft.
"Tot straks.
"Tot ziens.

Welcome to Persepolis, my favourite grocery store in Utrecht.

We are in Kanalstraat, the main street of the Lombok neighborhood.
A place which I use to call "my own Ha(a)rlem", meaning not the Dutch, but the New Yorker one. An area of red-bricked working class buildings between a wooden windmill and a bell tower.
On both sides of the road you can find a large potpourri of Turkish butcheries, Moroccan grills, Surinamese confectioneries, Lebanese bakeries and Iranian-owned hardware stores.

It just takes five minutes to get here from my place walking along the orange festooned Borneostraat. Hup! Holland Hup! Hundreds of triangle shaped banners exclaim.

Once I used to buy my fruit and vegetables on the other side of Kanalstraat in a no named store known for its juicy mangoes, but lately I put faith in Persepolis for Marjane Satrapi's sake.
It's only here that I can find my beloved hummus and full moons of feta cheese sunk in milky pools. And every time I come here it's hard to don't fill a plastic tray with olives of all sort, tzatziki, mysterious but colourful sauces.

Making your grocery shopping at Persepolis you can feel as a fellow member of Utrecht's microcosm. While waiting for your turn to pay it's nice to catch a quick glance of that cute blond girl ahead of you in the line who took just one green pepper and a single zucchini. And then looking backwards you have a tall old man in his beige caftan who carries a 5 kilos bag of basmati rice and a handful of cassava roots.

Despite the long queue of customers, the Persepolis owner looks relaxed. He is never in a hurry. He stands on the threshold of his store talking nicely with passing people, suppliers, yobs and acquaintances before deciding of coming back to the counter with slow steps.
But as he gives you the yellow plastic bags back adding a bigger stronger white one with a smile, I am sure you will forgive him proclaming Persepolis your favourite grocery shop in Utrecht.

And there is no such thing as customer satisfaction.
If you don't mind the cat, obviously.

The Clash of Civilizations

I went to Sweden for a few days. While there I wrote a lot instead of toying with the idea of a cultural exchange which never really happened (you know what I mean).
I would like to annoy you with my reflections on the meaning of existence jotted down at the Skogskyrkogården Cemetery in Stockholm, but this weblog is dedicated to the Lowlands. So I decided for a compromise. Here it is. Don't fall asleep.

***HOLLAND VS SWEDEN***
A spannende match in one single set.

> Culture
While in Amsterdam, don't miss the Sex Museum, the Torture Museum and the Beer Museum, but remember that the most visited cultural attraction is Madame Tussaud's on Dam Square with its wax stars. Stockholm offers an Historical Museum of Wines and Spirits, a Tobacco Museum and a Custom Museum (!) where you can pretend to be a drug trafficker assaulted by smuggling detector dogs. Isn't that amazing?
One point for each one.

> Drinks
Dutches are proud of their beers. Heineken and Amstel conquered the international markets, while Grolsch and Bavaria reign on the national one. When asked, Swedes are not able to mention a decent local beer.
Point for Holland.

> Fashion
Swedes girls and women in late May use to wear skirts on pantyhose and summer dresses on jeans. At first it seems ridiculous, but then you have to admit there is a logic behind that. Pippi Langstrump rules (ok, ok let's avoid stereotypes). Dutch ladies don't care that much about covering their legs in stockings and as for skirts they have a strange taste in choosing colours. But they can cycle wearing stiletto heels and that's impressive.
One point for each one.

> Food
They both go crazy for herrings. But Dutches eat those fishes in a more glamorous way.
Point for Holland.

> Freedom I
On a regular two hours train trip Dutches control your ticket twice. Swedes investigate over you four times inquiring your ID to be sure you are under 26 to deserve your ungdom discount.
Point for Holland.

> Freedom II
In Stockholm you can drink in the streets by night. In Amsterdam it's not allowed.
Point for Sweden.

> Habits & Social Behaviors I
In Sweden is pretty common seeing or listening people spitting in the streets. In Holland, as far as I know, it's not. See part II below for a plausible explanation.
Point for Holland.

> Habits & Social Behaviors II
Things are going to change pretty soon, but still in Holland you can find friendly coffee shops around selling shisha (as they call it) and other interesting herbs. And yet Dutches don't smoke that much and they're generally polite while doing it. Swedes don't smoke so much as well, but they suck snus "a moist powder tobacco product that is consumed by placing it under the upper lip for extended periods of time" (Wikipedia). Disgusting black teeth and black tongues as well as an insane wish to spit on the sidewalks are a logical consequence. Luckily enough the feminine population of Stockholm keeps away from snus.
Point for Holland.

> Health Care
They both go to the toilet (thanks God). But the Swedes remember to close the door.
Point for Sweden.

> Language
The pronunciation of letter "g" resembles letter "y" in Swedish. For example Blackeberg sounds like "blakkebery" while Göteborg is "yohteboor". Dutches pronounce "g" like having a stomach spasm followed by the impulse to strangle themselves. Try with Groningen at home.
Point for Sweden.

> Public Transportation
With a two zones tram ticket in Göteborg you can go to the southern archipelago and take all the ferries you want within a hour and a half. Utrecht doesn't have any archipelago and just one tram line. The far you can get with a two strippen ticket is from the central station to the university.
Point for Sweden.

> Final Result
7-6 for Holland which wins at the tie-break.

The Eindhoven Conversations

The Eindhoven cab driver doesn't like his hometown. I am the lucky one staying in Utrecht, he says in a melancholic way as if he were living in a shantytown.
Can I see? Eindhoven is all like this. Tiny skyscrapers. Large avenues. Lines of trees. Coffee addicted commuters. Neon lighted offices. A city of dead souls. A boring place branded Philips.

- Well, it's a modern place. - I reckon.
- Yes, a modern one - confirms the cab driver.
And he looks quite disgusted by this kind of modernity.

I wonder if the local tourist office knows about this man promoting Eindhoven in such a way.
They might care.

I don't like cabs and I tend to don't take them. But there is a two days strike of public transport in Holland and no bus were waiting at the central station. I didn't know anything about that.
- Good for me. - says the man in his taxi.

And for a moment or two he looks optimist, forgetting how much he dislikes his hometown.
We are waiting at a red light.
On our right side two symmetric bell towers emerge from the rooftops shining in the sun. A six seated tandem crosses the street with six cute girls cycling on it. Eindhoven tries to be nice.

But then comes the green light.
- I really can't stand Eindhoven. I should move to Utrecht - mumbles the cab driver.
- Oh yes, you should - I sympathize with him.

I am sharing this cab to the airport with a forty something Spanish woman. She carries a backpack taller than her. Apparently she doesn't know any English.

- Are you a tourist? - asks her our driver.
- Si, tourist! - she nods vigorously.
- Where have you been in the Netherlands?
The woman shakes her head.
- It was not a yes or no question. - Mr. Cab Driver says
The Spaniard looks lost.

Yet, the man at the steering wheel insists. I am surprised. He is definitely the most talkative fellow I've met in Holland so far.
- I mean, where have you been? Amsterdam?
The woman smiles. She is clearly relieved.
- Si, Amsterdam! - she announces.

Meanwhile, we are getting closer to the airport.
The radio plays a hit from the eighties. Lionel Ritchie, I suppose.
Me and the Spaniard keep silent. The Eindhoven cab driver coughs a couple of times as to suggest an intermission in our lack of conversation.

I would like to talk, but the magnificent suburbs along the motorway are taking my attention span. It's unbelievable how everywhere you go in the Netherlands the public housing architecture is more or less the same. Red bricked buildings of two floors with a small garden at the entrance, no curtains at the windows and "Te Koop" or "Te Huur" panels here and there.
We might be in Breda, Haarlem, Alkmaar, Sittard instead of in Eindhoven. And Utrechtland, I am sorry for the dreamy cab driver, makes no exception.

Then we reach the airport which looks like a bus station in an industrial area.
The cab driver takes the money and helps us with our backpacks.

- Have a nice travel - he says behind his Dutch sunglasses.
- Si, travel! - the Spaniard exclaims.

Our taxi disappears in a queue of others coming back to the fake city of Eindhoven.

That Night Has Opened My Eyes

“Night and day, day and night” Ella Fitzgerald sang from the Cole Porter's songbook. And even if the Queen of Jazz never wore the Dutch crown, she really caught the spirit of Holland once a year between April 29 and 30. Because there is no Koninginnedag without a Koninginnenacht. And if Amsterdam is the right place to celebrate the Queen’s Day, Utrecht might be the perfect location for spending the endless night before. In that occasion the whole Binnenstad becomes at the same time a stage for musicians and performers and a flea market where Dutchmen confirm their talent for trade selling and buying any sort of stuff. From old vinyl records to half broken armchairs passing through crinkled kitchen books and out-of-style leather jackets, everything finds its room on the pavements of Utrecht.

This 2008 made no exception. Little showers of rain during the early evening of April 29 have not stopped the local sellers. Equipped just with an orange umbrella and a box of Palm the brave Utrechter crowded the streets with their merchandises pouring beer in their throats and Euro cents in their tight pockets. As foreign journalists and curious observers in search of true Dutch experiences me and Vicky, my friend from KLM, decided to make the Queen’s night business ours. Having both no old clothes to sell we turned our attention to handmade finger food. That’s why we put a basket of shortbread cookies and a bowl of chocolate cake on a cupboard wrecked in the corner between Hopakker and Lijsterstraat.

Semel in anno licet insanire. Once a year it is possible to get crazy, a Latin motto says. It fits perfectly with Dutchmen mentality on Queen’s Day, but apparently not with their attitude in buying food baked by foreigners on Queen’s Night. In fact me and Vicky did not manage to sell anything for more than a half an hour. Despite all our efforts, nobody tried both the original Canadeese koekjes and the famous Italiaanse tart. All that we earned was doubtful glances and skeptical expressions from the passing people. The most educated Dutchmen said “Nei, dank” while the less mannered ones just turned their mouths into grimaces of disgust. We tried any kind of advertisement and special offer passing from 1 € for four shortbread cookies to the policy of one cookie for free and five more cookies for 1 € plus one slice of chocolate cake. No result. Orange dressed people kept on ignoring us. We wondered why, finding no logical explanations. In fact we were irresistible, as you may see above.*

As my colleague in bankruptcy wrote on her witty captain's diary "Most Dutch people tried as hard as possible to avoid eye contact and on the off-chance they had the misfortune of catching our eye, they wouldn’t slow down as they declined". Although me and Vicky were feeling exactly like Lucy Van Pelt behind her lemonade stand-looking psychiatric booth, we insisted in our trade. Finally a fluorescent post-adolescent guy decided that we did not want to poison him and tried our koekjes en tart verkoop. Our customer appreciated the finger food and gave us the first and last Euro of the night. “Good luck!” he waved us back with his mouth full of shortbread cookies and chocolate. I have the suspect that our only customer was American.

At least someone else appreciated our royal-minded bakery.
From left to right, the standard bearer of Germany, Spain and Austria (forget the ice-cream).

*My Dickensian Coal Miner Kid expression has not to be intended as sarcastic. I was simply coughing.

The Blues Are Still Blue

Die Blauwe Koorts
The Blue Fever

"50 Ways to Leave Your Lover" is an old song by Paul Simon. "50 Ways to Call Each Other" could be the perfect slogan for the 50th (hey!) anniversary of Les Schtroumpfs / The Smurfs. Do you know what we are talking about?
Synopsis. In 1958 a weird bunch of blue white capped inhabitants of mushrooms makes its first appearance on a comic magazine. The "blue somethings" were a creation of the Belgian cartoonist Pierre Culliford, widely known as Peyo. In a short while these little creatures became one of the most popular cartoon almost everywhere in the world. While the term "Smurf" survives in Belgium, Holland, Norway, Russia, Bulgaria and Estonia, several countries chose to name the Blues in a different way. Sometimes it's just a small reinterpretation such as

Schlumpf (German), Smyrff (Welsh), Smurffi (Finnish), Smølf (Danish), Smerf (Polish) or Estrumpfe (Portuguese).

While other times the name has nothing to do with the original one. For instance we have

Pitufo (Spanish), Puffo (Italian), Hupikék Torpikék (Hungarian), Pottoki (Basque), Barrufet (Catalan), or Dardas (Hebrew). The Hungarian version is definitely my favorite one. For those who are interested 藍色小精靈 (pronounced lán sè xiǎo jīng líng) is the Smurf's Chinese name.

Ok, let's stop copying and pasting from Wikipedia, right now.
As you may see above, Dutchmen respected Smurfs leaving their name untouched even if Peyo was a French speaking man and not a Flemish. This is what I call tolerance. But that wasn't enough.
A few weeks ago I met some giant sized Smurfs in The Hague. In that occasion I wondered what may take a couple of adult men to wear a blue smurf costume spending a whole afternoon waving at children, being kidded by youngsters and shot by nostalgic parents in their forties. Perhaps the Smurf Solution is better than acting as a Santa Claus' elf in a shopping mall or as a Taco in the corner of a windy street, and yet I couldn't understand Them.
These Lowlands are still a rich and healthy country after all. Here finding a decent non-humiliating job is supposed to be easy. And yet those Dutchmen wore a smurf costume. There's only one possible explanation. They liked it. Quoting Roxette, it must have been love. And it's not over now. They haven't lost it somehow.

Am I wrong? I don't think so. Please have a look below.
AMSTERDAM, WEDNESDAY 12 MARCH 2008 The Smurf fever that has gripped the Netherlands since mid-February is finally burning itself out. The last 6 million of the 29 million blue plastic creatures that supermarket Albert Heijn has been doling out for every €15 spent will be delivered to stores Thursday. They will certainly be all gone before the end of the promotion on 24 March, said a spokesperson for Albert Heijn. (courtesy of DutchNews.nl)

29 millions blue plastic creatures!
And 3 of them are currently in my kitchen marching on the microwave. Grote Smurf is the red capped Robespierre of these little apparently harmless Sans culottes! All this wasn't supposed to happen. It's just because of my talent for misunderstandings. In fact for a while I didn't understand the way it goes with Smurfs. I was therefore the perfect target for capitalist marketing. Paying my food I noticed that the cashier told me something like "Schmoorv?" but each time I guessed it was the Dutch word for bag.
"Ja! Ja! Ja!" I used to nod vigorously.
And each time They gave me a small packet the size of a plum. The camouflaged Smurf.
Such a shame I won't complete the collection, while hundreds of thousands of Dutchmen will.

I'd Rather Dance With Them

Nederlandse Muziek

Music from the Lowlands

As I wrote in one of my first posts, I'm quite ignorant on the kind of music They play and enjoy here. I just knew that They had a nice though derivative period in the 60s thanks to band like The Outsiders, Q65 and Shocking Blue.
All those bands came from the Den Haag - 's Gravenhage area and for a short season tried to land in the young European ears with a bunch of decent songs. Those were the glorious years of Radio Veronica. Yet, the positive influence of this pirate radio which transmitted from an old ship anchored just outside the Dutch territorial waters, close to the beach of Scheveningen has finished many years ago. Going there I found no evidence or testimony of Veronica. What has happened in the meanwhile? How could They pass from a lovely local Merseybeat to Dj Tiesto?

I wanted to learn, listen, judge. That's why I invited here in my place a Dutch friend of mine with the excuse of a dinner. We were still licking from our fingers the delicious whip cream of a local dessert (I forgot its name), when I asked Merel to help me in a rediscovery of Their music. I couldn't wait. My questions were all very naive. Her answers were all very precise.
- Have you got any good and famous songwriter? I mean a kind of Dutch Bob Dylan, a Zeeland born Leonard Cohen, or perhaps a Groningen based Patti Smith? NO.
- Is there any famous rock band here who use to sing in Dutch? NO. JUST IN ENGLISH.
- May we consider The Nits like the Dutch answer to The Beatles? WHO ARE THE NITS?

I didn't give up. I insisted on asking, asking, asking. Finally I learned something. Actually Merel taught me quite a lot. Here is a short list of the bands/artists we talked about.

Acda en De Munnik Their name comes from the sum of two surnames. They sing in Dutch. Folk-cabaret or something. It seems they have a wide audience. My friend Marjolijne suggested me this band as well.
Anouk Fifteen years after her international heydays, she's still quite famous (here). The aggressive poprock-singer she was has all but gone. Yet she looks particularly tired and eye-wrinkled in recent posters of her coming gigs.
Bettie Serveert Who knows them anymore? Are they disappeared? Perhaps they moved to Belgium? During the nineties their song Palomine had a massive airplay on some Italian radios.
Bløf Pop rock band with some ordinary but catchy guitar riffs. They performed the main song of the "Alles is Liefde" movie soundtrack. Apparently they sing in both English and Dutch.
De Jeugd Van Tegenwoordig Weird combo of youngsters with a great and uprising popularity. They developed a personal way to hip hop, with funny lyrics, trash irony and self invented words.
Golden Earring They are still on stage after a long career. Once they were among the most famous bands from the Lowlands, now I don't know if they're still popular.
Kane Dutch young but average rock band with English written songs. I had heard their name before. I hope that with a name like this they know who Orson Welles was.
Le Le Once you listen to their hit "Skinny Jeans" you'll hate or love them. It's an infectious song. One guy from Le Le is also a member of De Jeugd Van Tegenwoordig (see above)
Racoon Merel showed me a lot of duets on YouTube with this band performing elegant pop songs together with other ones. But they don't have Dutch lyrics so I need time to love them.
Room Eleven They're a very jazzy and sophisticated pop band with an excellent lead singer. I think I saw they will have a concert in Utrecht pretty soon. They are also English oriented.
Solex Well, actually we didn't talk about her. I tried to say her name a couple of times, but Merel never reacted. And yet she's the only Dutch artist I had an album of whom at home.
The Nits Old guys from the early 80s, but still in a good shape. They released a pile of albums. I guess their song "In the Dutch mountains" is a homage to Cees Nooteboom self titled book
Two Unlimited It seems they were very popular on the European dance floors a few years ago, in the wake of Ace of Base. I confess I never heard their name before. I am a nerd.

Pardon my Dutch

Mij en Jou en Allemaal Zij Kunnen
Me and You and Everything They Know

My dear Audience,

how are you? Did you miss me? I missed and I miss you so much.
You're right. I know. It's my fault at this time. I was supposed to write you every single day from here. I had promised that with the whole of my heart. Hence, you can blame me for this long and unexpected lack of words from the Lowlands. I would like to tell you that I forgot to write you, because I was working on the long awaited Dutch edition of McSweeney's together with my friends Dave and Zadie, but actually that's not true. And I'm not a liar as far as you believe me.

My beloved Audie, you should ask me why I waited so many days before sending you these few lines. If it's true that we are in an open relationship (at least that's how you call it), you shouldn't be jealous. I haven't betrayed you. Actually I never did it. How could I do that? Yet, this silence has finally ended. It won't happen anymore. It won't happen again.
Well, I go right to the point now.
Audie, my sweetheart, I'm studying Dutch. Ja, natuurlijk. Hey, I'm not joking. Could you take me seriously? Please. Astublieft. You can't imagine how Their language is at the same time amazing and astonishing. Take my first lesson: personal pronouns.

- She and They are both Zij. This makes me stoned. For Them is natural. Why?
- According to what written above They are = Zij zijn. Chinederlandse.
- That same Zijn means His/Its as well. Dit zijn tingen zijn (These are his things). Abracadabra.
- The informal form for You (plural) is Jullie, while the formal one is U. Isn't that perfectly logic?

- For each pronoun there are two forms. How could I pronounce 'k or 't (= unstressed I and It)??

Oh my Audie, is there a better way to express my love to you than this one?
Don't tell me flowers because spring has going to come. Don't tell me chocolate, because Belgium is not that far. May I dedicate you a song? It's in Dutch, try to guess what it means.

Acda en De Munnik - Bij haar zijn

Practical Dutch for The Dutchless

Do you want to impress your Dutch friends Bart and Anouk conquering their highest estimation and perhaps (I said perhaps!) a second cookie at Their next coffee invitation?
Is this that you really want? Are you sure you want? Well, you made your choice.
I made some research and I can help you. Try with the following sentences.

Niet bij de pakken neer zitten
Don't sit down with the packages
(dank je wel Jasmijn)

They say this meaning
"Don't give up".
I guess this idiomatic sentence comes from Their Gouden Eeuw (Golden Age), between 16th and 17th century. At that time They were all merchants, navigators, entrepreneurs, businessmen. In that period a man sat down with the packages was certainly a loser, a creep, a defeatist, an atypical Dutch. Nowadays the sentence could be referred to all the foreigner students who have unsuccessfully tried to open a Dutch bank account at Abn Amro or Rabobank losing their patience and their bike in the meanwhile.

De Gouden Middenweg
The Golden Midway
(dank je wel Jasmijn)

They say this meaning
"We've found an agreement starting from two opposite points".
This is because one of the main characteristics of those Dutchmen and women is that They are after all reasonable people.

Medium
Medium

They say this meaning
"Hey you asshole, don't you see this is supposed to be a romantic candlelight dinner? Kick yourself away and leave us alone in our idyllic courtship".
Instead of insulting the waiter who's just trying to be nice and gentle, asking if everything is tasty and ok, They say whispering or gnashing this useful expression. Even if you're alone having a Sunday Nederlands ontbijt (Dutch breakfast) in a Cafe don't be afraid to sound cold or impolite: use the M word. The waiter will understand you and He will surely appreciate your Dutchness.

Alsof er een engeltje op je tong pist
Like an angel pissing on your tongue
(thank you Ying)

They say this meaning
"Oh God, this beer is unbelievably delicious"
I don't know how old this expression is and if you can use it with wine and non-booze beverages as well. Yet, according to my source, who is currently based somewhere between Singapore and Philippines, it seems that the expression become particularly popular during the last edition of the Lowlands Festival.

Kiss From a Rose (quoting Seal)

Alles is Liefde
All is Love

The title of our short trip at the discovery of the V-Day in the Lowlands comes from a recent Dutch movie. You can find its dvd everywhere while here. Do you want it? I can buy it for you. Just tell me. Shipping for free! Anyway, I have to confess I don't know that much about this movie. I just know that the plot keywords chosen by IMDb.com are "folklore", "runaway groom", "gay love" and "brother sister relationship". For Dutchness sake!

However, even in these gray gay Lowlands today is Valentijnsdag.
Dutch lovers are cycling romantically holding their hands and causing many incidents in the fietspaden (bicycle routes). Yet nobody cares. What is an injured ankle or a broken knee compared to the power of love? That's what They think. Their supermarkets sell awful heartshaped boxes of aardbeien (strawberries). National radios like Arrow Classic Rock and Caz! (Italian readers, please don't laugh!) broadcast Dromen zijn bedrog (Dreams are an illusion) by Marco Borsato*.
The blackbirds on the still naked trees tweet the same song. Welcome to The Netherlands. They love each other. You'll love Them.

*The local old pop hero. A kind of national miaowing monument with a sexy Italian name (I guess, for Them) Imagine a mix of Bryan Adams and Eros Ramazzotti with curly cinder-blond hair.

Are you lonesome today? Don't be depressed. Don't sing Eleanor Rigby too much.
Listen. Do like me. Take your chance to make practice with your non-existent Dutch language mispronouncing Valentijnsdag loudly in front of a large size mirror. It's very easy. Follow me.
Faaaalendddinnssdahhhhhhg. Done? I haven't heard you. Mispronounce it louder! Come on!
Faaaal - Yeah!
Endddinnss - Go on!
Dahhrhhhg - Such a great Ahhrhhg sound you made! It was perfect. So lovely Dutch. So apparently impolite. I'm very proud of you. But stop strangling yourselves right now.

The Zutons - Why won't you give me your love

Merry Dutch Life: Chapter One

Badhuis & Privaat
Bathroom & Toilet

You're just arrived in the Lowlands. You've sweat liters of water and deodorant carrying your luggages across the streets of your brand new town. Three Dutch bicycles were going to hit you, giving you an early occasion to try your International Medical Insurance efficiency. And yet now you're safe and sound. At home. A place which coincides accidentally with a Dutch house. You need a shower. You need to look your exhausted face in a mirror. You need to...ehm, you know what you need after a long travel. You look for a bathroom. And the adventure begins.

My first meeting with a Dutch bathroom has been a blind date. We didn’t know anything about each other and it took five minutes to find the switch. Then with the lights on I’ve noticed something wrong.
“Merel! – I cried to my host – where is the water closet?”
“In the toilet, downstairs.” she shouted back.
That’s the point. Where an Italian house has one or two bathrooms, a Dutch one has a bathroom and a toilet at two different floors. While an Italian bathroom is a shiny cathedral of marbles and crystals, a Dutch one is basically a room with a shower and a water basin. Let’s take WCs. According to recent studies, Dutch people are supposed to be the tallest in the world. And yet Dutch toilets could win an award as the smallest in the whole Milky Way. I could hardly sit down on Merel’s toilet and the situation is even worse in the place where I live. My landlord is so proud of this toilet that he hasn’t told me where it is. I’ve found it while looking for a wardrobe. Serendipity at home. I wonder how a two meters high Dutch could use a water closet like this if even my knees flap the door every now and then. There should be a local technique, but it looks like a well kept secret. I'm going to learn.