Bike There.

Yes, these really are all bikes, people. Waiting at the train station for their owners. Crazy.

In Holland you can bike anywhere.  There are more bikes in Holland than people, TRUE STORY. People think other countries (like AMERICA) do not utilize the bicycle enough. WRONG.  Holland is FLAT, people.  If there is any kind of hill you get excited, because on the other side of going up a hill, is getting to coast down it.  The bike ride will be equally as hard for these flat-landers, as it is easy.  So if you have time, you have a nice, leisurely bike ride to get where you are going, if you're in a hurry, you are sweating underneath that wintercoat and gloves you so sternly put on when you were welcomed by the nice, COLD air before leaving the house. 

ROADS

Here in Holland, the biker, or "mo-peder" has there own LANE.  Not sidewalk, no measley little 2-footer path, A LANE.  In this picture you may think you are looking at a road that cars drive along.  NOPE.  This is a bike lane, and there is one on both sides of the road.  These bike-roads are even equipped with stop signs and stop lights with a little lit-up bicycle on it so you no when to go, and when not to.  But you must watch the lit bicycles because pedestrians have their own stoplight, as well.

If there is no stop-light, bikers are on their own.  LOOK RIGHT and then LOOK LEFT but even if you get a little daring and go when it would most-likely be the death of you in, say, Raleigh North Carolina, people in the car coming towards you will slow down.  I have even seen busses, full of people and during rush hour, pull over and stop because if they do not, the daring 2-wheeler will be crushed...or scared.  Biking here is not "daring" it is practically honored. 

It is pretty darn impressive.

STOPPING

I strongly recommend NOT using your mobile device, stopping with one hand (one break) is scarey and does not really work.  The bike hits a tail-spin situation and you can pretty much hear the people in the cars beside you laughing, and your conversation on the phone will quickly begin to suffer (or end abruptly), and you will come really close to starting a domino effect by hitting a jam-packed bike light. Stopping is important, and needs to be done with the full-use of both hands.

When I first started biking I had a hard time going from stopping to going again.  When the little bike on the stoplight is lit green, there is no trickle-effect that is ever so annoying in vehicle-traffic.  EVERYONE goes, right then.  So you have got to have your pedals all lined up. This sounds weird, but listen here...

You have to have your bike pedal, on your stronger leg, at the top, with one foot resting on the pedal, and the other foot holding you up (which is the most comfortable when you are beside a curb).  The most practical thing for me is, when I am still, I back-wind the pedal and wait for the green light.  It takes practice, and you might not understand what I am saying until you get swarmed or dinged (that's what I call the bell that the bike's have) and stumble around trying to get your footing so you can go or get out of the way.  These people have things to do, and they seem a lot more important then the things I have to do.

RAIN OR SHINE

Right now, it is rain season in Holland, or atleast it has been for the last 2 weeks. It is a low country anyway, but it is ALWAYS overcast, so when the sun is out... so am I.  Yet the Dutch do not seem to mind much, the water always falling from the sky.  It does not even slow them down, literally.

When it is raining it is very hard for me to get motivated because the cold weather and rain are not what I consider something to put on my to-do list. Chances are the combination will take down with it, any good mood.  By the time you get anywhere you are soaked to the bone and pretty much wish you had stayed at home, or at least waited for the rain to pass, but chances would be that it would not.  Yet the markets are all open, people are walking around, the umbrellas are up (which means you move, not them) and they're getting their stuff done, so you should get over it, too.

Yet these resilient Dutch put on a tarp-like-trashbag with a hood and get those feet moving. It's amazing.  I am squinting and remembering people have survived more severe things that rain here in Holland, like the Holocaust, and I'm getting passed by these giant trashbags.  I cannot help but think how dry and cozy those hooded trashbags must be, where the heck can I get a trashbag with a hood?  But how miserable.  The wetness of the rain, and the cold air, are these people CRAZY? 

They are not crazy.  They are Dutch.  

They bike there, because it is easier than driving.  

They bike there, because there is always a place to put your bike, and it can always be near where you are going.  

They bike there, because the lands are flat and the cold air blasting in their face is nothing (compared to a war, I think to myself) to them. 

THE HEALTHY DUTCH

It is very hard here to find an obese Nederlander.  Almost impossible. They bike everywhere, their portions are smaller, and walking to and fro is as natural as breathing.  The Dutch are healthy.  And judging (not only) by the strength of my quadriceps now, biking is amazingly over-looked. 

So these dutchies bike and walk and eat like birds, but get this.  They smoke, A LOT.  Nearly 40% of people from the ages 16-64 are smoking.  That is almost 1/2 the people in Holland.  And this "healthy" culture does this, everywhere (except now it's illegal in restaurants and bars)... even on their bikes.  Is that not a bit like smoking on a walk, or smoking on the way to or from the gym?  I am not clear on this piece of Dutch culture.  But I will tell you it is mighty strange when you are huffing and puffy because you are trying to get there, and somebody ahead of you is voluntarily polluting the air your sucking in, literally... and you cannot even see who the culprit is, or if you can you are so busy spitting out the polluted air, or getting left in their dust (just because they smoke does not mean they're not kicking your butt on their bike).

                                                       This is my little cousin, Menco, 16.

I understand that tobacco is an industry like any other, and a very large one here in Groningen... but while biking? 

Honestly? 

So these bikers are fierce and brave and fit and fast, but the smoking is ridiculous and the rain is absurd. Ah, the things you learn in Holland.

Checking out the world and letting you know about it, people.

Don't You DARE Take Your Family for Granted

This sounds exactly like something your parents say to you when you are fighting with one of your siblings, or you say something to your sister that you instantly wish you shove shove back into your mouth before her brain realizes what you have just said.

Being here, around family and all this nostalgia, I feel obligated to make a statement or two about the matter of getting every bit of your family in while you can.  It sounds cliche' and I am terribly sorry for it. But the cliche' has been around for a while, because it is true.

Holland is as big as... maybe North Carolina. Not very big. Especially not for a country.  Most of my family is here in Holland.  My dad's twin brother, his sister, he cousins (5 I think), his nephews, a few aunts, and a few others.  That's a lot of people.  People who have the same DNA running though their veins.  That's a pretty serious commonality. 

Blood relatives just share something more than a title, and even non-blood relatives, they share a family.  The drama.  The secrets.  The history.  The laughter and the tears.  Sometimes even the habits and your own name.  It's pretty amazing, really. 

I am sad, though.  

These aunts and uncles and cousins and grandparents are so close, in proximity.  They may talk on the phone, the cousins are friends on MySpace or Hyves or whatever the newest of-age artificial communication may be that week.  Do they really know each other?  Really appreciate each other's company? Hear each other's stories? See their kids and watch each other evolve? If the occasional phone call and annual Christmas card are enough, then maybe, but the ultimate answer is NO.  I know people are busy and have their own "lives" but would it not be nice to get together in a big city for lunch, or dinner, or a small birthday celebration or celebration of being family?  

I am here to visit family, get the real feel and express my appreciation for family.  I want to laugh with people I have never laughed with.  I want people's last true, real-life impression of me not to be how I was playing soccer in the backyard and screaming at my mom for putting a dress on me when she knows I'm allergic to dresses (that really did happen, embarrassing to say).  

My great aunt Ina is in the hospital.  She was having heart problems so they hospitalized her.  "Let's go see her." I quickly said as soon as I heard the news. "Really? You want to? Yeah, we should." was quickly an answer.  Thank God.  I could not find that hospital if someone circled it on a map and stuck me on a train, anyway.  Tante Ina is a widow, and was never able to have children, but her nieces and nephews (from what I understand) make a good attempt to come visit her, send her pictures, call her.  But I know she has to get lonely.  She and my Oom Bertie were like two peas in a pod when he was still alive.  So bizarre, they could finish each other's sentences (maybe, it was in Dutch so I probably got the idea).  Now she's in a retirement community, which resembles a hospital, alone.  

The train ride was long, but it was a good power nap and way to see some Dutch country side, and my aunt picked me and my uncle up and we quickly got to the hospital, which was pretty stark, very cold.  I was a bit nervous on the way up in the elevator.  Would she remember me? She's not getting Alzheimer's, is she?  Will she have tubes in her nose?  Will they have to come change her bedpan while we're visiting? 

We walked in the group room (separated by curtains, which were all open) and I quickly spotted her.  I had to stop myself from running over to her bed and hugging her.  Hospitals seem to instinctively tell me not to run, nor to hug too hard, especially if you are in the cardiology department and you could trip on someone's air-pump regulator to their heart or something of that nature.  As soon as she saw us I flashed her the biggest, happiest smile I could.  If I could somehow bottle up the happiness I felt when I saw how happy she was to see me, I would drink some everyday and never ever feel a speck of sadness.

Thankfully she remembered me and there were no signs of a bedpan.  She was just as I have always remembered her.  Witty and wise, kind but demanding respect.  Eager to tell us stories, give us candy, complain a little, but excited to see that we were there for no one or nothing else, then her.  It made me feel good.  It made me wish I was closer so I could make her day everyday. 

It was so nice to talk to her, to listen to her.  To admire how nice she looked, after all her life, and tests, and deaths and disappointments, how funny she was even though her English was hard for me to understand and her to form elaborate sentences.  It was nice to admire her jewelry, answer her questions about school and my parents and my sisters, Alexandra and Olivia. "Learn Dutch first, while you are here, Victoria." she said. And in perfect English.  Gah, I wish I could have responded to her in eloquent Dutch. No such luck, yet.

This hospital visit may seem like a "duty" as family.  It is a privilege.  This woman has loved my family, me, for the better part of our lives.  We have memories together from 20 years ago. It is not only that she deserves respect enough for us to come see her for less than an hour.  We GET to go see her.  We are lucky enough to see family and love embodied.  We are lucky enough to get to make her happy, and she is happy to show us how grateful and happy she is to see us, to feel acknowledged, not alone.  No one wants to be alone, and I think back on my Oma, who died my freshman year in college, in a faraway country, and was not even able to make it to her funeral.  Now, do you not think I would go back and sit with her, just to make her feel like there was more than just her in the room?  To let her know I was glad to be her family, to be privileged enough.  She was my Dad's only mother.  Oma was the only grandparent I had on that side of the family since the day I was born.

Family is important.  You only get one, and it is something that those that do not have, yearn for.  Your family is not a duty.  You may not always enjoy every second and every habit of your family, but they are YOURS and they have a pull towards you that in unconscious and irreplaceable. 

Enjoy your family, people.  Soak them in.  They are WHY you are who you are. 

A Night Out With The Boys

Wednesday (March 11th) I arrived in Groningen. It's a northern city in Holland, with a really high student population. It's not close to many other places in Holland, but it is really busy. There are some really nice, more quaint, q

uieter towns around Groningen, my family actually lives in Haren. It's about a 15 minute bike-ride to the center of Groningen. My Oom Menco, Tante Hanneke and cousins Philip (22, left of me), Albert (19, right of me) and Menco Jr (16, not pictured) live here. My dad and Menco are identical twins... just a little background update so you can better catch what I'm throwing in the this blog.

Thursday my cousin, Philip, invited me to a night out, a "discotheek", they call it here. Woo!! I night out with people (close to) my age!! YEAH-YAH! Off we went. First to his place, his student house, to drink a few Grolsch and meet his roommates and friends. Sweet. Back in the college swing, I am.

His place was neat. Really narrow, steep stairs going up (the steps in Holland amaze me. My feet barely fit on the step). "Viola!" Into the rugged world of my Dutch law-student cousin's flat. Never mind the porn on the bathroom walls, the cigarette machine in the living room, and their pet Piranha, this place was authentic. After meeting his friends, listening to some tunes and correcting a few misconceptions about American music culture with Philip's friend Jacob (pronounced YAK-cub in Dutch). I was soon to be greeted by Max. Max is the boy's mascot. A very aggressive (I did not get attacked) French Bulldog. I love French Bulldogs! Yet, I was warned by my uncle that if I pet Max I would have to count my fingers after. Thanks for the spook, Oom Menco. I have all my fingers. I will have Max cuddling with me in no time, I just know it. Although I will admit that Frenchies are a bit intimidating, they are pretty jacked and you can almost always see a tooth or two.

We had a few more beers and a glass of good Cabernet (life's too short for bad wine). I was watching them play this really weird drinking game, it is a kid's game "Looping Louis" (which you have to pronounce with a French accent, merci). It is a board game where there is a plane you have to dodge, and if it knocks all of your three coins you have to take a rets (ritZ in Dutch, a big shot/gulp). Goofy game, but it got those boys drinking, and had me laughing. I wonder if they sell "Looping Louis" in America?

After awhile Albert was on the way! SWEET! I had not hungout with my cousins since our parents were cutting our meat for us, and now we were headed to a disco-tech!! I was already feeling the alcohol, since it had been awhile since I was socially drinking, and I have a theory that all beer here has a higher alcohol percentage than in the States.

It was a close walk to the bars, like 15 minutes or so. I got to chat up some of Flip's friends. One friend was drilling me, "Why are you in Holland? There's nothing here you can't read about, nothing really to see." Harmless, nothing a little American defense that my quick-whit couldn't handle, and I'm getting well rehearsed on this subject. I had to explain to him that I was here to SEE and SMELL and TASTE everything I can. He soon letup on me. :) It's not that America has lost it's luster for me, I do not want to give that impression, but I just want to check things out for myself.

We were joking and talking trash, in English, every one's English is great here. The whole darn country is bilingual, I swear it! It makes me so jealous. It was so cool to shoot the space with my cousins, I hadn't had witty-banter with anyone since I bid farewell to John weeks ago. Jacob, who has known Philip and Albert for YEARS, is funny, I love a good smartass. He even made the comment "you and a TRUE NIEMEYER, Victoria". Which makes sense since Philip, Albert, Menco and I pretty much have the same Dad (they are identical twins). It made me feel like such a part of the family. A TRUE NIEMEYER. Has a nice ring, don't you think?

We went to a couple different disco-techs. Pretty intense techno music, a younger crowd, but it felt good to be out. The beers were much smaller that the Raleighwood-special pints I am used to nursing for a bit, so I think I had a hard time conceptualizing how much beer I was taking in (woops). My cousin Albert showed me a B52 shot, which is a Bailey's shot you light on fire, and then sip with a straw. Maybe they have them in the US but I guess I have not had the nerve to drink a flaming shot back the 'ol Americas. I introduced a SoCo and lime shot to them, well, they served it to me over ice, but same idea. I figured the closest thing to showing them the Southern flavah was good 'ol Louisianan whiskey. (See, I haven't lost my Southern Hospitality yet!)

After the discotheek we headed to some more of Flip and Albert's favorite spots. One place we went to had a dance floor and a round bar. I like round bars, they make sense, but get this... about 3 feet around the round bar, the FLOOR WAS MOVING! Albert and I agreed that it was a bit ridiculous, but amusing. If you were talking to someone and they were on the moving floor, and you were not, you got left. You had to wait around until they literally came back around. It frustrated me a little bit, but I tried to see how quickly it was going to come back, and even made an attempt to keep one foot on, one foot off, quickly resulting in a split-like maneuver. I looked like a ridiculous American, I am sure of it. But we had some laughs.

Outside the bar we quickly saw some more of Flip and Albert's friends. I was being introduced as their American cousin, so instantly people would show me how smart they were and use their perfect Engels (that English in Dutch). Darn bilinguals. It was funny to hear what people said to me "Oh! American?! You like Obama?! Did you vote for him?!" and a good, ridiculous one was; "From America? Were you a cheerleader? I once (bad word) a Mexican cheerleader!" (Maybe I look Mexican? I didn't get it either, but it was late and I'm sure drinks had been flowing)

Note on bars in Holland: They will stay open until dusk, no questions asked. So people get crazy, especially since most of these party-goers are walking or biking back to where they were sleeping.

After feeling the intense amount of college-life I been drinking, I told the boys I was hungry. "Show me to some nice, late night food, here". We went Hasrat Kebab. We ordered some Kebab's and friet and sat down. They're good cousins, and hosts.

Note on Dutch Kebab's: Maybe I am grossly misled, but the Kebab's I know come on a stick, no? These were rolls with Kebab meat in them. So I have a had time calling them Kebab's.

This is a Kebab? "Yeah, this is a Kebab." Both cousins stated. I argued a bit, but bit into my yummy-looking sandwich, chewed and swallowed and was as happy as a baby who had just learned it could fart. I like Kebab's bread or no bread, and friet are as Dutch to me as a pair of wooden shoes.

A good night always ends with people you love and food you can enjoy, at least then, anyway.

You Smell Delicious...

People in Holland are very tolerant.

You can smoke weed freely (although many DO NOT)

You can pay for sexual pleasure 

You can cut across the road on your bike, or on foot... not even a honk

You can get a beer when you are 16 years old

You probably could run around naked and the Dutch would, well... tolerate it.

Today, as I was minding my own business, I caught a whiff.  I happen to be walking by a group of pubescent guys.  "Victoria, they are just sweaty kids. Puberty." Perhaps you are thinking.

NO.

These kids (gah, I say kids like I'm getting old), young MEN,  were dressed nicely... we will call it business attire.  Yet, as I walked by, it was not there fancy hair-do's or nice dress that made my head twitch.  It was (gasp!) BODY ODOR. 

Body odor, people.  The smell of their sweat, and it was STANKY. Plain as day, smacking me square between the eyes.  Can they not smell it?  Why is it so strong?!  Why is it invading my noise at such a rapid rate from such a far distance?  Do they know they are smelling up my personal space? Do they not take preventative measures after their showers and put some kind of anti-perspirant or colonge on?  Thank the good lord above there was no fan on the other side of the room.  I would have gagged... well, gagged louder.

This was not my first encounter with this un-polite stench. 

A few weeks ago I was minding my own business at a gym I have temporarily joined.  I was on the eliptical and reading my magazine, when suddenly... I was uncomfortable. There was a smell in my nose I could not snort out (imagine me trying this while being winded from an intense cardio session I was trying to achieve). Still snorting, and not know from what direction. A guy, who had been eerily googiling practically everyone in this small one-room gym, decided to plop down on the machine beside me. And, of all machinces, it had to be a rowing machine. I am sure you can imagine the scene. While rowing, this stench-immune Dutchman is pumping this gag-inducing smell straight into my nose. 

I had to cut my cadio sesh a little short. But as I continued to lift around the gym, that guy want to get some lifting in, too! I was almost a non-tolerant visitor to the gym, well, country. Should someone tell him? He's not even sweating, anyway. How can it smell so bad? How can so many Dutch people be tolerant of THIS of all things?

I have smelled it while shopping.

I have smelled it while in a bar.

I have smelled it (hate to say it) while eating.

I think it's time the Dutch not take a back seat to this. 

Pass out deodorant like condoms to horny high-schoolers. SOMETHING!! 

At least do a pitcheck, America (and Holland, EVERYONE), before you leave your house and go into the world.  Don't make people gag when you get draft-distance from their noses.  Your own nose may adjust to the stench, but not the people around you.  Keep preventative measures close by.  If you sweat and fear you forgot to take preventative measures... go home.  Or atleast to your nearest store... lots of places will sell you D.O. for your B.O.

Checking out the world, and letting you know, people.

Why the heck am I in Holland

"Oh! You're visiting Holland? On Holiday? Are you studying?"

This seems to be what every single person asks me here. Which is fine. I like people who inquire. But sometimes I wish they would switch it up. Like maybe say "Oh! Cool! You're in Holland and you're  just soaking it all in? That's great!"

I am on holiday. I am studying.

I am on holiday from my day-to-day routine. From the "grind" as everyone states it.

I am studying every single experience that I encounter.  Everything is new for me here. Even my family. The language is difficult but I'm trying, listening and practicing little sayings that I hear. 

This is my first blog. I just wanted to establish a little notey note on here. I am going to be writing here on my experiences at random.  I'm having a great time here. I love being in new places and experiencing anything. 

Hold on to your panties, people. Good stuff is on the way...