I'm a very lucky girl to have an awesome couple of grandparents who, from time to time, spoil me with huge brown paper packages filled to the brim with British tricks and treats - from Heat magazines to Lockerbie cheese. The packages are always a surprise and there's little that makes me feel more fuzzy and excited than tearing one of these bad boys open - although their surprise nature can make it difficult when I'm required to collect a missed delivery at the Post Office and the man asks what I am expecting and what the contents should be, for security reasons. (Bearing in mind this is the same man who was surprised by how long it took me to decide whether a package I was sending myself was considered 'valuable' or not - this is after I'd told him it contained nothing but stroopwafels). Anyway, as I burrowed through my most recent delivery, amongst the Fox's Classics and Malteaser Bunnies, I found a small yearning for home. A nostalgia that comes over me every now and again as I live out my days in this wonderful city. Honestly, I've never been one to miss the material things in the U.K - the food, the shopping etc. - but I got to thinking about the little experiences and feelings I do miss and, you've guessed it, here's a few I want to share with you:
- In a straight-up culture where folk say exactly what's on their mind without frivolously and unnecessarily dancing around the point in order to spare the recipient's feelings; the bumbling, awkward, Hugh-Grant-in-any-rom-com, kind of British politeness is something I actually desperately miss. And yes, the snappy, blunt, way of talking that the Dutch exercise is probably a so much more efficient and bullshit-less kind of way to communicate, but sometimes I would just like someone to wish me a 'Good Evening' before firing their drinks orders my way. Plus, don't even get me started on the system they call 'queuing' here, it's enough to make even the most impatient of Brits hot under the collar and sweaty on the brow.
- Okay, I know I said I wasn't one to miss material things, but it's almost Easter and although the Amsterdam supermarkets are filled with tiny chocolate eggs and fluffy chicks, there is no sign of Easter Eggs and more heartbreakingly, no sign of Hot Cross Buns!
- On another food related note, the whole clean eating epidemic is yet to hit the Netherlands. Meaning I'm sat stuffing my face with Stroopwafels whilst my Instagram feed is full of sepia-toned, lean,clean salads and ab definition progress shots. Plus any health foods I am curious try must first be translated into Dutch, which often results in my desperately searching Albert Heijn for names that look like a mixture between my iPhone's auto-correct vomit and a consecutive row of consonants on Countdown.
- Summer has reared it's little fluffy head here in Amsterdam, and one thing I find myself missing significantly, is the ability to rock the go-to Spring/Summer staple that is the maxi skirt. And why must I abandon any idea of flaunting this great and versatile piece of clothing, I hear you ask? Because I ride a bike. I travel everywhere by bike in Amsterdam, and the two just don't seem to be the best of chums. And although cycling in the sun does a cracking job for the forehead tan, my most recent efforts involved a hell of a lot of bunching up and a constant paranoia of any loose ends falling down into the trap of my speedily turning pedals, chain or even worse, wheels. However, with gutsy enthusiasm, I intend to persevere, so watch this space, as this Summer I work to make the maxi skirt and the bicycle compatible, even if it's just for one night.
- Being constantly surrounded by the native English language is another little thing I find myself sometimes craving. Although I live my day to day life here in a bubble of English - despite my growing capabilities in the Dutch language, which I do feel kinda guilty about - I have found myself, every now and again, uttering a phrase in the style of one of my non-native pals. Examples include "with who are you going?" and "make a photo".
- FREE HEALTHCARE!! They say you don't know what you've got 'till it's gawwn and that's never been more true and applicable than to the NHS. Although I have been exceptionally naughty and have only just started paying my 90 euro a month in my 19th month here - just in time to stock up hay fever medication.
So there you have it, sometimes being an expat is tough. But then a custom t-shirt clad, larey, English stag do stumble by. Looking like 'Ken dolls dipped in tea and covered in biro' (and everything else that viral Vice article described), with their embarrassingly obvious bloodshot eyes, oblivious to the fact that Amsterdam exists outside of the rip-off, tourist traps of the Red Light District coffeeshops and Irish pubs. They cheer and chant that 'what happens in Amsterdam stays in Amsterdam' as the stag downs a dirty pint after dirty pint - naturally whilst dressed in a novelty bondage costume. And all of a sudden I actually don't feel so nostalgic, I get a good giggle, and I cycle on.
Wednesday, 2 April 2014
Saturday, 25 January 2014
Reminds me baby of you
It's been a long time coming, but it's time to get my ass back into boring you all with the ongoing struggles of expat life and, of course, my ongoing love affair with the city that is Amsterdam. It's been so easy to neglect recently with the bartending lifestyle not being one for much free time. Especially since the minimal hours I have seen daylight over the last six months have been spent revelling in the joy of thesis finishing, graduating and of course those horribly blissful yet life-consuming first few months of a relationship.
Yet as I party, drink and cocktail shake my way through my time here, living the expat dream with my little misfit expat family, there's one niggle which consistently remains at the back of my mind. It's a feeling that I don't think can be defined by homesickness. Amsterdam treats me like the perfect boyfriend should, doting on me day in day out and always keeping a grin on my chops. He's home to me now and as we've grown together I finally feel like I've learnt all those little important details about him; the things that wind him up, the things he does to grind my gears. In fact, I've never been more comfortable in a city away from home, yet there is still this longing, this desperate yearning in me, which seeks the familiar. As a friend of mine put it, it's the pining for being able to walk into a cafe and order a cup of tea without having to fight your way through another language or even just simply and shamefully admit that you don't speak that language, which of course, is not even a big deal to the Dutch with their endless talents in English, but there's still this element of shame, an element of discomfort I can't put my finger on. I came across this word 'hireath' - a homesickness for a home to which you cannot return, a home which maybe never was; the nostalgia, the yearning, the grief for lost places of your past - I'm not yearning for a place but a feeling, the feelings and moments of my past which of course look better through rose-tinted glasses because I was in my comfort zone. And if I was to return to my very first post about arriving in Amsterdam, I know I'll come across myself claiming that life begins outside of your comfort zone. I guess it's just one of those catch 22 phenomenons which I've now accepted are going to become more and more apparent as we all become grown ups. Anyway, I'm a firm believer that home is not a place, it's the people you surround yourself with in that place, so as long as folk stop leaving Amsterdam for Australia, I know I'm going to be just swell.
On a less sombre note, I now give you a condensed update of some of the key moments and experiences that have occurred since the last time I poured my stream of consciousness into my keyboard:
Yet as I party, drink and cocktail shake my way through my time here, living the expat dream with my little misfit expat family, there's one niggle which consistently remains at the back of my mind. It's a feeling that I don't think can be defined by homesickness. Amsterdam treats me like the perfect boyfriend should, doting on me day in day out and always keeping a grin on my chops. He's home to me now and as we've grown together I finally feel like I've learnt all those little important details about him; the things that wind him up, the things he does to grind my gears. In fact, I've never been more comfortable in a city away from home, yet there is still this longing, this desperate yearning in me, which seeks the familiar. As a friend of mine put it, it's the pining for being able to walk into a cafe and order a cup of tea without having to fight your way through another language or even just simply and shamefully admit that you don't speak that language, which of course, is not even a big deal to the Dutch with their endless talents in English, but there's still this element of shame, an element of discomfort I can't put my finger on. I came across this word 'hireath' - a homesickness for a home to which you cannot return, a home which maybe never was; the nostalgia, the yearning, the grief for lost places of your past - I'm not yearning for a place but a feeling, the feelings and moments of my past which of course look better through rose-tinted glasses because I was in my comfort zone. And if I was to return to my very first post about arriving in Amsterdam, I know I'll come across myself claiming that life begins outside of your comfort zone. I guess it's just one of those catch 22 phenomenons which I've now accepted are going to become more and more apparent as we all become grown ups. Anyway, I'm a firm believer that home is not a place, it's the people you surround yourself with in that place, so as long as folk stop leaving Amsterdam for Australia, I know I'm going to be just swell.
On a less sombre note, I now give you a condensed update of some of the key moments and experiences that have occurred since the last time I poured my stream of consciousness into my keyboard:
- I got a boyfriend. A real, Dutch one. I'm still learning how to care for him - how often to feed him, the idea that he might not like English tea with milk forced down his throat, etc. - but he's stuck around for now so I think it's going great
- I finished that damn mythical thesis I was always ranting on about and in turn, I graduated from my Master's. Albeit with a ceremony performed entirely in Dutch, through which I had to sit with a headset live translating the speeches on stage - which I'm genuinely hoping were way more clear and inspirational in a native language, otherwise the VU really needs to work on it's guest speakers
- I went to a surf camp in Mimizan where I spent the whole week walking around in a bikini with a surfboard under one arm and a wet suit thrown over the other shoulder pretending to be a surfer and hiding the fact the my beach hair was created with ghd's
- On the same trip, I drove a French car on the French side of the road and mildly freaked out
- I had my first Sinterklaas experience, including surprise making and Dutch poem writing. It was literally Christmas come early. (Note to self: Hang onto Dutch boyfriend and have two Christmas's a year without ever having to fight about whose family each should be spent with..)
- I got (read: stole) a cat! And she lives with me in my little crooked apartment next to Dam square, slap bang in the middle of Amsterdam
- I learnt how to say in Dutch that 'I understand but I'm too shy to talk in Dutch' and the amount of tips received from Netherlands folk increased significantly
- I learnt how to solo repair a tear in the inner tube of my bike wheel
- This summer I went to a festival which had a Knuffel Kerk - a small room you could climb into where the walls and ceiling were covered in cuddly toys
It's a weird one I know, but since when weren't my blogs just an extended rambling of my thoughts and distresses. Anyway, all is good below sea-level, for all those interested. Although I may have just finished my last packet of Jaffa Cakes throughout the writing of this post, if anyone would be so obliged..
Tuesday, 9 July 2013
Slip inside the eye of your mind, don't you know you might find, a better place to play?
Almost a whole year into my time living in Amsterdam and the sun has finally popped out his lovely, yellow head and the beaches and terraces of Holland are buzzing with excitement. The nights are longer; the music is louder; and the skin is on show. Summer has definitely arrived. But one thing that never seems to change, despite the shift in season (well particularly for me as I'm yet to escape the educational system) is that feeling of an era coming to an end the minute the weather hots up. In primary school, saying farewell to your friends for a six week period which may as well have been an eternity felt like the absolute end of the world, despite knowing fine well that you'd all be back in September and nothing would even dare to change.
But this time, it really does feel like the be all and end all. Not only is this my final year in further education (permission granted to slap me so hard in the face if I ever even consider a PhD) but studying abroad means these farewells really are the end of an era. Although I strive to fulfil all my promises of seeing some of the faces that have made this year completely unforgettable again in the near future. I know that first we're going to have to deal with pixelated Skype conversations yelling 'Sorryy? Whaat?!' as our voices travel half way around the world to reach each other.
I've written before about study abroad friends and two years later, I still believe the same. They inevitably end up in this special place in your heart and it's always their faces you see when you reflect back upon your experiences. Yes, Amsterdam is the absolute man of my dreams but he would be a mere shadow of himself if I hadn't have got to share him with such marvellous companions. And what makes this an even more bittersweet farewell is the fact that it's not a farewell for me. In fact, I'm staying here. Indefinitely. And although that crazy bunch I call my Coco's family will ensure I'm not alone, I still can't help but feel this is a new start. The beginning of a fresh chapter, a new era. I've never not been a student before and although this is all a little premature considering my thesis is still only around the 60% completion mark, I'm kinda scared.
Nevertheless, on that note, I think it's time to reflect upon the lessons I have learnt this year at the VU. The Vrije Universiteit Amsterdam. Probably one of the worser educational systems I've found myself being a part of (and I went to Man Met) but nonetheless an institution that has taught me many lessons about the Dutch system, the Dutch culture and of course the Dutch themselves:
So yes, it really is the end of an era but as Oasis oh-so-famously sung, don't look back in anger. VU, you may be a little rough around the edges but on the inside you've fed me more Balisto bars than a gal could ever dream of and who'da thunk it, you've actually taught me a bit about Art and Media as well.
But this time, it really does feel like the be all and end all. Not only is this my final year in further education (permission granted to slap me so hard in the face if I ever even consider a PhD) but studying abroad means these farewells really are the end of an era. Although I strive to fulfil all my promises of seeing some of the faces that have made this year completely unforgettable again in the near future. I know that first we're going to have to deal with pixelated Skype conversations yelling 'Sorryy? Whaat?!' as our voices travel half way around the world to reach each other.
I've written before about study abroad friends and two years later, I still believe the same. They inevitably end up in this special place in your heart and it's always their faces you see when you reflect back upon your experiences. Yes, Amsterdam is the absolute man of my dreams but he would be a mere shadow of himself if I hadn't have got to share him with such marvellous companions. And what makes this an even more bittersweet farewell is the fact that it's not a farewell for me. In fact, I'm staying here. Indefinitely. And although that crazy bunch I call my Coco's family will ensure I'm not alone, I still can't help but feel this is a new start. The beginning of a fresh chapter, a new era. I've never not been a student before and although this is all a little premature considering my thesis is still only around the 60% completion mark, I'm kinda scared.
Nevertheless, on that note, I think it's time to reflect upon the lessons I have learnt this year at the VU. The Vrije Universiteit Amsterdam. Probably one of the worser educational systems I've found myself being a part of (and I went to Man Met) but nonetheless an institution that has taught me many lessons about the Dutch system, the Dutch culture and of course the Dutch themselves:
- Dutch lecturers have a slight problem with my written English. Apparently my grammar and sentence structure are actually kind of appalling. I try to fit way too many ideas and analyses into one 25,000 word essay when I clearly won't have enough words to explain them within my limit. Oh, and my supervisor wants me to hire a native English speaker to edit my work before she even attempts to read it again. My bad, what do I know, it's only my first language...
- Dutch students, on the other hand, think I'm an English language whizz and have no qualms in approaching me in the library after overhearing my native tongue to hit me up with a list of 6 versions of the same phrase to ask which one is correct. And to be frank, keeping in line with my first point, 9 times out of 10, I haven't got the foggiest. Turns out speaking the language naturally means we only know half the rules and regulations of English that those who study it live religiously by
- Dutch lecturers love making you give presentations. English students don't adore the old presentations so much. As a result, classes assessed solely upon presentations = classes in which I don't end up with the highest grade
- If you don't have a debit card, you can't eat at the VU. Every vending machine and most food stops require payment by Chipknip - an oddly useful yet frustrating Dutch payment concept
- Dutch students like to mix and match the following staple foods in order to create lunch: a piece of bread; a boiled egg; meat; a croquette; cheese; drinkable yoghurt; hagelslag
- If you want to get in an elevator at the VU, forget any boundaries you have about personal space
- Photocopying costs money, scanning books and sending them to your laptop is free.
- Many electives on my International Masters are unavailable to me because of the simple reason that I'm International and not Dutch
- The architecture lecturers at the VU think it is an inspiring and beautiful campus. The VU is the ugliest collection of buildings I've seen to date
- One of my lecturers was obsessed with Assassin's Creed to the point that every class had at least 30 minutes dedicated to the cause and when the new game was released she came in the next day all red-eyed and puffy after an all-nighter of almost finishing it. Oh, and one time she taught us wearing an Assassin's Creed hoody which had an Assassin's hood which when she put up came right down over her face, the staple fashion piece for every assassin
- The VU doesn't really rate film, advertising, or culture. Shame when you're in a Media programme
- The VU doesn't really encourage active learning. Unless it's a class discussion which is then filmed by 360 degrees rotating cameras so the lecturer can watch back the footage to check we never wandered off topic
- Michel Foucault can Fouc-off, and take Ad-yawn-no with him
- The VU does however, have a beach volleyball court right in the centre of it's courtyard for all your beach volleyball and sandcastle building needs
- And of course, the VU charges at least a tenth of the price of any UK University for any Masters programme, ensuring my degree is fully paid off before I have even finished it
So yes, it really is the end of an era but as Oasis oh-so-famously sung, don't look back in anger. VU, you may be a little rough around the edges but on the inside you've fed me more Balisto bars than a gal could ever dream of and who'da thunk it, you've actually taught me a bit about Art and Media as well.
Wednesday, 12 June 2013
Ay, wat wil je? Heb je een probleem met mijn gezicht?
Two months away from my one year anniversary with my beau, Amsterdam. And like the love sick, can't-keep-our-hands-off-each-other couple that we are, I've recently found myself adopting all those little traits that used to niggle me so as the polite, little British girl that rocked up all those months ago. That is, over the last few months, I've noticed myself becoming ever so slightly more Dutch. Fear not, I haven't sprouted an extra eight inches, nor have I packed up and moved to a windmill where I survive purely on a diet of cheese and stroopwafels. These are just the little day to day things which prove I'm well on my way to adapting to this terrific lifestyle I've found myself living:
However, in hand with this, of course comes the very few things I just know I'll never get used to. That my wee, British brain still cannot fathom, such as:
But anyway, a relationship without these odd little discrepancies would be a boring one at that. And if there's one thing my Amsterdam isn't, it's boring - my Masters thesis more than accounts for that.
So schatje, you keep opening my eyes and I'll keep adapting, and who knows, maybe one day I'll be able to pronounce that hard 'g' without accidentally spitting all over your face..
- I cycle everywhere and anywhere that would take me over 3 minutes to walk
- I prefer a vaasje over a pint - sorry Britain! - they just stay so bubbly, fresh the whole way down to the bottom
- I've learnt to appreciate that a great sandwich doesn't always need two slices of bread
- On that note, I've recognized that if there's one thing the Dutch can do, it's a crackin' sandwich spread
- My knowledge of the lingo is improving every week, well ik ben aat het proberen leer
- And the phrases I am gathering tend to be short, to the point, questions and statements. None of this polite dilly-dallying around the point, afraid to offend anyone present with every mumbled word. Phrases such as: 'what do you want?', 'do you have a problem with my face?', and in true Peggy Mitchell style, 'GET OUTTA MY PUB!' - all to be uttered with the utmost sass and underlying aggression
- I wear trainers all day every day. Trainers being Vans, Converse or Nikes - the Netherlands' top three. I study in 'em, I work in 'em, and I party in 'em. A pair of heels will guarantee you funny looks here, and for that, my feet are so happy.
- Anyone on a rental bike is my immediate enemy. Especially those who incessantly ring their bells because, of course, it's just hilarious..
- I take great pleasure in ringing my own bike bell at tourists walking in the bike lane
- Bitterballen are pretty awesome
- Shaking hands whilst stating only my name upon meeting new people is getting less and less weird
- I'm wearing an orange sweatshirt today. Because orange isn't actually all that bad of a colour..
However, in hand with this, of course comes the very few things I just know I'll never get used to. That my wee, British brain still cannot fathom, such as:
- Why the Dutch feel the need to wrap each teabag in it's own individual packet, yes, even inside the box
- The obsession with yacky liquorice
- THE WHOLE PAYING FOR THE TOILET THING?!
- And of course, Zwarte Piet. A little out-of-season I know, but nonetheless, the cheerful assistant of Sinterklaas, who children and adults a-like imitate by blacking up their faces and donning red lipstick because.. duhh, he spent so long up a chimney, why on earth else?
But anyway, a relationship without these odd little discrepancies would be a boring one at that. And if there's one thing my Amsterdam isn't, it's boring - my Masters thesis more than accounts for that.
So schatje, you keep opening my eyes and I'll keep adapting, and who knows, maybe one day I'll be able to pronounce that hard 'g' without accidentally spitting all over your face..
Friday, 31 May 2013
Insta-Dam
It's funny where inspiration comes from sometimes. I can spend the
whole day in the library, forcing words from my brain, uncomfortably
piecing them together to tease out sentences, paragraphs, pages that
nobody but my supervisor is even going to ever read again. Yet,
uploading one photo from my phone to Facebook. One photo taken in a
drunken haze of happiness and exhaustion last week and something sparks.
Something sparks and I want to spend pages telling you about a city, a
moment, a feeling.
Some of my happiest moments in Amsterdam are when I'm cycling home from work at 6am. When the streets are empty and houses are just beginning to stir. The occasional jogger pants on by. But other than that it's still. It's silent. And it's mine. I make my way in a dazed state of post-work exhaustion and subdued tipsyness. Music in my ears and usually some crazy prop I've inherited from the nights work in my hand - the other night it was an empty 4.5litre bottle of Jamesons, and yes, it was bloody heavy.
It's my me time, my content time, my gezellig time. Time to unwind, reflect on my day, remember just how much I have to do tomorrow. But it can wait, it has to. Because now I'm cycling, and now I'm happy.
Amsterdam has this way of making you feel at home despite everything. Not like Paris, who did everything in his power to make me feel unwelcome, to let me do everything the hard way.
(...People consistently reassure me that at least I learnt from these experiences but believe you me, there are geen lessons to be learnt from being homeless for two weeks!)
But it's not just the kooky, crooked houses leaning over the canals, peering down at you to say hello. Or the friendly, little cobbled streets, each one inviting you in for an adventure. Or even the Coco's terrace, where there's always a familiar face, where everybody knows your name. It's the whole package of this city. The whole atmosphere that collects to create these big, open arms - and for a knuffel-whore like myself, it's just what I need.
I constantly return to this analogy of Amsterdam as my boyfriend. And if he was a human, I think he'd be a hipster. He oozes style. He has his own quirky way of dressing, he adores travelling by bike, he was made to be instagrammed. He's the kinda guy that all the cool kids want to drink and smoke with. But also has so much under the surface, so much culture, so much experience. Yes, he puts up a wall sometimes, makes you work for his affections (pda is soo mainstream), but he soon returns with quirky, romantic treats. Each time something new, something exciting. Always keeping you on your toes. It's when I'm cycling home from work that I get the real him though, the vulnerable him, that's when we talk about our feelings. I know he's a slut and all the girls go crazy for him, but in my contented, drunken haze, in the first few hours of sunlight I'm pretty sure he tells me he finds me lief right back.
And that's why last week I opened a Dutch savings account. Why the open tabs on my laptop are apartment rentals on Craigslist. Because Amsterdam, I'm sticking around. I've found a part of me here that I'm not willing to let go of just yet.
Plus, I'm learning Dutch. Where the hell in the world am I going to use that otherwise?
Some of my happiest moments in Amsterdam are when I'm cycling home from work at 6am. When the streets are empty and houses are just beginning to stir. The occasional jogger pants on by. But other than that it's still. It's silent. And it's mine. I make my way in a dazed state of post-work exhaustion and subdued tipsyness. Music in my ears and usually some crazy prop I've inherited from the nights work in my hand - the other night it was an empty 4.5litre bottle of Jamesons, and yes, it was bloody heavy.
It's my me time, my content time, my gezellig time. Time to unwind, reflect on my day, remember just how much I have to do tomorrow. But it can wait, it has to. Because now I'm cycling, and now I'm happy.
Amsterdam has this way of making you feel at home despite everything. Not like Paris, who did everything in his power to make me feel unwelcome, to let me do everything the hard way.
(...People consistently reassure me that at least I learnt from these experiences but believe you me, there are geen lessons to be learnt from being homeless for two weeks!)
But it's not just the kooky, crooked houses leaning over the canals, peering down at you to say hello. Or the friendly, little cobbled streets, each one inviting you in for an adventure. Or even the Coco's terrace, where there's always a familiar face, where everybody knows your name. It's the whole package of this city. The whole atmosphere that collects to create these big, open arms - and for a knuffel-whore like myself, it's just what I need.
I constantly return to this analogy of Amsterdam as my boyfriend. And if he was a human, I think he'd be a hipster. He oozes style. He has his own quirky way of dressing, he adores travelling by bike, he was made to be instagrammed. He's the kinda guy that all the cool kids want to drink and smoke with. But also has so much under the surface, so much culture, so much experience. Yes, he puts up a wall sometimes, makes you work for his affections (pda is soo mainstream), but he soon returns with quirky, romantic treats. Each time something new, something exciting. Always keeping you on your toes. It's when I'm cycling home from work that I get the real him though, the vulnerable him, that's when we talk about our feelings. I know he's a slut and all the girls go crazy for him, but in my contented, drunken haze, in the first few hours of sunlight I'm pretty sure he tells me he finds me lief right back.
And that's why last week I opened a Dutch savings account. Why the open tabs on my laptop are apartment rentals on Craigslist. Because Amsterdam, I'm sticking around. I've found a part of me here that I'm not willing to let go of just yet.
Plus, I'm learning Dutch. Where the hell in the world am I going to use that otherwise?
Thursday, 16 May 2013
10 non-Master related things I have achieved so far in Amsterdam (namely when I should have been achieving Masters related things):
- I have perfected the amount of phlegm to involve when saying 'geen'
- I can ride my bike with geen hands for approximately 3 seconds
- I can ride my bike with one hand and text/Google map with the other like a pro
- I can ride on the back of someone elses bike without holding on
- Working at Coco's has ensured I have established a vast variety of fancy dress props, predominantly a crackin' hat collection
- Last week I went on a date with a guy who legit has his own Wikipedia page
- I was awfully brave and went swimming in the IJ at midnight when the grimy state of the water; the bottom of the water; or in that case, any of the octopuses were not visible to me
- I won a cuddly crocodile on the Camel Derby at the fair
- When dressed like a savvy gent, I learnt how to flip my top hat up my arm until it reaches my head
- Gezelligheid
Dammit, Amsterdam, stop being such a babe.
Thursday, 2 May 2013
You can find him sitting on your doorstep, waiting for a surprise..
Sitting in my usual spot on the 9th floor at the VU, procrastinating from my thesis, when I realise the coffee machine I purposefully place myself in such close proximity to is in fact out of order. Upon noticing my sincere shock and heartache, the Dutch guy sitting next to me states that he is in fact heading downstairs for caffeinated supplies and he'll bring me back a coffee. So sitting at my laptop, hot coffee and a Balisto in hand, I got to thinking about Dutch guys, and my experiences so far with the tallest, cheese-eating, bike-riders in all the land.
As a young, single, (& sassy?) female living in Amsterdam. One of the first things people ask me about my time here is how are the Dutch boys? Is the talent better than back home? Have I got myself a Dutch boyfriend yet? So, as somewhat of an answer to these queries, here's a list from me to you of all the things I've noticed about Dutch boys so far:
NB. This list is subject to change, particularly when/if a Dutchie opens my eyes and sweeps me off my feet. Until then, cynicism overrules.
- Surprisingly, not all Dutchies are as tall as you'd like them to be
- Many Dutch males naturally have frustratingly luscious hair
- As a result of this, if I'm ever crashing at one of the guys places after work, unlike with English boys, there are no hair straighteners for me to borrow in the morning
- Dutchies don't tend to beat around the bush, they are very direct. Which makes playing dumb, flirty, chasing games a no go.
- Dutch guys, of all ages, love red jeans
- They also love trainers, the chunkier the better, although Vans and Converse are also a hit. In fact, every successful and high-up male museum exhibition curator I have met through my Masters so far, has loved pairing a subtle floral shirt, with a sharp blazer, jeans and high top Conny's.
- Backpacks are a third fashion essential
- Dutch guys don't really like to date, normally because that entails buying things for girls
- They also make you pancakes because it's normal, not because they're being cute
- The slicked back hair. 'Nough said.
- Oh, and one Dutch guy very kindly punched my female friend in the face the other night, what a sweetheart.
So, in a word, no. I have not got myself a Dutch boyfriend yet. Do I mind? No, the fact I can't borrow a dumb pair of hair straighteners is just a mere, insignificant downfall of the fabulous friendships these guys can offer. Dutch guys are loyal. They're hilarious. What's more, they get sarcasm. Dutch guys love to have fun. To get wasted. To dance. To leave you the keys to their place for the week while they're out of town. They're there for you when you need them. Whether you're in need of a temporary phone or a lift home on the handlebars of their bikes.
And sometimes, just sometimes, you can find the occasional Dutch guys willing to steal you a bike. To paint it a delightful, hipster colour for you. To bring you treats for every two hours of study you successfully complete during your study dates. To feed you through a hangover. And to stand by your side in a whole film roll of disposable camera photos, none of which any of you can remember. The Porthos and Aramis to your Athos, one might say. It's those who are the ones worth writing home about.
Plus, all the drunken, bow-tie clad Facebook photos together can even give my family the false hope they need that I won't be hopelessly single forever, win win.
And on that note, meet Ruby..
She may be bike number 5 over 9 months, but she's the fourth leg of this tripod.
As a young, single, (& sassy?) female living in Amsterdam. One of the first things people ask me about my time here is how are the Dutch boys? Is the talent better than back home? Have I got myself a Dutch boyfriend yet? So, as somewhat of an answer to these queries, here's a list from me to you of all the things I've noticed about Dutch boys so far:
NB. This list is subject to change, particularly when/if a Dutchie opens my eyes and sweeps me off my feet. Until then, cynicism overrules.
- Surprisingly, not all Dutchies are as tall as you'd like them to be
- Many Dutch males naturally have frustratingly luscious hair
- As a result of this, if I'm ever crashing at one of the guys places after work, unlike with English boys, there are no hair straighteners for me to borrow in the morning
- Dutchies don't tend to beat around the bush, they are very direct. Which makes playing dumb, flirty, chasing games a no go.
- Dutch guys, of all ages, love red jeans
- They also love trainers, the chunkier the better, although Vans and Converse are also a hit. In fact, every successful and high-up male museum exhibition curator I have met through my Masters so far, has loved pairing a subtle floral shirt, with a sharp blazer, jeans and high top Conny's.
- Backpacks are a third fashion essential
- Dutch guys don't really like to date, normally because that entails buying things for girls
- They also make you pancakes because it's normal, not because they're being cute
- The slicked back hair. 'Nough said.
- Oh, and one Dutch guy very kindly punched my female friend in the face the other night, what a sweetheart.
So, in a word, no. I have not got myself a Dutch boyfriend yet. Do I mind? No, the fact I can't borrow a dumb pair of hair straighteners is just a mere, insignificant downfall of the fabulous friendships these guys can offer. Dutch guys are loyal. They're hilarious. What's more, they get sarcasm. Dutch guys love to have fun. To get wasted. To dance. To leave you the keys to their place for the week while they're out of town. They're there for you when you need them. Whether you're in need of a temporary phone or a lift home on the handlebars of their bikes.
And sometimes, just sometimes, you can find the occasional Dutch guys willing to steal you a bike. To paint it a delightful, hipster colour for you. To bring you treats for every two hours of study you successfully complete during your study dates. To feed you through a hangover. And to stand by your side in a whole film roll of disposable camera photos, none of which any of you can remember. The Porthos and Aramis to your Athos, one might say. It's those who are the ones worth writing home about.
Plus, all the drunken, bow-tie clad Facebook photos together can even give my family the false hope they need that I won't be hopelessly single forever, win win.
And on that note, meet Ruby..
She may be bike number 5 over 9 months, but she's the fourth leg of this tripod.
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