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.
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