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Baden-Baden (Bath-Bath) or how Euro do I go?

 

It’s been a rough winter – a very rough winter.

There has been the constant sickness. Between the end of November and the end of February I counted two weeks when there wasn’t one of us sick. Charlie bore the brunt of it. I was so exasperated that I finally took him to the doctor after he hadn’t stopped coughing for three weeks straight. The doctor looked at me and said that this was perfectly normal and that we had “weak” immune systems as we were from a Mediterranean climate. Apparently, Europe suffered an exceptional flu season.

It also suffered an exceptionally brutal and long winter. Something they hadn’t seen in Basel for twenty years. Boy do we know how to pick the year to move! Besides the snow and the gray, there were about two weeks in January where the temperature never made it past 20 degrees fahrenheit. No one wanted to leave the house,  in particular me and the hounds. My stores in the freezer came to great use.

So the question is, how does one survive all of this awfulness? The answer seems to be to bathe. Bathe in warm water with people you do not know.

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Outdoor pool

My dear friend Kelly introduced me to the art of the European spa. Kelly is American and has lived in Basel for 20 years. One fine, actually not so fine, pouring buckets of rain, she took me to Sole Uno just outside of Basel. This is not an American spa in any sense. A spa in our part of the world consists of indoor and outdoor baths of warm water and cold , saunas, steam rooms, and jacuzzis. They are completely co-ed and not just for the young and beautiful. In the contrary, they attract a lot of elderly people who come to relieve their aches and pains. The idea is you go from bath to bath and spend a couple of hours relaxing in the salt water. You are supposed to come out feeling a lot better and you do and for a very reasonable price. You pay by the hour and two hours will cost you $22 which is just about enough time.

Having been to Sole Uno a couple of times  I figured it was time to go big time in the spa experience and make my way to Mecca, otherwise known as Baden-Baden. Baden-Baden is a historic spa town on the edge of the Black Forest in Germany. The first baths were built by the Romans and the ruins of these baths still exist. Later, the European elite made it their to-go destination and today it still draws people from around the world especially Russians looking for a place to get “refreshed” at European prices.  In addition to the spas there are numerous plastic surgeons for that nip and tuck and amazing hotels where one can recuperate in luxurious settings.

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The town is beyond lovely. The center has the requisite cobblestone pedestrian only streets filled with exquisite shops, delicious restaurants and of course the famous Cafe Koenig where you get to pick your pastry from the case, then find a seat and they bring it to you to go with your coffee or tea.

The architecture is mostly 19th century and still intact as the town was spared destruction from both World Wars. Along the outside of the town, the Oos River flows and on one side is a beautiful walking path called the Lichtentaler Allee. Here, you can stroll and admire the grand hotels and mansions and imagine what it used to be like traveling this path in a horse and carriage.

But the main reason to go to Baden-Baden is to bathe. Visitors have the choice of the traditional and historic Friedrichsbad Irish-Roman Bath or the new Caracalla Spa. Besides the architecture and facilities, the main difference between the two is that the Friedrichsbad is a no bathing suit spa – as in you cannot wear a bathing suit – you must go nude.The spa is open to men and women. Every other day, the facility is divided in two and there is a men side and a woman side but the main bath, the really beautiful one is always co-ed.

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For my visit, I was able to talk my friend Angie into joining me. Angie is open to any adventure but we both had to pause over which spa we would go to. We both wanted to go to Friedrichsbad because of the architecture but….. so we read on tripadvisor what other Americans had to say and everyone said “once you are in there you don’t even notice everyone is nude as you just relax and let the warm waters take all the stress away”… hmm. I wasn’t buying it but Angie was game and so I got my courage.

We decided to spend one night. It was only an hour and a half from Basel. We arrived early enough for a stroll in town before making our way to the spa. The outside of the building is very impressive, kind of Versailles meets Rome. Once inside, we made our way to the reception desk where we had to pay and make our chose of packages. At Fredrichsburg, the program is a little different. Instead of wandering freely from bath to steam room as you want, there is a 17-step program that you follow(if you follow the link you can see little videos of what happens at each step, attention Americans – there is NUDITY). They are basically a series of showers and baths and steam rooms at different temperatures designed to improve your circulation and remove your aches.Each step has a suggested amount of time one should spend there.  In addition to the included 17 steps you can choose to add on the brush massage and the creme massage. Having decided we were going for the full Euro experience, we decided to throw in the brush massage and the creme massage and throw caution to the wind. The receptionist, hearing our American accents, made sure we understood that this was a clothing free establishment. The hotel receptionist had already checked and made sure we knew there was a spa were we could keep our bathing suits on. But heck – we decided to move to Europe and apparently that meant throwing caution and our clothes to the wind so we were going for it.

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Brush massage

 

Having been to the Haman in Istanbul a few years ago, I was already familiar what it meant to be treated as a piece of meat. To the attendants of these spas, this is basically what you are. After putting your clothes away in the locker, you get a towel which you get to keep for all of two steps. After showering and steaming, you make your way to a room where there are three beds. If you opt for the brush massage, your towel is taken away and the attendant proceeds to brush you everywhere with a soapy brush that my mother would have scrubbed the floor with. She flips you from side to side and brushes you everywhere till you feel completely tenderized. Then off to more showers and pools and steam. As I was enjoying the experience, I did feel the tension ease away. I got used to ignoring my fellow bathers though it went against my friendly – look someone in the eye and smile – American habit.But the whole time, in the back of my head was Step #11.

Step #11 was what I came for. The grand Roman pool with the vaulted ceiling, columns and frescos. I had seen pictures of it years before in some travel magazine and told myself at the time, one day…

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Well the day was here but Step #11 was also the one place that was co-ed for the day. At this point, I had already spent about an hour embracing my nudity and that of my fellow women but I wasn’t sure about embracing the nudity of German men. I don’t know about you but my mother told me one shouldn’t swim naked with a man until one was sure “he was the one”, well actually she never told me that but I am sure it is something she would have said. But my mother wasn’t there and I was in Europe and I had something to prove so I bravely walked under the magnificent dome and dove right into the pool. Alas, there were only other women. Relief was met with disappointment because I could not walk out wearing the badge of courage. Angie joined me and we spent a few minutes talking about the architecture when behold! a couple of men in all their splendor walked in. What to do? Look? Make eye contact? Pretend they weren’t there? Swim to one side? We decided to stay on one side of the pool and wait till the suggested 15 minute stay was over which we did and then left the pool as gracefully as possible though I am sure they were not looking.

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Editors note: this is a stock photo! Totally unrealistic!!

After all the excitement, the last steps were pure bliss. First the creme massage which was similar to the tenderizer treatment but with a lovely honey cream. After, we were sent to a huge dark round room with beds all around the edges. There, the attendant wraps you like a cocoon in warm blankets and you can sleep for 30 minutes. Definite womb like treatment. You walk out feeling like jello.

After all this, we celebrated our courage and our new Euroness with a lovely tapas dinner and a conversation about nudity. It was about the time the Administration was looking at rescinding the protection of transgender students in public schools. Where people pee is never an issue in Europe. Last week, we had Carnaval in our town. There were porta potties and urinals. The urinals were not hidden, they were right on the sidewalk. Of course it made me look twice. In many public places like the train station, there is just one really large bathroom. Everyone uses the same facilities unless they use a urinal which is out in the open for everyone to see. At the spa in Basel, the changing room is co-ed. You may go into a stall to change or you can change in the general area. There are penises and breasts everywhere of all different sizes and ages and shapes. When discussing this with Charlie he wisely said that nudity would not be a big deal if man hadn’t invented clothes. So true. The conclusion we came to with Angie is that we Americans are like middle schoolers going through puberty making a big deal out of anything remotely sexual where Europeans are the mature grandparents who realize there are much more important things to make a fuss about. I think I will need a few more trips to the spa to gain some more maturity.

Mommy needs some grit

Full on parenting face-plant. Nose broken, eyes black and blue. I couldn’t  have done a worse job if I tried.

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On Monday morning, Charlie left to ski with his class in Gstaad. There is no school, you either go skiing or you stay home. He didn’t want to go but I didn’t give him much of a choice. He said he didn’t want to get hurt and that he would have a horrible time. I attempted to get him excited by telling him how fun it would be and how nice it would be to hang out with kids from school for a whole week. He didn’t buy my story but went off without much grumbling.

That evening, he called me almost in tears. His legs were cramping after an afternoon on the slopes. He lost control at one point and skied through the snack shack area barely avoiding people and landing in a snow pile. Some kid took all the hot water and there was none left. He could barely stand. The other kids in his bunk were mean kids.

My heart broke. It took all of my self control to not get on the next train to go and save him. Instead, I told him to go ask for an aspirin and told him the next day all would be better. Then I crawled into his bed, held on to his stuffed animal and proceeded to not sleep for the whole night.

I imagined him in his bed fighting tears as the mean kids taunted him. I saw him the next day paralyzed with fear on the slopes, feeling embarrassed because he is now at that age where he is aware of his weaknesses. In one of my worst decisions ever, I wrote to the director and told her I didn’t care if he didn’t ski all day, I just wanted him to have a positive experience. Above all, I wanted to save my child from his fear and to prevent him from humiliation.

It’s the same humiliation that I remember from my youth. The humiliation of being the absolute worst at a skill that everyone else seems to get. Being the last one chosen when teams are being divided. Being sent to deep swamp, the place past the outfield, where no ball ever ended up in a baseball game. The humiliation of not being able to do a cartwheel. Being paralyzed with fear and as a result, not being able to dive, or catch a ball or stand on my hands and certainly never being able to ski.

The next morning, I spoke to my very sensible friend who reminded me that we all need to suffer somewhat as children in order to be prepared for the pains and difficulties that will inevitably occur as we enter adulthood. While what she said was true, in my heart, I just wanted to prevent my child from pain and heartbreak. Being embarrassed hurts. Being the worst hurts. I do not want my child to hurt.

All day I was a wreck. I hadn’t slept so that led to the inevitable headache. The headache led to weapiness syndrome. Then I received an email from the director assuring me that Charlie was fine. I am sure that she thinks I am a big baby and will never look at me again without thinking that I am holding my child back. And here’s the thing, she’s right.

Charlie called that night and every subsequent night telling me how he was having an amazing time. He was the worst and he skied slow but he did everything that everyone else did. He went down big slopes. He skied backwards. By the time I picked him up Friday night, he was high from the experience. He can’t wait to go back next year. In his words, not only did he learn to ski but it boost his overall confidence.

So we are in Switzerland and my child can now ski. He is apparently obtaining the coveted grit. As his parent, I am the one who is supposed to help him but I am afraid I have been his problem. I want to protect but what he needs is encouragement and the knowledge that there are things we just need to do. In Switzerland, we ski. Thank God he has great teachers.

 

When a kiss is more than a kiss

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“Do I need to bring back anything from the States” asked Joost during his last trip to LA. “Two bags of Hershey kisses and a can of baking powder” was my reply.

I grew up on the best street ever. None of the houses were special, they were post war 1950’s 3 bedroom, 1 bath specials on large pieces of land. But the street and the people who lived on it were something special.

Anola street was slightly sloped with elm trees on both sides. Everyone had big front yards and porches. Our house was white with green trim, the lawn a thick Saint Augustine and there was a huge olive tree in the front that was great for climbing and hanging out. It also provided shade to our home during the heat of summer. It was “base” during games of tag and a provider of stains on the wood floor when its purple fruit fell during the summer.

Everyone knew each other back then and would spend the warm summer nights talking to each other over the fences and on the lawns. The neighbors made up an extended family, hosting each others kids for dinner and always there with the needed cup of sugar.

Across the street from us lived Mr. and Mrs. H. Their house was light blue and somewhat larger as they had expanded when their children were younger. When we moved in, their kids were on their way out to college and marriage. Mr H was a reader and lover of history and loved to talk to my mother about France. He had a weimaraner named Madchen which after my few German lessons, I now know to mean girl. Mrs H. worked at Hinshaws department store at a time where department stores were still glamorous. Every year for my mother’s birthday she would help us pick out a new pyjama or robe for my mom.

The H’s looked after us like grandparents. During the hot Whittier summers, they let us swim in their pool. After my mom went back to work, my brother and I rode our bikes to school which was about 3 miles away. When it rained, they would come pick us up so we wouldn’t have to ride our bikes in the rain. And then they spoiled us. For Halloween, there was always a special box from Sees just for us. For the Fourth of July, we were invited over and given sparklers and for Christmas there were the Peanut Butter Blossoms with Hershey kisses.

The cookies were something different for me. When my mom baked, she usually baked cookies that were more European. Mrs H’s cookies were pure peanut butter chocolate delight. For me, those cookies represent the meanig of Christmas. It’s the taking of time to think of others, to find a way to make them feel special which Mrs. H always did.

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Tonight, Charlie and I made Peanut Butter Blossoms. They weren’t quite perfect as we don’t have brown sugar in Switzerland so I had to improvise mixing regular sugar with maple syrup but the taste was there. We shared them with our British neighbors and explained to them that they are an American specialty. As we sat down to eat a few, I thought back of my childhood and the H’s and how it is the small kindness in life that really make the difference.

Merry Christmas!

 

It’s only stuff

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New Ikea chair with Joost’s prized Dutch cushion

Have you ever walked into an Ikea showroom and thought ” Why can’t I live like this”? Simple design, no clutter, everything matching perfectly. Well until last week, we have and I have to say, it’s not all that it’s cracked up to be.

When we got on the plane 4 months ago, we left with 5 suitcases of clothing and personal items. We stored our most cherished pieces of furniture as well as books and photos and some things we thought we couldn’t live without. We got rid of everything else. The idea was that we would live more simply in Basel with a lot less stuff.

We did though send things over. We packed winter clothes, and some photos and the Kitchen Aid mixer and all of Charlie’s books and every little piece of important plastic item he has ever owned. The idea was that we would move into our new home in the beginning of September and our things would arrive shortly after. If only that has been the case…

A few days before moving into our new home, we went to Ikea and bought everything we needed. Couch, chairs, dining room table, beds, dressers, nightstands, lamps. Everything – we had nothing and needed to furnish a house. The house literally looked like an Ikea showroom. Wood floors, white walls, and  Ektorp and Malm everywhere. For a few days I really liked it. It was clean, sparse and with the huge windows in the house it had that Nordic feeling. But then, I really started to feel as if I was living in a hotel, or worse in Ikea. It just lacked personality. There was nothing to say it was our home.

New(old)  cow I bought for $5 and old dog under mom’s quilt

The original estimate for our container to arrive was mid September as they had picked it up on July 10. At the end of September, after numerous emails, I found out that our container did not leave until August 10 because it had gone through secondary inspection by customs in LA. I thought it was a BS story but after seeing the boxes that had been slashed and then resealed with the bright green US customs tape, I believe it. Why did they have to open the boxes labeled “Charlie’s stuffed animals”? The new arrival date was set for mid October. As time went on, despair began to set in. For one, we were cold. We arrived here in August with summer clothes. By October, Fall had set in and it got really cold.

The other issue is we missed “our stuff”. Charlie in particular. He had been adjusting remarkably well but he needed his most treasured possessions, in particular his Pokemon comic books. He has read them all a million times but he needed them. I needed the little things that would turn the house into a home. Things that reminded me of where I came from. And I needed my mixer! As the election crisis was worsening, I just wanted to bake and bake to relieve the stress.

We did buy some small purchases to try to turn Ikea into Casa Ouendag. There are amazing  thrift stores here where you can buy everything you need and antiques for next to nothing. It’s incredibly expensive to throw away things so items get donated to organizations like the Salvation Army and are reused. I bought a great side table for $5 that Joost hated but learned to love. On a  trip to Holland, we bought a funky sheep’s head that was named Juliana and a great light up globe lamp that makes me very happy.

Finally, we got word that our things would arrive on November 10. Charlie and I whooped it up. Because we had had so many ups and downs with the move I wasn’t counting on it but it did arrived. The delivery man was originally from Jamaica, now living in Munich. We had a great discussion on the art of living simply and of using money wisely, for things that are important like travel. He unloaded box after box into our garage where we could slowly go through and bring things in.

It has been great opening these boxes after four months. There are things I really shouldn’t have brought like tupperware and tablecloths but there are other things that have brought us so much joy. Wooden spoons that were my mom’s and always part of our household, Charlie’s horrible stuffed green dinosaur pillow, quilts, pictures, favorite books and art. Not a lot of things, but things that say this house is ours.

The collection and Opa’s handmade trucks

This exercise has made me think a lot about the importance or lack of importance of stuff. I am really glad that we got rid of so much when we left but I am so glad that we have here some of the things that we do have. Things in themselves are not important but the memories that are attached to them help me feel grounded. Charlie now feels more at home because of his books as I do with the art and quilts. It also makes me think of all the refugees around the world that leave their homes with nothing. We have refugees here in Basel. They get what they need from donations, people’s cast off items. On top of everything you go through, to not have anything left to tie you to something must be terrible.

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My mom’s bird on top of a new(old) mosaic coffee table

On this Thanksgiving, I am thankful for my health, and friends, my boys and this new life we have. I am also thankful for “my stuff”. For it reminds me of my past and those that are important to me.

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Favorite picture of my Dad and Charlie

the Baseler Herbstmesse

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On July 11, 1471, the Emperor Friedrich III granted the Mayor of Basel, Hannsen von Berenfels, the right to hold an Autumn Fair in Basel “in perpetuity”. For the last two weeks, we have been celebrating the 546th Autumn Fair in Basel, an event that brings about a million visitors every year depending on the weather.

546th! What was going on in the US when Mayor von Berenfels organized his first fair? Well the Native Americans were going about their lives and had yet to see a white man. By the time Columbus landed, Basel was already celebrating their 21st Fair which would have had some of the same components it does today.

The main objective of European fairs has always been trade and commerce and it is still the case. Where you used to be able to buy material and goats and silk and spices, today you can buy candles and handmade pottery and jam and scarves and fondue pots. There is still a contest to attract customers, those with the loudest voices or free handouts win.

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There is also fun. In the Middle Ages the entertainment probably consisted of juggling and dancing little people. Today, there is a ferris wheel where you can see all of Basel and merry-go-rounds and bumper cars.

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And what’s a fair without food? Charlie and I made the rookie move on our first day to the Fair and decided to try everything at once, after 5 items, we saw the error of our ways but we did have fun. There was Chinese food served in a pop-up pagoda and raclette and stewed plums with whip cream on top and chocolate covered fruit and mangenbrot (stomach bread) which is a specialty of the fair. It’s supposed to be good for digestion but it is chocolate covered ginger bread…..

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thumb_img_2062_1024Trying to choose our favorite item was tough. It was a toss-up between the Alpen macaroni which is macaroni noodles with bacon in a cream sauce with melted cheese on top and apple sauce and the fondue cheese in a hot dog bun. That was definitely the best experience. They start with a closed hot dog bun with a hole in the middle and pour in piping hot fondue cheese. You get a napkin and that is it. Then you just start making your way into the bun and cheese. It is an amazing thing but between the two of us, we could not finish one. I think it must be a big hit with the late night crowd.

The fair closes tomorrow. We have been 3 or 4 times to eat, buy some yummy things and just take in the atmosphere. In 2 weeks, the Christmas markets will start in Basel which feature more things to buy and more yummy things to eat. I guess I will eat my way through the dark days of winter.

   Fix-me-up tea

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I’ve been sick for the last few days. That type of sick where in the middle of the night you kind of hope God decides to take you.

When I am really sick, I long for my parents. They were spectacular care givers during my childhood illness. I was prone to high fevers and my treatments consisted of a blend of Old World and New World treatments. My mom would rub me down with 4711 Eau de Cologne and put me in one of my dad’s undershirts in an attempt to cool me down. My dad would bring me popsicles on his way from work. Then he would sit by my bed, put a cold washcloth on my head, hold my hand and tell me “Mija, you’re going to be all right – you’re tough – keep your chin up”. It was his mantra that he would tell me whenever things got rough.

As I got older, the fevers disappeared but they were replaced by other maladies for which the treatment was always the same: Fix-me-up tea. The recipe was highly guarded by my father but basically it is a cup of brewed Lipton black tea with the juice of half a lemon and about 2 teaspoons of sugar. The result is a tea that is smooth and sweet and comforting but not too sweet because of the lemon juice. Headache?chills?stomach ache? broken heart or broken leg, the remedy was always the same.

I can’t figure out how my parents came to begin drinking it or even have Lipton tea in the house. Mexicans don’t drink tea and the French aren’t big on it either. This was the 70’s though, a culinary wasteland and  Foldgers or Tang wouldn’t have had the same results. There was no Earl Grey or Rooboos or Sencha. If you wanted something warm it was only to be found in the red and yellow box with the sailor on it. And so for as far as I can remember, we have been drinking Fix-me-up tea, a name bestowed on it probably by my father who was fond of names and expressions .

Something could be called a doohiggy or a thingamijig. When he was content, he was “happier than a pig in slop” and if the answer was yes to a question, the response would be “does a fat dog fart?!”.  Colorful expressions from an understated man.

Five years ago, my parents were in a car crash. My father died  at the hospital and my mother was seriously injured. I stayed with her that night in her room. We were both in shock and pain. The nurse came around and asked her if she needed anything and she asked for the tea. By then, the kitchen was closed but the nurse went into her own purse for a packet of tea and we attempted to fix everything with the result. Of course it didn’t work, there was no lemon, it wasn’t Lipton and more than anything my father was gone.

In the years following, we attempted to replicate the tea. How long to brew the tea? Just how much sugar? As my mom became more ill in her last year, she only wanted Fix-me-up tea. She complained that the caregivers didn’t make it right so I would make big pitchers of it to be kept in a thermos. Eventually even the tea didn’t taste good anymore.

What I’ve learned is that you have to be generous with the sugar. Like life, the tea on its own can be bitter, add lemon and it’s even more so. You have to add so much sweetness that you cover all unpleasantness, create a balance and then add more to make things sweet and good.

Tonight, I sit with a cup of Fix-me-up tea. It doesn’t taste the same. I have had to use Lady Grey but it’s close. It has the same effect and I can hear my Dad telling me “to keep my chin up, it will all come out in the wash”.

The Dutch – what you see is what you get

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I visited Holland for the first time about 16 years ago. We traveled to Soest to meet Joost’s parents. It was my first time meeting them. Joost had told them about my existence about two weeks earlier, he also mentioned that we would be getting married in a few months. Though we had been friends and colleagues for several years, we had only been dating for about 6 months. The whole thing was a bit sketchy considering Joost’s visa was about to run out and skepticism on other’s part could be understood so I was a bit nervous. I had no need to be, though I was not prepared for what I was about to experience.

We had rented a cabin in the woods near Joost’s parents. It sounded romantic. It was not. We arrived late and the manager had left the key for us. With good Dutch frugality, they had not preheated the cabin. There was snow on the ground and frost in the cabin. Never mind I thought, I’ll take a hot shower while the heater gets going. It was not to be. The water heater was kaput.

So the next morning, I met my future in-laws. They were kind and gracious to this woman who would take their son to America permanently. I got to take a hot shower and Mama gave me blankets to keep me warm. Immediately I fell for their warmth and directness.  What they said is what they meant. It was not something I was used to. I was very much used to what you said and didn’t say could always be construed to mean something that you didn’t mean at all.

This I have learned to be a Dutch trait. Depending on how you see it, it can be considered refreshing or rude. Over the years, I have become used to it but every once in a while it can be a bit jarring. In the first weeks of school, Charlie made friends with a Dutch boy. I met him, he is lovely but after not hearing about him for a while, I asked Charlie about him. Charlie said he wasn’t really friends with him anymore because he had said some mean things. Apparently, the child did not want to practice piano with Charlie at school because he explained that since he was a higher level than Charlie, it would not be very beneficial for him. He also said Charlie’s drawings were not very good. These are true statements. In America, his words would cause a reprimand if overheard from a teacher. In Holland, the child was not mean as he did not intend to hurt, rather he just spoke the truth. Joost did a great job of explaining this to Charlie and Charlie understood but I think he would rather hang out with some kids that are a little less truthful.

The Dutch are also direct and uncomplicated in their food. Once again, I was not used to that. From my French background, I have learned that food has meaning. What you serve someone reflects what you think of them. Menus are discussed and pondered over. The correct champagne or wine needs to match the event. Before visiting my aunt in France she would always ask me not what do you want to do, but what do you want to eat. One goes to France already salivating thinking about the forecoming delicasies. The same does not happen before a trip to Holland unless you are an eleven year old boy.

That does not mean there are not nice things to eat. The cheese of course is nice. There are yummy french fries and pancakes and stroopwafels which are thin, waffle like cookies with caramel inside. There are plently of things that are tasty but will probably kill you. Charlie’s uncle introduced him to croquettes (think Campbell’s cream of mushroom soup, not cooked, with a fried crust over it) and frikandel, which is some processed meat with a sauce and onions on it. For the sake of convenience, one can buy these at the corner snack shack or street-side vending machines.

I think the Dutch do not make time for food because there is so much more they want to do. They want to walk on the plentiful walking paths through forests and dunes and flatlands. They want to ride their bikes across the countryside dotted with windmills and canals. They want to sit out on terraces drinking coffee discussing and discussing till one person gives.

Sixteen years later, we are back in a cabin in winter. This time the water heater works. I have eaten french fries and stroopwafels. I have walked through sand dunes. I have sat and drank coffee with my mother in law and laughed with her. I have spent time with brothers and sisters in law who are kind and good people. It’s very funny that this country that was so foreign to me in many ways has become like a second home.