Fem’s Lists: What I miss about the Netherlands

Fem’s Lists: What I miss about the Netherlands

Hello, I’m back with another translation for you! We’re still in July 2017, when I wrote my first “Fem’s List” about all the things I miss about my home country. Nothing much has changed since then; whenever I feel homesick, I still mull over everything on this list, although a few other ones have been added over the years. It’s strange to realise how even the littlest experiences, feelings, or thoughts can transport you back home, and how you can miss stuff that you didn’t even think twice about while you were living there.

I’ve been living in Ireland for over a year, and can’t escape it: the dreaded homesickness. The feeling creeps up whenever it wants to, with no rhyme or reason to it, and it’s a right little bitch. Sometimes it only lasts for a minute or so, and other times it might linger for over a week. It usually makes me want to jump on the first plane back home, although at times it also makes me weirdly happy to feel a bit melancholy, and wallow in self-pity a bit (I know, I know, I’m strange). This is a list of all the things I miss about the Netherlands whenever I feel this way (apart from the usual suspects such as my family, friends, and cats, as well as bitterballen and hagelslag).

Lazy Saturdays at my parents’ place

Without a doubt, this is one of the things I miss most. Waking up late, the smell of coffee permeating the air, and seeing a freshly delivered edition of my favourite Dutch Saturday newspaper lying on the table. Drinking my mum’s coffee while reading the newspaper magazine is an experience I cannot recreate in Ireland, however hard I might try. It might just be because my parents aren’t here, but that can’t be the only reason…can it?

Canals and canal houses

Yeah, it’s true: I do miss the typical Amsterdam ‘grachtenpandjes’, or canal houses, from time to time. They’re just so damn pretty! I mean, there’s a few canals in Dublin and you can also find some Dutch-style houses here (they’re called Dutch Billy’s and they’re actually pretty cool), but it’s obviously not the same. At any given moment, my eyes might glaze over and I’m mentally transported to a lovely, narrow, flower-bedecked Amsterdammer street, with cyclists angrily passing you by left and right, and a nice cozy ‘brown cafe’ (or old men’s pub) on the corner. It goes without saying that this is a very nostalgic image, so the street is as clean as can be and there’s not a tourist in sight. Believe it or not, but these kind of daydreams can bring a tear to my eye. When I sat on the plane from Edinburgh back to Dublin, I was struck by an article about Amsterdam in the in-flight magazine. I was very close to putting a balaclava over my head and hijacking the plane, demanding the pilot to turn back and set course for my home town. (These kind of plans never come to fruition because I always lack something crucial, a balaclava in this case.)

Bol.com (an online shop)

I’m not being paid to say this, but I really miss Bol.com (basically the Dutch Amazon). The fact that I can’t have anything off their website delivered to Ireland was a very, very hard pill to swallow. I used to love browsing around on that page and now it’s all to no avail. Oh well, probably best…at least I can’t spend huge amounts of money ‘by accident’ anymore.

The Hema

Let’s keep to the subject of shopping, while we’re at it. All Dutch expats will understand it when I say that I’m overly delighted, almost maniacal, whenever I reach home soil and see a Hema. The Hema is a shop that sells almost anything, from clothes to stationary to food to home decoration, and many other things you never knew you wanted. Their ‘rookworsten’, or smoked sausage (we are a bit German, after all) are the best the Netherlands have to offer. I can’t explain why the Hema has such an effect on me, cause I do realise there’s many shops that sell the same kind of stuff, only…they don’t. This place is different. You have to experience it to understand. It’s a bit like Flying Tiger, in the way that you’re lured in without understanding how it happened, and before you know it you walk out with about a dozen things you don’t actually need. Anyway – I think Dublin could do with a Hema. I mean, they’ve branched out to London, Paris, and Belgium, so why not set up a store here? Make it happen!

Terraces

As soon as the ‘summer’ started in Ireland, I fiercely missed the Dutch – and especially the Amsterdam – terraces. There’s something really nice about sitting in the sun, drinking a ‘biertje’ (‘little beer’) along the canal, and eating – there they are! – a portion of bitterballs; and then, afterwards, when the summer day starts to cool down, tipsily cycling home. Beer gardens don’t really have the same feel to them – even though they can be nice, they tend to be overcrowded and stuffy – but I guess that’s mostly because there’s not a canal in sight. There’s a few places in Dublin where you can sit outside, but since the regulations for terraces are much stricter here, there’s no culture built around it. That’s fine. Ireland has other things to offer, drinking-wise.

Dutch politics

Indeed. I never thought that would happen. I somehow really miss all the bickering and debating going on in Dutch politics – our system is set up in such a way that there’s an abundance of different parties, some bigger, some smaller, some quite ridiculous, some downright terrible, and they all have to figure out a way to work together -, not to mention following the live election results on TV. I haven’t been able to vote since I moved here, because I’m an idiot and forgot to register from abroad, but it was also harder than I thought to keep following everything that’s going on from here. Being removed from Dutch politics a bit made me look at it in a different way – all of a sudden, I find the politicians’ goings-on ‘cute’, and ‘silly’, and even a bit ‘knullig’ (a great Dutch word that means something like ’embarrassing and stupid in an slightly endearing and non-threatening way’. Google Translate tells me the direct translation is ‘fumbling’, but that’s not exactly the same). Obviously, the reason I miss it is because it’s familiar to me. I’m completely lost when it comes to Irish politics; the only thing I know is that there’s huge protests going on surrounding Repeal the 8th, and the country has its first openly gay Taoiseach (prime minister). (*note: I know a bit more about Irish politics now, especially after the last elections a few weeks back, although the take away I got from that is that the biggest two parties are basically the same, and Sinn Fein used to be, or is (the details are a bit murky) the party associated with the IRA. Oh, also, as you might know the 8th Amendment is repealed now, of course, which you will hear a bit more about in a later blog.)

Dutch tv

I don’t have a TV here, but from what I’ve seen the Irish channels are filled with (trashy) English game shows, terribly boring news programmes, American action movies, several homegrown series ranging wildly in quality, and never-ending re-runs of Father Ted. Netflix is saving the day. Whenever I’m home, I’m always glad to see the familiar talk shows, sketch shows, investigative journalism series, or the live ‘cabaret’ (stand up) registrations. (*note: Dutch TV is now rapidly going down the drain as well.) It is interesting, and a bit depressing, how important TV is in regard to your national identity: everyone my age, growing up in the same environment as me, used to watch the same shows in their childhood – later on, you would talk about the recurring programmes that almost everyone would watch. It shapes your worldview a little bit, and it is always a joy re-kindling the memories about one of the wacky children’s shows my parents would let me watch on Sunday mornings so they could lie in bed a little bit longer. It’s just not the same to watch TV over the internet, and it’s also weird that nobody here has a clue what you’re talking about when you mention Purno de Purno (look it up. It might explain why I grew up to be such a nutcase).

Directness (or rudeness, depending on your view)

As I said before, Irish people are nice, but they also tend to be overly polite and very indirect. I do sometimes long for a bit of the Dutch ‘botheid’ (rude directness, bluntness), even though it used to annoy me a lot when I was still living in the Netherlands. It can be tough, but at least you know where you stand. The open nature of the Amsterdammers, the fact that nobody will bat an eye no matter how ridiculous, un-stylish or ‘un-groomed’ you look, is something I really miss as well (*note: I think this is a bit of the nostalgia kicking in and colouring my view, as Amsterdam hasn’t really been like that in a long time. People do tend not to care so much about how they or others look; but there’s not many ‘eccentric’ people to be found anymore). It’s funny, however, that every time I go back home, the Dutchies seem to have gotten ruder again. Maybe I’m starting to get used to politeness…ew, gross.

Theme parks

Alright, alright, you can find a lot of beautiful castles, wild nature and adorable donkeys in Ireland, but it only has one theme park – based around their biggest crisp brand – and surely, that’s not enough to keep you going, even though it does have the biggest wooden coaster in Europe (*note: I visited this place a few years ago and wrote about it in another blog). Please give me the Efteling (a fifty-year-old fairy tale park), Walibi (thrill seeker park full of roller coasters), or otherwise just one of the hundreds of other small theme parks, zoos, safari parks, or themed museums. Yes, I do know that the Netherlands are basically one big fancy-fair and it’s terrible that we need to be kept entertained 24/7, blah blah blah, BUT I WANT THAT ENTERTAINMENT! NO, GO AWAY FIDDLE PLAYER, I WANT A ROLLER COASTER!

Actual, normal bike lanes

Fuck sake, Ireland. When I’m cycling I don’t want to feel like I’m in constant danger because I could be pushed aside by a cab or a bus at any moment.

Dutch ‘wandelpaden’

Literally, ‘strolling lanes’. You could call them hikes if it wasn’t for the fact our country is so damn flat and has no wild nature to speak of. Dutchies, much like Germans, like things to be organised, so the country is teeming with well-signposted paths that basically lead you from cafe to cafe. I love them though, and to be honest, most walks are surprisingly good and you can come across unexpectedly beautiful views. The Netherlands aren’t all that bad! I miss going for those strolls during the weekend, or, as I used to do, on a random week day, when the countryside would be completely empty. Of course, there’s walking paths and hikes to be found in Ireland as well, but they are of a different category altogether, not in the least because the country has much more natural beauty on display.

Some observations on my adopted country

Some observations on my adopted country

From the archives (16th of May, 2016). It was fun to read this, cause I realised I had many thoughts and observations about my old self, in turn! They can be found at the end of this blog. Original text can be found here

This week on “Fem in Ireland”: an overview of the thoughts and observations I’ve had during the past week, for Ireland keeps on surprising me. I also wanna share some things I’ve learned lately: fear not, it will all be very useful knowledge that will bring you much joy in life. Then, to top it off, I will tell you a fun bedtime story about a lost wallet. Here we go!

Observation no. 1: Big Men, Small Dogs
I firstly encountered this phenomenon in the Irish countryside, but it’s even more apparent in the Dublin parks. The biggest, toughest Irish men are out walking their dogs, and those dogs are usually…very small. I’ve thought a lot about this, as it gives me the same feeling as the one I had in Sweden, where big tall Viking men greet you with a cute ‘hej hej’. The stereotypical image you have of them is immediately shattered (which might be a good thing anyway).
Why Big Men, Small Dogs, though? Are small dogs secretly cooler than labradors or Saint Bernards? They’re definitely more vicious, that’s for sure. Maybe the men are so in touch with their Manliness that they don’t give a fuck about what people like me think about them (and who can blame them). Maybe they’re just Irish and don’t give a fuck regardless.
There’s one other explanation, although it’s still an unsatisfactory one. When I told a friend about my ‘BMSD’-observation (have to be careful there not to mix up the letters…), he shrugged, laughed, and said: “Fem, those guys are just walking their girlfriends’ dogs.” *

Something I’ve learned (1)
I can finally pronounce the word ‘Chapelizod’ almost perfectly! The bus drivers no longer look at me weirdly when I try. There’s a knack to it – you just have to act like the second part of the word is ‘lizard’, rather than ‘lizod’, and there you go.
*Extra News! Last week I also said ‘Hiya!’ for the first time in my life, ever. It won’t take long now until I go around saying ‘Thanks a mill!’ and ‘What’s the craic, lads?’ to everyone. *

Thought/observation no. 2
Small Irish kids are unbelievably cute, I always thought. The accent! The ginger hair! (NB: They are usually accompanied by Irish dads who are just as cute, playing and joking around with their kids, making me think they’re the best fathers in the world. *) But then I made the huge mistake of expressing this thought out loud.
My Italian flatmate, M., didn’t agree with me. “They all have really big heads”, she said, “just look.”
She was right. Irish kids have huge heads! After she had pointed it out, I could not unsee it, and am still looking for an explanation. Maybe it’s the ginger hair? Or maybe all kids have big heads, and I just never paid any attention to it?
Whatever the reason, the world will never be the same again.

Idea
I’ve talked about this with many people now, and I will say it again. Ireland needs Bitterballs! (The name has to be changed, sure, but that’s beside the point.) Bitterballs are amazing – they’re a Dutch delicacy, consisting of ragu meat that’s been breaded and deep-fried. You eat them with mustard or mayonnaise, ideally around 4 pm, with a glass of Dutch gin on the side. Those little round snacks are perfect for alcohol-induced peckishness…Just imagine, you’re drinking pints with some mates and all of a sudden you’re hungry. What to do now? You could open a packet of crisps or peanuts, but that’s not enough (speaking from my own experience). You could go to the nearest chipper, but that would mean you’d have to leave the pub! No, it won’t do. The solution: give every pub a small deep-fry facility, or even a microwave, and Bob’s your uncle. Fem’s Bitterballs, available in every bar. (Yes, we definitely do have to change the name.) *

INTERLUDE
I saw this ^ picture in the National Museum of Archaeology: an artistic impression of an inhabitant of Ireland during the Bronze Age.
This is what I thought: apparently the Irish were very… BRONZED back then! Ha! *

Something I’ve learned (2)
I now know how to say ‘[stoned] off his/her tits’ in Roman-Italian: Fatta come una pigna, “as stoned as a pine cone”. I’ll just leave that here.

A very short story a friend told me: Nothing works in Ireland *
The year 2000 was approaching, and the Dublin municipal government thought it would be nice to celebrate the new millennium in style. It was decided to install a light-emitting clock in the River Liffey, showing the countdown to the new era through the water. Great idea! Expensive, too!
However, people soon realised that the River Liffey was usually too murky to see the clock at all. If you could see it, it was entirely possible that it showed the wrong time. Then, it just disappeared for a few days. It goes without saying that the clock was removed before the millennium had even begun.

Observation no. 3
Once upon a time, someone in Dublin woke up and thought it was a perfect day to write these immortal words on a lamppost: “THIS IS MY POLE.”
I love Ireland. *

Something I’ve learned (3)
I realised that even in Ireland I’m still the same person, and that means I will still be prone to worrying and bouts of sadness. Last week, I ‘had a moment’: not exactly homesickness, just a vague, annoying feeling. I started to think about my future. Will I ever find a job? Will I ever find my own place? Am I driving the Italians crazy yet?* It’s not great, but at the same time, it’s somehow also reassuring. I guess it means I feel at home here.
On a lighter note, the fact that I feel at home is also shown by my…well…bowel movements. There is no way to say this properly, in English (it’s way more normal to talk about this in Dutch), but I’ll just get it out: I have to shit at the exact same times as I used to do back home, even taking the time difference into account, and that’s an absolute relief. Everyone secretly knows how important this is, dear readers – don’t shame me for it!

A Bedtime Story, as promised
Last weekend, it was incredibly sunny in Dublin. It was so sunny, that even the Sicilians started to complain about the heat. So sunny, that even the Roman burnt his nose. (NB: Italians never use sun cream.)
Like everyone else in town, we of the Chapelizod-gang spent our weekend outside. A friend of the Sicilians, named G., had had the same thought, and had walked up to us through Phoenix Park. It hadn’t been a nice stroll, though, as he had somehow lost his wallet along the way. He had arrived at our place in an agitated mood, waving his hands Italian-style. “I’ll give you whatever you want if you can find the thing”, he said.
As I’ve mentioned before, Phoenix Park is one of the biggest parks in Europe, so the chance of finding G.’s wallet seemed to be non-existent. The only thing we could do now, was to let it go and to trust in the goodness of the Irish people.
The Sunday after, we decided to go to Phoenix Park as well, and have a picnic. The Italians were messing around with the barbecue at a clearing where it’s illegal to use one, and it drove my Dutch rule-loving self a bit mad, so I decided to do what I usually do when something drives me crazy: find some peace and quiet. I wandered along meandering, overgrown paths along the small river running through the park, and suddenly felt something snap under my feet. I looked down to see what I had stepped upon, and picked it up before I even had had the chance to think about it.
It was a card-holder, containing a Leap Card (public transport card), and some credit cards. Something started to dawn on me. “No, that would be way, WAY too much of a coincidence”, I softly said to myself, but my brain had already decided for me, and I couldn’t stop myself from taking out one of the credit cards and inspecting it. The name on the card left almost no doubt. Just to be sure, I rummaged through the wallet a bit more, and found a passport and some other documents. When I saw G.’s picture on one of them, I finally allowed myself to believe that I had done the impossible.
I ran back to the clearing, hiding the wallet behind my back: “Guys, guess what I’ve found!” They looked at me, uncomprehending, and of course had no idea what it could be. Even G. didn’t believe me, and thought I pulled a prank on him, until he saw the thing with his own eyes.
And so it’s proven once more that wallets never really get lost in Ireland. *

Until next time!

*(1) An observation about myself: why was I so obsessed with big men and their dogs? Suspicious…
*(2) I still haven’t done that and to be honest, I’m proud.
*(3) Two other observations about myself: OK, now it makes sense – I was definitely a bit…lonely when I wrote this. Haha. Oh, and thankfully I later realised that not all Irish kids are ginger, although when they are, the ginger hair does make their head look bigger. Fact.
*(4) I’ve since found out that there are a few places in Dublin that do actually sell Bitterballs. Two of them are very fancy, which is hilarious to me, but there’s also a Belgian guy who sells them from his food truck in the park – check it out here, thank me later!
*(5) Fun fact, they were indeed – I later found out that it’s probable that the prehistoric inhabitants of Europe were much darker-skinned than (obviously, white) Europeans are now. Also, the person in the drawing wasn’t ‘Irish’ in the same way as we’d now perceive it – there’s been loads of movement around Europe during the ages, and our modern nationalism hadn’t taken hold yet. Still an amazingly lame pun, though.
*(6) Whew, I found THAT out quickly! Interestingly, clocks in Ireland never show the right time anyway, so the Millennium Clock could have gotten away with it. Extra fun fact: Dubliners love to nickname their statues (good topic for a blog!) and this one was called ‘The Time in the Slime’.
*(7) Still thinking of making the quirky graffiti in Dublin a topic for one of my next blogs.
*(8) The answer to the latter is most definitely ‘yes’. 😛
*(9) This is a reference to the time I myself lost my wallet in Ireland (somewhere in West-Cork) and the whole community helped me find it back. I wrote about it in another blog, but will probably re-visit it here sometime, because it’s an awesome story. Wallets – and most other things – really never do get lost here, anyway: Irish people are the best at bringing lost items back, and they usually don’t even want to accept a reward.