I’ve been a big fan of The Displaced Nation for quite some time now. How could I not, with a tagline of ‘A Land of Plenty for the Global Voyager,’ promising advice, opinions and yarns? One of my favorite features on the site is the interview series called Random Nomads.
The questions posed aren’t your average ’where have you lived/traveled and how did you like it?’ variety; they’re fresh and interesting, and the answers even more so. Interesting, that is.
At the end, you vote ‘yay or nay’ as to whether the Random Nomad should be admitted to The Displaced Nation.
The latest Random Nomad interviewee is Jeff Jung. What caught my eye about Jeff is not that he’s lived in several countries (he has) or traveled much of the world (he’s done that as well), but what initially caused him to become a global nomad and what he’s done since ‘settling down’ in Colombia.
And believe me, those quotes around ‘settling down’ are well earned, since he makes his living traveling. And encouraging others to travel.
You see, a few years ago Jeff was going along in life, working as a consultant-turned-corporate-marketer, when he realized that he was burning out and needed a break.
Rather than laugh it off, put the idea of hitting the open road out of his mind or relegate it to dream status as many of us do, Jeff actually did it; he stopped work and headed off to Latin America to travel and sharpen his waning Spanish language skills.
One thing led to another, and what was to be a short break became a longer one of serial wandering. What was supposed to be a career break became a career change.
Jeff and his friend Cheryl decided to help encourage others to plan and execute their own travel-focused career breaks by co-founding CareerBreakSecrets.com. The popular website and entertaining blog have even led to a television show, aptly titled the Career Break Secrets Travel Show.
Many career breakers are in their late 20s, 30s and early 40s, fighting burnout as Jeff did or experiencing a midlife crisis-driven reassessment of life career and goals. Some may have been downsized, outsized, rightsized or laid off (all ‘job speak’ for becoming unemployed) in the global recession, or are simply in need of rejuvenation and recharging through extended travel.
But Jeff reports seeing more breakers that are even younger; having finished their education and put in a couple years’ work in the real world, they realize that they aren’t on the right path but are unsure where that path might be. Hence a mind-clearing travel break to determine what’s next.
Similarly, more breakers are in their 50s and up, ready to get off the corporate (or non-corporate) treadmill but not entirely sure what the next phase of life should be. Or they realize that ‘life’s short’ and want to fulfill long-postponed dreams before it’s too late. Or perhaps they just want to chuck it all and enjoy an early, mobile retirement.
What can I say? I’m a sucker for people who dream big and then make it happen.
And as for Jeff’s status regarding Displaced Nation? I voted a resounding ‘yay’.
If you’re interested in Jeff’s presentation ‘Why a Career Break Can Reignite Your Life’, check it out below:
Everyone wants to know, deep within, that their time on earth meant something to others.
That their being here mattered.
They mattered.
It is human nature to want to leave your footprint on the world for others that come after you to see.
For some, it is through their betterment of the immediate world around them.
Think Mother Theresa with orphans in India on a grand scale, or a local community activitist, environmentalist or tireless fundraiser for the homeless, needy and neglected on the other end.
For others, it is through their accomplishments in discovery, trade, commerce, science, medicine, leadership, governance, literature, music, the arts.
Across the ages, people have made their fortunes, and then worked actively to use their riches to solve problems, eliminate impediments, eradicate diseases, lessen misery and embue hope.
Why? Not simply because it is needed, but also for the desire to ‘give back’.
To leave the world better than they found it.
And no doubt, because there is a part of them that wants to be remembered for their good deeds helping mankind.
Cynics may spew their snide comments about undoing any harm they caused, paying for sins known and unknown, hoping to get into heaven (or at least avoid the alternative).
But the truth is that we all wish to do or have something that shows we existed, we were here, we were of consequence.
For most of us, we do this through the positive ripples we make in the lives of others. We are linked through birth or circumstance to our families, extended relatives, colleagues and friends.
If we are completely honest with ourselves, as our time on earth nears its end we come to a start truth; deep in our souls, we realize that in a few short decades no one will likely know that we ever existed.
So what matters to us is being remembered as a loving spouse, nurturing parent, dutiful child, supportive sibling, good friend. That in the smallest yet deepest of ways, we were important to the people around us.
What has me thinking these thoughts of mortality, rememberance and legacy on a quiet Sunday morning?
The truth is, three separate but related thoughts.
The first is that it’s Mother’s Day, and my beautiful mom is an ocean away. God willing, we’ll Skype later today and I will tell her again how much I love her, how grateful I am to have her as my mother.
The second is my father, whose face I will see for the first time in almost six weeks. He has been ill and hospitalized, and has a challenging road ahead of him.
We’ve been in touch, but I want to see him today, hear his voice, talk with him. I want to savor seeing him back home sitting by my mother, as I have so often over the past few years during our Skype sessions. I want to tell him I love him, and that I can’t wait to see him in person next month.
Both of these are superimposed on top of the third thing: a thread of conversation that has been drifting through my mind for awhile now. It came, of all places, from Elske, Donna and Catherine at the Expatriate Archive Centre here in The Hague.
It’s about putting your hand in water; when you remove it and the surface stills, what’s to show that you were ever there? It’s about rootlessness, collective memory, and having your voice validated.
My parents exist through their love for me, and mine of them. Through their children and grandchildren and now their first great-grandchild, through their dear friends and devoted members of their community. Through the memories and experiences we’ve shared, and the ones we’ve yet to make.
First, credit where credit is due. A comment about my post on Bridge-Building in the city of Peace and Justice, left by fellow expat and talented writer/blogger Russell VJ Ward*, served as the impetus for this plea post.
Second, I am a self-confessed policy wonk and international affairs junkie. I’ve studied it, worked it, lived and breathed it. Still do, despite a career change taking me down a different path.
That said, I get that not everyone shares my level of interest in topics as diverse as political implications in the aftermath of last year’s Arab Spring; details of stimulus packages in various countries as they try to claw their way out of the global economic recession (spending cuts and increases, tax relief and targeted incentives: oh joy!); efforts to build workable coalition governments (Greece, Netherlands, I’m looking at you); the fate of the Euro and by extension, several more European governments; Aung San Sui Kyi’s release from years of house arrest, election to the Burmese Parliament and receipt yesterday of her first passport in 24 years; the state of nuclear weapons programs in North Korea and Iran; the Mali coup; progress in post-earthquake, post-tsunami Japan; gay marriage; human rights; global campaigns to eradicate human trafficking and piracy on the high seas; resolving global refugee and displaced persons situations, and so on.
I get it, I truly do. I’m a policy nerd.
My fixation with such issues is another person’s stamp/coin/wine/antique collecting, competing in 5Ks/10Ks/marathons/triathalons, cooking classes, knitting, fixation on Scandinavian crime novels, watercolor painting, bird-watching, hiking, spelunking or other such hobbies.
No efforts here to turn you into a political aficionado. I promise.
But the fact that the country I live in and the country I come from are both facing national elections this fall has not gone unnoticed.
I keep up with issues in the latter because I am a registered voter there.
I consider casting a ballot a privilege, one of the highest forms of democracy in action.
When so many people suffer under autocratic governments, tyrants and despotic regimes, I would be remiss in casually tossing aside my right to vote.
(That, and it promises to be a tight election. But I’d vote regardless.)
It’s a matter of principle.
And I care. I care deeply about the nature of American politics. The reasons are many and complex, but over the past couple of decades political discourse has become more polarized, devisive and rancorous.
Yes, there are extremists on both sides of the political line, wrapping themselves in their moral certitude and spewing venomous rhetoric.
The majority of people aren’t like that. They may not grab the headlines, but they are good people who care deeply about their country, society, community. On a number of issues they courteously agree to disagree. But disagree they do, so it’s my responsibility to vote.
I don’t pretend to know the ins and outs of Dutch politics or current affairs, but I do try. It’s a different political system than I’m used to, and while it’s a bit confusing, it’s rather fascinating as well.
(Okay, sorry, that’s the political geek in me talking.)
I’ve learned that the coalition government of Prime Minister Mark Rutte’s liberal VVD party and the centrist Christian Democrats collapsed recently, largely because they had to rely on the unlikely support of anti-immigrant, anti-Islamist, Eurosceptic and ultra-conservative political lightening rod Geert Wilders and his PVV party.
The issue that broke the proverbial policy camel’s back? Austerity budget measures.
The same issue that has cost Berlusconi in Italy, Sarkozy in France and Papademos in Greece their jobs. The same issue that threatens Faymann in Austria, Cameron in the UK, perhaps even Merkel in Germany and others.
The Netherlands is grappling with rising unemployment, necessary budget cuts, a backlash against immigrants, a fractious conversation on Islam and cultural assimilation, a backlash against the aforementioned immigrant backlash and cultural assimilation dialogue, among others.
The Dutch are even closing their infamous coffee shops (an interesting euphemism for marijuana/hashish parlors) to tourists.
Television, radio, newspaper and magazine articles and internet websites and blogs are obviously ready sources for keeping up with the basic issues affecting the country and culture in which you live.
Do a little digging, and then take it a step further. Get out there and ask your neighbors, colleagues and friends their take on these topics.
Asking Katya ‘what do you think about…’ or Anneke ‘why do you think…’ questions gives me incredible insight into the similarities and differences that make up our world. They in turn feel free to ask me questions about American politics.
Despite differences in government, culture, economic structure, language or religion, we’re all dealing with similar issues.
Emma has written about education, elections and Jamaica’s disappearing children on her blog Petchary, and Aisha has shared about censorship, mental illness, Canadian environmental efforts, and a highly sensationalized Muslim murder case at Expatlogue. Jane has tackled the Dutch health service, taxation and truly international affairs (of the heart, or at least of the body) on Wordgeyser.
In essence, we’re all representatives of where we’ve come from and where we’ve been; we’re all citizens of where we are now.
If there’s one thing I’ve learned, the more we think we’re different, the more we find we’re really the same.
So I’m truly not trying to convert you to my level of zeal for political intrigue, economic drama, the suspense of social issues.
What I am suggesting is that by opening your eyes, ears, heart and mind to the presence of difficult local, national and international issues plaguing the world — your world — you’ll find a level of connectivity to others.
What hot topic issues are in the news where YOU live?
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*Please check out ISOALLO and you’ll see exactly why it was a finalist in the fiercely competitive Best Australian Blogs 2012 competition. Well deserved, well done mate!
One of the most interesting aspects of living in The Hague is its international flavor. Today I’m not referring simply to the large number of people living here who come from other lands.
I’m talking about its strong ties to global issues.
The Hague is known as ‘the City of Peace and Justice’ for a reason: it is home to 131 international institutions and organizations dedicated to bringing peace, justice, security and freedom throughout the world.
It’s a major city for the United Nations, second only to New York.
Vredes Paleis (Peace Palace)
Many are familiar with the Peace Palace, built by American Andrew Carnegie through the Carnegie Foundation.
It opened its doors in 1913, and has been a beacon of international justice ever since.
The Palace is home to the International Court of Justice, the Permanent Court of Arbitration, the Hague Academy of International Law and the highly regarded Peace Palace Library.
Others know of The Hague for its efforts to bring global outlaws such as Slobodan Milosevic, Radovan Karadzic, Ratko Mladic, Goran Hadzic and Charles Taylor to justice with the International Criminal Court and International Criminal Tribunals.
Prosecuting war criminals for crimes against humanity? It’s done here.
Not to mention Eurojust, Europol, the UN’s Organization for the Prohibition of Chemical Weapons, and so on.
It often makes for riveting ‘local’ news. It also reminds me on an almost daily basis just how interconnected this world truly is.
For more on The Hague’s international bent, check out my feature interview with the Netherlands’ foremost expert on US political, economic and cultural issues, Willem Post: Building Bridges, Globally and Locally.
Post is a fascinating guy, and I thoroughly enjoyed our discussion, on- and off-the-record.
When this week began, little did I know that by the end I would be writing what has essentially become my own personal Trilogy to the Dutch.
I’d enjoyed all the excitement and revelry of my third Queen’s Day, stuck again by how virtually everyone gets involved in what is essentially one big party.
There’s something about an entire nation joining in the festivities that makes the Queen’s Day celebration so special. It’s as if a giant cloud of orange good cheer has exploded over the country, putting everyone in a festive mood.
The following day I had to drive to Schiphol Airport to pick up the returning Husband. While there I was vividly reminded of the Dutch love of welcoming home loved ones. We’re not talking amateurish efforts here; if the Airport Welcome were an Olympic sport, the Dutch would definitely be on the medalists’ platform.
So there you had two posts outlining my sincere admiration for the Dutch love of a good party. I thought that was it for my cultural lessons for awhile.
But Friday was Dodenherdenking (literally Memorial to the Dead), the Dutch Memorial Day. During the course of that sobering holiday, I changed my mind. Begun after the horrors of the Second World War, Dodenherdenking honors the sacrifices of military service members and civilians alike.
The Netherlands is certainly not unique in having a day in which they pay tribute to those who have given their lives in service to their country. Many countries do something similar, and rightfully so. It is the ultimate sacrifice.
I’m proud of family and friends who have faithfully and honorably served their country. I understand the sacrifices they and their families choose to make. I appreciate their service.
In the US, Memorial Day is celebrated with parades, musical concerts, picnics, small American flags placed on graves in military cemeteries and public ceremonies. One of the latter’s most touching events is conducted at the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier in Arlington Cemetery.
What is special about Dodenherdenking is the way in which it honors its victims. Yes, the Queen and members of the Dutch government lead a somber national ceremony of remembrance that is attended by thousands. Yes, local municipalities arrange their own ceremonies as well.
The difference is that at 8:00 pm on the dot, everyone in the country stops whatever they are doing and joins in a communal two minutes of silence.
Everyone. In eerie silence. The entire country goes absolutely still.
The photo below shows the many thousands of attendees at the national ceremony held in Dam Square, Amsterdam. The scene is replicated in cities, towns and villages throughout the country.
Shops and stores close early to ensure people can attend ceremonies or get home in time to watch it on television. You’d expect the major Dutch television networks to carry coverage of Dodenherdenking ceremonies on their channels, and they do.
But at 8:00 pm the television networks go further and cut into every single Dutch television channel. Husband and I were watching Big Bang Theory on a comedy channel (in English with Dutch subtitles) when the show was interrupted for the silent tribute.
I have to tell you, it is very stirring to have an entire population stop, think, reflect, remember, pray.
I know that we have national moments of the silence in the US on some holidays, or during certain ceremonies or special occasions (including September 11th services or after a former President dies). Most people comply out of respect, but we all know that plenty of others don’t remember or don’t bother. Or worse, perhaps don’t even care.
Maybe it’s because World War II was fought on Dutch soil that gives Dodenherdenking its poignance; people look around and recall (or remember hearing from grandparents of) the dark days of war right in their own homeland, in their own streets and fields.
Unlike the US where you can have entire segments of the population whose daily lives aren’t directly affected by the fact that their nation is at war (and has been for eleven years), here in Nederland war is very personal.
As do many countries, the Dutch honor all who have died in service to their country since the holiday’s inception. The tribute is not only to those lost in WWII, yet the public is reminded annually how their Memorial Day came to be.
They remember, and they do so together.
There’s something about that second minute of reflection in Dodenherdenking that gives it a gravity that makes people stop in their tracks and come together as one.
For that reason alone, I have chosen to write about Dodenherdenking.
The Dutch Trilogy is complete: festivities, family, remembrance.
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Note: I also wanted to share that in the course of looking for a photo that would reflect how the Dutch revere their Dodenherdenking ceremonies, I came across the blog A Resident Alien, written by a Dutch woman who’s lived in the US for 17 years now. It was in Barbara’s own blog post on May 4th that I saw the photo of Dam Square, above.
I hope you check out her site; you’ll gain insight into the flipside of my experience. Barbara writes about how many Europeans grow up viewing America, how living there has changed her, and how her ties to Nederland may have loosened a bit but still remain.
Never let it be said that Dutchies don’t know how to party. Seriously. Never say it.
I’ve written about Queen’s Day before, and having celebrated the Dutch national holiday for the third year running, I can only say that it continues to amaze me. There’s something about it that makes me happy, and I’m not even Dutch. Or a royal watcher.
On the surface, it’s a celebration of the Queen’s birthday. Current Queen Beatrix made herself immensely popular by proclaiming that the day would remain on her mother’s (that would be Queen Juliana) birthday as a sign of love and respect. Not only was she being a good daughter, she was also ensuring that the holiday would remain on April 30th, at the height of blossoming, blooming, glorious springtime.
The holiday actually has two parts: Koninginnenacht (Queen’s Night, essentially Queen’s Day Eve) and the Day itself. While some may characterize the 30-hour period as one big party, and for some it is indeed, most cities, towns, villages and neighborhoods celebrate the two events slightly differently.
Here in The Hague, Queen’s Night is highlighted by a fantastic city-wide, open air music festival. Live bands play at some 8-10 different outdoor venues spread throughout the city Centrum. Each venue focuses on a different musical genre (e.g., jazz, blues, funk, rock/pop, indie, dance music and so on); there’s even a stage set aside for youth bands.
You decide what kind of music you’re in the mood to hear and then wander over to the stage featuring that style and enjoy. No charge.
And unlike in the US, there’s no ban on drinking alcoholic beverages outside, so you’re free to sip a beer, glass of wine or soda while you dance, bop, sway or merely listen.
A large carnival with plenty of booths, rides and attractions is set up nearby to keep youngsters, and those young at heart, entertained.
The city buzzes with the energy of several hundred thousand people converging on downtown, meandering from one venue to another, enjoying the atmosphere, festivities and late spring daylight (it stays light now until at least nine).
You’d think that would be enough, but the next morning everyone’s up early to celebrate Queen’s Day itself. And what else says ‘get your party groove on’ quite like a flea market?
I’m not kidding. All over the country, Dutchies are enjoying the one-day waiver of the fee usually required to conduct such a sale, and the Netherlands becomes one giant yard sale.
Not just any yard sale, mind you. One that combines street fair with food, drink, face-painting, music and bargains, continuing all day long.
The country is ablaze in orange, the national color. The flags go up (in an odd twist, they’re red, white and blue). Everyone hauls their old clothes, books, knick knacks and what have you to the designated community sale site, and the partying begins again.
Groups stake out their territory days in advance, marking their turf with colored chalk or colored duct tape.
Sellers take turns manning their site, keeping an eye on their sales and wandering around. It’s common to bring your own food and favorite beverages along to your blanket or scrap of sidewalk real estate; no sense missing a party while you haggle with potential buyers.
The winter season Oliebollen stands are hauled out and vendors make fresh doughnuts and cupcakes covered in orange frosting. The municipal government even makes room for some of the trams to keep running.
Not to mention more free outdoor concerts. If you own a boat (sailing, motor or otherwise), you decorate it up and spend the day on the canals, lakes, larger water ways or North Sea.
Others take to the parks, beaches and water for picnics, barbeques or house parties.
I cannot emphasize enough how big this holiday is. Think a combination of Mardi Gras (without the nudity), New Year’s Eve and Fourth of July rolled into one. Then put it on steroids, and kick it up another couple notches.
So in honor of Queen Beatrix, let me share with you photos from our neighborhood celebration up on ‘The Fred’ (our local shopping street).
Then you’ll understand why I made a point to send an email to a new expat family who lives in an apartment above a shop on The Fred, giving them a head up as to just what would be taking place outside their front door…
Every now and then I’m reminded of a cultural aspect of the Netherlands that is so very different from the US that it practically screams ‘this is SO different!’
This morning it was my journey to Schiphol airport to pick up Husband from his latest trip.
Now first let me say that I love Schiphol airport. It’s large and bright and easy to get around.
I’ve figured out various go-to places as meeting places for visitors.
I always make a point to duck into the Albert Heijn (yes, they have a small store of my beloved grocery chain), Hema or Body Shop to get a little shopping done while I wait.
I even learned the secret of Dutch parking garages there: take your ticket to the payment machine before you get into your car and try to exit. It helps avoid the highly embarrassing sight of having to pantomime to the driver behind you that you need to back up in order to go pay.
Yep. Been there, done that, got the rude stares and hand gestures to prove it.
The cultural difference I’m referring to is the Dutch practice of going to meet their friends and family members en masse.
And when I say en masse, I mean in groups of six or ten or more.
The US version? Usually one, maybe two people at most, arrange to pick up their loved ones. Why? Two reasons.
First, you want to have enough room in the car to fit the arriving passengers and their luggage.
Two, anyone else who wishes to welcome home the newly arrived choose to do so in a much nicer place than the airport. Like in a home.
The Dutch? Not so much.
When they send a welcoming party, it’s just that.
They love loading up two or three carloads of folks to go welcome Tante Karin visiting from Canada or Broer Koos back from his vakantie in Thailand.
Children, too. The Dutch treat a trip to the airport as more fun than a field trip to Disneyland, and bring the kids along.
Not only do they show up in large numbers, but a bouquet of flowers is de rigeur.
And balloons. At least one, but often two or three large helium ones.
And occasionally you’ll see a handmade sign with Welkom Thuis.
This practice is so widespread that there is even a popular television commercial where a couple return to their house from a trip and clearly are disappointed that no one was there to greet them at the airport; the scene shifts to the group of fifteen or twenty waiting patiently at the arrival gate (with flowers, balloons and a sign, natuurlijk) when one guy checks the arrival board and realizes sheepishly that the couple’s plane arrived hours earlier.
But today?
My Dutchies were seriously Out. of. Control.
I was little Miss Party of One in a sea of revelers.
Not only were there groups from two to twenty two, the requisite balloons and flowers, and kids running around like it was a carnival.
The signs were HUGE.
The people next to me had a handmade cardboard sign trimmed in art tape to help keep its shape. It measured two feet by eight feet. They had six people whose designated job was simply to hold the sign.
The older man in their group was responsible for crouching behind the sliding doors passengers were arriving from, camera in hand, to capture the arrival in photographs.
Another group of about twenty people had made a sign on a bed sheet held up by two poles seven feet tall.
A bed sheet. It wasn’t even folded.
But today there was EVEN MORE. Two different parties had given the children kazoos which they were blowing with all their lungpower.
And a third group had noisemakers like those handed out on New Year’s Eve to celebrate the clock striking twelve midnight.
One guy was wrapped up in an Aussie flag, ready to unfurl it at the right time.
I thought I’d stumbled upon a summer music festival in the arrival lounge of Schiphol airport, and almost started looking around for the keg of beer. Who knew it’s the must-have ticket of the season?!
It was sheer, unadulterated bedlam. I even had to plug my opposite ear in order to hear Husband’s words when he called to say he’d made it to the luggage belt.
I’d thought I’d seen everything, but I would be wrong. There was still one more surprise in store.
As my eyes scanned the faces of the passengers coming through the sliding doors, I saw one Dutchie walking out wearing a huge grin and a big red round clown nose.
Hamming it up for the kleinkinderen in the group waiting to pick him up.
Welcome home indeed.
You can only imagine what they do when dropping off someone for a flight departure…
It was a chance encounter yesterday on a crowded street that sent me back in time.
As I turned the corner onto our nearby shopping street affectionately known as ‘the Fred,’ I caught a snippet of conversation. The young woman was seated at one of the outside tables of a local restaurant, twirling her forefinger along the rim of her wineglass while speaking into her cell phone.
‘Char-lie…’ I heard her whine, the words dripping off the sulky pout of her lips and reaching through the phone line, landing squarely in some poor guy’s ear.
Nothing more, just his name, as by then I was already several feet past her table. But it was enough to put me in a reverie.
Suddenly I was thrust back in time, almost three years to be exact, thinking of our beloved family cat. She had been Son’s pet ever since he’d picked her out among the other strays at the pet adoption day many years before.
In spite of her female gender, then four-year-old Son had insisted on naming her Charley. They bonded immediately, and she’d slept on his bed nightly ever since.
Fast forward twelve years and we had just moved here to the Netherlands. Despite being fourteen at the time, Charley had made the tedious flight along with our dog Oli and other cat Ava, and was settling in. It was still two months before she would be struck by a fast-moving cancer and decline rapidly, dying peacefully as I stroked the soft fur on her emaciated body.
We’d arrived in late July, and a month later found me at home, in limbo. I say that because that’s precisely how it felt.
The majority of household goods were unpacked and put away; I’d found what would eventually become my beloved Albert Heijn grocery store, a small stand selling fresh fruits and vegetables, the hardware store, two cheese stores, a French patisserie, three drug stores and a number of places to buy various small household necessities.
I’d attended a three-day orientation program at my children’s international school the week before, met a few new faces, and was impatiently awaiting the start of weekly newcomer meetings to help give some shape to my schedule. I thought perhaps I’d enroll in an adult education class or two to meet new people, and was already signed up for a month-long, intensive Dutch class that wouldn’t begin for a few weeks.
We’d finally made it through the interminably long waiting period for internet and cable television connectivity, but still hadn’t cracked the code on arranging cell phone contracts.
After an intensive round of car-shopping, we’d finally finished handing in the necessary paperwork, but delivery was still six weeks off. I’d learned how to buy tickets and take the tram, bus and train, yet wasn’t quite sure where to go or with whom.
Meanwhile, the rest of the family headed off to work or school each morning, leaving me alone.
In short, my old life was gone but it felt as though I were still waiting for my new life to begin.
I was walking a tightrope, carefully placing one foot in front of the other and trying to maintain my balance, all the while fully aware that one slip and I’d hurtle to the ground.
I was rinsing off the lunch dishes, mulling over what to make for dinner and in which direction Oli and I would head off for a long midday walk when the door bell suddenly rang.
On my doorstep stood Marja, my elegant next door neighbor. A classically trained musician coming from an old Dutch family, the carefully turned out Marja carried herself with a regal air.
‘Good afternoon,’ she said in flawless English, her weak smile belying the perplexed look in her eyes. ‘Do you have a cat?’
‘Uh…yes,’ I stammered in confusion. ‘Yes, we have two cats. Why do you ask?’
‘Is one of them a small black cat?’ she continued.
Two minutes later I was standing in Marja’s entry hall while she brought Charley down the stairs. It seems that Charley had managed to crawl out of the third floor bedroom window Son had accidentally left ajar, across a rather narrow ledge and through the open window of Marja’s rijtjeshuis.
Unsure of where she was, unable to retrace her steps back out onto the ledge and finding room’s door to the hallway shut, Charley had made herself comfortable and taken a nap. Marja had just happened to go upstairs to get something out of a storage closet and was startled to find the cat fast asleep on the bed in her guest room.
It seems that I wasn’t the only one trying to find my way in a new place.
Chuckling to myself as I carried Charley back to our house, I realized that there were lessons for me in the cat’s actions.
Scene of the daring escapade
When in limbo, take a chance.
Go for the adventure, walk the ledge.
Find the open window and dare to go through it.
And when you’re lost and can’t find your way, curl up and take a breather.
If you’re really lucky, you’ll eventually find your way back to what you were looking for all along. Home.
The sun has been playing hide-and-seek behind the clouds all day. It’s teasing me with hints of its brilliance followed by longer periods of grey overcast sky.
In other words, it’s a typical spring day.
I was visibly reminded that it’s time to revisit earlier posts in the Further North series (here are Stockholm Sun and Tallinn, Estonia). I started this series as an ode to those magical places even further north than Nederland, where the winters are dark and the summer days go on and on.
This time we’ll be adding wonderful, wonderful Copenhagen* to the mix.
We spent a few days there last summer and found it similar to the Netherlands (Denmark is our north-eastern neighbor, after all) yet with a fun, friendly, easygoing vibe all its own.
So sit back and enjoy some photos allowing a glimpse into this Scandinavian jewel. And at the very end I’ve included a little something from YouTube in which the inimitable Danny Kaye sings *Wonderful, Wonderful Copenhagen…
In case you didn’t hear, yesterday was Earth Day. That’s right, the 42nd anniversary of the inaugural Earth Day held in New York City way back in 1970.
The aim remains the same: protect the environment and the world’s natural resources through conservation efforts. This year’s motto is Mobilize the Earth™.
In honor of Earth Day 2012, Oli and I went for a three-mile hike in nearby wooded parkland. The temperature may have been a little on the chilly side, but walking amid the bright sunshine, forested shadows and lush greenery made a perfect day for walking and reflecting.
For me, that is. As far as I can tell, Oli doesn’t reflect on much of anything. I think he just sniffs and observes, observes and sniffs. He’s a keen one, always on alert for possible dangers to our persons.
This is a dog whose breed instills in him the necessity of remaining ever vigilant, a lonely sentinel destined to guarding his masters from all foes, perceived or otherwise.
It’s not unusual for people to watch Oli as he goes by. He’s a cairn terrier (think Dorothy’s dog Toto in the classic movie Wizard of Oz); when his hair is grown out he looks like a small dark werewolf.
Children are drawn to him because he is so small, and parents especially like to point him out to their toddlers and pre-schoolers.
There’s something about his purposeful strut that lets them know they needn’t fear he’s going to stop, and his diminuative size makes him less risky (at least in the parents’ minds) than many of the larger, more muscled breeds wandering around.
‘Kijk naar dat kleine, zwarte hond,’ I’d often hear. ‘Wat een hondje!’
(Look at that small, black dog. What a little dog!)
But as we meandered through the woodland paths and past the hidden skate park and playground yesterday, I couldn’t help but notice that more heads were turning than usual, and remaining fixated on Oli longer than would ordinarily be the case.
I’d forgotten that recently he’d had his hair shaved in anticipation of the coming warmer days of spring and summer. It certainly does the trick in helping to keep him cool. But when his large bat-like ears are down, it also renders him a close relative of the meer cat family.
Not always his best look, I’ll agree. And one that certainly draws attention.
As I watched Oli confidently lead the way, I suddenly realized the other reason for the lingering stares. Daughter had dressed the poor guy in a doggie t-shirt.
Doh!
What are you looking at?
Back at home, I later went online to the Earth Day website where they were seeking pledges of action to improve the Earth with the A Billion Acts of Green® campaign.
The site offers information on all sorts of ‘green’ topics ranging from energy efficiency and renewal, conservation, biodiversity, recycling and waste reduction, more efficient modes of transportation, sustainable development and advocacy. They also outline several ways to take action and contribute time, energy and effort to the cause.
I joined in pledging my act (well, actually it was two acts) to help make my own little corner of the natural world just a little better.
If you’re interested, you can see my pledge here and then make your own pledge while you’re at the site.
A few days ago I wrote of the challenges many of us face being sandwiched between generations. Just like everyone else, we expats do our best to care for, raise and guide our TCK children to adulthood(and beyond) while also staying connected to and supporting our aging parents.
We just sometimes have a few wrenches thrown in due to our lack of immediate proximity.
All while maintaining a (hopefully) healthy family life and juggling work, friends, fitness, favored activities, community involvement and personal growth.
Oh, and don’t forget sleep. It seems we need sleep far more than we know.
I’m talking good quality sleep that rejuvenates and restores. The kind most of us haven’t experienced since childhood when we could zonk out with the best of them.
The last time I can recall going to bed and sleeping through the night, waking refreshed and raring to go?
Somewhere between the college days – late nights writing papers, early morning classes, cramming for tests and partying as if it were Prince’s proverbial 1999 – and the arrival of children on the scene.
For months now I’ve been doing a lot of reading and research for my book on the importance of emotional resilience in expat life, and let me tell you: the list of things I should be doing to maintain some semblance of emotional and physical wellbeing is, well, starting to verge on the unhealthy.
I’m not quibbling with the need to watch what I eat and exercise on a regular basis to drop unwanted pounds and help maintain cardiovascular health, strength, flexibility and endurance.
We need to be eating healthy foods with plenty of fresh fruits and vegetables, going easy on meat, high-calorie stuff with minimal nutritional value and alcohol.
Got it.
Multivitamin? Fish oil? Calcium tablets?
Check, check and check.
Eliminate the carbonated beverages, watch the caffeine, drink green tea, stay hydrated with plenty of water.
Add in eight hours of restful sleep nightly, excelling in our careers with meaningful work, meditation to clarify our minds, reading for pleasure, reading to gain new knowledge and expand said clarified minds, unplugging from too much time spent online or using various screens (name your own vice), spending time with others to fulfill our need for interpersonal connections, spending time alone for emotional balance, fitting in volunteer work to help others and retain a sense of gratitude…
We’re supposed to do all this and somehow remember to throw in a few loads of laundry, walk the dog, keep the fridge and pantry reasonably stocked, vacuum occasionally, dust now and then, brush our teeth and change the cat litter?
Yeah, right.
Remember, this is the ‘must do’ list BEFORE we even add anything remotely related to caring for toddlers, chauffering kids, ensuring our teens aren’t running amok and our young adult children are on track or helping to deal with the latest development in our parents’ gradual decline.
Let’s face it. Life is complicated and messy. Sometimes it’s a bit overwhelming.
Just when you figure out how to juggle the various requirements in your daily life, they change and you’re often left standing there with someone’s unmet need lying on the ground.
And so it goes.
Last month I wrote about doing some spring cleaning in my writing projects. While finishing up or stepping away from certain tasks, I’ve added a select few new ones.
One such endeavor that I’m excited about is writing for the Telegraph’s Expat section.
Yesterday we kicked off our new relationship with their publication of my article on undertaking the university search for expat teens in which I discuss one of the latest plates I’m juggling, this time around with Daughter.
Earlier this year I read what I can only describe as an incredibly uplifting book, but I am only now getting around to sharing it with you.
Shame on me, because it is the kind of informative, thought-provoking book that stays on your mind long after you read it.
Its name? In Their Own Voice: Intercultural Meaning in Everyday Stories by Anne P. Copeland, PhD and Marissa Lombardi, with input from members of the International Writers’ Club (The Interchange Institute, 2011).
Some expats will recognize Anne as the founder and Director of The Interchange Institute, a non-profit research and educational institution in Brookline, Massachusetts (USA) which focuses on meeting the needs through information, coaching and training of people moving from one country to another, especially with regard to intercultural transitions.
Marissa is a member of the staff at TII, teaches cross-cultural understanding at Bentley University and is a PhD candidate. Both women have experience living abroad, and have ‘walked the walk’ to go along with their highly knowledgeable talk.
Anyone who has been following here for while will know that cross-cultural transitions are of particular interest to me, and this book does not disappoint.
In Their Own Voice offers dozens of short essays written by expats in the Boston area who have joined an International Writers’ Group led by Anne and affiliated with an internationally diverse elementary school.
Primarily from Japan, South Korea and China, these accompanying partners meet regularly to work on their English language skills and ease their intercultural transition by writing about their observations and feelings about similarities and differences between American and their ‘home’ cultures.
There is much to be learned not only in the stories themselves but also in the topics about which the International Writers’ Group member chose to write. These range from making friends and maintaining friendship, identity, personal space, loneliness, courtesy, parenting styles, educational philosophies, shame versus guilt, food, relationships, discipline, competition, manners, and social miscues and misunderstandings, to the challenges and opportunities of being first-generation immigrants.
The linchpin of this book is the careful depiction of what Anne and Marissa describe as cultural ’dimensions’. These dimensions lay out the main aspects by which various cultures can be identified and categorized, and go a long way toward explaining how an individual might perceive differences when faced with other cultures.
They include factors such as whether a particular culture tends to be more individualistic or collective in nature, communication styles and whether that communication content is high context or low context, and where a culture falls in terms of interpersonal boundaries, effort optimism (i.e., sense of control over one’s life), values, acceptance of power distribution, homogeneity, harmony, choice, individual responsibility and obligation and modesty.
More importantly, these are explained simply and clearly, without bias or judgment. No right or wrong, no better or worse.
Not surprisingly, the authors also explain culture shock and the traditional adjustment cycle experienced by most expats. But they go further, sharing John Berry’s acculturation model in which a person’s willingness to participate in a new culture is weighed alongside their interest in maintaining their own culture.
Someone who wants to maintain their own cultural identity but also incorporate characteristics of their new culture will tend toward integration, while someone who has no interest in their new culture will tend toward active separation. Similarly, those who wish only to take on characteristics of their new culture will assimilate while those who want nothing to do with either their own culture or the new one in which they find themselves tend to be marginalized.
Armed with a clear sense of how cultures vary and how individuals may differ in their approach to interacting within a new culture, we cannot help but begin thinking of our own and others’ experiences.
We start to see how one nationality’s preoccupation with individual rights and endeavors will be looked at aghast by someone from a collectivist culture that values the community above all else. We suddenly get how someone from a culture that values verbal communication will be flummoxed by a person from a culture that embraces silence and believes the less said the better, and vice versa.
In short, we begin to understand how lack of familiarity with differing aspects of cultures can leave us ill-prepared to deal with those differences. We see why certain things grate on our nerves , yet don’t seem to bother others; we realize why other things may ruffle the feathers of friends or colleagues, but are of no concern to us.
Lest you think this is merely an amalgam of recent arrivals’ musings thrown together in a thinly veiled love-fest of American culture, think again. The book goes considerably deeper and further in sharing much about expat experiences in general and intercultural transitions in particular.
Anne and Marissa have gone to great lengths to structure the book in such a way as to maximize both its entertainment and educational value. The stories are distributed into four general categories: communication, cultural adaptation, customs and education. An index is also provided that sorts the stories according to the previously discussed descriptive cultural dimensions reflected in their content.
Each story is accompanied by a series of questions for further discussion and reflection, followed by the page number toward the back of the book where the authors’ additional comments can be found.
These comments help clarify aspects of both American culture and that of the story’s author, giving readers a better understanding of why each culture approaches the issues raised within the story in the manner in which they do. We get a sense of where values and traditions line up, where they may overlap and where they differ significantly.
So why do I label this book ‘incredibly uplifting’? Because one of the key tenets in the creation of the International Writers’ Club is a commitment to write respectfully about the cultural differences they observe.
I tend to find it fascinating to read how someone else views another culture. Yet what is particularly refreshing is to see how unbiased and non-judgmental these stories are. As a result, they facilitate cross-cultural discussions that will benefit us all.
If you’re interested in learning more about The Interchange Institute, please check out www.interchangeinstitute.org I’ve also learned that if you buy the book directly from TII here http://www.interchangeinstitute.org/html/intheirown.htm they make more per book than Amazon gives them, which allows them to conduct further research. Sounds like a win-win to me, don’t you think?
If you prefer, you can also purchase the book at Amazon.
Recently I caught up with a couple expat friends, enjoying koffie while sharing the latest on comings and goings.
Spring is in the air, along with blooming trees, blossoming flowers and plants, and the necessary but dreaded pollen.
Students are getting antsy, ready to break free of their daily grind (oh, if they only knew!) of classes, course review/revising and exams. High school seniors in particular chomp at the bit to graduate and enjoy a taste of summer before starting university, career paths or ‘gap year’ in far-flung places.
It’s also that time of year when many expats working for governments, businesses and international organizations learn where the next assignment will take them.
That is, unless bureaucratic uncertainty and waffling economies intervene as they are wont to do, throwing the entire ‘process’ into turmoil and year-round confusion as I wrote late last summer in Uncertainty of Expat Life.
Conversation ranged from who was leaving and when, summer plans for those who were staying, and which children were graduating and the pending impact on the familial unit.
‘Empty nest looming for Anna. Her youngest heads off to uni this year.’
‘No, Roger and Ulrike negotiated a one-year extension so that their middle child can finish high school here.’
‘We’re trying to combine Sarah’s college visits with my mother’s 80th birthday celebration while seeing as many friends and family as we can in X number of days.’
But I also noticed other news creeping in.
‘Well, they want to head back home since Rosalind’s father is so ill, but Roberto hasn’t been able to work out a transfer.’
‘Johanna extended her trip as her mother’s taken a turn for the worse. She isn’t sure when she’ll be back.’
Welcome to the sandwich generation.
It isn’t anything new: people everywhere must deal with competing needs and claims on time and attention (not to mention attendant costs) from their children and other younger family members on the one hand and their parents and older generations on the other.
Add distance into the equation and it becomes more challenging. Put countries, continents, cultures and time zones into the mix and it becomes even more difficult.
I’ve learned this firsthand with Son back in the US, about to finish his first year of college. Parenting from afar is something that many have to wrestle with, as I continually remind myself.
Preparing them to leave the nest is what we do if our children are to go out and find their way in the world. I remember my own college years vividly, and I always valued my parents’ emotional support far more than their financial support (although the latter was certainly appreciated).
So no guilt trips or emotional blackmail here. Just love and support, answers to questions posed, the occasional cautionary tale and perhaps a smidgeon of advice and a suggestion or two.
Husband and I have always sworn we would never be the kind of parents who, wittingly or not, live through their children. I think we’re doing a fairly good job. Besides, we’re each given only one go around in life, so what better way to model living a full, varied, productive and contributive life than to do just that?
Still, at times it’s easier said than done. Especially when the tug is on the other end.
Aging parents present new issues to be worked through, tough choices to be made. Is it your imagination or are they becoming more forgetful? Illness, disease and medical maladies start to appear, and each time you’re grasping for information and making mental calculations: should I go now or wait to see how the situation progresses?
You can’t do everything, be everywhere, see everybody. They want you to come home for a particular holiday, anniversary or christening and you have to say no because you’re thinking of so-and-so’s wedding next year or being there for someone’s upcoming chemotherapy.
And sometimes you can’t even be there for those.
Juggling expectations and emotions is never easy.
Scholarly squabbling aside, Heraclitus of Ephesus is generally credited with the saying ‘the only constant in life is change’.
Like many, we’re dealing with this with Husband’s and my parents, trying to make the best choices and do the right things, prepare for emergencies while missing lesser (but no less stressful) developments.
And as it is with many families, it puts the onus on our siblings to help keep us apprised and in the loop, updated with behind-the-scenes assessments and important details.
We’re in that murky soup where visits on both sides are being postponed or moved up, schedules rearranged, further changes in plans contemplated.
On a recent trip to England I had the opportunity to experience one of the items on my own personal bucket list: a visit to Stonehenge. And may I just say that it was everything I’d hoped it would be, and more.
Competing theories abound as to the origination and purpose of Stonehenge: the massive Saren stones are thought to be markers for summer and winter solstices and equinoxes, anciet astronomical site, a giant lunar and solar calendar of eclipses, pagan ‘house’ of worship, place of human and/or animal sacrifice, ancient burial ground. (Daughter informs me I must add site of alien landings to the list.)
I can only tell you this: when I approached it, I felt an overwhelming sense of awe and positive energy. If you know me personally, you’ll believe me when I say that the latter were not a result of my eagerness and excitement to visit this world renowned site.
I felt a very strong positive ‘vibe,’ almost a rush of energy as I worked my way around the monumental site. Halfway around, the energy dissipated. It wasn’t replaced by anything negative or sinister or scary. It just stopped.
Standing on top of that wind-swept plain, I could only imagine what the dark night sky and the moon, stars and planets must have looked like all those centuries ago.
In support of an effort by the group Bring Change 2 Mind to erase the stigma faced by those dealing with mental illness, my fellow expat blogger Aisha launched an ongoing series of posts on her site Expatlogue earlier this year entitled ’Breaking the Code of Silence’.
Bravely sharing her own disturbing memories from younger days, the pain and suffering Aisha endured are heartbreaking. Yet they are all the more poignant when contrasted with her life today as a healthy, happily married, caring mother of three and talented writer making a name for herself.
I committed to writing a piece in support of this stigma-smashing effort, and began mulling over ideas. Two recent articles on seemingly unrelated groups – celebrities and expats – have provided new insights and interesting perspectives.
The first is a February article on the Psychology Today website by Deborah Serani regarding the phenomenon known as ‘Celebrity Coming Out of Mental Illness’. Cynics might see the (still meager) parade of high-profile individuals such as Catherine Zeta Jones, Russell Brand and Harrison Ford proclaiming their struggles with various forms of mental illness as simply more fodder in the public relations machine. Serani has a different take.
Such candid pronouncements help to reduce the stigma of mental illness, striking a public blow against prejudice and mistreatment on behalf of those similarly afflicted. Not all sufferers are in a position to share their stories for fear of reprisal in their personal and professional lives, so it is well appreciated when others do so.
At the same time, celebrity ’outings’ of this sort offer hope to others of the possibility of enjoying a healthy, happy, productive life if proper treatment is sought. In addition to the reassuring nature of knowing they aren’t alone in their diagnoses, there is a strong sense of ‘if he or she can accomplish all that while dealing with depression, anxiety or fill-in-the-blank, then surely I can do the same in my own life’.
The surprise in Serani’s article is the statistic that one in five in the US will suffer some form of mental illness at some point in their lives. Of course there will be those who chalk that up to the supposedly typical predilection of Americans for fixating on squishy ’emotions’ and ‘feelings’ and a preoccupation with ‘happiness’, but I suspect that many other countries are right up there with the US in terms of mental illness if they take the time and effort to measure.
A study conducted by Chestnut Global Partners and The Truman Group found American expats to be at higher risk for internalizing mental health problems such as depression and anxiety, externalizing ones (e.g., hyperactivity, attention deficit, conduct and impulse control) and substance abuse than their US-based counterparts.
The study’s co-author, David Sharar Ph.D., noted the impact of stress on assignment failure rates, often stemming from ‘cultural differences and demanding workloads’. Sharar went on to say that the findings ‘underscore the need to design programs and provide services that mitigate the challenges of living and working abroad.’
The recent 2011 Global Relocation Trends Study report from Brookfield GRS has also highlighted the role of family dynamics in making or breaking expatriate assignments with top challenges being partner resistance (47%) and family adjustment (32%).
No surprise there. These studies underscore what expats have known anecdotally for years. They are gaining attention and for good reason: expatriating and repatriating across cultures can be difficult. Working your way through the highs and lows of the transition process can leave many battling feelings of alienation, dislocation, anger, frustration, loneliness, lack of identity and rootlessness.
Certainly most expats come through on the other side just fine or without lasting damage. But there is no doubt that some struggle. Expatriate employees and family members alike can be affected deeply by relocation.
Yet the resources to help support them before, during and after transition differ greatly depending on one’s experience, running the gamut from decent to nil. I for one found far greater transition support from the international school Son and Daughter have attended than anything Husband’s organization offered.
No wonder Sharar’s co-author, Sean D. Truman Ph.D. LP, notes the ‘explicit need for programs and services that are comprehensive in scope and sensitive to the personal, interpersonal and professional dynamics that contribute to the overall wellbeing of expats and their family members’.
At first glance these articles – one about celebrities and the other about expats – have seemingly little in common beyond the issue of mental illness.
But consider this: if the first article highlights the benefits to others of outing oneself regarding mental health issues and the second demonstrates that expats are at increased risk compared to their home population for encountering stress, depression and anxiety, then it stands to reason that by shedding the light on mental illness in general and in expatriate life in particular we can go a long way in smashing the stigma while encouraging people to seek necessary support and treatment.
We need to get the word out, at home and abroad. We need to be talking about these issues, writing about these issues, reading about these issues and sharing about these issues.
The growing body of expat literature reflects as much, as do efforts by Aisha and others to share their experiences. That’s a trend we can all welcome.
[Image credit: David Castillo Dominici, portfolio 3062 Freedigitalphotos.net]
Lately there’s been a fair amount of change going on behind the scenes here at Adventures in Expat Land, and it dawned on me that I ought to share some of it with you.
Like you, I lead a fairly busy life. One that’s full of family, work projects, friends, activities and interests. Add to that the more mundane stuff of everyday life that helps keep a family and household running, and the list gets longer.
Kim Stiles; Motivation for Moms
I think the wonderfully talented folks at someecards.com (via Kim Siles of the Facebook Page Motivation for Moms) have accurately captured my feelings toward certain repetitive chores.
Even someone like me, who happens to enjoy cooking, reaches a point where planning, shopping and making dinner gets a little old after awhile.
I’m just saying.
And like you, I’m still bound by the limited hours in a day. You’d think that after all this time, with the advance of technology and the wealth of great minds roaming this earth that by now someone would’ve figured out how to squeeze in more than the 1,440 measly minutes available to us daily.
Basically, you’ve got one bucket. Not two, not four, just one.
You can keep adding things to the bucket, but at some point the bucket is full. No matter how you try to wedge in one more piece, it just doesn’t work. If you want to add something new, you first have to take a few items out of the bucket.
In my case, this has meant reviewing priorities and making a few changes. In order to do some new things, I’ve been finishing up a few little projects, shuffling some things around, saying no to certain opportunities, and making some changes to the ongoing writing commitments I have.
And just like you, it’s all part of the balancing act that is life.
This weekend has been absolutely phenomenal. You know, the kind of first weekend that truly announces ‘Spring has arrived’.
The sun has been shining brilliantly for three days, a gorgeous blue sky with just a few pale wisps of white cloud here and there.
The weather has been in the mid 60s to low 70s (Fahrenheit) here in The Hague. That may not sound all that warm to some, but believe me, when you’re in the direct sunlight it starts to sizzle.
Being both an outdoor culture and a cafe culture, Nederlanders have been out in force, soaking up the sun at the beach, on bike and jogging trails and in the outdoor seating at cafes and restaurants throughout this tiny country.
Yesterday Husband and I decided to take advantage of the terrific weather, so we hopped in the car and headed southeast of Rotterdam to visit the windmills of Kinderdijk.
Just for fun, we decided to take Oli along because a dog’s gotta have adventures, too.
My photos may not be as high quality as those on the site (do check them out), but they’re mine and each one reminds me what a wonderful day we had in the sun.
And true to Dutch culture, we followed up our meandering among the windmills with a nice long spell at an outdoor cafe
It’s been at least a few weeks since I’ve written a post that even mentions the phrase Albert Heijn (my favorite local Dutch grocery store to the uninitiated), so I should have known.
Something was sure to materialize that I’d end up sharing with you here. Little did I realize exactly how special that something would be…
The other day I was poking around the aisles, searching for pancetta. Daughter needed 100 grams of the lovely Italian bacon for a school cooking project.
[A couple answers before you ask: No, she is not enrolled in a 'home economics' or ertswhile cooking class. At her school they occasionally incorporate topics such as menu planning, basic cooking terms and skills, and dietary requirements into one of her other courses; something like her Health or phys ed class, I can never remember which. And no, I do not automatically do her school project-related shopping for her. She was busy that afternoon performing public service (i.e., babysitting for a lovely family so that the couple could get away for a nice dinner sans children), and the AH was closing before she would return home.]
So there I am, searching in the meat section. Then the specialty meat section, followed by the sliced cold meats section. And finally in the speciality sliced cold meats section. (I know, that last one was a surprise to me, too.)
On a low shelf near the bottom of the glass refrigerator, I suddenly spied the word pancetta.
Feeling victorious, I reached for a package, intent on figuring out exactly how much constituted 100 grams. You’d think I would know after three years here, but it’s hard to overwrite years of ounces and pounds, cups and half cups floating around in my brain matter.
No sooner had my fingertips touched the Holy Grail, when my eyes happened upon the label of the item a few inches (no, not centimeters) away. I could practically feel the turning of the gears as I translated the two words from Dutch to English.
Paardenvlees.
Horse meat.
I’ll be honest. I had to stifle a gag reflex when the name sunk in.
I’d read that horse meat had been on the Dutch menu in certain pockets of Nederland, but was under the impression that was long ago.
Yet here it was in MY Albert Heijn, all red and sliced up and packaged for sale.
Right now I know the vegetarians in the crowd are screaming at the hypocrisy of it all: I’m fine with eating beef or chicken or pork or pancetta, but cringe at horse meat.
Meanwhile the vegetarians are being drowned out by the yells of the internationalists who are screaming about cultural relativity.
And you know what? They’re both right.
We tend to eat what we grew up eating. Sometimes we get more adventurous and branch out. Sometimes the line is too deeply etched in our minds to consider crossing.
Which explains why I have tried venison, caribou, reindeer and goat. One time each. I thought they were fine but not psychically worth eating again. Had the opportunity to try rabbit and declined. Just. Couldn’t. Do. It. There’s that line again.
It’s also why I could try escargot (again, once for the experience) but will not be checking out frogs legs, snake, cat, dog, sea urchins, certain body parts of various animals, caterpillars, grasshoppers or other creepy crawlies. Can’t help it, I’m simply too squeamish to do so.
This is not a post about moral certitude or pronouncements that this food is ‘okay’ but eating that food isn’t. Not at all. If some Dutchies (or others) want to eat paardenvlees, I have to say that I’m not thrilled about it. But it’s their choice. I suppose I’ll just go to my happy place and sing la-la-la until the thought is no longer stuck in my mind.
Probably just as vegetarians/vegans feel about carnivores and my own love of bacon.
We eat what we do primarily due to cultural mores, unwitting cues telling us ‘this is what we as a group eat’. As we venture forth from our communities, countries and cultures, we find all sorts of new and unusual foods – fruits, vegetables, grains, meats – that we may or may not decide to try.
It’s a personal thing, a cultural thing. More and more, it becomes a global thing. So where exactly is that line for you? I tend to fall further on the ‘let’s try it’ side than some, but certainly not as far as others.
Just a little food for thought…
If you’re up for photos of more unusual foods consumed around the world, here is Oddee’s list of 15 strange foods; they claim they’re the strangest, but really, who’s to say?
Adventurers who’ve been following along for quite some time will recall the story of Alice Pyne, the English teen with terminal bone cancer who is inspiring others with her story and her Bucket List.
It’s been several months since I’ve reported on Alice, now sixteen, and I’m pleased to say that she is doing fine. Not fine as in becoming cured, but fine as in hanging in there and doing reasonably well.
It’s all relative, isn’t it? How we define ‘fine’ when asked how we are?
I popped over to Alice’s website and while she doesn’t post often, she’s been keeping us all apprised of the many developments in her life.
Here are just a few:
Alica had the opportunity to see the hit theatrical show War Horse in London, and went backstage to meet some of the cast and view the life-sized ‘horse puppets’ up close.
Plans are underway for a group, calling themselves Team Alice, which will cycle a thousand miles in May to raise money for charity.
Since her illness and her efforts to get others to sign up for bone marrow donorship became known around the world, Alice and her family have also enjoyed some caravan holidays (aka camping to others) in Torquay courtesy of Torbay Holiday Helpers Network, a charity founded by hotelier Luke Tillen in 2009.
Families of children dying of cancer are able to get away and experience a proper vacation, free of charge, away from hospitals and medical appointments and constant reminders of illness. Luke had seen a television show about a similar charity run by parents who had lost their twenty year old daughter to cancer; the emotional impact he felt was so great, he felt compelled to create something similar in the Torquay area.
Discussions with Luke led to Alice designing her very own mug to be sold to raise funds for…wait for it…Alice’s very own charity!
That’s right.
Alice’s Escapes will follow the model of Luke’s THHN and other similar charitable organizations, in this instance seeking hospitality for ill children and their families in Alice’s own community of Cumbria. If you want to learn more, why not follow Alices’ Escapes Facebook page?
I’ll be completely honest. Whenever I check in on Alice’s website to see how she’s doing, I do so with unease and a bit of dread. I’m afraid that I’ll learn she is ill, not doing well, or worse.
This all pales in comparison, of course, to what Alice and her family and friends are dealing with on a daily basis. I know that, and it humbles me.
The most amazing thing is that despite all that is going on that they must deal with, they don’t stop giving and giving and doing what they can to help others.
Reminds us all of the power of focused minds, loving hearts, helping hands and limited time.
As a writer and an expat, I like to keep abreast of the current literature in the field. The field itself is relatively small, which is why new arrivals are long awaited and eagerly devoured.
Recently I had the opportunity to read and review Expat Teens Talk: Peers, Parents and Professionals Offer Support, Advice and Solutions in Response to Expat Life Challenges as Shared by Expat Teens, written by Dr. Lisa Pittman and Diana Smits (Summertime Publishing, 2012).
Practicing Psychologist Lisa Pittman moved overseas four years ago to Singapore where she met up with future co-author Educational Therapist Diana Smits. Smits is an expat old hand and mother of three teenaged Third Culture Kids*. Between them they have significant experience and insight into TCK teens, what they’re thinking and what they’ve got to say.
Turns out it’s quite a bit.
I really like the premise of this book. They talked with TCK teens directly, and share their stories in their own language. At times that language can seem cliched or overly cheery, and then suddently it veers into reflective and heartwrenching. As the mother of two expat teens, I recognized the full array of word choice and the feelings behind them.
Sometimes these words are tough to read:
‘Being an expat teen means you have more than one home’
‘You know you’re an expat teen when the answer to ‘where is home?’ is ‘I don’t know’
‘At times I genuinely thought I was depressed/suicidal because I felt so lost in a world so different from the one I knew’
‘I don’t have anyone to talk to and I feel alone…one second I’m so angry and the next I’m crying’
‘I find it very difficult to constantly say goodbye. Teachers, friends, people you know are always leaving…people and relationships seem to be temporary in expat life’
A major strength of this book is that it accurately reflects the wide range of emotions experienced by these TCK teens, and Pittman and Smits are to be lauded for not shying away from the tough discussions about the more negative feelings expressed. It is a simple truth that there are pros and cons to growing up globally, and this book does well in laying it all out there for examination.
Pittman and Smits interviewed many teens, teasing out chapters addressing the issues that they grapple with: having mixed feelings about expat life; the challenges of moving into a new country/culture and the pain and grief when leaving another; unreasonable expectations by parents, teachers and friends; family and peer relationships; the questions of ‘home’ and identity; fitting in; bullying; inappropriate and risky behaviors such as alcohol, drugs, premarital sex; confronting adulthood, repatriation and gaining perspective looking back on their TCK experiences.
Pittman and Smits went further, adding the insights and suggestions of parents and then of professionals who work with and care about TCKs. No one group had a lock on good ideas and best practices; I found nuggets of wisdom throughout. And while sometimes responses overlapped or were seemingly redundant, I think it’s important to remember that different people respond to different phrasing.
One minor suggestion would be to have ensured that the tone of the teen quote ending each chapter matched the feel of the issue under discussion; in a few instances the quotation was so peppy as to be a little jarring after dealing with a particularly difficult and emotional topic.
That said, I think Expat Teens Talk is a well-written, balanced, honest look at how some TCKs really feel. It’s a wonderful resource to read and share with an expat teen, serving as a good starting point from which to begin the conversation.
*There are several definitions floating around as to what constitutes a Third Culture Kid. I believe the most accurate and indeed illuminating is that offered by Ruth Van Reken and the late David C. Pollock in their groundbreaking book Third Culture Kids: Growing Up Among Worlds (originally published in 1999 and updated as recently as 2009):
‘A Third Culture Kid (TCK) is a person who has spent a significant part of his or her developmental years outside the parents’ culture. The TCK frequently builds relationships to all of the cultures, while not having full ownership in any. Although elements from each culture may be assimilated into the TCK’s life experience, the sense of belonging is in relationship to others of similar background.’
A common version of the definition, that the third culture is the intersection of an child’s ‘home’ and ‘current’ cultures, is itself a misperception of Pollock and Van Reken’s definition; it misses the point entirely that the TCKs’ third culture is in fact the realm of internationally raised cross-cultural peers with whom they relate most, regardless of where each has lived.
