I visited Amsterdam weeks ago over fall break, which happens around Halloween here in Italy. After living on a Dutch island for four years, Amsterdam is as close as I can get to something that feels like home in the Old World. The Netherlands seems more familiar to me at this point than Italy. Close proximity to the Dutch from the city of Trieste was one of the reasons I agreed to sign up for a European stint. I might be half a world away from home and a full day ahead in a different time zone, but I’m only a two-hour flight from all things Dutch.
I felt this strange familiarity with a culture that was not my own before I landed in Amsterdam, a city I hadn’t seen in over 20 years. This comforting feeling of arriving “home” after being so far away began at the gate while waiting for my connecting flight in Munich. Another passenger at the gate was sprawled out flat on his back across several seats with his boots kicked off to the side in the middle of the aisle, and he was chatting away forever on his cell phone. What language is that? Then it hit me. He’s speaking Papiamento. It was music to my ears. Oh, how I missed that familiar Aruban tongue.
It wasn’t just the sun and the sea that I missed. I was longing, as well, for Dutch culture. I wanted to hear familiar voices speaking Nederlands. I wanted savory pancakes for breakfast and maybe even for dinner. I craved war fries doused with an unidentifiable sauce and blasted with the shrapnel of chopped onions. I was looking forward to snacking on bitterballen and kroketten, or deep-fried balls and tubes filled with mystery meat ragout for all the non-Dutch reading this.
Arriving after midnight at Isabel’s newly remodeled city flat, I collapsed onto a chair and quickly took notice of a dainty bowl filled to the brim with kruidnoten. The kruidnoten were strategically placed next to a bottle of champagne. Not to be confused with pepernoten, kruidnoten are chocolate-covered cookie nuggets made from the same ingredients as speculaas. Baking speculaas involves a distinct seasonal mixture of cinnamon, nutmeg, cloves, ginger, cardamom, and white pepper. These specifics in Dutch Christmas cookies mean nothing to most people unless they happen to hail from the lowlands of windmills and tulips.
“Kruidnoten,” I exclaimed while plucking one of the shiny pellets that have a similar appearance to woodland animal turds scattered along a hiking trail. Then we sat to pop open the bottle of champagne and toast my arrival. “Sinterklaas is here,” Isabel exclaimed.
It goes without saying that I love all things Dutch. I love Sinterklaas and stroopwafel. I love dairy products and every color of the rainbow in tulips. I love not being the tallest woman in a crowd and hagelslag sprinkled over buttered bread for breakfast. I love windmills and wooden shoes. I’ve even grown to appreciate the color orange and Dutch directness. Maybe orange isn’t just for Halloween. And it can be liberating to tell someone how you really feel.
Living in Aruba was like a course in Dutch 101. I say that because it was a mere introduction, and nothing could compare to the total immersion I was about to experience. Clearly, Amsterdam is a world away from the Dutch Caribbean. Undoubtedly so, they don’t even ride bikes on the island. I’m sure they would if they could, but they can’t due to the humidity, heat, and roaming packs of wild dogs. Every once in a while, a new arrival could be spotted along the side of the dirt roads in Aruba, a tall tow-headed, lanky person pedaling and panting, drenched in sweat with a pack of barking hounds on the heel. Traveling to the homeland from where it all commenced was definitely graduating to an advanced placement status in obtaining a deeper cultural understanding.
Any program in understanding Dutch culture has to begin with bicycles. The thing about the Dutch and their bicycles is this: It’s one thing to see thousands of bicycles chained up at Amsterdam’s Grand Central Station. And it’s another thing entirely to live out the daily routine of this madness amongst the locals.
One learns a few things quickly when experiencing this cultural phenomenon up close. First, cycling is just a mode of transportation in this country. There is nothing more to it than that. The Dutch are incredibly pragmatic about the whole thing. They are not trying to impress anyone with these bicycles. They ride around on dilapidated, gearless, rusted-out wrecks all over the city, to and from every event from a mind-boggling list of daily activities, each activity penned in on a meticulously detailed hour-by-hour agenda.
They also don’t seem to have many safety measures, including protective gear—most importantly, a helmet to shield the fragile human brain. As far as I could see, bike helmets are not worn by anyone. The Dutch trust the safety of their cycling conventions and the cycling infrastructure of their cities, I suppose. There are designated bike paths everywhere. “Bicycles are the king of the road here,” were Isabel’s words of parting advice as I ventured out as a pedestrian on my first day to explore the city.
They also do not let inclement weather deter them from getting where they need to be. It’s not even up for discussion. In drizzle or downpour, they are whizzing all around the city from one place to another along their designated red brick paths. In sleet or snow, they are bundled up in hats and mittens, buzzing by while ding and dinging their little bells, “yelling” at pedestrians to get off their designated red brick paths.
The cargo the Dutch tote and the activities they partake in while riding are unheard of in every other part of the planet. Spectators would pay money to watch these inconceivable acts on display, perhaps circling around and around inside the center ring of a traveling circus. Sword-swallowing daredevils and flying trapeze artists have nothing on the Dutch riding their bicycles.
It isn’t unusual in this wonderful, strange world to see a couple cycling together hand in hand with a few kids propped up on fenders and handlebars and maybe toting a baby in a barrow. They could also carry a week’s worth of groceries and a lamp they purchased for the house. And they would simultaneously be screwing in the lightbulb to the new lamp while making an artisan sandwich with fresh ingredients from their grocery list. Basically, anything they would normally and casually be doing at home is something they can feasibly do while riding a bike. And they have this whole laid-back demeanor while doing it, making it all look deceptively easy.
It is clearly not easy if you are a foreigner in this land. Bikes are a rite of passage for Dutch kids. Ten-year-old kids take a bicycle test—much like our driving test—to roam free on their own wheels all over the city. One should develop a certain amount of experience and skill before jumping on board with the experts.
Isabel, however, wouldn’t let me visit Amsterdam without riding a bicycle. This was my Dutch immersion program. “My sister brought a bicycle over for you,” she informed me days before my scheduled departure. And so, on a cold, drizzly day, I embarked upon my most authentic Dutch experience to date. Without any inspection of the contraption, I climbed aboard—helmetless and head injury exposed—some heap that looked like something my grandmother might have ridden in 1937. The next thing I knew, I was whirling down the slick city streets.
“How do you stop this thing?” I asked as I was already rolling down the pavement.
“Go back on the brake,” she instructed.
“Go back on the brake? I haven’t done that since I was eight years old.” I told her while pushing my foot backward on the pedal. I never did pick up much speed on that thing.
We were headed to the Cobra Museum of Modern Art. We were not riding our bikes all the way there, rather it was just one leg on a convoluted commute that involved cycling, catching a train, and then taking a bus. It gave me a feel for what it is like to move around the city the way the Dutch do. But I chickened out when it came to our next museum event on wheels, which would involve thousands of Dutch racing along the city streets for Museum Night. I hadn’t graduated to that level yet.
Museum Night is held once a year. Fifty museums throughout the city stay open until 2 AM, and access is available to all of them with a simple wristband. Not only do museums stay open until 2 AM, but they also serve food and drinks, along with DJs and music. So it is a party at every museum in town. And the Dutch keep the party going on their bicycles while racing from one museum to another, flying down the streets toting friends on fenders and handlebars, friends who are drinking and texting as if they were sitting on a bar stool at a bar.
The second most important lesson after bicycles in Dutch culture is gezellig. It’s a word without a direct English translation. From what I have gathered, it is a feeling more than a word. And I also think it could be a person, place, or thing that evokes the feeling. But who knows? I could be way off on all marks. All I know is that everything is evaluated according to whether it is gezellig or not. And the Dutch try to schedule as much gezellig into their lives as possible. So if you are traveling to visit someone who is authentically Dutch, plan to attend one gezellig event after the other. If you attend enough of these, then you begin to kind of understand the word even though you can’t spell it or define it, and you certainly will never be able to pronounce it because it takes making some kind of clearing your throat guttural sound that can only be made by people who share Dutch DNA.
My most gezellig night in Amsterdam was spent in a town outside the city, Amersfoort. Amersfoort is Isabel’s childhood hometown, and her parents invited us for dinner. “What is your mom serving for dinner?” I asked on the train ride over to Amersfoort. I followed the question up with an answer, Stamppot. We both started laughing when she answered yes. How could it be anything else? I’ve learned enough about Dutch cuisine to know that boiled and mashed foods make up most of the culinary options for family dinners. Some of these dishes involve sauerkraut and cabbage, which would have been a totally different experience from my point of view and not gezellig whatsoever. Thankfully, andijviestamppot was on the menu that evening, mashed potatoes mixed with endives and served with a side of sausage.
To fully understand gezellig, one must consider many factors. Climate is important. It was cold and grey outside, and we took refuge from the chill inside this warm, charming house that was 500 years old. Serving spirits is also a must. We sat down to visit before dinner over a bottle of wine that had been specially selected and brought upstairs from the cellar. There was a cheese board being passed from person to person. Any cheese served in the Netherlands instantly creates gezellig. Company is definitely a factor; I don’t think you can do gezellig alone. And the planning and preparing of meals, as well, is an essential factor in developing gezelligheid. We enjoyed a delicious meal and ended the evening in the living room with coffee and pepernoten. Pepernoten, I was told, are more traditional than kruidnoten. These old-fashioned cookies are made with anise and honey. There is always something new to learn about Dutch Christmas traditions.
Christmas is in a couple of days. The fact that I am just finishing this post about a trip I took over Halloween with only a few days remaining in December clearly indicates how busy Italy is keeping me. I guess I will get around to writing about all the Christmas markets I visited by Valentine’s Day.
tanki flip 