Immunity must be earned

Of all the adjustments that need to be made when a family moves to a new country - new school, new job, new friends, new language, new bottle shop - the real challenge it seems, the one that truly sorts the experienced ex-pats from the wannabe's like me, is dealing with new pathogens. The need to adjust immune systems must surely be one of the most overlooked requirements in the grand scheme of an international move.

Ned Nederlander started the ball rolling; he came down with a man-cold a week or two after we arrived. I showed my usual level of sympathy for such ailments; I handed him a box of tissues and went outside with my guide book to find a new museum and a nice cafe.

A few weeks later, Grote Jongen found a cough-inducing pathogen somewhere on a snow-covered mountain in Austria.  While that pathogen almost required me to give up a day's skiing, I managed to convince him that the best remedy for a high temperature and a constantly convulsing chest was "just a couple more runs".  The following day the skiing endorphin rush that had caused my indifference had subsided, replaced by the more familiar maternal guilt. In grave anticipation of burst eardrums on our return flight to the Lowlands,  I provided a constant supply of sweets for him to suck throughout the descent, reasoning that dental treatment would be easier to access and afford than a lifetime supply of hearing aids and Auslan lessons.

However, further immune system adjustments were required, with Kleine Jongen succumbing to the same pathogen a few days later. We braced ourselves for our first European asthma attack, but it didn't eventuate and we notched up another immune adjustment with few significant consequences.

Not one to be out-illed by his sons, Ned required further immunity adjustment a week or so later. Fortunately, this adjustment provided an unexpected financial windfall. Ned, by nature a cautious soul, and scarred as he is by bitter experiences backpacking in dodgy destinations during his youth, has a habit of putting valuables in "safe" places. Unfortunately, these "safe places" are often eminently forgettable, such that our family has been known to spend a couple of days searching for Ned's laptop after we return from holidays, only to find it at the bottom of the washing basket the following Sunday. Whole weeks can go by before his treasured watch emerges from inside the blue sock at the back of the top shelf of the pantry. And so it was that in September 2011, during our initial trip to the Lowlands, Ned decided that his Australian valuables needed to be given his special security treatment.  Sadly, he was unable to recall their precise location when we returned to Australia, and we reluctantly accepted their loss.  However, during his recent immunity-adjustment, while peering forlornly into an empty packet of cold and flu lozenges, Ned suddenly let out a shriek of delight before sheepishly extracting $AU180, along with a Sydney Travel Ten, a Rabobank Sydney security pass and an annual membership card for the salubrious Gladesville Sporties Bowling Club. What could I do but shake my head, pick up my guide book and head out in search of a new museum and a nice cafe?


Alas, even more immunity adjustment proved to be necessary; I discovered Kleine Jongen once again prostrate on the lounge a day or two later.  "Ah, what you need is an outing", I pronounced. "On your bike,  we're off to the zoo". Sadly, that treatment proved undeniably ineffective, as after several hours of bravely feigning interest in the bears, sloths and sea-lions of Amsterdam, he returned to the domestic lounge and slept for the best part of 18 hours.  Meanwhile I was forced to admit that mothers don't always know best. My punishment was to guide a sweating, shivering, growling, prowling, barking, vomiting child through a further immunity adjustment for the next six days.

On the seventh day I rested, only to be roused by the school, phoning to say that Grote Jongen had "almost" passed out in class with a temperature of 39 degrees. "Thanks for letting me know" I said, momentarily looking up from my guidebook. There was a pause before the school nurse delicately suggested I should come and collect him. "But didn't you say "almost" passed out?" I enquired. " He didn't actually collapse, did he???"

"39 degrees", she responded firmly. "We'll see you soon".  I put down the guidebook and dutifully collected him. I then sat at home with him for the next seven days, wistfully watching spring emerge outside my window, occasionally mopping his brow and cleaning up his faux-vomits (brotherly competiveness never being too far from the surface in this family), while idly planning post-immunity-adjustment outings.  During that time we made a trip to the doctor, the pathologist and the pharmacist, none of which are recommended in my preferred guidebook.

The longed-for day finally arrived when everyone in the family was sufficently immunity-adjusted to leave me to my tourist ambitions.  Unfortunately that coincided with the first of not one, but TWO scheduled pupil-free days for Kleine Jongen. "What shall we do?", I asked on the morning of day one, in an unconvincing display of selflessness. 

" I just want to watch a DVD", he said.

"On your bike", I said, picking up the guidebook, and we walked out the door.

What just happened?

Finally, an update from the lowlands.  Every day is packed with multiple frustrations, amazements, lessons and amusements for all of us, so the two months we have been here sometimes seems like an eternity.  At the same time, the gross inefficiency that comes from trying to operate in a new country can add to the sense that time is just zooming by. There is nothing like spending three hours trying to log on to internet banking to remind you of the value of time and to emphasise the speed with which it passes (yes, even when one of us works for the very bank that provides the internet account). Now I know that many of you are reading this thinking “Really? Why don’t you just (insert helpful advice)”.  I tried them all – it still took three hours! And don’t even ask about the many times I have embarked on what should have been a ten minute dash to the supermarket, only to emerge dazed, confused and empty-handed, an hour later! The central heating instruction manual alone has consumed at least 72 hours of my life, and we still alternatively freeze and boil – Google Translate does little to assist in that situation, with helpful interpretations like “turn the right dial until ash temperature overworks”.

Despite all our clocks having been set to run extra-fast, I still thought it was worth reporting on some of the happenings since our early January arrival. 

The Not-Quite Canal House

The scene in our street on the day we moved in

We have been lucky enough to find a house, which we moved into in early February. Unfortunately, it’s not the grand 17^th century canal house you might have been hoping to come and visit, but we’ll be not far down the road from quite a few of those.  It’s the story of our lives; in Gladesville we lived “not far down the road” from some beautiful old sandstone houses with harbour views . . . in London we lived “not far down the road” from some spectacular mansions and royal palaces.  We seem forever destined to be just down the road from residential glory.  Still, we are very happy with our humble Amsterdam abode, which importantly will comfortably accommodate guests.  It is a two minute bike ride from Amsterdam’s magnificent Vondelpark, a 12 minute ride from the Rijksmuseum and a 3 minute stroll from a Michelin-starred restaurant and many other dining options.  It is also 100 metres from a prison, which might prove to be a useful incentive for good behavior by De Jongens, and two blocks from a psychiatric clinic, which raises all sorts of possibilities for the whole family.

A week or so after we moved in, I was dozing in bed at about 6am, enjoying the sound of rain on the roof, when I realised we are four floors below the roof, and it was actually the sound of water pouring into the basement rooms – guest room, storeroom, bathroom and study. Ned Nederlander, bravely channelling the boy with his finger in the dyke, could do little to hold back the tide emanating from a burst pipe next door. The water level peaked at about 30cm, giving us some excellent exposure to the Amsterdam emergency plumbers network, the local constabulary, our inquisitive (but very helpful) neighbours and the Dutch insurance company we had taken out a policy with a day or two earlier….

School Daze

To my great relief, de Jongens have fitted in extremely well at the International School of Amsterdam.  So far, there would appear to be an inverse relationship between the extent of one’s initial resistance to a change and the level of enjoyment one actually gets from said change. 

Grote Jongen, originally the most strident resister to a move to the lowlands, has been as happy as
a duck on a canal from the moment he entered the school;  socially he seems to be off and running,
as any of you unfortunate enough to be friends with him on FaceBook will know; academically he is
(so far) quite engaged.  I say "quite engaged" because you will need to overook the fact that he has been kicked out of a science class for ridiculous behaviour, received "no result" in a Dutch test, and hurled a maths text book across the room during a particularly frustrating homework session, but nothwithstanding those . . . ahem . . . .minor issues, he really does seem to be interested in the
classes.  For example, proving that school is much more fun now than a generation ago, he seemed
to genuinely enjoy learning about the periodic table.  When you least expect it, he trots out one or
two weird facts about the elements; this to my great consternation, as I struggle to remember the symbol for oxygen!  He has completed an amazing unit on religious extremism, and in an annoying demonstration of his newfound critical thinking and innovative analysis skills, has suggested that his parents’ constant preaching about table manners would serve as a useful case study for his class. He
is learning both Dutch and Spanish, at the speed that everyone tells you children learn languages.

Kleine Jongen is less effusive, but also happy. He has a teacher who appears to model himself on the teacher played by Robin Williams in Dead Poets Society, so it’s hard to imagine school being anything other than fabulous.  His seventeen class-mates represent about twelve different nationalities. The last few months of middle school involve researching and presenting a major small group project on a chosen subject – he has chosen “Special effects and props in movies”, which will be surprising to those who know him, as it involves neither a ball nor goalposts.  The catch is that although students may choose their own topic, they must fit it within a prescribed theme; namely “How creative thinking in my chosen area affects my thinking and the thinking of those around me”. No mean feat for a bunch of ten year olds.   Finished products from previous years put my undergraduate thesis to shame, so we are looking forward to seeing the outcome of his musings. His group of five boys have independently organised a field trip to a local production studio, with a couple of we curious mums noting that the email inviting them to come and have a look included an invitation to "stay for a small drinks party". Dutch liberalism in action.



It’s astonishing to hear both boys at the end of the school day –excitedly brimming with stories, facts, queries, explanations, translations. On any given afternoon, I might hear details of the first 20 elements of the periodic table, what “vaak” means in Dutch (pronounced f…  … oh never mind), the macaroni cheese in the cafeteria, techniques for texting your mother without the teacher noticing, explicit details of the game-winning goal scored during lunch break in the snow, what the Austrian artist Hundertwasser thinks about the relationship between onions and life, the effects of  the 2011 tsunami on Japanese migration patterns and something or other about improper fractions. That’s when I switch off.

Out and about

Shortly after arriving, we jumped on a train and took de Jongens on a day trip to Brussels, selling it to them as an opportunity to test and purchase vast quantities of chocolate, which we all duly did.

We then showed those Europeans a thing or two about skiing during a recent short sojourn to Innsbruck, Austria.  Skiing conditions were pretty close to perfect, leading to what may yet become known as “the best family holiday ever”.  

As of last Friday, we now have a car, which will hopefully make weekend escapes a little more likely, although that will require us to improve our ability to understand the nice Dutch woman in the sat. nav. system.  Last weekend, our comical inability to understand her instructions led us to unintentionally complete an impressive full circumnavigation of Amsterdam via the A10 ring road, narrowly escaping divorce and infanticide in the process!

However, even if we never manage to steer beyond the A10, we are excited by rumblings in cyberspace of several planned assaults on Europe by Australian friends and family, and we're quite confident we can find enough to amuse you all in the area within the A10's seemingly impenetrable barriers!

Finally

Thank you to all of you who have sent emails, Skyped and phoned since we arrived; it makes being on the other side of the world much more bearable to be in constant contact with you all, and hear your news.

Since this post has been two months in the making, I will delay it no longer and publish it now, ready or not.  My plan is to use The Low Down blog as a way of giving you the occasional update on our life in the lowlands (updates and downloads being a useful analogy for our life over here...).  My understanding of blog technology and processes is sadly tenuous, so I'll apologise in advance for any teething problems, although I admit to being cautiously optimistic about the prospect of having lots of disciples (or followers...whatever they are called).

With love,
The Dutchess xx