It's all downhill from here

It started with a tiny snow white lie in the early 1990s.

“Sure I can ski”, I assured my vaguely Nordic-looking emerging love interest when he asked about my abilities and my willingness to accompany him on an overnight cross-country skiing expedition. What I meant to say was, “Well, I’ve done it once before, for an afternoon”. But I didn’t.

Truth is, I was so besotted with this enchanting adventurer that I would have said anything in order to spend a long weekend with him. He, bless his trusting soul, took me at my word and asked no further questions; he simply set about organising our expedition with his usual thoroughness and reassuring competence.

I remained the personification of Naïve Confidence flirting with Youthful Arrogance. Embarrassment was their inevitable lovechild. If I thought - as I did – that I should be able to ski, then I was certain that I could damn well ski. So that's what I told him.

It was therefore a complete mystery to find myself some weeks later, face down in the snow; an undignified flailing snow-turtle trapped beneath a bulging back-pack. I’d managed to ski barely twenty metres from our car, before spectacularly revealing that I may have exaggerated my skiing ability to some extent.

That was my first encounter with the Snow Monster, an unpredictable and cruel mountain adversary. The Snow Monster usually lies hidden from view, but from time to time he shrugs or reaches out to grab the ankle of a passing skier and flip them unceremoniously onto their back. Or front. Or side. Or head.

A look of exasperation, intrigue and amusement momentarily flashed across the face of the Nordic-looking love interest as he levered me out of my humiliating position and set me upright again.

It is to that man’s eternal credit that he did not even consider giving up on me or our planned adventure. Instead, with his trademark patience and good humour he coached me up the mountain, across the magnificent tops for three days, and back down to the carpark. Each night we slept in a tent pitched directly on the snow, beneath spectacular twisted snow gums and a star-strewn sky.

The flailing snow-turtle, seen in 1992

He seemed perfect, and so, dear reader, I married him.

That same man has, on many occasions since, levered me out of an uncomfortable position, set me upright again and coached me up and over mountains, both literal and metaphoric. He still takes me at my word, and he still organises great adventures, although interestingly, we have never been cross-country skiing since.

I have however developed a belated passion for downhill skiing. It started in New Zealand in 2011, by which time Ned Nederlander and I had been married for so long that attempts by him to teach me to ski could have been potentially life-threatening for him. Instead, a young Italian ski instructor called Marco led me around the slopes, and I am still secretly chuffed at the memory of him telling me that I had a beautiful body position. Coincidentally, Ned had made a similar comment in the tent under the snow gums many years earlier so I figured it must be true …

I have spent several days in each of the last six years trying to defeat the Snow Monster, and realising in the process how broad is his reach and how ruthless are his tactics. I have encountered him in resorts in Austria, Switzerland and Italy, but never have his attacks been as unrelenting and merciless as they were last week in Nendaz, Switzerland.

In hindsight, I made myself unnecessarily vulnerable to the Snow Monster by agreeing to spend the week in Nendaz with our Dutch friends, the de Swoosh family. It is a fundamental rule in life, or at least it should be, that one does not ski with people who have an additional forty years’ experience when it comes to strapping narrow planks to feet and pointing them down an icy slope. I ignored that rule.

Beware the innocuous-looking Snow Monster of Nendaz

Having earlier experienced the risks associated with overstating one’s abilities, I tried to manage the de Swoosh’s expectations by confessing my relatively limited skiing prowess early. I suggested that they might like to leave me and my dignity to the blue runs while they explored further afield. They dismissed my offer and in a gesture of horrifying kindness and patience, insisted that I join them every day.

I hastily arranged a one hour lesson with an instructor. Tom, a big English bear who looked like he should be in a rugby ruck rather than swivelling his ample hips down a mountainside, was not as impressed with my body position as Marco and Ned had been.

“Mmmm, there’re a few funky things going on there,” he observed wryly after I gingerly proceeded down what was literally my first run in a year. I confessed that my awkwardness was due to the knowledge that I faced certain ignominy and possible injury - if not death - as I brought up the distant rear behind seven competent skiers for the next week. I felt sure that black runs would be involved. I was fairly certain that teenage ridicule was also a risk.

Tom and I paused mid-slope to discuss a strategy for countering my dilemma. As if on cue, Grote Jongen appeared before us, inquiring about the progress of the lesson. His beautiful face was somewhat bloodied, giving the impression that he might have recently been in a rugby ruck himself. Apparently it was the result of poorly adjusted bindings coming unstuck on an icy slope. To my eternal shame, my own beloved first born generated the tiniest feeling of schadenfreude, by reminding me that others could become victims of the Snow Monster too.

My evil thoughts were interrupted by the realisation that Grote Jongen was not alone. Kleine Jongen, Ned Nederlander, Mr and Mrs de Swoosh and their two teenage boys were all watching from a nearby vantage point.

“Don’t move until they’ve gone!” I instructed Tom petulantly, while cheerily waving at them and politely gesturing for them  to keep moving down the slope in front of us. Tom and I watched as Mr de Swoosh performed an effortless triple back flip and Mrs de Swoosh redefined “elegance” before our eyes. All four teenagers demonstrated their belief in the power of speed over style, and were out of sight in seconds. Ned had the good grace to shoot me an encouraging glance before he too was gone with a flick of his Nordic-looking love interest hips.

Hearing me sigh despondently, Tom turned to me.

“I have time to stay for a second hour if you would like,” offered this most sensitive of nimble rugby skiers. Reasoning that the required mountain of Swiss francs could be justified by the maintenance of my dignity, I accepted.

A rather ragtag Snake of Shame

Together we made some marked improvements not only to my body position, but also to my confidence. Before long I had stopped snarling at the Snakes of Shame, those infuriating lines of lithe, high-achieving bloody toddlers in ski schools. Earlier I had fought a strange urge to poke them all with my ski poles and feed them to the Snow Monster, but suddenly they began to look rather cute as my sense of comparative inadequacy subsided.

The rest of the week brought some spectacular encounters between the Snow Monster and me. He stretched and shifted his dormant body unexpectedly on several occasions, causing me to sprawl in a most ungainly manner. He wrapped his invisible tentacles around my legs and tugged maliciously. He upended me and dragged me down Humiliation Hill on my backside, before taunting me with the realisation that one of my skis needed to be retrieved from thirty metres back up the slope. In one particularly nasty interaction, he tackled me while I was barely moving across the flattest piece of piste in the resort. However, he also reminded me of the benefit of being last in one's group; which is that there were seldom any witnesses to my inelegant misadventures. By the time the others realised that I might have fallen, I had generally managed to extract my head from the snow, brush off the Snow Monster’s fluffy excrement and regain an upright position.

But as well as battling the callous Snow Monster, I also experienced some rather exhilarating encounters way beyond the extremes of my comfort zone. The effects of altitude are quite possibly to blame for my decision to join the others in descending an ungroomed mogul-covered black run on our third day, just as the clouds swooped in, the lights went out and visibility decreased to about two metres.

Ten seconds into the run, so eleven seconds after I forfeited any chance of pursuing an alternative descent, a hot flush of hysteria and primal panic took hold of my legs. At least that’s what I assumed it was; it’s equally likely that it was the unfortunate result of my very weak pelvic floor muscles. There seemed little value in evaluating the real cause of my discomfort, so instead I dug my skis into the Snow Monster’s ornery back, plunged my ski poles into his shrugging shoulders and laughed at him. I have no doubt it was not at all pretty, and I will be forever grateful that Kleine Jongen and his confounded helmet-mounted video camera did not capture that particular battle. That camera is a thief of self-esteem. It repeatedly shatters my belief that I could be mistaken for Mrs de Swoosh when descending a slope and instead shows that I resemble a Telly Tubby on sticks. And that is on the easy slopes.

Some centuries later I arrived at the base of the ungroomed black run, my heart thumping, my pride soaring, my breathing rapid, my mask fogged by the tears of terror and frustration I had involuntarily shed half way down the slope. No, let’s not call it a slope; let’s call it a cliff, because I’m pretty sure that’s what it was.

A Telly Tubby on sticks?

I had fought the Snow Monster and won a significant battle, even if not the entire war. We sparred on and off over the following days, and finished pretty evenly poised, although I suspect my bruises will take longer to subside than his. Of course, such battles are not fought without strong support, and I am grateful to have wonderful friends like the de Swoosh family, whose company, generosity, good humour and encouragement underwrote my snowy skirmishes. I should definitely show more appreciation for my trusting, competent, Nordic-looking love interest, who shoots me encouraging glances when I most need them, murmurs beautiful lies about my on-slope ability and compliments my body position with a straight face.  And of course I am both grateful and relieved that the teenage ridicule did not eventuate. In fact, the undoubted highlight of my week occurred on our last day of skiing. Grote Jongen, skiing  just in front of me on our favourite run, stopped to wait for me. I braced for "You took your time", but instead he said simply, and without apparent irony, "Very elegant". There was nobody else in sight, so I choose to believe he was talking about me. I floated the rest of the way down.

So even though it might still not be entirely accurate, the next time Ned inquires about my skiing ability, I will say, with slightly more justification than I had when we first took to the snow together, “Ski? Sure I can ski.”

Cross-stressing

Today is A-Day.

That’s how our family refers to January 8. It’s the anniversary of our 2012 arrival in Amsterdam.  Amsterdam Day. Arrival Day. Aankomst dag.

On our first A-Day anniversary I baked an apple tart and decorated it with some Eucalyptus leaves I bought from our local florist. I thought it was a terribly sophisticated melding of cultures. Ned Nederlander, ever the agricultural scene-stealer, pointed out that my thoughtful garnish had probably not come from our Antipodean homeland, but in all likelihood had been imported from a plantation in Africa. De Jongens commented, as they do at almost every meal, that “this would be better without the green stuff". Maybe this year I can take creative cross-cultural symbolism to even greater heights; perhaps a Gouda pavlova or some wattle-seed bitterballen. Chuck another herring on the barbie.

Whatever our family does to celebrate A-Day 2016, the cross-cultural highlight of my time in Amsterdam is (and will likely forever be) my weekly meetings with a small group of parents from De Jongens’ school. For the past few years I have had the enormous privilege of leading an English conversation group for an hour a week as part of a wonderful parent-run program called Let’s Talk.

Participants have come and gone over the years, as is the beautiful, horrible reality of an international community. Each of them has inspired me with their humility, determination, humour and openness. They have graciously shared a piece of France, Japan, South Korea, Israel, Iran, Hungary, India, Germany, the Czech Republic, Catalonia and many other places with me, and made my world so much richer.

 

They teach me far more than I could ever dream of teaching them. I teach them about irregular verbs; they teach me about the world. It hardly seems a fair exchange. We don’t use a workbook or a lesson plan. We simply talk. And laugh. And eat. We’re proof that if more people in the world sat down and ate together, there would be fewer conflicts. Recently I took them to The Drover’sDog, the best Australian café this side of Boronia Park’s Unwritten, and as a result some in our Let's Talk group are convinced that lamingtons have the potential to achieve world peace.

Together, we navigate vast and frequently-amusing inter-cultural chasms; I come away from every session with my spirit soaring, my sides splitting and my head spinning. Inevitably, I also come away with my own understanding of this ridiculous language greatly undermined.

Try explaining the pronunciation and spelling of ought, taught, taut, and sort and you’ll start to agree. Then clearly and rationally explain why an alarm goes off but a light goes on.

Keep a straight face while you insist that your nose runs and your feet smell, even while your nose is smelling and your feet are running. It’s a ridiculous language, which is partly why I love it.
 
Our Let’s Talk group talks about everything and nothing: weddings, grammar, national politics, feminism, food, international politics, restaurants, idioms, child birth, food, dogs, moving countries, staying put, going home, vocabulary, food, raising teenagers, past participles, raising pre-teenagers, social blunders, linguistic blunders, food, careers, eating, verb phrases. And food.  Oh, and on one memorable occasion, penises. But that’s a story for another time.

This experience -these people - have changed me. The most tangible change that they inspired is that I have recently become a formally qualified teacher of English to adults. In the process I also became a stark-raving lunatic, obsessing over concept-checking questions, student-centeredness, receptive skills, lexical sets and the phonemic chart.  How hard can it be, I arrogantly thought when I enrolled, to teach a language that you’ve already got covered? As it turns out it’s extremely hard, and very stressful.
 

On more than one occasion during one of my frequently disastrous practice lessons I wanted to run from the classroom screaming, far from the furrowed brow of my tutor, the sympathetic grimace of my fellow-teachers and the bewildered expressions of the students.  During the course I had to resubmit not one but two assignments, with all the associated loss of dignity that brings. No mother should have to suffer the humiliation of having her own son glance at her desk and say, with a cruel smirk “Resubmit, eh? Who'd have thought?” 

But I passed, and in doing so I was forced to acknowledge that being a “real” teacher involves more than sitting around and talking, laughing and eating (even though I’d had considerable success with that approach for the past few years ...).  I haven’t yet decided if I want to be a “real” teacher or a “talking, laughing, eating” teacher, or indeed whether I can be both. Or perhaps there’s another option that I’m yet to discover. Mid-life career changes raise so many questions ...

But answers must wait because first I have to celebrate my fourth A-Day. I’m going to start it in the best way I can think of; by going to my weekly Let’s Talk meeting first thing this morning. This wonderful, eclectic group has raised cross-cultural symbolism and inter-linguistic hilarity to heights that I could never have imagined when I first lay a Eucalyptus sprig across an apple tart. Of course they must share my A-Day.

Surrounded by inspiring women

Let's Talk. And Laugh. And Eat.

NOT just another Friday night in Amsterdam

It’s Friday night. I’m home alone. I have a nice bottle of red wine and a big box of chocolates. I have internet access, and I have plenty of time to think. Few combinations could be more dangerous.

Ned Nederlander is playing old man’s football and will be home late, no doubt after enjoying several convivial post-game beers with his Howling Hamstrings team mates. He’ll be a bit sore tomorrow and will do his usual weekend thing of bemoaning his aging body. A couple of hours prostrate on the sofa after his morning coffee and a lazy breakfast tomorrow will help him forget his problems. Dinner at a lovely restaurant tomorrow evening and whatever marital benefits might follow that will certainly help him forget his aching muscles.

Right now Kleine Jongen, after a day innocently kicking a ball and eating junk food with friends is sleeping comfortably in a beautiful house in the canal district, cared for by adults we know, love and trust – in the very heart of one of the most beautiful cities in the world. Poor boy broke his arm two days ago. But within an hour of arriving at a clean and modern health facility, he was treated by competent, compassionate, hijab-wearing health professionals and sent on his way. His biggest problem right now is that his injury might hinder his chances of selection in the Junior Varsity football team, and that he has to play Xbox left handed for the next few weeks. His cast also gives him a few toileting challenges. Oh well.

Grote Jongen popped home earlier tonight to recharge his phone and to down a quick bowl of pasta. As he refuelled, he mused over how easy it is to accept quirks and eye-rolling frustrations in friends that add more to our lives than they demand in return. I inquired about the chances of a similar attitude to parents. He smiled. I silently thanked whatever god was listening for allowing me to become the mother of a fascinating and engaging human with thought-provoking perspectives on life. Said child has since cycled off into the autumnal Amsterdam night to do whatever it is that 16 year olds do in Amsterdam on a Friday night. Because Ned and I are utterly opposed to using technology to track our children’s whereabouts, I have only the vaguest idea of where he is. However, I am reasonably confident that he will be home in a few hours. He will fall into his warm bed, with few concerns other than his overdue biology assignment.

And then there’s Petra.

Petra turned up on my doorstep late this afternoon. She lives in the same street as me, but in almost four years here I’ve never met her before. She introduced herself before confirming that 450 male asylum seekers are being temporarily housed nearby. She asked if I could donate some clothing for them.

These men; real live men, with real live children, and real live mothers bereft with worry about them, are ONE HUNDRED METRES from my house. The house where I‘m drinking my red wine and eating the pasta cooked by my happy, assignment-avoiding 16 year old. The house where I hugged my other boy and his plaster cast after we caught the reliable public transport home from hospital together. The house with the internet connection that allows me to post whatever I damn well want on social media. The house where I will sleep soundly tonight.

One hundred metres away from where I sit right now, four hundred and fifty men sit and wonder about their future, and no doubt about their past. If I lean a little to my left, disconnecting myself slightly from my bottle of red wine, and peer out of my double-glazed window, past a charming window box of fresh herbs, I can see the fence that contains those men. If I walked down 34 carpeted steps, onto the footpath, past the Thai take-away, over two tram tracks, across a bike path and through a small gate, I could be amongst them. It would take less than two minutes. When I got there, if I spoke Arabic, I could understand their stories and find out what had driven them to take the unfathomable risks that have landed them there.

I could hear stories of men who have fled their own homes leaving behind their own teenagers. I could find out what drove them to risk their lives and all that is familiar and comfortable and comforting and dear. What unthinkable force caused them to leave the lovers with whom they had shared beds and dreams? What drove them to tread unknown roads and leave sons with broken arms and broken hearts?  What strength was needed to leave an unfinished conversation with their son about friendship and loyalty and tolerance and trust? I cannot imagine.

These men need many things at the moment. At the very least they need a change of clothes, they need shaving cream, they need paracetamol to ease their sore arm, and miracle cures for sore hearts. They need a new toothbrush. They need a conversation about friendship.

Petra is collecting clothing, toiletries and time passers like chess games and decks of cards for those men. She knows someone who can somehow magically bypass the bureaucracy that seems to insist on regulated giving via well-meaning but cumbersome non-profits. She knows someone who will ensure that our donations are given directly to those men at the end of my street. Come Monday she might also need to explain to Ned why his wardrobe is almost empty, his wife having emptied most of it into a large green garbage bag and handed it over to a woman she just met.

Amsterdam readers - if you have a jacket, a pair of jeans, a t-shirt, a scarf, a pair of socks or indeed any small token of friendship and masculine compassion, then please get in touch with me this weekend. I’ll do what I can to ensure that the angelic Petra is able to take it across those tram tracks and through those gates on Monday.

Pedicures, white asparagus and trips to heaven

I love May.

That reminds me, I must book a pedicure

After months of low grey skies, vicious cold winds and depressing drizzle in the northern hemisphere, May pops up, cheerful and promising. May is like the arrival of a favourite aunt at a dull gathering of your extended family. While no-one openly acknowledges it, everyone is anxiously and hopefully awaiting her arrival. When she finally bursts through the door, all cuddly and bubbly, sassy and bossy, everyone relaxes. She deposits armsful of fresh produce and homemade delights on the table, then with a sly wink and an irreverent hoot pops the cork from the champagne bottle. Within minutes, everyone is dancing and laughing and telling inappropriate jokes in front of the children, having forgotten how boring things were before May came along.

The arrival of Aunty May here in the lowlands not only brings promises of champagne, dancing and laughing, but also sunshine, greenery, tulips and (crucially for me) white asparagus. All are essential to the post-winter regeneration of the soul.

White asparagus - a special treat from Aunty May

Aunty May’s arrival brings unspoken secondary benefits too, including (but not limited to) the urgent undertaking of overdue pedicures, waxing and exfoliation , which to my mind are also essential for the wellbeing of the soul.

But one of the best things about Aunty May coming to the lowlands is that you know it’s holiday time. There are so many holy days at this time of year that I feel compelled to provide an (outsider’s) explanation.

King’s Day, 27 April – the warm-up

Fools in orange sequins and feathers

The string of Dutch public holy days starts a few days before Aunty May arrives in town with Koningsdag, a remarkable preparatory event that sees the entire country shrug off its dusty winter coat and replace it with a festive cloak of orange sequins and feathers.

The Dutch celebrate the monarch’s birthday in a bewildering display of intensely overt nationalism which somehow – possibly because most people look like circus escapees – manages to be as hilarious as it is inoffensive. It is a holy day in the truest sense of those words – it celebrates something that is sacrosanct, faithfully adhered to and widely revered. And by day’s end you see a lot of people bowing down, speaking in strange tongues and occasionally lying prostrate. It can be a very religious experience.

Remembrance Day, 4 May – a complicated reminder

The reverie subsides quickly and sobriety returns in time to mark Remembrance Day on May 4. In other countries it is known as Star Wars Day (“May the Fourth be with you”) or as Audrey Hepburn’s birthday (a woman well worth remembering in her own right).

But here in the lowlands, it is a day to acknowledge all those who have fallen, not only in battle but also in resistance and in persecution.



One of my favourite Amsterdam monuments, in memory of the women of Ravensbruck 1940-1945.
For she who went to extremes to speak out against fascism

While not a public holiday, it is a day that resonates strongly with the Dutch, who come out in force to contemplate their complex history. As an outsider, I am fascinated by what I see as a strange mix of survivor’s pride, enabler’s guilt, beneficiary’s gratitude and modernist’s resolve. In an attempt to understand it I (and a thousand or so of my closest Dutch friends) walked in the Mayor’s Silent March in the late afternoon light on Remembrance Day this year.


A slow and silent march, giving plenty of time to
contemplate my Dutch vocabulary

 
The march, which is a hauntingly silent holy pilgrimage, follows a three kilometre route from Museumplein to the national monument at Dam Square, passing several beautiful memorials along the way. The walk, led by the Mayor of Amsterdam and a couple of hypnotising military drummers, provides ample opportunity to remember the millions of lives lost and the incomprehensible resilience that has been shown in re-building this country over the past seventy years.

At 8pm, the country observes a two minute silence, so whether you are driving a tram, walking the dog, cycling from work, or as Ned Nederlander and I were, tucking into a meal in a restaurant with friends, you are compelled to stop and remember.

 

I harnessed appropriate thoughts for a large proportion of the two minute period, but because I am a woman with a short concentration span, I confess that my mind wandered during the last thirty seconds. At that point I became distracted, as I often do, by a word. It suddenly occurred to me that the Dutch word for Remembrance Day is Dodenherdenking which for someone with as loose a grip on the language as I have, can be crudely translated as “rethinking about the dead”. I was reminded, as if I needed it, of how much I love linguistics and how grateful I am for the sacrifice that the contemporary Dutch population makes in allowing me to butcher their language and participate in their culture.

Liberation Day, 5 May – freedom from seriousness

The following day, May 5, is Bevrijdingsdag, the anniversary of the end of the occupation of the Netherlands during World War II. It generates a significant change in pace and mood; it is celebratory and upbeat, and a great excuse for a party or at least a couple of wild and debaucherous music festivals. However, for reasons that only Dutch bureaucrats understand, Bevrijdingsdag has been declared a five yearly public holiday, including as luck would have it, 2015. So this year we were granted another holy day and another reason to love Aunty May.

Ascension Day , 14 May – a missed opportunity?

We have barely caught our breaths before we are hit with another holy day and another wonderfully evocative example of Dutch linguistic creativity. Ascension Day, a blessed public holiday in the lowlands, occurs forty days after Easter, therefore always a Thursday, marking the day when Jesus ascended to heaven. The Dutch refer to it as Hemelvaartsdag, which, at least to my simple mind, translates as Trip to Heaven Day. Pondering this recently, Ned Nederlander remarked that if Jesus had delayed his trip for just one more day, he would have gone to heaven on a Friday, and we would all have a long weekend each year. However, since He did choose Thursday, and giving due consideration to the potential for jet lag, perhaps in future Heemelvaarts Friday should be declared a recovery day and therefore a public holiday? Then again, the Australian government doesn’t even recognise Trip to Heaven Day as being worthy of a public holiday, so I should simply be grateful for a lazy Thursday, especially one with such a cute vocabularial twist.

Pentecost days, 24 and 25 May – pent up double-dipping

The Dutch do however grab a sneaky extra day’s break during the final fabulous holy days of May. The Dutch refer to this time, the fiftieth day after Easter when the Holy Spirit came upon the disciples, as Pinksterdagen. It is known as Pentecost in many other countries (as in pentathlon, pentatonic, pentagon ...get it? Multiples of five; huh, that’s clever). It is typically marked with appropriate Sunday church services, although it seems to seldom be celebrated with a public holiday. Additionally, the Dutch (with no biblical authority as far as I can tell) have declared the day after Pentecost Sunday to be worthy of a break from work and school, referring to it simply as “Second Pentecost Day”. It’s generally seen as a day to worship at the retail altar. In an even more far-fetched interpretation of Pentecost, the administrators at De Jongens’ school have declared the following Tuesday to be an in-service day. Not such good news for teachers, but an excellent win for parents and students wanting to get away over a four day long weekend with sunny Aunty May.

Opa's Octacost, May 18 - a lesser known holy day

Opa Max, Ned Nederlander's widely-adored father, turns 80 tomorrow. Most of his children and grandchildren gathered around him and Oma Hilary at a Sydney waterfront restaurant this weekend to celebrate. Sadly, neither Ned, De Jongens nor I were there to share the celebrations in person - regrettable proof of the tyranny of distance. But that will not stop us from celebrating the wonderful contribution he has made to all of our lives.

Opa Max casts his golden spell over the Netherlands

during a recent visit

He loves, supports, steadies, amuses, impresses, nurtures and gently guides us all. We are all better people for having Opa Max in our lives.

It is my firm belief that a public holiday should be declared in his honour.

Happy birthday Opa Max.

 

 

The politics of goose poo

Such is my status in Dutch society that I have, only hours ago, cast my vote in my first Dutch election. I love a good voting opportunity, whether it is to choose a national government, a school board member or to settle a family dispute about which take-away to order on Friday. Family members and long-term-friends have endured decades of my political rants, and they know how dearly I hold my civic duty and democratic right to vote. Despite their often flimsy foundations, these rants have been enthusiastically delivered through a variety of means including drunken dinner party debates, feisty letters to editors and nerdy “statement t-shirts”. On one memorable occasion, at a generously liquid reception at the US embassy in La Paz, which Ned Nederlander and I somehow accessed, I even debated some now-forgotten political point (in Spanish) with a British embassy staffer. I recall him looking at me with some bemusement, perhaps because I don’t actually speak Spanish. Apparently that night I thought I did. Ole.

 

My opinions have been freely provided (and come to think of it, almost invariably unsolicited) across many platforms. But until now they have not been formally sought in a global setting, notwithstanding those excruciating five minutes in La Paz.

So it was with considerable enthusiasm that I received my Dutch stempas or voting pass through the post a few weeks ago. Even though you didn’t ask, can I just take a second to tell you that I have realised that the Dutch word stem means both “to vote” and “voice” – another one of those smile-inducing linguistic moments.



 

The stempas was evidence that the Dutch provincial elections were imminent. The fact that I was the recipient of my own stempas was evidence that my entry to global politics was also imminent. Admittedly, my inability to name a single candidate gave me a slight cause for concern, but since a lack of knowledge has never before dissuaded me from providing a strident opinion, I convinced myself that I’d be up to speed in no time and ready to vote come March 18.

Sadly, early in my electoral research I came to the shattering realisation that I was in fact not eligible to vote in the provincial election. This was due to my not yet having lived in the Lowlands for five consecutive years. Three years ... five years ... personally I don’t see much difference.

 

However a dubious consolation vote was on offer. It seems that two concurrent elections were scheduled for March 18 and I was eligible to vote in the second – the Dutch Water Board or Waterschappen elections. These represent a fourth layer of government after the national, provincial and municipal administrations. Based on my Australian experience, three layers of government is way too cumbersome. How then can this nation of 17 million people support four layers?

 

Initially I scoffed at the triviality of my electoral opportunity, uncertain whether even I could muster the enthusiasm to vote in such a contest.

But before you also scoff, consider how crucial water management is in this country. More than a quarter of the Lowlands lies below sea level, a feat only made possible by the one thousand kilometres of dykes holding back the “water wolf”. 

The (Water) Wolf at the door

This country, measuring only 600 by 450 kilometres, contains six thousand kilometres of natural and artificial water courses within its boundaries.

So if you’re going to vote for a Water Board member in any country in the world, it’s going to be here, right? Elect a group of incompetent fools and it can put a dampener on your whole day. The country will be flooded with complaints.
 
So I set out to educate myself before I headed to the polling booth. I discovered that there are 22 water boards, spread across the twelve Dutch provinces. In my (unsolicited) opinion, that smacks a little of over governance. Undeterred, I went on to identify my own local Water Board. It goes by the decidedly dry name of Amstel, Gooie en Vecht. To my dismay I then discovered that no fewer than thirteen parties have nominated candidates in Amstel, Gooie en Vecht, suggesting quite a bit of fluidity in policy variation, with considerable potential for overlap. My dedication to my civic duty began to waver.

Fortunately, an entire website has been created to help me make my choice between the thirteen parties. It’s called the Choice Compass, and I suspect that several of my friends are secretly hoping for a hyperlink. Here it is.

The Choice Compass comprises a series of thirty questions on different water policy issues, each with a brief background explanation. Respondents indicate their position on a scale from Completely Agree through to Completely Disagree. The thirteen parties indicate their position on each question, so respondents can see which party they are most aligned with.

I entered my responses, with the characteristic gusto of a woman comfortable giving her own opinion regardless of her knowledge of the topic. The only question that really stopped me in my tracks was a request for my opinion on goose culling. This was not something I had previously given a lot of thought to, although as a cyclist I do find goose poo to be a nuisance when it is deposited in disturbingly large blobs by reckless birds on rural canal-side cycle paths. Whether that makes the geese themselves a nuisance worthy of culling, I am not so certain about. On a related note, I have imposed family sanctions on fois gras purchases for as long as I can remember. For the record I find the force-feeding of birds barbaric. But that's just my opinion.




"To reduce nuisances, the Water Authority ... may kill geese"

I was also a little perplexed by a question about whether development aid should continue. I think this has something to do with sharing Dutch water management expertise, which in a world challenged by drastic climate change, I’m in favour of. However, not entirely certain what actually lay behind this question, I decided to interpret it in an Australian context, solely to suit my own political purposes.



"The Water Authority ... should stop with development aid"

Still fuming that Tony Abbott’s conservative Australian government recently slashed its development aid budget by 20%, I thought it might be a good opportunity to make the point that I Completely Disagree that any government should stop development aid. And so another unsolicited political opinion is expressed.

After completing the questions, the website helpfully elucidated my position on Dutch water management. Two minutes earlier, I hadn’t known that I even had a position on Dutch water management, although of course if pushed I probably could have given you one.

The red circle on my Results page shows my position relative to the standing parties.



Slightly left of centre ... who would have guessed?

I was somewhat disappointed to be so far removed from the enticingly named 50 Plus Party, but I was happy to find myself relatively aligned with the Water Natuurlijk Party, whose logo I was quite taken by.

Duly informed, I took myself off to the nearest polling booth, having practised the Dutch word for “goose poo”, on the off chance that an exit pollster might seek my views on the big issues of the day. I stood in the booth for at least ten minutes, partly because I was revelling in my newfound role of Global Voter, but more because I was more than a little taken aback by the table-cloth sized voting paper. Thirteen parties sure, but the fact that several of them had around twenty candidates was something that Choice Compass had not prepared me for! Are there really that many Dutch people that keen to be involved in dyke maintenance, groundwater allocation and goose culling? And how should I prioritise those individuals?

But there is no longer time to ponder such questions, for now I must turn my attention to the New South Wales election to be held on 26 March. Readers can only imagine my glee at recently receiving a letter inviting me to submit an online absentee vote in an election that I actually know a little about. I can even log on and practise voting if I want to!
 

Then, to top off my week , Grote Jongen enrolled in Global Politics as one of his IB Diploma subject choices. Yes, I've read all the parenting books about not living vicariously through your children, but surely you'll  give me this one? I'm already excited about reading his text book.

So then, two elections in two hemispheres within two weeks, followed by two years of living with a Global Politics student. In my opinion, that’s too exciting.

Leaving. Again

It’s turning out to be a rougher flight than I expected. According to the map on the back of the seat in front of me we are just crossing the northern Australian coastline. Darwin is apparently to the north west of us, although the thick clouds outside the window suggest that it is equally likely that we are at the North Pole. Our entry to the airspace above the Arafura Sea has been met with quite some meteorological resistance, so the captain has switched on the seatbelt sign, which always makes me nervous mid-flight. Actually, I am nervous for the duration of any flight, but this one is proving to be particularly challenging. For this time, as well as being physically jostled and tossed in my seat I also feel anxious, excited, guilty, concerned, grateful, and a little confused about exactly which country my head is in. Turns out it’s split between two.

Almost three weeks ago, Ned Nederlander, De Jongens and I flew into Sydney for a Christmas visit. Until recently, that flight would have marked the end of a three year ex-pat adventure in the Lowlands; we were due to come “home” to the harbour city to stay. We had expected to close the book on our three year adventure and fall comfortably back into step with the kith and kin who had so graciously encouraged our odyssey in the first place. Instead, a couple of months ago we made the exhausting, excruciating, exhilarating decision to stay in the Lowlands for a few more years. Arriving at that decision was torturous, as the long-suffering friends who propped us up during the process will attest. Weighing up the relative benefits of life in Sydney and Amsterdam felt like making a choice between the mango pannacotta and the chocolate tasting plate at the end of a sumptuous feast. A little bit of both would be perfect, but sadly not a menu option.

 

Our final decision to remain a while longer in the Lowlands meant that the planned permanent homecoming morphed into a temporary visit. Suddenly that visit is over and as I type, we are en route back to an extended Lowlands experience. Somewhat unexpectedly, I’m finding that a bit confronting.

Our drive to the airport this morning was subdued and pensive. At the check-in counter, I was surprised by a sudden desire to call the whole thing off and go straight to the beach for one more pine-lime Splice. Minutes later the universe seemed to be colluding with me, as my old and battered passport refused to allow itself to be scanned. While official brows were furrowed and calls to supervisors were made, I decided to avoid asking the obvious question of why my passport number could not simply be typed manually into the computer like in the old days. Truth is, I was secretly thrilled at the thought that I might be granted a few more days of harbour-side seafood lunches with girlfriends while a replacement passport was produced. My fantasy was short-lived however as moments later I was waved through the barrier with a cheery and oh-so-Australian “you’re good to go, love”. I strolled over to my waiting family, still puzzled as to why I was not more enthusiastic about returning to the Lowlands.

Now, some hours into the flight, I remain confused and conflicted. The in-flight map on the screen in front of me shows the familiar outline of Australia disappearing behind me. A figurative aeroplane glides over the map, indicating our current location. I concentrate hard and will the little plane to turn around, but I am childishly distressed to realise that it is after all moving forward, millimetre by millimetre. A solid yellow stripe emanates from the tail of the graphic aeroplane and stretches all the way back to Sydney, reminding me of where I’ve come from. A dashed yellow line stretches out across the ocean in front of us, indicating where we are going next. It disappears off the side of the map, reminding me that I really have no idea where I am headed, other than to the edge. I am worried that this yellow line is a pixellated cartographic allegory for my life, but then I am unexpectedly cheered by the realisation that even in my mental confusion, I can still generate phrases like “pixellated cartographic allegory”. How good is this third glass of wine??

The flight information screen is a veritable smorgasbord of data but frankly it adds to my confusion. For example, I so wish that I didn’t know that it’s 6:58pm where I’ve just come from, 3:58pm where I am heading for a brief stopover, and 8:58am at my final destination. How on earth (or in the air) am I supposed to process that in my current emotional state? It is equally unhelpful for me to learn that it is 30^oC at my departure airport, minus 55^oC outside the window where I am currently sitting, 16^oC at my imminent stopover destination and probably 1^oC or less at my final destination.

So, here I am, being propelled through the sky in a metal tube, more than eleven kilometres above the coastline of my homeland. Apparently, in 5 hours and 18 minutes the tube will come to a stop and I will be squeezed out of it. I will wait a few hours before entering another metal tube and continuing to travel backwards in time and space for a further twelve and a half hours on my mind-bending, emotion-contorting journey. By then I will be fundamentally altered, hemispherically, temporally, seasonally and thermally. I will need to then gather myself for a potentially uncomfortable conversation with a Dutch immigration officer, who will no doubt expect a good explanation for the fact that my residency permit expired yesterday, and who is likely to take some convincing that I expect an extension to be forthcoming any day now. At that, I wonder if the pilot would consider turning around and delivering me back to Sydney, but emotional exhaustion gets the better of me and I fall asleep before I can ask him.

On waking I watch a movie, titled somewhat prophetically “This is Where I Leave You” (spooky, huh?). Four adult siblings spend a week with their loving but eccentric mother (oooh, that’s a bit close to the bone).

They laugh, reminisce, confess, squabble, expose, reveal, infuriate, divide and unite (is it just me or is it hot in here?). In the final dramatic scene, one of the siblings is inspired to leave the family gathering somewhat impetuously, jump into a conveniently parked convertible and drive, wind in hair, uplifting music pounding, to a distant destination that he has long dreamed about visiting (okay, that's enough). Actually, the plot is much more sophisticated than I make it sound, but it’s hard for me to channel sophistication while I am snivelling like a baby at the thought of leaving my own family and friends some hours earlier.

Somewhere around the time we crossed the equator (I guess it was near the very point where water starts to go down the drain in the opposite direction), my spinning head finally calmed. In Hong Kong airport, we were reunited with friends from Amsterdam who were transferring onto the same flight as us. Sitting with them at the departure gate, chatting about mutual friends, speculating about emerging controversies at our local football club and observing the easy friendship between their boys and De Jongens was grounding and reassuring. I became aware of a number of people around us speaking Dutch; the much-loved soundtrack of our lowlands life, and I happily let it wash over me (while pondering how good it would be if I understood more than one word in fifty). Meanwhile, Grote Jongen nodded at a stunning girl standing nearby and when I raised a curious maternal eyebrow he was quick to explain that she was in his grade at school. Kleine Jongen stopped talking about the Australian cricket team and instead returned to musing aloud about the English Premier League. Ned Nederlander mentioned work for the first time in a fortnight and casually remarked that he’d be making a day trip to Germany in a couple of days. So began the slow re-entry to my other world, and with it the gradual settling of my turbulent emotions.

Taxiing from the terminal in Hong Kong for the last leg of my latest journey, I pondered the incredibly good fortune of being able to leave one place I call “home” in order to go to another place I also call “home”, and to be equally enamoured with them both. I considered the great gift of being equally “at home” in two cities on opposite sides of the globe, and the even greater gift of being free to choose between them. It seems the price of such a privilege is that I am destined to live with my heart split between two countries, my head swivelling Janus-like between them, my feet itching relentlessly to skip to the other place and then wanting to come back again.

For now I'll happily pay that price, and endure the occasional turbulence that goes with it. So this is where I leave you ... at least until I come back.