All content on this blog is protected under copyright, unless indicated otherwise. If you would like to share something do so by linking here or email me.
My neglect of this blog is embarrassing and really has no excuse. I don't think even the most sincere apology will be sufficient. For the past few days I haven't had access to wifi at home so I'm scrounging some off at Panera. My dearest reader, there is so much I need and want to tell you but I just don't have the time right now. Until I get my wifi fixed here is a little follow up.
Hagelslag
Remember those messy but delicious sprinkles that are a staple of the Dutch lunch? I bought a box from World Market. I have a love-hate relationship with this particular delicacy. For all the times I had to spend sweeping them from the kitchen in Holland and wiping down the children vigorously only to find them scattered about regardless, I still caved in a bought some because I suppose, in a way, I have missed them. The sprinkles that is. The children I'll address in another post.
Paul
Remember Paul, my family's foreign exchange student last summer? He stayed in my room while I was in Holland and when I got back, aside from leaving some shopping bags hidden in a corner, he also forgot some French newspapers on the floor by my bed. I've kept them.
Gifts
Remember the gifts from abroad I was excited about giving people? They've all been distributed and I think everyone liked them.
Anne Frank
Remember when I visited the secret hideaway in Amsterdam with my friend Caitlyn? And how much admiration I have for Anne? I'm volunteering now at the Georgia Commissions for the Holocaust's Anne Frank Around the World Exhibit. It makes me very happy to be able to hang out with Anne a few hours every week.
Yoga
Remember that one time I used getting back into yoga as a metaphor for adjusting after time abroad? Well, I still haven't mastered the headstand yet. I'm closer every practice. But I just wanted to fix a little case of mistaken identity. The instructor who I referred to as Glenn in that post is actually Jason. Glenn teaches on Thursday evenings and he is very different from Jason.
Sweden
Remember that one time I stayed with my wonderful relatives in Sweden? Well, I still carry that with me every day and it is a part of who I am. There is a wonderful blog, The Modern Viking Vixen: A Foreigner's Guide to American Survival, written by a Norwegian living in L.A. She is by far one of my favorite bloggers. And if you're reading this blog then you should be reading hers. I'm still flattered and honored to have been featured in one of her Motivational Monday posts. Check it out!
Last weekend when I returned from Amsterdam I found that the Christmas tree was up in the living room and remnants of Sinterklaas' and Zwarte Piet's surprises stored in my room.
I've been doing some research about how the Dutch celebrate Christmas and I really like what I discovered. I hope you're ready for a little history lesson because this particular holiday is a wonderful blend of Holland and the United States...
Sinterklaas. Saint Nicholas. Nicolas of Myra. Patron saint of children, sailors, and Amsterdam.
He was born in Patara (part of modern Turkey) during the third century. He came from a wealthy family but he gave his time and money to helping the poor. He died on December 6th, 347 A.D. He is commemorated on that date. He lives in Spain and comes to the Netherlands by boat in mid-November. Between then and December 6th he makes appearances throughout the country with his helper(s), Zwarte Piet(en). He keeps a very clean schedule so as not to appear in two places at once. Then, on the eve of his death, children put out their shoes with a carrot for his white horse. Sinterklaas leaves treats and gifts behind for the children. However, he kidnaps those who have had bad behavior.
Although the Dutch adapted the saint and created a tradition based on the legend, Sinterklaas isn't entirely a Dutch invention. Many elements of the story and celebration can be traced to pagan aspects. The Germanic pagan god, Wolden/Odin, rode a white horse and was honored during the Winter Solstice. Children originally left carrots for his steed near the chimney. Odin rewarded their kindness by leaving fruit or treats.
Sinterklaas was brought to America before it was officially the United States. Dutch settlers established a town called New Amsterdam in 1626. Although the city was founded by Protestants it awarded its inhabitants the freedom of religion. Catholics and Protestants alike adopted Saint Nicholas as the city's patron. In 1664, when it was captured by the English, the celebration of Nicholas was mentioned in the Articles of Capitulation. New Amsterdam became New York and for awhile the religious rights were only celebrated in the Dutch communities. In order to promote New York as a unique city with a unique identity, Washington Irving presented Sinterklaas as the patron saint of the city in his 1809 publication, The History of New York. The influence of Dutch culture in New York set it apart from other American cities.
While the United States continued to establish it's own identity, Clement Clarke Moore wrote the poem "'Twas the Night Before Christmas" in 1823. Sinterklaas became Saint Nick. He traveled by a reindeer drawn sleigh (not on a white horse), carried a bag of toys (not full of sweets), and slid down chimneys. He resembled an elf but forty years later his "Old World" appearance was shed for the figure we know today. In 1863 the political cartoonist Thomas Nast presented him as Santa Claus, a large and bearded old man from the North Pole who wears a fur-trimmed hat and red suit. At first Santa made the toys himself in his workshop with the help of his elves but as the U.S. became industrialized so did he. And as the U.S. became more capitalized, Santa was brought along for the ride. During the Great Depression, Coca Cola created an advertising campaign based on Santa. He continued to transform with American popular culture. Gene Autry released the song "Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer" in 1948 and so a niche in the music industry was created for songs revolving around Santa. At some point after WWII, with the baby boom and rise of the nuclear family, someone invented Mrs. Claus - a pleasant housewife - to take care of Santa and keep him from being lonely. It certainly helped promote him as a grandfather-like icon. A hardworking man who thoroughly enjoyed his leisure time by smoking his pipe and eating. But Santa never takes life too seriously. He is young at heart and loves all the little children. Instead of kidnapping misbehaved boys and girls like his Dutch ancestor, Santa Claus leaves lumps of coal which could actually be somewhat useful. Instead of leaving treats in shoes, his gifts go in stockings pinned to the fireplace.
In November, when Sinterklaas arrived here in the village on his boat from Spain my first impression was mixed. He looks very dignified in his bishop's robes and he carries himself in a very noble manner, but I couldn't get the image of the fat and funny Santa Claus out of my mind. Zwarte Piet, though much more approachable and happy, put me off a little too because the costume consists of black face paint, an afro wig, and red lips. And he, not Sinerklaas, is the one who does all the work. Like a slave. I instantly thought of American "blackface" theater, the Jim Crow era, and terrible slurs such as "darky" and "coon." I tried not to be offended, remembering that cultural offenses are often rooted in misunderstanding, so I waited to pass judgement based on my American outlook. It turns out I'm not the only one to have this sort of reaction.
Most American tourists feel the exact same culture shock. I mean, I don't think I've used the phrase "culture shock" once when talking about my experiences in Holland. And I was in no way surprised to discover that Santa Claus comes from Sinterklaas. In the past ten years or so the character of Zwarte Piet has received criticism from the Dutch and in 2006 the Dutch Programme Foundation proposed that Zwarte Piet (which literally means "black Pete") be changed to rainbow-colored Pieten. The experiment only lasted one year. I also read that his skin-color was due to the fact that he spent most of his time going up and down chimneys so he was covered in soot. But I don't buy it.
When my friend Caitlynn visited, she had the same reaction when I explained the story of the Dutch Sinterklaas and Zwarte Piet. The last day I was able to stay with her in Amsterdam was December 5th so there were Zwarte Pieten all over. She was eager to take pictures, only to bring it back as proof that the Dutch really do paint themselves black and dance around passing out candy for Christmas. But at this record store near Dam Square they were handing out coffee, which I much prefer.
Also, I must admit that I prefer the American Santa Claus to the Dutch Sinterklaas. But, I truly have enjoyed celebrating and learning about this particular Dutch tradition. Who doesn't like getting free chocolate? All of this is not to say that Santa Claus is perfect. He can be weird and somewhat unsettling. I know it is friendly to sit on his lap and tell him what you want for Christmas when you're a kid but that is a bit strange. Just see this collection of pictures as proof.
Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows Part 1
My main priority this weekend was to see this movie. On Friday night I stayed in Heemstede with my friends and we planned on getting up somewhat early on Saturday to get into Amsterdam to buy tickets for the 5:30pm showing but it is tricky to coordinate everyone. So, just me and two of my friends left around noon to buy the tickets for ourselves and two of the other girls who stayed behind and said they'd meet us later. By the time we got to the cinema all the showings were already sold out. That left us with a lot of time to kill so we ended up exploring some familiar and unfamiliar areas instead. Every time I'd see an advertisement for the movie my heart would break a little bit with disappointment.
However, on Sunday I got up early and went straight back to the cinema by myself in an attempt to get a ticket. At the counter I asked the guy for one ticket to the next showing that isn't sold out. In a burst of good luck he told me that there were two tickets for the 12:15pm showing that someone had left at the counter. It was 12:13pm but I paid and made it up the escalators just in time. I really was very lucky also because my seat assignment was perfect - near the front and in the middle of the row. "I am seeing Harry Potter in Amsterdam," I kept repeating in my head during the previews but once the screen went completely dark and the theme music began to echo a silence came over the whole crowd and I forgot everything. I was in complete awe the entire time. My love for Harry Potter is very deep and I'm not ashamed to say that some tears were shed during those two-and-a-half hours. I'm definitely going to see it again at least once more but I'll probably wait until I'm back in the States so I can go with my younger brother, Owen.
Albert Cuypstrat Market
This is one of the best known and cheapest outdoor markets in Amsterdam. It has stands for everything from food to small electronic items. We passed by it on the tram and we all looked at each other in unison then in an instant decided to jump out on the next stop. We walked through it from beginning to end, stopping to look at jewelry and shoes. Martina and I took advantage of a three hats for 5 euro deal. I picked out two and she picked out one and we split the cost. Estefania bought two purses and at the end we all caved in a ordered some french fries (Vlaamse frites).
Winterland at Rembrandtplein
The second thing we had planned for the day was to go ice skating. We met another group of au pairs, all from Germany, later in the evening at Winterland. It is a little Christmas village with stands for food, some carnival games, and a lot of holiday themed decorations. The rink was small and the ice needed a good cleaning but it was fun to get on the ice and play around for an hour or so. It also made me realize just how long I've been here. Long enough to see the seasons change from days when I'd ride my bike in shorts and a tank top to days when I'd bundle up and make sure I'd arrive at the train station at the last possible moment so I don't have to wait in the cold.
A few weeks ago Anna served what she and Robin called a "typical Dutch dinner during the winter" - a potato dish called hutspot. We had it again Monday night. It was the perfect meal on such a cold and wet day. I was looking up the recipe so I could make it for my family when I got home and I discovered that it has an interesting history.
The dish supposedly originated during the Spanish occupation of Holland. The people of Leiden were starving to death so William of Orange (of whom you can read about here) came to the rescue. He flooded the city so that his fleet could sail in and save the day. The Spanish were expelled and legend says that a little boy gathered the vegetables they left behind. Everything was mashed and cooked all together: potatoes, onions, and carrots. Thus, hutspot was born.
Unfortunately, I don't have a picture for you. Some leftover hutspot is still sitting in the fridge but after a few days it doesn't look particularly appetizing. So, to keep this post from looking so bare here are some pictures of the children in the jack-o'-lantern masks I made for them last week in the spirit of an American Halloween.
When traveling it is always best to not have any expectations. Expectations risk disappointment and they close your mind to the full experience. There were a few places I was interested in seeing when Siv and Suzanne took me via train from Västerås to Stockholm, but I was more excited simply to just be there. Since I had no real expectations I enjoyed every moment, even when we were walking down seemingly unremarkable streets. And after the first few hours on the first day of two I think I had already decided that Stockholm is my new favorite European city, despite the fact that my heart is still so full of Florence that there are always echoes from Italy no matter how far north I go.
I started day three with a jog and a runny nose. I added an extra 10 minutes on to my normal run time because I was feeling charged and I wanted to step on more crunchy leaves. After lunch Suzanne and I went shopping in the city center. By late afternoon the overcast sky had cleared and the changing leaves looked brilliant against the blue sky. So, we set off with coffee and apple pie for a little excursion to one of the islands on the lake.
Almo-Lindo
Suzanne's family owns a lake house originally built in 1906 but renovated in the early 60's and they've gone there every summer since. I'm sure the red paint looks just as picturesque in the warm weather as it does in autumn, especially while we were there because the sun was moving low on the horizon. We had our fika by the water. Suzanne gave me a tour of the house, explaining who usually slept in which rooms and what she and her sister had named them when they were younger. The king's room. The bird room. Ect. It was funny to see souvenirs from Minnesota and to see all sorts of normal Swedish things that I grew up thinking were special because they were Swedish. Here those things are just normal. Real, everyday things.
I'm trying something different this time. Instead of writing out my adventure as it went, from one moment to the next, I've organized my trip according to the places and tastes I enjoyed. No matter which format I use, it is impossible to tell you everything. So, forget about whatever you did this weekend and imagine me in Brussels. Allons-y!
Musée du Costume et de la Dentelle (Costume and Lace Museum)
This was at the top of my list of planned destinations during my weekend away. According to the internet it boasts a collection of clothing pieces from the 16th to the 19th centuries, but it does not have an official website so I really had no idea what would be on display until I arrived at the front desk: The Sixties. Although it is a small museum and only 3€ for entrance, I thought the exhibit to be very well designed and the free catalog a very handy guide while pacing between Dior, Givenchy, Yves Saint Laurent, Lanvin, Balmain, and many others. The two fashion/costume history classes I've taken were organized by century or decade, so it was easy for me to mentally situate myself before walking down the carpeted corridor leading to the first floor of display cases.
After the austere silhouettes and fabrics women wore during WWII, Christian Dior brought fashion into a new era during the 1950's with his "New Look." These garments used luxurious amounts of fabric for the mid-calf length skirts whose shape emphasized women's hips, while the fitted tops and jackets cinched the waist and broadened the shoulders. Women became impeccable, glamourous, pearl-wearing, glove-fingered images of perfection. Not a single hair was ever out of place. Not a fingernail with chipped polish. No wrist ever went without perfume. Then, as the introduction to the exhibit declares, "during the Sixties, women turned away from pencil skirts, tightly constricted waists, girdles and suspenders. Some of them even burned their bras in public. They won the right to wear trousers at any time of the day and in any circumstances, giving them the freedom to uncross their legs, take long strides, or sprawl back in comfortable sofas without worrying about it, as well as the right to show their knees and thighs, clad in multicolored tights, items of clothing which until then had been reserved for winter sports. This upsurge of freedom in clothing is perhaps the most immediately visible expression of a deep and irreversible movement in the evolution of the feminine condition in our western society."
Rue de la Violette 12
Expectedly, pictures were forbidden but I scribbled notes about my favorite pieces in the margins of the catalog, which also conveniently includes a short paragraph describing each garment and lists it's designer or creator.
On the top floor, in a low lit corner without windows, is the portion of the museum dedicated to the history of Belgian lace. I spent just as much time here, pulling out each display drawer and examining the sample lace spread neatly beneath a pane of protective glass, as I did observing the three floors of clothing and accessories.
Grand Place
This is the heart of Brussels and a must-see for anyone visiting the city. It is a square surrounded by a series of historically important buildings. The City Hall was built during the first half of the fifteenth century and is guarded by a statue of Saint Micheal slaying a dragon at the top of the tower. Directly across from the seat of municipal power is the Maison du Roi, built by the Duke of Brabant one hundreed years after the City Hall. On the other sides of the square the most powerful guilds of Brussels established their headquarters in lines now collectively called the Guild Houses. The large space in between was used as a market place until 1959. Naturally, it was full of tourists no matter what time of day I walked through. At night the atmosphere was more genuine as everyone was charged with energy, waiting around for the lights to turn on. Some people sat on blankets while others (like me) perched on the front ledge of the Maison du Roi smoking cigarettes or (like me) devouring Belgian waffles soft with chocolate sauce.
A parade in Grand Place.
Grand Place at night.
Maison du Roi.
Guild Houses
City Hall
Manneken Pis
After Grand Place, this little fountain is Brussel's next iconic site. The name probably gives it away and any assumption you have was probably right. It is a small fountain with a statue of a little peeing boy. It was put into place around 1618 and now on certain days of the year petit Julien, as he is called in French, is dressed in various costumes according to certain holidays or cultural events. I'm sure up close he is adorable but it is hard to want to look at him very long since he very openly doing his business right in your direction.
There are a handful of legends surrounding the historical significance of the boy. The most exciting is that as foreign invaders prepared to enter Brussels and besiege it, a little boy was spying on them from the bushes on the outskirts of the city. As soon as he saw them light the fuse for the opening attack he ran up and peed on it to put it out, thus saving Brussels from destruction. The more sentimental story is that a wealthy merchant let his son go missing. Once he realized the result of his carelessness he sent out troops of men to scour the city for his beloved heir. The young boy was found safe and sound, peeing happily in a small garden.
Galeries de Saint-Hubert
Just north of Grand Place is a glass covered shopping gallery of luxury shops. I only walked down the long, chilly corridor twice which was enough for me. The window displays were too enticing and the price tags too steep.
There is a craft market outside and a touch east of the Galeries. I made my way from stand to stand in the hope of finding something to buy and take back home for my mom and godmother but instead I bought something for myself. There was an old man and his slightly-younger-than-middle-age son selling perfume. I really only intended to smell one or two then move on but the owner (which is the son - his dad just helps out) was so nice and undemanding that I let myself linger. It was refreshing to meet a salesman who was not intent on striking a deal with me by trying to convince me to buy whatever ridiculously over-priced items he so persuasively shoves in anyone's face. The perfumer simply explained how he puts together scents, the differences between an eu de toilette and a perfume, and the oil-alcohol ratio of his recipe. He had a diagram of his 100 blends which listed each scent's primary components. I like lily and sandalwood so I looked up which perfumes had those in the mix and then chose one from there. I walked away with 10€ less in my purse but a charming heart shaped bottle of perfume from Brussels. I'll just have to find something for my dear mother and godmother in some other city.
Musées royaux d'art et d'histoire (Museum of Art and History)
After checking out of my hotel on Sunday, I hopped on the metro in the direction of Parc du Cinquetenaire. It is only a handful of stops away from Grand Place but my feet were far too sore for me to even consider walking. I strolled through the entire park before noon, then turned back to find the entrance to the museum. I wasn't as excited as I was for the costume museum but when I turned the corner to the open front doors my breath caught in my throat. All because of one word: MEDICI.
In case you didn't know, I have a great love for the Italian Renaissance. Specifically in Florence. And specifically concerning the Medici family. The museum was hosting a temporary exhibit created by the artist Isabelle de Borchgrave who creates clothing out of paper. Her latest venture was a recreation of some of the garments the most famous members of the Medici family wore. Botticelli's Minerva and Primavera figures were a bonus. Again, pictures were forbidden but this video from the exhibit's website provides a fair visual.
Just like the time in Amsterdam when I wandered into a museum with an exhibit about ancient Roman sea ports, I felt fated to find the Medici in Brussels the same time as me. I've been thinking a lot lately about going back to Florence. But I think it would break my heart again to have to leave it again. So for a little less than an hour, with Isabelle's crafted gowns around me, I let myself pretend I was back there again.
After saying goodbye to my beloved Lorenzo I shuffled up, down, and around the museum's other wings. The guide at the front of the museum who greeted me explained everything in French. He must have mistaken me for a French woman, which was perfectly fine with me. But even though I made shortly sweet replies of "oui", "bonne", and "Je comprends," I really didn't understand much of what he was telling me. I couldn't find the ancient Greek and Roman artifacts. I think it was closed because all the stairs to the third floor were roped off. I got lost in the European decorative arts section. (Going in circles gets old after the second lap.) And then I crossed through the museum shop to the Non-European area knowing I wouldn't be able to last much longer without food. It was probably a good thing though that I saw all the South American shrunken heads and their terrifying statues on an empty stomach. By the time I had finally moved through India and China I decided to skip North America and Canada. It was time for the sunshine again. And food.
Beer, Chocolate, and Other Delicacies
Usually when I'm traveling alone I avoid eating at sit-down restaurants. But in Brussels I felt better about sitting down by myself and enjoying a meal. For an early dinner on Saturday I had a green salad, quatro fromaggio penne, and a few glasses of table wine for less than 20€ at an Italian place on a street near Saint-Hubert. Then a slice of New York style pizza in Grand Place later that night after tasting some beer, which is one of Belgium's specialties. Lindeman's blueberry was my favorite.
De Bier Tempel - only a block above Grand Place with beers half the price of the other shops.
My first purchase in the city, not even an hour after checking into my hotel, was some chocolate: a 250 grams sample box, a bar of white, and a package of individually wrapped mini-bars. I devoured the box in my hotel room Saturday evening while resting up before setting out again to see the lights of Grand Place.
On Sunday, after the history museum, I sat down for some steak frites, a popular Belgian dish. Just in case you didn't already know, french fries actually originated from Belgium. The ones I tried were something like ten times the size and thickness of fries in the States. And they actually tasted like they were made from potatoes. Sauce cost extra.
Traveling by Train
I love trains, train stations, and riding trains. There is something about it that still feels somewhat old fashioned. Even though it takes longer than flying and can sometimes be more expensive depending on the circumstances I think it is one of the best ways to get somewhere. To make my train out of Amsterdam on time I had to be up and out the door by 6:30am to ride my bike to Purmerend and take the 7:10 train to the city.
The platform was already overflowing with people when I arrived about 20 minutes prior to departure time. It was a free for all for seats and I'm glad I only had a purse and an overnight bag because the people with larger luggage had to haul themselves up and into the train last. So while I was already snuggled into a window seat they were still struggling to get up off the platform.
The train back was a whole other story. It was an older train with, as you can see in the picture below, outdated interior and a strange musty smell. It was not as crowded as the other train - I had to share a car with four other people at most. Only one of which actually rode all the way to Amsterdam like me and didn't get off on any of the stops in between. And then by the time I got to Amsterdam Centraal I still had to take another train to Zandaam and exchange there for Purmerend. All of this wore me down even more than I was already, so by the time I got onto my bike I was peddling like a cripple all the way back to the house.
Bread with butter and sprinkles (hagelslag) is a common food in the Netherlands. I read about it before I came but figured it was probably one of those country trademarks. Maybe even a stereotype. But it is true. I make the children a boterham every day for lunch. Sometimes this just means bread, butter, and cheese. Or bread, butter, and ham. Or bread, butter, and Nutella. But most often it is bread, butter, and hagelslag. There are so many different kinds of sprinkles that I was astonished the first time I peeked down the aisle in the supermarket. My host parents buy just two boxes: one of chocolade hagelslag and one of fruit hagelslag.
For the first few weeks I held off from trying either. To me that is dessert, not a midday meal. But last week I gave in. It is too good not to eat, though I've been good so far about not having one every day.
Hagelslag boterham and yoki drink, which I've only seen here in the Netherlands.
The only real problem is that sprinkles are messy. They end up all over the kitchen table and on the floor. I feel like I'm always sweeping. They also stick to the children and I find rogue sprinkles in the bathroom, on the couch, and even in the bath after it has been drained. Regardless, I would never think to deprive them of this easy to make Dutch delicacy. Why couldn't I have grown up eating sprinkle sandwiches?
