Moan, Moan, Moan....

Rain, Rain, Rain, Rain, Rain, then a bit more rain.
Every time I get on my bike I get soaked. Due to my recent nasty trouser accident I was forced to buy some new 'ultra sexy' rain trousers to go with my 'oh so flattering' rain jacket, so now I look like a nerdy drenched rat every time I leave the house.

Because of this spectacularly soggy weather, and because it's monday, and because my metro just stopped inexplicably in the middle of the tracks for half an hour, I feel that I have the right to have a moan. So if you don't fancy hearing me whinge I suggest you stop reading now!

Life in Holland is usually extremely pleasant, but sometimes those 'little things' start to grind. This is usually related to the famous 'relaxed' Dutch approach to customer service. Like waiting TWO HOURS to have a pizza delivered. Yes, really. Then there's the customary half hour wait in the supermarket queue (because they only have two tills open at peak times)only to have one of those 'TILL CLOSED' boards shoved in your face, forcing me and half the population of Amsterdam into ONE VERY LONG queue. And the fact that you can't really buy anything remotely useful in a supermarket. On top of that I'm forced to buy a children's metro ticket for my bike, even though it gains no pleasure in being taken out for the day. While I'm on a roll... They close all the shops on a Monday morning. The DIY places are closed on the day when everyone does DIY - Sunday. However, builders are allowed to operate their drills on a daily basis outside my bedroom window at 6.20am. You can't buy a carton of milk in my neighbourhood on a Sunday. Estate agents only let you view apartments during hours when all the people who can afford to buy one aren't available (ie. Monday to Friday between 9am and 5pm).... etc. etc. etc..

Okay, I feel much better to have got that off my chest. I'm off for a bike ride along the canals to remember why it's so lovely living here!

Boat Trip

It's been ages since I blogged. Since I last wrote we've had a month-long heatwave where Amsterdam basked in the sun and since then a return to the more commonplace grey drizzly weather. Back in the scorching July days we took a trip out on our friends' (Ton and Alice) boat around the lovely Amsterdam canals, taking in the City from a different angle. We sailed out to the North where there was a safe spot to tie up the boat and jump off the side for a cooling dip. When I say 'safe' I mean that the likelihood of meeting a rusting bike (or perhaps the odd corpse?) was more minimal than in the City centre.

It's Not Easy Being Bob

Yesterday evening (after we went dancing at a beach party in Bloemendaal) I was the the designated 'Bob' .

This title comes from the Dutch advertising campaign to prevent drink-driving. The idea is that 'Bob blijft fris' (Bob stays fresh) and drives all his drunk companions home after a night out. I guess the female equivalent is Bobette or Bobientje or something.

This sounds like a simple task, until you take into account that I have never driven in Holland. Despite having been a regular driver and car-owner in the UK, the following points have influenced my decision to stay motor-free in NL for the past three years...

1. They drive on the wrong side of the road
2. The gear stick is on the wrong side of the car
3. The handbreak is on the wrong side of the car
4. The driver's seat is on the wrong side of the car
5. I have very little idea what the Dutch road signs actually mean
6. The road markings are really weird
7. There's nowhere to park in Amsterdam
8. I have a bike

Despite this I was persuaded to drive all the way home. I'm happy to report that we all arrived home safely and it went okay (ahem, apart from the couple of times when Peter had to grab the wheel to stop me mounting the kerb). Of course this was due to the fact that the Dutch drive on the wrong side of the road and that Peter's car is too big... nothing to do with me being a bad Bob.

Perhaps I ought to take some lessons?

Dahl for Dummies

I'm going through a bit of a couch-potato phase at the moment, which is okay until I realise that I've been sat infront of a Korean film with Dutch subtitles for the past two hours and have no comprehension of what the hell is going on.

Time to go read a book.

I am enjoying my second literary childhood. I am re-discovering my love of Roald Dahl, but this time I read the stories to Peter in Dutch. My Dutch tutor suggested that I read aloud to a native speaker so that I can be corrected on my (numerous) pronounciation errors. This is all very well, but I seem to have the knack of sending Peter to sleep before I've got through a couple of pages.

Still, I've learned that the Big Friendly Giant (BFG) transforms into the Grote Vriendelijke Reus (GVR) for little Dutch children and that Charlie (of Chocolate Factory fame) becomes Sjakie. Even though it's a bit of a struggle wrestling with the vocabulary the books are still really great and I'm happy to have an excuse for a good bedtime story, even though I was supposed to have grown out of it years ago. I'm just proud to have increased my reading age in recent months - my Jip en Janneke phase seems like a distant dream to me now.

Poor Trousers

My trousers got run over by a train today.

I was busy running along the platform, hoping to catch the metro that was about to pull away when I was suddenly aware of people shouting 'Mevrouw! Mevrouw!!' at me.

I turned to see that my backpack had opened and my various belongings (dirty gym kit, old newspapers, woolley hat, etc etc.) were strewn the entire length of the platform. Embarrassed, I turned back and started collecting everything together, when I noticed one man pointing down at the train rails. We both stood and looked at my poor trousers, lying down there like the victim of a horrible accident. 'Het trein komt Mevrouw' he said (the train is coming Miss). I think he was worried that I would suddenly hurl myself infront of it on some kind of trouser mercy-mission.

Later Peter came in and was complaining that the Metros were delayed due to problems on the line during his trip home from work. I've heard that leaves on the line can wreak havoc, but surely this doesn't extend to clothing? Or does it?

Falling Down Mountains

After a seemingly endless drive yesterday we're back home from the mountains for the last time this season. We had a great week staying in a little village called Oz en Oisans, nestled just under Alpe D'Huez, in a really lovely apartment(Chalet de Neiges). So much snow had fallen in the days before we arrived that we had plenty of great powder to play in and we couldn't believe our luck with the weather - 6 days of continuous sunshine! The area boasts 245km of pistes, so there was plenty of great runs to discover, then back to the apartment each evening for a hot bath and a bit of home cooking.

Unfortunately our luck didn't extend to staying injury-free and one of our party (Sarah) ended up with a broken leg and damaged knee ligaments after a fall towards the end of the week. Peter also sprained his wrist attempting a jump on his board on the same day. Suitably cautioned, I was definitely taking things easy by Friday, and managed to make it home with nothing more serious than the usual collection of bruises.

The (pre-injury!) photos are online HERE.

Update from Amsterdam

So what's been happening recently?

After three years of working together, my colleague Lisa left last week to start a new career in recruitment in the financial sector in London. It was all pretty sudden, one minute she was a gym manager in Amsterdam and the next minute she's going to be a head-hunter in the City with a swanky new pad in town. She's done really well and I'm proud of her! Working in a two-man team means that you really get used to having someone around. I'll especially miss the little things about working with Lisa - the funny notes she leaves taped to my pc when I arrive in the morning, the way she always notices when you've had your hair cut or are wearing something new, the fact that she always forgives me for PMT-induced grumpiness and for her ability to make a chicken out of a tea towel!

Well, as you can see from previous entries there's been a recent spate of snowboard addiction. I bought a new Volkl Destiny board and some Flow bindings recently, so I have a considerably lighter wallet as a result. Luckily in Lisa's absense I'm getting promoted to manager, which means a pay rise, so I get some extra cash to feed my obsession! We're off to Alpe D'Huez in three weeks time (or, more specifically to a little village called Oz en Oisans) for our next fix of snow, so are keeping an eye on the weather forecast and praying for powder again.

Snow Junkies

I think me and Peter are developing a serious addiction to snowboarding. We got back from Kirchberg (Austria) last monday and started surfing the web for some bargain wintersports breaks before we'd even unpacked our bags. This isn't the cheapest hobby in the world to become addicted to, or the most practical one (alas, Holland doesn't provide many mountains).

Kirchberg was lots of fun! Photographs online here.
In the meantime, here's a pic of me and colleague Ian, pretending that we were 18 again and off to ride the rails in the snowpark. In reality I was off to slowly cruise some blues in a sedate fashion and avoid bruises, like the sensible 34 year old that I am.

Meeting Oscar

I'm in the UK meeting my little nephew Oscar for the first time.
He is so adorable!!

Bob

Bob has to be seen to be believed. Could it be that behind this young 'talent' there's a fantastically pushy showbiz mum, determined to cultivate the next Andre Hazes?

Full bellies

Christmas Dinner 2005

Christmas Glamour

Joy to the World!

Santa spread a little of his Christmas magic yesterday by dropping a pile of glistening pasnips at THREE of the Albert Cuyp market stalls. My mission is now complete and I can die a happy woman. Who needs expensive gifts at Christmas eh?

The root-vegetable-induced celebrations didn't last for long however, as Peter has been called into work (some emergency technical failure) and I've just spent the last hour cleaning an old oven that we've retreived from the shed. After buying a huge fresh turkey I was dismayed to find that it's so fat there was no room left in its shiny new baking tray for the roast potatoes. As we've only got a little plug-in combi oven I was forced to scrape off the life-forms growing in the old one and use it as a reserve. I have a horrible feeling that the tatties will have a faint aroma of 'mouldy shed' about them, but I'm trying not to dwell on it.

The Annual Hunt for the Elusive Dutch Parsnip

As far as I can see, the Dutch are pretty-much into their root vegetables. Offer a Dutchman a nice turnip, carrot or beetroot and his face will light up with joy. So why can't a poor English girl find a few humble parsnips for her Christmas dinner? I traipsed round many-a market stall and shop last year but my search was fruitless (or should I say vegetable-less, ha ha).

Due to an extremely comprehensive English-Dutch dictionary I am armed with the superior parsnip-hunting knowledge this year. The Dutch call them 'pastinaak' apparently. If they have a word for them they must sell them somewhere, surely? Or has no one seen a parsnip in the Lowlands since the Middle Ages?

I certainly have been (unhappily) parsnip-less since moving here. According to a stall holder at my local market (the Albert Cuyp Markt) they have been known to sell them, but not at the moment. I tried to explain the importance of parsnip-eating for the English at this time of year, but she didn't seem too impressed.

The hunt for this elusive vegetable has become a bit of an obsessive mission for me. I have asked around at work. I have had several Dutch people phoning their mothers to make enquiries on my behalf. Still no joy, but I'm trying to remain optimistic, after all, it IS Christmas.

I'm Auntie Lucy!

My brave sis has made me an auntie! I'm so proud of her!

Little Oscar entered this world at some un-godly hour this morning, a few days ahead of his due date (Christmas Eve). He obviously wanted to be here in time to hang his little stocking by the fireplace. I'm very glad he's appeared early, because Christmas Eve is a crappy birthday to have! I think I must have been having (sympathy) kittens, because I didn't sleep a wink all night. Maybe it's a 'twin thing'. I'm just glad I din't get the labour pains...

Proud dad Neil called me this morning with the news. Mum and little one (obviously) exhausted but doing well. Can't wait to see the little nipper and spoil him rotten.

White Stuff

Thanks to the lovely people at Go-Go tours, Peter and I enjoyed a three days in the mountains last weekend. Yippeee.. a chance to try out my new gear on real slopes (Les Deux Alpes in France).

Going snowboarding on the first week of the season is a bit of a gamble. Peter was checking out the webcams a couple of weeks ago and was disgruntled to notice that it looked like a scene from 'The Sound of Music'. Luckily by the time we arrived it was winter-wonderland time, with snow as far as the eye could see.

After 18 hours on a bus we were ready to stretch our legs on the slopes, but the 100kph winds sweeping the pistes meant that all lifts (other than the nursery slope drags) were closed. Ah well, there was a chance to warm up on the baby runs and back to the hotel ('La Sherpa') to prop up the bar and thaw out. I was trying (with difficulty) to order in French, until someone pointed out that all the hotel staff were Dutch. I wondered why the barman raised and eyebrow when I ordered a 'chocolate chaud' instead of a 'warme chocolademelk'. There were further opportunities for my to speak my own (very bad) Dutch as I was the only 'non-Nederlander' in the place. Very good practice!

15 cm of fresh snow was dumped down on friday night (I couldn't help staring at the fat flakes falling outside the window as we sat down to some delicious alpine grub). By Saturday morning the outside world was muffled by piles of gorgeous powder and I couldn't wait to get out on the board. It was great to be up there at last!

On Sunday the snow conditions were nearly as good but the light was so flat it was difficult to see more than a few inches infront of your nose. I had a couple of moments of complete disorientation where I managed to perform a few impromptu acrobatic feats through the air, but luckily managed to make it down to the village without any broken bones. My new jacket kept me toastie warm despite the 'minus lots' temperatures and I was happy to discover that I'm not such a 'scaredy-cat' as last time I attempted boarding.

For pictures click HERE.

Nearly time for the mountains

We're off to the mountains tomorrow!! Looks like we're going to have to wrap up warm....

Weekend Weirdness

On Friday night I was woken around 2am by the sound of an angry mob rioting outside. My initial panic was soon over when I remembered that we received a letter informing us that the snackbar on the corner of our street was to become a temporary film set for the night. When I read the film summary of 'Nachtrit' (which translates as 'Night Ride') a few days before I didn't quite prepare for a sleepless night, but looking back I should have expected it. The film tells the story of a young taxi driver who falls into a life of crime, resulting in 'Oorlog in de straten', which (judging by the din outside) aptly translates as 'war in the streets'. I guess I was hoping that they would be filming the scene where the main character buys a frikadel in a quiet and orderly fashion. The rioting went on til 2am.

Despite lack of sleep, I was up bright and early on Saturday morning and off on my bike to the Amsterdam Dance Centre for their Open Day. Me and my friend Sarah went along to sample a few free classes and to try to remind our rusty bodies how to dance. The best class of the day was the Beginner's Tap Dance session. In reality we were actually doing more thudding than tapping because none of us had tap shoes (trainers don't have quite the same effect) but due to the enthusiasm of the lovely teacher we all had a great laugh. My memories of tap classes as a kid aren't that great (naff plastic hat and cane, dodgy lycra outfits, you know the thing..) but this experience was altogether more positive. I might even sign up for the course!

Last night me and Peter ate at Shiva, my favourite Indian restaurant in town. While we were there a group of people came in and sat down to eat at a long table. Their focus was on an Indian man sat at the head of the table, dressed in long white robes and saffron coloured scarves. He had long hair, a flowing beard, wore a distinctive Hindu caste mark on his forehead and looked every inch the 'spiritual guru'. We were just tucking in to our Chicken Tikka when suddenly the whole table broke out into a spontaneous round of 'ommmmm-ing'. Once the 'guru' man had got that out of his system he sparked up a Marlboro before digging into his curry. Now I'm not exactly knowledgeable in the area of the Hindu faith, but surely smoking a fag isn't the way to spiritual enlightenment?!

Another rich and varied weekend in Amsterdam draws to an end...

Museum Nacht 8

On 5th November (when all the Brits were busy burning things and gawping at airborne explosives) the Amsterdammers were busy indulging in a bit of museum hopping.

The 8th annual Museum Night was taking place. For the price of an all-in ticket of a few Euros participants get to visit practically every museum or institution in the City (42 in all) between 7pm and 2am. Each venue organises something special to lure visitors in and the city fills with cyclists, each zigzagging between their own chosen spots. The night takes on a party atmosphere and it's great to have a snoop round places that you wouln't normally think to visit. It's funny to see the 'hushed atmosphere' that you normally associate with these places being transformed into something much more alive.



I started my bike tour at the Verzetsmuseum- a really great little museum in the east of the City which documents the Dutch experience of World War II. As well as seeing the exhibitions I got to enjoy some live Gamelan music in the foyer and sample some rather lovely Indonesian corn patties.

Back on the bike, and a race to the Van Gogh Museum to meet friends Elin and Sandor, where we stood at the top of the building and got an aerial view of thousands of people swarming around the ground floor like ants. The security guards didn't look too happy about the amount of people getting drunk in the near vicinity of such priceless paintings.

Next stop was a the trendy Nederlands Instituut voor Mediakunst (Netherlands Institute for Media Arts for some strange video installations starring men in basques and stilletos playing football and a family eating dinner wearing rubber suits. More interesting were the bank of TV screens behind the entrance desk showing a variety of faces (all painted blue). The faces were morphing (playdough-like) into each other - I wanted to stare at it for hours.

Another short hop on the bikes took us to De Nieuwe Kerk (The New Church) on the Dam Square. This beautiful church was hosting an Indonesian market and was a great place to thaw out and enjoy a cup of tea and some spekkoek (Indonesian layered cake).

Last stop was the Stedelijk Museum, newly (and temporarily) relocated to the north of the City in an old Post Office sorting building. We stopped en route to watch a lazer display over the water outside before going in to see some really great portraits by Dutch photographer Rineke Dijkstra.

By this time it was 1.30am and I decided that I'd had enough culture for one night!

Not Quite as Quick as the Ethiopians

It has been marathon day in Amsterdam, with the annual race snaking through the City. The chance to run through the falling leaves on a crisp Autumn morning under a fabulous blue sky was certainly inviting, but I definitely didn't want to run 42km for the privilege. Luckily there were other options for mere mortals like myself - and I signed up for a nice little 10km, which meant I was home lying in a steaming bathtub by midday. It was worth the effort to finish in the Olympic Stadium (with the theme tune from 'Chariots of Fire' playing in my head) and I managed to drag myself over the finish line after 58 mins, which was better than expected.

Peter was braver and went for the 21km (half marathon) option in the afternoon. He did look funny as he left home - I made him an outfit out of a grey plastic bin bag (with holes for his head and arms) to keep him warm (he didn't want to queue to leave a bag of pre-race warm up clothes so the disposable outfit seemed sensible). He borrowed my bike because his has a flat tyre. Seeing him cycling off on a bike with a big sunflower on the front wearing a plastic dress was very amusing.

Later on, I proudly watched him from behind the crash barrier as he casually powered up the Stadshouderskade (bin bag now discarded and looking significantly cooler). It was hard to imagine that he'd already done around 18km. He finished in 1 hour 52 mins, an excellent result. There's no stopping him now, and I'm getting nervous that he'll start signing us up for marathons soon.

And just to stop us all from getting too pleased with ourselves....
The winner, Haile Gebrselassie of Ethiopia, ran the full 42km marathon in 2 hours and 6 mins at an average speed of over 20 kph. That's TWICE as fast as I ran (and I only did a quarter of the distance). Incredible!

Scary Belgian Giants

According to the web, there is a legend that the Belgian city of Antwerp gets its name from the Dutch for ‘Hand throwing’ (hand werpen).

The story goes that in years gone by a mean old giant controlled the bend in the river Scheldt where Antwerp lies. He demanded that all passing ships paid him a heavy toll. Those failing to pay would have their hands chopped off. A Roman soldier called Silvius Brabo decided that enough was enough, slayed the giant, chopped off his giant hand and chucked it in the river.


I wish I knew this story when we visited Antwerp last weekend. I could have impressed my fellow site-seers with my knowledge. Instead we all stood round the statue of a man with a squirty hand and wondered why someone had bothered putting it there.

We were given a tour of the city later in the day, but I gleaned minimal information from our tour guide because he spoke very fast and weird-sounding Dutch (I’m guessing he had a Belgian accent?). I was wondering why the man seemed to be overly-interested in stories about livestock until Peter told me he was talking about the city’s maritime history and it was ships not sheep to which he was referring.

Despite the confusion, it was great to check out this very pretty place – to crane our necks at the Cathedral (123 metres high, 169 years to build – thankyou web) and to wander through the beautiful old streets. Antwerp seems to borrow the French obsession with food along with the Dutch obsession with creating a lovely cozy ambience, and its countless restaurants and bars looked so inviting it was hard to walk past them.

Luckily we didn’t encounter any threatening giants, so we left Antwerp on Sunday morning with both hands intact, but we did have a bit of a hangover.