Carrying on Tradition

Yesterday I had the pleasure of visiting a friend in Amsterdam, I can't seem to remember if I've already given her a pseudonym but we'll call her Cananon (a mix of her place of birth and name), to carry on the Canadian tradition of Thanksgiving. Some of Cananon's roommates were remarking that they were surprised to hear that Canadians celebrated Thanksgiving as they thought it was only an American holiday in November. When asked the inevitable, why do Canadians celebrate Thanksgiving? I was surprised to find out that my understanding of Thanksgiving is actually the AMERICAN version! gasp!!! Not Cananon though, she was right on the money according to the ever-knowledgeable encyclopaedia...Wikipedia. Does everyone know why we celebrate Thanksgiving? Am I the only ignoramus?

The following is taken from Wikipedia ‘Thanksgiving (Canada)’ article with a couple of inclusions from me:

Thanksgiving, or Thanksgiving Day (in French Canadian: Jour de l'Action de grâce), occurring on the second Monday in October, is an annual Canadian holiday to give thanks at the close of the harvest season. Thanksgiving is a statutory holiday in most jurisdictions of Canada, with the exception of East coast provinces. While the actual Thanksgiving holiday is on a Monday, Canadians might eat their Thanksgiving meal on any day of the three-day weekend, though Sunday and Monday are the most common. While Thanksgiving is usually celebrated with a large family meal (I was told to wear my eating pants yesterday and felt immediately nostalgic), it is also often a time for weekend getaways to observe the autumn leaves (really?), spend one last weekend at the cottage (I think this piece was written by a person from Ontario), or participate in various outdoor activities such as hiking, fishing, and hunting (yes, and we all wear plaid fleece jackets and have pet polar bears). Canada's top professional football league, the CFL, holds a nationally televised double header known as the "Thanksgiving Day Classic." (This is news to me).

Various First Nation groups in Canada had long-standing traditions celebrating the harvest and giving thanks for a successful bounty of crops (this is more in line to what I thought Thanksgiving was about...except there might have been a couple of Pioneers involved...ugh, I know... I'm ridiculous). Canada's First Nations and Native Americans throughout the Americas, organized harvest festivals of thanks for centuries before the arrival of Europeans in North America. The history of Thanksgiving in Canada also involves a connection to the explorer, Martin Frobisher, who had been trying to find a northern passage to the Pacific Ocean. Frobisher's Thanksgiving was not for harvest but homecoming. He had safely returned from a search for the Northwest Passage, avoiding the later fate of Henry Hudson and Sir John Franklin. In the year 1578, he held a formal ceremony, in what is now the province of Newfoundland and Labrador (the only provinces out East to celebrate Thanksgiving apparently), to give thanks for surviving the long journey. The feast was one of the first Thanksgiving celebrations by Europeans in North America. Frobisher was later knighted and had an inlet of the Atlantic Ocean in northern Canada named after him - Frobisher Bay.

Well, while my Canadian history teachers are probably wagging their fists at me or rolling over in their graves (just kidding, they're not that old), it took me leaving my country to learn more about its history. I always knew it was about giving thanks (yep, I’m a regular ol’ Sherlock, it’s probably all those hours I’ve spent watching Murder She Wrote) but I was wrong about ‘what’ I was to give thanks for. Regardless of my previous misunderstandings, I think I carried on the Canadian Thanksgiving in fine form as I could give thanks for having somewhere to carry on a thanksgiving tradition, for new friends to share it with, and for the food I was eating (harvest vegetables no less)! In certain ways this meal was also dedicated to ‘coming home’ whether this can be interpreted as a nod to my mother’s heritage or finding myself a place here in the Netherlands, I’m sure both count.

Turning Bun

I met Bun again last night for our weekly language exchange (I learn Dutch from her and she learns English from me). She's still fantastic at English and I continue to struggle in Nederlands but we chat on anyway - over tea, coffee, water, and apple juice about anything or anyone that comes to mind. Last night was our third meeting so we've already discussed topics such as who our significant others are, where we/they work, her pregnancy, our families, the shops we've gone to, the city of Rotterdam itself, etc. Needless to say the topics of our conversations become more diverse the more time we spend with one another. Last night she told me how fun it was to learn little catch phrases that she could 'shock' her husband with. Well, this whole process started off quite tame, for example, a week ago I taught her the meaning behind 'wing-it', as in "Oh, I'm just going to wing-it!" She said that she'd use it when cooking dinner the following night when her husband would ask her what she was thinking about cooking. Well, since then we've slowly gone down hill.

In my defense, I've had quite a few people trying to teach me naughty Dutch words ever since I arrived! For example, on one of the first days that I arrived Pdot taught me: "Hij/zij is lekkerding". This means "Oh, he's a tasty morsel" as in good looking man or woman (Note: I only use it when I'm looking at my picture of Luke in his new suit, trust me, hij is lekkerding!). On another occassion, my cousin Malt (an amalgamation of his real name, the place where he lives here in the Netherlands, and also a descriptor of his favorite drink) taught me what to say when I go to a video store looking for an action flick. "It's easy" he says with a sly grin on his face "All you have to say is: Hi! I'm looking for a film with skeeters, titters, and helekopters". 'What does that mean?' I said. "Oh, you know, shooting, tits and helicopters". Nice, and that's my family!

So last night I think it's more the fault of my previous language instruction than anything else, which made me feel the need to teach Bun the words and meanings behind "scatterbrained" (not too bad), "poo vs. poop" (getting worse - this started off as a technical question), "the crapper/pisser" (in my defense this one was related to the previous topic) and I'm sure what will become everyone's favorite: "knocking boots". We had a good laugh about the last one, she was practically rolling on the floor laughing that was made even more funny by her current roundness.

Despite the fact that I may be turning Bun for the worse at least we're having fun trying to learn the language. Besides, we're just keeping it interesting...now whose the one with the sly grin on her face ;)

Meer Meertens (English translation: More Meertens)

Living in Rotterdam it's nice to be able to pop on the train and see the likes of Amsterdam in just over an hour (on the slow train). As I've written about previously, I've been lucky enough to have the priviledge of being a guest researcher at the Meertens Instituut. Since I've temporarily been alloted a desk (in the absence of another PhD researcher...one rung at a time people!) I decided to put it to good use and this past Thursday as I went to hang around in Amsterdam and more specifically the Meertens Institute. As I might have mentioned previously, I'll check the archives later, this institute is located in an old Coca-Cola warehouse and still holds some of the original architecture. By this I mean to say that the Meertens library looks quite a bit like a distribution centre with its high ceilings and grated decor (stairs, floors, some wall space are all made of grates so it has some influence on your fashion decisions - wedges are a go, stilettos are a no). Although many of the office areas have been redesigned, one can still pick out the theme left over from its predecessor: the red, white, and black signature colours.

Although the staff and the archives are the most important resource Meertens has to offer, from Monday to Thursday the institute runs a canteen (cafeteria). I'm sure many people have experienced cafeteria food whether it was during grade school or high school, or perhaps more recently working for a corporation, etc.. Needless to say, there are probably many people who have experienced varying degrees of corporate or institution-run food dispensing facilities. I have to say, the canteen at the Meertens is one of the best that I've ever experienced!

On this particular thursday, I started my meal late as many of the other staff had gone off to a meeting and were late getting back. The issue here was that the canteen is only open from 12 - 1. They must folow strict timelines because such greatness is hard work. So at around 12:30 I pop to the canteen to peruse the merchandise. The customer (me) had the option of soup, salade, broodjes (sandwiches) that are either hot or cold, or hot meals that were available included little fish nuggets and herring. But the greatness did not end there. On each of the tables there were teeny-tiny packages of brown chocolate sprinkles and small bottles of Maggi on all the tables (I grew up with these). In addition to these food choices there was also a choice for drinks along with treats and healthy bits and bites. There were of course too many options for me to pick from so instead, I picked probably the most unsatisfying lunch of bread and ham and cheese! It as too much pressure I tell you! Too much!

So I'm going back this week or next because I have work to do but more importantly so that I can return and order appropriately - fish nuggets here I come! (they don't sound appetizing the way I'm calling them but trust me, they are!) Ja, ik will graag meer Meertens austublief. I'd like to order some more Meertens please, yes, Meer Meertens.

Wanted: Lessons from Mary Poppins/Lance Armstrong

As I biked through the rain today, I tried to pretend like all the other Rotterdammers on the road that it was not in fact raining and that I was warm and dry instead of freezing and wet. Actually, I wasn't really freezing until I stopped to take pictures of my destination since when I bike I work up a sweat (I was trying to get my errand done as quickly as possible and get back home to dry clothes)!

As I've guessed, and read about, been told, and now experienced, riding a bike is second nature for many city dwellers here in Rotterdam. I've seen riders cycle along nonchalently with no hands on the handlebars, while texting friends, and weaving in and out of traffic with an astute knowledge of the bike/car/pedestrian laws on the roads here. There are of course no helmets worn here and no safety gear besides blinking lights that are mandatory after dark (and heavily enforced by local police officers). Not everyone might know this but the Dutch are forced (well maybe forced is too strong a word) anyway, they take a bicycling test at the age of 12 years old to ensure that they are safely able to traverse the roadways (at least this is what I've read). However, this special knowledge evades me and as little 8 year-olds ride circles around me (not literally of course) I'm often envious of their bicycling wisdom that appears to be doled out at birth in Dutch delivery rooms.

Of course, riding on a bike with no hands, while talking on your cell phone, balancing your parcels on the back of your bike, and baking a cherry pie, all at the same time is no match for the Dutch here in Rotterdam. Yet, it is truly humbling to see them cycle when it's raining. In addition to the death defying acts mentioned above, the cyclists here will also ride while holding an umbrella... while talking on the phone, weaving around parked and swirving cars, etc. etc. etc. So it is no wonder that I've put out an ad for riding lessons from Mary Poppins/Lance Armstrong. I could go for the less classy option of riding in the front of a 'Babboe Bakfiets', which is a bike sold here in the Netherlands with a large wooden bucket/seat contraption on the front for children to sit in. The only problem then would be how to convince Pdot to agree to ride around on this bike with me in the front basket. Here is the link so that envisioning me in this contraption will be easier: http://www.babboe.nl/

The next time it rains, I think I'll wait by the phone for Julie or Lance to call or leave the cycling up to the professionals and take the tram :)

What time is it? Hoe laat is het?

Did anyone else know that Dutch clubs are open until 5am here? Well, they are. Ladies, I'd like to recommend flats when going out dancing.

Saturday night I met up with my cousin's girlfriend, who I will call Vespa, in Gouda. She made us a wonderful Dutch dish (mash potatoes mixed with lettuce covered by curry flavoured ground meat and onions, topped with cheese, all baked to perfection! yum!) before heading out to watch my cousin's water polo match in another area of Gouda. I'm happy to report that they won (9-8) and it was a thoroughly entertaining time because of all the drama that ensued: one red card, the need for a 20 minute intermission because a player of the opposing team was hit/kicked in the head and then fell down on the pool deck after he got out, general pandemonium maintained through excessive pushing, shoving, scratching, screaming, etc. It's the Netherlanders version of hockey...except that their water is not frozen and their uniforms leave a lot less to the imagination.

From there we made our way out to a place called the Salmon (I believe) for a few drinks before heading over to 'the only club in Gouda', called Woodies. This establishment caters to a wide variety of listeners of all different ages and musical tastes. What this statement means is that people who were getting down to house and hip-hop one minute were doing a hoe-down the very next. Hoe-downs are reserved for those cherished Dutch classics which reminded me of earlier years spent in my Oma and Opa's basement learning the 'chicken dance'.

It was also cool to see revellers dancing on the bar as they stepped gingerly over drinks and succeeded in avoiding the transactions going on at the bar. The dancers gyrated on as money, glasses, lemons and limes were passed under their legs from bartender to client and back again. As far as I could tell no one kicked over a glass and none of the staff felt the need to enforce 'safety regulations' as they do so often in the clubs back in Canada.

And so the night went on in blaring harmony but I began to feel that it must be getting late. It occurred to me at one point that the DJ was in danger of running out of available material and that "it had be getting close to 2 am, any time now!" I should briefly explain that all the bars in Canada shut down by 2 or 3 am (unless you're connected enough to be locked-into an after-hours party). So when I asked a newly acquired friend, hey, what time is it anyway? he showed me his watch and I was astounded!!! 4:45 am. Well, no wonder my feet were killing me! With 15 minutes left, Vespa and I teetered out to our bikes (due to our sore feet and nothing more) and rode home. This was also in fact extremely treacherous, in my mind, as the paths we took home are flanked by slotten (narrow canals) on either side. Yet, fuelled by the need to take off our heels we successfully rode home and had a bit of coffee and crackers before falling off to sleep. Overall, I'm impressed by the individual responsibility that the Dutch allot their inhabitants (not yanking the dancers off the bar because they're worried about class-action law suits when one of them slips and falls off or the general proximity of canals to the bike paths). I'm also impressed by how late the Dutch dancers in Gouda were willing to stay up and party on. I'm not sure Canadians are ready for 5am closing times, well maybe we are, the Dutch in Gouda last Saturday night were a tough crowd to keep up with! And trust me, I was far from the oldest one there! So maybe instead of saying "what time is it?", I should be saying "how old am I?"

Justifiable Tourism

On Thursday of last week I was lucky enough to snag the last available spot on the Meertens Instituut's yearly excursion. After getting up at 6 am, I made my way to the station for 6:42 and was there before the bus left at 8:15. The Meertens Instituut is a research facility dedicated to ethnology (ethnography), folklore and linguistic phenomena (see their website for an official declaration), and so we were taken on a guided tour of the traditional (and very touristic) Volendam, Marken and Monnickendam area. Packed tourism and Dutch identity at its best! We started off our tour in the Spaander Hotel where we ate traditional Dutch cakes with coffee (I had a slice of mocha cake at 9:30am, a very good start to the day) and received an explanation of the style, art and architecture of the hotel. This hotel, like much of Volendam and Marken, is decorated in what is called the 'traditional' Dutch style with white and red wooden shutters, green or dark blue exteriors and orange tile roofs. The rooms are decorated with many plants, blue and white ceramic tiles with ships and clogs painted on them, portrait paintings, circular plates mounted on the walls, and furnished with large circle wooden tables covered by red and white tablecloths (a nightmare for the cleaner in charge of dusting!). From there we walked around the town and received a history lesson in the importance of smoked eel to the Volendam community. Eel is a politically sensitive topic at the moment because the Dutch government (and European) has just enacted a 60 day ban on Dutch eel fisherman from October 1st to November 30th, the height of eel fishing season. Eels are being protected because their numbers are dwindling due to over fishing and other ecological factors such as consumption of eels by protected bird species. This topic remains controversial as many eel farmers and whole communities like Volendam are worried about the state of their livelihoods.
After lunch and more tourist activities (yes, we dressed up in traditional Volendam ware and had our pictures taken) we took the local ferry to Marken across the way. I'd already been to Marken last year during my preliminary trip and decided to forego the trip inside the church so that myself and a couple other colleagues could walk around the village a bit more. After our quick jaunt, we made our way to the parking lot to catch the bus to our next destination only to find that our bus had in fact left without us (there were three of us in total)! I'm a magnet for this kind of stuff I think...no matter, my colleague quickly got on her phone and requested that the bus turn around to pick us up. Normally, this would not be an issue but Marken is in fact a former island that is now connected to the mainland by a land bridge or, more accurately, a 2-kilometre dyke that was built in 1957 (Yes, Kath, this is what we cycled along). The dyke runs from the town of Monnickendam, located just north of Amsterdam. And thus, turning a big bus around on the dyke was not an option.

So as we waited for the public transit to come and find us to bring us to Monnickendam (where the rest of the group were enjoying spirits and bitter ballen) we cheers our cola-light to the weather as it was warm and sunny instead of rainy and cold. We eventually made it to Monnickendam and even ate bitter ballen (a Dutch delicacy the ingredients of which are better left unknown) and then all the way back to Amsterdam in one piece (and as one group) on a day of justifiable tourism. This tourism was justifiable in my mind because I was not a single tourist on holiday from Canada but a member of a large group coming from a Dutch-based institute on a day of relaxation and fun. That, and we had bitter ballen at the end, what more justification does one need?

A Proper Viewing

This past Tuesday, I had the "pleasure" of having my interview with the Immigration and Naturalisation Department (IND). My appointment took place at Rotterdam's city hall building, which is a gorgeous construction of pre-war architecture in Rotterdam as this was one of the few buildings to survive the bombardment that devastated the centre of Rotterdam during the war. I would have liked to enjoy the beautiful vaulted ceilings, stain glass windows, and ornate wood work if it had not been for the nerves and bureaucracy that sullied my experience of the view and kept my stomach in knots. The following is the schedule of my morning:

8:00 am - get up, jump out of bed (I know right now everyone who works a 9-5 is scoffing at my 8am wake up time. Note that I fully acknowledge that I am spoiled to be able to sleep so late), have coffee and toast, admit to Pdot that I'm nervous.
8:35 am - confirm my nerves by pacing the apartment and being indecisive about what outfit to wear for the interview...something with a collar to look professional, pair it with jeans to look like a student...???
9:00 am - leave house by bike to meet Pdot at the Centraal Station
9:15 am - realise that I've gone the wrong way because I'm not paying attention to where I'm going, turn around and meet Pdot at Centraal Station, a little more sweat but overall not in too bad of a shape
9:30 am - walk into social housing office (Pdot's landlords) and officially register with them as a leaser of the apartment (a requirement of my immigration application). Take stamped and signed sheet with me.
9:45 am - walk bike over to City Hall building and in doing so see the huge building looming before me, tell Pdot that from my position, this is a metaphor of my feelings toward my impending interview. I believe Pdot said something about me being melodramatic but I can't be too sure, the morning is a bit of a haze now
10:00 am - Pdot comes with me and into the City Hall to make sure that there are no problems with the residence part of my application and is as usual, very helpful, as he selects a choice for me and takes a number while we sit down and wait for our number to be called

* Side note * As you walk into the city hall you're greeted by a huge room, a mass of people and a cacophony of noise. In front of you are 3 computers on stands where you are to choose the purpose for your visit that day (people use the city hall to get parking permits, acquire drivers licences, pay fines, or have interviews with the IND). Once you have your number you sit in one of four large bench sections (maybe about 250 seats in total?) and wait among the masses for your number to be called. I should mention two things that kind of turned me off of this process: first, the computer choices are only available in Dutch (thank you once again Pdot for being there to save the day); second, the constant dinging of the bell which notifies people when one of the 40 desks is ready for the next customer. This dinging sound is almost constant and its pace is further emphasised by the people who sometimes have to cross half the length of the football field (I kid you not) to get to their appointed desk (that's if you started at one end and had to go to the other). It appeared that no one wanted to miss their call as you'd be put at the back of the line again and who knows when you'd surface again next....

10:20 am - our number is called and we reach our desk in time (Pdot who has been there before knows to wait in the middle so that you can actually get to your desk in a reasonable amount of time without having to trot like a horse) when we are told that we're waiting in the wrong area, that we should instead be at desk 20 or 21 and that we do not have to wait in line or have a ticket number
10:30 am - wait for the woman in front of us to be done with her business at desk 20 (there is no one manning the station at 21) and approach. We are in fact helped right away and spend the next 30 minutes officially registering with the City Hall (not the same as registering with the social housing group)
10:35 am - our attendant found a problem with the second authentication of my long-form birth certificate and suggested that I send my birth certificate back to Ottawa to have it stamped again...not conducive to my interview which is in less than three-quarters of an hour. I protest, she goes to ask someone else.
10:45 am - our attendant comes back and has determined that my second authentication is indeed okay and that I am now official registered with the City Hall. I need to go to the cashier and find out if they take cash, which they don't, so I have to go and get my fee of 41 Euros out so that I can pay the IND people when I have my appointment
10:50 am - wandering outside for a bank machine, ING does not work with Canadian bank cards for everyone's information, find a bank, get money, walk back to the city hall
11:00 am - Pdot searches through the computers at the front of the hall again and finds me the correct appointment listing. He leaves to get to the stuff he needs to do, and I sit down and wait to be called in the dinging, noisy, crowded set of benches at the very back of the hall.
11:01 am - waiting for my appointment
11:02 am - waiting for my number to be called
11:03 am - waiting for my number to be called, made hairy eyeballs at the crying child next to me
11:04 am - you get the picture...
11:15 am - called for my appointment to a girl sitting behind a desk who is much, much younger than myself. She asks for one or two documents while she begins to type things into her computer and insists on calling me 'Miss'. I will take this not to be an insult (as I am older than she by about 8 years) but a glitch in translation. Whether intentional or not, the label makes me feel a bit annoyed and aware of the power imbalances present in this entire process. The whole 'interview' had little to no discussion except for when she had a problem with my not having a return ticket to Canada. When I tried to explain that I had instead printed out my bank statements proving that I could afford a ticket home (yes, I promise to leave the county!) and that I only didn't have one at this point because I couldn't buy a ticket that far ahead she stated that not all of my print outs had my name on them. "Yes", I said, "for security reasons (I had already noticed this fact and worried about it) I'm sure but if you'd let me pull up my account on your computer right now, I can prove it to you". She looked at me, sighed, and said that she would accept it now but that 'they' might have a problem with it and that 'they' will contact me in that event, AND that this ruling could take up to 6 months as they were legally afforded this much time to make their decision. "Okay", I said...and left it at that since I didn't have much choice in the matter anyway.
11:45 am - walking out of the building with my temporary resident's permit affixed to the inside of my passport. Although I'm allowed to stay and work once I receive my So-Fi number, the temporary status reminds me that the bureaucracy is not yet over. As a Western migrant I got off easy I’d say. Just imagine if I was from somewhere that necessitated me to have tuberculosis shots, among other things!

I want to stress however that I find the Dutch immigration procedures to be no worse than those of the surrounding countries and probably much nicer/easier than some of the experiences that I could have had elsewhere. I would also assume that any and all experiences of immigration are difficult in that they make the migrant feel uncomfortable and powerless in some way.

What I do know however, is that I must go back to the City Hall on a different occassion for a proper viewing when I can actually notice and appreciate my surroundings.