De Efteling

I've seen commercials all year for De Efteling, a popular amusement park in the Netherlands. I didn't think much of going, because the ads were annoying and I didn't know where it was, anyway.

Turns out, it's very close to Tilburg. And though it closes after the summer, it re-opens right around this time for a few weeks -- De Winter Efteling. Ruud suggested going. So we did.



Fun day. Cold. Fake snow on the trees. A skating rink. (Ruud refused to skate.) Free ear muffs with purchase of soup. The bigger roller coasters weren't running -- apparently it's too dangerous to do so in cold weather -- but there were a couple of little ones and other nice things. We got on the first roller coaster just as it started raining, so it turned out to be a water ride. Ruud was not enthused.



The highlight was a 3D movie (did you know they still do those? I didn't) by the World Wildlife Fund or Federation or whatever the "F" stands for. The monkeys kept batting oranges at our faces until I couldn't handle it. I reminded myself not to flinch and laughed at the guy sitting in front of me who did.

White bicyclin', tree climbin', art appreciatin'.

Ruud and I spent Sunday at the national park, Hoge Veluwe, despite his being sick and my barely being over being sick. I wanted to go because they have a small wild boar herd. We saw no boars. I was unbearably disappointed, but still had fun biking through the park (though by nightfall my hands were so cold they didn't function properly), climbing trees, and checking out the art museum, which has a fantastic collection of Van Goghs.

Get out the vote.

With all the Thanksgiving, my birthday, and Sinterklaas excitement, I never got the opportunity to talk about our elections in the Netherlands, which took place on November 22.

There are 150 seats in the parliament, all of which had to be chosen. When you vote, you vote first for a party (there are dozens, 100s?) and then within that party you choose your candidate. The most important part of that vote is the party part.

The funniest part of it all is that there is a Party for the Animals. Their main concern for the country this year is the castration of pigs without any numbing agent. What about taxes, immigration, health care? "We have opinions on those, too, but they aren't our most pressing issues."

The Party for the Animals holds two seats in parliament.

December 5: Sinterklaas.

Yesterday was the long awaited holiday. Carien's parents (Maria and Cees) and her sister and brother-in-law (Martine and Cees) and nephew (Thies) arrived in the afternoon.

Around 4:00 pm, Maria got a phone call from Sinterklaas telling us that he had left some gifts for the kids outside in the camper. And, oh, is Thies staying with you tonight? Yes, yes he is. Okay, his are out there, too. The kids ran out and hauled in giant bags of gifts. Wow, I thought. That's a lot of presents. But I didn't know the literal half of it.

We had dinner -- pizza for the adults and french fries for the kids, all made by Carien -- and then we heard a loud knock on the door. Even I was surprised. Who was it? Two Zwarte Pieten with five large burlap sacks full of gifts!

(Spoiler: no, Zwarte Piet does not visit every house in the Netherlands on December 5. This was a visit arranged especially by Carien, and the first time such a visit has occurred at the Uptegrove home.)

The Pieten hung out with us for probably half an hour, throwing pepernoten all over the floor and handing out gifts.

The kids went to bed and we got to work on the wine -- and started playing our game. Here's how it went down:

8:30 -- Round 1, lasts 20 minutes. All gifts are in the middle of the circle; none of us have any. Each roll of the dice means something different.

1: Roll again.
2: Give the dice to the person to your right.
3: Nothing.
4: Skip the next roller.
5: Put one of your gifts back in the pile.
6: Take a gift out of the pile.

8:50 -- End of Round 1. I have three gifts.

9:00 -- Round 2, lasts 30 minutes. Some numbers on the dice mean the same thing as in the last round, but a key difference is that 4 is now Pick a Card (each of which contains instructions as to your play). Also, 5 now means you can take a gift from somebody else.

9:17 -- I roll a four and draw a card that says (in Dutch), "Put your leg over your head. If you can't do it, you must give one gift away." Ha HA! I CAN DO THAT!

9:30 -- End of Round 2. I am left with two gifts. We are now permitted to open whatever gifts are in our possession. I open them to find a chocolate letter (traditional gift from Sinterklaas, by the way) and a giant pair of tightie-whities, which still has Martine's husband cracking up.

9:45 -- Round 3, lasts 45 minutes. The stakes are high. Now all gifts are opened, but we still trade them around like mad, trying to get rid of the fuzzy pink heart mirror, the 100 tea lights, and the origami book, and trying to acquire the pasta kit, the bath set, the cookies. A couple of the rolls of the dice now mean different things again. The wine is changing hands frequently. My underwear are not in high demand. The key to keeping your gifts is to have the most undesirable ones.

10:07 -- I have accumulated seven gifts. I have passed the underwear along. The pasta and the wine are not in my possession, so my pile is largely ignored. Things are looking up.

10:29 -- I roll a 4. I draw a card requiring me to give all my presents away. I scream in agony.

10:30 -- End of Round 3. I am the only person with 0 gifts. But I have my wine. That's what I keep saying.

They took pity on the foreigner and I ended up with a few gifts after all. So much fun, presents or no. It's a game I intend to introduce in some form at some point with my stateside friends.

I went to bed around 2:00 am, but not before I watched them haul in five more sacks of gifts -- to leave in (read: under) the kids' shoes so they have something to find in the morning.

An early Sinterklaas.

Yesterday I went with Ruud to his brother's birthday celebration. It was a quiet one, just the immediate family and the family of his girlfriend, Eevje. It was an extra special day, because it also marked 12 1/2 years of togetherness for Rens and Eevje. 12.5 is a major anniversary here -- halfway to 25.

I made a peanut butter pie, which everyone loved except the birthday boy, who does not like peanut butter. Whoops.

After dinner, Eevje's family left and we celebrated Sinterklaas a couple of days early. Ruud had warned me that Sinterklaas had a few presents for me, too, so I was expecting one or two little things -- but I was in for a surprise. There were several gifts, simple but thoughtful: a photography book of Amsterdam, little Dutch souvenirs, a stuffed frog, reflector bands for running in the dark, candy canes, an electric toothbrush, a book by Bill Bryson (comedy writing about America), and a large Rolling Stones book.

Funny story. Two weeks ago, at Ruud's mother's birthday, she asked me what kind of music I liked. I said a little of everything, mostly rock/alternative. She asked me to name bands. I listed several, none of whom she'd ever heard of. Wanting her to understand the type of music I like, racking my brain for someone she'd know, I mentioned the Stones. Hence the gift.

Touched. Overwhelmed. I felt like I'd known them for years.

It was a special day, sitting around the fire, surrounded by the Dutch language and little snippets of English, understanding what I could and pretending through the rest, laughing just hard enough at the funny stuff -- not so hard that they would notice and ask, "You got that? What was it?" but hard enough that the whole conversation wouldn't stop so someone could explain it -- and celebrating a holiday I had never even heard of until this year with a family I barely know that went out of its way to include me.

Oh, there are these kids, too.

Yes, I still take care of four beautiful kids, whom you haven't read about in a while. The latest:

CARL

Still a handful, but lately he's obsessed with computer games so that provides excellent leverage for me. The threat of his computer priveleges being suspended is usually inspiration enough to get him to behave.

PETE

We're not on good terms today because he got mad and spit at me. My normally patient self flew off the handle and he went to bed at 7:00, cursing me all the way.

In adorable news, as I was doing Kate's hair this morning he said, "I think Kate is the prettiest girl in her whole school," and we exchanged a knowing glance. Actually, it probably is true.

KATE

Her behavior goes in phases. Lately, she says, "mijn papa" and "mijn mama" to me all the time, little reminders that...they're hers and not mine? I guess. Also, instead of getting mad and screaming when I chastise her, as she used to do, she starts crying and buries her head on my leg.

She goes to school two days a week and loves it. She won't eat her meal? She won't get out of the bathtub? She won't let you do her hair? "Well, I guess you can't go to school tomorrow, then." Problem solved.

She's speaking a lot better, too. Many more words and complex sentences, though they're not always understandable. My name has earned a one-syllable upgrade, from "Mah" to "Mah-na". Sometimes even "A-mah-na". She has adopted some of my language habits, and I, of course, love that.

The other day when I was reading to the kids, she kept looking up at me -- probably a total of 12 times -- the way that...well, the way that adults look at children when they're being adorable, and she would put her hand on my cheek and give me a kiss. Like, "Oooh, Amanda, you're so darn cute."

Yesterday she said, "Mah-na, yoga." She walked to the middle of the room and arranged herself in a flawless mountain pose -- big toes together, heels apart, everything. Precision. I have never been so proud.

She pooped on the toilet today. Twice.

ED

He's a year old and he already throws temper tantrums. When he smells food or sees food or realized you're thinking about food, he starts wailing. He likes to open cabinets and he knows he shouldn't, and when I catch him in the act he starts crying about it, but when I don't, he carries whatever he found in the cabinet over to me and smirks. He really smirks.

He's walking like a champ, of course, all over the place. He and Kate are best of friends and seem to speak each other's language. They laugh at each other constantly. And Kate manages to hurt him quite often, usually because she's loving him too much. Carl and Pete insist on picking him up and carrying him places, throwing him on the couch, stuff like that, despite my own insistance that they do no such thing.

ME

I made it to Rotterdam, finally, and took in their fantastic art museum as well as their shopping. I almost finished the Christmas project. Almost. It was a good day, Wednesday, even though I was in the process of getting sick, a process that started last Thursday, a process that continues to this day. Some days are better than others.

Tuesday is Sinterklaas, of course, so the excitement level is running high. I, too, am excited. There's this game the big kids play after the little kids go to bed. Carien explained it to me and I thought it might be something that just this family does, but I guess it's traditional throughout the Netherlands. More on that after the fact.

But before all that, Sunday is Ruud's brother's birthday party -- the second family birthday party to which I've been invited. Hopefully I'll be feeling better. It's just the immediate family this time, and they're celebrating Sinterklaas as well, so I've got to be on the A game.

Day 13 of the 25 Days of Amanda's Birthday

Day 13 is, of course, my actual birthday. It started at 7:30 am when Carl, Pete, and Kate pounded on my door bearing gifts. They sang to me in two languages. That's never happened before.

I was working all day, but Carien came back from her trip around 3:00 and I went off to get ready for the ball. I ended up just wearing the black dress I brought with me from home. I didn't think it would be formal enough, but it was better than buying a new one.

Ruud picked me up earlier than expected, but I was ready to go. We got on the bus with all the other ball-goers and traveled an hour and a half to the caves near Maastricht, where the event was held. We were there by 7:30, but dinner wasn't ready until almost nine.

By the way. There were a great many dresses more formal than mine, more "prom-like" which was what I expected -- but there were also a few like mine, and even so, I didn't feel out of place in the least. So, good news.

We ate, we drank wine, we sort of danced but there were a lot of people and not a lot of room. The band was nice -- I'm told they're one of the best cover bands in the Netherlands. Ruud's sister Lieke was with us, as well, and I met a lot of Ruud's friends. One of them was in New York a few weeks ago running the marathon. Another had spent a year in Minnesota -- his English was perfect.

We got home at 5:00 am. I'm still tired. I'm too old for this.

Happy Thanksgiving, belated.

We had a thanksgiving celebration here, though we had to do it a day early since Carien was leaving on a trip on Thursday. Carien's parents and sister were here, Megan came up from Maastricht, and Ruud came over after he got off work. Poor kid was pretty nervous, having never before celebrated thanksgiving. Do we give gifts? Do we sing? Do we have to talk about what we're thankful for? Nope. We just eat.

The highlight was that I made a pecan pie. I had never made one before, but it was awesome. My awesome pecan pie. It was super-dark, since we couldn't find corn syrup and I had to use a butterscotch syrup of similar consistency. I even nailed the crust. Perfection. Awesome.

Sinterklaas! Sinterklaas! en natuurlijk Zwarte Piet!

On Tuesday afternoon, we took the kids out of school and journeyed to Helmond to visit Sinterklaas at the castle.

We waited in line for about an hour, during which many of the Zwarte Pieten entertained us with juggling, bicycling, dancing, jumping rope, climbing, etc.





We also admired Americo, the horse on which Sinterklaas rode into town.



Once inside, we were led through several rooms by the Zwarte Pieten. There was the bedroom where the Zwarte Pieten sleep. We woke one of them up, poor fellow. He was the housemaster, and he showed us all the keys he's responsible for.



He led us into the dining room where he chastised two of the Pieten for playing a game while they should have been working.

We were led into the kitchen, where three Zwarte Pieten were hard at work making pepernoten -- bite-sized gingerbread cookies.



We saw the classroom, where Professor Piet was teaching a class of unruly Piets -- one of whom got in such trouble he had to leave the room.



Then we saw the man himself. He talked to all the kids and gave them each a little bag of pepernoten and other candy.

Voetbal en verjaardag.

Also on Saturday, Ruud and I went to a soccer game -- Eindhoven's PSV against Rotterdam's Excelsior. PSV won 4-0, which isn't unusual, I guess. They are consistently one of the best teams in the country. They have more money than a lot of the other teams, so they can hire better players. Simple as that. It was a great time -- I'd been wanting to go to a game for a while. Even better was that I got to use Ruud's dad's season ticket.

Then we went to Ruud's mother's birthday celebration in Helmond. There were many people there, about half of whom I had met in Germany, so it felt like home. Three people told me how they had looked up South Dakota on Google Earth.

6-8 Black Men

Read the David Sedaris chapter of that title, and you'll have a pretty good idea about this Sinterklaas holiday.

On Saturday, Sinterklaas, who looks much like Santa Claus but certainly is not, arrived in Holland. He took the boat from Spain with his many Zwarte Piets (translation: Black Piet), where he and his helpers, the Zwarte Piets, live all year. This event was televised. Live.

But the journey wasn't without its troubles. First, Sinterklaas landed in the wrong port. Then Zwarte Piet lost the big book with all the names of the children in the Netherlands. Carl cried.

Every night around 5:30, from now until December 5, we get a 30-minute televised update on Sinterklaas and the missing book.

Sinterklaas will be visiting all the towns in the Netherlands between now and the actual holiday (often many towns at the same time!), talking to the kids and gathering wish lists. On Tuesday we're going to the castle in Helmond, where he is staying for the next couple of weeks.

Knockin' 'em down.

I made it to Antwerp on Friday. They have the Rubens museum there, so I was a happy, happy art-museum goer. Other than that, I didn't do much -- shopped, admired diamonds, had lunch. The waiter offered to show me around Antwerp that night. Generous of him, hmm?

Instead, I went back to Ruud's and we made dinner. We were going to go to the national park (they have wild boars there! wild boars!) on Saturday, but it was raining so we chickened out. Biking around the wilderness isn't so much fun when you're soaked. So we went to Breda and watched Borat.

I have to find a dress. Only two weeks until the formal event.

There will always be a list.

Yes, there's a lot I still want to do. And it's really hard to find the motivation when it's cold outside. Biking to and from the train station and getting lost in large cities isn't so pleasant when it's freezing and you forgot your gloves.

So I put Antwerp off for today. Thought about going. It's just really cold. But the opportunities to do so are shrinking. I just thought about the amount of time I have left in terms of weeks. Yikes. Unless.....well.

Good things are coming. The 25 Days of Amanda's Birthday, for starters. A gala with Ruud. Sinterklaas. Rotterdam, Antwerp, and the national park, when I get around to them. Jack and Joel and a three-week (maybe four-week?) trip. Only two weeks for them. We start in Berlin on Christmas Day.

On the Go.

It's been a busy couple of weeks. I'm half-panicked at the thought of everything I still want to do and the very little time left in which to do it. Unless...well, who knows.

Last weekend was spent largely in Tilburg and Den Bosch with the fellow, eating nice dinners and defending my tennis abilities. Tomorrow there will be a movie, and I rather hope it's Little Miss Sunshine or The Departed. Other recommendations?

Then came Halloween. We celebrated in grand style, even though the Netherlands does not observe the holiday. I had the kids trick-or-treating upstairs as I rushed from room to room to answer the doors, and we had bat wings and eyeballs for dinner.

Thursday I went to Maastricht to catch up with Megan, who has been studying there since late August. I spent the night; we went to the World Press Photo exhibit which is currently displayed in Maastricht and to the Bonnefantenmuseum, a contemporary art gallery. We had a fantastic time there. It's definitely a good idea to take a buddy with you to a contemporary art museum. It quadruples the fun.

Like a champ.

On Saturday, the boys competed in a bicycle race, the 5- and 6-year-old division.

Carl: Do you think I'm going to win?

Amanda: Well, do you think you're going to win?

Carl: Yes.

And he did.

Rick was flying, unfortunately, so he missed the first win in what he hopes will be Carl's long and successful cycling career, but we watched the video and celebrated heartily when he returned home that evening. Carl popped open a bottle of champagne.

Pete gave an impressive performance as well, but his was after the race. He didn't cry. He didn't complain. He didn't even seem to resent Carl. He just piped up with, "I didn't fall down!" (Carl did fall, once.) And he drank that champagne like he had earned it.

De-Lousing

It was fairly late on a Tuesday night when I returned home from Scotland, and the next morning I was met with the following message as Carien hurried out the door to work: "Pete has lice." Rick was also leaving for work that day, so I was left alone for three days with the task of getting rid of the little buggers.

Mostly, this meant laundry. Anything the kids took off, touched, or looked at was thrown into the washing machine. You can imagine the ironing project that followed. I didn't know that many clothes existed.

It also meant meticulous checking of the children's heads. Luckily, after Pete had his head full of the no-more-lice medicine for a day, I didn't find any critters on any heads. Maybe, just maybe, we were in the clear.

And we were. Until the following Wednesday in Germany when Carien found lice on Ed's head, which prompted a search revealing lice on Pete and Carl. The project began again. We put no-more-lice medicine on the kids' heads. We vacuumed. We bagged everything, as we had no washing machine. We itched and itched and itched, but despite knowing for sure that we all had them, we couldn't find them anywhere else.

To date there have been no more lice sightings, though precautions are still being taken. Lots of toys are still hanging out in plastic bags. The lice comb is still on hand. The other day I found Rick's pilot hat in the freezer. No wonder he can't keep track of it.

Dear Diary

Also in Germany, I met Ruud. With any luck, we'll all be hearing a lot more about him.

Alles goed.

I'll admit it. I wasn't looking forward to a week in Germany, hanging out at the house at night with the kids while the grown-ups went to hang out with the rest of the family. The first two days were misery for me -- dishes, diapers, German television -- despite the celebration of Halloween on Sunday. If I had blogged before Tuesday evening, you wouldn't have been surprised to find me in a U.S. airport by Wednesday.

But then, on Tuesday, in the middle of lipsyncing N*Sync's Bye Bye Bye with Carl and performing the dance I helped him choreograph for the family's annual lipsync competition, I started having a fantastic time. (Even though we didn't win. Even though we had a lice outbreak among the kids on Wednesday that kept us vaccuuming and bagging all fabrics.)

We were in Kirchheim, about five hours from here by car, and it's beautiful. You're going to have to take my word for that. I went on lots of runs and walks, and each time I thought, okay, next time I have to remember the camera. And then I ended up being too busy for walks at all for the last three days, so. No pictures of the area.

But it's beautiful. There are actual hills! I've mentioned before that the Netherlands is a lazy runner's paradise, but it's also boring. At least in the mountains, you have something to dread.

On Thursday night, Opa was too tired to venture out for the daily party, so I got to go in his place instead of going to bed early with the kiddies. The first two hours were pretty dry. There were so many people, and so much Dutch being spoken, that I couldn't really find a strain of conversation to follow without distraction. But eventually I got more focused, and although I didn't contribute in meaningful Dutch ways, I did get the jokes and I had a great time. I also finished a bottle of wine. Couldn't hurt.

Carien and I got to bond a bit. It's funny listening to her make fun of the German language. A Dutch speaker. Making fun of German.

Which, by the way, sounds almost lovely after nine months of the Dutch.

I learned some German words. They include:

saft -- juice
apfel -- apple
wasser -- water

We went on walks. We had a barbecue. We shopped in the nearby town of Hersfeld where I bought clothes that weren't on sale. I played tennis for the first time in my life (minus that time with you, Boy, but I don't think that much counts), and my partner couldn't possibly have been very disappointed in my performance -- I did the good work. Except for my serving, which was a bit of a liability. We won a match, lost a match, and I love that sport. I look good with a raquet. My life needs more tennis. That's all.

The best part? This trip kicked my bad mood, dare I say for good. I feel motivated again. I have such deep affection for this country and its people. I love Carien's giant family. Leaving Europe is going to be a painfully difficult operation.

May the best you've ever seen be the worst you'll ever see again.

Sunday night in Edinburgh was fantastic. It just happened to be the one evening out of the month that a group of my host's friends, most of them Brazilian (though they didn't know each other till they met in Edinburgh) get together and make feijoada, a traditional Brazilian dish. Basically, it's a whole pig, black beans, some spices, and whatever other random stuff you want to throw in. On top of it you put this certain flour-type stuff, which looks like parmesan cheese but isn't, and it tastes good by itself, too. Delicious.

Jony told me he suspected we'd start around six, so I promised to be back by then. I was, but we didn't even leave the house until 9:30. Apparently, Brazilian time is similar to Spanish time. They had warned me that the dish takes at least four hours to cook (it's one of those that is better the next day), so I knew we were in for a long night.



We shopped for a few last-minute things and met up with Pedro, Curgy, Leo, Sergio, and Patrick, the lone Scot. Jony and Pedro started cooking, and the rest of us kicked back around a couple of bottles of wine.



It reminded me of when I fell in love with the theatre crowd. We were at a party, and a handful of drunk actors were discussing directing theory. At a party! Drunk! I adored them. And travelers are the same, though they talk about where they've been, where they're going, where you should stay when you go, where you shouldn't bother going, what you should eat when you get there. It's fantastic. They're such an open, welcoming, fascinating lot of people, and I am delighted to count myself amongst them.

It wasn't until the feijoada was served that I realized we'd been there awhile. Soooo good. Curgy spilled his on my leg. Twice.



It was a truly magnificent evening. More than once, I was overcome by the absolute delight of it, and actually had to fight back tears of joy on two occasions. It was just so special. There I was, in Edinburgh, sitting around with a handful of Brazilians, a Spaniard, and a Scot, listening to them switch back and forth between the three languages, feeling perfectly happy and at home, wanting to stay in Scotland not for Scotland, but for them. Magnificent.

Taking the High Road

I leave a lot of places wanting to go back, but Scotland is the first I've felt I desperately need to return to. I'm so excited to head back and take a trip up through the Highlands, as I ended up not getting far out of Edinburgh. For good reason, of course, but there is much there to see, and I can't wait to see it.

I stayed with a couple of Brazilians, fantastic people. So fantastic, in fact, that I decided to stay with them in Edinburgh the last night instead of journeying on to Glasgow, though my plane left from there on Tuesday.

I arrived on Friday afternoon -- an hour late. Thanks a lot, EasyJet. Leo was there, though....had been waiting that whole hour, so I felt pretty bad, but he was in good spirits. He dropped me off at his house and went to work. I went back out on the town and ended up at a performance of Merchant of Venice that evening.

On Saturday Leo went with me up to the Artist's Sit, which is a hill providing the best view of any place I've ever been, and around town.





Lots and lots of walking. I'm estimating 8-10 miles. No joke.







Jony, his roommate, joined us later. We went to a bar around midnight and met another friend of theirs.



Sunday I was on my own, first to a comedy club for an afternoon of improv (it was okay) and then to the National Portrait Gallery, also okay. I had every intention of leaving on Monday morning to go Glasgow, but these people were too much fun. I had no plans to stay anywhere in Glasgow, and no real urge to see anything it had to offer. I was intending to journey out to Loch Lomond, but Jony suggested renting a car and taking a drive, so we planned on that.

Of course, the driver needs both a license and a credit card in his own name, and I was the only one among us with that particular combination. However, I was not about to attempt driving on the left side of the road. So, bust. I was really disappointed, thinking I should have gone on to Glasgow after all, as from there I would have simply taken a train to Loch Lomond.

We went back to the house. It was late morning by this time, and I was trying to determine the best way to get to Loch Lomond, thinking of maybe getting a hostel in Glasgow on Monday night after all, when Jony suggested St. Andrews. So, we took a 2.5-hour bus ride to St. Andrews. A charming little town. The cathedral is fascinating, the coastline beautiful. Worthwhile.









There was a party that night, a bunch of the Brazilians getting together, which I was very excited to go to. However, upon returning from St. Andrews, my evening looked something like this:

7:00 -- throwing up in bus station bathroom
7:56 -- throwing up in Leith Walk garbage bin
8:15 -- throwing up at home

I planted myself on the couch and didn't move until 7:30 the next morning. I still have no idea what caused that. I never felt sick to my stomach at any point. It was just suddenly, wow, I'm going to throw up, and I did. And then I felt fine, until I wanted to throw up again, and I did. Very strange. By morning I was totally fine. And terribly disappointed. Jony wasn't home. It must have been a fun one.

Tuesday was traveling, traveling. I took a bus to Glasgow (one hour) and a bus to the airport (another hour). My plane left at 4:30, I was home by 6:30, but then I had to wait for a train and worse, for a bus. I didn't actually get back to the house till after 10:00 pm -- totally missing Ed's birthday. The boys chastised me for that this morning.

Scotland. Lovely. Itching to get back and take a drive through the Highlands. Who's with me?

Simon says what?

Today I taught the boys Simon Says. It really provided an opportunity for our personalities to shine.

Amanda

Simon Says pull your hair.
Simon Says do a yoga table pose.
Simon Says smile.

Carl

Simon Says pull your hair.
NO, PETE! NOT LIKE THAT! NO, PETE!

Pete

Simon Says poop.

Last minute this.

Today I:

1. woke up.
2. found out I have five days off this weekend instead of the originally scheduled three.
3. bought a plane ticket to Scotland.

I'm leaving Friday. I spent all day trying to find places to stay -- no luck thus far. But it's only been a few hours. I'm holding on.

I have to miss Ed's birthday. I won't get back till evening on Tuesday. I debated a long time about this, but the extra day means a lot. It means Glasgow as well as Edinburgh.

Besides, I think my being here would be more symbolic than enjoyable, even. I mean, it'll be a house full of people speaking Dutch and a baby who doesn't realize what's going on, anyway. I'll miss cake. Scotland or cake? That's what it comes down to.

It's a treasure.

The boys and I had a pretty good week. I sent them on a treasure hunt which lasted all of five minutes. (Note to self: more clues next time.)

I also got them started on sign language and was awed by how quickly they picked up on it. I showed Carl his name once, the second time he did it with me, and then he said, "Now I do it self." And he did. All by himself, exactly right.

Pete was hesitant to learn, as 'p' is difficult letter for tiny, semi-uncoordinated hands, but after he saw Carl achieve such success he buckled down until he had it right.

Ed turns a year old on the 10th. Hard to believe he couldn't even hold his head up when I got here.

Down will come baby....

Five seconds. Apparently that's all it takes.

I put Ed in his high chair. Nothing unusual. I left the room to get the pasta off the stove. Still nothing. He's definitely been left unattended in a high chair for more time than that.

But you see where this is going.

I have a hot pan in my mitted hands when I hear a "thwap" followed by a wail. I look to Pete, who has a clear view of the action in the dining room, and he looks horrified.

I run in. Ed has fallen from his high chair and is lying face down on the floor, screaming.

I pick him up, take him into the kitchen. He's crying and bleeding all over his bib and my shirt. I'm fairly certain I'll pull back his lip to the absence of eight tiny teeth, but no, they're still there. They're swimming in blood, but they're there.

I mop up as much as I can and give him a bottle. The cure-all.

But I'm not out of the woods. I have Carl and Pete to answer to, two tough little cookies who are fairly certain this is all my fault.

"You have to strap him in!" Pete yelled. Actually, no. There is no restraining device. I am not negligent, so there. That's really about all the argument they had, and when they realized, wow, there is no restraining device, they grumbled a bit but had to admit that Ed was the dumb one here.

Not dumb. He's not even a year old. He didn't realize that long falls result from climbing out of high chairs. Now he does.

He gave me a good scare, though. There was too much blood to determine at the time what exactly happened, and he wasn't keen on letting me touch his face later on, but he must have just bitten himself. He has a fat lip, but he's smiling again, thank goodness.

Home from home.

I was never really a believer in jet lag until I moved here. Sure, on previous trips to Europe I was tired, but I always slept well at night. When I came in January, my sleep was thrown off for two weeks and I ended up really, really sick. I'm afraid that's starting all over again -- I slept for two hours yesterday afternoon when I got back (having only slept two hours on the flight over), and then went to bed at 10:00 pm with an alarm set for 8:00 am, just so I wouldn't over do it. Turns out it wasn't needed -- I awoke at 1:30 am, feeling fully rested. That didn't last long, but I never got back to sleep. It's 9:45 and I'm ready for a nap.

The trip was excellent. The wedding was beautiful. I know terrific people.

I'm vacationing in the States.

It's a strange concept.

I'm almost packed. You know me. It's a 2-day affair, at least.

And I'm pretty darn excited. Regina and Adam are picking me up at the airport, bless them. Ma and Pa are blazing into Verm on Tuesday for a couple of days. There's wedding business all weekend. It's shaping up to be a lovely 10 days.

I'd like to thank you for continuing to read this thing, although the past couple of months have been pretty dry. Things should be picking up again soon. I'm going to Germany in October, so at least by then.

Leaps, bounds, mourning.

Yesterday the boys and I spent a good 90 minutes talking about natural disasters. Pete really caught on to earthquakes. There was momentary confusion -- "The earth has plates?" -- but we got that cleared up. We were quiet and fine until we got to tornados. They, of course, got caught up in one and swirled around the house until I could get them interested in floods.

Kate said "banana" today. All three syllables. This is quite an upgrade from the previous word she used for banana, which was "na".

Crocodile Hunter Steve Irwin died. Died! I'm somewhat distraught, as he was my favorite wildlife looney. Plus, he named his kids Bindi, after a crocodile, and Bob. Bindi and Bob. Bob. First Bindi. Then Bob. But really. It's a sad day for wildlife, the Discovery Channel, and me.

I'm back.

At long last. After nearly a month of being heavy in the grumpy, things are finally turning around. It took a lot of quiet time, an intensely productive painting obsession (my own blue period), and a well-timed package (thank you, Andrea) but I'm feeling, more or less, like my old self again.



And just in time. I'm leaving for the States one week from Monday. There's a special wedding I wouldn't dream of missing, and many of the world's good people, all right there in Vermillion.

Learning English

The boys speak English quite well. Pete is already using sarcasm.

Of course, there are a few things that aren't quite right. I often hear, "That is me pen" (or me shirt or me toy or me whatever). They usually say of instead of or (of is Dutch for or as in "melk of sap?"). The one I never correct is land, which is Dutch for country -- "Your land won the game!" "How long are you staying in this land?" It's just too cute.

However, my favorite one of all is Pete's neverbody. You know. The opposite of everybody: neverbody.

The Return of the Little Yellow Ball

Things happen quickly around here. Kate did something to Pete, which I did not see. Pete retaliated, which left both of them wailing. Carl, ever valiant, came to Kate's rescue by launching himself at Pete. I was simultaneously trying to send Kate to The Mat and get Carl away from Pete before it turned into an all-out boxing match (I failed in said attempt). Everyone was screaming.

At last, Kate was on the mat contemplating her misbehavior (or playing with her toes), Pete was on the couch, and Carl was in my arms, still swinging. I got them calmed down and apologizing and released Kate from her sentence before The Mat became too much fun.

"Where's Ed?"

He was eating. But then his bottle was on the floor, empty. I looked under the table. I looked in the serra. I looked outside. I lost the baby.

"Guys, where's Ed?" Nothing. "Guys, I'm not kidding, where is your brother?" This heightened their concern and they started a search...

...which led us outside and between the cars where Ed was sitting.

"He's got something in his mouth," Carl said.

Sure enough, the baby was trying to chew on something. I tried to pry his mouth open, which is a lot harder than you might think. I couldn't see anything, but Carl did.

"It's a yellow ball!" he cried, clearly panicked. (See previous entry: "I not gonna do that again.") The kids are well aware of how dangerous small objects are for their beloved Ed. They stepped it up. Pete started beating on whatever body part he could reach, yelling, "Choke! Choke!" while Carl tried to shove his very dirty fingers into Ed's mouth to retrieve this little ball. I don't think Kate really knew what was going on, but she did her best to help, screaming and trying to hit Ed.

It was so loud, I wasn't able to get much direction in. Ed started crying, totally freaked out. With one arm, I held Ed on his feet and used the other to fend off Kate and Pete. I tried to stop Carl before he managed to push the little yellow ball down Ed's throat, but he got it out before I had the chance.

Crisis averted.

I took Ed inside and by the time I had put him on the floor, Carl had found the gun to which this little ball belongs and was loading and shooting, loading and shooting.

"Carl, were you there for anything that just happened? We don't want those little balls around. Go throw it away."

He started screaming in protest, naturally. While he was distracted by his own tantrum, Pete wrestled the ball out of his hand. Pete sprinted to the garbage can, closely followed by Carl, who was poised and ready to hit.

The ball made it into the trash. Pete got smacked. Carl spent five minutes on The Mat.

Chocolate and waffles, continued.

Belgium is non-stop delight, as far as I'm concerned. As it turned out, I didn't recognize one thing in Bruges (give me a break -- I was only there for one day in '99), but who cares? I've heard it called the most romantic city in Europe, and deservedly so -- it's lovely. I kind of wish I were still there, especially since it was a six-hour round trip. Describing cities is boring for the reader and the writer.







I went to a relatively crappy art museum, but at least you had to walk through a sculpture garden labyrinth to get to it. That made it worthwhile.

Of course, not so much French language in Bruges, but still lots of chocolate.

I wore my boots. You know it's going to be a good day when that happens. Sure, I don't know a lot of Dutch, but I know what heel mooi means.

Little things.

I was going to go to France and buy champagne for my bubbly-loving friends. Of course, now we're not allowed to have liquids in our carry-ons and it makes me more more than a little nervous to put a couple of glass bottles in my checked luggage. Sorry, folks. Blame the terrorists.

Instead, I'm going to Bruges, Belgium on Tuesday. Very exciting. I was in this city seven years ago when I came to Europe for the first time, but I remember so little of it.

Kate started school last week. She's two years old. She goes one morning and one afternoon each week. She will continue this preschool till she starts Group 1 (the first half of what we would consider kindergarten) in two years. However, she won't learn to read for about five years -- Group 3. Hmm.

In other Kate news, the other day she threw a fit after Rick left to drop the boys off (she really likes to go along) and she didn't stop screaming until he came back a full 25 minutes later. After the first three minutes, I just sat and stared at her. What am I supposed to do?

The boys are back in school, as well, after their six-week summer vacation.

Yesterday I bought paint, brushes, and paper. Today I spent about 10 hours painting. I don't want to brag, but I completed three masterpieces and started a fourth.

It's not staying light until 11:00 pm anymore. Boo.

I'm with my boyfriend Spike. He knows karate and carries a gun. I'm meeting him here in 10 minutes.

While in Lagos, I met Brooke, a 21-year-old from Ohio who spent the summer traveling around Europe by herself. We became friends and talked quite a bit about traveling solo.

Traveling by yourself -- particularly as a woman -- is tricky business. It means going home before dark so you don't have to make such a trip by yourself, or walking really, really fast after dark. It means occasionally having to turn down invitations to various events because you can't be certain of a participant's character. It means being rude and dismissing people who are probably perfectly decent folk and are just being nice. It means taking chances.

Above all, it means putting an incredible amount of faith in your intuition. You're equally likely to avoid a certain street or accept a ride somewhere without knowing why. One might think this makes you crazy or stupid, but it's all you've got.

I admire Brooke a great deal, as I do any solo female traveler. I admire their courage, and their realization that this seeing-the-world thing is worth any risk that might be associated with it. They are amazing, adventurous people.

It is with some surprise that I realize I am one of them.

Up and coming.

I'm working my way out of the slump.

On Monday I went to Amsterdam intending to meet up with a traveler from Chicago. His train was arriving in the late afternoon, but I went in the morning to work on the Christmas shopping project (and let me tell you, I made some good progress; I even got a little carried away, maybe).

It rained all day. I went to the Stedelijk Museum, where the mutilated furniture and accompanying video will give me nightmares. Ah, the age old question, What is art? We've got to keep an open mind.

So, afternoon came, and I wandered to his hostel to find he had checked in but he wasn't around. No one's fault, really; we hadn't made very specific plans for meeting up. I waited a while and went home. Disappointing; it would have been fun. Another time.

Luxembourg next week? I need some motivation.

Waking up on the wrong side of the world.

I am in a ba-a-a-d mood.

I woke up like this. I'm not even working today, but I still didn't stand a chance. This is type-worthy because it's fairly unusual. I didn't even feel like running. I didn't even feel like buying shoes. I went to Den Bosch thinking I could distract myself with new pretty things, but I could not. Instead, I walked around for three hours, trying to figure out what the hell is wrong.

I miss having a gym. You wouldn't believe how much I miss having a gym. My knees are starting to hurt, undoubtedly thanks to six months of long runs on the pavement, runs that are getting boring, anyway.

The boys are off the wall. I can't even call myself an authority figure and keep a straight face.

I suddenly feel remarkably out of touch with the goings on in my homeland. I think this is hard to understand until you move this many thousands of miles away. I wouldn't have understood it.

I have a lot of downtime I enjoy but sometimes have trouble filling. I've read a lot of books, sure, but I also watched Dr. Phil the other day. What?

I'm restless. Is it time to change it up again? I haven't traveled in a month; maybe that's part of the problem here.

That said, I'm probably not leaving in January as originally planned. They want me here. I have no concrete reason to leave, only vague ideas of a new chapter, perhaps one that takes place in Asia. More time means more travel (I can't sit still thinking of Amanda, Jack, and Joel: From Bohemia to the Balkans, coming in December). Once this is over, it's over. I can continue to live in Europe or wherever, but my situation will never be the same. Maybe that's worth holding on to for a little bit longer.

But that doesn't mean I'm not reallllll grumpy today. Talk to me when it's over.

Maybe there's no right time.

I'm not sure when this happened. Not when, not how.

I've never been much of a shoe person. I liked bare-footedness. I refused to spend good money on shoes, preferring to buy dresses and accept footwear hand-me-downs.

Somewhere along the line, my feelings started to shift. I started really noticing shoes on other people and actually choosing to go into shoe stores. This started back in the States, maybe a year or so ago, but the situation has been growing here in arch-supported leaps.

Maybe it's because the shoes here are so much better than they are at home. All I know is that the shoe population in my room has more than doubled since I arrived. This is not a good thing to be happening in a Payless-less land.

I acquired my newest pair yesterday. I went into the store to admire another pair of shoes I've been eyeing (but holding off on buying) when these lovely brown heels caught my attention. They wanted to come home with me. So they did.

A girl's best friend.

We were watching a cartoon in which someone said something in Dutch and presented another someone with a giant diamond ring. (It didn't seem to be a proposal. But we all know how my Dutch is. Anyway. Beside the point.)

Pete: Oooo, a diamond.

Amanda: Are you going to buy diamonds for me, Pete?

Pete: (thoughtful) How much those cost?

Amanda: Oh, quite a bit, schat.

Pete: More than five euros, you think? I have one of those papers, a five euros paper.

Amanda: (overwhelmingly touched) Yeah, quite a bit more than that, I think.

Pete: Oh. I can't buy that then for you.

Listen to this.

There are four very good things about Belgium:

1. Waffles.

2. Chocolate.

3. Diamonds.

4. French.

Listening to French is like eating candy, wearing Gucci, dancing the Argentine tango, especially after hearing Dutch all the time. Candy, I tell you.

How is my Dutch coming along, you might ask? Well. There are some factors playing into my drive to learn it:

1. We ended up being unable to locate a convenient and affordable Dutch language course.

2. It's really, really difficult.

3. It's pointless. The vast majority of the people who speak Dutch (which, let's remember, is a very low number worldwide) also speak English.

4. Dutch people repeatedly tell me that it's pointless.

5. It's ugly.

There. I said it. The Dutch language is highly unpleasant to listen to. No offense to the speakers of said language. I'm sorry. I'm not saying my language is beautiful. I doubt it is.

When I got here, I realized the first two points, and caught up with the third as my time here progressed. I still wanted to learn it, though, because:

1. It's still a skill.

2. Conditions for learning it are perfect.

3. It'd be great random fun to say, "Yeah, I speak Dutch."

But then I really listened to it. And I nearly went out of my mind.

This is all not to say I'm not picking up a few things. (Emphasis on few.) I'm just sort of leaving it at those.

That is all also not to say there aren't some highlights to this language.

1. kikker -- frog

2. schat -- treasure; used as a term of endearment

3. knuffle -- hug

We're almost up-to-date

After Barcelona, my sister came back to Holland with me for one week. We mostly bummed around. I was temporarily traveled and moneyed out. But we did manage to get to Middelburg and Amsterdam, and we ate at the pancake house. I guess you'd have to talk to her, but I'd call it a success.

I haven't worked much this month. I'm currently in the middle of another six days off. Had I felt like planning a trip when I got back from my last one, I'd probably be in Greece right now. Didn't happen. Instead, I half-cleaned my room and I'm heading to Brussells tomorrow.

Barcelona

Barcelona was the last stop on my two-week adventure. I took a night train from Madrid and arrived in Barcelona around 8:00 am on a Tuesday. I walked to the hotel -- that's right! hotel! -- to wake up Judi and Shauna, who had been in Barcelona since Sunday.

Barcelona was these things:

* Picasso Museum

* Chocolate Museum



* Gaudi









* Beach



* Lots of pineapple and dried kiwi



* Paella



* A fun night out on the town with Brooke, a fellow American I had met two weeks prior in Lagos

(Hate to interrupt the travel play-by-play, but...) Fire and Brimstone

Pete: Do you know where my swimming is?

Amanda: Is it by the church?

Pete: What's a church?

Amanda: That big building where people go to pray.

Carl: We were in a church and you be quiet and there's a dead guy and they hang him up.

Pete: Yes, Jesus (YAY-zus) got hanged up.

Amanda: And what else about Jesus (JEE-zus)?

Pete: Jesus (YAY-zus).

Amanda: Jesus (YAY-zus).

Pete: Jesus got hanged up like this. (Insert crucifixion demo here.)

Amanda: Yes, that's right.

Pete: Do you like that?

Amanda: Well, no, that doesn't seem very nice, does it?

Pete: Then you have to get hanged up like that.

Bullfight!

The bullfight in Spain felt, overall, more geared toward tourists. In Portugal, I felt that there were a great many locals around me -- all I heard was Portuguese being spoken -- and my ticket was more expensive. In Spain, my ticket was $5, I took a picture of some Japanese girls for them, and the guy next to me and I debated about why one of the bulls wasn't killed. (They seemed to give up on him or something.)

This bullfight involved three young matadors and six bulls. They were showy little guys, which made it interesting. For a while. Two and a half hours is a long time to sit on a concrete bench in the heat (yep, still hot between 9:00-11:00 pm) watching, essentially, the same thing. There aren't any loonies in Spain.

But, it had its moments. At this fight, the matador would enter the ring and "greet" the bull as it entered. One guy started on his knees. This is when the bull isn't even tired, after all. Intense.

Then the other matador-esque guys would join in. A trumpet would sound, and a man on a heavily-armored horse would enter. They would get the bull to charge the horse, and the man would stick his spear into its back and hold it there. Meanwhile, the horse is on two legs or whatever, totally chillin' out. This, really, was the best part. The bull hit that horse with a lot of force. Once the horse almost tipped over on top of the bull. I'm pretty sure I gasped. Another time the rider lost his spear and nearly fell off. Usually they would have time to do two stabs before the trumpet sounded again and the rider left the ring.

The other matadors took turns sticking the bull with spears, two at a time, for a total of six. This is done on foot, sans cape, obviously, since each hand holds a spear. They sort of run at the bull, getting the bull to run at them, and do a rather super-human leap to the side as they stab. I watched this very carefully, and it still looks impossible to me.

I didn't think I'd be able to tell the difference between young matadors and experienced matadors having only ever seen one experienced matador, but I kinda could. These guys sometimes had trouble getting the spears to stick, or even trouble killing the bull. One guy lost his cape -- twice. You could tell they were pretty embarrassed by these things.







And, of course, no bullfight is complete without a good strut around the ring when it's over.