Stairway to heaven

Other than the friends I left behind in the UK, there are not that many things that I really miss about my life in London. That does, however, not mean that there are not a few areas where I have always felt the Dutch could stand to learn a lesson or two from their overseas neighbours. Escalator etiquette is one of those things. Anyone who has tried public transport commuting in the Netherlands and who has had to dash for that connecting train will know what I mean. We Dutch just like to stand all over the place, dead set on thwarting all those who try to survive in the fast lane. The simple concept of "walk left, stand right" is lost on us. Until now...

Yesterday morning I arrived at the station of my native Amersfoort. To my surprise I found the escalators there had been decorated with bright green and red footprints, teaching us silly Dutch how to behave on an escalator! Apparently it is part of a 'pilot project' and Amersfoort has been lucky enough to get the premiere. Believe it or not but it even came with a crash course in elevator walking. It seems we are just THAT stupid. Well, I hope it works. What's next? Allow me to make a suggestion: could we please send the Amsterdam taxi drivers to learn from their London black cab colleagues?

Going Dutch

It's not been quite a week yet but steadily I am beginning to get settled back in into my Amsterdam life. So many things are still the same that at times it is as if I have never left. The shops I knew are all still there, I even recognise plenty of faces in the neighbourhood and much of Amsterdam is still in its by now familiar construction chaos. Still, there are a few things in my own habits and behaviour that are subtle reminders that I have been away for quite a while. I need to learn to look the other way again when crossing a street. I need to remember again to say my own name first when answering the phone. I need to go back again to using the magnetic strip on my bank card rather than the chip. I need to use a strippenkaart again, not an Oyster card. I need to start yelling at cyclists who nearly run me down again, instead of saying "Pardon me". I need to become that cyclist again, not the silly pedestrian. In short, I have to work on my 'inburgering'.

There is one change in the neighbourhood, however, that suddenly made me feel that perhaps I have taken a piece of the UK with me to Amsterdam. The squatted house around the corner suggests Banksy has gone Amsterdam too:

Ingeburgerd

Inburgeren: "to get accustomed to a new place of residence"
(van Dale Dutch dictionary)

More commonly interpreted as knowing and respecting the habits of your new country after emigration. Well, it's been 12 months and 19 days since I arrived so it is a time to take tally of how well I have been ingeburgerd into British society. A quick summary on some key indicators:


Five out of ten ..., not a very good score. Then again, inburgering doesn't dictate adoption of foreign habits, merely understanding and respect for them. That, for the most part, I can do. I don't think I'll ever stop being amazed about carpet in the toilet or separate faucets for hot and cold running water but it is such peculiar differences that make it interesting to live abroad.

It's hard to say here in London whether or not you have been accepted by the English. The truth is there hardly are any around. Almost everybody is a foreigner. I have met more Chinese, Germans and French than I have English. My accent, for one, still does not fool anybody into thinking I'm English though lately I have been getting "Canadian?" a lot . I'll consider that a step in the right direction from earlier accusations of sounding American.

This weekend was a clear reminder that I am far from being assimilated. Those of you Dutch like me may not know this but for the English this was a BIG weekend. It was the final of the Rugby Worldcup and England was in it. I watched the match in a pub full of rowdy fans looking at a scrum of rugged looking men having absolutely no clue what was going on on the field. Out of a sense of solidarity, mixed with an instinct for self-preservation, I decided to side with England. They lost and now the English are in mourning. I, on the other hand, am completely indifferent. My support for England was only skin deep. Maybe that is the true touchstone of inburgering.

E=MSc2

Today it is exactly one year since I heard the words 'Hora est' and was told that I should carry my new doctoral title with honour but should never forget the responsibilities it brings towards science and country. Big words to live up to.

As for carrying the title with honour, I try not to flash it around wantonly. Here in the UK though it seems academic titles carry a lot more weight than they do back home. I was advised quickly after I arrived that I should use it in official dealings whenever possible. On that advice I added the Dr. to my name when I applied for a bank account. I fear to think how banks treat people otherwise but that is a different matter. The unintended side effect is that the title appears on all of my bank statements and even gets printed on the receipt every time I pay for anything with my card.

Soon after I moved I also applied for a student travel card. In a frivolous moment I ticked that box marked "Dr.". I had just gotten my title a few weeks before and I suppose I was just trying it on for size. A silly impulse. Once, at the station, I presented my card at the ticket window to top up my credit. The guy there took a long hard look at the card, then at me, and back again at the card. Then suddenly he hollered to his colleague in the next window "hey, look: we have a real doctor here!". My cheeks flushed a bright red and I thought I would die of humiliation right there. I know I shouldn’t be embarrassed about a title I worked so hard to get but I do feel that there is a time and a place for it. The ticket window and the check-out counter, however, are definitely not it.

The Anglo-Saxons on the other hand sure do like to show off their titles. They have a wide range of them and they’re not ashamed to use them. It is not like the Dutch system where there is essentially a succession of titles and as you get a new one, you drop the old one. Here you keep them all, stacking them up like Lego blocks. And it is not just the MSc or PhD titles; they have some very specific ones too. My project supervisor, for instance, carries the impressive epithet "MBBS MBA DIC MFPH FRCGP". Now that I have handed in my thesis I will soon also be allowed to add the letters DIC to my name: short for Degree of Imperial College. Of course the main title I have earned myself this year is MSc, but I already have one of those in my collection. So what shall I do: MSc² DIC PhD?

Generation O

The UK holds a sad record: according to statistics it is the country with the highest rate of obesity in Europe. It's not hard to believe. I see it with my own eyes every day; people so big they take up two seats on the bus, men and women who haven't seen their toes wiggle in years.

Seeing what people eat around here explains a lot. Fish & chips are never far away. At college I myself have picked up a nasty lunch habit. Our cantine is fairly small and does not serve much that takes my fancy (yes, how surprising) so when I can't be bothered to head over to the larger and slightly better main cantine I sometimes lunch British style: with a pack of crisps. It's a terrible habit and I can't believe I'm doing it but when in Rome... . It is also known as the "Heathrow diet": new arrivals are said to start putting on the pounds as soon as they set foot on British soil. I don't have any scales to test this hypothesis for myself but the overly snug fit of my trousers suggests there is an element of truth in it.

The real tragedy is that a lot of the obese people here are only teenagers, sometimes not even. Of the generation that is growing up now already 1 in about 5 children is considered obese. Unless something dramatically changes soon that number is not likely to decrease. Jamie Oliver for one has been waging his legendary war on fa(s)t food on the battle grounds of the school cantines. It is of course a start but in the era where Wii is considered sports and a crisp sandwich a wholesome lunch I fear the worst. This island seems doomed to slowly sink into the sea, unable to carry its weight.

Echt HEMA

This week I'm off again for another short trip back home, this time on school related 'business' (more on that later). On the way back I won't be carrying a lot of souvenirs. I used to bring back stroopwafels every time but I've recently discovered that the snack shop at my local tube station also sells them! The other thing I tend to pick up is old Dutch cheese. That is something I haven't been able to find here anywhere. Occassionally I bring over some other small things. Like most people I am fairly brand loyal and I can't get my favourite toothpaste and shampoo over here. Other than that though there aren't many things that are so exclusively Dutch I couldn't buy them in London.

There is one thing, however, I really do miss: HEMA! My non-Dutch friends living in Holland have been singing the shop's praises for years and I never fully understood why they would think it so special. Now I do. You don't know what you've got till it's gone! HEMA is the ultimate "go-to'' shop. It doesn't matter what you are looking for; electrical extension cords, hold-up stockings (ask a girl, guys), curtain hooks... I don't know how they do it but they always seem to have just the thing you were looking for. If there is a shop anything like it around here, I for sure haven't been able to find it yet.

It turns out I'm not alone in my craving for HEMA. Research among Dutch expats has shown it's our biggest common denominator. Good news might be on the way for us. Last week HEMA was taken over by a UK based private equity firm that is planning to expand its international operations. "HEMA; Coming soon to a highstreet near you"? I can't wait!

Pucker up

The eskimo's rub noses, the Japanese bow and the Dutch...well, we kiss. Not one, not two, but THREE ferm ones you get: 1x left, 1x right and 1x left again (or vice versa so you wish). I've always found this greeting ritual a bit excessive. Especially if you have a room full of people to work your way through, it's very tedious to have to kiss everybody three times.

Here in England I have quickly abandoned the 'triple X' practice. I haven't quite been able to work out what the local custom is though. It seems to be something in between one and two kisses, with a kind of semi-hug thrown in for closer friends. Most of the time I get it right these days and I don't usually end up sending kisses into thin air anymore.

This weekend, though, I've had some culturally confused encounters. None of the people I met up with are Dutch funnily enough, but they all know that I am and are clearly familiar with the ritual. So when we exchanged greetings and I moved away after the first kiss there was instant confusion. The receiving parties were fully expecting all three! In one case the confusion got such that when I then leaned back in to offer up the remaining smooches, the other person was just turning away; limbs got in the way and the glass I was holding was sent crashing to the floor. Admittedly, as far as culture clashes go this is not a very serious one. Nonetheless, I feel a universal greeting ritual is in order.