50 by Fifty

I like to set goals.  Specifically, I like to set goals that I’m pretty sure I can meet.  For example, sometime during the spring of my third year of law school, I made it pretty clear to everyone that my goal was to graduate.  If I observed lent,  I'd probably choose something to give up that wouldn’t be too difficult, like intravenous drug use, or sleeping till noon. Which I guess kind of defeats the purpose of goals, because as much as I like them, I really hate watching myself fail.  That's one more reason I should never publicly declare that I’m giving up sugar.

So lately I’ve been pondering the role of travel in my life, how I’d like to celebrate turning 50, the state of affairs in Syria, how I can exercise my writing muscles, and…needless to say, I’ve had a lot of time to think. 

I’ve come up with a big, audacious plan/dream/goal to have visited 50 countries by the time I turn fifty—give or take a couple of months.  I’ve talked to Andy and he’s game for the challenge.  If we get desperate, we may even combine the number of countries we’ve both visited to reach an average of 50 countries by our fiftieth birthday—which we both celebrate in 2017. 

As of today, I’ve visited 35 countries, and Andy’s been to 40.  In the meantime, I’m planning on writing a blog entry about each country I’ve visited, because while I’ve written about travel in general and some places in particular, I’ve not featured every country in a post.  Don’t worry, there will be nothing encyclopedic about this, nor any rhyme or reason to my entries. But if we can manage this, it will be awesome, maybe even worthy of a book.  And if for some reason, we don’t succeed, I suspect it’s a challenge where we’ll enjoy traveling as far as we can, even if we don't reach the destination. 

Living on the Frontier

I can’t believe we’ve been back in Portland a month.  It feels like it’s been a year, which is how life can seem living on the prairie, harvesting acres of quinoa, felling logs for the sauna and fending off hordes of zombies.  Oops, I guess that’s another blog entry.

           

Since returning, I’ve unpacked a 53 foot moving van (six crates) worth of our worldly possessions, put a 1000 miles on our new prius, driven to Seattle to get Wasabi, driven Dylan downtown each morning for school (hmm, guess that’s where the miles come from) and started working two days a week.  I’ve also rewritten a short story and am in the process of making drastic changes to my book.  I’ve had my friend Holley—the stylist for non-celebrities—over to figure out why I have a closet full of clothes and nothing to wear (this will be a later blog entry), and have started all the work the holidays entail, including finding and decorating a new tree, shopping, and hanging up the front porch lights (backwards at first).  Yawn, I think I’m ready to take a nap.  No wait, I still have to bake something for book club.

I’m not complaining.  But since Andy isn’t here I’ve been feeling a lot like Ma Ingalls, where taking out the trash is akin to rushing frozen laundry into the house during a blizzard.  I’ve always said that without Andy I’d be sitting in the cold and the dark, which is almost true.  There’s a light bulb burned out in the hallway and I can’t reach the fixture…

What I’m imagining as my own private living history experiment, is actually the plight of single moms each day, but add in huge financial worries and all the acrimony and stress that usually goes hand in hand with a divorce or separation. To my single mom friends, or friends whose significant others are away most of the time, I raise my glass to you.  Actually I’d rather we raise our glasses together, but I know how hard it can be to hitch the horses to the wagon.  If you can make it over, please bring a blanket…and a light bulb. 

Giving Thanks

It’s been difficult to blog lately.  Not only have I been overtaken with a storm of emotions throughout our move to the Netherlands and back, but also I’ve been following the adage, if you have nothing nice to say, don’t say anything at all.  Suffice it to say, lots of bad was going down, and not much good. 

Despite the shit storm we endured, I’d have to say in many ways I learned I was the richest woman in the word.  For if a person counts their wealth in friends, I realized that when it comes to the people I have in my life, I’m richer than The Donald.

Since November holds Thanksgiving—how cool is it that we have a holiday to just be grateful, and pig out while doing so—I thought it was appropriate to give a shout out to the many people and things for which I am grateful.

Here they are in no particular order:

Thanks to Sam and Dan for taking care of our second child for nine weeks.  Not only did Sam quickly offer to take Wasabi, but he and Dan drove down to Portland and enfolded Wasabi into their loving home. 

Thanks to Anne, Mike and the gang at Three Dogs who continually assured me that Wasabi was doing okay and rolled with all the changes we kept throwing their way.

Thanks to April, who not only picked Dylan and I up with our six enormous bags, but fed us gourmet meals and sheltered us until we could get into our home.

Thanks to Bob and Susan.  They not only took amazing care of our home, but they made it possible for Dylan and I to move back right away.  They did not have to do this, and yet they still did.  We are forever in their debt.

Thanks to Kerry, who was my proxy through all of this.  She dealt with the bills, the mail and taking care of things I couldn’t do while overseas.  She also made me feel missed and loved. 

Thanks to Bernetta who talked me off the roof during the worst night of our entire time in Eindhoven.  Not only did she give me excellent advice, she stayed on the phone with me for hours as I muddled my way through the latest crises.

Thanks to Ronda and Declan, who thought of me when they needed some help and offered me a job—I start next week!

Thanks to Rhonda in D.C. who picked me and Dylan up at the airport, fed us and let us stay with her for a whirlwind 22 hours before we had to return to the Netherlands.

Thanks to Lauren, Elena and the team at St. Mary’s who made a space for Dylan and were wonderful during this transition with their excellent communication. 

Thanks to the many girlfriends who I emailed and called, all offering loving, and kind support.  You know who you are, but not everyone else does: Lili, Athena, Luann, Suzanne, Starla, Rachael, Paula, Linda, Kara, Nancy, Moira, Laura, Lora, Amy, Amanda, Daksha, Ruby, Susi, Ro, Heidi W., Wendy Z., Anita, Jenny and Shannon.

Thanks to Marianne, Redd, Mychal, and Steve who welcomed me back at Milos with hugs, iced tea and benedict before I could even slide into my seat at the counter.

Thanks to my friends on Facebook who still “liked” me, even when I whined about being in Paris. 

Thanks to our folks, who endured a very bare, sullen and cold European existence with us.

Thanks to Kathy and Megan who befriended us while in Eindhoven and helped make things much easier. 

I must say it wasn’t people who made things difficult for us while overseas.  Well, maybe there are a couple who stand out as a pain in the ass, but it was more the system and circumstances.  But there were Nick, Lydia, Remy, and Walter, all Dutch, and all who made things a little nicer.

I need to wrap this up, but I must say that I’m most thankful for two others in my life.  They are Dylan and Andy. 

While there were horrid moments together that I think Dylan and I would rather block from our memories, I am thankful that she is motivated to learn and wants a lot out of a school which is a “problem” many parents would gladly trade in a New York second.  She not only went into this move, more game and optimistic than 99% of the kids her age, she adapted to many things in Europe far better than her mom. 

What can I say about Andy that you didn’t already know except for his integrity and devotion to us as a father, husband and provider, stands strong as he works his ass off in Eindhoven without his family.  The visits home will be too few, the weeks too long, but unlike millions who must endure time apart from a family member (military, migrant workers, prisoners, people who must leave their country for years before the rest of the family can join) we know Andy is doing challenging and exciting work and that there will be an end to our separation.

Many times throughout these past months I’ve been told that this experience will provide great writing material.  While I may or may not ultimately write about our time away, I am thankful that I have writing as an outlet.  In fact, I don’t know what people who don’t write do when life is a struggle.  How do they process the images, the hurt, the disappointment, if not through words?  Writing helps me sort out my feelings and provides a shelter, though it is one I usually seek once the storm has passed.  Nevertheless, I understand that I have much I owe to my writing.  I think of it as a gift from the gods, and the words come through me, not necessarily from me.  But these words above are definitely mine; thanks, grazie, danke, and merci.

Weekend Road Trip

I have to say, one of the coolest things about living in Europe is that your weekend road trip destinations can be Germany, Luxembourg, and Brussels--which is where we spent the last few days.  Thought I would post a few photos of the visit with my folks who finally arrived, despite their cancelled flight.  

This is the cathedral where Charlemange is buried.  

The cathedral ceiling.  It was less gothic on the inside, and inspired more by the Ottomans, looked almost Turkish.

Check out the emblem above the door, for all you illuminati fans out there.

Cold, wet but not too miserable in Luxembourg City.

The next morning dawned bright and beautiful.  Luxembourg City feels like a charming mix of Switzerland, Italy, Germany and France with its architecture and great hills.

Last week we went to Venlo in the Netherlands to see the once-every-ten-years-horticulture show called Floriade.  Despite the crappy weather, it was a great place to take flower-lovers. 

Bug people on stilts

Is it me, or does this orchid look like Jay Leno?

Yes, that is all orchids.

This is not what we wanted.

We left the States full of optimism and excitement about living in Eindhoven and now Dylan and I are moving back to Portland at the beginning of November so that she can get an appropriate education.  We are hoping that Andy will be allowed to stay in Eindhoven for the remainder of his contract, or at least a major chunk of it, but that part is still under negotiation.

While we've had some weird, odd and crazy things happen (crack shack apartment, living above a porn shop, and finding out we are subject to all of the Dutch laws) while we’ve been here in Eindhoven, nothing has been terrible or too unexpected until we finally got to spend some time at Dylan’s school, which for us was a disaster.   

The details are complicated, long and probably not interesting for anyone but ourselves, but in short, the curriculum at the school is aimed at people who want to do an International Baccalaureate diploma, yet since Dylan is not 16, the hard IB work doesn’t begin for another year.  We discovered that during this academic year, the classes she would take were ones she’s taken before, and that she would essentially be repeating a combination of 8^th and 9^th grade—which we believe would make it difficult for her to progress as a Junior next year.

Once we realized what staying at the school would mean for her education, we scurried to look for solutions: investigate other international schools in the Netherlands which seemed to be more of the same, plus they were horribly expensive, find a boarding school in Europe, send her to live with a friend in Washington DC to go to a public high school there, or what we thought would be the best solution—homeschooling until we returned. 

Simple, right?  It turns out that it is illegal to homeschool in the Netherlands. Yup, didn't expect that one. The only way the Dutch allow homeschooling is for a religious exemption or if the family philosophy is such that there is no school in the area that teaches to the family's needs. After hours of research and talking to a lawyer, we’re still not sure how the Dutch define a family philosophy. However, this exemption can only be used as long as the student has not attended a single day of school. 

Oops.

We sent Dylan on the first day because we didn't understand and were confused by the rules.  Ever sent a kid to a school, or just to a Dutch school?  It was unclear.  Normally as Americans we'd give the school a try, see if we could talk to the administrators and work something out before doing something drastic, but the law--which we are now subject to as Dutch residents--is so punitive that we couldn't even start a dialogue if we wanted homeschooling to be an option.

We hired a lawyer to plead our case to the mayor of Eindhoven and the education ministry, who are in charge of enforcing this law.  It’s not like we can fly under the radar, because as Dutch residents the government knows we are here, where Dylan is schooled (or not), and that we are essentially breaking the law. These are not issues we expected to run into as expats. We knew that murder, drug dealing and starting a kiddie porn ring were frowned upon, but home schooling our kid? The (il)legality of home schooling is not just a Dutch issue: the laws change with each country, and are quite literally all over the map. Upon advice from our lawyer, we have kept Dylan home since mid August.

Our lawyer could not guarantee that we would be granted the exception. If we lost, we would have to either force her to go to this school, or get fined 50 euro a day for every day she's out after the decision comes down.  We just found out this past Saturday, after six weeks of waiting, that she has been granted an exemption.

Frankly, we weren't expecting or wishing to homeschool and really wanted her to be at a school to meet people and gain a foothold in expat life, but there is no way that we’re going to make her go to this school. Not only because we seriously question whether she will get what she needs, but because we don’t want her to spend a good chunk of her time in the Netherlands in a miserable school situation, which could just poison everything here for us.

While the Netherlands itself is a pleasant country, without a school there’s nothing for Dylan and me to do in Eindhoven. Fortunately Andy is happy with his job and working so much he doesn't have the chance to get as bored as us.

   

In the meantime, we’ve come to the realization that while homeschooling may be a good option in our situation, it’s by no means perfect. We are not teachers and we respect the job too much to think that we can give her what she needs.  The last time we tried homeschooling she was a third grader, and not a college-bound sophomore, which is much harder and with higher stakes.

Socially and academically Dylan needs to be in a school, so when we returned to Portland in September, we visited St. Mary’s Academy, a parochial all-girls school in Portland which is famed for their academic rigor.  Dylan had been accepted this year and last. We passed up the opportunity during her freshman year because of her overriding desire to take Japanese, which was offered at our neighborhood school, and had to pass again when Andy’s job transfer happened. After talking to some administrators at St. Mary’s, we have decided the best option is to enroll Dylan in early November. 

We’ve spent the past couple of weeks unraveling the strings of our life that we have been weaving in the Netherlands.  Not only did we bring home nine bags of our stuff during our Portland visit, but we cancelled bringing Wasabi to Eindhoven.  Did you know that it costs $14,000 to ship a dog round trip from Portland to Europe?!  We didn’t.  At least that’s one of many costs we’re saving Andy’s company by returning. A few weeks ago our friends Sam and Dan who live in Seattle picked Wasabi up from boarding (where he’s been since July) and will keep him until we get settled. 

Know that we are heart-broken that this happened.  It isn’t what we wanted or expected.  While we are confident that for the sake of Andy’s job and Dylan’s schooling this is the best course of action, it’s not ideal.  We’ve only begun to imagine how difficult it will be when we’re separated, but we really want Andy to continue his job here in the Netherlands.

Before we return we will have a crazy month. My folks and Andy’s will be visiting, Dylan and I have just returned from a week in Paris, and the three of us will be in Italy in mid-October.  We have racked up serious mileage this year. Just counting from July till November we will have been to Berlin, Copenhagen, Malmo Sweden, London, Antwerp, Amsterdam (6 times), the Hague, Utrecht, Portland, Washington D.C., Paris, Aachen, Luxembourg, Milan, Genoa, Cinque Terre, and possibly Brussels. It’s hard to believe that this is the same year we started in Hawaii and made our way east to NYC, Boston, and Denver. Andy has also made three more PDX to AMS trips than us since May. 

No wonder we feel so wiped; we’ve managed once again to make travel, and this whole expat experience, into an extreme sport!  But we are doing okay despite the major change in our plans. The next items on our to-do list are to get a car, find a temporary place to live if necessary, reconnect with our friends in Portland, and, we hope, learn how to put together a long-distance family life for a while.  

Life Above The Porn Store

We've finally moved into our semi-permanent digs here in Eindhoven, a very nice house in a subdivision north of town.  Before we post any pictures of our new place, I thought you, dear reader, might want to see where we made our home for the first month in the Netherlands.

Our first, first house---which we dubbed the "crack den" was scary bad.  Non working toilets, lights exploding out of sockets and copious amounts of mold and mildew.  We didn't even spend a night there because it was so uninhabitable.  Two days later we moved into a sweet little apartment above a porn store.  I like to say it was the cleanest place in town, but it too had some little quirks.

Here it is, home sweet home.  

This view was far more tame than the one at the back door where we had a full-on frontal nude poster!

This is the view out of our front window.  The red path is the bike lane.  The nice thing about bike paths in the Netherlands is that they are a different color which helps us remember where to ride, and where to watch out for bikers.

For those of you who haven't been to the Netherlands, these dutch stairs--going down in our place--are as ubiquitous as gouda and tulips.  Teeny tiny narrow stairs, that have a steep pitch.  They would probably be illegal in the US, given our building codes, and for good reason.  These are not very safe, especially for the elderly and clumsy. 

Here are the same stairs going up, which is a much safer trip than coming down.

One thing that I've become resigned to in the Netherlands--which is probably common in most of Europe--is that a second bathroom is a rarity.  In all the places we looked, only one had two bathrooms.  But a second toilet is common.  Ours was right NEXT to the kitchen.  This bathroom was about the size of one in an airplane.  I'm not sure how these super tall people survive with such tiny spaces.  See the sink, it only has hot water.  Toilets rarely have hot water plumbed into the sinks.

This is the weirdest thing about our apartment.  See the pole.  That attaches to a hook in the attic door.

Pull on it and down comes a ladder.

Where does this ladder go? You may ask.

Why to the dryer--of course!  That wacky Dutch design.  The washer was in the bathroom.  

So there it is, our first place in Eindhoven.  Quirky, but comfortable for the month we stayed.  I'll post some pictures of our newest digs soon--I promise.

Humble Pie

A few years back, during a period when I was saying “yes” to every invitation that came my way, I agreed to provide weekly English tutor sessions to a recent Somali immigrant.  My only qualification was that I could speak English and had time on my hands.  She and her husband had six kids under the age of eight, the youngest had serious health problems that required them to visit OHSU on a weekly basis. 

The tutoring sessions would consist of me holding one or two of the babies, while going over the oldest kid’s homework and explaining to Howa (the mother) the many sheets of paper in his backpack.  I wanted to spend more time with her, but that proved difficult given her situation.  She told me that she wanted to learn English so that she could get a license and drive a car.  Drive a car?!  I thought and probably said out loud—though not to her.  There was more to driving a car than reading a STOP sign!  The test itself can be highly complex, even for some native English speakers and wouldn’t she want to be learning English for higher pursuits like reading her child’s school notices or David Sedaris essays? 

I’ve been driving around Eindhoven for the past few weeks and let’s just say I’m eating a bit of humble pie. 

Howa, I’m sorry for even questioning your desire to drive and I can’t imagine how you got/get around Portland with six kids dependent upon your husband, a bus or the kindness of friends.  And from what I’m learning, reading the language, while helpful for actual driving, is not necessary. 

I know this because I’ve already driven through construction zones closed off to cars, mistaken 70 km per hour to mean 70 miles, and gone the wrong way down a street.  While there is a universal pictograph sign language where many signs don’t have words, somehow in the States I’ve never seen them, and so am having to learn the sign language as well as Dutch.  I know this might be self-evident to most, but all the signs in the Netherlands—or at least the important signs—are in Dutch! 

I’m proud of myself for getting around Eindhoven and I can almost get from our temporary rental to our “new” home without our GPS.  Can I just say that our onboard navigation system has not only enabled me to brave driving in a new city, but has gotten us into downtown Berlin, Copenhagen and Antwerp, where I’m pretty sure we’d still be without her assistance.  We’ve dubbed the GPS Lola, short for Dolores Umbridge, because she has such a bossy tone about her. 

While I’ve never been anti-immigrant, maybe because I’m one myself and I believe that the awesomeness of the United States arises from the contributions of so many different nationalities, I know that I’ve wondered how someone who has lived in our country for years hasn’t mastered the language, or clings to the ways of the “old country.” 

If nothing else comes out of our experience from living in the Netherlands, it will be the full understanding—not just the intellectual bit—but the visceral ability to get what it is like to be an immigrant.  To not read, speak or even understand the rules of the country you make your home, whether for a year or twenty.  To have to wait, and wait some more for things that citizens take for granted.  Want to sign up for a cell phone?  No problem.  A bank account?  Your parents probably helped you with that one?  Rent a place?  Money helps, but you probably know what steps to take to find one.  Everything is slower for an immigrant.  Mind you, we’ve had the help of Andy’s company getting us appointments to the Expat center, hiring lawyers to deal with our paperwork, calling relocation specialists to assist in our home search and even having a Dutch woman who has lived and traveled extensively overseas take us down to the City Hall so that we can change our address. 

Even with her help, we get overwhelmed with the cultural differences.  One of the mistakes we made was thinking because most of the Dutch speak excellent English (the few who don’t are over the age of 60 or very low skilled workers) and since there is a terrific infrastructure, that we’d be moving to the Euro Disney version of America.  An, “awww, aren’t those differences cute, now let’s go get Starbucks!” kind of place.  And color me stupid, but I didn’t realize that in order to stay in the country for more than 3 months we’d not be traveling Americans with nothing but our passports to guide us, but full-on Dutch residents.  Residents who will pay the taxes, but not necessarily get the benefits.  Wait, no paid vacation from the government, but we do get to visit the community pool! 

I’m learning from this experience one very huge thing about myself.  I make a much better traveler than expat—may be some commitment issues there—but there are some very big differences between the two.  So with my humble pie, I’m being also served a healthy dose of the immigrant experience and finding they’re dishes difficult to swallow.