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On Homelessness For those of you who already read my entry in the Expatica I Am Not a Tourist blog competition, I apologize for the repetition; redundancy sucks, I know. This time around, though, it's complete with fun links (a blogger's equivalent of song and dance).

Sincere thanks again to all of you who voted me into first place; I am so very grateful.


A few months ago, I came across an article detailing general Dutch opinions about some of the nationalities who have settled within their borders. They feel ambivalent about the British. The French and Italians have nice holiday destinations but are frowned upon for various reasons.

Okay, fine. But Americans? Loud and empty-headed.

These two descriptors have haunted me since, rendering me into an eye contact-dodging, full-fledged low talker in public. Recently in a bustling cafe, I was flooded with feelings of shame... on behalf of a tableful of Americans. Their cheerfulness and sharp vowels overwhelmed the room. Their voices were all I heard. I wanted to apologize to someone, to anyone, to everyone. Loud and empty-headed rattled around in my skull like a pebble in a clothing dryer. I felt the need to breathe into a paper bag. In retrospect, I realized that my visceral response to a common scene in a city crawling with expats had little to do with the benignly chipper Americans, and more so with my own insecurities, failure to learn the language, and overall feeling of cultural homelessness.

My quandary is two-pronged.

I ache for certain aspects of America, Land of...
You wouldn't have guessed it after my complaint party above, but I am immensely happy here. My sighs of homesickness are practically inaudible when compared to my praise of the Dutch way of being and living, especially when it comes to raising kids. It's an idyllic place to have a family, and when I close my eyes and say the word home, Amsterdam is the most clear of my options. How do I love Holland? Let me count the ways...

I identify with these (and many other) aspects of Dutch culture so much that now I'm in the predicament of feeling culturally fractured. I get an ache in my chest when I think of my years in Colorado, spent under almost perpetually blue skies, often on the back of a horse in the more recent days. I long for the lakes of Wisconsin, the smell of freshly cut grass that permeates its summer months. But moving back to (one of) the states would mean leaving a big piece of my heart in Holland.

Our future here is currently enclosed in an opaque question mark-shaped case (1 year? 10 years??); until that question mark turns into something more certain, I'm determined to sprout some roots. First step: finally learning Dutch. Gulp. Until then, I'll be working on raising my eyes, my chin, and my voice.

Here's to fluency, and to feeling at home, even if your definition of the word is as stationary as a bird above the open sea.


p.s. What's more impressive than a mama who can curse eloquently? One who does it at the top of her lungs from the top of the world. Vote me to the Arctic!
at 09:50 

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