more from Holland
We’re getting used to life in Holland, which entails avoiding bicyclists whilst downshifting BMW’s with dozens of German luxury features – which are labeled in German.
We’ve done Dutch laundry, we’ve had even more beer, and we’ve eaten in a very swank restaurant in Zeirkzee beneath a beautiful orange moon (orange above all, Grammy told us). Youngest has been equipped with a bike and we have arranged for a visit to the school (they’ve called a reporter!).
This morning, moving slowly, we made our way to the beach, as this is a shore town.
The Dutch seaside is part of the grand display of engineering that we see all the time here. Massive efforts to hold the sea in place are everywhere you look. (You can google the story of how Holland was built.) We are often below sea-level. The dikes and deltaworks are amazing and all around us are giant those giant wind turbine things. (It’s terrible, isn’t it, that I don’t know the name of them?)
So. The beach.
The beach pavilion. C’est La Vie.
After the beach, Middelburg, where I hit the Hema and we looked at a chocolate laptop, and we tried to get inside a church. It seems all the churches in Holland are locked. We settled at an outdoor café and had some lunch.
I’ll tell you, menus are difficult. With English, a good waitstaff, a smattering of Dutch, French and Italian between us, we are able to decipher things, but it’s work.
Fortunately, people have been very patient with us and we haven’t made too many mistakes.
Well, one mistake. We have electronic keys to get in and out of the community/resort we are staying in. Tonight, in an act of kindness, I let someone into the driveway with my key. It was a German fellow with a car packed full of pillows and luggage. He was searching through his trunk to find his key while we were leaving. I thought I’d be nice and swipe him in so he didn’t have to struggle and so I did. I noticed an employee of the resort smirking at me but thought it was a typical Dutch reaction – which is not to say the Dutch are not a lovely people, but happy? Jovial? I’d have to say no.
Anyway, in using my key card inappropriately I voided it.
We were on our way out to find some dinner, which we did not find!
It’s a tiny place we are staying in, and it’s Monday night. Most places are closed. There was a pizza joint a ways away but Middle told us he didn’t come to Holland to eat pizza.
Hence, the men have borrowed a key card and run off to the supermarket for more cheese and beer.
Because we haven’t had enough cheese and beer.
(I said we should pretend we were a Dutch war-time family and eat what we have. And what do we have? Bread, Nutella, water, milk and a box of Frosties. Grammy suggested spec and eggs and that's what they've brought!)
The organ-grinder is at each market day. When you give him a coin he tips his hat. His monkey is not real, which is just the way I like them.
The kitchen table. Nuff said.
The cafe in Middelburg.
A metric ton of spec(k).
Leffe double. Nectar.
We’ve done Dutch laundry, we’ve had even more beer, and we’ve eaten in a very swank restaurant in Zeirkzee beneath a beautiful orange moon (orange above all, Grammy told us). Youngest has been equipped with a bike and we have arranged for a visit to the school (they’ve called a reporter!).
This morning, moving slowly, we made our way to the beach, as this is a shore town.
The Dutch seaside is part of the grand display of engineering that we see all the time here. Massive efforts to hold the sea in place are everywhere you look. (You can google the story of how Holland was built.) We are often below sea-level. The dikes and deltaworks are amazing and all around us are giant those giant wind turbine things. (It’s terrible, isn’t it, that I don’t know the name of them?)
So. The beach.
The beach pavilion. C’est La Vie.
After the beach, Middelburg, where I hit the Hema and we looked at a chocolate laptop, and we tried to get inside a church. It seems all the churches in Holland are locked. We settled at an outdoor café and had some lunch.
I’ll tell you, menus are difficult. With English, a good waitstaff, a smattering of Dutch, French and Italian between us, we are able to decipher things, but it’s work.
Fortunately, people have been very patient with us and we haven’t made too many mistakes.
Well, one mistake. We have electronic keys to get in and out of the community/resort we are staying in. Tonight, in an act of kindness, I let someone into the driveway with my key. It was a German fellow with a car packed full of pillows and luggage. He was searching through his trunk to find his key while we were leaving. I thought I’d be nice and swipe him in so he didn’t have to struggle and so I did. I noticed an employee of the resort smirking at me but thought it was a typical Dutch reaction – which is not to say the Dutch are not a lovely people, but happy? Jovial? I’d have to say no.
Anyway, in using my key card inappropriately I voided it.
We were on our way out to find some dinner, which we did not find!
It’s a tiny place we are staying in, and it’s Monday night. Most places are closed. There was a pizza joint a ways away but Middle told us he didn’t come to Holland to eat pizza.
Hence, the men have borrowed a key card and run off to the supermarket for more cheese and beer.
Because we haven’t had enough cheese and beer.
(I said we should pretend we were a Dutch war-time family and eat what we have. And what do we have? Bread, Nutella, water, milk and a box of Frosties. Grammy suggested spec and eggs and that's what they've brought!)
The organ-grinder is at each market day. When you give him a coin he tips his hat. His monkey is not real, which is just the way I like them.
The kitchen table. Nuff said.
The cafe in Middelburg.
A metric ton of spec(k).
Leffe double. Nectar.
Comments
HAFP
And is that a can of Lynx deodorant on the kitchen table? Is it really that international? the need for teenage boys to smell so vile?
There's a Hema in Paris now, right outside the Forum des Halles on the rue Rambuteau side!
And Leffe!
Sweet.
That table is SO you.
I was admiring the orange moon here too ...
Is this you? I imagine it could be. From the Sartorialist. :)
Eat a poffertje for me!