Farewell, my love(?)

Beste Nederland,

I remember the moment I first graced your sunny shores, in 2004, riding (hanging on for my dear life) from Germany across the plattelandschaap, gazing with lust at your perfectly proportioned body with its rectanglular patches of cows, greenhouses, historical city centres from midevil times, polderland that has existed less than 50 years, and narrow little straatjes that have been tread for maybe 500 years. At that moment, I did not fully appreciate what you had to offer. In fact, I must admit -- I found your so-called best feature of Amsterdam a bit vies. It was after all gay pride weekend and so trash was everywhere, and the outdoor men's peeing places really got to me...

When I next came to you, in Amsterdam, you were not my first choice, which you knew. Yet you took me anyway after China chewed me up and spit me out. Our reunion was not ideal, however, as I walked all over the city in the rain (which reminds me of a video in Dutch class about praten over het weer... "wat weer, he? regent, regent, regent"... little did I know why they chose that conversation...) to find my new apartment. That day I ended up donating a few hundred euros, the cutest purse I've ever owned, my credit card, my loan checks, my hello kitty wallet, and my passport, to a junkie. Yet that experience was one of growth and opportunity. Firstly, I was able to do a good deed, educating a poor, ignorant Dutch police officer about Kitty. That was my formal introduction to the unending bureacracy of your government. I filled out an epic form, detailing every item that I lost, even drawing them for the young (they make the rookies deal with the foreigners), compassionate, patient officer, only to then ask what they do with the information. "We file it." The end. I also met two of the best friends possible on that day... B., who comforted me as her new French roommate and parents gawked, and gave me her phone to call daddy (not many people out there will trust 20-dollar charges to someone they just met); and I., my new next-door neighbor, who accompanied innocent little me to the police station and made me eat (falafel... my first time!) when I wanted to starve in despair.

So it took awhile for me to fall in love with you, dearest. Actually I could not say I am enamored with you as of late due to your bad moods this past MONTH of rain, monsoons, gloom, clouds, doom. You certainly do have your mood swings, love, such as last summer when it felt like L.A. (as in Lower Alabama) in July and my belgian chocolates all melted together on the unairconditioned train which broke down; those storms where the wind uproots your few trees; days when the sun never emerges from the grey; summer weeks when when the sun hardly sets and a bike light is hardly necessary. You have some of the most beautiful canal houses, tulips, and cafes (and where else can you find a shop just for the knop?), and then you show your gritty side in the red lights, seedy bars, and squatters' houses. Your people also have their quirks, changing with the weather -- being grumpy and trying to take people down in the streets and the grocery store, running into them and not apologizing, offering unsollicited opinions to strangers; and then, when the sun shines, radically altering and actually smiling at passers-by and gaining a grin in return. It took me a long time to become accustomed to your ways. I wanted to smile at everyone on the street but soon realized that this is not advisable, unless one wants the horny 18-year-old (or 40-year-old) boys who come out of their cocoons in spring to prey upon oneself, or if one enjoys being threatened by the street people in the winter because one looks happy.

Basically, our two-year relationship has been one of ups and downs, but I love you all the more for your idiosyncrasy. Why? Perhaps because I also hail from a contrary land, in which gazebos can be found on sacred indian mounds and beautiful hills are dotted with kapot automobiles and otherwise random objects.


When we began our relationship, I shirked idiosyncrasy. I tried to mesh with your flesh like young Korean couples wearing matching outfits, considering myself successful when the airport security guards thought I was Dutch. I hiked up my heavy coat collar and abandoned my shorts, smile (that "american smile", according to an Estonian friend back in 2003), and the tendency to gaze aimlessly around in wonder. However, even though there were moments in which I felt at one with your body -- especially when riding my bike across your bridges in the Jordaan -- I finally have acknowledged that I am not meant to be your leg, or your arm, or your heart. Lovers merge at points, but in the end we are separate people because I will never, never eat patat frites with mayonnaise. Period.

Here we are at the point of separation, and I have no regrets. You have given me so many things to hold in memory: amazing friends, a new language that I (halfway) studied, amandelmelk in Riaz, people who ask why I'm not fat since I'm a Unitedstadian, tea times, potluck dinners with people from all over the world, O'Lacy's fruit & flakes cereal, a drug dealer roomie, neighbors across the street to spy on, late night philosophical conversations on your public benches, 50-cent bags of vegetables and fruit in the markt, my favorite personal game of "guess the nationality before hearing the voice", a university computer lab that is easily mistaken for an H&M fashion show ... And what else have you given me? A backbone. One must be thick-skinned, independent, and confident to last two years with you, sweetie pie.

So ... Sterkte! Don't sink in the water and have only Limburg left after global warming, because I would like to be with you again someday, kind of like how it happens in love in the time of cholera. Fifty-one years, nine months, and four days...

Groetjes,

Katherine