A Very Irish Christmas

Ireland was so cold this Christmas that there just wasn't much point in going outside. That was fine, however, as there was plenty to be eaten inside.

We had a traditional Christmas dinner with a turkey from a local farm and stuffing made with mashed potatoes (I was informed that bread stuffing is so American). My Irish aunties also introduced me to a Cork specialty, spiced beef, which they described (accurately) as akin to pastrami but flavored with Christmas spices like cloves, allspice, and mace.

And when we did make it out of the house (to another warm, sheltered location), we rewarded ourselves with freshly baked Irish scones: crisp on the outside, soft and sweet on the inside, and layered with clotted cream and raspberry jam.

(For the Christmas turkey and spiced ham, my Aunts relied on their favorite purveyors at the old-school English Market in downtown Cork. For very civilized tea and scones, visit Hayfield Manor, where tea is served in the hotel's library and sitting room in cozy nooks next to fireplaces or overlooking the manicured courtyard.)

Apple Pie

There are in Den Haag a plethora of little twee cafes that serve basic sandwiches and homemade sweets on mismatched china. I was at our favorite (based on quality of coffee, value, and general homeyness)* with a new friend the weekend before Christmas. We both ordered apple pie - Dutch apple pie, which is a towering mess of diced apples, dried fruit, and crumbly crust.

Our very kind waitress explained that there wasn't much pie left, and also that it wasn't very good (I did not catch why she thought it wasn't very good, but at any rate she turned out to be wrong). She offered to bring us what they had left, with some whipped cream, for half price.

She re-emerged carefully balancing a large baking sheet with a third of an apple pie and roughly a cup of whipped cream mounded next to it. "I'm sorry," she explained, "it started to fall apart when I cut into it, so I just brought you everything we had." We didn't complain.

Half an hour of chatting later, we had made a major dent in the pie, but progress had significantly slowed. That was when the thin Dutch man, with whom we were sharing a large communal table, leaned over. "Excuse me," he said with an exceedingly polite Dutch accent. "I would like you to know that if you need any help with the problem you seem to be having," he inclined his head towards the pie plate, "I would be very happy to be of whatever assistance I can." And he smiled.

It took us a moment, but then we laughed and slid the baking sheet with the ruins of the apple pie over to him. A few minutes later, he slid it back to us. "As you can see," he informed us, "I have been able to take care of the problem. I am very happy that I could be of some assistance."

Four euros for a third of an apple pie and some cross-cultural bonding? Now that's a value.

* "Appeltje Eitje" (roughly, little apples little eggs)

Snowpocalypse, Den Haag edition

Holy icefield, Batman! I brought the Snowpocalypse of 2010 to the Hague!

What started as a heavy snowfall on Friday has grown by maybe an inch or six per day since. But it isn't the amount of snow that has me alarmed - it's that the snow is staying put.

Friday

Today

I don't mean that the snow isn't melting - though it's not. I mean that no one seems to be making any effort to move it.

Christmas shopping on an icefield

I can sympathize with a city government that doesn't own any snow plows because it "never snows". This is why a light dusting of snow can shut down Portland. But there is a further disconcerting cultural/legal difference I was not expecting: No one here clears their sidewalk. Not homeowners, not the government, not even businesses.

So five days later, it's more or less like it just stopped snowing two minutes ago. The snow on the roads is browner than that on the sidewalks, but otherwise it can be hard to tell where the sidewalks end and the streets begin. Or where the sidewalks are, period. Venturing outside is like an arctic expedition.

Sidewalk? Who needs a sidewalk?

But venture outside I must, because I will give the locals this: there is no capitulating to the snow here. Sure, the trams may stop running, and people may be slipping all over the sidewalks, but as fas as I can tell - since I cannot understand Dutch TV news - schools do not close, government offices do not have snow days, shops stay open, trash gets collected, drivers (particularly bus drivers) seem oblivious to the snow on the roads, and so I along with everyone else must suffer through two-hour commutes until things return to normal.

(Yes, there are still some hardy bicyclists out there, and yes, they do not wear helmets even when riding over snow and ice while sharing the road with cars likewise ill-equipped for the weather. And yes, I have seen at least two bicyclists wipe out in the middle of the road.)

I admire this chutzpah in the face of Snowmageddon II. But tonight I have to make my way to Schiphol Airport - a rail trip that has been challenging recently in good weather. Nervous? Yes. Ready for adventure? Yes. Eager to escape the icefield of Den Haag? Definitely.

Little Luxuries

I recently learned something very important about living in Holland: fresh cut flowers are cheap. Cheap as in a bouquet of flowers costs 2 or 3 euros (and with the exchange rate swinging back in our favor, that's a pretty sweet deal).

Now that we have bikes (at the same ratio that Americans own TVs and we used to own computers), my next step for going Dutch? Buy myself fresh flowers every week.

Snow day!

It snowed all day today, and since I was doubtful of the reliability of the Dutch trams (this isn't Boston, or Copenhagen, you know), I stayed home. I won't bore you with details (they largely consist of me, a couch, a feather duvet, tea from Paris, and falling snow), but here are pictures of my view. It's a far cry from a couple months ago.

Traveling in the Off-Season

We went to Copenhagen to celebrate my 30th birthday, an endeavor that inherently meant (at least in Europe) that we would be traveling in the off-season. We are becoming pros in off-season travel.

The most obvious downside of off-season travel is the weather, which in Copenhagen meant arctic temperatures, lots of snow, and general darkness. Personally, I'm not a big fan of snow: it's cold, wet, makes life difficult, and then turns to slush. And if it's cold and snowing (hard), it's not easy to force yourself to look up and around at whatever you happen to be hurrying past on your way to the next warm place.

Other difficulties: typical tourist highlights are closed for the season or have severely reduced hours. OK, maybe that's the only other downside, but I'm still bitter I didn't get to go into the casements (underground tunnels) of Luxembourg City's fortifications.

However, December travel also means holiday festivities, and Copenhagen was in full Christmas swing. Evidently, when it comes to Christmas shopping and Christmas markets, the locals are undeterred by the generally uncomfortable weather.

Our favorite: a church holiday bazaar, where I bought a fabulous retro apron, homemade Danish cookies for my colleagues, and a refreshingly cheap cup of glogg. (We always appreciate a good value.)

The kind Danish church ladies were also making fresh aebleskiver (doughnut balls), and an older gentleman was playing simple Christmas songs on a piano. Except for the distinctly Danish flavor of the handmade Christmas decorations (the white-on-red cross of the Danish flag featured prominently), it could have been a church bazaar anywhere.

Other upsides of off-season travel: we had a personally guided tour through a palace, generally avoided all lines, were introduced to the wonders of glogg, and got to watch Danish kids sledding.

Despite the long hours we spent at the airports, and the windburn I suffered on exposed portions of my skin, I would call our Copenhagen adventure a success. After all, as with any travel, it really comes down to your attitude.

Dutch or Danish?

From my American-centric perspective, the Dutch and the Danish are easily confused (hey, it's not my fault they sound alike). But as soon as we stepped off the plane in Copenhagen (literally, in the airport), I realized there were significant - if often subtle - differences between the Dutch and the Danish aesthetic and way of life. Which prompted the immediate question (as any good American would ask): which is better?

Traditional sweets: Jeff loves his hot n' fresh stroopwaffel, but I love real "Danish", with raspberry jam. Mmmm. Point: Danish.

Design: As Jeff pointed out, the problem here is that the Dutch are too practical (by which I mean cheap) to invest in the best of Nordic-style design. We love the Dutch frugality, but I also loved the Copenhagen department stores full of beautiful Danish housewares. (Can I register for a wedding in Denmark?) Point: Danish.

Hot spiced wine: The Danish glogg is omnipresent - sold in every restaurant, on every street corner, and at every church bazaar. The gluhwein available in the Netherlands just doesn't have the same punch (and also lacks the almonds and raisins). Point: Danish.

Money: I was annoyed to find that Denmark does not use the Euro. But the kroner is not all that bad. For one thing, it's called "kroner," which sounds friendly. For another, the kroner coins have hearts on them, which is super-friendly. Furthermore, I like any coins that have holes, which makes for instant jewelry. Point: Danish, for friendliness.

Street food: Raw herring or hot dogs served with glogg? Point: Danish.

Language: Neither are pronounceable (for Americans at least) and neither have much re-use potential outside of traveling to Suriname or Greenland, respectively. But Dutch is becoming comfortably familiar, and it also has funnier sounding words. Point: Dutch.

Snow: When it snows, the Dutch are like Portlanders and the Danish are like Bostonians. It snowed most of the time we were in Copenhagen, which translated into a lot of little kids in full body snow suits, sledding down park slopes. Meanwhile, the trains in the Hague stopped running. Point: Danish.

Public transit: Despite the recent inability of the Dutch train system to operate between the Hague and the Amsterdam airport, I really appreciate the coverage and convenience of the Dutch public transit system. The much-hyped Copenhagen metro, meanwhile, does not really go anywhere and also smells like spilled beer. And while kids love the fact that the trains have no drivers, I am merely reminded of how computers caused the deadly Red Line crash in DC last year. Point: Dutch.

I could go on, but I've already lost count. It doesn't really matter, though, because the Danish had me at glogg. Game, set, match.

Say what?

In the Netherlands, I share my birthday with Sinterklas.* This seemed like a good idea, until my colleagues filled me in on the darker side (literally) of the Dutch St. Nicholas.

More than Sinterklas himself, the Dutch love his little helpers, all of whom are called Zwarte Piet (literally, "Black Peter"). Zwarte Piet is a Dutch tradition that is entirely lost in translation, at least for Americans scarred by the legacy of Jim Crow.

For a country that prides itself on being forward-thinking, how can its adults love to dress up in black face, complete with big red lips and curly "Afro" wigs, to dance around clumsily to bad hip-hop? (For examples, see here and here.) How can otherwise-normal seeming stores deck themselves out with grinning black-face caricatures, both as decorations and as merchandise?










I am very confused, and have heard no satisfactory explanation (including the more recent effort to recast Zwarte Piet as a chimney sweep: I know a socially inappropriate stereotype of a dumb but happy black slave when I see one).

There's so much to say on the subject, but I expect everything I could say has already occurred to you. (And if it hasn't, just try googling "zwarte piet" - it's all been said before.) Instead, check out Jeff's post, which also links to the quintessential David Sedaris take on this inexplicably popular Dutch tradition.

* In the U.S., St. Nicholas Day is celebrated - if it is celebrated at all - on December 6.

My favorite place in Paris

My favorite place in Paris is Sacre Couer. I do not claim originality, nor will I make excuses. It just is, and has been going back at least ten years. There's something about the carnival aspect at the bottom, the winding touristy streets of Montmarte, the ample supply of crepes, the bright carousel (which our four-year-old friend actually got to ride - lucky kid!). That's stage 1 of the Sacre Couer experience.

Stage 2 is the meandering walk up through the gardens, a process that feels vaguely like a mini-pilgrimage. Amelie nicely captured the whimsy and charm of Steps 1 and 2. Step 3 (really a half step, or a resting point) is posing for a picture at the top, with Paris spread out below. If only I had access to all my pictures, I could create a montage of photos taken against an always overcast sky with Paris an indiscernible grey behind me. But it always feels special at the time.

Step 4 is walking through the basilica itself. That's a very personal experience, but I will risk saying this much: it's one of the very few places in the world where I can always feel the peace of god. It is, to me, a special place. If you know what I mean, and know of other such places, please be kind enough to share them with me.

Street food, French edition

We were in Paris with our friends a few weekends ago, and Jeff took my favorite picture of the trip: crepes being made on a street near our apartment in the Latin Quarter on a cold November evening. The four-year-old with us was mesmerized.