The Good/Bad divide

“Good girls write in their journals, bad girls don’t have the time,” my father recently wrote to me in a letter. This got me thinking. I have too much time on my hands. Move over Mother Teresa…

More thinking: December highlights our society’s fixation with good/bad polarities. Whether it’s Santa checking his list—twice, no less!—or New Year’s guilt-ridden resolutions, we (certainly the American We) tend to slip into opposing camps. “Be good,” mommy tells little Johnny, because being bad is bad, meaning asocial and undesired.

I prefer the way the French look at it. Rather than tell children to behave themselves by “being good,” they counsel them to “be wise.” Because good/bad depends on societal and individual taste, being wise means coming to an intelligent conclusion based on personal experience.

The Dutch, schooled in the Calvinist belief that all men are born deprived, however, don’t mince words—we’re all bad and there's nothing anyone can do about it.

Climate Change: Dutch reactions

Was the United Nations recent Climate Change Conference a success? If the Conference President’s ambiguous conclusion—"key measures have been made in several areas,"—is a valuable gauge, the answer remains, depressingly, “No.” Certainly Washington D.C., which refuses to abide by emissions caps claiming it will stunt economic growth, had very little to say.

Due to America’s lackadaisical approach—both before and during the conference—many countries have begun taking a proactive stance. Take the waterlogged Netherlands, where climatologists predict precipitation could increase as much as 25 percent, and where a dense population is already pushing into flood-prone areas. Here, some urban planners and architects are trying to develop floating houses to combat climate change, but such houses would currently cost €300,000 a piece—so is this just a pie in the sky, designer solution only for the rich? Are politicians--even Dutch ones--being too optimistic in the face of this global issue?

Even Rob van Dorland, a climate scientist at the Dutch National Meteorological Agency, has cautioned we have about 10 years before catastrophe hits. Considering how the Netherlands, which has battled the seas for centuries, will probably go under as sea levels rise, a Dutch perspective at this juncture is invaluable. Why isn’t this in the news?

Culture Shock Cues

When I first arrived in the Netherlands, I did hefty research on culture shock—which I had experienced before—then duly ignored it, stumbling on that rocky path towards acculturation. Looking back now, the stages seem both predictable and cyclical. I’ve become stuck in the loop, waltzing between the initial Honeymoon Stage and final Adjustment.

The first stage, of course, is the Honeymoon, when you find yourself fascinated by the new culture. I’m still waiting for that to happen. Having visited Amsterdam dozens of times over decades, spending one debauch holiday after the next playing backgammon in smoky vice dens (and that’s the edited version,) I can’t say I was honestly captivated when I finally moved here. I did dig the canals, though.

Immediately following the Honeymoon phase, you evidently reject the Groom, banding together with fellow nationals to criticize the neighbors. This is the Stereotype Stage. Having been tagged a "dollar grasping American" by the Brits when I lived in the UK during Maggie Thatcher’s reign I am no stranger to stereotyping. Yet, curiously, I found myself being pigeonholed more frequently by the Dutch—as a “Jew” no less—than actually returning the favor. Although I do remember once labeling them “insular, provincial folk with a penchant for vulgarity.” Or simply put, herring lickers.

At the tail end of this phase, the visitor begins to regain his/her humor and joke about the locals or their own difficulties. Guess I’m still there—I’ll never stop stereotyping, never, never! Then in the final Adjustment Phase, the newcomer learns to accept the customs of their new country as just another way of living. While I can get used to the Dutch custom of chasing the waitress down, begging her to take my order, the weather is a different matter altogether. Some things take much, much longer.

Nude Awakening

As public nudity goes, the Dutch attitude is rather hardnosed: take if off. This posture equally applies to their windows—shutter- or curtain-less, in a word: exposed—for the Dutch intently believe they’ve got nothing to hide. “Act normal,” goes the national maxim, “that’s already crazy enough.”

My education in “normal” began the moment I was escorted nude through a local sauna. An American, I found the idea of stripping in public unnerving, but with only one changing room it appeared I had no choice. “If you wear a bathing suit in here, everyone’s going to think you have a terrible disease—or you’re a tourist,” my boyfriend explained, as a man disrobed behind him. “Just do it.”

A new arrival to Amsterdam, I have often, if mistakenly equated a public state of undress with “Live Sex Act.” While I don't find nudity terribly surprising—not at the tender age of 30-something and not as a savvy American who knows that Europeans, and Swedes in particular, bathe bare en masse—what startled me was my reaction. I felt absolute dread.

Such reserve made maneuvering around confidently naked locals tricky, but I tried to look nonchalant. Yet, it was nearly impossible to ignore the impulse to cover myself. Bemused, my boyfriend attempted to reassure me. “You’re a…is ‘prude’ a word?” he asked in blunt Dutch fashion. Yes, I told him, it was a word, arguing weakly that I, on the other hand, was not.

Yet schooled in the cultural ideology that “nude is naughty,” I had to admit, maybe I was—at least from a European perspective. Perhaps I could chalk my reserve down to my cultural forefathers, the Puritans, whose deeply religious, moral zeal made them fear nudity so much they refused to bathe. Unlike more robust Europeans such as the East Germans, who prefer skin to skivvies and have reserved miles of beaches to flaunt it, Americans see nudity as something to hide rather than something to celebrate.

Now ever since Adam and Eve first sported fig leaves, nudity has provoked every emotion from disgrace and contempt to reverence. But stateside, being plain naked is overly complicated. Because our associations are limited to porn, trailer park retreats or hippy naturalists, nudity is either sexualized, or seen as a gimmick.
Sexually, America operates through paradox. Focused on sex while remaining prudish about standards is a huge, if confusing, burden to shoulder. Yet how to explain last year's fury over Janet Jackson’s “wardrobe malfunction” and the networks rush to clean-up before facing clampdowns and stiff fines? A further inconsistency is what Americans regard as risqué: barely-clad teenagers simulating sex for MTV, or a nude grandmother? As Carmel, California proved, it’s clearly the latter. In 2004, the city rejected proceeds from a calendar featuring mature older ladies, fearing potential lawsuits for sexual harassment. Clearly older nudity is threatening because our culture rarely separates nakedness from sex—something the retired crowd, at least until Viagra, wasn’t supposed to be having.

Sweating publicly in my birthday suit, I quickly discovered the experience was the Absolute Opposite of Sexy. While some bodies may attain the media’s high physical standards, most naturally do not. Sitting amongst hairy backs, saggy breasts, dimpled buttocks, beer bellies, scarred or tattooed appendages, odd tan lines, and idiosyncratic pubic borders did not make me want to corner my boyfriend in the nearest shower stall. Hiding eroticizes in a way that being in the buff—direct, upfront and unwaxed—does not.

As for gimmicks, as a writer I’ve tired of seeing colleagues conducting “undercover” exposes, a choice phrase given the situation, on nudist colonies (“just look at those guys playing tennis!”) or the media’s buzz over photographer Spencer Tunick and his nude landscapes. Tunick, who specializes in photographing hundreds of naked bodies sprawled together against an urban backdrop, has definitely pushed social boundaries at home—successfully taking New York City to the Supreme Court for shooting (film, that is) rights on its streets. But I’m more in line with a European friend, who remarked over Tunick’s photos, “Is it a big deal that everyone is naked when everyone is naked?”

In Europe, neither moral outrage nor public disorder greets nudity. Men don't go wild, women remain safe and the zero fashion statement remains just that—something with zero impact. Since returning to the sauna, I’ve gained an appreciation for nudity because here, it’s not tagged as “self-expression,” sold as titillation, nor isolated into a holiday resort. The Dutch seem to understand a plain and simple fact: underneath our clothing, everyone’s naked. That’s definitely normal enough.

Dutch Birthday Rituals

Last night I went to my first—and likely last—Dutch-Dutch birthday party, meaning the real, staggeringly unpleasant thing. Having read a post on Suze Abroad’s blog, in which she likens the event to waiting at a dentist’s office, I thought I was prepared. But no… I quickly learned the metaphor of teeth-pulling was apt.

What happens to Dutch b-day party virgins? This is the routine: you walk into a room full of guests whose chairs are arranged in a tight-fitting circle. Next, you must introduce yourself to each one, including drooling, pre-vocabulary children, interrupting the flow of every conversation, and next take your seat, where you’ll remain for the entire evening. For shaky language beginners like myself, most conversations revolved around simple requests, such as “Yes, PLEASE, more wine,” measured by lengthy moments spent focused on the white shag carpet. Add liberal doses of cigarette smoke—enough to divert a KLM pilot to Rotterdam—an atmosphere that smacks of Heineken brewery and you’ve got yourself a running impression. Minutes passed like days.

Bye-bye Sarah Jessica

It has been some time getting used to the great adjustment/realization that I’m actually living in HOLLAND now. Bye-bye NYC, you are now a dream, an urban backdrop for overscheduled perfectionists, ambitious shoe shoppers, and amateur sleepers. I do miss the city, but I simply can’t be compared to Sarah Jessica Parker anymore. So passé. The whole sexy, perennially-dating journalist who hides her romanticism beneath a veneer of cynicism isn’t my act anymore.

I had drinks last night with a fellow American—I find expats a surer bet in terms of friendship—and she coined this brilliant phrase “immigrant moment” to describe all those yucky moments of self-doubt you’re thrown into once you’ve discarded your roots in favor of a strange clime. I think I’ve experienced immigrant hours or even days! Maybe it’s an age thing, though. When you’re older you assume you know how to act in most situations—that you’re smart enough, experienced enough, savvy—but that’s a complacent hypothesis. Cultural differences confront you with your complete ignorance and it’s almost worse than being a bottle-sucking babe—because you’re not pre-language and yet, words fail you.

Cycling Woes

A few weeks ago, I underwent a traditional Dutch rite of passage—having my bike stolen by junkies—and can proudly boast that I am now a true Amsterdammer. Ironically, I had been talking about it a few hours before it happened to a girl who owned an expensive bike. Seems she had an expensive lock, too. This is clearly a lesson for Next Time, when Dara buys a sturdy and costly lock. Perhaps Karma was playing its hand because I actually got the bike from junkies (another Amsterdam tradition) so who knows, maybe the same toothless, heroin-smoking desperado stole it again, having full knowledge from the first time.

Amsterdam is quite big when you have to walk everywhere. No subways in my neighborhood so it’s just me, Moroccan housewives and children trundling along surface streets. This has given me a fresh perspective on the neighborhood, though, because I used to just whiz past everything and now I’ve spotted a few more places to spend those lotto winnings whenever they materialize...

It's all in the lyrics

I'm taking Dutch lessons, wondering if learning this useless language (it's rather like Esperanto, which probably has more speakers come to think of it) will be necessary if I ever decide to immigrate back to America. My teacher has recently taken to using folksy-sounding Dutch songs to aid our learning, which I find hilarious because songs always provide a socio-cultural reflection beyond just words. Unlike American music-which is obsessed with sex, lost love, and bling-bling (just think about a typical Hip Hop line, this from Fiddy-Cent: Look we can shop together mama, his and hers/Fifth Av. Shit baby, Fendi furs/I ain't tight with the chips girl/I'm down to splurge)-Dutch music is much, much, much more innocent. Like the song about Eliza's huge dog, Bello, who pulls her all the way to Italy to piss against the leaning tower of Piza.

This, I'm assuming, is Dutch humor... but you can't dance to it, baby.

About Me

Why start More than Cheese? Dozens of reasons, but here’s a few:
the Netherlands is bitterly cold, it rains with absurd frequency (think: monsoon, but arctic), writing helps me maintain perspective, newly-hatched expats possess a burning urge to comment on everything, until I master Dutch and find gainful employment, let’s just say I’ve got time on my hands, and after years of shameless singledom, I’m in love with a man who warms my feet in bed better than any electric blanket on the market.

Why read More than Cheese? Because you’re hungry for irreverent commentary, what towering Northern Europeans do when they’re not eating cheese intrigues you, you’ve mistaken the Dutch decimalization of marijuana for a liberal mindset and you'd love the inside scoop, you’re cynical from trawling for a mate in all the stock places and know it’s time to give your skepticism the boot, you’re an expat who enjoys similar musings, like me, you're Going/Going/Gone Dutch, or you’re my Mother.

Arrested Development

For the latest on the local police beat: Cops fail to apprehend parrot

Police failed yesterday to arrest a parrot at a flat in Eindhoven. According to De Telegraaf, the nine-man strong team busted doors and searced the entire house and alas, failed to find the parrot. The police have refused to say why they were looking for the bird, why they needed nine men, or how they plan to pay for the damage.

Big black tax hole, anyone?

Should the ACLU pay Santa a visit?

Now ‘tis Xmas season, time for Sinter Klaas (who the Dutch insist is NOT Santa, Coca-Cola’s sanitized version of the saint) to descend on the masses December 5th and again on December 25th. Don’t ask me. I’m not sure why he comes twice (it is said that once Nieuwe Amsterdam became a British stronghold, the English Protestants there did not observe saints days, so Sinter Klaas' visit was moved to the 25th, which today is more widely celebrated.) All I know is that Sinter's accompanied by Zwarte Piet (Black Piet), who doles out candy to good boys and girls and whacks the bad ones over the head. They are then shoved into Sinter's sack and kidnapped to—of all of the most horrible and wretched places on earth—Spain. What’s disturbing to me, princess from the land of (erroneous) Political Correctness, is that to play Zwarte Piet you must cover yourself in black makeup, much like white actors of yesteryear. No self-respecting Surinamese immigrant here opts to play the part, so instead the Dutch do it. The result: tar babies with afro wigs cruising the streets. The ACLU would have a heyday here...