Thanksgiving

*When the term “home” is used in this entry it refers to America and not the house I currently reside in.

I have to admit, I was kind of sad being in the Netherlands on Thanksgiving. While everyone I know and love in the States was travelling or cozy with their families, it was just a Thursday here. I asked Gearoid to play hooky and stay home with me to watch Christmas movies but being Irish and a responsible workaholic I was denied. I stayed in my pajamas longer than usual just as I would have if I was at home. If I was at home I would be at my mom’s house having slept in the spare room on the super squeaky bed. I would have run the Turkey Trot with her, my aunt, and my brother. I would have made pies- in an oven that works. I would have called my grandparents and thought about my other set of parents who were on their almost annual Thanksgiving cruise. I would have watched snippets of the parade, read while football was watched by others, and tried to avoid totally addictive reality tv marathons. I would have eaten too much, felt like I was going to die because I was so full, and then got a piece of pie with extra Cool Whip despite my lack of stomach space. I would have fallen asleep feeling disgusted but comforted by the fact that tomorrow would be another day off and I would be with my family.  I would have had a wonderful Thanksgiving.

It’s funny that I was so nostalgic for a holiday that revolves around a giant cooked bird. As a vegetarian, I don’t eat the traditional Turkey Day turkey. I do enjoy pie though. And of course, being with my family. Despite all of my travels, it was only my second Thanksgiving out of the country. The first time I missed Thankgiving, I was in Sierra Leone. I remember being sad then too and pretended to be sick so I didn’t have to work that day. I spent the day moping before I made a massive pot of mashed potatoes on our coal pot. We ended up having a lovely meal hosted by some American nuns who managed to make a real pumpkin pie. I felt much better (and disgustingly full) after having the traditional glutinous meal.

Being Thanksgiving, I really wanted to be in America. I wanted to say Happy Thanksgiving to people. I decided sitting at home and moping made me too sad though (this was also confirmed my mom who I cried like a baby to on Skype) so I decided to ride my bike and mope in Dutch class. I only felt slightly better.

Despite my moping all day, I did get some Thanksgiving. We had made arrangements with an American colleague of Gearoid’s to have Thanksgiving at her house. It was wonderful. I got to say Happy Thanksgiving and had a wonderful meal with great people.  Those of us who had experienced true American Thanksgivings gave insight to the others of what happens, what’s expected, and how full you should be at the end of the meal. My job was to provide dessert and I was happily successful. You’ve all read about my baking mishaps here in the Netherlands but with patience, love, and extensive research and forethought I was able to make an apple crisp and (drum roll please) pumpkin pie cupcakes (which only required the following: hunting for fresh pumpkins, peeling/boiling/mashing/pureeing fresh pumpkin, making test run cupcakes, etc.) * With a dollop of whipped cream, the pumpkin pie cupcakes tasted delicious (and the extras made a perfect breakfast treat the next morning). We left full, happy, and regretful about how full we were. It was a wonderful Thanksgiving substitute.

The turkey breast came after I took the picture. 

The food wasn't all American. We also had some delicious German red cabbage and chestnut dressing.

Scrumptious success!

Despite baking for over 2 hours and having the burnt bit scraped off, the apples were not completely tender. The delicious flavor made up for it though.

Don't be fooled by the tiny plate. I had seconds of dessert.

*I have discovered that I can successfully make cupcakes in my convection-micro-oven combination if I place the cupcakes just right, add 4 minutes to the baking time, and silently pray.

Ladies' Night

Last Wednesday had a promising start. The only appointment I had was with my language buddy, I had already done Thursday’s Dutch homework, and it was a clear and beautiful day. I planned to use my free day (despite being unemployed I usually keep busy during the week) to catch up on things that I had been too busy or too lazy to do such as finishing my book club book, planting tulip bulbs, writing a blog entry, and baking cupcakes. Someone had lent us a tiny portable oven that I was going to practice with to see if I could make a decent Thanksgiving dessert. All went well except for the cupcakes. Long story short the oven short circuited not only my apartment but four other apartments as well. So on a brisk fall day with the sun setting shortly after 5PM, we were without electricity and all that requires it (i.e. internet, heat, lights, etc) for two hours. When the lights came on, being determined as I am (or stubborn as Gearoid insists) I tried the oven again and 3 minutes later, I blacked out our apartments yet again. Finally, realizing this oven and my kitchen outlets were not compatible I decided to try the cupcakes in my disappointing convection-micro-oven combination. Unfortunately, it decided to almost catch on fire and smoke filled my kitchen. I had a mini breakdown, put the uncooked cake batter in my fridge and settled on my couch to pout. Minutes later, my landlord came up to request I try not to make anymore blackout inducing cupcakes because their house was cold enough after having had no heat for two hours. While he was in my kitchen, I also had to explain about the smell of smoke and its cause. He kindly asked me to sit on my couch for the rest of the night and not cause any more trouble.

Approximately 30 minutes later, my landlady called and invited me to a Ladies’ Night because her husband said I seemed a little depressed. I jumped at the chance to leave my cursed kitchen and in their words they “saved Gearoid from me.” It was true. He would have had to endure my frustrations and tears. He was a little baffled when he pulled up on his bike and I was leaving (after taking a 20 from his wallet) with no answers to his questions on when, where, and why. In the long run, me leaving the house for the night was good for my sanity and Gearoid’s overall well-being. He was able to enjoy a guilt free night of sci-fi television, whiskey, and surreptitious finger swipes of chocolate cake batter without me sobbing that I hate this place because nothing (i.e. the oven) works here. (Me- Don’t eat the cake batter. Him- Are you sure? Later that night: Me- Did you eat any cake batter? Him- Only where my finger accidently fell in.)

I eagerly got into the car with my landlady and her daughter whom I regularly visit for English/Dutch conversations. We headed to Ladies’ Night. In the States Ladies’ Night usually implies free entrance to a night club with discount drinks. In the Netherlands, these events take place at an assortment of locations that provide ladies with some type of discount. The ladies’ night we attended took place at a giant garden center. You know- where you can buy gardening supplies. We drove into the very crowded parking lot and then walked to the end of a very long line that ended almost outside of the parking lot. I was amazed by the crowds and the excitement. It was contagious. I was really excited for this virgin experience. I asked what the night would entail and why were there so many people here. The answer was a joke about the extent Dutch people will go to get free stuff. What kind of free stuff? All kinds of free stuff and discounts as well. So, I had voluntarily gone to an event where I was freezing in a parking lot waiting for a goody bag of random stuff. Well, it was this or sulk about my unbaked cake batter.

While travelling to the end of the line, I saw a sign that said Jan Smit would be there. I had the audacity to ask in a crowd of Dutch ladies who Jan Smit was. “What?! You don’t know who Jan Smit is? What’s wrong with you? How long have you been here? You must know who Jan Smit is,” were some of the responses I received.http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jan_Smit_(singer). While I was being lectured about my lack of knowledge of Dutch pop culture and the romances of Jan Smit, we were being entertained by fire breathers, fire jugglers, and bag pipe players. Eventually we made our way to the red carpet (yes, an actual red carpet) welcoming us into the garden center. We were given very cute reusable shopping bags to collect all of our freebies in and then given a lei by a very charming drag queen. After a picture with a Jan Smit lookalike (apparently the real Jan Smit was on his honeymoon) we were gently herded along a route through the garden center.

Unfortunately, my lack of knowledge of how to use the flash on my camera phone and bad timing prohibited quality pictures of the outside entertainment and the insane crowd of women. 

It was quite magical and enchanting. I’m not being sarcastic when I say that. Honestly. The garden center had become Christmas Central. We were treated to candy and warm mulled wine while we looked at dozens of Christmas decoration displays. We took a picture in front of a chalet display with a  very handsome man in lieder hose (on the right man, it’s actually quite attractive). We had more mulled wine. A choir singing English Christmas carols entertained us while we looked at light displays, ornaments, and avoided the mad group of women fighting over some half priced winter boots. My favorite display included a giant carousel that was decorated with those tiny villages that people recreate in their houses for the holidays.  We had more mulled wine-ok, only I had more. It’s quite tasty and I quickly learned that it only take 3 tiny glasses to be effective.

During a tea/coffee break (if you’re ever in the Netherlands, you haven’t had a true Dutch experience unless a tea/coffee break is included), we were given strawberry basil ice cream. Over 3 hours later after having walked the red carpet, we were in the checkout line being entertained by a DJ while we waited to pay for our purchases and collect our goody bags. We were all exhausted and overwhelmed by the experience and drove home quietly. Upon arriving home, I thanked my landlady for inviting me and treating me to a true cultural experience. The Dutch really love free and discounted stuff and I quite enjoyed the Ladies’ Night!

My free loot!

I quite enjoyed the singular Riccola cough drop, dog food sample, and one panty liner. Just kidding we all know I guzzled the wine, devoured the cookies, and inhaled the chips. The rest of it is still sitting in the goody bag in my spare room.

*After a careful cleaning, my combo-micro-oven was able to produce adequate cupcakes with the cursed chocolate batter. 

Sinterklaas

Last Saturday we trooped downtown to watch Sinterklass arrive on a boat from “Spain.” Before we went down to the river we were invited to a colleague of Gearoid’s house for tea/coffee, traditional Sinterklaas treats and an explanation about this foreign Santa figure. To be honest, several people have told me several versions in both Dutch and English. This is my understanding of it- Sinterklaas spends the off season in Spain and then comes a few weeks before his special day (Dec. 5^th) to bring gifts to the nice children. Children put their shoes out with a letter for Sinterklaas and a carrot for his schimmel (a white horse. On a side note my language buddy told me schimmel means white horse and then asked me what white horse in English was- um, white horse? On another side note- schimmel also means fungus and the joke by naughty people is Sinterklaas has a fungus between his legs.) The next morning, the nice children will have treats and/or gifts in their shoes. Such treats include a piece of chocolate in the shape of the letter of your first name, kruidennoten (delicious graham cracker type cookies), speculaas (extra delicious ginger type cookies/cake), and toys. Naughty children are threatened to be spanked by some type of special stick or placed in Sinterklaas’ helper Zwarte Piet’s sack and brought back to Spain.

Traditional Sinterklaas treats

Gearoid enjoying a chocolate while waiting for Sinterklaas

We ate our delicious treats, talked about the legend of Sinterklaas, all while watching the “real” Sinterklaas arrive from “Spain” in Dordrecht on TV. We then headed down to the river to watch the Nijmegen version. The streets were packed with families, decorations, and people trying to do their regular Saturday market shopping.  We were amazed- not so much about the crowds but more so about their enthusiasm and the black face. Yes, I said black face. Sinterklaas’ helpers are mostly white people painted black with big red lips, a jester’s costumes, gold hoop earrings, afro wigs, with big bags of cookies. Despite this costume, Zwarte Piets are only controversial figures to the few minority Dutch people and all forms of tourists. The Dutch people seem oblivious to the negative and insulting connotations black face has- especially to Americans. I’m not racist, don’t condone racism, and know that in the US the use of black face is/was/will always be an extremely insulting action. However, there’s a different attitude about it here. There are those people who are offended by the Zwarte Piets but most of the people we questioned about the use of black face saw nothing wrong with it and seemed surprised by our shock. I’m not necessarily in favor of its use here but I not exactly outraged. It’s a cultural difference. I’m here for the experience and that unfortunately means dealing with experiences I’m not necessarily supportive of. This brings me to Sinterklaas’ helper(s)-Zwarte Piets. I know two versions of their story. The first is Sinterklaas rescued an African slave and the slave was so grateful he became his helpful servant. The more PC version is that Zwarte Piet is black because of the soot from all of the chimneys he has to go down to deliver Sinterklaas’ gifts in all of the children’s shoes. That’s my condensed American understanding of Sinterklaas but for more info check out http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sinterklaas.

A Zwarte Piet handing out cookies

Zwarte Piets arriving in Nijmegen on the Pancake Boat

Zwarte Piet decorations

A racist- I mean- Zwarte Piet doll

Racist- I mean- delicious Zwarte Piet speculaas

I'm not really one for taking pictures of children I don't know and posting them on the web but if you look closely you can see some black faced children.

So we walked down to the river amid blonde blue eyed children with their versions of black face. Unfortunately for us, families with children seemed to get priority for the good views and we (i.e. Gearoid) balanced on bike racks and low walls to try to get good pictures of Sinterklaas and his helpers. After we had our cultural fill of Sinterklaas and his helpers, we decided to partake in another cultural tradition- a drink at a café. 

Sinterklaas- a cross between Santa and the Pope

Gearoid's balancing act. It was more hilarious in real life.

The best hot chocolate ever

It's not an angel. Just Gearoid.

* Dutch children believe Sinterklaas is real but Santa Claus in the States is fake.

* Christmas on the 25^th is still celebrated here but the gifts are mostly handed out from Sinterklaas’ arrival until the night of Dec. 5^th. On the 25^th, families get together to enjoy a nice meal together.  Because Sinterklaas comes a few weeks before his actual celebrated day and gift in shoes for 3 weeks can get expensive, one mother I know here encourages children on specific nights to put their shoes out for Sinterklaas.

 

Dublin Marathon Part II

When training for a marathon you have to not only physically prepare yourself but mentally as well. Running is such a mental game. Your body can be physically able but if your brain convinces you this is the worst thing ever; it’s hard to get your legs and feet to cooperate. I think I prepared myself quite well mentally.  I have a slightly evil side to my personality and I managed to keep it so it didn’t come out until later in the race. Luckily, my body was physically too tired to act out the evil thoughts and deeds that popped up into my brain.

 

Over half way into our training, our weekend runs fell into the double digits. On the weekend we were supposed to run 16 miles I freaked out that I could only do 11 miles. I didn’t reward myself for the fact that I did 11 but beat myself up because I couldn’t do the other 5 miles. After an evening of crying, whining, and moaning and some sage advice from my mom and her running partner, I stopped focusing on the time it might take me to run a marathon. I decided my goal would be to finish. This really helped me out. I was able to conquer the mental voices that degraded me for being not fast enough. One lady running the marathon had the perfect shirt “I’m not built for speed. I’m built to finish.” That had been my mantra all along. Admittedly there were times when I was doing the race that I started to question this mantra and my lack of speed. You know when the old people passed me or when there was no more water at the water stops because all the fast people had drank it all. Sections of the race were being packed up while us slow people ambled by and parts of the finish line was broken down in front of me only 10 minutes after I crossed it. It doesn’t make a girl feel good. However, the truth is I was aiming for a 5-6 hour time and in reality only finished 28 minutes past my goal (6:28).

While running the marathon, the mental game was wearing me out and there came a point when I hated life, running, everyone, and vowed never to do this again. A week after the marathon, I ran again for the first time and am actually considering another marathon. It’s like all of the pain during the 7 months and the race, the lost toenails, the weekends planned around a run, and the sticky Glide in strategic places didn’t cause me heartbreak and anguish. The truth is I actually enjoyed the first part of the marathon. You can’t help smiling and feeling good when hundreds of people line the streets and cheer you on. The fast people got this the entire race but we slow people had less crowds to urge us on, especially when the rain came.  However, whenever I felt like giving up or laying down in the middle of the road a random person in the street in the rain would smile and clap for me. There is a reason the Dublin Marathon is called the Happy Marathon. People were so proud of us and made it fun (admittedly I appreciated this more so in the beginning of the race when my evil was suppressed). One mother and her daughter made signs for us that made me laugh- “worse parade ever!” Gearoid saw a sign that said “You’re all Kenyans to me.” Yes, I was slow but I did it and I finished it and I have the medal to prove it.

Part of my mental game strategy was to laugh and think about all the things I did during the marathon that I would never do in real life:

·         Take candy from strangers- The friendly people of Dublin passed out candy, fruit, and drinks to us while we ran. I was hungry and took both wrapped and unwrapped candy. In fact the Cadbury chocolates I had at mile 24 helped me the last 2.2 miles.

·         Sit on a porta-potty seat- I hover above the most suspicious public toilet seats and never sit on a porta-potty seat. However, I had to go at mile 17 and my legs didn’t even give me a chance to think before I sank down and enjoyed the best sit down of my life.

·         Run through a major city wearing a garbage bag (and smile at cute Irish boys while wearing one)- It was raining pretty hard and that garbage bag saved me from the cold and some serious chaffing. I also forgot I was wearing it after the rain had stopped so had no embarrassment as I smiled gratefully at the thinning crowds or individuals cheering me on.

·         Drink from a stranger’s bottle- There was a water shortage during one part of the race. There were 140,000 bottles of water along the course for approximately 14,000 runners. The faster runners depleted the sources and there were no new unused bottles for the slower runners. I was thirsty so I drank from someone else’s bottle….

·         Drink from trash- the bottle I drank from was casually tossed to the ground by the faster runner. Some sweet little girls were collecting the half-filled bottles and offering them to us slower less discriminate runners. I wiped off the dirt and never let my lips touch the bottle by squirting the water in my mouth. 

·         Pose provocatively in public- Ok, I don’t even know how to do this privately but during the race I had to stretch out certain body parts which quite frankly ended up looking like me bending over and shaking by butt at people.

·         Adjust myself in public- Body parts itch and clothes ride up during the course of 26.2 miles in constant motion. I did what I had to do and luckily the garbage bag hid a portion of it from miles 15-23. At one point, a man in front of me gave me a glimpse of his entire rear end while he did some adjustments. Luckily, he was running the marathon tooJ

·         Cry in public- just kidding, I do this all of the time. However, my usually subdued-trying-not-to-cry-in-public-crying was replaced by all out choked sobbing. Especially at the finish line when I questioned my sanity instead of reveling in my accomplishment.

Speaking of my sanity, am I truly considering another marathon? I think I am. 

Dublin Marathon

About 7 months ago, Gearoid and I decided to sign up for the Dublin Marathon. We’ve both wanted to run a marathon for different reasons. Gearoid wanted to get in shape and I wanted to add it to my list of things I’ve accomplished in life.  Around mile 17 I was seriously questioning my motives but more on that later.

We look so hopeful and happy unaware of what we're about to put ourselves through.

Gearoid in his bin liner. We had to check our warm clothes in and still had some time before the race. The liner was supposed to keep him warm. I saved mine for later when the heavens opened up and unloaded the sky. Of course, the days before and after the race were clear and sunny.

Timeline of a Marathon- 10/31/2011

·         The marathon for the slow runners began at 10AM. Everyone else got to go before us. After checking in my bag and making one last trip to the porta-potty I found my way to the very back of the crowd and nervously stretched.

·         Mile 1- We inched forward until there was finally space for us to properly run. We ran through the crowded streets of downtown Dublin being cheered on enthusiastically by well-wishers. Yay! Only 25.2 miles to go!

·         Mile 2- My excitement and the feeling of being a rock star (thanks to the cheering crowds) had me reach the second mile quicker than I planned. I slowed down (yes, it was possible for me to run slower without walking) and began my intervals. During my 6 month training program, I did my long runs in 3 minute run/1 minute walk intervals and planned to do the marathon in this same fashion.

·         Miles 3-5- We ran through nice neighborhoods, had our first water break, and entered Phoenix Park. I saw a man who had passed me earlier, taking a smoke break after mile 3 as well as a man dressed like Bender the robot from Futurama. There was typical Irish misty rain but it felt good, almost like a mister on a hot day at Disneyworld. At the five mile mark they had our current time. I was at the one hour mark which is really good for me- a little too good.

·         Mile 6-7- Wow, Phoenix Park is beautiful and I’m strong and fast and I’ve become one of those freaks who smiles while running. Let me stretch a little to get perspective.

·         Mile 8- still smiling and singing some Queen songs under my breath- by the looks I got- maybe not so much under my breath. Yay! Only 18.2 miles to go. I’m still doing good.

·         Mile 9- Holy F**k, we’re out of the park and this is a big hill. Just walk up, you can run the downhill.

·         Mile 10- Wow, still walking up a hill. My time is still good only 2 minutes over 2 hours. (Tiny negative voice in my head whispers- you can quit. Larger more positive voice says- you can do this!).

·         Mile 11- This downhill is not worth the effort I expended going up the hill. Oh, 15.2 miles to go. Yay?

·         Mile 12.8- The bottom of my shoe starts falling off.  It fell off 3 days before but Gearoid had carefully super-glued it back for me. The super-glue decided it was done with the marathon.

·         Mile 13.1- ripped off the bottom of my shoe and stuck it in a random pocket on my running shirt. Tiny voice gets louder- broken shoe means you can legitimately quit. Louder voice says heck no- I trained too long for this. Although my reaction at the halfway point is not- yay! I’m half way through. More like- shit I’m only half way through.

·         Miles 14-16- Lots of positive self-talk: It’s ok if you take a long time. It’s ok that the 70 year old man, the smokers, the man dressed like a robot beat you. This is your race. You just want to finish.  Lots of negative self-talk: 10.2 more miles left! Why did I agree to do this? I hurt. This is stupid. F**k you, smiling people. Attempts at Positive self-talk: Don’t cry Natasha. Get a hold of yourself. Smile for the camera.

·         It starts really raining- not fine Irish mist but down and out pouring during miles 15-21. I put on a trash bag and mainly stay dry.

·         Miles 17-20- Mostly walking/hobbling with occasional attempts to jog. Walking speed is now faster than running speed. I just keep putting one foot forward and urge myself not to spontaneously burst into sobbing fits at the distance I still have left. Thoughts running through my head are now more like: This is the worst moment of my life! This is a stupid thing to have on a bucket list! I will never recommend this to anyone! It’s not worth it! I hate everyone! Oh my god, I still have 6.2 miles to go (choke back sob). However, when the sobbing is close to overtaking me, I see a random Irish person standing in the road in the rain smiling at me and cheering me on. It does give me some extra strength. Especially when I have to go up a hill with a big sign that says Heartbreak Hill.

·         Mile 21- Rain slows down, someone asks me again if I’m ok when I stop to stretch, and I give my first genuine smile when a volunteer giving me a water bottles cheers- “only 5 (.2) more miles!” Yay! Only 5 more miles.

·         Miles 22-24- Pain, hurt, don’t cry, keep moving, there’s a 90 year old man passing you, don’t stress, just finish, one foot in front of the other, oh- It stopped raining a long time ago. I can take off my trash bag now.

·         Mile 24-25- People who finished the race and are walking back to their homes/hotels are wearing their metals and have their goody bags slung over their shoulders. Some are walking and some are limping. Back in downtown Dublin, the crowds are bigger again. Some guys offer me a pint. I smile/grimace at them. People are cheering, “You’re almost there. It’s so close.” But it’s not. They act like when I turn the corner the balloon finish line will be there. But it’s not. It’s the longest corner I’ve ever turned. F**k you people! It’s not there! I can’t see the balloons! When will this be over?! Don’t cry Natasha.

·         Mile 26- Only 0.2 miles to go. I run again. People cheer.

·         Mile 26.2 miles- I manage to smile and run/stumble into Gearoid’s waiting arms. “Why did I agree to do this?” I sob. His smile evaporates into worry. He says,” Don’t cry, you’re finished.” We then head to the first aide tent so I can sit and stretch (after I collect my metal and goody bag which contains a size XS shirt because the people who finish last are the ones who need the extra small shirts (not)). I apparently look like a disaster and am making my whimpering don’t-sob-noises because I’m approached by a paramedic who asks me what’s wrong. “I hurt all over,” I whine. He needs something specific to help me so I say something specific hurts and after giving a medical history I get an Advil from him.

·         10 minutes later we walk out of the tent and the marathon is being packed up. I was so slow I practically ended the race. Ok, other people are still running but it’s dark, tents were being taken down, etc. I tell Gearoid I need to go tell the participants still running that the crowds are lying. They are not almost done. The finish line and balloons are farther than the crowd promises they will be. Obviously my mental state is compromised at this point. So instead we get a snack to eat while we wait for the bus home.

·         The rest of the night and the next day we can hardly move. Hobbling and shuffling are more accurate descriptions of how we get from point A to B. Everything hurts but I can eat chocolate and French fries without guilt for once in my life. I mean I just did a marathon!

The only picture we have of the finish line. Gearoid was too tired after his race to think of taking any pictures of the crowds and the finish line. When I finished there weren't anymore crowds or a finish line.We also wanted to take "after" pictures to go with the "before" pictures but we were too tired to remember. Just imagine me with a red face, half crying, sprawled out on a coach with my Old Navy reindeer pajama bottoms on. That is the most accurate "after" picture I can provide.

Culemborg

Almost two months ago, we took a trip to Tiel to see amazing fruit and vegetable floats. We used one of our discount all day train passes to get there and decided to make the most of the tickets by taking a side trip before heading home. Our choice was Culemborg  (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Culemborg), a cute town surrounded by a moat.

We were pretty tired by the time we got there after the excitement of the parade and the almost 80 degree weather and were considering doing a quick walk through before heading home.  The train station was about a 10 minute walk from the center of the town and after walking across a bridge over the moat we enjoyed strolling along the narrow cobblestone streets. After walking through a narrow passage way, we happened upon the market center. Compared to the big open squares that comprise many of the town centers in the Netherlands, this town center was rectangular and gave it a narrow feeling. We stopped for drinks and did some people watching while we decided our next move. The consensus was to return home after just one more tiny walk.

However, the cute streets had us stop and admire buildings, look into shop windows, and come across a major discovery- it was Museum Day (i.e. free entrance into museums and monuments). A spontaneous detour into a flowered covered archway led us to a hidden building and Elisabeth Wee’s Huis, at least that’s what we thought it was called. It turns out it was the Elisabeth Weeshuis- instead of being some unknown lady’s huge manor it turns out we were in an old orphanage (weeshuis means orphanage) that had been converted into a museum. We quietly walked in not entirely understanding what Museum Day meant and what we were and weren’t allowed to do. It didn’t help that a wood pipe band was performing in the entrance way.  I was braver than my companions and walked into rooms off the side of the entrance and peeked in, interested to see a room fashioned as a very old kitchen and another with what looked like a loom. A woman dressed in medieval villager type clothing indicated that I should continue my self-guided tour to the back garden. I was not disappointed. The garden was beautiful and -dare I say- enchanted. It was set up similar to a maze with tall hedges outlining different parts of the garden. There were beautiful flowers, an apple orchard, grape vines, ponds, statues, and more. My imagination immediately took me to rich young women sitting in the garden and waiting for their suitors. Now I know it’s where orphans got some sunshine. It was a great find and I am happy for my spontaneous turn on that cute street.

 Finally, we were headed back to the train station but then we came upon a windmill. The windmill was open to visitors as part of museum day. We climbed up the extremely narrow ladder as far as we could go and saw amazing views of the town and moat while enjoying a breeze from the turning sails. A volunteer gave information on how flour is made by the mill but it was in Dutch so we used common sense and the evidence of flour to figure it out. It was a pretty cool experience.

After the windmill, we made it back to the train station and finally back home. Gearoid had been nervous about the day because I was responsible for planning it and had no maps and my only plan was “to go with the flow.” I have to say it worked well for us.

The moat

Gearoid waited (im)patiently why I tried to get a picture with the moving sail behind him. After several attempts, my timing was still way off. 

Inner (moving) workings of a windmill.