Category: Living abroad

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Christmas is over and the goose got very fat!

Oh boy. Oh boy. Oh boy. Did I/we/me and mine have a wonderful, joyous, celebratory Christmas and New Year celebration. Thankful I am. Grateful I am. Stuffed-to-the-gills I am. And oh-so-glad it comes just once a year!!

Truth be told, the month of December is utter madness in our home. Has been ever since my beautiful daughter decided to pop into the world two days before my birthday (Dec 5 – which also happens to be a national, Dutch Christmas Day of sorts as well). 22 years later we’re still trying to work out a way of making the month a little less… manic.

Of course it’s all good fun and there are huge globs of happiness thrown in, with both of us wallowing to our hearts’ content in what we’ve dubbed our ‘birth week’ (steadfastly refusing to acknowledge anything Christmassy until we’ve exhausted ourselves and everyone around us with birthday-making jollities). We decorate tables for early morning delights, hang up themed stringers and balloons, wrap gifts in glistening paper and do everything possible to make the days special. It’s a thrill (and hubby almost faints with relief when it’s over). But by then Christmas is gasping for a look in so I shift gears – fast – to catch up.

Lists I’ve compiled over the years with recipes (traditional, iced Christmas cake: check! Mince meat filling for pies: check!); addresses for REAL cards (I can’t stand e-ones – must get the ones for abroad into the post before 8 Dec!!) and gift ideas are yanked out of boxes covered in dust. Ribbons, gift wrap paper and pretty bows are hauled out of drawers. Candles (red of course!) – lots of them – bought in in BULK. Not to mention a thorough review of the table cloth, Christmas dinner service and glasses to see if anything’s missing or cracked and last year’s wreath for the door…

Geez. I’m even running out of breath writing this! And that’s before I started buying actual gifts – both for my own family and the extended one in Ireland. Plus surprise, small treats for those who’ll join our table over the holidays. A huge bone for the dog – wrapped tightly so he can join the merriment on Christmas Day and have his moment of ‘unwrapping’. Mulled wine and snacks for after Christmas Eve midnight mass (or was it before??!).

And exhale…

This year, because I was hugely thankful to be out of a wheelchair (knee problems a year ago), I kept reminding myself how lucky I was to be able to shop repeatedly in mega-filled streets and over-stuffed stores. Smiled as I hobbled slowly around the stores, mouthing “on my own two legs” to my mirrored reflection when my feet began to shriek in protest. I do believe I may have fooled myself quite well.

But it all came together in the end. The tree went up, glorious and golden. The turkey fitted into the oven, the ham baked divinely. We ate, we drank, we made very merry and revelled in the joy of doing so together.

Roll on next year. Who knows, maybe I’ll have grown wings by then…

Happy New Year, everyone.

image of woman with filled shopping trolley
Bread for the stuffing… where can I find goose fat… oh look the red wine’s on special offer…
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No, Scuba, no! (the finale)

(A wander over to the first part of this soggy tale  is probably a good idea, if you haven’t already been there).

By the time I’d flipper-flopped my way out of the pool, strapped on a weight belt and completed one more backwards-walk into the water, the group had become accustomed to sitting on the bottom. Hubby and I sank down beside them. An odd experience in itself, to be honest. Kneeling on the bottom of a pool beside complete strangers. My mouthpiece jammed securely between my teeth, every breath a loud, rasping sound in my ears.

I tried to orientate myself by focusing on the instructor, whose face was largely covered by her mask. She began making hand signs, pointing first to her mask then to each of us in turn. Suddenly, and to my horror, she lifted it slightly, allowing water to flood in! Given my lifelong fear of water covering my face (even in the shower) I could feel my heartbeat take on a rapid drum beat. As we watched, her mask slowly emptied out again. I then realised she wanted us to follow suit.

Holy crap. How, what… panic raced through me as I watched the guy beside me take a stab at it. Seemed to work for him. Jesus H, I was next! My hands shaking with fear I took in a huge gulp of air and gingerly lifted the edge of my mask a fraction, praying for magical deliverance. Instantly a rush of cold water raced in, blinding my eyes. All rational thought vanished. It felt like I was drowning. I kicked for the surface and wrenched off my mask, treading water furiously.

A minute later she was there beside me, irritation lacing her features. “You are supposed to breathe out through your nose” she barked, “then the air will be pushed back out”. I couldn’t speak. “Come back down, we’ll try again” she urged. Back down I went.

Two minutes later I was again pushing for the surface, and this time the tears came as soon as I tried to speak. “I can’t do it!” I squealed, “I can’t do it!”.

“I think you need extra time with Hans” she sighed, gesturing for a young, blonde, very tall Adonis-like instructor to join us in the water. Relief flooded through me but he wasted no time, “Come, we go stand there” he said, his lithe, tanned body cutting powerfully through the water.

Stand? yeah right. By the time I reached him I was way out of my depth and had to tread water to stay afloat. For the next ten minutes we practised the art of filling my mask and emptying it while my legs cycled frantically underwater. Before long we’d both had enough.

“I’ve had enough” I gurgled up at him, “I want to get out”.

“Ok” said Hans, “why don’t you snorkel back to the shallow end and take a rest?”

Ah, snorkelling… I can do that I thought, popping in my mouthpiece before (tiredly) flopping onto my back! Needless to say with my first breath I slurped in a huge mouthful of water, and began to choke. Hans watched me from afar as I flailed around, spluttering… his face a study in curiosity.

By the time I’d splashed my way to the shallow end and lay gasping on the tiles it was clear to all that scuba diving was not going to be ‘my thing’. Time I stopped trying to be a mermaid and went back to what suited me best – a sport-free life!

scuba diver at poolside
Clearly, scuba diving was never, ever going to be ‘my thing’!
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Scuba, anyone??

Ok, so we’ve already established that basically, I am rubbish at sports. Always was, no doubt always will be. My sad little attempt to master the art of horse-riding many moons ago left no illusions on that score.

But despite the humiliation of that hapless endeavour, I still wasn’t quite ready to give up and just a few months later had persuaded my partner-in-crime (a.k.a. long-suffering-hubby) to join me on one more ‘fun’ sporting adventure. Scuba diving. In the city of Amsterdam.

I know, I know, perhaps a tad unrealistic given my lifelong fear of water smothering my face – but somehow, it seemed vaguely achievable. For a while.

So where to get lessons… well in those days (we’re talking 20 years ago!) it was a case of browsing telephone books and ‘asking around’. No internet, no Google! Someone, somewhere recommended a ‘PADI’ diving course to me. It sounded good. Professional. Manageable. We hopped along to an introduction day, and by the time the woman-in-charge had assured me I could always buddy-up with hubby and would be allowed to go-slow in the early weeks, we’d signed on the dotted line for their 12-week course.

Five weeks later, we headed off to the first session: theory. By now my Dutch was reasonable if not fluent, so I struggled a bit but left feeling quietly confident, this time I would not be bested! Lesson two however, the start of the ‘practicals’ was a different kettle of fish. Entirely.

In the bright lights of the swimming pool’s changing room, I glanced around at the other women, noting the athleticism of their bodies. Hmm. Slightly intimidating. Skinny (then), with muscles that knew best how to drag me out of bed and into a car, I slithered into my bikini with no small amount of trepidation.

Reminding myself that I could start slowly, I headed towards the pool, my newly purchased goggles hanging around my neck, my flippers clutched in a nervous fist, my oxygen tank strapped to my back. The whole group was waiting for me in the water, standing in a circle. No one spoke. I sat down heavily on the edge of a small wall, and tried to put on my flippers.

For some reason, the damn things refused to fit onto my feet. Shoving my toes in got me nowhere and after five failed attempts I was in danger of becoming upended from the tank on my back and my feet seemed to be doubling in size even as I watched them. I heard a shout, ‘wet your flipper, then your foot slides in!’. The group was becoming impatient. Two minutes later I was all flippered up, feeling more frog-like than any woman ever should but – hey – I was on my feet! My rubber feet. God they were huge! how the hell was I to walk into the pool??!

With all eyes on me, I took a step forwards. The flipper swayed, I wobbled precariously, took a step backwards. Fervently wished for the tiled floor to swallow me whole, then tried again. No dice. Suddenly, hubby was beside me, ‘it’s ok, just turn around and walk backwards’ he whispered. Minutes later we were in the water. Glares of irritation floated my way, I ignored them and focused on the instructor,

“we’re all going to float to the bottom now” she said, expertly popping in her mouthpiece and vanishing into the water in one smooth action. The rest followed suit. I popped in my mouthpiece but when I tried to sink to the bottom of the pool, discovered that I couldn’t. My legs kept rising to the surface and my flippers looked like shark fins, floating wildly above the waves.

Hubby was struggling equally. We thrashed around for a full minute, legs going in all directions, and I could feel the giggles rising as a realisation of what we must look like to the waiting would-be divers down below, hit me.

Suddenly, the instructor resurfaced, her eyes flashing furiously, “what’s wrong now?” she gurgled, “did you two not put on your weight belts?”. Damn, no we hadn’t. I caught his eye, and laughter burst forth. It was more than she could take, “I hope you’re going to work very hard here” she barked, making me laugh all the more, “this is a serious sport!”.

Oh Gawd. Now I knew I was in trouble!

Scuba diving lessons
My flippers were floating above the water like shark fins
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Paris.

A word, a city which until now has conjured up countless images of la tour Eiffel, the Champs Elysee. Fashion. Style. Romance. A hint of French arrogance, according to some. Winding streets, large open spaces, artists on pavements, delicious cafés au lait and melt-in-the-mouth, crumbly croissants au chocolat.

Right now you hear it and the first thing that comes to mind is the horrific attacks from just one week ago (really? Is it only one week?). Attacks on our civilised world, our freedom of movement and expression.

The thing is… Last weekend I chose, quite deliberately, to post a blog similar to earlier ones. I chose not to focus or even comment on Paris and the awfulness of it all. I wanted to continue doing ‘normal stuff’. I felt you, my readers, deserved that too. Because holding onto what we do, what we like, what makes us laugh and sometimes even cry especially in these strange, challenging days is in itself, a strength.

But today, it feels wrong to ignore it completely. It’s just too big. I’ve read many blogs this past week, listened to so many reports that my head still spins. A lot has been said. Wise words that I can’t begin to match but I thought, as there’s so much sadness going around, maybe I can offer you a different word to move us away from despair and fear. And back towards light, especially for those living in the City named after it.

Hope.

  • I hope, that as we work to put these dreadful deeds behind us, that something good can and will emerge from them.
  • I hope that Europe’s leaders can truly come together at last and find a way of dealing with the situation. Right now.
  • I hope that we, the people of Europe, will reach out to each other. Build new bridges that bring us closer together, regardless of race, religion or background.
  • I hope people will know that these attacks are not a Muslim creed or way of living. They are the actions of one group of fanatics, who seek to destabilise the civilisation we have built over hundreds of years.
  • I hope we are all brave enough to withstand the lure of mistrusting others which some would have us succumb to.
  • I hope for lessons learnt from past mistakes to guide the way forward, not backward.
  • I hope we can soon learn to see and think of the city of Paris for what it still is – beautiful. Entrancing. Magical. Ours.

I hope.

Paris, the Eiffel tower and more
Artists on pavements, melt-in-the-mouth croissants
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“Open wide now!”

Is it the fact that the chair goes completely flat, and you lose perspective on the room? or that huge, glaring light that burns into your eyes? What about those shiny, metal instruments that lie in wait, a mere six inches from your nervous, salivating gums?

I know, of course, that it’s one of those things we have to deal with, every six months. And that when it’s over and done with, the next visit will seem light years away and can be shoved back into the drawer of items-we-don’t-talk-about-for-now. But the minute that small white card plops onto the doormat, we gasp with collective horror for the dreaded half-yearly dental check-up has arrived! Yikes. Here we go again.

The thing is… I just can’t stop being fearful of going to the dentist. Even for a check up. Wish I could. Some people are far less bothered and I’d love to be one of them.

It all started when, as a child, I decided to “pull a fast one” in school and on impulse, told teacher that I too had a check-up which (coincidentally) meant leaving school at 10am to head across with my best friend. Dental check-ups, in those days were rare, you see. There was no such thing as ‘going every few months’, still isn’t really, in Ireland. You went to the dentist only when there was an urgent need to do so and your mother’s whisky-soaked cotton wad had failed to rid you of toothache the night before.

Having watched various school pals take entire mornings off, for ‘the dentist’, I decided I wanted in on the act. And in on the act I got. By the time the hopelessly old-fashioned dentist had shot my gums full of anaesthetic with what looked and felt like a monstrosity of a needle, then left me shivering in a freezing waiting room for half an hour before drilling ferociously into two teeth – I had moved firmly into the camp of dentist-haters. And there I have lived, ever since. Dreading each visit, postponing it if feasible and thankful that I’ve seldom needed much done.

By the time I had children, I was determined not to pass on my fears. Cheerily leading them in, I smiled as best I could, tried not to gag at the medicinal smell and told them they had nothing to worry about. But fools they are not, and although they’re less nervous than I am, it stays a challenge, when all is said and done.

Last week was ‘check-up week’. My son, who frequently needs teeth filled, manned up to ‘going last’. My daughter and I go in together. Strength in numbers. By now we have our own code: if she needs me to kick in with moral support, a well timed interruption or mild objections she’ll move her left foot twice.

As the dentist worked his way around her gums, I stayed alert. With maybe three teeth left to check we heard some of the dreaded words from behind the scary mask, “M3, distal, make a note for next time”. The left foot stayed still but the right one twitched. I held my breath and readied myself for battle, “but I think we’re good for now” he finished.

And exhale. For six more months.

Image of nervous patient in dentist chair
Is it the fact that the chair goes completely flat?
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Walking is good too…

I’ve had many unforgettable moments or minor dramas in my life. Usually they make me laugh, cry or see life differently for a while. This was one of those.

Hubby and I were relaxing into week one of this year’s jaunt around Europe in the trusty camper van. With plenty of laughs, wine, good meals munched lazily in the fresh, open air and carefree indulgence doing… as little as possible!

We’d driven through Germany and were now parked before a beautiful lake in Switzerland. The sun was blazing in the sky and the air was still. With mountains on every side – that looked as if they’d been vacuum-cleaned – all we needed was the purple Milka chocolate cow, neck bell a-dangling to complete the picture.

We decided to go for a short cycle. A courageous move on my part, given the knee problems I’ve had all year. But hey, we were on our ‘hols’ and what could go wrong I reasoned.

With hubby leading the way, I slowly and steadily puffed my way up the hill, towards the road. It was a tad steeper than I’d imagined, and the higher I got, the slower I went. By the time I’d almost reached the top I was practically at a standstill, sweat was dripping down my back and the front wheel was wobbling in every direction. “Focus woman, focus” I told myself, “you’re almost there”. I could already see the main road, just one last effort and I’d have made it…

Suddenly I heard a shout from up ahead, “stop! There’s a car coming!”. I panicked. Unable to put my ‘good leg’ down at that exact second, I lost control and crashed to the ground, the bike straddled across me, my legs askew to minimise the fall.

“Shit!” I shrieked, top of my voice, “Shit!! Shit!!”.

“Are you alright?” yelled himself from across the road.

“No, I’m bloody not alright” I hollered back, “I can’t get the bike off me!”

Bent forward, my legs clamped in and my eyes glued to the ground, I suddenly realised a pair of sandaled feet had come to a stop beside me. The ankles were bare, and as I lifted my head I saw to my astonishment that a gown-clad, Tibetan monk was standing right beside me. He reached down and began pulling at the bicycle, trying to lift it off. Terrified that his skinny arms would snap in two, or that he’d mangle my already-aching knee in the process, I gestured wildly for hubby to come help, my eyes berating him for the huge grin on his face.

Three minutes later I was free again. We all shook hands, it seemed a good thing to do. Recovering my equilibrium I talked, quietly, calmly with this gentle man. He advised me to let go of my cycling efforts, saying, “I was watching you go slower and slower, (ouch!) walking is good too“. Told me he’d lived and worked in Asia for 30 years, but was now home to recover. I asked from what. He gestured to his face, “cancer”. I asked if he was getting treatment. “Not the usual kind” was his reply. He’d returned to spend time with his sister.

It was an unusual meeting. Later that evening I held my head in my hands (while my husband laughed out loud) to think, with no small amount of embarrassment, that I’d yelled ‘shit’ in front of a Tibetan monk. In the Swiss mountains. And not just once.

Swiss mountains biker
“Shit!” I shrieked, “shit! shit!”
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Goodbye in any language is a big ask

This morning I got the very sad news that a beloved aunt of my husband had died. Quite suddenly, or so it seems. Having come through an emergency operation quite well, we were hoping for a recovery to carry her that bit further. A recovery that would see her march on a little longer through life. Fearless, feisty as hell and brim-full of the old energy she exuded until roughly one year ago, when even a trip to her favourite market (something she’d enjoyed for years, together with my mom-in-law) was no longer on the cards.

Our hopes were not realised. It came as quite a shock.

I’ve had many shocks like this, in recent years. It never gets easier, because I feel things very deeply. Always have, probably always will. I can’t even say I’ve developed a ‘formula’ of sorts to deal with loss because every time is different from the time before. And hoping I’ll manage it better now is just a waste of energy, which ups the ante even more. Inside my head and heart.

Because heartache wants its moment, wants its ‘pound of flesh’ and if you turn your back on it, it merely doubles in strength, and bites twice as viciously.

When I first lived abroad, I realised there would be moments like this, in relation to my parents, my more elderly loved ones, at home. I dreaded them, but accepted their inevitability. They came, they went, we coped, together. My sister always with me, in spirit if not physical presence. The family I built here waiting in the wings – loving, holding, shushing, calming me. The friends I’ve made never far away.

More recently, it’s been members of my husband’s family we’ve had to lose. A cherished mother-in-law who took gentle care of me and loved, laughed with and at me, for many years. Aunts and uncles, whose sense of fun and mischief appealed to me, whose curiosity for my Irish mannerisms and heritage transcended boundaries and bonded us like childhood friends giggling over past memories.

I’ve been lucky to have found a place in the heart of such a family. Lucky to have enjoyed a home-from-home, as the years went by. But it makes it that bit harder to let go of someone we all love – again – and I’ve been dragging my heels about it, because I know the hurt it brings.

But the heartache wants its moment, so I’ll play by the rules and let myself be sad today for a special woman whose memory I’ll always hold dear.

Thank you and R.I.P., dear ‘Tante Leentje’.

market shopping
Now THAT’s what I call a real bargain!