1st of October 2011 0
I wrote a blog or so ago that the Netherlands is a country where I do not want to be dead. Not true of course. Greatly exaggerated. I will, dear reader, tell why.
Five years ago had, Ning, my wife and I suddenly head over to the Netherlands because of a family drama. I was not five years in the Netherlands and had a rather frightening Ning and gloomy picture of the Netherlands: people are often blunt, loud. Selfish. Everywhere you pay too much. It always rains and summers often last no longer than four days. Police officers always say ‘what are we doing here sir? “And any litigation is always full of grammatical mistakes. Cities smell like dog shit and on every street hang loitering around you obscenities toesissen on eye contact …
It is not surprising that Ning somewhat uncomfortable out of the car to the apartment of my mother where we the next day would stay. It was late March and the temperature is low enough for water vapor clouds to rise with each exhalation. Much to the surprise of Ning.“Cor, look, Harry Potter trees!” Ning pointed out some ancient, craggy leafless sycamores that the parking lot trying to listen. I realized suddenly that this type of observation is the ultimate form of exoticism. Ning’s wonder and the revelation that this frog country meant to her, for her the same as when we first see a beach dotted with leaning coconut palms. My mother had a new kitchen purchase I’ve never admired was. Induction hobs on a cooking island. Ning stared blankly into the shiny black tiles, which after a touch of a touch within seconds a pot of water to boil. “How does this work?” Ning said. “No idea, ask mom,” I mumbled as I thought about the term “kitchen island”. The creator of this marketing gimmick should certainly once on the cooking island where I have been hanging around too frequently, that is Caye Caulker, a tiny island in the Caribbean Sea off the coast of Belize. Five dollars a gram. After my mother announced to my favorite dish to cook, krootjes with bacon, mushy potatoes and gravy greasy, it was time to Ning for the local Chinese to explore a number takeaway. The sight of krootjes red bloody rags, made her cringe, but your hair for a soup, with lumps of clotted blood in the middle of the night can wake up. The walk to the local Chinese was a Ning walk on the moon. They marveled at the neat houses with well kept gardens uncanny. She bent even just to determine whether a stone in the gravel that one of the occupants of the sleeping village was built, not glued Sat Even the signs with the house numbers were spotless, the net curtains hung in their immaculately seductive pose and the streets were laid level. Ning enjoyed. I shivered. The Chinese had a real Chinese, in that none of the dishes could have ever been the intention of every right-minded Chinese. The red lanterns and dragons on the wall were an indication that that night I not only krootjes would eat, but Ning and I the next day credit would do with flat white noodles with peanut sauce, babi pangang and other Dutch-Chinese dishes.
“What’s the spiciest dish on the card?” I asked the tiny Chinese lady with the sad, adult perm. “Sambal at?” Was her understanding counter-question.A few days later and I walked around on the Ning Street for the good town of Dordrecht. We had that questioning look in our eyes for good medestraatbewandelaar mean, “who are astray” A man with a dog on a leash approached us and asked: “I think you lost. Where have you been? “He had something of the German teacher from the inimitable Van Kooten & De Bie Sunday night series” Looked at the Week “, complete with beard and checkered overcoat. “Um, we want to market” I replied, stroking the dog while Ning. “Follow me, young, I need that direction. Nothing is worse than walking around in circles, believe me! “While this man followed that with a firm step through the streets stalked, watched Ning me somewhat reproachfully: What do you mean” selfish? “
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