My first full day in the Netherlands and my stomach is in knots. Surprisingly falling asleep in a new bed on the opposite side of the continent was not an issue I had to deal with. That being said, yesterday could have gone down better. Jacob, the little boy who is the sole reason I am allowed to enter this family refused to say a single word to me all throughout the night to me. His parents informed me that they had dropped their previous au pair on an hour before picking me up so I suppose it would be foolish of me to expect the boy to rush into my arms but at least one word would have been fine.
Still, I stood up from bed and made my way to the ensuite bathroom to get ready for the day. It was school holidays and both of his parents were off for the week while I settled in so I would be allowed some time before Jacob was my responsibility. I had between now and then to find common ground with the blonde boy or I would be home before anyone back home had time to miss me.
The other issue that became apparent to me when I got to my new home was the fact that, in my inexperience with air travel, I had falsely believed that I was not allowed to pack in any form of liquid (fluid or crème) in my luggage so I needed to make it to the grocery store before the end of the day because the travel toothpaste wouldn't make it through the day let alone the week.
I freshened myself up as best I could and made my way to the kitchen.
"Goedemorgen," I greeted my host family and my host parents returned my greeting but Jacob only managed to look at me with a thin-lipped smile. That was a start. I made my way to their coffee machine and poured myself a cup of espresso before taking a seat at the table in front of the empty plate that I assumed was for me.
They had a beautiful white wooden table in their kitchen, similar to the ones I'd seen in my wealthier friends' beach houses before. The family was already seated around the table and there was a spread of bread, jam, and different toppings like cheese and cold meats along with oatmeal and honey. I was a vegetarian, so I opted for 2 slices of bread with butter and cheese. My eyes almost popped out of my skull when I saw the little boy throwing chocolate 100s and 1000s over his bread.
"Uh… Is he allowed to eat dessert for breakfast?" I asked.
I didn't want to talk out of turn but that was a critical thing for me to know considering I would be put in charge of his breakfast very soon.
My host father, Rian, laughed at my question. He covered his mouth with his hand, coughing slightly to clear his throat and gesturing towards the bottle of chocolate sprinkles.
"That's not dessert, it's Hagelslag. It's a Dutch bread topping, and he is allowed to have it as long as he has savoury topping first. So, we like to do a 2 to 1 ratio. If he has 1 savoury topping like cheese or fish paste, then he can eat a slice with Hagelslag or Speculous," my host father explained and looked at my host mother who seemed amused. I suppose that they were used to having to explain Dutch customs to foreigners by now so it must be funny to watch someone get shocked about something that appears to be a regular part of your every morning.
I didn't talk much for the rest of the breakfast, but I did ask them where I could buy toiletries since I didn't bring any with me. When they asked me why I would come to another country without any toiletries I didn't have a very good answer aside from "I didn't know if I would be allowed to bring them on the plane". This time my host mother could not stop herself from laughing at my ignorance.
"There's a shop in the town centre called Albert Heijn where you can find everything you need," Jisca, my host mother told me, "You can use my bike while you're with us. The keys are on the table inside. Rian usually leaves his hanging by the door but I have a lady's bike so feel free to use mine."
I was too embarrassed to ask which bike was the lady's bike, so I was relying on my Dutch culture's training from the au pair agency to figure it out. From what I remembered; the men usually had a bar across from the seat to the handle while the women had a space in between. Why it was like that I had no idea but that was the visual clue I was going to look out for. I told them that I would be back in a bit and made my way outside where I saw a bike rack next to the wall. I took a moment to thank the universe because I spotted the bike with the space immediately and the key to the bike lock fit like a glove, so I was home free.
It was like the universe was looking to giggle today because I became viscerally aware of the height difference between the average South African and Dutch demographic as I mounted the bicycle. I realised that my feet could not touch the ground once I sat down. The only way to get on the bike was to stand in the gap between the handle and seat and push myself forward before hopping backwards onto the bicycle seat. It hurt like a bitch when I missed the first time and slapped the metal seat directly into my spine, but I quickly recovered, and I was off to the races. My phone, which my host family graciously provided for me, was set to GPS so that I could find the promised land of toiletries and all essential goods, otherwise known as, Albert Heijn.
What amazed me most about hopping on that bicycle was not the fact that I was on the wrong side of the road of the bicycle path, as four too many people angrily shouted at me, or that there even was a red bicycle path to begin with or even that grown men wearing expensive looking suits were also riding bicycles. Coming from South Africa, the only people who cycle are either extremely rich tourists training in their cycling attire or poor people trying to get to work. I supposed children in suburbs as well could be seen on them. What surprised me most was the fact that in all of this mental and physical turmoil and exertion, I had made a critical error in my calculations of riding a bicycle. In all my single month of riding a bicycle, given that it was a skill I learned for the sole purpose of coming to the Netherlands, I had only perfected one way of stopping the damn thing. With my feet. My feet could not currently, or at any point while on the bicycle, reach the group. So, in all of my effort to locate, mouth and ride the bicycle, I forgot that I would also have to stop the fucking thing.
I became aware of my egregious error just in time for me to attempt the most aggressive and violent breaks that any human atop a bicycle had ever attempted as I pulled both of my hand brakes, skidding to a screeching halt right at the exact 4 people who had reminded me of my place on the path who were now all wincing at the sharp sound of my miscalculation on the red cement bicycle road. I swear I caused sparks to fly off the wheels of my bicycle as I brought it to an imbalanced halt, causing me to slip from the seat in order to plant my feet on the ground. I was about 50 centimetres from the road. The bicycle seat slammed into my back with brutal force, and I fell forward and then to the side, causing the whole metal body of the bicycle to topple on top of me.
I didn't even acknowledge the embarrassment or the pain as one of the on-lookers, an elderly lady, helped me to my feet while a young boy, around Jacob's age, retried the phone which had slid out of my hand in the chaos of the fall. Thankfully the iPhone landed on its cover, so it was safe, unlike my dignity which lay shattered on the floor beside me.
"Dank je wel," I thanked them and lowered my head in shame, opting to limp with my bicycle beside me instead of riding it again. This angered the drivers who had to wait an additional 20 seconds for me to cross the road long after the bicycle light had already turned red. I couldn't be bothered to feel bad because I already wished to be 300 feet underground.
I didn't even ride the bicycle at all for the rest of the way into town and instead walked with it beside me, earning her multiple strange looks from other cyclists and even oncoming vehicles but I simply ignored them and instead focused on the beauty of the neighbourhood for the first time since arriving. The tall, full trees reminded me of Rondebosch but the coble stone pathways as I entered the town centre were unlike anything I'd seen in real life. I felt like I was living in one of those cheesy American Christmas movies. The city centre was drizzled with quaint shops inside of face-brick homesteads. They were nestled in between houses and could be mistaken for houses as well but as soon as you looked through the windows it became obvious that they were in fact shops.
I really was in Europe.
The earlier embarrassment and anxiety were entirely gone, and I enjoyed walking along the pathways until I found Albert Heijn. It was clean and smelt fresh and despite the lack of smiles in the shop, the energy was still light and welcoming inside the store. I was going to pay at the till until I saw unmanned machines in the corned where a line was forming. Curious by nature, I followed and what I saw changed my life forever.
Sell-checking out stations!
I couldn't believe my eyes and I asked one of the people in the line what was going on in my broken Dutch. She was kind enough to help me ring up my toiletries and then pointed towards the metal and plastic automated gates near the exit. I walked there with dread in my stomach and my eyes darting about to see if there was anyone there to check my receipt. I kept looking around for bag security or one of the cashiers, all of whom were either busy or otherwise preoccupied, so I was on my own against the tiny gate. Thankfully someone else had finished ringing up their good and they brushed past me. I took note of how they scanned their receipt and the gates slowly opened for them to pass through. Eureka. I repeated what I saw, and the gates opened for me, but I still felt like I was somehow committing a crime, so I walked up to the nearest cashier and waved my receipt in her face.
"Ik het betal," I flimsily told her that I paid for my groceries while waving my receipt in her face and nodding towards my grocery bag. The look she gave me should only be reserved for wounded animals and psychiatric patients. I slumped away from her because at least one person in the shop could vouch for me that I did in fact pay and, well, I could always count on the in-store cameras as well so the Dutch government would not have groups to kick me out of their country to stealing toothpaste and pringles.
Well, that was a small win for me as I walked back the way I came with my successfully purchased toiletries in one hand and the handle of my bicycle in the other.
All in all, it only took me an hour and a half to complete my little errand for the day.
I managed to make it home just in time for my host parents to get ready to leave for the day. I waved at them and placed the bike back on the stand, locking it securely with the key.
"Oh, hey, we're going to sort some stuff out before Jacob starts school but you're going to need to take a train to Utrecht to sort out your residence card. I called ahead so they'll be expecting you today. I know your travel card isn't here but since you don't have one yet you're going to need a Dutch bank account to travel since it's all cashless. Don't worry you only need to cycle to Naarden station and hop on a train from there. It's not too far," he said with a smile and turned to leave.
I smiled and thanked him in return. I was excited to sort out everything and finally get my residency sorted out. The sooner I got a Dutch account, the sooner I could start exploring the Netherlands. I went inside and picked up an apple to munch on while I searched for Naarden Station. As much as I wasn't keen to hop on the bicycle any time soon, I needed to take charge so that I could enjoy the full Dutch experience. Besides, Rian said it wasn't that far so worst-case scenario I could probably walk it. I immediately spat out my apple when I realised how far it was.
4.4km.
Well, thank goodness that's only 13 minutes via bicycle, I laughed sarcastically.