Introduction

As a person born in the Netherlands who has spent some time observing American humor, I’ve come to realize that what makes one culture burst into laughter might leave another in complete confusion. It’s like telling a joke to your dog—sure, he might tilt his head and wag his tail, but does he get it?

Dutch humor is like Dutch weather: dry, unpredictable, and occasionally downright depressing. American humor, on the other hand, is more like a Broadway show—loud, exaggerated, and very eager to make sure you know when to laugh.

Intro

So, here I am, staring into the abyss of my phone screen, and the abyss stares right back with targeted ads for socks and existential dread. It's a real love-hate relationship, you know? 

Intro

Did you know Amsterdam, with its picturesque canals and crooked buildings, once harbored the world's most powerful trading company? Picture this: a group of ambitious Dutch merchants sail thousands of miles into the unknown to bring back spices that would make your grandma's cooking seem downright bland. Welcome to the age of the Dutch East India Company (VOC), where adventure, trade, and a dash of mischief came together in ways that history books often overlook!

Picture this: two intrepid travelers, filled with excitement, embarking on what they hope will be the ultimate bucket list adventure. Destination: Niagara Falls! But little did we know, what began as a straightforward plan to see one of nature’s most breathtaking wonders would turn into a day of serendipity, a comedy of errors, and—best of all—a little bit of unexpected magic.

We kicked off our journey by driving from Buffalo to Niagara Falls, parking our car on the American side. We were pumped.
But hey, we found ourselves on the Rainbow Bridge, gazing at the falls, surrounded by a crowd of tourists, some grumpy Canadians who thought we’d stolen their maple syrup, and a whole lot of mist. You know what they say about Niagara Falls: it's not the destination, it's the soaking wet journey that counts.

Ah, the days of my pre-car life in Rotterdam. No driver’s license, no car, and not a worry in the world. Just efficient, punctual, and downright delightful public transportation. Let me tell you, the Dutch have mastered the art of making buses and subways a luxurious affair. Imagine, if you will, buses and subways arriving every 11 minutes like clockwork. It was so wonderfully reliable that even my coffee machine at home couldn’t compete!

Ah, the days of my pre-car life in the Netherlands.

If there’s one thing I’ve learned from living between two cultures, it’s that Americans really know how to throw a party. And when I say party, I don’t mean your average “let’s have some cake and call it a day” kind of gathering. No, no. I’m talking about all-out, break-the-bank, second-mortgage-worthy celebrations that make Dutch birthdays look like a cozy book club meeting. Never understood why Dutch people sit in a circle when celebrating a Birthday. Oh well.

Weddings: The Ultimate Budget Buster

Before I left the Netherlands to live in the USA, my father gave me one very specific piece of advice: “Never talk about politics in America.”

At the time, I nodded, like a good Dutch son, thinking, Sure, Dad. Sounds like a plan. I'll just talk about the weather and cheese.

Fast forward 13 years, and here I am, living in the U.S., realizing that avoiding politics here is like avoiding mayonnaise on Dutch fries—it’s just not happening.

I tried, though. Oh, how I tried. But life has become so complicated. Politicians don’t seem to be in the business of helping people anymore. Instead, they seem to be playing an elaborate game of Monopoly, where the goal is to make rich people even richer, buy up all the property, and throw the rest of us in jail for accidentally stepping on Boardwalk.

And then there’s social media. Sweet, innocent social media… oh wait, no. That was 2008. Now it’s a place where billionaires play puppet master. Let’s talk about X (formerly Twitter, formerly a decent platform, formerly a place where people used to fact-check stuff). Elon Musk—yes, the man who launched a car into space just to flex—has turned it into a disinformation theme park. He’s even carrying his 4-year-old son on his shoulders like a medieval king using a human shield. Not suspicious at all, right?

Meanwhile, I see a post trending on X saying that “woke” people should be deported. Thousands of likes. Thousands! I read this, blink a few times, and think: Wait, isn’t ‘woke’ just being aware of social injustices? How did we get to the point where caring about people is a deportable offense? Next, they’ll be kicking people out for holding doors open for strangers.

This isn’t just an American issue either. The Netherlands and the rest of Europe are also dealing with this fun little game called “Blame the Immigrants”, a classic move in the populist playbook. Because clearly, it’s the refugees’ fault that Jeff Bezos and Elon Musk each has more money than entire countries. Makes total sense.

Intro

Ah, New York City: the Big Apple, the City That Never Sleeps, the place where pigeons have more attitude than your average reality TV star. But did you know that before New York was "New York," it was a humble Dutch settlement called New Amsterdam? Yes, that’s right! The land of bagels and Broadway was once the land of stroopwafels and... well, more stroopwafels.

Coming from the bicycle capital of the world, where there are more bicycles than people, I thought I had seen it all. I mean, in the Netherlands, babies practically learn to pedal before they can walk. Our national motto might as well be "Two wheels good, four wheels overrated." So, imagine my shock when I moved to America and realized that biking here is less of a mode of transportation and more of an extreme sport.

In the Netherlands, you can bike anywhere. There are dedicated lanes, traffic lights just for cyclists, and enough parking for your bike to have its own zip code. In America? Oh, sweet summer child. Here, the roads are sprawling asphalt deserts designed with one purpose: to let cars roam free like majestic (and often angry) metal beasts. Want to bike to the store? Sure, if you enjoy heart-pounding adrenaline rushes as pickup trucks whiz by at Mach 5.

I'm not making fun...

Ladies and gentlemen, distinguished readers, and accidental scrollers who meant to Google "how to remove coffee stains from important documents"—welcome to my latest blog.

I should probably start by saying, if you don’t hear from me again after this post, assume that either my internet mysteriously vanished, or I’ve been invited on an all-expenses-paid "vacation" to a remote location where the WiFi is just out of reach. (Coincidence or Fiction? Surely, one of them)

Introduction

I love beer. I love drinking it, talking about it, and, most importantly, judging how other people drink it. And if you ever want to experience true beer culture whiplash, just hop on a flight from the Netherlands or Belgium to the USA.

Okay, so I've officially been in the US long enough to stop staring at squirrels like they're exotic animals (though, let's be real, they're still pretty entertaining). But there's one thing that continues to baffle me, one thing that has shaken me to my very core: American bread.

Back in the Netherlands, bread was a delicate dance. Freshly baked loaves, the aroma wafting through the kitchen... chef's kiss. We had a special bread box, a broodtrommel, for crying out loud! And even then, after a day or two, it was game over. Stale. Hard. Fit for the birds (or maybe, if you were desperate, croutons).

My mom used to make wentelteefjes from stale bread – basically, what Americans call "French toast" and charge $15 for in a fancy brunch place, proving once again that Europeans are just better at repurposing leftovers (and apparently, charging less for them). So, imagine my surprise when I walked into an American kitchen and saw... a loaf of bread. Just sitting there. On the counter. For days. Days, I tell you! Or weeks! I half expected it to start singing show tunes and tap-dancing across the countertop.

My first thought? "Is this some kind of elaborate prank?" I eyed it suspiciously. Was it plastic? A prop? A cleverly disguised alien life form?

Turns out, no. It was real bread. Or, at least, what Americans call bread. I picked up the package, fully expecting to see a list of ingredients shorter than my arm. Nope. Try longer than a CVS receipt. I swear, I saw things on there I couldn't even pronounce. Xanthan gum? What is xanthan gum? Is it related to kryptonite?

My inner baker wept.

Now, I'm not saying all Dutch bread is made with just flour, water, and yeast (though some of the best are!). But seriously, 20+ ingredients? My bread back home wouldn't recognize this stuff. It's like they've taken perfectly good flour and then decided to throw in the entire chemistry lab for good measure. I'm half expecting it to glow in the dark.

I've tried it, of course. I'm a polite houseguest (most of the time). And, well, it's... bread-like. Soft. Squishy. It toasts okay, I guess. But it's missing that je ne sais quoi, that oomph that real bread has. It's like the difference between a symphony and elevator music.

So, here I am, an imported bread snob, trying to navigate the mysteries of American supermarket aisles. Someday I will start baking my own, which is a whole other adventure (I tried it once but let's just say my first attempt looked like a hockey puck). But I'm determined. I will conquer this bread situation. I will bring the crusty, flavorful goodness of Dutch bread to this land of the soft and squishy. And maybe, just maybe, I'll convince a few Americans that bread shouldn't last longer than their houseplants. Wish me luck!