Alright, folks, grab your clogs and your baseball caps, because we're about to embark on a whirlwind tour of my brain – a brain that's been thoroughly scrambled by the joys and confusions of being both Dutch and American. It's a wild ride, let me tell you, like trying to ride a bike uphill in a hurricane while juggling cheese and apple pie.
First, greetings. Oh, the greetings. In the Netherlands, it's the triple cheek kiss. Three. Left, right, left. It's a whirlwind of cheek-on-cheek action. Meanwhile, in the US, a "Hey, how's it going?" and a fist bump is the usual protocol. So, picture this: I'm in the Netherlands, going in for the triple kiss, and the American I'm greeting is backing away slowly, looking like I'm about to attack them. And then, the reverse happens in the US. I try to give someone a friendly peck on the cheek, and they look at me like I've sprouted a second head. It's a constant source of awkwardness. My cheeks are permanently bruised.
Then there's the biking. Ah, yes, the sacred Dutch bicycle. They treat their bikes like they're tiny, two-wheeled gods. They have dedicated bike lanes wider than some American highways. They wear helmets… sometimes. Mostly, they just effortlessly glide through the city, looking incredibly chic and coordinated.
And don't even get me started on the food. Frikandellen and raw herring are my kryptonite. One whiff of those culinair wonders, and I'm weak at the knees. . It's a constant battle between my Dutch tooth and my American savory cravings. My stomach is perpetually confused, and my waistline is perpetually expanding.
The directness. Oh, the Dutch directness. It's a thing of beauty, really. We tell you exactly what we think, no sugarcoating. Which, I understand, can be a bit of a shock at first. But honestly? I've come to appreciate it even more now. It's refreshing. No passive-aggressive comments, no beating around the bush. Just straight to the point. Although, sometimes, I do not have the American "sandwich approach" yet to criticism. Sometimes, you just need a little compliment to soften the blow, you know? Like, "That sweater is… certainly a choice. But I like your shoes!"
Finally, the weather. The Netherlands: land of rain, wind, and more rain. I swear, I've seen more rain in a week in Amsterdam than I've seen in a year in some parts of the US. So, I’ve mastered the art of layering. I can go from a t-shirt to a full-on Arctic explorer outfit in under 30 seconds. It's a survival skill, really. Meanwhile, in sunny Florida, I'm still rocking my winter coat in July because my internal thermostat is permanently set to "Dutch drizzle."
So, there you have it. My life as a Dutch-American hybrid. A constant juggling act of cultural norms, culinary cravings, and weather preparedness. It's chaotic, it's confusing, but it's also incredibly fun. And hey, at least I have two passports. That's gotta count for something, right? Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go eat a stroopwafel while wearing a baseball cap reversed and practicing my triple kiss.
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