Belgium: Well worth stopping for a visit

After passing through or flying over Belgium many times, I finally decided to stop and take a look around this small country with a long medieval history and an inviting contemporary mix of French and Flemish.

I began in Brussels, a true cultural hub and the capital of both the Flemish and French parts of Belgium, as well as the capital of the European Union. Brussels is a cosmopolitan city, with liveliness and appeal intimately related to its role as a crossroads for Europe. I spent an afternoon and evening wandering around this city of about 1.3 million, and finding that the city’s vibrancy and classic style reminded me of Paris. In the larger city squares I was delighted by fabulous antique carousels sporting giant Pterodactyls, World War II planes and Art Noveau insects instead of ponies for revelers to ride. I was charmed. My stomach was charmed too since hot chocolate and spiced wine were on offer everywhere as were delicious Belgium waffles and scrumptious Belgium chocolate truffles. It was a gastronomic delight!

The name Brussels comes from the old Dutch Bruocsella, Brucsella or Broekzele, meaning "marsh (bruoc, bruc or broek) home (sella or zele)", thus "home in the marsh". I imagine that the name symbolises the very beginings of the area. However, the official founding of Brussels is usually thought of as 979, two years after the Duke of Lorraine moved to Saint Gery Island (then encompassed by the Senne River) in what is now Brussels. Around the same time two other important Flemish cities, Ghent and Bruges were flourishing and I visited those two cities next.
I spent only a morning in Ghent, but even in that short time I was impressed by the cities medival buildings including the belfry and the towers of the Cathedral and Sint-Niklaas Church. These buildings made up what could be called the “Manhattan of the Middle Ages”. The region of Ghent was inhabited in Celtic times and the name comes from the Celtic word “ganda” which means “converging” (for example, of two rivers). When the Franks invaded the Roman territories from the end of the 4th century and into the 5th century they brought their language with them and Ghent became a region where Celtic and Latin were replaced by ancient Dutch. Outside Italy, Ghent was the biggest city in Europe (after Paris) until the 13th century; bigger than London, Cologne or Moscow.

From Ghent I headed to Bruges a city with a very long history. Bruges began more than 2000 years ago as a Gallo-Roman settlement, its name originating from the Old Norse "Bryggja" which means “landing stage”. Bruges has a long tradition of international port activity and by the eleventh century, Bruges had expanded to become a commercial centre for Europe. The the city grew and prospered until 1500, when the natural link between Bruges and the sea silted up, and the port of Antwerp became a rival. Bruges slept through the industrial revolution and by the middle of the 19th century, it had become the poorest town in Flanders. However, the lack of industrialization became a blessing in disguise, as the untouched medieval city center was later recognized as an open-air museum, and has been a UNESCO World Heritage Site since 2000. When I visited in the dead of winter, the ancient buildings glowed against a foreboding sky that threatened snow and added to the magical feeling of begin transported back in time.

I ended my visit to Belgium in Antwerp. As I moved from Brussels to Ghent and Bruges and then finally to Antwerp the change in culture from French to Flemish was striking. In fact, Antwerpen even looked and felt a little like the Dutch cities we know from the Netherlands. However, many aspects of the city were unique and the visit was well worth it.

According to folklore, the city of Antwerp got its name from a legend involving a mythical giant called Antigoon that lived near the river Scheldt. This giant exacted a toll from passers-by who wished to navigate the river. On refusal, the giant often severed one of their hands and threw them into the river. Eventually, the giant was slain by a young hero named Brabo, who cut off the giant's hand and threw it into the river. Hence the name Antwerpen from Flemish Hand werpen (hand-throwing). This legend explains the many hand shaped sculptures and forms throughout the city.

The city of Antwerp gained economic importance after the decay of Bruges and even today Antwerp remains Europe’s third, and the world’s fifth largest port. In addition to its trading heritage, Antwerp is famous for its diamonds. To me however, it has a very strange way of displaying them. In a long street adjacent to the central train station I found shop after shop literally “stuffed” with diamond jewelry. The displays looked like something from a pawn shop and yet there are real diamonds there among florescent pink signs screaming “50% off”. I was amazed and even managed a few photos before my camera and I were chased away. Photos of the displays it seems are “verboden” (forbidden). It was however a “classic Me” moment to be chased away from a diamond store.

Belgium is small and often forgotten by travellers making a whirlwind tour through Europe. But if one takes the time to stop and look around it is easy to understand why this countries inhabitants consider it the best kept secret in Europe. Belgium is Europe in a nutshell, multicultural and multilingual.

Full Circle

Life over the past few months has been busy – very busy. Between running a long-term experiment, commuting back and forth across a country (albeit a small one), and attending a conference in Ireland, I have pretty much kept my nose to the grindstone, with blinders firmly attached against all distractions from the real world. But a few small titbits of world news have broken through my defences.

As I’ve mentioned before, I am a BBC World Service addict. One of my favourite programs is “From our own Correspondent”, in which journalists, who must normally report objectively, give their personal feelings and experiences about a story that they are covering. Recently, two stories have really hit home for me. The first is from Nick Thorpe who offered comments about bird flu, and the second is from Chris Morris reporting on Europe’s identity crisis.

* * *

“Don’t demonize the wild birds” pleads Romanian ornithologist Eugen Petrescu in the BBC report, “Bird flu began among poultry in Southeast Asia almost certainly because of the way that people treat domesticated birds - cramped together in small cages. They infected the wild birds, which are now bringing the virus to Europe and Africa. Poultry are catching it and sooner or later so will humans. It’s coming full circle.”

Full circle indeed! Once I lifted my head from the sand I realized that almost everyone is paranoid about bird flu, and here I am working day in and day out with highly migratory birds caught from the wild. And to take things an ironic step further, I am working on their immune function.

The other day someone asked me what our research facility’s decontamination protocol was. Decontamination? I hadn’t even thought about it. Of course we are being more careful and visitor access to the aviaries has been restricted, but decontamination? I suppose the birds would be killed if there were an outbreak. Culling seems to be the solution everywhere else.

But what is the situation in infected areas in the wild? From Nick Thorpe’s BBC report it seems like the infected Danube delta has been completely closed off to visitors. In the coming year I hope to sample wild birds extensively, particularly during migration. But what happens if my primary research sites “catch” bird flu. Will access be restricted? Will my work be suspended? More importantly how will this affect the millions of wild birds that use these areas? How many of them will get sick and die? How many, if any, will be culled for our protection? What we humans tend to forget is that migratory birds are not only the vectors of the disease, they are also the innocent victims.

Eugen Petrescu hopes that scientists will try to engineer a vaccine for birds and not put all their effort into a vaccine for humans. This isn’t a bad idea. We humans don’t usually consider any perspective but our own. We worry about pandemics, we struggle to create human vaccines, and then we argue about who should have access to them. Why not at least try to vaccinate the chickens too and stop the transmission there? Lower the transmission among the birds and maybe save a few wild populations too. After all, the birds didn’t create bird flu - we are the most likely culprits.

We often forget that we are also animals, and that our own numbers are out of control. When a species overshoots its carrying capacity several factors come into play. There is normally a shortage of resources, be they food, fresh water or oil, and there is competition for those resources (i.e. wars). There is also disease. No one wants to suffer and no one wants to lose their livelihood, be it via the culling of enormous chicken farms, or the quiet loss of a few subsistence hens that mingled with wild birds in the backyard pond. And if bird flu or any other pandemic disease becomes a human to human pathogen no one will want to lose loved ones or their own lives. But if or when it comes full circle, we shouldn’t be surprised.

* * *

“Can values have borders, can we build barriers around them?” Chris Morris asks.

“I suppose people have tried to do just that throughout European history. Hadrian built his Wall, and many centuries later Stalin his Iron Curtain. The one to keep people out, the other to keep them in.”

“But it has never really been that simple …”

Just as the invasion of bird flu is a threat to Europe, some here feel as if they are fighting a different invasion – one of people. The EU is fiercely debating where its borders lie and who should be allowed to call themselves European.

My own background is rather diverse. My father is Swiss (a European but not in terms of the European Union). My mother is from Guyana, but she is Chinese by blood and had a rather British upbringing. I was born in Canada, but to complicate matters further I now live with my Panamanian husband in the Netherlands.

Confused?

So are many others and I am often asked, “What nationality do you identify with?”

I always answer Canadian. After all, I grew up there and aside from a few conflicts over (ironically) immigration laws, I have always felt fairly comfortable being Canadian. At times, I also feel Panamanian. Although I have spent much less time there, I married a Panamanian and from the beginning Panama stole my heart.

“But have you been to Switzerland?” people ask, “Do you feel Swiss?”

Despite holding a Swiss passport, I have never felt very Swiss.

“Do you feel Dutch after living nearly two years in the Netherlands?”

I do not. In fact I don’t feel European at all.

But how do the Europeans feel?

It seems to me that Europe can’t seem to decide who should be European and who should not. Fierce debates are raging about Turkey’s possible entrance into the EU, and about the flood of migrants from Africa and Asia trying to get into Europe. Debate is also raging about “integration problems” among the migrant communities who have already entered.

“It is rather different on the other side of the Atlantic,” says Chris Morris “Anyone can be an American. It does not matter where you are from.”

It’s true – at least once you get past immigration. And the same is true for Canada – at least it has always felt that way for me.

“There are Japanese Americans, Lithuanian Americans, Arab Americans and so on.” Chris continues, “In Europe we have British Asians, German Turks. But note the difference. In the US the emphasis is the other way around; they are not American Poles but Polish Americans. Americans first and foremost, implying a sense of belonging and of acceptance which Europe sometimes struggles to emulate.”

Growing up, I had friends of every shade and background. But I never even noticed. They were just my friends - simple. Of course, I can only speak for myself growing up in a large and multicultural city, perhaps, others had different experiences. But for me friends were friends, neighbors were neighbors – and yes there was a sense of belonging and acceptance for everyone, something that I have yet to feel in Europe. Even living in the tolerant Netherlands, I do not feel a sense of belonging or acceptance for everyone. But maybe tolerance is the problem, difference is tolerated – tolerated – but never accepted, and certainly never forgotten.

For me this is also a bit of a story about coming full circle. My husband and I came here as an admittedly idealistic pair who longed to live in what we believed to be a mature Europe, made wise by its history. We felt like teenagers hoping to come of age as we left the comparably immature glitz and glamour of the Americas. But now it seems like Europe is the one having the identity crises …

* * *

To sign off I must make one final comment …

It seems that in keeping my head in the sand I am decidedly human. To give a short example, ten minutes ago I heard that tropical storm Beta has been upgraded to a hurricane. Beta! This means that this year we have had so many tropical storms that we’ve run out of names! And yet in 1985 gas guzzling SUVs accounted for only 2 percent of new vehicle sales and today SUVs account for one in four new vehicles sold*. I scratch my sandy head …

^* Note the stats are representative of the United States and were taken from Harper and Newsweek Magazines.

Nordens Ark, Aby Fiord, Sweden

22 August 2005

This month I've decided that pictures really are worth thousands of words. So rather than trying to describe the beauty of the area around the Aby Fiord, about one and a half hours north of Gothenburg, Sweden. I'll let you see for yourselves. In the following post pictures 1 - 6 show a misty sunrise over the Aby Fiord, and pictures 7 - 9 show sunset over the rocky shores near the fishing village of Smogen.

Aby Fiord

In the damp morning air you are shrouded,
hidden beneath a white gauzy veil.

Then as if awakening,
warmth and light enter,
and you reveal yourself,
one miracle at a time.

Nordens Ark, Aby Fiord - Pictures

Reminiscing

It has been a crazy month in the world. The G8 met to discuss saving the world’s environment and saving Africa (with little on the agenda about the war on terrorism, much to George W’s dismay) and then London, and later Egypt, were bombed and terrorism once again came to the forefront of the political agenda. I listen to the news a lot these days, it keeps me sane as I work in the lab, but still it amazes me that terrorism has been in the forefront for years now. When I heard of the London bombings (which of course got more coverage than those in Eygpt) I thought about the political implications, namely how the environment and Africa would now be over shadowed at the G8 summit. It was much like my initial reaction to September 11th when my first thought was how this was an incredibly symbolic gesture - hitting the World Trade Center - a symbol against globalization and the Americanization of all other countries and cultures. I thought about how whoever did this surely made an impact and I thought about how George W. was lucky because now he could play the hero. I did not think about the tragedy of it all until I heard the TV announcer speaking to the people inside the buildings. She said “To those of you inside the trade towers, stay calm, feel your door before leaving your office. If it is hot do not leave. Stay close to the ground as smoke rises. To the people of New York City, please turn off your water as the firefighters will need it to fight the blaze.” After hearing that it dawned on me that there were people in those buildings - thousands of them. After September 11th I wore black and I mourned the strangers who died. Now nearly 4 years later, when I hear about more and more bombings, more and more security and more and more freedom lost I am just disgusted. The London Underground was bombed and now people in New York City are being searched as they enter the subway. That’s globalization for you, we are all in this together … The question is what on earth are we doing?! I have no answers for this, but the whole topic has made me reminiscent of the simpler things in life.
Yesterday I friend emailed me and we caught up on the happenings in our lives. She told me that in a week she and others would be going on their annual canoe trip. I used to attend those trips and I miss them sorely now that I am living far away. Her email made me look into my “musing archives” and my description of our first trip, and I have included those musings below. For me at least it’s time to return to simpler things, to look at the beauty in the world, and to remember that whilst we are fighting the “war on terror” we should not forget to protect our environment or our freedom.

26 June 2001 – Canoeing Algonquin

We woke up at 6 AM this morning to get on the road early for the four hour drive to the Park. Not surprisingly, the first hour and a half were spent in the living room where we made a valiant attempt to fit all of our food, gear and clothing in to two back packs. It was futile, and in the end we took three bags. Still, we made it out of the house by 7:30 and we were on our way to the great Canadian North (or at least north of Toronto).
We covered an amazing amount of ground that first day and ended up paddling way past where we had planned to stay. The further from civilization we paddled the more relaxed we all became. It was almost as if tension was released with every paddle stroke away from the cars, the motor boats and the cottages. By the time we docked at our campsite there were no signs of civilization. We were surrounded by trees, birds and the clear blue waters of a granite lake, completely placid in the evening air.
That night for dinner we built a fire and roasted wieners over the embers. The other girls turned in early but I stayed up to watch the sun set and to see the stars appear as the last light faded from the western sky. It was the day after the summer solstice and the last light did not fade until 11 pm. All around me I heard the sounds of the northern night. Frogs chirped and gurgled, and in the trees I could here the sporadic call of a barred owl. From the surrounding lakes loons called, their cries echoing eerily off of the water and sending chills down my spine. It was wonderful to be back in the interior of Algonquin Park.
Our second day was a physically challenging with almost 4 km of portages. We slept in until 9 am and feasted on a breakfast of French toast before beginning the grueling trek. After a feast of French toast before beginning the grueling trek, we paddled towards the untouched waters of the lakes further south. There were six portages in all and each time two people would carry the 70 pound aluminum canoes while the other two acted as spotters. Some of the portages were short and flat while others (the longest being 1.25 km) were longs hikes through the hills and valleys of the forest. For the spotters the cathedral like forests with towering maples and dense stands of hemlock were quite beautiful…but at least for me when I was carrying the canoe, I just wanted the portage to be over (I know…wimp). In total that day I carried the canoe 2.13 km and although it hurt I was happy to have done it. Perhaps it was the endorphin high or maybe just the sense of satisfaction in knowing that I could do something rugged in the great outdoors. In the end the portages were well worth it as they took us to a lake that was completely devoid of humans. I would imagine that people rarely volunteer to do such long portages and thus many don’t make it to that tiny jewel of a lake. The water was so still and quite that the calls of red eyed vireos, black throated green warblers, wood thrushes and ovenbirds could be heard clearly from the canoe in the middle of the lake. In the sky above us herring gulls drifted on thermals and a broad wing hawk hunted for prey.
The third day we began to head north again. It was a slow and short paddle and I had lots of time to practice steering the canoe from the stern of the boat. There was only one portage, a scant 590m which we handled barely breaking a sweat. We set up camp early and had time for a leisurely paddle around the lake and a cool swim. That night I escaped cooking to wander in the woods behind the campsite. Way off the beaten track, and surrounded by bird calls, I was able to absorb the beauty of the temperate forest - a world alive with life just like the tropical forest, but a more frantic life because here the growing and breeding season is a scant two to three months long. Surrounded by the sites and sounds of a forest teeming with life and animals charged with hormones and busy breeding, it was hard to believe that six months of the year the trees are bare and everything is covered in a blanket of snow. The experience was well worth the many many mosquito bites that I acquired.
After dinner I headed out onto the lake for an evening paddle. It was my first time out on the water at that time of night and it was beautiful. The water looked like glass, as if I could step out of the boat and walk over the smooth surface. In the sky the setting sun painted the clouds into pink and purple ribbons. That night we stayed up later than normal discussing life and love etc. We marveled at how we have known each other for 10 years now and at how much our lives have changed. Back in high school we all had the same problems. We all stressed about school tests and swim meets and looking fat in our bathing suits. Now our lives are so different; a crazy mix of jobs, car payments, mortgages, wedding planning and in my case immigration battles and moving to a different country. It is amazing how things change, but how in the still air of Algonquin Park, we four women sitting around that fire were still the same girls at heart.
That night I stayed up alone well into the night. It was my last night in the Park and I was determined not to miss a thing. I fed the fire which crackled and popped, giving off huge amounts of heat which I actually needed. The temperature dipped down close to zero and my breath puffed from my mouth as if it were winter. Above me in the darkening sky the stars put on a show. After I had doused the fire I could see millions of stars. So many that they looked like a carpet and I had a hard time seeing the constellations amid other tiny stars which I rarely get the opportunity to see. Up there I could see satellites in their lazy orbits around the earth and planes blending almost perfectly with the stars. In the eastern horizon Mars shone like a beacon and every once in a while a shooting star streaked across the sky, short-lived and dazzling.
Our last day in the Park started early and we quickly packed and headed north. It was hot, sunny and windless which made for wonderful paddling. We made excellent time and did the paddle and the two portages in less than 3 hours. At the Park office we turned in our canoes and gear and once again piled into the car back to civilization. During the drive we did not talk much. I suppose we were all lost in thought. I was completely satisfied and very happy that I had done this rugged yet relaxing trip into the “wilderness”, a trip that surrounded me in the words and feelings associated with sharing such an experience with three other girly women whom I have known for a long time.

Craving some romance?

My husband and I needed an escape. We were sick of the countryside and wanted to be somewhere else to celebrate our first five years as a couple. We had moved to Europe in part for its romance, but romance seemed altogether lacking. We were craving a city. And not just any city, but a city that sparkles, a city with elegance and flare, a city of artists, intellectuals, and above all romance – Paris.

We began our Parisian experience with a sampling of French cuisine. In a café in Montmartre we dined on boeuf bourguignon (with the decidedly unromantic translation of “beef stew”), gâteaux du mousse framboise and, of course, du vin rouge. From there we climbed the stairs to the summit of Montmartre (the name signifies "mount of martyrs" because it is the place of the martydom of Saint Denis) where we explored the beautiful Romano-Byzantine Basilique du Sacré-Coeur (1875 to 1919). We stood at the railings in front of the basilica, surrounded by thousands of others, tourists and Parisians alike, in love with the city, in love with each other, in love with the anonymity of it all, and spreading out before us in the setting sun lay Paris - just the city that we had been craving!

Like most visitors to Paris we indulged in a few touristy activities. We saw the required monuments: Notre Dame Cathedral, the Eiffel tower, L’Arch de Triomphe, L’Hôtel de Ville (Paris’city hall), Palais des Invalides etc. But it was later in the day that we really began to enjoy the city, throwing off the tourist label and doing our best to blend in with the locals.

We began exploring at the Paris Opera House, and from there took Le Metro (the Paris subway) to Paris’ eastern arrondissement (civil district) where we stopped for the quintessential café and gaufre du sucre (waffle with sugar) at a road side café and watched as the Parisians went about their lives.

We entered the Cimetière du Père Lachaise in the early afternoon, a beautiful cemetery with cobblestone avenues, tree lined paths and above-ground tombs that inspire both the eeriness and the serenity of death. The cemetery contains 100,000 tombs and over 44 hectares of land, and we were there because my husband is a musician and among those 100,000 tombs, Jim Morrison is buried. We visited Jim, and I also wanted to see the graves of Ferdinad de Lesseps, and Oscar Wilde.

The popularity of the graves in relation to the lives and deaths of these men was interesting to me. Ferdinand de Lesseps was a French man and a famous engineer who changed the face of travel and commence by uniting the Mediterranean and Red Seas with the Suez Canal. He also put Panama on the map with his valiant attempt to build a sea-level canal across the Isthmus of Panama. Yet despite his contributions his grave was devoid of visitors.

Oscar Wilde was an Irish poet and dramatist famous for works such as “Lady Windermere's Fan” (1892) and “The Importance of Being Earnest” (1895). His writing inspired people as did his personal life – or rather his homosexuality. His intimate association with Alfred Douglas led to charges of homosexuality and two years hard labor for the crime of sodomy. After his experiences and illnesses in prison Oscar was unable to rekindle his creative fires. He died from cerebral meningitis, alone and penniless in a cheap Paris hotel, broken by the intolerance of society that despised him because he loved men. Today however, Oscar is again adored and his tomb was covered with lipstick from many kisses - perhaps from both women and men …

Like Oscar, Jim Morrison, the lead singer of the Doors and America’s leather poet, died in a hotel in Paris. He died from an overdose (dubbed heart attack), rich, famous and adored, but evidently as alone as Oscar in some ways. Jim’s grave is hugely popular. So much so that a permanent guard is installed to ensure order and janitors are employed to erase the graffiti so thoughtlessly deposited on nearby gravestones.

They were three men, with three legacies and three completely different worlds: the visionary engineer, the homosexual poet and the modern icon of masculinity. And these are just three tombs among 100,000, three men who are as equal in death as are all of the others, famous, infamous, immortal and unknown, buried in Père Lachaise.

But sometimes it is not the death of someone famous that has the most impact. For me the most moving moment of the visit to the cemetery was a passing glance at a stranger, an elderly man, neatly dressed and placing flowers by a grave. On the gravestone was a small sculpture of the woman’s face and I cried as I watched the man take a handkerchief from his pocket and carefully clean the sculpture. I know nothing of this man, perhaps he was hired to up keep the grave, but I doubt it, because even from a distance and only in a passing moment, I felt his loss.

We left the cemetery feeling subdued but not saddened, and took the Metro back to the city centre where we wandered until we found a bustling market and a small park. Away from the tourist attractions this area known as La Place R. Cassin was the perfect place to blend with the locals and have a picnic of baguettes, cheese, chocolate and wine.

As the sun began to set we went to Montparnasse. Paris has always been a hub for artists and intellectuals. Artists Pablo Picasso, Joan Miró, and Henri Matisse; writers Ernst Hemmingway, Oscar Wilde, Scott Fitgerald, T.S. Eliot, and Gertrude Stein; existentialist philosopher Jean-Paul Sartre and political refugees such as Lenin and Trotsky were all drawn to Paris and frequented the cafes of Boulevard Montparnasse and Boulevard St. Germain. “The Quarter” was an area where the great minds of the early 1900s were inspired (as well as pickled since the intellectuals took to alcohol with gusto) and we wanted to experience this area for ourselves.

Our last morning in Paris was spent in a boat on the meandering River Seine where we took one last look at the sights of Paris and made the quintessential wish followed by the quintessential kiss as we passed under le Pont Marie. Legend has it that any wish made under the Pont Marie and followed by a kiss will come true within a year. We’ll see. All along the river, Parisians were out for their morning jogs and book sellers were displaying their wares. These small bookshops once distributed clandestine literature, and perhaps they still do.

We left Paris as we had entered it, in Montmartre the artist and bohemian hub of the 1890s, taking one last look at the city spread before us from the summit of the hill.

À bientôt Paris!

Isn’t it ironic

Originally sent as an email chronicle 1 May 2005


I’ve received a few emails from y’all mentioning that I haven’t sent a chronicle in quite some time so I figured I should send some news. I’ve been pretty busy lately with my research here in the Netherlands. I’ve started an experiment on captive Red Knots (my study species) that is taking all of my time. Hubby and I live in a town in the northeast Netherlands, but my birds are housed on an island in the northwest (in the Wadden Sea) – a 4 to 5 hour commute away. Thus I’ve been spending quite some time traveling/commuting. When on the island I’ve been in the lab working with blood and bacteria in a laminar flow hood (a piece of lab equipment that creates a sterile environment where one can work with bacteria and other sensitive media) – it’s about as sterile and “labby” as one can get without working on Ebola :-). The island is a nice place with really beautiful dune ecosystems and I do enjoy my time on the island, but the irony of my living and working situation at present (in relation to my reasons for coming to Europe) are not lost on me.
Those who know me well know that I have a somewhat dark and sarcastic sense of humor, and as such I love irony. My mother commented when I entered a PhD program that it was ironic how long I’d be in school considering that I chose not to become a medical doctor (MD) in part because I didn't want to stay in school so long. Of course she is right (mothers usually are). I also find it ironic that I chose not to stay on in my position at the University in my home city (in a molecular lab) because I didn't want to be stuck doing lab work all of the time. Right now I only work with live birds long enough to take a blood sample, the rest of my time is spent in a sterile lab. Furthermore, I moved to one of the world’s smallest countries, but now commute just about as far as possible (and through the only portion of the country without train service) on a regular basis. But then I guess I shouldn’t complain about the traveling as this journey through the countryside is the closest to fieldwork that I am getting! This is not to say that I won’t do any fieldwork or traveling in the future, I’m still optimistic that I will, and I understand the importance of working out new techniques in a lab before taking them into the field - but the theme of this email is irony :-).

Then there is the question of moving to Europe. Hubby and I decided to move to Europe in part because we felt that Europeans were generally more open minded and liberal than North Americans and we wanted to learn from European society for awhile. We could have gone to the midwest USA for my studies (where there was a strong possibility of fieldwork in Panama), but we decided that we didn’t want to live in a conservative rural community. Well, the grass isn’t always greener on the other side of the Atlantic… Here is irony for you, we now live in the northern Netherlands, a place which, unlike the large and multicultural cities that we grew up in, is very rural and much to our dismay at times very conservative.

Hubby is from Panama, and a year long battle with Canadian immigration for a visitor visa taught us that racism is alive and well (at least at the bureaucratic level) in Canada; however, when Hubby finally arrived in Canada he fit right in. The residents of my home city did not bat an eyelid at one more Latin American and even when he spent a month in a small town of about 500, he didn’t feel any racial tension. The story has been very different in the Netherlands. Here in Europe, there was no year long battle for a visa, but there has been racial tension. On one occasion Hubby asked a woman for directions and upon looking at him she hid her bags, pointed vaguely, and hurried away, obviously frightened. Hubby has also been followed at night by large white males who have hurled insults at him (most of which he didn’t understand) but that centered on calling him a “kebab” and “immigrant”. Even the academics with whom I work sometimes slip into referring to immigrants as “those people” who can’t integrate. We thought perhaps these were isolated incidents and that things were better in the more urban and multicultural south. But then the national and international news began to report on the firebombing of mosques and Islamic schools in the cities - so much for the pacifism and liberalism of the Netherlands. Racism and intolerance exists everywhere and it seems that the “dyke burst” (pardon the pun) for the Netherlands just as we arrived.

The “immigration/emigration situation” in the Netherlands is addressed in an article in the Globe and Mail (23 April 2005) entitled “It just doesn’t feel like Holland anymore”. The article discusses a recent exodus of Dutch people, troubled by the ways in which immigration has changed their nation. These Dutch emigrants are moving preferentially to Canada. Now there is irony for you! For one Dutch emigrant the problem in the Netherlands is that “Holland has let too many people in without attention to their ability to fit into Dutch society”. The citizens of his town now come in a variety of hues and hold a variety of beliefs and to him it just doesn’t feel like home any more. I wonder how this man will feel when he arrives in Vancouver (multicultural to say the least) and sees that several of the customs officers wear turbans and head scarves. In my first year in the northern Netherlands I could count the number of head scarves I saw on one hand. Only recently have head scarves emerged, and this “fashion trend” is a protest to the anti-Islam movement (a very good sign, I think).

The Globe article states that “The ethnic cleaning and mass migration of the two world wars left many European countries with one dominant ethnic group, so the presence of large numbers of visibly different people has alarmed and alienated many residents.” But the Dutch are traders who have come into contact with “buitenlanders” (foreigners) for centuries – que pasa? I suppose the answer lies in the distinction between foreigners as trading partners, and foreigners as active members of your country. According to the Globe, “the public reaction to the demographic changes has been nothing short of fury.”

But not all Dutch people agree with this reaction. Hubby and I have many Dutch friends who are embarrassed by their nation’s new found intolerance. Furthermore, many Dutch emigrants are leaving not because of the immigrants, but because of the Dutch reaction to immigration, which has “turned their country men into angry intolerant nationalists”. I can sympathize, although for different reasons. It’s shattering to discover that your country and your people are not as perfectly tolerant as you once believed. The emigrants leaving the Netherlands because of the Dutch response to immigration feel that “Canada is a place where the tension between immigrants and non-immigrants does not exist, because that distinction does not exist”. It is true that in Canada (and Panama) nearly everyone is an immigrant so the distinction between “us and them” is blurred and integration becomes less of an issue. In my experience (and I can only speak for myself) there is a very distinct line between the Dutch and the foreigners in the Netherlands - even in academic circles. This is not to say that there is no mixing, everyone works together and collaborations abound; however, in social situations there is a tangible “us and them” feeling. It is uncomfortable, it makes me feel guilty for not integrating more, and it is something I haven’t felt anywhere else.

I hope that Dutch immigrants seeking tolerance in Canada will find what they are looking for. In Canada they will be the foreigners and the tables will be turned. Like the Netherlands, Canada is known throughout the world as a tolerant nation and I hope that despite it’s own debates about immigration, it can live up to that reputation. I hope that Canada (despite somewhat inhumane visa laws) can be a place where all people can live in peace.

Culture and all that

Originally emailed as an email chronicle November 17, 2004

Recently I’ve been involved in a lively email discussion with friends about the joys and stumbling blocks of moving to a new country. Although I have relocated before (to Panama) that move was benign compared to moving to the Netherlands. There are several reasons for that, most notably that in Panama I had a local (Hubby) to show me the ropes, whereas in the Netherlands Hubby and I drifted for a long time before finding something to hold onto.
My recent discussions have centred on assumptions that expatriates make when they move to a different country. For example that the Netherlands is a laid back and tolerant place, or that people from Canada are polite and friendly. A wise friend of mine pointed out that these assumptions often lead to disappointment as a place (with all of its diverse characters) can never live up to a simple stereotype and thus expats feel as if they have been lied to.
Hubby and I have been disappointment and surprised by many things since moving to the Netherlands. For example, we had always heard that the Dutch had an excellent health care system, but here not even the basics are covered and even citizens must purchase health insurance. European funding of graduate students is another debateable point. Many have heard that students are paid well in Europe. It is true that school is considered more like a job here and that tuitions are lower, however, many undergraduate students still work at outside jobs to stay alive and graduate students are still asked in their interviews how they intend to pay for themselves (i.e. salary) and their research. What comes out is usually a balance much like in North America where some costs are covered by the supervisor’s grants and other costs by grants to the student and scholarships. Even graduate students sometimes work other jobs to make ends meet. Recycling is another issue. For years we had heard that the Dutch have one of the best recycling programs on the planet and yet in Toronto, in the USA and in Germany many more things are recycled than where we are living in the Netherlands (I cannot speak for the cities in the south).
Some things however, have lived up to reputation. The weather for example really is horrendous, people are very blunt and workers take more vacation and sick days than anywhere else I have ever been. Of course these things are not always pleasant. The bluntness takes some getting used to. Here are a few examples, a blond friend of mine asked for help with a new printing machine and was told that the reason she couldn’t figure it out was the colour of her hair. I was told that lab work is repetitive “stupid work” and thus I should like it. I still question whether these comments were made innocently or maliciously. The bluntness goes beyond interpersonal interactions, for example inner city schools in Amsterdam or Rotterdam with more than 50% foreigners are called “Zwarte Scholen” (literally black schools) even on television and Moroccans are often referred to as “those people” who don’t integrate well. Extensive vacations, short working hours and lots of “sick days” are also annoying, for example Hubby’s immigration papers were held up three months over the summer because of vacations. This wrecked havoc with our Canadian visa application (we still don’t know if Hubby can come for Christmas or not). However, another wise friend of mine pointed out that the vacations are not the root of the problem, but rather agencies are probably understaffed and can not compensate when people go on vacation.
I have also come to the conclusion that a lot of the “culture shock” that Hubby and I experienced comes from the fact that we are both city people and we have moved to a small town. Although small city in the north is only 2.5 hours from Amsterdam, to me there is a world of difference. Some of you will remember that I didn’t even like Hamilton (1.5 hours from Toronto with over 300,000 inhabitants), a much bigger city than small city in the north. Aesthetically, this town/city is a nice place with quaint streets and “cute” Dutch architecture, but I long for the diversity, the extremes of the city. I long for simultaneous connectedness and anonymity. I long for the feeling of being alone in a crowd (which is different from feeling alone and excluded from a social circle). I am quite sure that if Hubby and I lived in Amsterdam we would have integrated faster.
None of what I have said is meant as an attack on Dutch people or their culture. I am sure that many of you can describe similar disappointments and surprises moving to Toronto, or Panama, or Hong Kong. Things are different in different places and the world would be a boring place otherwise. This is just an examination (inspired by my recent email discussions) of what it is like to move to a new place (without a personal guide who you subsequently marry :-) ).