Chicken Pants

Hello readers,

Here is another letter from the Netherlands. I have a day off today and I wanted to update you about my adventures here. I am getting to know the locals and it’s quite fun. It’s still tricky out here as the indigenous population speaks this newish form of Dutch and I try to get by with my parochial Flemish. I never know exactly how to react when someone exclaims: “Oh this is how you say that in Flemish. How very charming and  rustic.” Now, I don’t think that last word can ever be used as a compliment.

But I am starting to understand their oddities better. They crack me up with their funny last names like Suikerbuik (Sugar belly), Pannekoek (Pancake), Kippenbroek (Chick pants or chicken marsh) and Ketel (Kettle). One of their ministers was called Borst (Breast). I am not kidding when I mention that she played an important role in public health affairs.

View from my bike

And I now finally understand why the Dutch never brake when they ride their bikes. Some claim that the Dutch are frugal and don’t want to overuse their brakes. Others say it’s because their bikes are so heavy that you don’t want to stop because it’s too hard if you then want to get rolling again. I think I know the real answer. You are not allowed to wear gloves here for most of the year and try to put your hands on the brakes when they are rolled up in the sleeves of your coat. You’ll see: it’s impossible! I didn’t get the memo but there seems to be a general understanding that wearing gloves is for sissies. You can only do that when the cold is trying to kill you and the ducks are out testing the thickness of the ice.

Talking about ducks. I now have some duck friends on the Vinkeleskade. They make each other laugh when we stand on the shore because they get to skate way before we do. And they know that when it starts freezing, they’ll have the endless rinks to themselves for at least a few more days, until half of the human population of the city is tucked in bed with the flu and the other half is whetting its skates. One of them (not pictured here) is my special friend. When it’s warmer, he walks up to me with this cool gansta gait every time I unlock my bike. I swear I heard him say once: “Hey chicka, what’s up?” I knew he was playing hookey from school. This winter his home got so cold that he lost his good manners and became grumpy and standoffish. But now that spring is almost back, he’s regaining his composure. I saw him coif his hairdo last weekend and when he strolled by, I think I saw a little gel in his hair.

Have a nice weekend!