what does it feel like?

I have an older brother who spent a lot of time living abroad before I ever had a passport, and he was the first real flavor I got of what life might be like living and travelling outside of the US. I remember him telling me that the days never could seem as crappy because at least you were living in this much-desired place, and that there were lots of tortoises in Athens. He told me this because it's always those little things that make the difference between being somewhere and reading about it in a book. There's always something that makes it personal for you.

Here in Holland, those things are accumulating for me- I can find the shops that sell marzipan shaped like partly gutted fish and school satchels, and I've tasted the bottlecap-sized ginger cookies available at every reception desk and shop at this time of year. I now know that some people still DO wear the iconic wooden Dutch shoes, and that carrying an umbrella while cycling must be a somewhat effective method for staying dry in the rain. I've learned that a side dish of potatoes must come with every meal, even if the main plate already has mashed potatoes, and that Dutch men like a lot more hair gel than the average Icelander.

I always wanted to see the minutiae of everyday life in new places- what is sold in grocery shops, what the advertisements on TV are like, what people do on a Monday evening in a village. This evening I watched that unfold as I ate dinner alone at a brasserie around the corner from my hotel. The butter yellow windowframe at the front looked out over a carless street full of activity. The rain that started an hour before had glossed the road and made the people coming from shops across the square hurry past, their parcels clutched close. Just outside, under the restarant's awning, a single candle flickered in blue glass on the wicker cafe tables, and across the way, people ducked into a glowing pub. There were pool tables in play inside- I could see the flash of cue ball as it rolled across the felt, and outside a man leaned against the doorframe in the middle of an involved conversation.

Monday evening was in that winding down stage: to my right, the waiter from the adjacent restaurant set out the trash barrels, a lit cigarette illuminating his face slightly, as couples paired beneath umbrellas passed. There was a bit of wind that made the awning trimming flutter and set the white Christmas lights swinging along the length of the street, and inside I could hear the sound of scrubbing in the kitchen, a extra rhythm section for the tacky French Christmas tunes that played in the nearly empty restaurant.

The bells of the church struck ten as I settled the bill, then I went from being observer to participant as I too stepped outside into the street and joined the dispersion of people, everyone headed home to a warm, dry place somewhere in this short Dutch town.