I’ve been spending a lot of time at home recently. I left my position at the “Global Empire” in July. So for the last two months, I’ve been spending a lot of time at home and alone–an experience I must say.

Rarely have I spent so much time by myself–this seeming hermithood has certainly been by choice, broken by many visits with friends and family (some would say interventions.) It has, however, been an experience of coming to know myself, my moods, my lethargy and my motivation.

To spur on that motivation, and escape the lethargy, I set out to make some lists of things to do. I find that there is a power in words; a control. If I feel overwhelmed by an aspect of my life, I write about it. Right now the overwhelming is the things that have piled-up, undone while I have been homebodying (like bunburying, only without the country house). So, I have tried to bring them under word-control by putting them down in a list.

The lists certainly worked from the mental control perspective, but in the act of writing them I was led in an interesting direction. Not being simply satisfied with writing them, I put them into an Excel spreadsheet which, in turn, led me to apply frequencies to repeating tasks. This is, I’m sure, already boring to anyone other than myself. But, I came to the question of how often should I do things like wash my sheets. I had thought conventional wisdom was for this particular task every two weeks at the very least. But a quick interrogation of Google suggests yet again that there is nothing common or conventional about sense or wisdom: everything from daily to monthly was the response of the Internet masses.

So my question to you is how often do you wash your sheets (or even how often do you feel you should? And for that matter how often do you do all the other mundane but important household maintenance tasks?

I don’t really trust big startings-over. A pronouncement of change I think is compensation for motivation and certainty in that change. If you are going to make a difference or change in your life, just do it.

So I am doing it. Things are starting to get busy at work and in a strange twist–the order of the day at the Global Empire–this busyness means that I have more time for myself.

We all have our coping strategies, mine are writing and my friends and family. With out their counsel, I’m certain that I wouldn’t be as strong or have accomplished as much. It is my writing that I have turned away from these last six–seven–eight months; as is obvious from the last time I wrote in this space.

The harm has been two fold, the quality of my writing has declined. Writing is an art, but is also a trade, a skill. When you don’t practice these things, they become rusty and tired.

I tried to draft a simple email the other day and my first two run-throughs sounded as though they should be spoken from a soviet loudspeaker–”now hear this!”

The other injury has been to my mental health. When I sit to write out my problems, frustrations, anxieties, the structure of the written word requires that I put these amorphus things into words. Words with names. Words with meaning. Words with sturcture.

Through that framing, I gain insight into the problems and my reactions to them. I gain control.

A devilish disarming that the frustration and complexity of the last months has meant that I did not–could not–turn to this potent tool of self-organization.

Now that my world has become more settled, it is refreshing to return to the tool, stretech my fingers and write. For the simple joy of it. For the practice of it. For the mental health of it!

Thank you to the folks who leant a patient and confidential ear to my trials and tribulations–my other coping strategy.

I sat in a cafe the other day, one that reminds me of Canada. It’s called Gary’s Muffins and is one of the few places you can get a reasonable bagel in Amsterdam.

I sat there because it was time to write a list of reasons to stay in Amsterdam and an alternate list, one of reasons to go to Canada. And the balance of reasons tipped in the favour of Canada. One of the most important, the possibility for return.

So, I let people “over here” know, and began packing my things.

My flight is on the 12th of June and I’m going to spend a week in Vancouver checking out job leads there before returning to Victoria.

So I hope to see all the folks “back home” very soon. Now I’m not big on souveniers, but if you have a hankering for something from the land of tulips, cheese, clogs, windmills and all that, then now is the time to let me know.

I’m faced with the successes of my peers. And, I don’t want to begrudge them, but rather to celebrate what they’ve accomplished. But, at the same time I inevitably compare each success with my own progress. We have each started from the same blocks, at the same gunshot, but I seem to be half way around the track when they each are crossing the finish line or already hitting the showers.

How can we observe and celebrate the successes of our peers when the society in which we live forces competitive comparison? Perhaps a better question is how can we value our own successes and experiences equally to those of others, when we are too close to see their real value? I am continually surprised by the value that others place on my skills and abilities in particularly practical ways: a salary increase or a complimentary introduction.

I looked over a proposal written by a friend of mine who is considering starting an editing and translation bureau. In it he had set my potential salary at such a level that I laughed out loud at its size. Surely I’m not worth that much! And yet our capitalist society values the skills that others lack. When I think of the talents that I will put to work for the astronomical sum he names, I realise that perhaps there are a few things which seem to come more naturally to me than to others.

That each sentence ought to have a verb and that a colon ought to follow only after a complete clause seem obvious to me, as obvious as lifting ones foot before throwing it into the swing of your next stride down the track. Yet these things are not obvious to others, and their skills—carrying a tune, disassembling and reassembling a carburetor, calculating the interior volume of a torus, baking a soufflé—escape my best attempts. And truly this separation is the thing that creates diversity, and allows us to flourish.

So, I should simply take satisfaction in the fact that there is something that I do better or differently than each of the people around me, just as they succeed where I fear to tread. The key is not to fixate on their singular triumphs at the expense of my own.

I’ve been reading, with interest, about the goings-on in the States related to gay-marriage. While I was browsing through a few of the news sites I noticed that the banner adds were mostly for gowns and flowers and honeymoon destinations.

Of course what was happening was the ad-serving software had picked-up key-words like marriage, nuptial, couple etc. and delivered appropriate ads. Aparently the internet infrastructure doesn’t see a major difference between straight and gay marriage–maybe a point where a million million computers working together beats out society.

No, not to the the States, I was in Belgium. Brugge is just a short hop from Amsterdam, but I hadn’t been there yet. In a lot of ways Belgium is Canada and the Netherlands, the US. The Dutch think of their neighbours to the South, who are bilingual (Dutch and French) as the little folks who are awfully nice, but kind of backward and they talk funny. My Belgian colleague actually speaks to Dutch folks in English so they don’t treat her as they would a Belgian – I think she means treat her like she’s a slow country bumpkin.

Quite to the contrary Brugge, the small part of Belgium I was able to see, was anything but slow or provincial. It was a big textile port in times past so has more than it’s fair share of churches and history and is now quite the tourist destination.

Not at all to the contrary, Belgians love food, especially chocolate. And now so do I.

I was there just over the weekend; it was a four-hour trip on the train with a quick stopover (overstoppen) in Antwerp. A mere trifle in terms of travel to a Canadian, I’m quick to tell my colleagues in my now seemingly über-nationalistic way.

At the train station I was able to rent a bike for the trip into town and for my comings and goings over the course of the weekend. The TI also had a great bike map of the surrounding area with some suggested trips laid-out.

I checked into the Charlie Rocket youth hostel–a bit American, but cheap and central. I spent the rest of Saturday touring around the city and getting lost in its gezellig back streets. I also was hunting for a shop which sold gloves or mittens, I’d unwisely left mine at home and it was hovering around one or two below the whole time I was there.

Imagine lots of staying-a-while in cafés eating soep van de dag mit brood. Fortunately, my Dutch is coming along enough that I can read the menu, order in Dutch and receive a response back with out switching to English—even to the point of asking “pin betallen?” (Can I pay by debit?)

For dinner, our friend, Rick Steves recommended a little spot with cheap spaghetti—not particularly local cuisine but certainly a local spot. With dinner, I had a glass of sophisticated beer. Went hunting later for a snack of vlaamse frites (Flemish fries, or freedom fries to Americans.)

Got an early start on Sunday and worked through my list of things to see and do. Among the ambient charm of Brugge, it also boasts a chapel housing some of Christ’s blood, another church with a Madonna and Child by Michaelangelo, and a bell-tower-carillon with terrific views of the city (in all directions). I also lingered in the art museum and saw some beautiful Flemish primitive paintings—fascinating to watch the gradual incorporation of vanishing-point perspective and other techniques as the area and its artists moved into the Renaissance.

Later in the afternoon I followed one of the routes laid out in the bike map, I took the shortest at 18 km. The tour ended back at the train station where I had been able to stow my things. The return trip left every hour, so I was able to snack on one more soep van de dag mit brood, before heading back to Amsterdam.

I have found a new home. My landlords returned from the UK and Chris, my roommate returned to the US. I’m no longer a mate on the Good Ship Reguliersgracht, but a roomie of het Vriendschaphuis. Christine, one of my new roommates was telling me that she was feeling more settled in her new home — we’d each moved in within a few days of each other.

That set me to thinking about what item, or feeling, quality or qualities make me settled in a home– new or otherwise. Over the past year I’ve moved a couple of times: from Leigh’s place where I stayed for the first few nights; to the Youth Hostel with their earnest demeanor; to the apartment on the Amstel, a welcome feeling of privacy; and finally to the Good Ship Reguliersgracht, our canal-house (not a boat but close). Not to mention several trips to explore something of the neighbouring countries.

In each case I couldn’t say that I felt less or more settled. Not less settled than even most of my adult homes in Victoria. I used to joke that my home was where my computer was plugged in. And for quite a while that rang with a note of truth. I haven’t used my computer much while in Europe though, a lack of an Internet connection and using a computer all day at work made certain of that.

So the question remains: what makes a place feel settled? I’ve set out to put up pictures of friends and family, thanks to cheap Swedish design and ingenious Japanese copiers, and Christine, Neel and I have been careful to establish something of a comfortable routine (with particular attention to the morning shower). So a routine, a wireless Internet connection and photos of familiar folks each could contribute to settled-heid.

I attended many summer camps when I was younger, time away from parents and their confusing ways. Time away for parents and their confusing kids. At most activities and meals there would be one or two kids missing, and when I asked after their absence the response was almost always “homesick.” As if that settled the matter, as if it were an affliction so common as to require no explanation whatsoever.

We were away from home for God’s Sake (and indeed for one or two years it was for God’s Sake that I was at camp), how could these fellow campers be sick of home?

I certainly didn’t wish to go to summer camp to escape home, but to experience new things. Each environment as settled as the other — especially when viewed with the fondness of hindsight. That someone might feel so dislodged that she were actually sick for her home never crossed my mind.

I think rather than familiar things, feelings or qualities about a place making it home, it is my own thoughts and attitudes about and for the world that make wherever I happen to be familiar.

It is less the physicality of place and more the mentality of self that is the key to settled-heid and to gezeligheid.

I had no idea it would be so easy to lose track of everyone and their lives! Here’s the “Cole’s Notes” version of my life recently.

A new colleague joined our department and we went out to a crazy Arabian restaurant called Nomads. Here’s a compromising photo of me with Theresa, one of the women I work with.

Next, as Robbie so kindly asked there is (and now was) a boy. His name is Deiter and unfortunately I don’t have a photo of him. He’s from South Africa and is 35. Just last week he broke things off by leaving a note in my letterbox. I wasn’t crushed, just confused. Yet another confusing break-up where I think that everything is going fine and the other person decides that things aren’t and I don’t know what went wrong. They say “it’s not you, it’s me.” I discover how annoying that line is yet again and remain confused. Is it because I have some terrible hygiene habit that remains hidden until we’ve spent some time together and everyone is just too kind to say something? Went to April Cafe (Amsterdam’s BJs) and got some flirtation from cute boys.

In there somewhere my Mom and Alan visited. They loved Amsterdam (my city!) and we toured around the city. Truthfully I was happy for the reason to go and do some touristy things myself (well not campy-touristy but not live-there-so-don’t-go-there things). Including Hortus, originally a big medicinal herb garden in the city, cycling around the south of the city, and going to a great Indonesian restaurant. And buying me a bike. Yes, now I’m a two-wheeled terror.

The weekend of the 15th I went to Germany to visit Christian. We had a reasonably authentic German Christmas experience. I brought lovely pastries back for my colleagues–I bribe them for letting me leave early on the Fridays that I go away.

Canon might/will offer me a contract but it hasn’t happened yet. And the HR people keep turning off my pass-card, locking me out of the mailroom and other places. Each time they say “Don’t you have a contract yet?” and I think, “Isn’t that your job?”

I have to find a new place as the real skippers of the Good Ship Reguliersgracht are returning from the UK. I’m hoping to find a little studio place that will convince me to spend less time at home and more time out doing things. I’m also realizing that it would be the first time I’ve ever actually lived by myself. I left the homes of my parents when I was 18 and have had roommates ever since. Sure they’ve gone on trips I’ve been alone for a week or so at a time, but this time it will just be me. I wonder if we’ll get along.

Still on the housing part, the average rent that I can afford/find is between €600 and €900 (that works out to about $950 - $1400 CAD). And they usually ask for a month’s rent as damage deposit along with the first and last month’s rent. And if you go through an agency they usually charge another month’s rent as a fee. Yikes! And that’s for a studio/one bedroom!

Well Hope all you folks are doing well for yourselves.

Tot ziens!

A bit of a blast from the past, Andrew “from Ottawa” now of Dusseldorf visited the other week. I spent some time showing him the city, Chris spent some time getting him drunk.

One of the things that makes living in Amsterdam okay is that there is a group of people “over here” that I know from “over there”. Ayla’s just a short hop over the North Sea, Christian is just a three-hour train ride away (as I am to prove again this weekend), and Andrew is now just as close.

I was heading home the other day and I came upon this scene. On the left of the photo you can see the riot police moving forward. No this isn’t the WTO in Cancun, or the European Union Constitution Conference. It is the Sneltrain to the Amsterdam Arena, home to Ajax (Aye-axe), the football (soccer) team of Amsterdam.

I was getting off my train from work on my way home. On the other side of the platform was a mass of folks all with Ajax scarves around their necks forcing their way on to the train heading the other way.

Now I say forcing because the train itself was rocking quite a bit. This is no light-weight train, it was the maximum length because the transit folks wanted to get these fans out of their station as soon as possible. That means something like four or five cars!

After trying to close the doors four or five times the train was able to get going, but only after these riot police moved in.

After leaving the station I watched various groups of folks singing and drinking on their way to the station, a guy peeing into the canal (watched closely by two officers on horseback)

I think of the “Nascar Guy” or the “NHL Guy” in Canada or the US, even the “WWF Guy” and all are less belligerent than these folks.