I think of my life in five-year chunks. If any aspect of my time on earth has lasted half a decade, that’s a sizeable bite of the enchilada. Many things last even longer, sometimes surprisingly so: I’ve had happywaffle.com in my life for 25 years, my Firefly t-shirt for 20, Kiki for almost ten.

So, no matter how short it seems, my five-year anniversary in Amsterdam on Sunday/Monday¹ is a long dang time. I can no longer claim to be fresh off the boat. 

There are subtle signs I’m becoming a proper European. On my recent trip home I ordered a croissant at a café, specifically thought I was not going to be a Eurotrash snob about it, and hahahaha it was so bad I didn’t finish it. Similarly, after years of grumbling about Americanos and wishing for a big ol’ mug of American coffee, I ordered one…took a nice long sip…and thought “Huh. Bit watery.” 

Beyond the food-and-drink snobbery and comfort with the metric system, my soul’s center of gravity is steadily moving eastward. Every trip to Austin feels less like a visit home and more like a visit. Texas’s singular weirdness strikes me a little harder every time, usually before the plane even lands.² I once described a “pep rally” to Kiki and she was correctly flabbergasted by the concept. The thing is, so was I. 

Don’t you worry, reader. I’m still Texan in my bones, proudly wearing my cowboy boots and saying “y’all.” My generic American accent hasn’t much changed, though I became so self-conscious about the American failure to pronounce T’s—“wadder boddle”—that I overcorrected and started hitting my T’s as hard as Moira Rose. 

I’ve gotten used to the weather. I won’t pretend I prefer it to Texas; friends, food, and sunny warmth are the three things I miss most. But the famous Dutch rain is misty rather than torrential, the temperature more often cool than cold. As always, having proper equipment matters. Not gonna lie, when I’m biking through the wet in my waterproof 3/4-length jacket, rain pants, and leather gloves, I feel kind of invincible.

On the other hand, I’m still not used to the wild swing in daylight hours that comes with living this far north. One morning I’m waiting at the train station in the bitterly cold darkness, wishing I’d brought my gloves. A few months later it’s the same place, same time, but the sun is shining warmly in my face and I’m wishing I’d brought my sunglasses. It feels magical to be on a sunny terrace at 10pm; it feels cursed to need your headlights at 4pm. 

Amsterdam feels like a small town, because it is—a fraction of the size of London or Paris, to say nothing of Austin or Dallas. It’s so compact that you regularly get whiffs of cow manure from the farms just beyond the city limits. One in particular, a 15-minute drive³ from our front door, has a whole-milk vending machine plus a cheese and produce selection with a QR code tacked to the wall so you can pay by the honor system. It’s quaint as fuck, though the manure smell up close is enough to make you wonder what they’re feeding those cows. 

And Nederland feels like a small country, because it is. Despite recently crossing 18 million in population, everything still feels local, Dutch news outlets covering the whole country as a unit. Thanks to a subsidized industry there’s no shortage of Dutch-language media, and it’s fun to recognize neighborhoods (or even individual streets) in shows and movies. Plus there’s a deep cultural feeling that we, the Dutch, are in this together. It takes awhile to appreciate how different it is from Ron-Swanson American individualism. You can tell someone they’re being “asocial” and it honestly carries a bit of bite. Our most recent parliamentary election had a 76% turnout! My progressive pals in the US would give a finger for some of this attitude in their own cities and states. 

It’s not all tulips. Like in much of the world, the Dutch government has lurched rightward, with our very own Trump wannabe Geert Wilders and a host of other nationalist, racist MAGA types whom you just know woulda turned in Anne Frank. I’ve even experienced xenophobia myself, being accused once or twice of not being “real” Dutch despite my passport that says otherwise. That’s immigrant life.

But, hope springs eternal. The aforementioned election gave Geert Wilders a proper kick in the teeth, and our presumptive next prime minister is a distractingly handsome gay man. I have the right to complain, and I do, but even my bitterest rant about canceled trains or low-effort health care comes with the USA-sized caveat that I even HAVE trains and health care. I saw more unhoused and mentally unwell people on my recent five-day visit to Austin than I have in the past year in Amsterdam.

I’m sorry. It’s impossible to write about this high standard of living without feeling like I’m bragging. I’d be more hesitant to say all that if the US weren’t more wealthy than The Netherlands (adjacent in the rankings, as it happens). There’s no practical reason the US can’t have the well-paved streets and fully-funded schools that we do. So I say all this not to brag, but to scream into the void that my birth country deserves better than it gives itself, and that my adopted country shouldn’t think of going back.

Oy, this celebratory blogpost took a glum turn! To restart the party music: it’s been a magical five years, I’m extremely happy with my life here, and my anger comes from wanting others to be happy, too. 

The worst part of my first five years in Nederland is a tie between my Dutch driving instructor and my manager at SITA⁴, who should consider a career as a Dutch driving instructor.

The best part of my first five years was on Saturday. Kiki and I walked from our house across the park to Mike’s Badhuistheater and put on a double-header of improv shows that brought the house down. Afterwards we had drinks and gabbed with friends, then returned to Percy’s angry meows of relief that we were home. I could win the lottery and it wouldn’t feel as good. I know it’s woke virtual signaling to mention one’s privilege, but my luck in life is just overpowering.

Post-Script for the Emigration-Curious

For those among you who are feeling the primal urge to emigrate—and I know you’re out there, from how frequently I’m asked about it—I’m gonna recommend some further reading. Janelle Hanchett’s views are NOT my own—largely the opposite, in fact. But she eloquently speaks to the inherent alienation in becoming an immigrant, no matter how privileged:

I am not actually part of that terrace or village or sea or country. I am an outsider, a traveler. Stopping by to admire.

Even in my own house. Even in my own town.

It’s a valuable perspective on how you might NOT enjoy leaving your native land for a new one, no matter how bad and good they are, respectively. And useful perspective for taking the bad with the good:

I need you to understand that I do not live in a dream fairy world. I do not live in a promised land. I do not live a problem-free, utopian existence.

That’s a long read, but here’s one more, telling her whole immigration story. Mine was infinitely simpler, by the simple virtue of having a Dutch partner who sponsored me. (Yes, we should start a Dutch-American dating service.)

If you’re interested, feel free to reach out to chat, you’d be far from the first. My acquaintance Bethany also runs a brilliantly-named emigration coaching business that’s worth checking out: GTFO Tours. 

1. Like my anniversary with Kiki, my Amster-versary spans two days, December 14th and 15th, the days I left Texas and arrived in Nederland.
2. Of course, it really is becoming more singularly weird by the day, and not in a good way.
3. No we don’t own a car, but there’s a Greenwheels on our block that we can rent by the hour.
4. If you’re a close pal, then DM me for the password.