The Netherlands, oh the Netherlands

So off we went. A whole week in “Holland,” as Max calls it these days. Everything was the other way around. We boarded the train in Berlin, got off at the border, and then drove on to Drenthe, where our guest beds are.

We’ve only been gone two months, but it already felt a little strange. From the North, I board the train to the Randstad, and the polders passing by outside suddenly seem less familiar. I’m walking through Amstelveen, on my way to see my friend L., and it occurs to me: just two days ago, I was still teaching at a school in Falkensee, a town west of Berlin, where I’d never been before. From Falkensee to Amstelveen—it doesn’t seem all that obvious to me.

That has an alienating effect—all this back and forth. It’s nice, no doubt about it. It’s wonderful that it’s all just possible. But it’s also kind of strange. Then on from Amstelveen to Amsterdam, to my friend S.’s birthday party. So familiar and normal—for a few hours, I’m truly back in the Netherlands again. Just like it always felt.

Until she drops me off the next morning at the station in Hilversum. I used to live here and worked here for a long time. A lot of friends and acquaintances get off here every day. So it’s the most normal thing in the world that I’m standing here now. And yet, and yet: it feels different.

I board the next train. Even the walk from the station to the newsroom in Utrecht feels strange. Sure; normally I’d arrive here every day by car, loud music blaring in my ears, my thoughts already on the story I’d be covering that day. And now? I’ve gotten on the bus, I no longer have a key fob to open the doors myself, and as I walk in, I think: I don’t work here anymore. But wasn’t that just a moment ago…? Yes, but now I really don’t work here anymore.

Weird.

Two days later, I’m having coffee with our old neighbors, who’ve also become friends. Max is playing as usual with our neighbor’s little boy, who’s under the impression that we’re moving back here. No, that’s the crazy part. We’re just visiting now. Visiting the Netherlands.

It’s not until dinner on the last night, with my friends L. and M., that I completely forget where I actually live. We’re in Amersfoort, our usual spot to meet up. We come here once every two months, so the time frame was the same—with or without the move to Berlin. The conversations were as pleasant as ever; the food just as delicious. And our goodbye was no more heartfelt than usual.

But the next day, we suddenly find ourselves making the reverse trip for the first time. The visit to the Netherlands is over; we’re going home. To Berlin.

Strange.

So it really does matter where your furniture is. Where your pillow is. And it’s crazy how quickly you can get used to being somewhere else again. From now on, we’ll be visiting the Netherlands very often. So often that it’ll eventually feel completely normal again.