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It was freezing cold in there. When you went to your bedroom, you practically had to run, or else you’d freeze. Because the big, dark house had only one large tiled stove in the living room, where you could warm your feet as soon as you walked in. We were sitting there with as many as six adult couples and their children, one of whom was me.

I’ve had time to let it sink in. I’m used to the idea. I’m slowly getting used to it.

Starting January 1, I’ll be the editor-in-chief.

That means a lot of things:

Actually, yesterday was the first time I’ve ever celebrated a real, REAL St. Nicholas Eve. First of all, it was on December 5, and that doesn’t happen very often. Because the Dutch like to move their holidays to whichever day of the week is most convenient. So this one, too.

Second, I now have a 2½-year-old toddler, so this is also the first time it’s been a kids’ party.

Er staat: 2x overstappen. 3x overstappen.
Nog een keer.

2x keer overstappen. 4x overstappen.

Ik probeer een ander station. Deventer. Hengelo. Amsterdam. Bad Bentheim. Niks. Als ik na 11 december vanuit Nederland rechtstreeks naar Berlijn wil rijden, dan kan dat niet. Want mijn trein is verdwenen uit de nieuwe dienstregeling. Ik snap het niet, en probeer het een derde keer. En daarna nóg een keer.

“How many of you don’t understand a word of German?” Judith Holofernes called out to the crowd.
About seven hands went up.
Not enough to really need an interpreter.
“How many of you are actually from Amsterdam?” Three-quarters of those who raised their hands.

Because the lyrics of “Wir sind Helden” aren’t the easiest. At least, they’re rarely—if ever—found in books like *Der Übungsmeister* (I’ve seen with my own eyes that my friend J.’s textbook was called exactly that).

“Die Neunziger.” I’ve always thought that sounded better than “the ’90s.” The Dutch equivalent has a bit of a corny ring to it. And that shouldn’t be the case, because I still go under the assumption that “die Neunziger” are totally hip.

Maybe it’s a misconception of my own generation, because let’s face it: the music from that decade is downright bad. One by one, the tracks get played during “cheesy hours.” And you can barely admit that you’re actually a bit of a “happy hardcore type.” Because that just sounds so dumb.

Mijn journalistieke bestaan begon met radio. Zelfs al ver voor mijn postdoctorale studie. Al besefte ik dat pas veel later.

Op mijn eigen verjaardag ging ik vroeger met mijn knalrode radio (waar ook een klein microfoontje op zat) kleine hoorspellen opnemen met vriendjes. We bedachten miniverhaaltjes en deden ons best om een beetje te acteren (ik herinner me dat we uit het raam stonden te schreeuwen, zodat de stemmen op het kassettebandje ook echt ver weg zouden klinken. Geen idee wat ze daar zes verdiepingen lager van vonden).

Germans and risk—they don’t mix well. I’ll let you in on a secret: I’m not done writing about bicycles yet. Because safety measures are getting completely out of hand in my home country.

While browsing through my favorite bookstore (specifically, the children’s book section), I briefly consider buying a picture book about children’s modes of transportation. Trikes, tractors, scooters, and the like. On page 1, there’s a picture of a balance bike (my son Max already has one of these two-wheelers) and the sentence: “Children must always wear a helmet when riding a balance bike.”

“Berliners don’t ride bikes.” That’s more or less how you could put it. At least, that used to be the case. When I was little, I’d walk ten minutes to the S-Bahn station. I’d ride two stops, get off like a good girl, and then walk another ten minutes to my school friend J.’s house.

I could have easily covered that distance much faster by bike. But I’m only realizing that now, with my Dutch perspective. We never rode bikes in Berlin.