An American in Holland

It was a simple task: find a wrench to attach the handlebars of my new bicycle. I was one day into my move to the Netherlands, so getting a functional ride was of the utmost importance, but tools were among the 99% of my possessions I lost when I unexpectedly gave up my US residence in April. Help with a bike couldn’t be too hard to find in this cycle-loving land.

The municipal Bike Point was only for reclaiming cycles not fixing them, and the closest bike shop was closed for a month, since the Dutch love to travel and get four weeks paid vacation in which to do it. I had picked a great country, but still needed a wrench. One more option within walking distance, and I was focused on balancing the unfettered beast of a bike without handlebars when I heard them calling.

“Excuse me mister,” the two tiny voices said in polite Dutch. It was another leafy green avenue and I hadn’t paid much attention to the playground in the center. As an adult male with no children, playgrounds are as relevant to me as steakhouses are to a Hindu. But these voices, imbued by youth with both softness and insistence, were asking for my attention from the swing set.

The steakhouse is not actually a very good comparison for how I feel around playgrounds and unknown children. Eating beef threatens mere expulsion from society and eternal damnation. But the two utterly adorable little girls, maybe six years old, wanted me to twist the swing they were sharing, and who doesn’t remember that simple and inexhaustible joy from childhood?

I twisted them as best I could, saying they had to help, partially as an attempt to help teach self-reliance but also because it meant I could keep my hands visibly distant from actually touching them. I wanted to look at the surrounding windows and balconies for permission, but thought such glances might be even more suspicious.

Those concerns were overridden by their laughter once I let go and their hair streamed in the dappled sunlight, laughter exploding out of them. Then an icy thought: would their burst of laughter draw attention, bringing a protective parent and a call to the police?

Which is when I realized I had a second simple task on my hands, more important and challenging than finding a wrench. Because I am fundamentally American, and Americans are very good at worrying. I looked around the neighborhood and realized I was now in a place where kids could just run around and play, without adult supervision, the way we did when I was a kid. And I could let go of some of my American anxiety and just enjoy their laughter.

So I twisted the chains again, a little further this time, and their laughter was even louder when one of them half-fell off during the whirl (though I suspect it was intentional). I gave myself over to the simple joy of seeing young humans enjoying themselves.

Then I got the hell out of there, because let’s not push it.