It’s happened enough times that I’ve learned to whip through a hyper-accelerated version of the five stages of grief and to give my lost possession my blessing to go on to its next incarnation, like this was all by design.  That vintage wool cap I swiped from my mother’s closet and lost on my walk to work?  It’s off looping its way cross-country on the tire of a commercial truck and might write me a postcard once in a while. My favorite jeans left in a duffel bag on the Bolt Bus from New York City to Boston?  It’s giving a sisterhood of budget traveling some excellent pants.

Once I hurdle through those first four stages of grief, my acceptance is incredibly Zen.

A couple of weeks ago, I thought my bike had gone missing.  Not stolen, exactly, because it’s not the kind of bike that tempts anyone’s criminal instincts.  Just missing.  I use this word often—it avoids assigning blame to anyone, including myself, and feels just vaguely more hopeful and finite than saying something’s lost.  It’s not exactly mental wizardry, but it works.

But this time, while hurdling my way through the various emotional stages, I got tripped up on a new one: joy.  Not because I don’t love my bike, but because I had a reason to take a closer look at Lola Bikes and Coffee and consider investing in some splashed out wheels.  Like these:

Or these:

I discovered Lola Bikes and Coffee about two months ago, shortly after it opened up, on what turned out to be the first of many hot Den Haag summer weekends.  And maybe, just maybe, I’ve been putting my bike in precarious parking spots ever since.

Can you blame me?

The best part about getting googly-eyed while picking out my dream bike is that Lola is a pitch-perfect coffee shop.  It’s a simple but totally winning combination of two of the best things about life in Den Haag: biking and a coffee-sipping pace of life.  I’ve spent years mastering the art of clutching double-lidded to-go cups at an angle that, even while weaving the streets of downtown Manhattan, will not splash coffee on me.  And while I am pretty decent at it (success rate: 67%), it’s definitely a whole other art form to give in to the slow, seated sip.

While I still think someone should invent a coffee-drip IV that’s safe for the workplace, sipping it out at Lola is really more fun.  Because you can coffee toast with friends when you realize you’ve discovered your favorite new café.

Or browse the cool collection of books on bikes.

Or stare out into the back garden (in the works) and imagine what you’d plant in your own.

Or chat with actual bikers who’ve popped in after their long weekend cycle.

Lola takes their bikes and their coffee seriously–there’s on-site repairs on the lower floor that blends in with the rest of the shop and keeps it from having a precious or overly curated feel, and an ongoing experiment to fine-tune a cold brew coffee recipe.  But they’re not too serious about it, which gives it exactly the laid-back, neighborhood vibe I love (and miss).

For the time being, I’m afraid my love affair with Lola’s bikes is strictly for browsing.  It turns out my missing bike, the one that rattles and clangs along with each pedal (the louder it gets, the less inclined I am to diagnose the problem because love is apparently as deaf as it is blind…).  The bike that is about as vulnerable to theft as a watch I once owned and had briefly stolen but then quickly tossed back at me by a homeless street child in Brazil who realized it was so pitifully lacking in value that it was not worth the trouble.  My bike, it turns out, was just illegally parked.  And towed.  And (more easily than I had secretly hoped) retrievable for 17.50 euros.

 
When I went to pick up the missing bike, I had to furnish some rock solid evidence that the bike was mine.  I presented a photo (embarrassingly deemed as excessive proof of ownership), when all I needed was a key.  After fitting the key into the tire lock, I jangled it around (it gets stuck sometimes, ok?) and apologized for the delay to the increasingly irritated man hovering over me.  He gave a final wince down at the whole spectacle and told me he was satisfied.  This bike could not possibly belong to anyone else.  But me.

To my surprise, I felt a flush of excitement. Not the kind I will eventually get when I (one day soon!) buy a new bike from Lola, but a more comforting kind that comes with being reunited with something worn out, familiar and indisputably yours.  It’s modest retribution for the other objects that have gone missing over the years that I’ve desperately wanted back.  Like Gonga the gorilla who, circa 1980, I set down and forgot on the floor of a department store so I could use both hands to support my tip-toed reach for the water fountain.  Months later, after an unsuccessful, CSI-level search, my mother and older sister, then 9, bravely tried to console me with a shinier, pristine version and triumphant claims of a successful recovery and reconstructive surgery! (Seriously, it was so valiant I didn’t have the heart to say I saw right through them).  I tuck this story away, but it’s probably the origin of my now more practical approach to coping with the losses that come with absent-mindedness.

And it’s exactly the kind of thing I like to think about during a slow, seated sip at Lola.  While browsing for my next bike…

Lola Bikes and Coffee

Noordeinde 91
2514 GD Den Haag
Tel: 061 471 5854

www.lolabikesandcoffee.nl

Photos by Avideh and Sheila

Train travel in Europe is so easy, and there is something oh-so-very European about taking the Thalys through three countries to get from The Hague to Paris in just three and a half hours. Although it’s always good to book your ticket in advance, there can be benefits to spontaneous last-minute bookings as well, such as significant reductions in the price of a first-class (Comfort 1) ticket. And first class on the Thalys is no joke. You get free wireless internet, lots of space, peace and quiet, and a more than decent meal with wine served by a waiter who speaks at least 3 languages.

Thalys first class dinner menu

Thalys first class dinner

Everytime I go to Paris I make sure to stop by the Angelina Tearoom for their mind-bogglingly delicious famous hot chocolate. I otherwise never drink hot chocolate. Getting into Angelina’s usually entails having to wait in a queue, which I always do. And when I’m finally seated, whether I’m alone or with someone, I dive into my fantasy of living the French way of life and picture myself discussing the rise of the middle classes with Marcel Proust or the fall of the corseted female silhouette with Coco Chanel. The last time I was there, I spotted Madeleine Stowe sitting at the table in front of me. There she was, looking absolutely fantastic and not eating a thing, while her very handsome date ate a hearty breakfast. Then, before he (and I) were done eating, she abruptly put on her sunglasses and sashayed out of the café, prompting her companion to rush out after her. Love the drama. Very Last of the Mohicans.

La Maison Angelina on Rue de Rivoli

Angelina’s famous old-fashioned hot chocolate “à l’Africain”

A trip to Paris for me is also never complete without a stop by my parfumier, Francis Kurkdjian, who happens to be located just around the corner from Angelina. Then I’ll stroll over a few blocks away to the super trendy 3-story concept boutique Colette for a fashion fix and a bottle of water (their “water bar” serves more than 100 brands of bottled water).

Perfume paradise

Fashion heaven

Discovering or stumbling upon something delightfully new is also a common occurrence when in Paris — even on a day trip packed with scheduled visits to old haunts. On a trip to Paris three years ago, I discovered macarons. Yes, macarons generally speaking, not a specific kind. Believe it or not, I had never seen or tasted one. My best friend Luiza, who was living there at the time, looked at me incredulously when I met her suggestion to go to Ladurée with a blank stare of ignorance. “You don’t know Ladurée?!? I am about to change your life!” And so we trekked it to La Maison Ladurée on Les Champs Élysées, sat down at an opulent table in a Marie-Antoinette setting, and when my teeth sunk into the delicate meringue shell giving way to the chewy filling of this tiny confection shaped like a hamburger tasting of caramel au beurre salé, my world was suddenly made a better place. I exaggerate not.

Three years later, I went to Paris with my sister Linda, who hadn’t been there in about 10 years. Excited to show her around and change her life like Luiza changed mine, I informed her that we would be hitting up Ladurée. Assuming that, as my younger sister, she’d have to be at least as ignorant as I was at the time and that, as the big sister, I had to show her the ways of the world, I geared up to explain to her what Ladurée was. But before I could, she answered: “Ladurée? I prefer Pierre Hermé.” Then ensued a whole new kind of blank stare on my part, one of ignorance mixed with disbelief, followed by a quasi déjà vu moment when Linda shrieked: “You don’t know Pierre Hermé?!? Everyone knows Pierre Hermé!” How’s that for sibling rivalry?

So we made it over to one of three Pierre Hermé boutiques in the city, and after my first taste of a phantasmagoric piece of heaven (a pistachio/cinnamon/cherry flavoured macaron with a pearlescent coating that stays on your fingers to lick off after you’ve managed to keep from fainting in ecstasy), my world was suddenly made an even better place. I bought a kilo’s worth on the spot (not the best idea given my later lesson that they’re so fresh they only last 4 days in the fridge…) and we made our way over to the Seine river to sit back and indulge to our heart’s content. But not before passing by a McDonald’s and noticing that they have a vast array of macarons for sale. With Pierre Hermé in hand, we certainly didn’t feel like we were missing out, but the whoa where am I moment was unmissable just the same.

Pierre Hermé on Avenue de l’Opéra

Phantasmagoria

Indulging along the Seine

Shakespeare & Company is yet another revelation introduced to me by my dear friend Suzanne, who I went to see in Paris for just one day on an earlier occasion. In the antiquarian section of the bookstore, I snatched a limited, collector’s, first edition, signed copy (yes, all of the above) of Raymond Carver’s Where I’m Calling From. And when we managed to pry ourselves out of the shop, after what seemed like hours, we happened to stumble upon a theatrical open air reading out front of some Shakespeare play I don’t remember anymore. The whole experience was so enthralling I almost lost my religion. Good thing the Notre Dame Cathedral is right around the corner for me to find it again. Even though I’m not Catholic, and despite the hoards of tourists that are there at all times, Notre Dame de Paris never gets old. I just block out the tourists and dive into another fantasy where I’m in Les Misérables and break out into “I Dreamed A Dream” à la Susan Boyle (or these days, more like Anne Hathaway).

Shakespeare & Company, and the lovely Suzanne

Theatrical readings out front

Notre Dame Cathedral — Frontal View

Notre Dame Cathedral — Front Door

Anyway, there is simply no amount of words that can do Paris the justice it deserves, a justice that is entirely personal. It is an experience to have on one’s own, as much as possible. And if you live in The Hague, carpe diem all the way! Because you never know when you might have to leave. Like me, for instance, to Phnom Penh, where traveling to Paris can no longer be taken for granted. Whether it’s having the best cocktail you’ve had in a long, long time (I’m sorry but after living for 3 years in The Hague where proper cocktails are little more than a state of mind — but that’s for another blog post — how could I not have a Carrie Bradshaw moment at Kong?), or unexpectedly walking across a bridge fenced with locks bearing the names of those who have yet to lose faith in love (“I dreamed that love would never dieeeeeeeeeee”)…

Cocktails at Kong

Locks on a bridge

Fairy tales in Paris

Opportunities don’t make themselves available when they’re most convenient. Take them as they come. And that means, go to Paris first and every chance you get.

Photos by Sheila

But all this sensible business was getting in the way of what I fantasized about: eating unhealthy amounts of bread.  While I could always find an incredible loaf or croissant in certain New York City gourmet markets, the standalone, European-style bread bakery was much harder to find.  Most small baked goods shops were almost exclusively devoted to the cupcake craze, which, though beautiful by design, I could never embrace.  And while a discussion of favorite bagel shops could invite an emotional debate, that’s also still an entirely different category of bread.

So it was the beginning of a doughy love affair when friends of mine who hosted me in my early days in The Hague introduced me to Michel.  There’s the obvious appeal of its location on Oude Molstraat (though there are other outposts in The Hague and one in Delft), a postcard-perfect street where I can pretend I live a simple, European village life. (Stay with me! This is the daydream hard at work!).

My capable dry cleaner is just next door, and some of my favorite restaurants and pubs in Den Haag are on the same block. There’s also the fact that it’s a small storefront that, incredibly, never has much of a line (cue many memories of weekend mornings snaking through Murray’s Bagels) but also has a quickly depleted Sunday stock.   And it’s not for lack of supply.  Sometimes you just really need to get your weekend bread on.  While Albert Heijn still plays an inextricable role in my life, my weekend schedule now adheres to Michel’s.

The biggest impediment to the daydream is choosing any one thing.  Because in the daydream, I’m not indelicately pigging out.  I’m savoring a croissant, or a brioche or a pain au chocolat (I’ll invite another emotional debate by saying it’s the best in town).  In the daydream, I’m elegant.  In reality, I tend to be much less refined because I worry I won’t get there as often as I want. Despite the fact that I offer to drop off and pick up the dry cleaning.  A lot.

Just as other dining rituals involve a crucial deciding moment (“Wit or witout?” for Cheez Whiz on your Philly cheese steak, or “Which way?” for Cincinnati Skyline Chili*), I love when I order a brioche at Michel and am asked, “Avec ou sans sucre?”  Toujours sans.

Aside from the baked goods, there are quiches and croque monsieurs and jams and sweet tarts and the delirious pleasure of just being there and faking indecision to soak in the daydream.

*Always witout and no way(s) will I eat Skyline.

Michel

Oude Molstraat 17
2513 BA Den Haag
Tel: 070 415 1513

www.michelfood.nl

Photos by Avideh

– Louis Henry Sullivan (1856-1924), American architect and creator of the modern skyscraper.

I would add that it is the pervading law of all things under the sun that moving is a nightmare, especially if it involves a separation of assets. It is also the law that trying to settle on who keeps stuff like the couch, lamps, tables, chairs, cups and plates, is by definition the opposite of fun. What can be fun, though, is getting to buy new stuff like a couch, lamps, tables, chairs, cups and plates. And if you live in The Hague, edwin pelser is a great place to have that sort of fun, and Edwin Pelser is a great person to have that sort of fun with.

Edwin Pelser (the man)

edwin pelser (the store)

edwin pelser (the store) was opened in March 2009 by Edwin Pelser (the man). When I asked him why he gave the shop his own name, he answered that he couldn’t come up with anything else to call it. The store enjoys a prime location on the trendy Piet Heinstraat in Zeeheldenkwartier, one of The Hague’s most desirable neighbourhoods. I first discovered it less than a year after it had opened, and was immediately enchanted. Carrying a limited selection of mostly Dutch designed homeware, as well as some Italian and Scandinavian design, edwin pelser’s merchandise is not chosen primarily on the basis of what Edwin thinks will sell, but what Edwin considers to constitute the best in relatively affordable design today.

Everything from a weird paper lamp to an interesting piece of art to a surprisingly comfortable chair to an impossibly delicate ceramic cup/bowl/whatisthat is a joy to discover, and Edwin is always eager to explain what the whatisthat is, where it came from, who created it, and why it’s awesome. Having previously worked at the Nederlands Architectuurinstituut and at the world-renowned Design Academy Eindhoven, he knows what he’s talking about. He explains, for example, that Italian design classically prioritizes form, beauty, and aesthetic value as a matter of principle. Dutch design, however, is more conceptual, trying to tell a story through form, and places the requirement of practical use above aesthetics, thereby adhering to Sullivan’s credo that form follows function.

Gorgeous porcelain cups bowls & whatnots

Art by Arnoud Dijkstra

Super comfy/cool chair

Frontal view of a funky paper lamp

Another funky paper lamp

Hague plates

Sensing my apprehension at having to make choices with so little knowledge of what constitutes tasteful design, he insists that you have to “go for what you like”. What you wouldn’t be able to decipher walking into his store is that Edwin grew up in a home mostly filled with antiques, and to this day his home (unlike his store) still carries them, albeit mixed with contemporary design. His personal credo is that when you see a design that touches your heart, akin to a feeling like “that’s how that should have been designed!”, you go with it, and don’t question your instinct. But if you’re like me, you like to have someone do the preliminary thinking for you. I need my choices filtered down. Then, in a small shop, I can go with my gut. But only after asking Edwin what he thinks, of course. And he’s always happy to oblige with a thoughtful answer, be it in person, on the telephone, or by email.

One of the very last items I consulted Edwin about was a new couch. He sells a sofa which I love – Andersson & Voll’s Rest Sofa – but my ultimate dream couch is Hella Jongerius’s Polder sofa. Hella Jongerius is Holland’s most famous Dutch product designer. I like my Polder sofa green. Turns out, it’s Edwin’s favourite sofa too. We discovered this while sitting on the Rest Sofa in the back of his shop (which can be rented out for meetings, by the way). Not sure what his favourite colour is, though. I’d tell you if I knew. Anyway, we bonded over our shared admiration of the Polder sofa, which he doesn’t sell (only Vitra does), but which I can’t afford anyway… yet.

Back room, available to rent for meetings

What I can afford, and also love, is Hella Jongerius’s B-set dinnerware, which Edwin does sell. In fact, that (and he) is where (and who) I got my 8-piece set of plates and bowls from. Each porcelain plate and ever-so-delicate bowl is intentionally ever-so-slightly deformed from being treated in an overheated kiln, and therefore one of a kind. The porcelain and glaze recipes used are also stamped on the side of each item as a tribute to the ceramics recipe culture.

Hella Jongerius B-set dinnerware

Intentionally imperfect, consistently inconsistent, conceptually individual

I love them so much that when one of my plates broke, instead of throwing it away, I bought superglue and stitched it back together. It’s my favorite plate of all, symbolizing the mending of a broken heart, unable to be fully restored, and forever scarred, but determined to survive.

Mended plate with visible scar tissue

edwin pelser (the store) tells the story, though surely only in part, of Edwin Pelser (the man). It is a delightful story that keeps evolving. And with his help, you can buy beautiful pieces that will last you a lifetime and help shape a story, new or continued, of your own.

edwin pelser

Piet Heinstraat 123
2518 CG Den Haag
Tel: 070 360 9237

www.edwinpelser.nl

It’s disorienting to have this much daylight and beautiful weather here, so I get a bit manic about wanting to do every outdoor activity possible.  It’s like a bad case of weather-related FOMO.  And at some point, everything starts to feel like I am just hammering away at a checklist instead of letting spontaneity run the day.  But can I be just a wee bit alarmist and tell you that you only have two more weeks to visit the seasonal Japanese Garden in Clingendael Park?  I think you’ll forgive me when you get there and enjoy, even on a heavy traffic day, one of the most relaxing corners of The Hague.

I could try and fake my way through describing the elements of the gardens, but I’d rather you just go and see them for yourself.  I can tell you they’re listed as a national historical monument, that they were designed in the early 20^th century, and that they’re very pretty.  And relaxing.  And, unless you are a horticulturist, do you really insist on knowing more?  Because I’d rather not have to do the research when there’s this day, this painfully perfect day, just begging me to while it away.

Japanese Garden in Clingendael Park

Entrance via Van Alkemadelaan and Wassenaarseweg. Free admission. Sadly, no dogs allowed.
Spring hours: from April 30^th for 6 weeks, 9:00am-8:00pm daily
Fall hours: from October 15^th for 2 weeks, 10:00am-4:00pm daily

Photos by Avideh

Which is why I recommend another Dutch tradition that’s uniquely weather-proof: jenever at the Van Kleef Museum.  At once a museum that offers informally guided tasting tours, artisanal liquor shop and private venue, it’s a hidden gem of Den Haag history and the sole remaining Dutch gin distillery in a city that once boasted 14.

Jenever (also spelled genever and sometimes referred to as Dutch gin), is the precursor to English gin. Distinguished by its juniper berry flavor, it was originally popular for its perceived medicinal value but eventually, as you might have guessed, became popular as a drink.  In fact, according to one of Van Kleef’s owners, Fleur Kruyt, jenever-based drinks made up nearly 80% of the concoctions in the first published cocktail recipe book dating back to the 1860s.

I’m actually not an English gin fan myself, but I was surprised to discover just how different jenever is and the range of flavors in it.  The original oude (old) jenever dates back to the 16^th century.  It’s surprisingly smooth and its light touch of aromatic flavors make it best appreciated on its own.  When aged in wood, it bears a close resemblance to whiskey.  The recipe changed in the post-World War I era of limited resources and the prohibition era of limited transparency of alcohol consumption.  As a result, a change in distilling techniques gave rise to the more neutral-tasting jonge (young) jenever.  Less pure and potent (though still carrying the signature taste of juniper), jonge jenever is more popular as a base drink.

Van Kleef was founded in 1842 and was at one point the third largest distillery in the country.  In addition to jenever, it boasts a spectacular wall of local liquors (ranging in flavors that include lemon, walnut, speculaas, and chocolate, to name just a very few), all based on traditional recipes that make unique and fitting gifts.  One standout is bruidstranen (bride’s tears), a chai-tasting blend of cardamom, cinammon and ginger and flecked with gorgeous bits of gold symbolizing the bittersweet time of leaving the family nest.

Fleur, with mackerel straight from the barrel

The relaxed tours are often helmed by Fleur, who will generously prod you to sample more.  She also recounts Van Kleef lore with a friendly wink in her eye, like she’s heard it straight from the walls.  And you believe her when she hints that serious political deals routinely go down in the Van Kleef cellar.  While guided through the craft of production and distilling techniques, you’ll see antique relics of earlier distillery days and also slices of Den Haag history.  Tucked away in one shelf is the city’s very first telephone book (or leaflet, really, since it’s just a page), when telephones were rare enough to be the ultimate social status symbol.  The Van Kleef number at the time (simply dial “1”) is a reminder of just how central the distillery was to everyday life.  And now you can still enjoy it at home or on site at the museum (with some home-cured snacks to boot).

Back garden nibbles

So while I don’t know when I will ever make it out to see the tulips, at least I know to pack some jenever for the train ride.

Van Kleef Museum

Lange Beestenmarkt 109
2512 ED Den Haag
Tel: 070 345 2273

www.museumvankleef.nl

Photos by Avideh

For my friend Lauren, that place was Grapes & Olives, which she discovered almost a year and a half ago on her way home from work one day: “I just remember walking in, having a glass of wine and some snacks, and being really, really happy. They didn’t judge if I popped in on my own, and that’s important. It’s just a great place to wind down and decompress after the insanity of work.”

Front room

Back room

Grapes & Olives opened in October 2010 to little fanfare and went largely unnoticed in its infancy. Nowadays, it’s almost impossible to find an empty chair in there. But despite its rapid and obvious success, for its owner Joris van der Poel it remains a work in progress: “I think it needs about another year before it fully comes into its own.” I’d bet its plethora of patrons would disagree, but who are we to argue with its creator?

The genesis of Grapes & Olives began in 2007 with a trip to the Italian island of Ischia. After spending an unforgettable evening at an enoteca in a small village, drinking local wines and bonding with the owner, Joris had a light bulb moment: he would create an environment back home in The Hague where he could relive that night over again. And he felt he had no time to waste: “I couldn’t believe that I was already 33 years old without ever having experienced such an epiphany. But that night, I finally realized what my calling was, and I had no doubt that this wine bar would be a success – that’s how much I believed in it.”

Joris van der Poel

Although self-described as an Italian/Spanish/Mediterranean/Enoteca/Wine Bar/Tapas/Lunchroom, Grapes & Olives is not having an identity crisis, nor is it trying to pose as something it’s not. It’s simply aimed at offering the highest quality and most pleasant possible laid back oenophilic and culinary experience at the most affordable prices.

For the largely appetizer-sized food menu, even the simplest of ingredients are carefully chosen – from their large green Sicilian olives, to the cherry tomatoes used for their mouth-watering bruschetta pomodori, to the cold cuts for their salumi platter, down to the oh-so-fun-to-nibble-on clams that come with their delicious signature antipasti assortment dish made to share. Nothing fancy, but everything very yummy.

Giant green olives

Tomato bruschetta

Cold cuts platter

G&O signature appetizer assortment

The same goes for the wine. Grapes & Olives is not a genuine enoteca in the strict sense of providing the possibility to taste local and regional wines at a reasonable fee and to possibly also buy them. It is, in that sense, closer to a wine bar where all carefully selected wines are available for tasting by the glass (or by the bottle, if in a group). Their chosen house wine – a 2008 vintage Montepulciano d’Abruzzo by Valori – won last year’s national competition for best red house wine served at a wine bar in all of the Netherlands. And it only costs around 4 euros per glass or 20 euros per bottle.

Besides Italian wines, Grapes & Olives also serves a limited but again carefully selected variety of French and Spanish wines (their Rioja is my favorite), but no New World wines. Their choice bubbly is neither a typical prosecco, champagne, nor cava, but rather a Brut Chardonnay sparkling French wine, which really is just too good not to buy by the bottle. They also serve after dinner liqueurs such as porto or limoncello.

But perhaps the thing I like most about Grapes & Olives is their 20 to 30-something, largely male (and good-looking, I must add), waiting staff. I won’t just say that the service is good – it is. But every time I set foot in there, I get the kind of sincere welcome that’s not over the top, but nonetheless extremely warm. Sometimes you might see a dog prancing around in there. The staff will converse with you. They may even sit down with you. But mostly, they’ll just make you feel comfortable and right at home.

A night at Grapes & Olives is simply fun. It’s a place where time will stand still, where you can choose to eat your heart out or just nibble on something or nothing at all, where you can go with friends or all alone, and where you can have as many in vino veritas moments as you need to reach as many epiphanies as you want. It’s one of the few best places in The Hague where I’ve found sanctuary from what promises to be another cold and lonely night. And it’s a place where I can now send my friends contemplating a one-way-plane-ride-outta-here so that they’ll stick around, at least a little longer.

Grapes & Olives

Veenkade 1
2513 EE Den Haag
Tel: 070 346 6682

Photos by Sheila

These perspectives lead to a funny debate with myself.  If I’m not, under the Kony 2012 standard, motivated by being sad enough to care about humanity and if I’m not, under my former colleague’s standard, mad enough, then what has ever motivated me to care about anything at all?

But then I live in The Hague, a city proudly branded as one of peace and international justice.  A city that is tidy, predictable (aside from the vegetable selection at Albert Heijn) and overwhelmingly conflict-free (outside of the occasional customer service quandary).  And yet it’s also the site of several tribunals and non-governmental organizations focused on international criminal, humanitarian and human rights law and charged with the prosecution of some of the most heinous crimes against humanity.

Humanity House, a museum that opened in December 2010 and attempts to simulate and personalize the experience of someone forced to leave their home country due to a conflict or natural disaster, reminds visitors why The Hague cares about peace and justice, despite its comfortably remote distance from any war or humanitarian crisis. Founded by the European Union’s Fund for Regional Development, the City of The Hague and the Dutch Red Cross (with partner organizations that include UNICEF, UNHCR, and the International Committee for the Red Cross), the museum attempts to create a “journey of discovery” where the “unimaginable becomes imaginable.”

I went on a quiet Friday morning and had the eerily intimate experience of being the only person in any room I went into, a sign that the museum would benefit from more foot traffic (which, at €6.50 for admission, no fee for children under 12, and free passes offered to anyone who fills out an online feedback form, will hopefully develop as the museum becomes more widely known).  When you enter, you’re given a Red Cross registration card and directed through rooms from a remote and unwelcoming voice that, like a menacing Wizard of Oz, guides you through a bureaucratic maze. Aside from a curious series of dioramas you can view through small peep-holes (which did little to simulate or expose me to the real-life turmoil of a community ravaged by conflict or disaster), the museum admirably attempts to throw you into the disorienting and harsh experiences of someone forced to flee their home with little warning.  You walk through stage-like sets ranging from a dining room with a suddenly abandoned family meal and personal belongings strewn across the floor while an evacuation announcement blares on the radio to an orderly and typically gezellig Dutch living room that symbolizes comfortable resettlement in a new home country.

Several sections of the museum assault you with dissonant sounds, barking noises, dimming or erratic lights, and an abbreviated version of a border patrol interview.  Aside from the simulation exhibits, the museum also features pieces that function more as political art installations (including a Jenny Holzer-esque LED display that runs through the stairwell, flashing statistics related to humanitarian aid and the role of natural resources in creating humanitarian crises) as well as interactive tools, like touch-screen questionnaires that test your knowledge of what rules of conflict apply to a certain situation and a series of recorded stories recounting personal experiences of refugees.

While the museum is lacking in hard historical facts or political analysis of particular conflicts or relief efforts, it creates an evocative experience that casts a critical spotlight on government bureaucracy (even despite its funding sources) and the harsh reception of foreigners seeking sanctuary from their plight.  The simulations might do little to rattle anyone who’s survived war or natural disaster or anyone who’s worked with immigrants navigating the resettlement process.  On the other hand, it has the potential to reach anyone unfamiliar with the trauma of being forced to leave their home and the indignities that too often accompany the attempt to integrate into a new one.

In addition to the museum, Humanity House hosts special events, workshops, and performances, like a recent photo exhibit on mothers in wartime, an educational program for children that focuses on life in a refugee camp, and a panel discussion for Dutch non-governmental organizations interested in how to make more effective use of humanitarian aid.

Humanity House is unlikely to displace whatever currently holds the highest rank in your list of favorite cultural experiences, but it’s one of the few attempts in The Hague to shift the focus away from high profile tribunals and onto the more intimate and individualized impact of a conflict or crisis.  And while it doesn’t necessarily provoke a singular and uniform emotional response like being sad or mad, it will hopefully instill (particularly in its younger visitors) a genuine and deeper interest and commitment to humanity.

Humanity House

Prinsegracht 8
2512 GA Den Haag
Tel: 070 310 0050

www.humanityhouse.org

Photos by Avideh

As I’ve travelled over the years, I’ve discovered that a pedicure can mean different things in different places. In Montreal, it meant sitting in a vibrating chair over a calming whirlpool foot bath in an Asian salon while my feet got scrubbed down and my toenails filed and painted the colour du jour. In Arusha, there was no such pampering. Foot care meant not obsessively scratching the mosquito bites covering my ankles, and slinging my feet over my tub at home. I’d hunch over to give them a good rinse and then paint my toenails in whatever colour I had around. No frills, but at least I didn’t have to tip.

Then I moved to The Hague, and pedicures took on a whole new meaning. In my search for a new foot curator, I discovered that The Netherlands has a professional association called ProVoet which trains and certifies people to give the kind of pedicure that falls somewhere between sticking your feet in a fish tank and being treated by an orthopedic surgeon.

ProVoet specialist Ellen Hofman of Pedicure Praktijk Statenkwartier

It’s a no-nonsense, quasi-clinical kind of pedicure, where instruments akin to dental tools are used and the focus is not only on the aesthetic, but above all the health, of the foot. Don’t expect a warm foot soak in milky water infused with cinnamon and sprinkled with orchid petals before getting your feet did. Nobody needs that anyway. They treat your feet the way a dental hygienist treats your teeth. And you can be sure that their tools and instruments are sterilized after being used with a single client, unlike nail salons where the use of whirlpool foot baths or fish tanks is of questionable cleanliness, and the use of sterilizing equipment is optional.

Pedicure Tool Box

Sterilizer

Nail-filing and foot-polishing machine

Ortho-spray machine tips

A basic ProVoet pedicure involves treating the nails, removing any possible corns or calluses, and inspecting for any potentially more serious skin or structural problems. For those with healthy feet, the treatment is largely aesthetic, but also preventative. And it costs only around €30, so you really can’t go wrong. In North America, that level of attention to one’s feet could only be given by a podiatrist, which would cost much more. For those with not so healthy feet, a ProVoet pedicurist is also trained to detect any problems that might require more specialized attention, and will know whether to refer you to a podiatrist if need be.

Luckily for me, my feet are healthy, and I intend to keep them that way. Because I wear high heels regularly, I get a basic pedicure every 4 to 6 weeks. My pedicurix is Claudia Johnson, and under her expert care and supervision, I can wear my dominatrix-high heels to my heart’s content. If I am ever overdoing it with the stilettos, she can tell, and advises me to give my feet a break by wearing flats for a while. She keeps a blueprint of my feet, which she updates regularly. And she gives me tips on how to care for my feet in between visits.

Like many other ProVoet specialists, Claudia works from home and holds other specialties. Among other things, Claudia is also a reflexologist (another wonderful thing to do for your feet!), detox expert, reiki master, and hot stone massage therapist. It’s amazing the kind of things I learn about cleansing and meditation while she tends to my feet.

Claudia Johnson

Claudia's many certificates

Claudia's lovely working space

For Claudia’s website, click here. For a more comprehensive listing of pedicurists in The Hague, click here. But make sure to check that the pedicurist listed is certified with ProVoet. The profession is not a “protected” one, so people can give pedicures without necessarily being certified by ProVoet. While this doesn’t disqualify anyone from giving a proper pedicure, I personally prefer to entrust my feet to someone who trained for a year and is professionally certified. Of the many surprising things I appreciate very much about living in The Hague, this is, hands (and feet) down, one of them.

Photos by Sheila

Weather in The Hague can be fickle.  Before I’m willing to commit to what to wear for the day, especially a sunny day, I give a cock-eyed glare out the window and assess just how much I should trust what I see.  But I also don’t want to waste too much time over-thinking it, because it could all turn on a dime.  There’s something about sunny days here that sends me into fits of hopefulness and dread.  I want to squeeze every possibility out of the day, but I am already mourning when it will be over.  Every sunny day actually feels like it could be the last.  You don’t know when you’ll see this again:

For the last week, instead of flying out the door to soak up the splendor of the days, I was squirreled away at home procrastinating and doing everything but packing for my move.  It was a week of always being miserably in between productive and relaxed and never able to fully commit to one state or the other (and foolishly thinking I can’t be both at the same time).  It felt like I’d just watch the streak of beautiful weather go by, all from the view at the window.  I kept negotiating with myself, offering up an afternoon bike ride in exchange for boxing up the kitchen and engaging in other similar barters.  But neither side of me would budge and so it ended up being a drawn-out and resentful standstill with no one to blame but myself.  I totally over-thought it.

When the move was over, all I wanted to do was hop on my bike and ride out to the magical dunes of The Hague.  During my first few months living here, I made consistently unsuccessful attempts to wind my way into them.  More often than not, I’d end up on the main Scheveningen beachfront, which is crowded and surrounded by heavy concrete structures instead of the ramshackle wooden houses you expect to find on a seaside town.  The cafés and bars densely lining the beach feel like they are trying to evoke a clubby feel, but it ends up looking like the town is in the middle of an identity crisis.  For a while, before I met the dunes, I thought I could live with Scheveningen’s awkward attempt to be Miami-esque.  After all, a view of the North Sea is a view of the North Sea is a view of the North Sea.

But isn’t this view so much better?

Or these?

The only hitch to my plan was the bike part.  I have a bike, but I just don’t use it all that often.  I am a walker.  It’s how I roll.  A 40-minute walk to work is what I used to call commuting.  In The Netherlands, if you tell someone you walked more than 10 minutes, they will look at you like you just said you are homeless.  They will think you are tragic and weird, and it can give the conversation an unsettling mood until you assure them you are not homeless, you are loved and fed and clothed and sometimes you just like to walk.  They will think you live dangerously or unwisely or both.

Biking in the winter months is even more of a non-starter for me.  Too much wind and fingers freezing when I am fiddling with my lock to get the key in or out.  So before April Fool’s Day, the last time I used my bike (wait for it) was January 8^th.  I’d been to a friend’s home for brunch and double locked up my bike as I always do just around the corner from where I live.  Weeks would go by, weeks with hail and rain that I knew was damaging my handlebars.  The more abuse I knew I was subjecting my bike to without making it feel useful with a ride now and then, the more guilty I felt about neglecting it.  Like a horse I’d put out to pasture.  I knew I’d be back to it, but not until the spring.  And so this went on.  For almost three months.  April Fool’s Day.  I went out to look for my bike, hoping it was still there and that my long-awaited plans to go out to the dunes would not be thwarted.  I walked back and forth past the long row of bikes where I usually park mine.  There was one I knew had to be mine—the particularly rusted out handlebars, the faded bike chain, the same bird waste stains.  I kept walking back and forth but didn’t approach it, because the one hint that it could not possibly be mine was that it was unlocked.  The chain lock was tidily looped and locked under the seat and unattached to anything.  There were only two possible explanations, neither of which made sense: 1) I had in fact double locked my bike on January 8^th, as I always do.  Sometime after that, someone had somehow unlocked my bike and left it there.  And it was never stolen.  OR: 2) I had never double locked my bike on January 8^th, and it was left unlocked. And it was never stolen.

Neither explanation is possible.  A stolen bike is a rite of passage in The Netherlands.  It happens all the time.  It might be even be a secret residency requirement.  I tried to figure out what I’d done to be so lucky or what great stroke of unluckiness was about to befall me.  Maybe it was a consolation prize for losing my phone a few weeks ago.  Whatever the reason, by any statistical standard: sunny day + unstolen bike = greatest Dutch April Fool’s Day miracle ever.

When you do cycle out to the dunes, go to a place that my friend, when encouraging me to go, described as “the bar at the end of the world.”  But don’t be like me and Google it thinking that is actually its name.  (Its real name is ‘t Puntje).

And thank your bike for taking you there.

Photos by Avideh