Amsterdam Confessions of a Shallow Man Life in the Netherlands through the eyes of a sarcastic expat
Today’s post is a guest blog piece by the lovely Maja, who previously wrote about some of the things that Dutch guys say to people from Poland.
New Country New Dating Experiences
Moving to a new country is like starting a new relationship. At first, everything is exciting, better than anywhere else, new. But then, the time comes when the little things you used to find adorable, start pissing you off. Now imagine you do both: move to a new country AND start dating. Recipe for disaster.
Charm offensive
On my first week in the Netherlands, I was asked out on a date by a Dutchie I met when opening a bank account. I travelled all the way to Schiphol to open an ‘Expat’ bank account because that’s what one of the expat brochures I picked up told me to do. Looking back, I would not be surprised if the article had been sponsored by the very guy who wanted to go on a date with me.
I’m not sure if it was his bright blue suit or incredibly direct manner that convinced me that he was date-worthy but before you could say, “how long have you been here, when are you going back?” I’d agreed to go on a date with him.
My first date with a Dutch guy
We agreed to meet for a coffee, in the middle of the day – I was new to the city and didn’t particularly fancy being murdered in my very first week. The second week might have been ok, but not the first, so I opted for a busy but ‘gezellig’ cafe. Having read The Shallow Man’s blog, I kind of expected the worst, so I was surprised when the guy, let’s call him Dick (hey, it’s a Dutch name!), offered to pay for my coffee. I did feel slightly uncomfortable though, being Polish and not wanting to seem like I expect a man to pay for me, so I offered to get the next drink. That’s when Dick’s eyes widened and I swear I could see euro signs in his eyes. He was a banker, though, so maybe that’s just the way they are?
Dick was suddenly hungry and started ordering some fried roadkill (bitterballen), a plate of charcuterie, a few drinks and a dessert. Meanwhile, I was having a cup of tea. And then it happened. The waiter came over, said something in Dutch to my date (bla bla, rekening, bla bla, pinnen), turned to me and handed me the Pinautomaat. “That’s going to be 48,50”, he added, in English.
I was taken by surprise, not to mention proud as hell, so I paid. Only after getting home did I realise: that Dick just wanted to get a free meal, so he could save more towards his alleged million euro investments. What a dick, Dick!
And now the best part, ladies and gentlemen: he kept texting me for almost a year, wanting to meet again and again. I get it, the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach. A man has gotta eat.
My second date with a Dutch guy
A few months had passed since my first disastrous date in Amsterdam, so I was ready to give the Dutch guys another shot.
I knew better this time: for instance, while chatting on Tinder, I would ask a guy: “what’s your favourite colour?’. If he responded with ‘blue, like all my suits’ I would simply call it quits.
So I went on a few dates with this charming Dutchie, let’s call him Pim, no brown shoes in sight, and it was actually going quite well. Or so I thought. It was our third or fourth date, the sun was shining, he hadn’t made any offensive jokes about Polish bricklayers, what more could a girl want?
We then decided to have a coffee on the balcony at his place, which was nearby. While I’m not a fan of lukewarm coffee, I appreciated the effort he made with managing the Senseo coffee maker. But I didn’t appreciate what followed.
‘Koekje?’ he asked, standing on a mini-ladder in the middle of his kitchen.
‘Yeah, sure’ I said.
Pim opened what seemed to be a top secret cupboard, one that you might see in James Bond movies. He took out a large cookie jar, put his hand inside and took out exactly ONE biscuit, which he then handed to me. No plate like you’d do to a dog when they deserve a treat. He then proceeded to close the jar, put it back into the cupboard and lock the cupboard.
One cookie.
After all, these were premium Albert Heijn Marie biscuits – do you know how many points you can get on your Spaarkaart for these?!
One cookie.
Because, god forbid, I might take more than one, that would already be an investment and we were simply not at this stage.
Needless to say, I never saw him again. If this was Pim’s hospitality while trying to impress me, I couldn’t imagine him throwing a dinner party for friends. Would he have served one bitterballen per person? Then sent out a Tikkie to each guest, having monitored their food intake?
I guess I’ll never know.
Disclaimer
Before the Shallow Man is inundated with messages and comments such as “That’s the typical behaviour of Dutch guys in Amsterdam and North Holland, here in Brabant we’re all gentleman”. Or my personal favourite, “Shallow Man, my Dutchie is good to me, stray cats, children and the environment”. This post isn’t about YOU.
No cookie lovers were hurt during the writing of this guest blogpost by Maja Podlesna, @meanwhilein.places majapodlesna.com.
