There is, as my work-colleague, Paul, commented, “something indefinably… foreign about Holland”.
He’s right about most things, and he’s right about this. It’s undeniable, and it’s part of the charming enigma of the Dutch. It’s only because they are so similar to us in almost every other way that the difference between us is so distinct. But what is that difference?
I thought I might have a reasonable chance of coming up with some answers this evening as I sped half-naked through a darkened suburb of Amsterdam. It probably isn’t really a suburb, but as Bussum is only about half an hour on the train from Schiphol Airport and the city centre, on the road to Utrecht, I think of it like that. If it’s less than an hour from the centre of the capital, it must be a suburb. Sorry – that’s the Londoner in me. The hotel website doesn’t shed much further light on the matter, noting only that Bussum is “located among the heather fields of het Gooi”. No idea what this means.
My four colleagues have gone to enjoy the reddish glow of Amsterdam while I stayed here to run. Bussum isn’t quite as comforting and as cosy as the name may suggest, but it’s pleasant enough. Typically Dutch: civilised and nicely swept. I ran 4½ miles around the perimeter of the town, past the Argentinian and Indonesian restaurants – and past McDonalds too, it should be said. Out the other end and into a neat residential area with its festive, illuminated shrubbery and bay windows festooned with seasonal tinsel. Then it was round some sort of small lake from which I think I could hear some exotic seabird crying out in a markedly Dutch accent.
Then back again, this time round the other edge of the town, through a small industrial estate, and across an open green area back towards the homely glow of the hotel. The lights were a welcome sight, and as I plodded gleefully through the park, I passed a bench on which a craggy old man sat, smoking a pipe. As I approached, he called out to me, and held out his hand. “I don’t understand Dutch”, I panted, “Even if I did, I’ve no money on me.” He laughed, evidently enjoying the joke. “That’s OK!”, he called back at me, “It’s Christmas! I’m feeling generous to you!”
And there it was. The difference between the Dutch and the Brits. In Holland, even the tramps can make intellectually challenging witticisms in a variety of foreign languages. Ours just gouge your eyes out.
I didn’t envy him his domicile. It was a black and freezing night. Literally freezing. Minus 4 degrees. A grand night for running though. As I’d left the hotel, my workmates were in the bar, enjoying a pre-jaunt glass or two of something warming. They underwent a vicarious, communal wince at the sight of my bare legs. (At least, I think that’s what it was.)
It’s the old story. Being felt sorry for, when I’m the fortunate one.
Great run. Grinning all the way.
