I’m in a brewpub called Hopster’s for the second day in a row, during working hours (but I’m working… see?). The banners out front instruct me to “Keep Calm and Watch the World Cup Here”— two pieces of advice that I am completely ready to heed. It’s a slice of Europe in here during a match— because it’s true: the average American is only peripherally interested in the sporting event that large portions of the globe are completely fixated upon. Cynically, I think it’s because America gets disinterested in stuff it’s not predicted to win. If the US gets out of their group, we’re going to see a whole lot of front-runners.
When I wandered in here yesterday, a strong UK contingent were expressing themselves at a center table. I met an Irishman who figures he’ll root for USA, with Ireland out of the mix. One of the cool things about this establishment is that it’s less than 10 minutes (by car, Europeans) from our new apartment—where tonight we are actually going to sleep for the first time.
Wait on that: we have not slept in our own place since April 23. We have stayed with family, friends, and in a sublet, but we have not had a home since that time. I guess it’s gone as well as it could go, and we are incredibly grateful to those who hosted us—in particular to the family who has put up with us in their basement for nearly [GOOOOOOOOOOOOL!!!!!] four weeks. We love them more than a blog is equipped to express.
Sidenote: I didn’t think there were many NL fans here (aside from the bartender, who’s got his KNVB shirt on) but this place just went NUTS. If they’re not pro-Dutch, they’re at least anti-Spain.
Last weekend Tim got a U-haul and hauled to Massachusetts the items we stored when we went to Delft in 2010. Most of this had been at my grandmother’s house, and my grandmother was going to give us a dresser (ladekast). “I don’t think the dresser’s going to fit,” Tim said when he called.
“Won’t fit?” I replied. Echt?
When the truck (sans dresser) rolled up and they opened the back door, I could not believe how many boxes were jammed in that truck. I immediately reprimanded my 2010 self: What’s wrong with you? What can possibly be in those boxes that you haven’t needed in four years, yet currently need? [That part of the reprimand was anachronistic.]
I discovered the answers this week: Wedding albums. Kitchen appliances. An alarming number of CDs. Boxes and boxes of my old journals… notebooks… albums… papers. (Plus all of Tim’s: Lab books. Files. Sheet music.) I’ve tried to plow through these boxes day by day because tomorrow, the second half arrives. At a warehouse in Chelsea, Boston, our Netherlands shipment has been cleared by customs for release. If seeing our stuff from four years ago was weird, seeing the stuff from our Dutch apartment, here, is going to be equally surreal. I remember so clearly how when our American shipment showed up in Delft, the reality hit me: We live here. We’re not going home.
When we unpack those verhuisdozen and add them to the garage-worn US boxes, when we put those two halves in one home, what will they equal? I can be very sentimental, but my sentimentality for things has an expiration date. Things that I obviously felt sentimental about in 2010 (framed photos from camping trips, cards from an old birthday) now seem unimportant, in comparison to the photos from our trips to Italy, or the mementos of Delft and our home there. Something in me twinges as I can’t help but wonder: Someday will these things all seem trivial, too? What, then, can really be important?
We moved to Delft during the World Cup finals in 2010, so I know the madness unfolding in Holland right now, as the Dutch just scored for the second time against the team that defeated them that year. I Skyped earlier today with a friend on that side, and she assured me that the country was ready. Every establishment she’d seen was setting up their outdoor screen; everyone was gearing up for the match that began at 9 PM local time.
Somewhere, my friends are cheering, with the possible exception of those from Spain, who may be doing some exhorting. Hup, Holland! And on to the boxes, again.