Re-Living The Netherlands

Holland. The Netherlands.

Koninkrijk der Nederlanden. Ten years ago, I might have been able to tell you what that read, because my parents claimed that I could speak Dutch as a 5 year old. Now, I wouldn't be able to recite a single word, but I can still remember snippets of the two years that we lived there. I can still remember the day of my 4th birthday, when my parents brought cake into my preschool class. I can still remember the playground with the red rope tower, the beach that was a drive away.

My dad tells me stories of my antics as a toddler, like the time that I spilled Nutella on the floor and covered the stain with a slice of bread—as if that would prevent me getting in trouble. He tells me that I used to try to feed fried rice to the door latch, because “it was hungry too.” Even though I was way too young to remember, the moments still play out in my head. Maybe I imagined the scenes so vividly that it feels like I lived through them myself. Maybe my recollection of the Netherlands is really just pieced-together memories of my parents' retellings, those two years blurred together into a jumble of stories.

I wish that I could go back and untangle all the moments, witness the stories firsthand and see them through my eyes instead of those of my parents. I would experience all the things that I was never told and capture all the moments I missed out on by forgetting. I would store in my mind the white sands, the afternoons that my mom biked me home, the smiles of my parents 10 years younger, the feeling of what it was like to not know anything yet.

Yet, by doing so, I would also remember the mundane parts; I would remember the breakfasts, the dinners, the bedtimes, the mornings. The tooth brushings and the plant waterings. While special in their own unassuming way, they would drown out the special moments and wash away their shine. They would reveal an almost-fairy tale as real life.

They say we see the past through rose-colored glasses. Maybe it’s better that I can’t remember everything, because in my mind, the Netherlands is always going to be that rosy haze of the place I grew up. Maybe it’s better that I don’t know all the details, because the simplicity of my memories are what make it so special. My memory of the place has become an intangible feeling rather than a recording of the days. It’s a collection of what little I recall of my early childhood, but more than that, it is a passed-down story by my parents of our life there.

My mom says that those two years we spent in the Netherlands was one of the happiest times of her life. She says that Groningen—the city we lived in—was gorgeous, that everything was so peaceful, that the people there were so welcoming. I used to ask why we didn’t just stay there then, if it was so perfect, and a part of me wished that we really had. If we had stayed, maybe we would be happier now. I would still know how to speak Dutch, and I would be able to tell you that “Koninkrijk der Nederlanden” means “Kingdom of the Netherlands” without clicking through Google Translate. But you’ve probably already guessed that I wouldn’t choose to go back now, and I would never choose to have stayed there, because that would mean losing everything I know. I’m a nostalgic, but the realist in me would never trade away the things I’m experiencing, the people that I’m getting to know, and the world that I’m living through right now—all for a “maybe.”