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Marco and I had our first video chat tonight since he returned to the Netherlands on Sunday. It was pretty nice to see him again, although my latest haircut looked rather wild and untamed on further inspection! A short summer cut.

We talked about some fun things like planning for his probable trip back here in late September. Heck, we’re a bit behind, since we usually have the next trip all planned out before he even arrives for the current trip . . . But this one will just be a quick week, to prepare for the move. I’ll be taking over some of his luggage space too so he can start carting some of my stuff with him. And just hanging out, of course.

And then somehow the conversation switched to the first day back in the Netherlands. How some family and friends who greet us at the airport will probably come back to his — our! — apartment with us, so perhaps we can go to to the Brazilian restaurant together as a group and celebrate. Yes, celebrate. My first non-touristy day in the Netherlands!

The Brazilian restaurant is on the beach of Scheveningen and is called Rodizio (warning, sound, but great photos). They go around offering you various types of meat. If you accept, they shave it off the bone right there for you. It’s one of those places where you don’t want to eat breakfast or lunch that day – otherwise you definitely won’t have enough room.

And once you finally give up and can’t eat anymore, you can flip your coaster over so that it says ‘nee’ (no) instead of ‘ja’ (yes) so they know to stop offering you more meat. And don’t get me started on the grilled pineapple dessert (also shaved on the spot)… yum!

And you can also order a caiprinha, a Brazilian cocktail made with cachaca (similar to sugarcane rum), limes, lime juice, sugar and crushed ice cubes. It’s a great summer drink!

Who knows if we will actually go there. Doesn’t matter. Because I’ll be with my favorite Dutchies.

A few days before Valentine’s last year I was walking home from work. As I entered the driveway where I live, I saw a car pull up, but I ignored it because it is usually for the landlords. Side note: I live in someone’s house, but I have my own entrance and apartment in what conceivably could have been a large garage. However the original owners opted for an apartment instead.

A few minutes after I entered my front door there was a knock on the door. The person was there for me after all! And he was carrying a large bouquet of flowers, part of which you can see in the image below. I can honestly say it was my first bouquet of flowers for Valentine’s ever so I was quite overjoyed. And I am sure Marco was patting himself on the back for his cunning planning, since I had no clue.

Ironic Valentine's Day card within flowers

You can see the card above. Now, Marco ordered them online (being that he is normally not even in the country!). He typed in the message he wanted (Niki- ik hou van jou! or I love you), and someone else at the florist actually wrote it out in pen.

…I think it was the Dutch that threw them off, because they definitely attached the wrong card to the bouquet!  Look closely at it.

I must admit I started giggling and couldn’t stop for a long, long time. Perhaps they know Marco and they knew what I was in for? It’s definitely a Valentine’s Day gift I won’t forget anytime soon.

Growing up I had always lived in a small town. I still remember when we broke the 25,000 resident barrier, which meant that my little town had home rule (link to the Illinois constitution) and thus the town had more power and didn’t need to allow the state government to make as many decisions for it. Which may or may not be a good thing for the residents, but still.

When I decided to do my M.L.I.S. (Masters in Library and Information Science) at Rutgers University, I had to move to New Jersey in Spring of 2008. I actually visited a friend in Maryland for the Christmas holiday and secured my housing while on that trip. As luck would have it, Marco and Roger were vacationing in New York City at that time, so I moved to New Brunswick on a Sunday night and took the train into the city that Monday morning to visit them.

First time on a train alone. Eeep.

Thankfully someone helped me out with the ticket machine. I just hope I didn’t make her miss her train! I was only mildly confused when the ticket-person asked for my ticket… and then asked for it again later on. A bit frightened, I showed him my receipt and said he already took it. He left me alone after that.

I knew that Penn station was the very last stop, though I’ll admit to being a bit concerned when I heard Newark Penn Station, which sounds way too close to New York Penn Station for my liking. But I stayed on the train until the very last stop, and then followed everyone as they went upstairs.

And then promptly felt very, very lost. The place was HUGE! And Marco was nowhere to be found. I waited around for about 20 minutes, and then he finally gave me a call. Turns out he was waiting in another part of the station, as there are multiple places NJTransit trains can end up. But since I had no idea where I was and my directions weren’t helpful (how was I to know there was more than one Hudson News in the place? Turns out there was like 20!) we were sort of at an impasse.

Eventually I did the smart thing and I went up to a police officer and explained the situation. Marco knew where he was, but I had no clue where I was. I handed over my phone to the police officer and he spoke with Marco for a minute, telling Marco where he should go. After he handed me back the phone, he pointed me in a certain direction and said “go that way”. After thanking him, I did.

And after about 20 seconds of walking I saw Marco coming around the corner. Rejoice!

(Actually, the first thing I noticed was his trademark black and white checkered button shirt which I had fallen in love with, but that is a blog post for another time.)

After much hugging and relief to see a familiar face, we went to his hotel (the New Yorker) and talked for like 10 minutes in the lobby before moving upstairs. This was because I had never met Roger before, and the poor guy hadn’t even known I existed until a month prior when Marco broke the news that an American girl would be spending a few days with them in NYC. But it all worked out.

Best of all, the delay meant that when we went to pick up McDonald’s for breakfast, we were late enough that the menu switched over from breakfast to lunch while we were standing there wondering what to get. Score! (For me, anyway. They happen to like breakfast food.)

And that was how I spent my first two hours in NYC. Crazy times.

One of the random things in Marco’s apartment is a rather large dry erase board in his kitchen on the wall (like four feet by three feet or similar). Eventually I started writing little messages on it, including “ILYM”, or I love you Marco, a day or two before I had to leave to go back to the States. I put a restaurant menu over it so he wouldn’t see it right away, and then hinted about it on MSN some days after I returned home.

Aww. A message from Marco.

During my second trip I decided to write down the day I arrived, as shown above. And then in the third trip (exactly 8 months later) I did the same.

And then last month Marco surprised me with this picture of what he had written underneath…

Awww.