Every night before you head off to bed, write down with pen and paper:
Three good experiences you had during the day, and
why those good experiences happened, or
why you think these were good experiences.
You will soon find that:
This habit is easily maintained. It takes about fifteen minutes, and you can quickly get back into practice if you miss a day.
It becomes an effective way to remind yourself of all the wonderful things that happen in your life regularly. We all need reminders from time to time.
~
But what happens if I struggle to find even three good things today?
Some days are harder than others, definitely. If that is a genuine statement, then I won’t resort to a platitude (e,g, there’s always a silver lining! as the Americans like to say)or tell you to get over it. Few people actively wish for a shitty day.
But if you’ve done this exercise for a while, you can take a look back at your previous entries when you’re in a slump. Perhaps a brief visit to a past memory is all you need to keep on going.
Rotten days are rotten for a reason, and remembering three good things that happened during the day won’t change that. But over time, those rotten days become less suffocating and dominating — especially in comparison to everything else that has gone well in your life.
I like this exercise because it’s a good way to stay sane and in good spirits.
—-
My good neighbors Brian and Maja have been making this a daily conversation topic at night, and I do enjoy hearing what they have to say. I got the idea from them.
Literally it means times ago, but tijden geleden is something you would say when you reunite with someone — intentionally or not. You can say it to an old friend, an acquaintance, or even a familiar stranger. An equivalent in English would be: long time no see. And just like in English, tijden geleden suggests that you’re glad about the reunion.
“Long time no see.”
It’s my last month here in Utrecht. And just as things are starting to wrap up, I’ve been bumping into people I met only briefly throughout the year. People I’ve sat next to in lectures, people I’ve made small talk to in the elevator, and familiar strangers I meet whenever there’s a party.
The odd thing is that while we can recognize each other and remember the conversations we had, the name of the other person still escapes us.
But when they do remember your name, and you remember theirs, and when you both remember tidbits (superficial as they may be) about each other’s lives — it’s a wonderful feeling to behold. Just to think — wow, a stranger actually cared enough to listen to me and remember who I am! (And you, too, get to play a role in helping another person feel that way).
~
On the last day of my lab work, I went to the Gutenberg café in the university library. The barista recognized me from about a month ago. I recognized the barista as well, because I embarrassed myself after trying to make small talk with her in broken Dutch.
Tijden geleden, she says. I didn’t know what that meant, so she had to repeat it a few times before she eventually explained it in English. We exchange pleasantries and chat about our weekend.
I ordered a big cappuccino, but she only charged me for a small one. For a second I wondered if it was a slip of the finger.
I was cycling back from the gym when I saw bright disco lights coming out from The Basket, one of the cafes in De Uithof science campus. People usually only go there out of convenience, but this party looked quite fun from the outside.
The crowd outside was motioning towards me. They were all in suits and colorful gowns. Come inside! They said. But I’m all sweaty! I said.
Doesn’t matter. Come inside.
Sweet! A spontaneous party invitation. I’m confused and excited at the same time. But as I come closer, it becomes clear that everybody around me has baby faces, despite being as tall as I am. Turns out it’s a high school prom.
Technically we’re only a couple of years apart, but this isn’t the kind of party I’m trying to crash.
~
I want to leave, but they insist that I don’t go until I see somebody. The crowd gives way until there’s only one other person in front of me — the only other Asian-looking guy in the party.
Kijk! Jouw broer!
He took one look at me and turned away. He looked annoyed and ashamed.
So was I. I just got duped by a bunch of rowdy Dutch teenagers.
It’s 11:15 PM on a Monday night and I can hear someone playing bagpipes outside my kitchen window. Cambridgelaan is a big apartment complex — the music could be coming from anywhere.
“Who’s playing?”
Every once in a while the bagpipe player would play off-key and stop to regain composure. I really wanted to know who tonight’s musician was, and it bugged me that I didn’t.
“No clue.”
~
The bagpipes stopped about fifteen minutes later, with people craning their necks and cheering from their windows.
It’s Mom’s birthday. Dad reminded me the day before so I wouldn’t forget to wish her well.
~
“How old is your mother turning?” asked Maja, my neighbor.
It struck me that I actually don’t know. (I gave Maja a response anyway). I’ve asked Mom about her age in the past, but she says it’s rude to ask such questions.
I noticed that I’ve been more observant of the parked bicycles in the city center. I stop where I’m at if there’s a bike that remotely looks like the one I had before. Any bike that is tall, silver, and with a curved frame makes my head crane a bit. Could this be the one?
Parking lot near Utrecht Centraal, the train station. This is on a regular day.
Abandoned bikes take up valuable space in Utrecht. A few weeks ago the city government posted a notice — any bikes that appear unattended (i.e. broken, rusty, looking like crap) will be labelled with a sticker. If that sticker is not removed within fourteen days, the city will take the bike away.
Two weeks ago my bicycle went missing. I parked it in the same cage I’ve always parked it for the past nine months. Along the way, its gears started rusting apart and its brake cables became detached. Only packaging tape was holding it together. In other words, it was a deathtrap (but it was my deathtrap, dang it.)
The city must have mistaken it for an abandoned bike.
So I went to the impound in the city center. It’s not there. The supervisor told me to check out the impound in Kanaalweg, close to the university campus.
But it’s not there either.
Back in August last year, when I first got the bike. The brakes are still intact at this point.
~
Losing a bicycle is heartbreaking as a student, even if objectively speaking, your bicycle is a steaming pile of junk. In the Netherlands, everything you do, everywhere you go is by bike. You do your groceries on your bike, you go to town with your friends on your bike — you can even peel oranges and make sandwiches while on your bike.
At first I was angry.
Then I was sad.
Now I’m just shrugging my shoulders. Some international students are on their third or fourth bike for the school year. At least mine lasted for nine months.
~
So what are my options?
Buy a brand new bicycle, starting at 200+ euros.
Buy another used bicycle. During the start of the school year these can start at around 60 euros, but we’re in the middle of the last semester, so stores have raised their prices.
Go to a corner along Voorstraat or the train station, wait around a bit, and buy a bike from a junkie for about 10-15 euros.
Don’t buy another bicycle, and rely on public transport for the rest of the year. (More expensive and more restrictive than all the other options — and pretty lame in the Netherlands).
Many students at the beginning of the year will go for option #2 — buying a used bike from the store.
This changes when their bicycle gets stolen. Option #3 becomes more and more enticing, especially when people are living on a student budget. The thing is though, nearly every student who has lived in Utrecht for an extended period of time has had their bicycle stolen.
So at that rate, almost everybody will eventually go to option #3. It’s a vicious cycle.
My neighbor’s bicycle got stolen as well, around the same time as mine. Time to make another “visit” to town, he said.
“Don’t tell me that! You can do it, but don’t tell me!”
My other neighbor was not nearly as enthused. She keeps three different locks on her bicycle that her grandmother gave her.
~
Sometimes I wonder if I’ll see my bike out on the street again. It’s definitely out there somewhere.
If I do see my bike, would I be angry? Would I be amused? Both, I think.
You could say this is part of the typical “Dutch experience.” Utrecht is a quiet town in terms of crime, especially by American standards. If bike theft is the biggest thing I need to worry about, then so be it.
Bevrijdingsdag (Liberation Day) is the day after Remembrance Day in the Netherlands. The Dutch celebrate Bevrijdingsdag like the Americans celebrate the 4th of July (but with fewer fireworks — the Dutch are not allowed to blow them up until New Year’s Eve).
You can find picnics and barbecues all over the parks in town. The larger parks often have music festivals, complete with what you would expect at your typical outdoor festival — portable standing urinals (no equivalent for the ladies, which leads to resentment), fried foods and expensive beer. The Park Transwijk in Utrecht holds one such festival. Over 38,000 people were there when I went.
In Park Transwijk, near the district of Kanaleneiland in Utrecht.
It’s also one of the rare moments you’ll see Dutch flags flying from people’s homes. As proud as the Dutch people are, they only show their national pride a few times a year — and only during public holidays like this.
