by Nicole

I am surrounded by giants in matching outfits. The crowd has stopped moving again, and I can’t see where I am. All I want to do is get from one side of the town square to the other, a 30 second walk. But today it’s a 20 minute shuffle, with the added danger of beer cups being passed above my head. Across town, family-style street-based traditions, such as flea markets, are packing up after a long day of selling treasures. People who aren’t moving about are watching the end of the day’s football on television. The Queen is sitting down to dinner after being treated to a meet-and-greet in a provincial town.

I was new to the Netherlands. I had perused the provided literature on the Dutch: they like to eat cheese, they’re very tall, they cycle everywhere. Their national day is a well-celebrated affair at the end of April. Although it’s officially the celebration of the birthday of the Queen, it’s not her real birthday. On accession, she decided that the current day in April, her mother’s birthday, was preferable to her real birthday in January. As the celebrations involve outside activities, it was a good idea to leave it as is. The books however were cagey on what to expect: something about flea markets and street parties and people wearing orange.

I don’t own anything orange. It’s not my colour. I’m more into blue and black. I’m not buying anything orange to wear just for one day. I don’t even know where to buy a backpack to use for exploring this new continent, let alone something orange. If I don’t turn up in right colour though, it’s clear that I’m an outsider. If I do, then I run the risk of gatecrashing the day. Are we allowed to participate without allegiance to the Queen? Her Majesty is not my queen, my residence permit is temporary. Can they test me on my Dutchness? At almost six foot I can blend in heightwise, but haven’t ridden a bicycle since I was a teenager. Cheese is not my most favourite food either. Will they ask me to pronounce long Dutch words with lots of consonants?

Eventually I arrive at the other side of the main square, through the sea of orange hats and leis and shirts. The electro-rock band currently on stage makes minimal use of lyrics, so thankfully singing along isn’t expected, however tooting against the beat on a plastic trumpet is. To blend in, I need a beer. This requires knowledge of fluid mechanics, crowd modelling, accounting, and circus skills: make way through the crowd to the nearest tent, hold up the right number of fingers, exchange money for beer(s), and transport beer(s) back to the original location. Someone in orange lederhosen catches my eye, watching me work out the optimal route. Waah-waah-waaah-waah. Sorry, I don’t understand. Oh, English? Kinda, although I suppose it’s obvious: the blue shirt and jeans are a giveaway. No, no, doesn’t matter. Would you like a beer? A cup of Bavaria is proffered from a plastic tray.

By the end of the night, everyone has forgotten the day’s purpose. The standard songs, whose popularity is confined to those with the language skill and the plastic trumpets, have kicked in and there’s beer flying as people dance about. In order of importance, football matches were decided, the Queen was entertained, and the clouds found another non-holidaying country to pester. Beer no longer needed has found a new consumer. Goods no longer wanted have found a new home. Whether I’ve found a new home is debatable. I wasn’t forced to assimilate by eating cheese or pronouncing Scheveningen, but orange is still not my style.