My world is divided in two by noontime. I spend my morning in Manila and my afternoons in the Netherlands. 

On a regular day I’m up before the sun, having my coffee and yosi out in my backyard while working with my team. The morning rolls into day as I check on decks and supervise visuals. I graze on whatever is on the fridge for breakfast, in and out of calls, out of my body and present in the tropics.

By the afternoon, I’m back in Hilversum. I’m a time traveller spending a day in the morning and having it again by lunch. Midday is a strange respawn point. The afternoon is for biking in the Nature Preserve, reading in the swamp, and bothering the fluffy cows that dot the area.

I’m not bilingual exactly, but bi-cultural. I have to think in two languages, in two times, in two worlds. People think culture shock happens once you land. It doesn’t. It creeps in the corner and hides in the nooks and crannies of experience. It pops up like a spider when you think you are alone. 

There is a saying: going Dutch. It means everyone pays for themselves. It was an innocuous thing to which I never gave much of a thought. Then I moved here. 

That mindset of independence is everywhere. You are expected to advocate for yourself, to think for yourself, and as a consequence, you fucking feed yourself as well.

If you go to a Dutch home, you may not be fed. 

This was the thing that shocked me. In the Philippines, it’s unheard of to have a guest you don’t ply with as much food as you can. But parents don’t expect their kids to be given dinner on a playdate. They provide their own snacks sometimes. 

If you are at someone’s house, there is no extra spot at dinner. You are expected to leave before then.

This fundamental difference in how we interact changes the game completely. Keeping people company goes from having a meal (any meal) to taking a walk, exploring a new neighborhood, or doing a project. 

In the morning, I’m constantly eating with my team. When they eat, I eat, and we have coffee together. I know their favorite foods, I know their tastes. I know what they order and what to send them if we’ve had a long day. I’ve known them about as long as I’ve known the people here. 

In the afternoon, it’s time for other adventures.

I’ll say it. Dutch food is… fine. Their world doesn’t revolve around the sharing of food. The Dutch are more independent, more outdoorsy, more varied. They don’t live to eat, they eat to live.

In Holland, the streets are clean and safe, the hoeve (a wooded area 5 minutes from my house) boasts fauna and flora I dreamt of in Western fairytale books. I always thought there would be a cornucopia of glorious food to go with it.

I didn’t realize how central to my own socializing food was. I had to relearn how to “hang out” without something to munch on. I didn’t realize how “normal” it was, something that seemed obvious was fish-out-of-water odd. 

My life is in two places. I socialize in two ways. I have to remind myself of another thing that should be obvious. Their culture is different. Their “usual” is different, “normal” means nothing. The spider leaps out from the edge of my vision. Of course all of these things are true, but you don’t realize the shock has slammed into you until you’re in it.

It’s dawn in Hilversum, I’m making coffee and talking through workload with my team. They have ordered breakfast. I make my own. It’s not as good.