culture shock, sorta...?

As an anthropologist, preparing to leave to do research in the mysterious 'field' (however configured), you expect to encounter a certain level culture shock. It's an experience that is kind of part of the whole rite of passage thing in becoming a 'real anthropologist'. Every methods class or section of a sociocultural anthropology course dealing with methods since undergrad devotes at least a little bit of time to telling you what to expect: namely the adjustment to the unexpected.

In coming to do research in the Netherlands, in the very cosmopolitan city of Amsterdam, I really don't think I've experienced the gut-wrenching pangs of culture shock that illustrate chapters in texts on methods. Getting used to trains actually running on time and not costing a fortune (that's right, I'm looking at you Via Rail), mayo on fries (and many, many other things), bikes ruling the roads here, or the fact that it's acceptable to put chocolate sprinkles on bread and call it breakfast (I am so not lying!) somehow didn't really take all that much getting used to... Okay, yes, even while there have been a few aspects of living more or less immersed in Dutch culture that I have found jarring to my North American sensibilities (remember all those posts about Zwarte Piet?), I really don't think that I can say I've experienced anywhere near the same levels of culture shock that most anthropologists expect or seem to.

Well, except when it comes to trying to scale the sheer cliff-face of Dutch bureaucracy.

So, I kind of knew before I left Canada that the Dutch have a fairly extensive bureaucratic process. (One of the only things the Dutch really seem to have retained from the brief time they were under French Napoleonic rule was this penchant for rules and regulations.) Talking to a colleague at the University of Toronto over coffees before I left Toronto kind of gave me a sense of what to expect on this front. This woman had done her own (brilliant) research on the Dutch inburgering process a few years before me, and had actually lived in the Netherlands for nearly a decade prior to that. Put bluntly, she knew what she was talking about, which included files that the Dutch government (from municipal to federal scales) has on each and every Dutch person, detailing the minutiae of their lives: where they were born, the names and birthplaces of their parents, every address where the person has lived, gender, citizenship status, marriage status, ethnicity, etc. (The detailed efficiency of these well-kept files are actually the reason that so many Dutch Jews went to their deaths in concentration camps during the German occupation.) In Canada, the most official documents tracking a person's life seem to have to do with taxes. We really don't have anything that comes close to matching the level of detail the Netherlands keeps on its inhabitants.

Keeping these things in mind, I think I have done pretty well for myself in preparing for this aspect of 'going native' and for navigating the bureaucratic maze since living here.

In applying for my visa, I got my first taste of the system. I was required to submit the 'long form' of my birth certificate, along with all the other usual documents. The 'long form' birth certificate isn't usually issued in Canada, as far as I can tell, and so I had to order it special. (And then, I had to get it authenticated by the federal government, since apparently a birth certificate issued by a Canadian province isn't authentic enough.) Since moving here, I have had to register my address with the city of Amsterdam. On the information sheet for my visa, it clearly indicates that you should register your address within 8 days of arrival in the country. Everyone is supposed to do this (it goes in your file), but finding a room for rent that allowed me to do this was a bit difficult at first, since not all advertised rentals will allow you to register with the city (which is, technically, illegal). Understandably, I found this pretty stressful, since I was still looking for a place to live two weeks after my arrival. (I actually seem to have found a place in record time, so really should not be complaining about this at all. Plus, my place and my flatmates are awesome.) Really, most of the frustration with government bureaucracy here has actually had more to do with being sent to the wrong building (or the right building, but without the right documents) and having to haul ass across the city to get to the right building before it closed. In fact, government bureaucracy has been surprisingly easy to deal with.

The banks, on the other hand, continue to be the bane of my existence, and the major source of shocking cultural practices for me. Then again, is it still considered culture shock if you feel jaw-dropping surprise simultaneously coupled with a feeling of "Why am I not surprised...?" (This is really the unique feeling that has defined a number of important moments for me since arriving in the low countries.)

Money works differently here than in Canada. Here, you need a Dutch bank account for just about everything. Yes, you can get by paying for things through cash, or the occasional credit card transaction - as I have been doing for the past 4 months - but it sure ain't easy! There are certain transactions that really require a Dutch bank account because the culture around these transactions has made cash inconvenient, or even impossible. For instance:

• Paying rent is done via wire transfers (not common in my experience in Canada). My personal cheques are useless and archaic here. Unlike my Dutch flatmates, who transfer their rent money into the house account from the warmth and convenience of our kitchen, I need to walk my wad of rent money down to the bank each month and put it in a strange ATM that puts it on the account for the house. It's pretty weird.
  
• Paying to park your car on the street almost always requires a Dutch pin-card at the automatic ticket machine. I don't have a car, but one of my friends who recently moved here does. Since neither of us had a pin, she ended up asking a stranger on the street if he would pay for the ticket and allow her to give him the cash. Happily, he obliged. (Yay for helpful people!)
  
• Discount memberships to the cinema (the kind that allow you to see an unlimited number of films) require you to have a Dutch account so that they can debit it for 18 Euros/ month. (Perhaps a blessing in disguise as far as my research goes, but still annoying.)
  
• Train tickets are easily purchased at the many automatic machines if you have a pin, but require you to wait in an often long line at the service desk (and get charged an extra 50 euro-cents for your troubles) if you want to pay in cash. While the human interaction is nice, and I have gotten pretty good at asking for a single-way or a day return ticket in Dutch, sometimes the worry over missing your train because of the long line isn't quite worth it.
  
• And, today's particular complaint... You can't get a voordeelurenabonnement (a discount card for the train that gives you 40% savings all year if you travel after 9am), unless you have a Dutch bank account. It is simply not possible to pay for this potentially one-time transaction (you can, of course, have your kortingkaart conveniently renewed automatically on an annual basis) in cash, or in gold bars, or in first-born children, or any other way than through a direct debit of your Dutch bank account.
  

And, the thing is that I can't seem to get a Dutch bank account!

I remember the day when, at about age 12, my mother took my younger brother and sister and I down to the bank to open up savings accounts, a life lesson in learning how to deal with money. Not that I had a lot of money to put in the account at age 12, but the bank gave me one nonetheless. Now, at age 27, I actually have money (perhaps a surprising amount for a grad student, but not necessarily 25,000 Euros worth) and I have can't find a Dutch bank that will let me put it in an account!

The first time I went to a Dutch bank I was told that I couldn't open an account because I didn't have a Sofi-nummer (a Dutch social security number). "Fair enough," I thought. "I will just wait the until I get one, which will happen after I (get a place to live and) register my address with the city."

A couple months later - after the slow churn of bureaucratic cogs and the slow realization on my part that Sofi-nummer is slang for burgerservicenummer (which held me up an extra two weeks) - I marched on down to the bank again proudly wielding my passport and new Sofi-nummer.

This second time, however, I was told that no, I still couldn't have a bank account because I didn't have either a Dutch university-contract or a work-contract... or, barring that, 25,000 Euros to immediately deposit. I think my jaw literally dropped as the Dutch man behind the bank counter wryly smiled and told me this. I have to admit that I left the bank more than a little dejected, and slightly (or a little more than slightly) cursing the Dutch for their cultural proclivities regarding everyday economics.

At the time, it seemed a little bit foolish to get a job for the sole purpose of getting a work-contract so I could open a bank account here. Now, though, after today's voordeelurenabonnement disaster, and after tallying up the points (and not even all of them), it's seeming a little less silly. But maybe that's just me, becoming a little more acculturated to the frugal Dutch cultural climate...?