For Saint Nicholas I was in awe
When I still believed
(PORTUGUÊS) (NEDERLANDS)
For years we have let St Nicholas' birthday pass in silence. No more sharp poems, surprises and presents just the memory of the old days when we still celebrated this feast.
Those were hilarious evenings with my father's Dutch family, without exception. Those Steuren and their entourage could really kick ass. Partying, rolling on the floor with laughter, making fun of each other and arguing.
Here in God's backyard in the Alto Alentejo, no Portuguese knows this Dutch celebration of 5 December and normally all other holidays also pass by quietly. Even Christmas is not celebrated commercially. Apart from the new small illuminated advertisement with Boas Festas ( happy holidays) on the equally small roundabout in front of the arena of Santo António das Areias, there is little sign of the money-consuming festival. And I love that. In the big city, yes there is shopping fever and I rarely go there around the holidays.
I was in awe of St Nicholas. When I still believed. Although in my childhood I always lived in foreign countries with my parents and sister - in a different place every year - we sometimes celebrated Sinterklaas at a Dutch embassy. If it was nearby. If we lived in a remote village near my father's drilling site - my parents liked that so they could see each other more often - we would set a shoe and I would faithfully sing all Sinterklaas songs with Patricia at the so-called chimney of our house without a plumbing system, after we had behaved as neatly as possible in the weeks leading up to the big day. The year before, I had received a bag of salt in my shoe instead of a present. The shock was immense. So you can understand that every year after that I was on my toes and singing at the top of my lungs because that was not going to happen to me a second time.
Later (1958) we lived in Istanbul where, of course, there was an embassy and other Dutch families with children. Not that I cared whether I played with Sükran and Harika in the sandy streets of Lüleburgaz or with Bert and Carol on the tarmac of the Yesilyurt villa-area near Istanbul. After all, playing in the streets has the same mores and fun all over the world. We never went to school - we were homeschooled by my mother - and learning a new language including Turkish in the streets was a breeze for Patricia and me.
I well remember that morning we were getting ready to leave for the embassy when my mother snuck through the house with something under her dress. I saw her. She ordered me to my room. I didn't understand what was going on. I was already so nervous and now I had to sit in my room. Patricia came in a little later and whispered very secretively that she had to tell me something and I was not allowed to say that she had told me. I felt quite insulted by my mother and was angry. Nevertheless, I listened to my big sister. She told me in a single sentence that St Nicholas was not real and that the presents came from our parents. As if it was the most normal thing in the world. I was dumbfounded and well, I did now better understand what my mother was transporting under her dress and why she had sent me away.
Now when I look at this photo showing me shaking hands with St Nicholas less than two hours after the unveiling, I can still see some doubt as to whether my sister's story was true because I am still keeping a safe distance from the good saint when only a few years earlier I was unsuspectingly sitting on his lap.