Author: Peyton Gibson

I have lived in 18 different places over the course of 28 years. As a child, I moved from military base to military base. As an adult, I’ve continued moving from city to city, culminating in a nomadic life that has shaped my life in countless ways. As a result, several people have asked me to write about my experience as a military “brat,” a term used to describe children of parents who serve in the armed forces. Although almost 5% of Americans are military brats, many people may not have known one or perhaps didn’t realize they knew one. My perspective may be different from what many are familiar with.

I could write several books of short stories about our meth-making neighbors on-base in Oklahoma (they were arrested), the multiple cross-country move-road trip horror stories (in the days MapQuest and before Google Reviews could help suss out roadside motels), or when my parents took TriCare, the active duty military health insurance organization, to court (and won). Overall, my “experience as an Army brat” is my life story that goes far beyond my first 17 (when I started college) or 26 (when my military ID expired) years. It has shaped my subsequent adulthood decisions about my future career (should I go into public service?) and everyday conversations (where are you really from?). 

The problem is, this is not a straightforward story; my experiences as a military brat differ vastly from those of other military brats. Indeed, the experience of being a military brat is not a monolith. We can belong to any branch of the armed forces – Navy, Marine, Air Force, Coast Guard, or, like me, Army.  Some brats moved every year, while others only knew of one home. Some of us only had one parent in the military, while others had both. Some brats missed out on important moments with our parents because of deployments, while others’ parents never saw foreign soil. Some of our parents never came home, or maybe they came home with different people. Some of us have parents who used military benefits to pursue higher education – perhaps even law or medical school – while others climbed the ranks with a high school degree. Some military brats have hardly seen the inside of a base, while others grow up barely seeing the world outside of one. Even our parents all do or did wildly different things– the military is a society within itself, with doctors and nurses, janitors, lawyers, policemen, and administrative workers.

To better understand military brat life, we’ve got to start somewhere. So, let’s begin with the questions I’ve been plagued with my entire life – the ones I know you’re most curious about and the conservations that tend to follow. I’ll break them into a series so as not to overwhelm, with the first one focusing on the question I get asked the most: “Where is home?”.

Part 1: Defining Home on the Move

Where are you from? 

I am from the U.S., and I identify as American, no matter how offensive that may be to other Western-Hemisphereans.

No, I mean… Where are you really from? 

I do not consider myself “from” a particular state or town. I lived the longest in North Carolina and Colorado, at 3.5 years and 5.5 years, respectively, but both of those stretches were interrupted by residences in different states in between. My parents and sister now live in the Denver metro area, where I went to university and spent a bit of my early 20s in, so I’ll now claim it as “home” when an asker can’t believe I don’t feel such affinity to any specific location.

I have “moved” a total of 26 times. I have lived in 14 U.S. states plus the District of Columbia. I’ve lived in Virginia, North Carolina, and Colorado more than once. I moved twice within four locations (Oklahoma, North Carolina, Washington, D.C., and Amsterdam) and four or five times within the Denver Metro area. I’ve completed two cross-Atlantic moves– once with my parents to Rome and once alone to Amsterdam. Hopefully, that adds up to 26, but even I still find it hard to keep track.

So then… is there anywhere you feel most at home? 

If I say I’m going “home” to the U.S. in casual conversation, this could also include some places where my friends or family reside – home is where the heart is, right? For instance, I could be referring to Chicago, where three of my closest friends and non-blood related aunt and uncle live, Michigan, my parents’ birthplace and home to my maternal grandmother and extended family, although I have never lived there. I could also be going “home” to Portland, Oregon, a place I’ve also never lived but where my maternal aunt’s family is, or wherever Emma McCauley, my youngest (but non-blood related) sister, and longest-time friend, lives (currently Charleston, South Carolina).

Where was your favorite place to live? 

When someone asks me about my favorite place to live, I usually tell them the city I currently reside in. Since I am now an adult, I’ve consciously decided to live here, wherever “here” may be at any given moment. So, at the moment, the answer is Amsterdam, but in the past, it has also been Denver, D.C., and Philadelphia. There is the caveat of my time spent in Minneapolis –  I apologize to the Land of 10,000 Lakers, as it is a beautiful state with lovely people. Still, I had a difficult time there due to personal and career-related issues.

This sentiment might change in the future, especially as my parents grow older or I have a family of my own, and the decision to live or move wherever is no longer mine alone. For now, I am happy to be where I am and choose to be.

But putting formalities aside, what places did you like to live most?

The bases my father was stationed at are not places you would willingly want to live. We never went to Germany or Korea, although my parents and sister did get to go to Rome without me. Lawton, Oklahoma (my residence from ages 4 to 6) is a fairly abysmal middle-of-nowhere place, crawling with creepy scorpions and pesky armadillos with little to do. Rapper J. Cole has lengthily documented Fayetteville, North Carolina, as the “super hood” and “Fayettenam,” which comes close to my experiences (from age 12-14 and 15-17). 

I’m not sure if Arizona was my favorite place then, as I was surely distressed when we first moved about being ripped away from my friends in Georgia. Still, I think Ft. Huachuca, AZ comes out on top of my childhood homes. Admittedly, It is not particularly a place I would ever return to live as an adult; 20 miles from the Mexican border in desert mountains and an hour and a half from the nearest department store, Ft. Huachuca is much too remote for the metropolitan life I enjoy these days. But it was naturally beautiful and culturally diverse. It was also a military bubble, isolated from outsiders – one of the few times I could enjoy the company of other children. I knew I wouldn’t disappoint when I told them we would be moving. 

How have all the moves affected you?

“Roots” and “stability” are two concepts I’ve been struggling with in therapy since I started recognizing my restlessness problem in my early twenties. I recognize this feeling is not mutually exclusive to military brats. As I near 30, I still long desperately for a place to call my one true home but often feel no closer to finding it and may accept that I might never.

The summer before my senior year of college, my sister, parents, and I were finally reunited and living within an hour of each other after being separated by the Atlantic Ocean for the previous three years. My sister was at the same university as me in Golden, Colorado. My dad had been stationed at Peterson Air Force Base in Colorado Springs. He was set to retire and move closer to us in the Denver Metro area to work for the federal government after I graduated. Right when our family was about to be reunited, the “itch” took me away again.

When I started looking for my first job out of college, there was no question in my mind that I would leave the state. Despite my love for Colorado and my family and friends residing there, I always felt I would “have to” leave the state. The check-out time of this hotel had come; it was time to move on, like I’d always done.

How has relocating as an adult differed from your childhood experiences of moving?

As it turns out, starting over as an adult, even in your early 20s, is much more difficult than starting over as a child. I learned this the hard way during my 10 months in Minneapolis. Finding community when you’re living alone and working long hours can be extremely difficult—coworkers aren’t the same built-in friends that schoolmates are. I ran back to Denver with my tail between my legs, counting my blessings on the friends I already had there. 

In February 2020, I decided to try my luck again in Washington, D.C., after accepting a very exciting job offer. I had a plan – what sports and associations to get involved in to meet people, and I’d live with social roommates that I could hang out with. Unfortunately, a little worldwide pandemic quickly pulled the plug on my plans.

I’ve been in Amsterdam since summer 2021, and although I treasure the time I’ve spent here, it’s been a challenge in its own right. Although I’ve navigated American southern, midwestern, northeastern, and Western cultures, the culture shock and barriers in coordinating a group of Dutch, Italians, Chinese, and Brazilians are incomparable. Every time someone tells me our dinner reservation is for 8 p.m., I still die a little inside.

However, Amsterdam is an incredibly social and open city. Thousands of other expats here are also looking for friends and community, trying to make this country feel a little more like home. In that way, it feels a little like living on a military base with other transients. On that same note, it makes it quite difficult to ever really feel at home. There’s a sense that many will float back to their countries of origin one day, so Dutch folks tend not to get so close to outsiders for that reason (which was something I experienced in my non-military schooling at times). The international atmosphere sometimes makes it feel like I don’t even live in the Netherlands. 

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As I’ve gotten older, I’ve come to appreciate the positives my upbringing brought me– many of my friends in college had never left their home state of Colorado (although it is a fine state to never have left), let alone the country growing up. Every other year, I’ve been surrounded by new and different people from different socio-economic, racial, and cultural backgrounds. Although I’ve never had a long-lasting experience of community, I’ve learned to craft my own wherever I go. 

I’ve doubted myself and my new place in society with every move. In North Carolina, I didn’t have a feminine enough sense of style; in Colorado, I felt too Type A; in D.C., I wasn’t Type A enough. For my first two years in the Netherlands, I constantly questioned whether the language barriers and American stereotypes were too big to overcome. I’ve pined for “home” at each new location, daydreaming of greener, more familiar pastures. 

But, as they say, “Wherever you go, there you are,” slowly but surely, I’m learning that no place is better or worse than the other. People are also people; there are kind, loving, anxious, depressed, rude, and awful ones everywhere. This is particularly true of modern dating, which, if my other single friends scattered across the globe are a good indication, is “miserable” in every city. How I’ve experienced a place completely depends on my values, priorities, opportunities, and life stage at the time. `

In Part 2 of “Peyton’s Army Brat FAQ,” I’ll get a little more into the nitty-gritty of the military’s role in our family’s moves and my upbringing. What does one even “do” in the military? How has my family been affected by war? Did I grow up with an arsenal in my basement? Stay tuned for all that and more, and feel free to send any other questions you may want answered to thoughtshub2021@gmail.com.

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About the author

_{Blog writer Peyton moved to the Netherlands in 2021 to pursue a master in Spatial & Urban Economics at the VU. Since then, she’s continued her work in the built environment industry– she was previously in Washington, D.C. supporting policy work on climate resilience and urban sustainability. As a former military brat with no real hometown back in the U.S., she decided to give the Netherlands a go at becoming her new home. In her free time, Peyton enjoys hanging out with her triathlon club (but cycling is her favourite), reading, writing, learning Dutch, and spending time enjoying good food and company with friends. She is also an urban enthusiast– passionate about understanding the vibrant ballet of life on city streets and the heartbeats of community identity. Peyton will be writing blogs every other month.}

_{For more information about the Young Adams Institute, check out https://www.john-adams.nl/.}

On any given week in Amsterdam, I spend at least seven or eight hours on a bike.  About four to five of these hours are for leisure, out on my prized race bike, a brand new beetle green Cannondale. Road cycling is a hobby I have long been interested in. I finally picked up the hobby last summer with the help of my local triathlon club. The other two or three are spent commuting on my city bike. These quick rides, whether it’s an eight-minute journey to my gym/co-working space in the morning, twelve to Dutch class on Monday evenings, or nine to my friend’s house for dinner, often bring me as much joy as my long weekend ones. From my saddle, I am the prima in the daily ballet of city life.

Growing up on various rural American military bases and suburban subdivisions, my relationship with cycling wasn’t always so ingrained. When I was sixteen, my parents helped me buy my first car solely to help run errands. At first, I was excited by the freedom. I had a tenuous sense of liberation. After a year or so, I realized that their gift to me was more beneficial to them. With my driving in the mix, there was no more ferrying us to school at the crack of dawn through 25 minutes of traffic and red light and no more three-hour round-trip drives to basketball games in the middle of nowhere on Thursday nights. 

Golden, Colorado

When I entered college at seventeen, tired of the responsibility of the driver’s seat, I acquired a student transit pass. Within my first week in Colorado, I figured out how to take regional transit into Denver. There, I wandered down an empty city street to spend my hard-earned summer job and graduation money on the nicest used bike I could find. The bike I bought home with me on the light rail was by far the most expensive thing I had ever bought. The entire way home I imagined all the adventures it could take me on.

As freshman year rolled by, my bike saw daylight only once. The petite, hilly campus didn’t warrant a bike, and the surrounding areas were better explored by car. When I moved into a sorority house from the dorms, I brought my bike out of storage and locked it at the back entrance. A few months later, I noticed the bike rack empty again. The most expensive thing I owned, gone! I had barely even ridden it!

Minneapolis, MN

I put my cycling dreams on hold, vowing that I would pursue them again after I’d graduated, gotten a job, and moved to a real city with painted green bike lanes. My opportunity to get on two wheels again came when I moved to Minneapolis in the summer of my twenty-first year. I found myself leaving another used bike store, this time with a modest, dull gold city bike with slimmer tires than my first.

The Midtown Greenway, once a railroad corridor, now a multi-use path, became my route to work. As summer gave way to fall, I frequented the on-road bike lanes and leafy scenic trails, reducing my car usage by almost 60%. Fall slowly turned to winter. Each morning I burst with pride as I figured out how to layer my clothes and fit my belongings into my bike bags to shower at the office after a sweaty 30-minute ride. I reveled in the quiet, dark mornings, never tiring of the murals along the walls of the below-grade trails and the smell of fresh sourdough from a nearby industrial bakery.

My daily rides were sanctuaries I clung to, the rare moments I could breathe fresh air and immerse myself in my community. These treasured respites were all the more precious when set against the backdrop of grueling 10-plus-hour shifts in a stuffy office. All was going well in my cycling world; until the snow came. 

The first day the streets iced over that December I thought, “How bad could it be?” On that pitch-black Northern winter morning, it took me less than a block to find out. My bike slipped right out from under me, ripping my pants down the middle, and immediately adding splashes of black and blue on the entirety of my upper right thigh. I walked my bike back into my apartment with my tail between my legs. I would have to drive to work. 

After braving the weather in Minneapolis for less than a year, I quit my job and ran back to the Mile High City, aimless and wandering. I ended up in my parent’s basement in the sprawled Denver suburbs, a community not conducive to getting anywhere by bike, foot, or anything other than a car. So, while I revamped my career and bank account, my bike collected dust in their garage for over a year.

Denver, Colorado

After moving out and into the heart of Denver, I  was finally able to get around for most of my daily chores by bike or foot– except for work. There was an unfortunate imbalance. Although the drive was a quick 14 minutes, it took about an hour to cover the 10 miles by bike.

Cycling to work wouldn’t be an everyday possibility, but I was determined to try it out at least twice a week until winter came. Once again, I stuffed my bike bags with all the things I would need to give myself a bird bath (no shower at this office!) and change. At five-thirty in the morning, I began my journey along the waters flowing from the mountains, and out into the sleepy suburbs past skyscrapers, an enormous (American) football stadium, and roller coasters from the city’s theme park.

This continued for a few months when the paths’ conditions allowed until I got a new job based out of Washington D.C. I was excited to get back to a city with better bike infrastructure. I was leaving my car in Colorado!

Washington, D.C., DC

In February 2020, my mom and I loaded my beloved bike into a rented box truck and drove it through the cornfields of Iowa and the mountains of West Virginia to the US Capitol. One month later, I found the move I had long been awaiting was not particularly well-timed. I barely had time to figure out which grocery store in my neighborhood I preferred, let alone make any friends before the pandemic shut the city down. So for the next year, I took advantage of the one place I was allowed to go– outside. And boy, was I glad I had my bike. 

With it, I explored the marshlands and grand, granite plaza of Teddy Roosevelt Island. I cruised down the Chesapeake & Ohio Canal Trail, now a 185-mile natural respite for cyclists and runners, but which once carried coal from the mountains down to port. I discovered Rock Creek Park, where the National Park Service had shut down the main roads for residents to enjoy the urban oasis of dense forests and streams.

I also explored the urban side of my city– tracking down interesting murals, public transportation landmarks, and a few ‘boundary stones,’ ancient relics of the District’s first survey. I spent many fall evenings splayed out with my bike and a good book surrounded by monumental Smithsonian museums on the great yard of the National Mall.

In February 2021, I was working from home when I received the most exciting news most could imagine at the time. Someone hadn’t shown up for their vaccine, and I was on the waitlist. Could I come to the hospital right now? I squealed with joy after hanging up the phone, shot my boss a “found a vaccine, see you later sucker” text, snagged my helmet off its wall hook, and dashed out the door to unlock my bike.

But when I reached the spot in the fence where I had locked my bike the previous night, all I found was a broken wrought-iron post. My bike, my most prized possession, had been ridden off into the night by a very determined thief. Again. I was devastated. I collapsed onto the neighbor’s patio chair, tears falling down my face. The cold, concrete street corner had plenty of passersby even though it was the middle of a workday. Most were wearing sweatpants, walking their dogs, and grocery shopping, but it was more likely than not that they were White House aids or CNN correspondents. The thought of a potential legislator seeing me have a meltdown over losing my bike made me cry even harder.

I decided to put on my big-girl pants – I called my best friend and got her to calm me down and tell me what to do. We (she) decided I’d need to find an e-scooter, stat. Despite the setback, I made it to the hospital just in time to get my jab. Afterward, still reeling from the loss of my bike, I found solace in a small, jam-packed bike shop that taught skills to at-risk youth. I narrowly made my way out of the maze of stacked milk crates full of bike bells and saddles with a new-to-me bright blue hybrid. It was sturdy, strong, and soon covered in transit and city-memorabilia-related stickers to make it my own.

Philadelphia , PA

The month after I acquired my new best friend, I loaded it into an oversized SUV for my next journey to Philadelphia. I explored more by bike in Philadelphia in a short four months than most residents probably do in their lifetimes. The main throughway going north up the cherry-blossom-lined Schuylkill River was still closed to encourage outdoor activity during COVID lockdowns, and I took advantage of the car-less riverside every weekend. I cruised by the colossal set of “Rocky” stairs at the Art Museum and I watched crew races on the docks of seventeenth-century stone building rowing clubs. I made it up to Wissahickon State Park one day, where I accidentally found myself testing the true limits of my “thick” tires on mountain biking trails. My outings were well-timed with the spring season; tulips, hydrangeas, daffodils, and roses were abundant and the weather was fresh.

My best memories of these places are the two times I brought others with me for the ride. My sister and a good friend visited my new favorite city in the few months I was a resident and I took them up along the Schuylkill, hoping they’d fall in love with the sights as much as I had. In retrospect, taking non-cyclists on a 25-mile ride on my roommate’s very nice road bike in a city where drivers are not known for their patience wasn’t my most well-thought-out idea. Both had sore butts the next day, but now have fond memories of exploring Philly on two wheels.

My bike was not only for adventures in Philly– it was also a practical transportation mode for the compact, grid-planned city. Although I lived within walking distance from a chain supermarket, my loyalty to Trader Joe’s meant that groceries were a weekly trip by bike. I rode over every Sunday with a meticulously planned shopping list that ensured my two back-rack bags were perfectly packed. Not a yogurt container too large or an almond milk carton too squished. It was also my ride to dates, which was often met with apprehension and confusion. In a culture where nobody cycled, men couldn’t comprehend my need to find a good spot to lock up my bike (or why I had one in the first place).

While in Philly, I finally splurged on an accessory all the stylish American city cyclists were starting to wear: an expensive “minimalist” helmet with my monogram stickered on the side in gold letters. Other than looking cool as hell, my favorite part was the one-inch hole in the helmet covered by a magnetic piece you could pop out and secure to your bike when locking it up. No more carrying my helmet around bars and stores like a dweeb!

The day after the postal service delivered my bougie customized helmet, I also received a highly anticipated piece of mail to my online inbox. My grant application to study urban spatial structures passed the final round, and I had received funding to move to the Netherlands for a year. The land of canals, tulips, windmills, and, of course, bicycles! All of this excitement, and the only thing I could think was “shit, they don’t wear helmets there. I’ll look like a dweeb if I bring this”.

I made the most out of my final days in Philadelphia, spending the summer evenings on my bike. I often cycled over to Rittenhouse Park, where history waltzes with modernity amidst grand oak trees and French cafes. Artists set up their easels, musicians their instruments, and millennials their picnics. Young parents set their toddlers loose in the center ceramic-tiled fountain, and older gentlemen sit puzzling over the crossword. I fondly remember the bench in the middle of the park’s path where I propped up my bike to take it all in one last time.

Amsterdam, The Netherlands

In August 2021, I moved to Amsterdam; it’s hard to encapsulate how my residence here has transformed my relationship with cycling. The crowded highways of bike lanes, with their own traffic lights, signals, and norms, can be overwhelming for most expats at first. But for me, who had been trying to survive aggressive drivers on streets in the U.S., it is much easier to get around in a city where the bike is king.

Since my expatriation to the Netherlands, I have delved into the sport of road cycling and invested way too much money into way too much lycra. During the first half of 2023, I pushed myself too hard– falling into old habits of overachievement and anxiety, which spilled into my cycling training. I was starting and ending my day on my bike trainer and forcing myself outside to do sprint intervals when my body was telling me otherwise. I finally got to a point where I could barely get around town on my city bike without wanting to collapse at my destination.

Worried about my mental health, I took advantage of my company’s remote-work policy to recharge during the summer at home, staying with friends and family throughout the country. I was so burnt out that my intense triathlete workout schedule was reduced to morning walks with my mom and her dog for weeks. During the last days of my visit to the States, I hadn’t been on a bike for almost three months with mixed feelings about getting back on the saddle.

The day before I flew back to Amsterdam, I was given a much-needed gift to re-spark my passion for cycling (and life in general). Not what I expected from a last-minute Tinder date, but for twelve hours on a cool summer day I was given a generous two-wheel tour on a borrowed bike to all of the best parks, bike paths, ice cream shops, and hot dog stands that West Chicago has to offer. A much-needed reminder that I started cycling to enjoy the people and the world around me– my bike is a tool for the journey, not the journey itself.

Like the car is to Americans, bikes are to the Dutch.

Since returning to Amsterdam, I have taken a step back to reassess and redefine my relationship with cycling. I am showing myself grace by adjusting rides when I get too tired, and taking recovery days instead of pushing through head colds. I am taking more side streets on my commutes to find hidden corners, and cycling headphone-less to listen to the movement and flow of the city.

 I have done the same 35km morning ride with friends almost every week for four months this year, still finding joy in the small villages and ports we pass each time. We roll through forests onto dikes, passing songbirds fluttering around marigold-covered fences and rusting silos. Riding into the rising sun through the small town of Haarlemmerliede, locals bustle about getting ready for work. Children pedal in groups to primary school with lunch boxes, and backpacks hanging carelessly from their handlebars. Exiting the village, we encounter pastoral scenes of cows and sheep. Aromas of banana bread often drift from cottages’ open kitchen windows. Our journey finishes with the scenery shifting from historic wooden windmills to modern steel turbines and silent electric trains speeding alongside us toward the city.

I still laugh when I see babies strapped to the front of their parent’s bike, slumped over, passed out, but still bobbing and bouncing around from the bumps of the brick and cobblestone. I am still impressed by the travelers dragging their suitcases behind them while pedaling, and the folks cycling across town with full-length floor lamps under their arms. Like the car is to Americans, bikes are to the Dutch.

Cycling has been a journey of discovery, challenge, and joy. It has shaped my life in ways I could never have imagined, and I am grateful for every pedal stroke. From the suburban sprawl of America to the bike lanes of Amsterdam, a bike has been my constant companion, a vehicle for exploration, and a source of endless amusement.

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About the author

_{Blog writer Peyton moved to the Netherlands in 2021 to pursue a master in Spatial & Urban Economics at the VU. Since then, she’s continued her work in the built environment industry– she was previously in Washington, D.C. supporting policy work on climate resilience and urban sustainability. As a former military brat with no real hometown back in the U.S., she decided to give the Netherlands a go at becoming her new home. In her free time, Peyton enjoys hanging out with her triathlon club (but cycling is her favourite), reading, writing, learning Dutch, and spending time enjoying good food and company with friends. She is also an urban enthusiast– passionate about understanding the vibrant ballet of life on city streets and the heartbeats of community identity. Peyton will be writing blogs every other month.}

The balcony outside my home office’s french door is about a meter deep, and its fencing an ugly, painted, peeling, and rusting wrought iron steel. If you walk out from my office and peer to the left, you’ll see a thick, deep green canopy of birch and chestnut trees hiding the boundary of the city’s most popular and posh parks. Ten meters to the right, the view from my roommate’s bedroom obviously has the superior view. From her door’s window, you can see the tops of the gabled brick towers whose building below houses works of Rembrandt and plundered treasures from the East Indies, naturally highlighted during sunrises and sunsets (when not gloomy and grey) by a brilliant pink sky.

The main view from my desk while I’m staring into space during Zoom calls is a brick wall: the top two floors of a small boutique hotel with 3.9 stars on Google Maps—an unfair rating, in my opinion, for accommodation in this location with air-conditioning and semi-reasonable rates. From my perch on my ergonomic office stool, I can peer into two room’s windows and the housekeepers’ attic storage and break area. The cleaners’, guests’, and outside urban wildlife’s daily routines let me feel I’m a part of the city throughout the day as I’m trapped at home, even if only as an outsider looking in. The rooms’ windows are tall, with thin white frames, sunken a foot back into the red brick building, allowing for sturdy, meter-wide sills.

The birds of Amsterdam love these sills. And I love watching them love them.

Like most major cities worldwide, the lowly pigeon is the majority avian species in Amsterdam. For many residents, they are nothing but an annoyance, primarily because of the daily close calls with the plump grey morons that freeze in our wheels’ paths as we commute around the city. As far as territorial warfare over the famous red bike lanes goes, pigeons beat out tourists at the top of my shit list.

Throughout the day, these bumbling birds clumsily flutter onto the sills and, occasionally, fly smack dab into the window. They stumble around on the ledges, swiveling their heads, cooing, and shitting all over their little slice of paradise.

A few times a week, the pigeons’ ignorant peace is abruptly and violently interrupted. First, I can hear the screeches, quickly followed by a lightning flash of bright green. The fat, feathered rats don’t have enough time to react when two parakeets, interlocked in a raucous wrestling match, crash into the careless pigeon colony.

Raucous and mean-spirited, the parakeets began their invasion of Vondelpark in the 1970s, their arrival a familiar story of a pet from hell unleashed “into the wild”– or rather, into a very urban, very public space. Although they’re still not exactly welcome in the neighborhood these days, the neon demon spawns have become a permanent fixture, an unofficial icon of the park, and, at the very least, an interesting oddity to point out to visitors.

Like the parakeets, I’ve also claimed a spot uninvited in the urban fabric of Amsterdam. As an American in Europe, I feel about as conspicuous as the little lime-green monsters. I do my best not to live up to the stereotypes of my loud, uncultured, and ignorant brethren that many outsiders think we are. But putting my home country in a dating app profile still feels like the modern-day equivalent of walking into the town square proudly wearing a dunce cap.

“You’re the only American I know that could pass as European,” my German friend tells me as we walk along the canals on a cold, rainy (classically Dutch) summer day.

Part of me revels in this compliment. Military brats are renowned for our chameleon-like social skills. I went from imitating thick southern drawls at crawfish boils as an eight-year-old to the only white girl in a Manga-obsessed Asian friend group at twelve to donning short plaid skirts and Birkenstocks through Chicago winters in Catholic school at fifteen. But Amsterdam has been a challenge. For the last two years, I’ve constantly questioned if my wardrobe made me stand out, lamented the jokes I’d made that hadn’t landed, and generally existed with an existential dread about the way I move throughout this strange new world. I’ve tried to be a good ambassador for my country, learning the local language, traveling the country extensively to understand its history and customs, and attempting to convince Dutchmen to date me.

“You’re the only American I know that could pass as European,”

The other part of me is conflicted– is this actually a compliment? After all, the only thing I really miss about America is… Americans. There are days I long for our constant curiosity, our generosity, our graciousness and helpfulness. The smiles and hellos and compliments I took for granted that Europeans think are fake. But I get where the negative stereotypes my friend was alluding to come from– like the parakeet, I’ve at times been self-righteous and outspoken (not to mention achievement-obsessed and a workaholic, but I’m not sure birds have non-primal goals or jobs yet).

As I continue to settle into the Netherlands and make it feel like home, I’ll endeavor to remain my authentically American self– just like the parakeets retain their brilliance and exoticism. But unlike the parakeets and some of my compatriots, I’ll also try my best to avoid the more controversial traits like ‘boisterously loud, unaware, and demanding.’ I’ll never feel as incognito in this city as a pigeon, but at least I won’t get hit by a bike.

The curtain has recently fallen on my hotel window sills. Ok, not permanently, but they are doing temporary construction on the facade. Mesh screening obstructs the birds from their perches, and scaffolding is the new stage for the hours of Arabic a capella I now “enjoy” on the days I’m holed up taking those dreaded video calls. Maybe it’s a sign that it’s time to venture out of the home office and into the real world to figure out how I fit into this city I now call home.

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About the author

_{Blog writer Peyton moved to the Netherlands in 2021 to pursue a master in Spatial & Urban Economics at the VU. Since then, she’s continued her work in the built environment industry– she was previously in Washington, D.C. supporting policy work on climate resilience and urban sustainability. As a former military brat with no real hometown back in the U.S., she decided to give the Netherlands a go at becoming her new home. In her free time, Peyton enjoys hanging out with her triathlon club (but cycling is her favourite), reading, writing, learning Dutch, and spending time enjoying good food and company with friends. She is also an urban enthusiast– passionate about understanding the vibrant ballet of life on city streets and the heartbeats of community identity. Peyton will be writing blogs every other month.}