I left Tilburg exactly six weeks ago. When I left The Netherlands there were some things I knew I would miss a wee bit: family, friends, worstenbroodjes, Tilburg and Willem II. I’ve stayed twice in other countries (Norway and South Africa) before and that were the things that I’d missed the most. So I was prepared for it. But now there is something unexpected that I miss: talking Dutch. In Norway I met a fellow Dutchman in the first week and we saw eachother almost every weekend. In South Africa I was with three fellow countrymen, so I spoke a lot of Dutch there. It’s not that I’m homesick, absolutly not. I still enjoy my time in Edinburgh and it still feels like a kind of holiday when I walk to the city centre and see the Edinburgh Castle, Calton Hill and Holyrood Park. But it’s weird not speaking the language you have in your head all the time. I don’t watch Dutch television or read Dutch books either. Okay, I sometimes talk Dutch to my cats, but “Hello, Tommy/Emma”, “Here is your food” and “Don’t go in the microwave” are not very long conversations. But my Dutch monastic silence will end this Friday, as I meet someone from my home soil. Hurrah.