Every autumn in the Netherlands, something curious happens. It’s not dramatic enough to make the news, but as an immigrant you notice it immediately: the entire country quietly migrates indoors. One week the outdoor patios are full, people are drinking beer in sunglasses, and bikes are parked in chaotic, joyful piles. The next week the streets empty as if someone code red for heavy rain hit your smartphone. The Dutch ‘relocate’ and start complaining about the weather – did you know they have more than 20 ways to say the weather sucks?
So, where do they go? Inside! Cafés transform into warm shelters where everyone seems to have arrived three hours before you. You walk in at 11 hoping to find a seat, but every table is already occupied by someone who ‘just came to read’ and has somehow turned a single cappuccino into a full‑day residency. Blankets appear on chairs (I was shocked to see them the first time), candles flicker even at noon, and suddenly you understand that indoor space in autumn is the definition of gezelligheid.
And then there is the walk tradition. Not stroll. Not wander. Walk. The herfstwandeling is a national ritual, and participation is mandatory. You join your first one thinking it’s a gentle Sunday activity, only to find yourself power‑walking through the Veluwe like you’re preparing for a Nordic endurance exam. Dutch families glide past you effortlessly, children eating apples as if they were raised in a forest commune. You return home soaked, exhausted and strangely proud, as if you’ve passed an initiation test you didn’t know existed.
Meanwhile, the weather behaves like it’s auditioning for a dramatic role. You leave home in sunshine, arrive at the supermarket in rain, and return in wind strong enough to rearrange your personality. You quickly learn that you don’t dress for the weather, you dress for the sequence of weather. Layers become your religion (onion style, as I call it). Waterproofing becomes your identity. You start carrying a tiny umbrella that flips inside out at the first gust, and a jacket that could survive a minor hurricane.
And somewhere between the indoor migration, the forest marches and the candlelit evenings, you realise you’ve become part of the flock. Autumn in the Netherlands isn’t just a season. It’s a movement pattern, a weather obstacle course, and a coziness bootcamp. The first step is to learn, and I have to say it is fascinating. Board games have become an adult activity I hadn’t ever considered since I was 10, but here it has a totally different vibe.
After a few autumn transitions, maybe, you are one step ahead into your integration process.
Written by Rossella Davì