St Nic

Ah, Christmas in the Netherlands—where the festivities begin so early you wonder if Santa accidentally set his calendar to Dutch time. But wait, hold your eggnog, because Christmas here starts with another old white-bearded dude, not from the North Pole but… from Spain? Sí, mi amigo, you heard that right. Sinterklaas, a.k.a. Saint Nicholas, a.k.a. the OG Santa, was supposedly a bishop from Spain (but shhh, he was actually from Turkey—plot twist no one talks about).

Decked out in his finest bishop bling—a flowing white gown that as a kid I was convinced doubled as pajamas, a red robe, gloves, a ridiculously tall pope-like hat, and a massive shepherd’s staff—Sinterklaas arrived every year in style. And by style, I mean by boat. (Because Holland = water. Lots of it.) He’d then hop on his majestic white horse and parade around town with his entourage of helpers.

And oh, those helpers… here’s where things get tricky. Traditionally, these “Zwarte Pieten” (Black Petes) were covered in soot from climbing chimneys, but let’s be honest, they looked like they spent way too much time in the coal mine. Fast forward to today, and the soot-smudged rainbow Pieten are all about inclusivity and festive flair. Dressed like they’re ready for an Arabian carnival, they still carry bags of presents and hurl sweets at kids like candy grenadiers. But beware—those bags also had birch twigs for naughty children. A medieval parenting hack if ever there was one.

For Dutch kids, the arrival of Sinterklaas was serious business. As soon as he docked his boat, we got the green light to put a single shoe (one per kid, no greedy doubles!) by the fireplace, stuffed with a carrot or apple for the horse. The next morning? Voilà! A present if you were good, twigs if you were bad. Perfect timing for parents to weaponize holiday cheer as a behavioral correction tool.

Of course, I was perpetually confused about how Sinterklaas’ helpers climbed through our chimney once we switched to central heating. My mom, ever resourceful, assured me she’d crack a window open for them. I accepted this, because logic isn’t a kid’s strong suit when sugar and gifts are on the line.

Now, here’s where it got real: On December 4th, the eve of Sinterklaas Day, he’d show up to deliver presents in person—or worse, shove you in an empty sack and haul you back to Spain if you’d been particularly horrid. Honestly, as a kid, I thought, “Spain sounds better than this damp Dutch weather,” but terror and logic rarely go hand-in-hand.

And Christmas itself? A totally chill, two-day affair with zero presents—just family time, a real tree, and actual candles. Yes, candles. On a tree. Indoors. If that doesn’t scream “fire hazard,” I don’t know what does. My dad, ever the pragmatist, kept a bucket of water on standby. But when he lit the candles and the tree glowed, it was pure magic. A warm reminder that we’d made it through another year—without being shipped to Spain or burning down the house.