Reasons to love (and leave) the Netherlands
The Dutch
Fairness Paradox
Why the Dutch will always pay you back and never let you be generous
In September 2025, I received a tax bill from Sabewa, the waste and water management company for my little home province of Zeeland in the Netherlands. Actually, I received two bills — one for 2024 and one for 2025. Normally, I’d get these bills in March, but construction on the property delayed everything.
When I opened the bills, I stared in horror.
When I opened the bills, I stared in horror.
We were being charged €3,222 with another bill coming in just a few months.
Between the two, we were being charged €3,221.99, and I knew another for 2026 was coming in just a few months.
My husband and I jumped online and compared them to our 2023 bill of only €604. We tried to figure out where all the extra charges were coming from, because nothing about our house had changed. The construction was all related to the restaurant and campground that our house is attached to, but nothing regarding our house. I quickly confirmed that we were definitely not responsible for all of this money.
I contacted Sabewa to sort it out, bracing myself for the kind of bureaucratic nightmare that would have me contesting charges well into 2027 if I were still in America.
Four months and a few phone calls later — mostly to help them understand which part of the property we actually rent — we’d worked it out. Turns out we owed just over five hundred bucks.
Honestly, I’d have been happy with that. I’d have paid the €500 and simply not mentioned that 2023 seemed off now.
But Sabewa went back on their own and recalculated our 2023 taxes — taxes we’d already paid two years ago — because they wanted to make sure those charges were correct. Turns out we shouldn’t have been charged anything in 2023. So they applied that payment to our 2024 and 2025 bills and transferred the remaining €101 into my account.
tl;dr: In September, I thought I owed the Dutch government €3200. By January, they’d sent me €101.
This would simply not happen in America.
My husband and I jumped online and compared them to our 2023 bill of only €604. We tried to figure out where all the extra charges were coming from, because nothing about our house had changed. The construction was all related to the restaurant and campground that our house is attached to, but nothing regarding our house. I quickly confirmed that we were definitely not responsible for all of this money.
I contacted Sabewa to sort it out, bracing myself for the kind of bureaucratic nightmare that would have me contesting charges well into 2027 if I were still in America.
Four months and a few phone calls later — mostly to help them understand which part of the property we actually rent — we’d worked it out. Turns out we owed just over five hundred bucks.
Honestly, I’d have been happy with that. I’d have paid the €500 and simply not mentioned that 2023 seemed off now.
But Sabewa went back on their own and recalculated our 2023 taxes — taxes we’d already paid two years ago — because they wanted to make sure those charges were correct. Turns out we shouldn’t have been charged anything in 2023. So they applied that payment to our 2024 and 2025 bills and transferred the remaining €101 into my account.
tl;dr: In September, I thought I owed the Dutch government €3200. By January, they’d sent me €101.
This would simply not happen in America.
I don't want money that isn't mine
There seems to be a principle that runs deep in Dutch culture. It’s not spoken, the way doe normaal is, but it’s definitely there if you pay attention. It’s so fundamental that it shapes everything from government bureaucracy to birthday parties: I don’t want money that isn’t mine.
In America, if you get a doctor’s bill for $300 and pay it, then later receive an Explanation of Benefits from your insurance showing they’ve since paid that $300, the doctor’s office is not getting in touch to give you your money back. The attitude is more “they’ll come to us if they want the money.”
In America, if you get a doctor’s bill for $300 and pay it, then later receive an Explanation of Benefits from your insurance showing they’ve since paid that $300, the doctor’s office is not getting in touch to give you your money back. The attitude is more “they’ll come to us if they want the money.”
You personally have to notice the discrepancy, call the billing department, wait on hold, explain the situation, probably call back three more times, escalate to a supervisor, and maybe — maybe — six months later you’ll get a refund check.
If this situation were to happen in America, I’d assume I was being scammed, and I’d have no choice but to tell them to send me a check, because there is no way I’m giving them my bank account information.
Here in the Netherlands, I’ve had multiple occasions where a doctor or government body has contacted me to ask for a bank account number so they can return money, because they noticed discrepancies in their bookkeeping. Not because I asked. Not because I fought for it. Because they genuinely don’t want money that isn’t theirs.
The water tax situation I discussed earlier wasn’t even something I’d contested for 2023. I’d only questioned the 2024 and 2025 bills. Sabewa went back on their own because they wanted to be sure.
In the US, I wouldn’t have brought up 2023 even if I’d noticed the discrepancy because I wouldn’t have wanted the fight. I’d have cut my losses, paid the €600, and considered myself lucky it wasn’t €3,000.
This cultural commitment to fairness runs centuries deep, rooted in the Calvinist principles that shaped Dutch society during the Golden Age. Calvinism taught that wealth was acceptable only if earned through honest labor and ethical dealings — taking what isn’t yours wasn’t just bad business, it was a moral failure.
Even as most Dutch have abandoned organized religion, these values remain embedded in the culture. The principle of I don’t want money that isn’t mine has become sacred.
The water tax situation I discussed earlier wasn’t even something I’d contested for 2023. I’d only questioned the 2024 and 2025 bills. Sabewa went back on their own because they wanted to be sure.
In the US, I wouldn’t have brought up 2023 even if I’d noticed the discrepancy because I wouldn’t have wanted the fight. I’d have cut my losses, paid the €600, and considered myself lucky it wasn’t €3,000.
This cultural commitment to fairness runs centuries deep, rooted in the Calvinist principles that shaped Dutch society during the Golden Age. Calvinism taught that wealth was acceptable only if earned through honest labor and ethical dealings — taking what isn’t yours wasn’t just bad business, it was a moral failure.
Even as most Dutch have abandoned organized religion, these values remain embedded in the culture. The principle of I don’t want money that isn’t mine has become sacred.
The Tikkie principle and
precision in social transactions
The same culture that will proactively refund you €111 from a tax payment you made eighteen months ago will also Tikkie you €0.50 for using a public bathroom (700,000 payment requests were sent for bathroom visits on King’s Day in 2025).
If you’re not familiar, Tikkie is a payment app that has become the social fabric of Dutch financial interactions. Your friend buys you a coffee? Tikkie for €2.37. You all went out for dinner, and one person paid? Tikkie requests flying within minutes, calculated down to the cent. Someone covered your €0.50 bathroom fee at a highway rest stop? You better believe you’re getting a Tikkie.
And here’s the really strange part: in Dutch shops, if you’re paying cash, they round to the nearest €0.05. One and two-cent coins don’t even circulate anymore.
But in Tikkie?
Everything must be exact. €2.37, not €2.35 or €2.40. If you send €2.50, don’t be shocked when they send you back €0.13. The same culture that finds it practical to eliminate cent-level precision in retail finds it essential to track it in social transactions.
In America, we’d call this being even. But here it goes deeper. I don’t want to owe anyone anything. The Dutch are obsessed with equality, and it’s hard to feel equal if you feel you’re indebted to someone. Even a two-buck (sorry, €2.37) coffee creates an imbalance. Tikkie fixes that immediately.
In America, we’d just let the coffee go. Maybe you’d get the next round, maybe you wouldn’t, maybe you’d vaguely try to even things out over time. The transactional precision feels cold. But here it’s simply fair.
No one owes anyone anything. No one has awkward, unspoken debt hanging over a friendship.
Except it does create awkwardness, just of a different kind. As an American, I still feel weird Tikkie'ng someone €1.50. But I’ve learned that not Tikkie'ng them is actually ruder because it suggests either that I think they can’t afford €1.50 (condescending) or that I’m trying to create obligation (manipulative).
If you’re not familiar, Tikkie is a payment app that has become the social fabric of Dutch financial interactions. Your friend buys you a coffee? Tikkie for €2.37. You all went out for dinner, and one person paid? Tikkie requests flying within minutes, calculated down to the cent. Someone covered your €0.50 bathroom fee at a highway rest stop? You better believe you’re getting a Tikkie.
And here’s the really strange part: in Dutch shops, if you’re paying cash, they round to the nearest €0.05. One and two-cent coins don’t even circulate anymore.
But in Tikkie?
Everything must be exact. €2.37, not €2.35 or €2.40. If you send €2.50, don’t be shocked when they send you back €0.13. The same culture that finds it practical to eliminate cent-level precision in retail finds it essential to track it in social transactions.
In America, we’d call this being even. But here it goes deeper. I don’t want to owe anyone anything. The Dutch are obsessed with equality, and it’s hard to feel equal if you feel you’re indebted to someone. Even a two-buck (sorry, €2.37) coffee creates an imbalance. Tikkie fixes that immediately.
In America, we’d just let the coffee go. Maybe you’d get the next round, maybe you wouldn’t, maybe you’d vaguely try to even things out over time. The transactional precision feels cold. But here it’s simply fair.
No one owes anyone anything. No one has awkward, unspoken debt hanging over a friendship.
Except it does create awkwardness, just of a different kind. As an American, I still feel weird Tikkie'ng someone €1.50. But I’ve learned that not Tikkie'ng them is actually ruder because it suggests either that I think they can’t afford €1.50 (condescending) or that I’m trying to create obligation (manipulative).
The mathematics of gift giving
Two. Separate. Gift cards. To hit the number exactly.
This precision extends into gift-giving in ways that make my American brain short-circuit.
For birthdays, there are rules. From an uncle, €15 is standard. €50 is the upper limit for most relationships. If you spend more than that — even €30 — people will feel uncomfortable. They’ll think you believe you’re closer to them than they thought you were, or that you’re showing off. They’ll feel like they owe you something, which violates the fundamental principle.
I’ve been given two €7.50 gift cards so that the parents and children could each give me a gift without the family as a whole spending more than €15.
Two. Separate. Gift cards. To hit the number exactly.
And look, I get it, maybe they were strapped for cash but honestly…at that point, just don’t give me anything. Just come be present with me to celebrate.
But they can’t do that either, because not giving a gift also communicates something specific about the relationship. So they solve it mathematically: €7.50 + €7.50 = €15 = appropriate aunt/cousin-level affection, properly calibrated.
In America, I’d argue, we have more anxiety about gift reciprocity precisely because there are no clear rules. At Christmas, if someone gives you a gift, you stress: ‘How much are they spending on me? What does that mean? Am I supposed to match it?‘ She gave me something expensive last year. Was that meant to signal closeness, or is she just in a financial place to be this generous with everyone? If I spend less, will she think I’m cheap? Maybe she’ll think I don’t value her friendship? Should I keep the receipt? What if I get something way off mark and she thinks I don’t even know her at all?’
You’re constantly trying to read these invisible signals and hoping you interpret them correctly.
And it’s exhausting.
Here, the parameters are clear. Everyone knows €15 from an aunt is appropriate. The amount is meaningful social communication. It’s not ‘the thought that counts’ but ‘the precisely calibrated financial expression of our relationship tier that counts.’
For birthdays, there are rules. From an uncle, €15 is standard. €50 is the upper limit for most relationships. If you spend more than that — even €30 — people will feel uncomfortable. They’ll think you believe you’re closer to them than they thought you were, or that you’re showing off. They’ll feel like they owe you something, which violates the fundamental principle.
I’ve been given two €7.50 gift cards so that the parents and children could each give me a gift without the family as a whole spending more than €15.
Two. Separate. Gift cards. To hit the number exactly.
And look, I get it, maybe they were strapped for cash but honestly…at that point, just don’t give me anything. Just come be present with me to celebrate.
But they can’t do that either, because not giving a gift also communicates something specific about the relationship. So they solve it mathematically: €7.50 + €7.50 = €15 = appropriate aunt/cousin-level affection, properly calibrated.
In America, I’d argue, we have more anxiety about gift reciprocity precisely because there are no clear rules. At Christmas, if someone gives you a gift, you stress: ‘How much are they spending on me? What does that mean? Am I supposed to match it?‘ She gave me something expensive last year. Was that meant to signal closeness, or is she just in a financial place to be this generous with everyone? If I spend less, will she think I’m cheap? Maybe she’ll think I don’t value her friendship? Should I keep the receipt? What if I get something way off mark and she thinks I don’t even know her at all?’
You’re constantly trying to read these invisible signals and hoping you interpret them correctly.
And it’s exhausting.
Here, the parameters are clear. Everyone knows €15 from an aunt is appropriate. The amount is meaningful social communication. It’s not ‘the thought that counts’ but ‘the precisely calibrated financial expression of our relationship tier that counts.’
You can't buy friendship...
You can be spontaneously generous in the Netherlands, but only with people you’re bound to for life: parents, in-laws, your spouse, maybe your best friend. People where the relationship is so established that no single gesture could change the balance.
What you can’t do is use gift-giving to build closeness.
In America, you might bring a nice bottle of wine to your new neighbor in hopes they invite you in to share that wine. It’s a way to lubricate the social interaction so that you might make a new friend or acquaintance. That same gesture here would likely make your new neighbors uncomfortable. They don’t know you. Why are you giving them things? You’re not at that tier of friendship.
You can bring flowers to new neighbors as a way to welcome them to the neighborhood, but flowers cost almost nothing here, and you still won’t be invited inside their house for three years, not until you’ve had thirty conversations over the garden fence.
Gift-giving reflects existing relational hierarchy. It doesn’t create it.
This means gift-giving isn’t really an acceptable love language here, at least not outside your inner circle. And as an American expat trying to build community, that’s isolating. I can’t express affection or develop friendships the way I might naturally want to.
What you can’t do is use gift-giving to build closeness.
In America, you might bring a nice bottle of wine to your new neighbor in hopes they invite you in to share that wine. It’s a way to lubricate the social interaction so that you might make a new friend or acquaintance. That same gesture here would likely make your new neighbors uncomfortable. They don’t know you. Why are you giving them things? You’re not at that tier of friendship.
You can bring flowers to new neighbors as a way to welcome them to the neighborhood, but flowers cost almost nothing here, and you still won’t be invited inside their house for three years, not until you’ve had thirty conversations over the garden fence.
Gift-giving reflects existing relational hierarchy. It doesn’t create it.
This means gift-giving isn’t really an acceptable love language here, at least not outside your inner circle. And as an American expat trying to build community, that’s isolating. I can’t express affection or develop friendships the way I might naturally want to.
…but, they’ll give you all their old shit
When I had my son, hand-me downs appeared from everywhere.
And yet, the same people who will give you two €7.50 gift cards to hit €15 exactly will also enthusiastically dump three garbage bags of baby clothes on you from a friend-of-a-friend’s cousin.
When I had my son, hand-me-downs appeared from everywhere.
From acquaintances, from my mother-in-law’s friends, from people I’d never met. In America, I have friends who pass along their kids’ old clothes, but nothing like this volume or enthusiasm.
At first I thought, “Oh, how generous!” Then I realized, it’s not really generosity in the emotional sense. It’s practicality.
If they don’t have someone to give their old stuff to, the Dutch will donate it to a secondhand shop. But they prefer it goes to someone they know, even remotely, because why should something be paid for twice? Getting rid of usable items is wasteful. Passing them to someone who needs them is practical and doesn’t create an obligation because you were getting rid of them anyway.
Everyone wins.
You get free stuff, they get to feel good about not being wasteful, and no one owes anyone anything.
Emotional generosity is constrained. Practical generosity is enthusiastically encouraged.
It all circles back to the same principle: fairness and practicality over sentiment.
When I had my son, hand-me-downs appeared from everywhere.
From acquaintances, from my mother-in-law’s friends, from people I’d never met. In America, I have friends who pass along their kids’ old clothes, but nothing like this volume or enthusiasm.
At first I thought, “Oh, how generous!” Then I realized, it’s not really generosity in the emotional sense. It’s practicality.
If they don’t have someone to give their old stuff to, the Dutch will donate it to a secondhand shop. But they prefer it goes to someone they know, even remotely, because why should something be paid for twice? Getting rid of usable items is wasteful. Passing them to someone who needs them is practical and doesn’t create an obligation because you were getting rid of them anyway.
Everyone wins.
You get free stuff, they get to feel good about not being wasteful, and no one owes anyone anything.
Emotional generosity is constrained. Practical generosity is enthusiastically encouraged.
It all circles back to the same principle: fairness and practicality over sentiment.
The Netherlands and America
two different games
two different games
So here I am, living in a country
The US system is optimized for hustle, for fighting, for the idea that if you’re smart and persistent enough, you can game things in your favor. It’s exhausting and often unfair, but there’s a certain freedom in that bustle. You can be spontaneously generous because there aren’t strict rules about what that generosity means. We assume that if you’re giving something, you can afford to do so.
The Dutch system is optimized for fairness, for nobody having money that isn’t theirs, for everyone knowing exactly where they stand. It’s remarkably functional and protects you from being nickel-and-dimed. But that same precision boxes in how you connect with people.
I love getting a random €111 from a government entity.
I love not having to fight for what’s mine.
But, I also miss being able to give someone a thoughtful gift without doing mental mathematics about social hierarchy. I miss generosity as a love language, not just a practical exchange.
I love living in a system designed for fairness.
But sometimes I do long to return to the inefficient freedom of a place where a gift is just a gift, and you don’t get Tikkie'd for using the bathroom.
- where the government will track me down to give me €111 I didn’t even know I was owed.
- where I never have to fight with a doctor’s office about a refund because they’ll just... give it to me.
- where the bureaucracy actually works in my favor, not against me.
- where I can’t buy a cousin a €30 birthday present without creating social awkwardness.
- where accepting a coffee from a friend means waiting for a Tikkie.
- where I’ve learned that the baby clothes cascading into my home aren’t really about generosity, but practicality.
The US system is optimized for hustle, for fighting, for the idea that if you’re smart and persistent enough, you can game things in your favor. It’s exhausting and often unfair, but there’s a certain freedom in that bustle. You can be spontaneously generous because there aren’t strict rules about what that generosity means. We assume that if you’re giving something, you can afford to do so.
The Dutch system is optimized for fairness, for nobody having money that isn’t theirs, for everyone knowing exactly where they stand. It’s remarkably functional and protects you from being nickel-and-dimed. But that same precision boxes in how you connect with people.
I love getting a random €111 from a government entity.
I love not having to fight for what’s mine.
But, I also miss being able to give someone a thoughtful gift without doing mental mathematics about social hierarchy. I miss generosity as a love language, not just a practical exchange.
I love living in a system designed for fairness.
But sometimes I do long to return to the inefficient freedom of a place where a gift is just a gift, and you don’t get Tikkie'd for using the bathroom.
Anne-Marie Traas
