July 2, 2025

The Dutch wear orange because it’s the color of the royal family, which hails from the House of Orange-Nassau. This association goes back several centuries and has become a deep part of Dutch national identity. Here's why: 1. Royal Connection: The founding father of the Netherlands, William of Orange (also known as William the Silent), led the Dutch revolt against Spanish rule in the 16th century. He became a national hero, and his family — the House of Orange — remains the Dutch royal family to this day. 2. National Identity: Even though the national flag is red, white, and blue, orange is considered the symbolic color of the nation. It stands for pride, unity, and loyalty to the royal family. 3. Celebrations and Sports: On King’s Day (Koningsdag), people all over the Netherlands wear orange clothes, wigs, face paint — even eat orange-colored food and drink orange beer. In international sports, Dutch fans are known as the "Orange Army" because they show massive support in bright orange outfits.

🔊 MINI-STORY: “The Orange Mystery” Let me tell you about a country and a strange color tradition. Listen carefully. I’ll ask you questions after every sentence. Ready? --- There is a country in Europe. It’s called the Netherlands. 👉 Is the Netherlands in Asia? (Example response) No! It’s in Europe. 👉 What is the name of the country? In the Netherlands, people love the color orange. 👉 Do they love purple? 👉 Who loves orange? But wait! The flag of the Netherlands is red, white, and blue—not orange! 👉 Is orange on the flag? 👉 That’s strange, right? Why do they wear orange? 👉 William of what? William of Orange was a national hero. He helped free the Netherlands from Spain in the 1500s. 👉 Did he fight against France? 👉 Was he a hero? His royal family is called the House of Orange-Nassau. 👉 What is the name of the royal house? 👉 Is that why people wear orange? Even today, people show their love for the royal family by wearing orange. 👉 Do they wear orange to support the royal family? On King’s Day, everyone wears orange. They wear orange shirts, orange wigs, orange face paint—even eat orange food! 👉 Do they wear blue clothes? 👉 What do they eat? At sports games, Dutch fans are called the “Orange Army.” They wear bright orange and cheer loudly! 👉 What are the fans called? 👉 Do they wear green? So now you know: the Dutch love orange because of history, royalty, and national pride. 👉 Do the Dutch love orange for no reason?

SPEAKING PROMPTS 1. What color do people wear on King’s Day in the Netherlands? Why? 2. Tell me about William of Orange. What did he do? 3. Why is orange important to Dutch people? 4. Do you have a color in your country that means something special? 5. Imagine you’re in the “Orange Army”—what do you wear to a football match?

🚕 The night I moved to New York was a cold winter night. I sat in the back of a yellow taxi with two large suitcases. The driver looked at them and rolled his eyes, clearly thinking I had brought too much. But when I told him I was moving to the city, he became excited. “Today?” he asked. “You’re moving here today?” I nodded, feeling nervous and excited at the same time. I had dreamed about this moment for years, and now it was really happening. The taxi driver seemed happy to give me his opinion. “New York,” he said with a serious voice, “New York is the worst place in the world to live. You couldn’t pick a worse place.”

I wasn’t surprised. I had heard the same thing when I moved to London nine years earlier. Many people told me it was a big mistake, and that I should go to Berlin, Lisbon, or even the Hebrides instead. I listened politely as the driver explained why I would hate New York. Some of his reasons made sense—like the high cost of living and healthcare. Others didn’t, like how I might not find a good Catholic community. I knew that sometimes I would hate this city. But I also knew I had to be here. It was snowing, and I was an hour early to move into the apartment I had rented for the first month. I asked the driver to drop me off at the closest bar. I carried my bags inside, passing by a few people smoking outside who smiled at me, and a doorman who looked unsure about me. He finally let me leave my suitcases under the stairs for $20. I sat at the bar and ordered a beer and a whiskey shot. But as soon as I drank them, I felt sick and ran to the bathroom to throw up. My body clearly wasn’t ready for alcohol after such a big change.

I remembered a strange hostel I had once stayed at in Williamsburg when I was locked out during a past trip to New York. It had small rooms like tiny boxes, and it cost under $100. That’s where I decided to go again. The simple, characterless room felt right in this moment, when I was feeling everything all at once. Later, I walked 10 blocks to the apartment, feeling how strange it was to carry everything I owned with me. My arms hurt, and snow was sticking to my eyelashes. The person I was renting from was still staying there for one more night. They were friendly and said I could use the bedroom, but I didn’t feel like talking to anyone. I could have stayed with my boyfriend at his warm apartment in Park Slope, but I didn’t want that either. I only wanted to be alone. So, I left.

When I arrived, I stood outside for a few minutes, looking at the dark, boring Brooklyn street. A security guard came to start his shift. The other one was finishing his and stood next to me. I was wearing a wet wool coat that wasn’t warm enough. The man silently offered me some of his joint, and I accepted with a nod. We smoked quietly together, then said goodnight. I walked around a bit after the snow had stopped, until I reached the water and looked across at Manhattan. I wasn’t trying to feel anything dramatic. I wasn’t chasing that magical New York feeling that had made me love the city years ago. I just looked and told myself, “I live here now.” I wanted the city to feel normal, so I could believe that someone like me belonged in it. I thought about calling a friend—there were people I could talk to, people who would come meet me. I’m lucky like that, or maybe just good at staying close to others. But instead, I stayed alone for a long time, just standing there and thinking: I’m here. Thank you. I’m home. —Megan Nolan, Irish writer in New York. Her latest book is Ordinary Human Failings.