Erin in Amsterdam

2009-11-11T14:10:00.000-08:00

Last Sunday, Pete and I made a day trip to Friesland in the North of Holland. As best we can tell, Friesland is where his Mennonite ancestors came from. We managed to git ourselves some same-day discount fare tickets and so decided to make the three-hour-each-way voyage in one day. Hmph. First error.

Weather Underground assured sunny skies and a high of 9, but the fields were covered in thick fog the entire way there. Now, I rather like a bit of fog. It's so unusual for me landlocked as I was in Ontario -- oh but how magical it was when I was a child in Calgary when rare fog--clouds, really--would descend from the mountains and settle over the city. I remember feeling singularly safe in those mountain-borne mists -- hemmed dreamily in. It suited me just fine.

However, three hours of train travel seeing naught beyond a foot does not suit me... I was so excited to see the countryside -- it being one my favourite aspects of travel. In the end, I saw very little -- and no Frisian cows! The latter, however, are littered the world over, so I guess I can live with not seeing Frisian cows in Friesland.

At midday we arrived in Leuwarden, the capital of the Friesian province, and intended to go onward to the sea and catch a ferry to Ameland Island. Alas, this was not to be -- we were told there were no more boats running. This country really literally shuts down on a Sunday. [While fundamentalist friends of my parents might like the idea of this, it doesn't suit me at all! Tho I do confess that the Dutch really know how to separate between work and play -- they work moderately and play hard. All the shops close at 6pm every night, also. We've learned to work around it, and grudgingly admit that it's nice not to have to run errands after 7pm.]

So we found ourselves stuck in the capital of Friesland, with most everything closed (the island wouldn't have been closed, incidentally - it's all about renting a bike and riding the paths crisscrossing the place). We ended up having lunch and then high tea at a hotel across from the train station.

The food was terrible.

Like, really terrible.

The scones were the most miserable foodstuff I have ever come across. Felt some pity for those scones. Still do.

In the end we had to laugh at the dismal food, dismal travel, and our own grumpy selves. The fog cleared a bit and we wandered to the centre of the old town. It was lovely and in its own way, very different from all the other Dutch cities we've seen thus far. The squares downtown were so vast and rolling on either side of the canals -- so much room for an old town that hadn't been bombed in the war. Of particular note was an unfinished church tower (lacking a church) leaning crazily to one side looking liable to collapse at any moment. Will send out pics soon!

2009-11-05T00:45:00.001-08:00

On the corner of the Westerstraat watching people on the outdoor market. It is raining. I am the only one sitting outside on a cafe terrace watching-
the bohemian
the gypsy
the tourists and cloth sellers
women in hijabs
and very tall blondes

I am waiting, I say.
In de regen
in the rain.
een thee met melk
een appel tart
alstublieft
if you please.

I cradle my lunch
close to me
shield it from the showers.
I smile at the ones who I (in my great wisdom)
think could use it
-and still I am waiting

At last,
A blazing four minutes and twenty seconds of sunlight and blue sky.
In this country, in the winter, you learn to worship the sun
if only arising from the long pursuit.

2009-09-14T13:52:00.000-07:00

Just returned home from a weekend in London. Went specifically to see the Blake exhibition at the Tate. It was moving and terrifying --a touch of the holy and of the mad raging muse. Also a special exhibit on the Sublime in art--again, numinous terror. My knees almost gave out several times. They went all wobbly again as I stood before the Rosetta Stone, the Parthenon Friezes, and a pair of ten-foot chimera sentinels from the gates of an ancient Assyrian town--all at the British Museum. Saw a moving production of Troilus and Cressida--and fell half in love with Cressida--at the Globe theatre.
'
Found myself wondering why the Greek, Roman, Egyptian and Assyrian goddesses didn't move me nearly much as the Celtic and Romano-Celtic ones did in Bath. [erm, the Gaul and Roman ones at Cologne did move me rather, as I recall, though still not like Aquae Sulis]. As for the Greek and Roman sculptures, maybe they were too sophisticated: the best sculptors that money can buy, the grand patrons, etc. I suspect I have much to learn about the Egyptian ones, however. Elizabeth Cunningham's Maeve books have awakened some fascination--that added to H.D.'s poetry. Strange, realizing just now how so much of my weekend centred around sights and ideas that obsessed H.D. I even walked through Bloomsbury -- it being the 80th anniversary of Faber and Faber and all...though am feeling massively grumpy with T.S. Eliot lately.

2009-08-12T00:25:00.000-07:00

My friend from New Zealand has been taken to jail.

I met the energetic New Zealander at church when we first arrived. Susan's husband is a university prof and she came with him for his six month sabbatical. We made fast friends and were soon spending our days biking over all Amsterdam, taking day trips to small towns where witches used to be weighed in true Monty Python and the Holy Grail fashion and the like. (I have, incidentally, been certified as not-a-witch).
We bought our bikes together from another church friend who managed a "stitching" (a nonprofit organization and *not* a quilting club as I was at first wont to think) that receives unclaimed bikes from the police and employs refugees and excons to repair and resell them. All above board.
It is due to one of these all-above-board bikes that Susan was arrested.
She was biking her merry through Amsterdam when a cop stops a few feet beside her, eyes her up and down, enters something on his handheld thingamajig and then promptly arrests her.
Apparently her particular bike had been reported stolen and there was some kind of identifying code on the frame that declared as much.

Erm, have to run -- am off to play video games WITH MY BRAIN!!!

...realize further explanation and conclusion of friend-in-prison-story are needed. Both are forthcoming, I assure you!

Train to Cologne

2009-08-06T01:07:00.000-07:00

This entry comes as I sit in a hi-speed “Ice” train currently docked in Amsterdam Centraal. Am anticipating the speed part especially! We‘re on our way to Germany (finally!). Cologne, to be exact. It’s only a two-hour trip and we thought we’d start small.

I’ve just had a bilingual conversation with a French passenger. He’s a cellist and the entire car seems to be filled with the orchestra he performs with . I cannot tell whether he is being tremendously forbearing with me and my attempts at conversation, and (admittedly odd) questions or whether he genuinely enjoyed the conversation. It is difficult to read people from other cultures; difficult to read anyone, really…but I find that countrymen share and pick up similar facial expressions revealing thoughts and feelings…the way a new baby starts to make the same faces a parents does…I read Canadian faces! Am not a multilingual reader of physiognomy…yet!

I seem to meet mostly artist in my train travels. Met a young energetic poet on a previous trip back Brussels. We had an animated conversation about the poetic process, comparing notes on how our best works seems to come out as an almost completed whole in one mad rush of inspiration. Only a bit of tinkering required after the fact. I shall try to pull out his blog link and some of his poetry in a future post.

The train is beginning is departure now out of Central. NO impressive hi-speed as of yet.

Begin to see real forests. Shorter trees at first, with bare ground in between, widely spaced tress – but forests nonetheless. I am surprised at tears springing suddenly. How I’ve missed the woods. It is a sunny day and the light plays in generous swathes between the trees., on the warm brown bare ground.

As we reach Arnhem, the last stop before Germany, the trees are taller, the forests we pass through are thick with underbrush, still lush, but with higher ceiling. Patches of sunlight trip down the long branches and over the layers of greens: different leaves, different trees, folded each on each.

Arnhem is very pretty from the window – the windows and doors seem to me very German.

We have just been ousted from our seats. Apparently folks can reserve seats and if you happened to be of the plebian majority who did not, the former can kick you out. Thus displaced, we have wandered our way to the front of the train—amid the chaos of people with luggage standing next to their reserved seats as the former occupants wrestle their luggage together and move onward. We passed a good number of displaced young people who have simply plopped themselves down in the common spaces near the WCs. We persevere however, and find a haven for reservation-seat -system refugees at the front car – where many seats lay open. We can only hope we wont be ousted again before we hit Cologne. Oh, and we left our luggage four cars back above our sometime seats. Note: must remember to get these…

A final note about the speed of the train. It is fast, yes. But it is reasonably smooth and affords no plane takeoff thrill, in fact it affords nothing so much as a mild headache. Ah well.

2009-07-08T01:02:00.000-07:00

Peter was bitten on the lips by a mosquito sometime during the night. His (already huge) lower lip is lopsidedly swollen. The mosquito net he purchased seems to have failed. Though the netting drapes gracefully over the bed and does lend a lovely fairy princess air to the room.

We just endured a week's worth of heat wave. I am reminded that my tolerance of weather conditions is so subjective; it's felt unbearably hot here, despite the fact that it's objectively far more comfortable than summers in Toronto (in my humble opinion). Toward the end of winter here, I found myself complaining along with fellow Amsterdammers about how cold it was at +10 C.

2009-07-02T02:53:00.001-07:00

'Twas Canada Day yesterday and I felt a swell of pride. I seem to have developed a worrying amount of pride in my country--worrying because it's just so uncanadian. I find myself uttering the most annoying interjections along the lines of "did you know she's Canadian?" or "a Canadian invented that" etc. Feel ire at the fact that many here think Leonard Cohen is American. Moreover, was particularly put out when it was assumed Anne of Green Gables was the tale of a spunky redheaded orphan on the US East Coast. Harumph.

I am torn. Borders. Guarded borders. Military borders. Cultural borders. Grab what you can and run with it. Claim Cohen, claim L.M., claim Stephen Lewis: maybe you'll shine by association. On the other hand, our cultural exports create much goodwill. Artists are, of course, excellent ambassadors, however unwitting. If our government back home would only buck up and bolster the arts. Otherwise I may have less and less creative folk to boast about, regardless of how annoying I may well be in the doing :)

Speaking of international opinion of Canada, the seal hunt is much criticized here in Holland. Pete gets periodically mauled by his colleagues over the issue (not a dangerous as being mauled by mosquitoes, however). I confess that of all the issues I followed and was frustrated by back home, I never really gave its protesters more than a passing sympathetic nod. It took me moving here to consider the debate with any real attention. The Governor General's seal heart debacle up north and the ensuing commentary brought the issue into closer focus. I was arrested by the musings of a British friend who declared he felt vaguely uncomfortable with the fact that the G.G. is, in title at least, the Queen's representative as head of state in Canada.

I had returned to Canada a few weeks after it occurred and found the media coverage of the issue differed hugely on either side of the pond. With so much news worldwide to cover, I suppose the European media can be forgiven for an overgeneralized caricature of the event and the people involved. Still, there are complexities that are summarily dismissed by this kind of reporting. But, like any good Canadian, I shall not complain overmuch.

2009-06-23T07:58:00.000-07:00

Mosquitoes. Peter is being eaten alive inside our own flat! This occurs at night [when he's not looking!]. We live one street away from a canal (unhelpfully bearing the same name as our street, the variation being Lennep straat vs Lennep kade...have sent many a friend to 250 A on the kade, not the straat...feel I ought to bring a pie or similar in apology to the tenants at the address). The slow-moving water of this canal in particular seems to attract the mosquitoes in droves worse than the thickest brush in Muskoka country.

It gets hot enough at night, you see, that we need to keep the windows open, which being sans screens, give the insects free reign. The choice therefore comes down to staying cool or offering Peter up as a nocturnal human sacrifice. Every night...all very Prometheus being torn at anew night after night. Curiously, I am rarely bitten and am feeling rather rejected by the mosquitoes, actually. They say that people who eat a lot of red meat at more attractive to mosquitoes; given that McDonald's are liberally littered around this town as much as in Canada, Pete is assured a good diet of red meat...

Peter had to go to the doctor in the end as the bites were growing huge, with multicoloured bruising ringing the red nuclei (think international astronomy association's photo-a-day). It strikes us as deeply wrong, however, to have to pay for a visit to the doctor (kinda like praying use the toilet or to buy bottled water as tap water just isn't done). A basic visit costs 25 Euros -- less than we feared it might. It's another 15 Euros to get a prescription. All these basic costs are covered by an insurance company (all people are responsible for seeking their own coverage, not usually provided under a group policy at work). Since PEte and I have encountered endless red tape seeking an insurance company thus far, we had to consent to pay or die of mosquistoe bites. It turns out Peter is allergic to the mosquitoes...The doctor prescribed some meds and some cream and then told him that the allergy is "little understood" and wished him luck. eep!

I visited my cafe as usual today. I sat right up at the counter that runs the length of the tall windows cast wide open to the canal below. It turns out that the cafe is the erstwhile headquarters for the city's 17th century (Oh glorious Golden Age that it was!)riflemen. These were a wealthy old boys' club, as far as I can tell; military men had to purchase their own weaponry and rifles were most expensive and thus only the rich bore them. The old boys even got together and had Rembrandt paint a group composite of them all. It turned out to be one of the artist's masterpieces -- original in its depiction of each man in action, not stock still staring forward as was the norm. Personally, I think the bits of action in which Rembrandt chose to depict each man tend toward the ridiculous, but I am no art critic. The painting hung in the same room in which I do my writing and can now be seen in the Rijksmuseum, a twenty minutes' walk away.

The ghosts of a martial frat club...I suppose they make as good a set of muses as any?

2009-04-25T00:44:00.000-07:00

April 25

Trains are fey wild things. They have always been thus for me: running that Eastern corridor between Montreal and Toronto for Thanksgiving in my twenties would also move me to heady alteration. I’d do my best writing on trains. I was startled a few years ago to read Bob Dylan saying that he needed that feeling of going somewhere that a train provides in order to write.

Perhaps it’s a Canadian obsession, echoes of a colonialist past where land was woman, all mystery and wild beauty, with the discoverer darkly anxious to conquer and own…but I carry with me that fascination with landscape, and how the nation is bound up in it like so many symbioses that one organism is no longer distinguishable from the other. As the train carried me from Amsterdam to Brussels, Van Gogh haunted me; Van Gogh and his landscapes. I wrote the following:

Having seen Van Gogh three times now, I watch this countryside through his eyes--the particular curve of a tree, lateral curves of a branch, the buds, blossoms. The fields--flat, wet, lonely. Air heavy with the humidity, dispersing the light. As I've said, it grounds me; must write Dana as she would appreciate that. Remember rare mists when I was young--felt somehow very safe. Anyhow. Tree stumps gracious in a kind of need, shoot pushing froth where thick limbs once were; like so many antennae reaching for.....what are they reaching for?? Somehow tree stumps are made beautiful here--if a distressing beauty.

2009-04-24T00:40:00.000-07:00

April 24, 2009

We recently took our first jaunt beyond the borders of the Netherlands. Good word, “jaunt”: it conveys the ease with which travel is done here. The whole trip we kept turning to each other, a little giddy, and giggling, “we’re in a whole other country!” And it felt different too, despite the fact that it was only a two and a half hour train ride from Amsterdam.

I have never been one to travel to the US very often, so perhaps such fluidity of movement isn’t shocking to you back home who do travel back and forth, but it seems to me the whole affair was far too easy: we simply bought our train tickets and were off. We weren’t even asked for our passports. Advantages, I suppose, of a European Union.

There is a tangible difference between countries here despite their relative proximity. The differences lie in the little things, as they say. In Brussels, the energy itself was different: the air dirtier, the people more professional, a little more removed but still friendly. On a personal level, I felt bodily relief to finally be able to speak one of the local languages. Made conversation with everyone just so I could savor speaking French again.

Also made in interesting linguistic discovery: In Holland when you say thank you to folks here they respond with a Dutch word that means “if you please”. Similarly, the French-speaking Belgians respond with the same term in French, “s’il vous plait”. Each time I bought something from a store clerk in Brussels, I felt like I was in a 17th century period piece with servants who respond to my thanks with “If you please madam”.

For lodging we stayed right on the big shopping street in a calm North American style hotel (allow me some small familiarities!). People seemed to take shopping very seriously there. Indeed our fashion conscious friend in Holland told us that Belgium is the place to do. Even Peter got in the spirit and I managed to get him to try on a few outfits…we bought a few very styling tops. Quite please with myself, actually. In Toronto Peter would never acquiesce to a shopping expedition, and while I’m no big shopper myself, the man really did need new clothes. Men here are, incidentally, are much more fashion-conscious; there are entire boutiques devoted to men’s clothes here and they do good business. My new goal is to find Peter a pink shirt…

2009-04-02T05:37:00.000-07:00

Today marks one week of absolutely perfect weather. The Spring here is liable to break my heart. Exuberant if awkward beauty and the winds off the gulf have the ability to hurt.

Yesterday I walked through Sarphatipark : point A is the park, point B is where we currently live...
View Larger Map
It was about 16:30 on a Thursday and the park was full of people: sitting on blankets, playing football, walking dogs etc. I was amazed: they must have barely just gotten home from work/school. I could feel the peaceful energy/joy that radiates off people able to sit on a blanket in a park for the first time in many months.

I think I could've put my faith utterly in humanity at that point, believed almost anything possible with man. I've already thrown my lot in fully: when learning the way of love, it helps to have moments where the veil is torn away and I see as S/He does.

Of course life goes back to its frantic, if illusory, chaos. I found myself rushing off to a discussion on Henri Nouwen later that evening. I am thinking of performing a type of pilgrimage here in Nouwen's home country; I'll report in more detail to all you L'Arche folks.

But back to chaos: a few weeks ago Peter and I had a friend overnight as we had stayed up way too late for the tram to take the guy home. Pete and I slept through the alarm (or rather turned it off and then fell back asleep) and were thus terribly late getting off to church. As we raced around the house trying to feed our guest and prep for departure we offered profuse apologies, accounting that by Canadian time we're really rather early (weak, I know!). Our friend did not buy that excuse, but generously chalked the morning up to a "cultural experience". Oh dear.

late and rushing to church as cultural experience

2009-04-02T03:29:00.000-07:00

On the weekend our fair city of 700 000 was flooded by an est. 20 000 Scotsmen, most of whom were dressed in kilts, some showing their pride further with exuberantly plumed tartan hats... They started arriving in small groups on Thursday and trickled steadily in until they were to be seen everywhere in the tourist areas on Saturday. Apparently there was a big football (ie: soccer) game being held Saturday night between the Dutch and the Scottish. It's very nice to see football get the enthusiasm that is only it's due... slowly Canada will learn, if only because new immigrants will teach us old immigrants!

The city responded with efficient preparation: portable urinals were placed at intervals downtown, a greatly enlarged police force roamed the streets, and the water trucks were at the ready to hose down the astonishing amounts of puke and litter in the streets that testify to a night of drunken revelry the morning after. I sat chatting with a Dtuchman in a pharmacy who said that the city was on edge both with anticipation of the game but also with some anxiety over the possiblity of drunken riots. The Scotsmen seemed harmless enough to me, however; cheeky flirtatious bastards, but good hearted. As far as I am aware, there were no incidents reported.

Portable urinals: glorified drains, really, providing no privacy; indeed four men can stand around the unrinal and each relieve themselves at one of four corners of the plastic stands. I have come across one permanent public urninal, incidentally. It is made of a lovely wall of wrought iron which leads via a little labyrinth to a comparitively private standing area with a drain on the ground. I had walked past the structure several times, vaguely advired the ironwork, before I realized what it was... and that simply because I head the sounds of running water...

The game, incidentally, was 3-0 in favour of the Dutch. I was cheering for the Scottish, Peter for the Dutch. It being Peter's birthday, however, out attention was much occupied with a high stakes game of Munchkin... yes, we have our board games birthday parties even here, and yes, we've made geeky enough friends to join us in considering gaming a worthy use of time!

A warm Kiwi couple who arrived here the same time as us opened their house for the evening. We ordered pizza --important lessons learned: a medium pizza is the size of a small back home; Dominoes' pizza in Europe eschews greasy crusts; and shoarma pizzas are simply fantastic--I baked a cake and we played til the wee hours. I daresay our fun was sure to have rivalled that of partying footballer fans.

Oh, and the best part was the gift I got Peter: a single box of Quaker instant flavoured oatmeal costing 10 Euros (about $16 CAD)!!! But, damn, it was worth it! Any and all of you planning to visit must come bearing gifts of aforementioned oatmeal or you will be turned away at the door!

Few places here have comfy chairs.

2009-03-18T12:59:00.000-07:00

Few places here have comfy chairs. I don’t get it. The apartment where we’re staying--not so comfy--Pete’s been getting knee spasms b/c of the particular build of the couch. The place where we're moving to--very stylish but also not comfy. I blame Ikea. We just came home from viewing another apartment which had fabulously comfortable chairs of all sorts – including a reading settee set in a bay window…but the location was too far out. Hpmh. Fortunately Pete’s work is giving everyone (a little randomly, I daresay) a Fatboy beanbag chair. Am very excited about the comfort possibilities this presents.

St patty's gone bust

2009-03-17T13:01:00.000-07:00

St Patty’s Day has been a total bust. Wandered thru town all day today trying to find either Guinness, Baileys, or green cupcakes. Barring those, looked for green icing (or white icing plus green food colouring) but also to no avail. Very sad… Finally found Guinness at an “Everything British” store, but were 3EUR a bottle and as I don’t even like Guinness, there was no way I was gonna pay that! It was nice, however, to speak with a British shopkeeper. In many ways I feel like I do in stores in Montreal – apologetic for being English. In Montreal this anglophone guilt is lessened by the fact that I can and do speak French, but here, I feel personal guilt of English cultural domination and wish to exempt myself from any claim to linguistic manifest destiny… Surely only a Canadian could be so apologetic.

Expats are good to find Pt 2

2009-03-13T02:12:00.001-07:00

Pete and I spent the weekend with a curious lot who we are growing to love – a Canadian logician (theoretical, not applied, don’t you know), a (singing) British radio chemist, and a sweetheart of a Dutch freelance journalist. The Canadian, Spenser comes from the Greater Toronto Area and I was surprised how quickly I identified and felt grateful for his Canadianisms... British Lyn the radio chemist is generously aware that things here are even more perplexing for us in Holland than they are for him; and he helpfully explains all manner of European trivia (more of this to come below).

Spenser spearheaded an epic (his words, not mine!) roast of apple and prune stuffed duck for us all on Saturday night. The outcome of this culinary feat had to wait for Sunday, however because, after microwaving the thing (they call it a magnetron here!!) and baptizing it in boiling water, we still couldn’t defrost it on time for same night prep.

We therefore spent Saturday watching the Irish (?) TV series “Father Ted” on DVD as introduced to us by British Lyn. It’s an offbeat situation comedy depicting the lives of three somewhat naïve, rather repressed Irish Catholic priests living together on a remote island off the west coast of Ireland. Um, weird. Weird and strangely enjoyable. Really, very funny…check it out if you get a chance.

One particular bizarre and hilarious episode centers around the Eurovision contest, an annual competition held in Europe (not only the EU) in a bid to foster greater European unity. From what I can tell, however, much of it all disintegrates into kitsch, controversy and tears for all involved; it is generally thought of as a bit of a joke in Western European countries. This particular Father Ted episode sees our Irish priests entering the contest with the following self-composed song, delivered almost entirely in one single note:

My Lovely Horse

My lovely horse, running through the field
Where are you going, with your fetlocks* blowing in the wind?

I want to shower you with sugar lumps, and ride you over fences
Polish your hooves every single day, and bring you to the horse dentist

My lovely horse, you're a pony no more
Running around with a man on your back, like a train in the night

* fetlocks, I believe, form part of a horse’s leg bone and, as such have difficulty ‘blowing in the wind’...

You really must see the Utube clip of the song and attendant dream sequence music video:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZQmIWMwKCtA&feature=related

Speaking of horses, and any parts thereof, a day prior to all this I had prepared horsemeat sausage for Pete. I had obtained it on an outing with a friend during which our only goal was to find the free ferrying system and ride the waves wherever they may lead. They took us across the harbour for a disappointing three minutes’ worth of ride (but it was a free three minutes!!! And if you went back and forth a number of times it could be a nice long cruise!) to North Amsterdam wherein sprawls a worrying mix of port refuse, industry and almost-suburbia-box stores. One might say we set out on an epic quest (though I wouldn’t) and that we were greatly disillusioned. The discovery of the horsemeat, however, and the free sample that sealed the deal did make up for the letdown considerably.

Incidentally, Spenser has offered to mastermind future preparations of out of the ordinary animal meats. I am a bit worried by British Lyn’s eagerness to cook swan next time. Apparently it’s out of the question in Britain, the regency having claimed all swan in British waters as belonging solely to their own person…

Expats are good to find

2009-03-12T15:46:00.002-07:00

It’s all well and good to go for full immersion in a new culture, but I have found such joy meeting expats in this multinational city. I’ve just come home (slightly tipsy, in fact) from a fantastic dinner with a fellow Canadian I met at a recent book club (held at Waterstone’s: “The source for Books in English” as the ad line has it). It turns out we both did our undergrads in Montreal and trained for Secondary teaching at the Ontario Institute for Studies in Education. Moreover, as the evening wrapped up, we realized we take the same tram (aboveground light rail- excellent system) home; get off at the same stop; and…wait for it…live on the same street. We had first rate conversation and made plans to do more together.

I’ve been reflecting that it stands to reason that the expats who find themselves drawn to living abroad and to this city in particular are likely to be kindred souls on some level. For starters, a measure of adventure is likely to be shared. Perhaps I will resolve to guilt myself less about all the foreign nationals I’ve met in proportion to native Amsterdammers and simply enjoy the fantastic range of individuals I am meeting on a daily basis. They do constitute an entire third culture (or many layers thereof, if you prefer).

As I’ve mentioned, I’ve been spending much of my time sitting in cafés reading and writing poetry etc. I’ve neglected thus far to mention all the varied people I’ve met at these cafes. There’s the Greek man with a Bulgarian/Polish/German/Dutch partner (she speaks all of the above, plus English) who has given me excellent travel advice. There’s an extraordinarily intuitive musician (an artist, really, in the broadest sense) originally from New Zealand with whom I have begun some collaboration, and the sweet Dutch man with his South Carolinian wife who work with the city’s down and out. I have been blessed by these lives and am grateful for the different kinds of light they shine on my life as I engage in my daily navel gazing! If traveling doesn’t change a person in their essence, the mere fact of a broadened perspective must make a person more gracious, more able to love, more aware of areas for growth. Again, I am grateful for all those I’ve met thus far.

More must be said about the café itself in which I find myself so often during the week. But I don’t feel like writing about that right now, as I am sleepy!

Concerning apartments

2009-03-12T04:44:00.000-07:00

When it rains the apartment here smells of cat urine but it's cozy. The place--our temporary flat-- feels like an old cabin in cottage country: the ones built in the 70s with leaks and stains on the ceiling. For a while we mistakenly believed that the place was rather run down. Quite the opposite, however; this 1970s cabin of ours is highly desirable. It boasts three bedrooms, one of which has been added to the back (we are on the ground floor so the room can run out into the
small backyard). At bedtime cats in heat wail on the roof directly above our bed. Am reminded of Eliot's Prufrock.

I asked a friend who has skylights in his room whether he can see the stars here at night. He believes he might would the clouds only oblige him and disperse. Most nights I can't see much of the moon, myself; when it shows, more often than not it's watery and diffuse. I recently saw a one-in-a-lifetime special exhibit of Van Gogh's night paintings; I think the skies of his homeland haunted him as they do haunt me. A singer friend of mine who lives on the fourth floor (the tallest level of most buildings here) tells me that nature bares itself to her through the skies here...there is little grass and forest...but the sky is a entity to be reckoned with, as it is in the prairies back home.

It's wet here and cold, and somehow eases what went before. I am grounded in this country. My body, too, loves it, as my body loved Glastonbury. My water-husband, of course, feels more at home here than anywhere. The Thiessen crest shows a Tree planted near water -- Pete thinks he's always been trying to get back and plant himself by these (or any?) waters. It helps that the crest/family originates in the Netherlands. Am a long way from the plains of Western Canada...

We've finally found our own flat and are told we're lucky to have found it in so short a period; we cannot, however, move in until May. The location, I am told, is nice too. It's a two bedroom, but the second bedroom is tight and narrow -- kind of like in the condos they keep building back in Toronto, each buyer apportioned out her own personal matchbox of living space (why? i ask, why?).

Three weeks apple cheeks

2009-02-28T12:19:00.000-08:00

February 28

Well, we've been here three weeks now. And we still rather like it here! We're getting used to bigger differences like the shops being closed on Sundays (as a new friend from New Zealand puts it: good god, what third world country is this??) bakeries on every street corner (!), a grocery store monopoly (conspiracy??) and manic bikes everywhere. I now naturally look both ways before crossing streets as bikes can come from any direction, while cars can still be relied upon to come from just one. Come to think of it, scratch that: tiny cars can be found driving in the bike lanes sometimes. Oh, and one-way street signs are taken as suggestions only. So, er, looking both ways is an excellent means of ensuring longer life when in Amsterdam.

I can now get my tram tickets stamped correctly by the conductor with a certain degree of understandability and, barring correct stampage, hope to be allowed to plead non-fluency if ever I am caught by ticket checking police. I even have dealt with horrid washing machine repair men and overzealous North American evangelists to Amsterdam (as is hive of sin and villainy).

We plan to check out a few more apartments next week. Appartment hunting is is Very Difficult Task for all newcomers, made moreso because we only speak English and are assumed to be American. Apartments here are a depressing example of the law of supply and demand. But in the matrix, some laws can bent and some can be broken. (how do I get there??)

In all a very good three weeks progress.

We've noticed the kids here are extremely cheerful and outgoing. They give me little fist opening-and-closing waves as they are biked past the cafe windows where I sit. They are usually placed in a tiny seat just in front of the handlebars and are guarded by plastic windshields. Toddlers get their own bikes, but without pedals. They zoom along straddling the bikes thrusting forward with their feet.

Dutch little people are almost all chubby and apple cheeked. Parents seem take them everywhere and let them run around through the cafes etc. The little people make friends and get into all sorts of mischief. Pete and I were in stitches the other day watching a pair of newly made friends guard the cafe door and only let a chosen few go in or out. Recall a CBC interview re: parents in TO being frowned on for taking kids out in town. The UN has declared Holland the top country for happiest children. Take that, Toronto!