dutch masters, ribs and self-pity

 

As one of Van Gogh’s neighbors, it would be remiss to visit Amsterdam and not see his museum.  Museumplein, home of the Rijks and Van Gogh Museums,  is a few blocks away, so I slip out before the Kellys are up.

I remember the Van Gogh museum from my last and only visit 20 years ago as the most spectacular museum ever. Max advises me that it sucks compared to the Rijks.   He also corrects my pronunciation of “Van Gogh”  (sounds like “Van go”)  with a harder slightly Germanic, totally Dutch “Van G-ahck,” which sounds like it’s stuck in his throat.   But he’s right.   Van Gogh was Dutch, after all.

I hate to admit that Max’s 8 year old impression of the Van Gogh museum is more sophisticated than my 20 year old memory, but he was sort of right about that too.    I love Van Gogh’s art but the crowd flow is awful. The lighting is dismal. And most unforgivable of all, the Auvers portion is scant.   But the fourth floor makes it all worthwhile.  It’s more personal, with his letters, sketches as well as  Van Gogh’s attempts at copying other artists’ paintings. It’s kind of like watching U2 cover Dylan, the Beatles, Jimi Hendrix, Cole Porter , and so on. I especially like Van Gogh’s interpretation of Japanese prints.

Van Gogh does Hiroshige

 

portrait of van gogh by gauguin

There’s also Van Gogh’s art collection, consisting of gifts from other artists as well as trades.    Some wonderful portraits and self portraits of and by various artistic icons.

But here’s the real surprise as far as Amsterdam museums go. I like Rembrandt. A lot. I always thought he was dark and dreary, but he’s pretty awesome. The way he captures light seems almost magical.

When you’re up close and personal every line has power. And his subjects’ faces express more still than most peoples’ faces express in motion. (and I’m not just talking about botox users). I wonder where he died. Maybe I can go live there next. I run a quick check and find he died in Amsterdam. I can deal with that. I’ll become a dead artist groupie. My specialty will be Dutch artists, which will necessitate long stays in Amsterdam.

 

And speaking of  Dutch masters, who knew their spareribs would be timeless works of art?     Not your basic barbeque sauced to death American ribs. Perfectly seasoned lean but juicy spareribs made in a dark Dutch dive called the Klos, right off the leiderhosensplane. We ate outside, practically on the street where Max could practice his unicycle in between courses. Pretty blissful.

On my final day, Blake, Al and I go to the Oudekerk (old church in Dutch) to see a display of the top world news press photos.

In the 1300′s they started burying people under the church and there are over 10,000 people underfoot.   Some still haven’t been identified.   The inscriptions are all over the smooth stone floors, which are works of art in themselves.   I almost miss the art on the walls completely

Photo taken by Trey Ratcliff fromstuckincustoms.com.   Check out all his pictures of Amsterdam.

Some of the photographs are pretty stirring. Particularly the Iraq war widows and earthquake victims –those poor Afghanis just can’t catch a break. But for some reason, the photos of the evacuation of Gaza stir me up. Look at these religious nutjobs rending their clothes and wailing at God about the inhumanity of it all because they’re being evicted from their illegally obtained homes and getting PAID by the government to leave.

They aren’t fighting for their own survival even, yet they’re acting like they’re the only ones whose suffering should matter.

What about the Iraq war widows who lost their husbands for the wrong cause? What about the people in Darfur who face unspeakable horrors on a daily, no, hourly basis and keep going. How about the Iraqis? Or the Afghanis who have known nothing but war, famine, earthquakes and just about every other curse that can be put on a people, and these stupid settlers are just being relocated and you’d think it’s the holocaust revisited.

What is wrong with those settlers? Isn’t it time they get a grip and realize that they don’t have it so bad?

When we leave the church the sun is shining and I’m feeling lucky to be living in France and visiting friends who are living in Amsterdam.

And just at that moment, a cloud skittles across the sun and I feel a chill of fear.

I vaguely recollect that something’s not right in the world.

Oh yeah, I almost forgot.  I lost my apartment in NYC.   All my stuff is being moved into storage this weekend (a place called ASS storage in New Jersey, which seems very appropriate).   In four months I’ll be homeless.   It’s costing me a fortune in moving and storage costs alone(at least the Gaza settlers got paid to leave).  Mentally, I’m rending my clothes and wailing to the heavens: ‘Why must I bear such a burden? When will it end? Why me?’

observing another culture

I don’t often get a chance to spend a prolonged period of time with children Max and Maddie’s age. I find myself observing them in much the same way I watch people from a culture foreign to me– like the Dutch, or the French or Arabs or men.

Within seconds of meeting, Max volunteers that that Maddie can’t be trusted with scissors. She cuts everything in sight. Including her own hair. Her ponies do not have the haircuts they came with. Some have fringe. Some have large pieces chopped out of their manes like punk rockers while others have nicely feathered Farrah Fawcett 1970s looks.   Maddie sweetly agrees with Max, telling me she isn’t allowed to go near the grown up scissors any more. Then she coyly wonders aloud where the grown up scissors might be right now and if maybe I could figure it out.  She poses this almost as a challenge, but I’m not biting.

Max’s specialty is the unicycle. He’d been trying to master it for months unsuccessfully. But once Al offered him a Playstation to ride it, he was up and going within days. Now he fully appreciates the benefits of his skill. When we take a walk through the park (we walked, he rode), tourists were pointing their cameras at him, not the scenery. If worst comes to worse, put a tin cup in Max’s hand, put him on the unicycle in a touristed area and the Kellys could have a nice supplemental income.  Hmmm, maybe I should’ve had kids.

Like most kids, they’d prefer it if you paid 100% attention to them. But if you don’t, they happily go on their merry way, making a gnome out of an evian bottle, or serenading a dozen toy ponies. Leave them alone for long enough and they’d probably come up with the cure for AIDS. Or at the very least, build an army of colorful paper mache soldiers and their faithful pastel ponies.

When Maddie puts all her ponies into her backpack and zips them up, I overhear a conversation amongst at least eight ponies, each reacting to being put in the backpack in its own way. Some were frightened, while others soothing. It didn’t sound all that different from my inner voices.

And while kids may have very short attention spans, they can cling to a word or phrase and never tire of it. I hear Maddie repeat the phrase, “Hey, I have an idea”, at least 16 times to no one in particular before one of us got distracted and stopped counting.

Both Max and Maddie have the most astonishing ability to turn virtually anything into treasure. Max, Al and I went on the canal boat tour. As I watched and marveled at the beautiful buildings, bridges, and churches, Max was oooohing and ahhhhing behind me. I turned to share the moment and realized that he was oooooohing and ahhhhhing at a blob of really gross garbage bobbing in our wake. Max would LOVE New York.

Maddie on the other hand, fixates on my dental floss. She asks me if she can borrow it and promises to be very careful with it. Later, after Blake and Al put them to bed, Al asks me what the deal is with the dental floss. Apparently, Maddie listened to her bedtime story and drifted off to sleep, curled up with my little plastic box of dental floss as if it were the most precious, cuddly gift in the world. People anguish over what to give kids and turns out they’re perfectly happy with dental floss and some garbage. I’m sure there’s a moral here.

I guess when you think about it, being a kid is a lot like being a foreigner. You don’t understand the language. You tend to repeat words and phrases you know over and over and over. And the most basic things and actions seem new to you.

I apply this theory to myself and it works. Most of the time I don’t understand a thing people are saying to me. I’m totally repetitive –  Merci. bon journee. Merci, bon journee. Merci, bon jour….Even here in the Netherlands, I find myself repeating the only word of Dutch I know (stroopen—syrup) over and over and over and over to the point of distraction.

Now, if I could just experience that same joy in mundane, things Max and Maddie seem to have. Maybe then I’d be happy.

But I’m too tired to think about that right now. I curl up with a package of Stroopwafels, my new favorite cookie in the whole wide world, and drift off to sleep.

aimless in amsterdam

Today I’m going to tackle Amsterdam on my own.

Blake shows me the map and points at all the straats, gradts and pleins and tells me where they lead to. I nod like I have a clue what she’s talking about.

One of the things I like to do in a new city (and Amsterdam is for all intents and purposes, new to me), is to go out and wander going whichever direction looks coolest and then figure out where I was on a map later. I’ve tried plotting a day on the map beforehand, but the end result (getting lost) is always the same, so why not just save on the preparation time?

The first thing I see that leads me to believe I’m heading in the wrong direction are huge parking garages in modern buildings. So I turn right. This is a lovely little treelined, area with canals and a lot of the signs say “Jordan”, but I don’t know why. I start seeing little bakerys, little cafes, little shops, little coffee shops. more canals and know I’m headed in the right direction.

I’m starting to notice something unusual…men are checking me out. Men of all ages, not just the decrepit ones. Not only that, a lot of them look really good. One of them is breathtaking (seriously, I can’t breathe when I pass him), with dark blondish hair and smoldering blue eyes. I can even overlook the fact that he’s a bum he’s so gorgeous.

I start to think maybe there’s hope for the old girl after all. Maybe there’s a chance I will have sex again in my life time. I mean maybe there’s a chance I’ll have sex in my lifetime, mom. Of course, I’ll have to move to Amsterdam, but hey, I’m homeless. I’ll tie my belongings to a stick, hop a train and find a refrigerator box. Actually a stove box might be better, it gets cold up here.

I find myself in a pedestrian zone with a whole bunch of little shops, but for some reason, I don’t like it. I walk quickly up the street towards what turns out to be a big square with a church with a big “kiev” poster out front, Madame Tussauds and some other huge building. I head back towards the canals where it’s more peaceful.

But I’m growing weak with hunger. And I have no idea where a good place to eat is. I stop at every place and stare, too faint and indecisive to go in. Finally I choose a little outdoor place on a corner by a canal because the sandwiches look delicious and so does the guy sitting outside having a coffee. I sit down next to him and he smiles and says hello in Dutch. Dang, I wish I knew some dutch. I smile back and not knowing what else to do, look for something in my camera bag. He returns to his newspaper. He helps me order. I thank him and look for something in my camera bag. He helps me order dessert. I thank him and look for something in my camera bag. The sandwich is quite delicious. I wish I could remember the name of the place, but I’ll just refer to it as the good sandwich place with the cute guy I could’ve had if I only knew Dutch. I refuse to even consider the possibility that he was nice to me as one is nice to an elderly lady who is having problems. I smile and say goodbye to him, and search my camera bag one last time.

Fortified, I hit the canals.

I remember seeing the Amsterdam historical museum nearby and head in what I believe is the direction. I wind up walking by a coffee shop the Dutch guy on the train recommended—Abraxas (at least that’s what I think he said, who can tell with those accents?). I decide to check it out, despite the fact I feel a little weird going in alone. I sit down and self-consciously survey the surroundings and clientele. It’s very casual with people from all walks of life. Some rasta types, college backpacker types, Ed Begley Jr types and regular old tourist types. Before I know it, I’ve become best friends with the people at the next table. They’re three alums from the Thunderbird school of business who are having their annual reunion in Amsterdam. All three of them live in London and all work in investment banking in one capacity or another. Jessica wants to quit and become a writer and meeting me is some sort of signal from the universe. Is the universe signaling me to become an investment banker?

When I find myself in a jewelry store with them picking out a necklace for Lloyd’s new girlfriend of three months (but he thinks it’s serious), I know it’s time to go to the museum.

I find my way to the museum with the skill of a local. And promptly get lost in the museum. 

The Amsterdam historical museum doesn’t contain art per se. It displays things pertaining to Amsterdam’s history. Some of the displays are sort of interactive, like a recreated 15th century room that the visitor can enter in and make themselves at home for a moment. During the Anne Frank portion of the museum, I stand in front of a roped off section contemplating it’s meaning. Is it a display showing how the Jews were isolated? Turns out it’s just a roped off portion of the museum. When I realize my mistake, I laugh out loud—probably not the best thing to do in the Anne Frank section.

After the people who give me dirty looks pass, I somehow lose my sense of direction. I feel like I’m in one of those crazy houses where all the planes don’t meet perpendicularly. I pass another roped off portion, and see two Japanese people on the other side, one riding a standing bike (a display, I believe), the other taking her picture. Are they a display? If they’re a display, why are they Japanese? Wouldn’t they be Dutch? Unless the display was about when the Japanese came here after world war II. Did the Japanese come here during WW II? I read the description babout how the bike riding thing in Holland started out as a playful protest against gridlock. Maybe the fact that the Japanese are riding the bike is a playful response to the onslaught of Japanese automobiles in the world?

I can’t stand it any more and ask the Japanese point blank if they’re a part of the display. I interpret their look of confusion, surprise and horror as an inability to speak English. Of course, it’s entirely possible their reaction is based on the fact that they DO speak English.

Their shocked, confused, horrified reaction shocks, confuses and horrifies me to the point that I lurch off in the opposite direction, like a drunk on a floor that’s shifting.

I find three plastic chairs in the next room. They’re facing a TV screen. Peace at last. I sit down and watch the screen. It seems to be a list of destinations and departure times. I look at all the cool destinations and I wish I was going somewhere cool and exotic. Ah, Madrid, Casablanca, Bangkok. Rio. Finally I realize I’m sitting in a display about Schipnol airport and I already AM someplace cool.

I feel as though I’ve been in the museum an eternity. I finally find my way out and stumble out into the light of day. It’s almost 4:30, so I head back towards Al and Blake’s. Through the bloomenmarket (the flower market) and the red light district, where scantily clad women (I think they’re women) stand in the window and try to sell their rather unattractive wares. I consider this might be a career opportunity for me since my old body still looks much better than most of these bodies for sale. But when I see a hooker gesture to a prospective client “five euros”, I decide advertising pays better.

Once again, I realize I’ve made a wrong turn and head in the opposite direction.

I fall in love about four more times before I get back to the apartment. I reverse direction about six.

Later that evening, as Al, Blake and I wander the streets and canals at twilight, I think Amsterdam truly is like Disneyland for adults. I expect to hear children singing “it’s a small world after all” around the next corner. Instead, we find a restaurant named Barok. I have perfect pink lamb with couscous and this amazing layered pancake dessert (these Dutch know their pancakes).  I don’t know if it was the lack of potatoes, or the “coffee” I had earlier, but it was one of the best meals I’ve ever had.

the light at the end of the staircase

Al has been a friend for over 10 years. We were partners in crime at my last full time ad agency. Not that we committed any crimes, mind you. We just did anything we could think of to entertain ourselves and avoid facing the blank page.

It was a short time, but we were together at the office every minute we weren’t working (and many we should have been). It was kind of like being married at the office, without the sex and doing laundry. He moved to California and we kept in touch. I haven’t seen him much, but over the years he has employed my brother, helped my dad teach a marketing class and lodged my niece.

Since we worked together, he got married and had 2 -1/2 kids (one on the way) They moved to Amsterdam about 9 months ago so Al could be a big shot at this year’s hot ad agency. During that same time, I quit my job, didn’t get married and am about to become technically homeless. We’ve come a long way, baby.

Al and I used to have contests over who was most pathetic (the winner being the one who was most pathetic). I kind of figure that Al will still be my friend no matter how big a loser I am. In fact, the bigger a loser I am, the more respect I garner. I guess I should have gotten in touch with him sooner.

There’s nothing pathetic about his street or building.

I don’t know why, but I feel like Mary Poppins about to meet Jane and Michael Banks as I ring the bell. The door opens and I climb a daunting, really long, narrow stairway up towards a bright light that puts the adult and two children at the top of the stairs in silhouette. I wish I had Mary Poppins’ umbrella, this is a lot of stairs. I squint, trying to make out if the grown up is Blake or Al or a baby sitter.

When I reach the top, Max, seven years old comes forward and introduces himself (very Michael Bank’s like), holding out his hand to shake mine. He’s more polite than any 45 year old man I know. And a thousand times cuter. I guess I’ll be too old when he’s of consenting age (like I’m not too old now).

Maddie, who is three says hello and asks me if I want to play.

Turns out the adult present is the English babysitter, who gives me the rundown. Al’s gonna be late, he has a pitch, Blake is on her way back from the doctor and that she (the babysitter) thinks Gatto, who is Blake’s 18 year old, three legged cat, is evil. The baby sitter whispers that sometimes when it’s dark and the kids are asleep she hears the thump, thump of his walk upstairs and feels like she’s in a horror movie and the cat is coming to get her.

The apartment is huge, two floors, high ceilings, big windows overlooking the park on one side and gardens and rooftops on the other. It’s not over decorated, just homey and lived in.

Maddie shows me her ponies and I know this is going to be great. This is the perfect place for me to leave all that New York junk behind. I can forget about lawyers and people out to make a quick buck and concentrate on what’s important. Enjoying life and friends.

The front door opens and we run to the top of the steps to see who’s coming. It’s Blake. Very pregnant and handling those stairs like she’s not.

My first thought is how will they get her down if she goes into labor up here? My second is to wonder how much I can get if I fall down the stairs and sue them?

muddying the lingual waters

Maybe it was stupid going to a Dutch/German speaking country just as I was getting the hang of French. To my ear, Dutch is a combination of German and something Scandanavian. I can’t even attempt it for fear of bludgeoning their language to the point of being insulting. I’m still not sure if thank you is Dank ooo or Dank oh (spelled phonetically). And forget any sort of greeting. The words refuse to stick in my brain, let alone roll (or even drip slowly and painfully) off my tongue.

I manage the train up from Gare du Nord with a fair amount of confidence. Found my train, bought my ticket, no problem except the price which seemed more like a plane fare it was so high (about $300).

The train is surprisingly comfy. I sleep between France and Brussels (a mere 90 minutes), waking up every now and then to notice the beautiful green countryside and smile at the young man sitting next to me, reading a book in English. Brussels looks boring. Antwerp doesn’t. The minute we cross the border from Belgium to Holland the first I thing I notice is an onslaught of bike riders. It’s like a constant bike marathon on every street.

The background noise in the train is pretty much a low murmur of a couple of languages, all sounding kind of Germanic. But there was one voice that scared the hell out of me. It was female, loud and really heavy on the “chks”. She didn’t sound exactly German, in that her voice didn’t make me want to flee, but it did give my frown lines a good work out trying to figure out her accent. The young man next to me identified it as a Hague soccer mom accent, and sure enough, that’s where she got off, chomping her gum maniacally.

He spends the rest of the train ride trying to teach me how to pronounce Schipnol correctly, which is his stop. He is Dutch, has lived in Holland all his life, goes to college and works and wants to leave Holland more than anything because it’s so “flat” (said with despair in his voice). He wants to go somewhere with mountains. Of course, as he told me all this, I was thinking how cool it would be to live in Holland.

I look for a slum, but can’t find anything resembling one. I guess that must be Haarlem which isn’t on this line. I’ve since discovered that Haarlem is really nice. Who knew? There’s got to be a ghetto somewhere in this country!

Fours hours from Gare du Nord, I’m at Amsterdam Central train station (their Penn station).   It seems a manageable size. And not full of scary people as I feared. I find the machines for tram tickets.

I have directions to where I’m staying, but it makes no sense to me and doesn’t seem to correspond with the names on the ticket machines.

I know I can handle this…even though these people are all speaking Dutch (when I was last here 24 years ago, didn’t they all speak English? Is this the Bush administration’s fault?)

I go outside and ask a cab driver how much to Vosseustraadt. Well, I didn’t exactly ask anything, I just gestured wildly at the piece of paper with the street’s name on it.

The cab ride is like 20 euro and I know it’s not far enough to be worth 20 euro.,No way.

So I force myself back to the ticket machines and figure it out. The cost of a tram ticket is 1.60 Euro, way cheaper than the cab. I’m starting to feel a sense of purpose. There’s something so much more challenging about trying to accomplish something in a foreign language. And the rush when you actually communicate through the language barrier, is well worth the fear.

But I’m also feeling a sense of danger. These bikes are whizzing by everywhere. Now my purpose is to get on the 2 or 5 without getting maimed by a bicyclist. I see the number 5 across the way and get on. Oooooo, this is so exciting. I show the woman sitting next to me the address I’m going to and she nods. I have no idea where I am or where I’m going exactly and just hope somebody tells me when I get there. Meanwhile, I look at all the cool. shuttered buildings, little shops (nirvana), canals and people heading home from work. I try to remember the names of the streets we pass: somethingstraat, liederhosendenplein, wafflegrasse. Where am I going again? Vossiusstraat near hobbitgrasse or something

Just as we’re passing a very green park, the woman next to me nudges me and indicates this is my stop. I say “merci beaucoup” hoping I can fool her into thinking I’m french and get off.

I listen to the people talking in the park…a lot of harsh German sounds intermixed with northern oooos, but other languages blended in as well. At one point I’m thrilled because I understand everything this Dutch boy is saying (I must have been Dutch in a previous life). Turns out he was speaking English. Damnenstraat!.

I reach the number 29 and ring the doorbell. I’m not sure what to expect. I’m visiting my friend Al who I haven’t seen in years. What are his wife, kids and nanny like? God, I hope nobody here speaks Dutch.