The Amsterdam Scrapbook

 

Tot morgen meneer

The eyes catch these words on your wall and life becomes a paper boat floating down the canal. 80’s disco music being optional. The mind asks, “Hoe gaat het met u?” as the boat glides by Lauriergracht passing under the bridge with baskets of red geranium hanging on the rails. There will be snow. Then there will be school children walking in pairs. Then there will be families dining out; the tables with fine cutlery set outside their houses on the curbside along the canals. All the time the coots will be patrolling the canals. Everything will be gezellig.

De appeltaart

There’s you, there’s me, there’s F and there’s D and we are always looking for something. Or more precisely, many different things but often they can all be summarized in one simple word– food. This Saturday we come looking for de appeltaart (met slagroom). Yes, the one. We find it somewhere near Noorderkerk. And we feel akin to the little golden haired boy on the back seat of a bicycle shaking his head in the gentle breeze, and the sun gets in our eyes.

Not the last supper

There are twelve of us sitting down to dinner. And that’s where the similarities begin and end. Later, in the early hours of the morning, I write in my diary– no two people (besides us) were of the same nationality. Isn’t that incredible! English is not the language of the world. Though it is English that in a large part helps our evening flow along.

M is flying back to Sao Paulo the next morning. N is going to ride his bicycle all the way to Barcelona. From Amsterdam to Barcelona! Someone is handing G a Heineken coaster. She flips to the plain side and in a few pen strokes sketches the gist of the night. Chicken and conversation. Food and friendship. Soon all the art people join in.

Some hours later while clearing the table the waitress places the upturned coasters side by side. They form a square 4X4 grid. There’s a story in it somewhere. She stares at them for a few minutes. But the opening sentence, that all too crucial beginning, eludes her. She goes back to wiping the tables.

I look at my plate. Still life with crumbled feta and asparagus. J too is looking at my plate. In fact has looked at it more than once. Aren’t you going to eat that? His Swedish side asks a question that is a precursor to another more pertinent one that his Argentinean side is waiting to ask (or is it the other way round?). But it remains unsaid. Go ahead, I smile.

We will meet again a few days later when the city is painted orange. Compelled by who knows which side, he’ll try to push me into the Prinsengracht. But that’s a different story altogether.

The Bench

There is wine, there are two wine glasses, there is takeaway in paper bags, there are three swans gliding past the houseboats, there is the canal burnished gold, there are the seagulls flying above the spires of the Westerkerk, there are boats and more boats, there is the sound of bicycles going down the cobbled street, there are girls in heels on the bicycles, there is a young man whistling a song that one has heard many times before, there is a glorious day coming to a close; it is summer in Jordaan and a hundred steps away from our front door a bench, the best seat in town, waits.

The Moonlight

Tiny bulbs sparkle along the arches of the bridge. The water is pitch black. Tiny yellow drops of light drip softly and melt into the dark. The streets are full of people. The people, the streets, the gingerbread houses all meld into black. Just to the left of the Westerkerk tower the moon hangs like a silver bowl. An enormous silver bowl. Unreal. This could be a dream. This is a dream. The bells of the church chime the midnight hour.

Of smoked eels and a happy life

So you are at a party. It’s an after dinner affair where you get to drink red wine and nibble on cheese, savouries and in this particular one, a huge chocolate cake. It’s August in Amsterdam and so naturally everyone is joyous and extremely sociable. And you are enjoying a pleasant conversation with two affable Dutch men. The interest and appreciation on both sides is mutual. And the talk moves across places, cultures and ages touching upon many a wondrous thing that would be better chronicled in a well-written book not too long maybe around 300 pages.

Among other marvelous things the conversation dwells upon the subject of eels. Smoked eels to be precise. Beside the smell and the flavour the word invokes a vivid memory. Visions of little Dutch villages, windmills, tulips and other such clichés and buckets of eels. Caught by the father and cleaned by a neighbour for 10 cents per eel and later smoked in the backyard under the father’s strict supervision. But that was some sixty plus years back. Now the seventy four year old sister climbs four flights of stairs with a small 500 gm bundle of smoked eels. And when he opens the door she offers him the package and almost out of breath whispers, “Happy Birthday.”

And then the two men start chuckling. “I hate smoked eels,” the one who is the brother says, “had too many in my childhood. Now I just want to have a long life.” And so the conversation pleasantly moves on along the Lauriergracht.

Aan de Amsterdamse grachten

Acrylic on canvas

Along Amsterdam’s canals there are gingerbread houses some crooked and iced white. The smell of amaryllis, little whiffs in the air. A bicycle hand painted red and yellow with plastic lilies and roses trailing from its basket. Orange cap and an orange balloon against a blue sky. An infant riding back saddle with his hair blowing in the wind. The peozenboot, carrying stray cats to a happily ever after. Grey clouds and pink clouds and brilliant blue skies. Van Gogh and tulips and sunflowers and their vision of perfection. Where the coots and the ducks come home to roost. Cows and hens and windmills tin glazed and painted blue and white. The music of church bells. And a million lights dancing upon the water in step with its tune.

Along Amsterdam’s canal there is beauty that brings a smile to the eyes and a song to the heart.

As Wim Sonneveld sang,
Aan de Amsterdamse grachten, heb ik heel mijn hart voor altijd verpand...
I have pledged my heart forever to the canals of Amsterdam…

(For Barbara and the thousands of Amsterdammers who sang along on a beautiful night at the end of the Princengracht concert accompanied by dancing fairy lights .)

A year in the life

(click on image to enlarge)

How should we measure a year?
By months, hours or memories held dear.
By what could have been and what became
Or maybe that shouldn’t be the aim.
A year is, a year was
With all its beauty and its flaws
Ours, your and mine
So, lets not categorize it, nor define.