All content on this blog is protected under copyright, unless indicated otherwise. If you would like to share something do so by linking here or email me.
I am on the back of a bike. The metal bars meant to hold a package, purse or bag of groceries, is painfully digging into my rear end. I'm in a delicate state of balance. The tips of my toes are on the short bar that runs horizontally to connect to the axel of the back wheel. One slip and my toes will jam into the spokes. Even though I can't see what direction we're heading I anticipate the turns and stops by memory. In about half a minute we'll reach the end of the bridge and have to stop. The light at the intersection is rarely green whenever we pass through. I know we look completely absurd and when I'm not terrified about falling off, getting my toes stuck in the wheel, or loosing my balance, I'm giggling uncontrollably. Because I'm also balancing between two states of hysteria. I have a song stuck in my head and Annina explains to me, over her shoulder and she pedals us forward, the expression Germans use for such occurrences: earworm.
Taken August 2010, my adventure in Brussels. I took pictures of this couple being cute together on their bikes before walking past them later being street musicians near Manneken Pis. See that little rack on which the pack of water bottles sit? That is where I would perch when riding on Annina's bike.
That was last year. Sometime in the fall. In Amsterdam. With my dearest au pair friend. Only recently has a certain nostalgia for aspects of my life in the Netherlands begun to make an appearance. It usually materializes in my thoughts when I'm not really thinking. When I feel mindless. Going through the motions of something I could probably do with my eyes shut if I could. (But I wouldn't because most of those occasions are when I'm driving home from somewhere.)
My list-making self should probably start making a list of the things I realize I miss. But I probably won't and instead I have a trick that works much better than that. I save playlists. If I don't blog about something, take a picture, or make allusions in my journal, there isn't really a place for certain moments, experiences, or emotions to exist except in my memory. And memories fade, change, and sometimes disappear all together. I still remember learning about an earworm and in that memory lies the exposition of this post.
I make and save playlists for nearly everything. I have a playlist from when I read Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows for the first time. One song per chapter. If I run out of ideas for titles I'll just date it. So, the one titled "4-20" really refers to the fact that I happened to compile it on the 20th day of April and, despite what you might think, has no other association to the number arrangement. I have a playlist of songs I like listening to from back in the day when I was obsessed with playing The Sims. I have one that would be the soundtrack if I was a character in Skins. But mostly it goes by seasons, or months, and years. Here is collection of songs from the playlists I created in Holland. These are not all the songs that hold memories or were frequently blaring from my Macbook speakers or iPod headphones. These are just the ones that when I listen to now still have a overpowering orange flavor. Or an orange after taste. Or an orange spice, if even for just an instant. Orange for Holland, of course.
"Black River" by Amos Lee
When I visited Västerås I made it a point not to listen to music while I was there. (The train ride to/from Stockholm being the exception) so that the memories would seep into me and my soul in a different (and hopefully deeper) way. But when the week was over I found songs that somehow corresponded to my trips. The river that runs through Västerås, which I walked by a few times on Kulturnatt and after yoga in the castle, is called the Black River.
"Where Do My Bluebirds Fly" by The Tallest Man on Earth
The Tallest Man on Earth, aka: Kristian Matsson, is from Dalarna, Sweden. (Which is where the branches from my mother's side of the family and my father's side of the family originated at some point.) I downloaded all of his albums and EPs literally as soon as I got back to Holland from Sweden. And I listened to him every chance I got for something like two weeks straight. I don't want to say I was obsessed because that makes it seem like I'm crazy but maybe I am. I'm still pretty crazy about him. Have you ever discovered a musician and just felt so deeply connected to them and what they were singing that it was like you've known them and been listening to them your entire life? Yeah, that is how I feel about him in a nutshell. Like we were meant to be. Him, my headphones, and my heart. I listened to this particular song on repeat for hours one night while journaling about the transformation I felt happening in my soul.
"Cocaine Lights" by Phosphorescent
I listened to this song as the train back to Purmerend pulled away from Centraal Station at 12:09am on October 17th. The first two stanzas seemed perfectly timed for how I felt then. I was thinking of how much I missed BFF Brandy. The line "to be less of meat and stone / And more of feather" especially because I will never forget the time she asked me when we were probably only 14 what it would be like if we had feathers instead of skin. And Pablo Neruda's (a poet we both fell in love with on the same day in a book store in Kansas when we were again probably about 14) "Love, We're Going Home Now" is one of our favorites because we often feel like two blind birds about two blind birds searching for our homes. That October night one of the fellow au pairs I had become friends with was going home to Spain and I realized then that I would eventually being saying good bye to all the girls I spent every weekend with and almost every day Facebooking. Somehow, that night was when it finally set-in that the places in my life were not the only factors that shaped me but the people as well. It made me realize that there are so many people who you encounter and befriend. They mean something to you at some point in your life. And then life goes on. People are constantly passing through our lives. Annina walked me to the train station that night, all the way up to my platform, because that is what we do. We always walked each other to our departure points. Leaving goodbye-until-next-time for the very last moment. That was also the night I rode my bike back to the village in the dark for the first time and the cocaine lights kept me warm.
"Little Lion Man" by Mumford and Sons
I had downloaded a free Tap Tap Revenge app on my iPod and played it to pass the time away while waiting for the train. This was the only free song on there that I liked. I think I played it at least 100 times and got all the way up to the most difficult level. I can't listen to this song now and not twitch my fingers to the guitar chords.
"Big Bird in a Small Cage" by Patrick Watson
This goes a long with the bird stuff in the explanation of "Cocaine Lights." I also feel like it belongs in the soundtrack to my entire life, not just my life in Holland. The meaning is fairly easy to grasp.
I'm trying something different this time. Instead of writing out my adventure as it went, from one moment to the next, I've organized my trip according to the places and tastes I enjoyed. No matter which format I use, it is impossible to tell you everything. So, forget about whatever you did this weekend and imagine me in Brussels. Allons-y!
Musée du Costume et de la Dentelle (Costume and Lace Museum)
This was at the top of my list of planned destinations during my weekend away. According to the internet it boasts a collection of clothing pieces from the 16th to the 19th centuries, but it does not have an official website so I really had no idea what would be on display until I arrived at the front desk: The Sixties. Although it is a small museum and only 3€ for entrance, I thought the exhibit to be very well designed and the free catalog a very handy guide while pacing between Dior, Givenchy, Yves Saint Laurent, Lanvin, Balmain, and many others. The two fashion/costume history classes I've taken were organized by century or decade, so it was easy for me to mentally situate myself before walking down the carpeted corridor leading to the first floor of display cases.
After the austere silhouettes and fabrics women wore during WWII, Christian Dior brought fashion into a new era during the 1950's with his "New Look." These garments used luxurious amounts of fabric for the mid-calf length skirts whose shape emphasized women's hips, while the fitted tops and jackets cinched the waist and broadened the shoulders. Women became impeccable, glamourous, pearl-wearing, glove-fingered images of perfection. Not a single hair was ever out of place. Not a fingernail with chipped polish. No wrist ever went without perfume. Then, as the introduction to the exhibit declares, "during the Sixties, women turned away from pencil skirts, tightly constricted waists, girdles and suspenders. Some of them even burned their bras in public. They won the right to wear trousers at any time of the day and in any circumstances, giving them the freedom to uncross their legs, take long strides, or sprawl back in comfortable sofas without worrying about it, as well as the right to show their knees and thighs, clad in multicolored tights, items of clothing which until then had been reserved for winter sports. This upsurge of freedom in clothing is perhaps the most immediately visible expression of a deep and irreversible movement in the evolution of the feminine condition in our western society."
Rue de la Violette 12
Expectedly, pictures were forbidden but I scribbled notes about my favorite pieces in the margins of the catalog, which also conveniently includes a short paragraph describing each garment and lists it's designer or creator.
On the top floor, in a low lit corner without windows, is the portion of the museum dedicated to the history of Belgian lace. I spent just as much time here, pulling out each display drawer and examining the sample lace spread neatly beneath a pane of protective glass, as I did observing the three floors of clothing and accessories.
Grand Place
This is the heart of Brussels and a must-see for anyone visiting the city. It is a square surrounded by a series of historically important buildings. The City Hall was built during the first half of the fifteenth century and is guarded by a statue of Saint Micheal slaying a dragon at the top of the tower. Directly across from the seat of municipal power is the Maison du Roi, built by the Duke of Brabant one hundreed years after the City Hall. On the other sides of the square the most powerful guilds of Brussels established their headquarters in lines now collectively called the Guild Houses. The large space in between was used as a market place until 1959. Naturally, it was full of tourists no matter what time of day I walked through. At night the atmosphere was more genuine as everyone was charged with energy, waiting around for the lights to turn on. Some people sat on blankets while others (like me) perched on the front ledge of the Maison du Roi smoking cigarettes or (like me) devouring Belgian waffles soft with chocolate sauce.
A parade in Grand Place.
Grand Place at night.
Maison du Roi.
Guild Houses
City Hall
Manneken Pis
After Grand Place, this little fountain is Brussel's next iconic site. The name probably gives it away and any assumption you have was probably right. It is a small fountain with a statue of a little peeing boy. It was put into place around 1618 and now on certain days of the year petit Julien, as he is called in French, is dressed in various costumes according to certain holidays or cultural events. I'm sure up close he is adorable but it is hard to want to look at him very long since he very openly doing his business right in your direction.
There are a handful of legends surrounding the historical significance of the boy. The most exciting is that as foreign invaders prepared to enter Brussels and besiege it, a little boy was spying on them from the bushes on the outskirts of the city. As soon as he saw them light the fuse for the opening attack he ran up and peed on it to put it out, thus saving Brussels from destruction. The more sentimental story is that a wealthy merchant let his son go missing. Once he realized the result of his carelessness he sent out troops of men to scour the city for his beloved heir. The young boy was found safe and sound, peeing happily in a small garden.
Galeries de Saint-Hubert
Just north of Grand Place is a glass covered shopping gallery of luxury shops. I only walked down the long, chilly corridor twice which was enough for me. The window displays were too enticing and the price tags too steep.
There is a craft market outside and a touch east of the Galeries. I made my way from stand to stand in the hope of finding something to buy and take back home for my mom and godmother but instead I bought something for myself. There was an old man and his slightly-younger-than-middle-age son selling perfume. I really only intended to smell one or two then move on but the owner (which is the son - his dad just helps out) was so nice and undemanding that I let myself linger. It was refreshing to meet a salesman who was not intent on striking a deal with me by trying to convince me to buy whatever ridiculously over-priced items he so persuasively shoves in anyone's face. The perfumer simply explained how he puts together scents, the differences between an eu de toilette and a perfume, and the oil-alcohol ratio of his recipe. He had a diagram of his 100 blends which listed each scent's primary components. I like lily and sandalwood so I looked up which perfumes had those in the mix and then chose one from there. I walked away with 10€ less in my purse but a charming heart shaped bottle of perfume from Brussels. I'll just have to find something for my dear mother and godmother in some other city.
Musées royaux d'art et d'histoire (Museum of Art and History)
After checking out of my hotel on Sunday, I hopped on the metro in the direction of Parc du Cinquetenaire. It is only a handful of stops away from Grand Place but my feet were far too sore for me to even consider walking. I strolled through the entire park before noon, then turned back to find the entrance to the museum. I wasn't as excited as I was for the costume museum but when I turned the corner to the open front doors my breath caught in my throat. All because of one word: MEDICI.
In case you didn't know, I have a great love for the Italian Renaissance. Specifically in Florence. And specifically concerning the Medici family. The museum was hosting a temporary exhibit created by the artist Isabelle de Borchgrave who creates clothing out of paper. Her latest venture was a recreation of some of the garments the most famous members of the Medici family wore. Botticelli's Minerva and Primavera figures were a bonus. Again, pictures were forbidden but this video from the exhibit's website provides a fair visual.
Just like the time in Amsterdam when I wandered into a museum with an exhibit about ancient Roman sea ports, I felt fated to find the Medici in Brussels the same time as me. I've been thinking a lot lately about going back to Florence. But I think it would break my heart again to have to leave it again. So for a little less than an hour, with Isabelle's crafted gowns around me, I let myself pretend I was back there again.
After saying goodbye to my beloved Lorenzo I shuffled up, down, and around the museum's other wings. The guide at the front of the museum who greeted me explained everything in French. He must have mistaken me for a French woman, which was perfectly fine with me. But even though I made shortly sweet replies of "oui", "bonne", and "Je comprends," I really didn't understand much of what he was telling me. I couldn't find the ancient Greek and Roman artifacts. I think it was closed because all the stairs to the third floor were roped off. I got lost in the European decorative arts section. (Going in circles gets old after the second lap.) And then I crossed through the museum shop to the Non-European area knowing I wouldn't be able to last much longer without food. It was probably a good thing though that I saw all the South American shrunken heads and their terrifying statues on an empty stomach. By the time I had finally moved through India and China I decided to skip North America and Canada. It was time for the sunshine again. And food.
Beer, Chocolate, and Other Delicacies
Usually when I'm traveling alone I avoid eating at sit-down restaurants. But in Brussels I felt better about sitting down by myself and enjoying a meal. For an early dinner on Saturday I had a green salad, quatro fromaggio penne, and a few glasses of table wine for less than 20€ at an Italian place on a street near Saint-Hubert. Then a slice of New York style pizza in Grand Place later that night after tasting some beer, which is one of Belgium's specialties. Lindeman's blueberry was my favorite.
De Bier Tempel - only a block above Grand Place with beers half the price of the other shops.
My first purchase in the city, not even an hour after checking into my hotel, was some chocolate: a 250 grams sample box, a bar of white, and a package of individually wrapped mini-bars. I devoured the box in my hotel room Saturday evening while resting up before setting out again to see the lights of Grand Place.
On Sunday, after the history museum, I sat down for some steak frites, a popular Belgian dish. Just in case you didn't already know, french fries actually originated from Belgium. The ones I tried were something like ten times the size and thickness of fries in the States. And they actually tasted like they were made from potatoes. Sauce cost extra.
Traveling by Train
I love trains, train stations, and riding trains. There is something about it that still feels somewhat old fashioned. Even though it takes longer than flying and can sometimes be more expensive depending on the circumstances I think it is one of the best ways to get somewhere. To make my train out of Amsterdam on time I had to be up and out the door by 6:30am to ride my bike to Purmerend and take the 7:10 train to the city.
The platform was already overflowing with people when I arrived about 20 minutes prior to departure time. It was a free for all for seats and I'm glad I only had a purse and an overnight bag because the people with larger luggage had to haul themselves up and into the train last. So while I was already snuggled into a window seat they were still struggling to get up off the platform.
The train back was a whole other story. It was an older train with, as you can see in the picture below, outdated interior and a strange musty smell. It was not as crowded as the other train - I had to share a car with four other people at most. Only one of which actually rode all the way to Amsterdam like me and didn't get off on any of the stops in between. And then by the time I got to Amsterdam Centraal I still had to take another train to Zandaam and exchange there for Purmerend. All of this wore me down even more than I was already, so by the time I got onto my bike I was peddling like a cripple all the way back to the house.
At last, I have something to write about that doesn't involve the children or my secret homesickness. Yesterday, I went into Edam to explore on my own. My bike route turns through a corner of the town's residential outskirts but I really had no idea how to get to the city center by bike. The map in my Netherlands book and the ones I found on the internet were not helpful. I figured the only way I could get there was if I just swallowed my pride and accepted the task of looking like a lost tourist for the afternoon. So, I rode to the corner at the end of the bike path and just kept going instead of turning around.
I followed the signs for Noord-Edam and just continued in that general direction. I crossed a busy round about, concentrating on not hitting a patch of gravel or being hit by a car. Then the pavement changed to uneven, stone streets. I passed a group of people around my age speaking English to each other with British accents. At least I knew I wouldn't be the only one not speaking Dutch. Then I found myself in the square my host family showed me when they took me by car. At the time the square had been filled with people dressed in orange for the World Cup and dancing to a live band, not empty in the Saturday sun. I really only recognized it because there is a gelato shop on one end which I noticed last time. (I always mentally mark the location of any gelato shop I come across.) From there I made it to the main street and parked my bike by a souvenir shop.
The first thing I did was buy postcards and stamps. I stepped in and out of various shops, not really intent on anything but looking casually. Just that little bit of freedom was pleasant. Refreshing, I guess you could even say, after about three weeks of routines and unfamiliarity. To be entirely honest though, it was a bit dull to be by myself. I think visiting a town like Edam by oneself can be dull because it is so small and quaint - the type of place where you have to turn to your companion and comment on the sweets shop or the tilted angle of the old buildings along the canal. In a city, like Florence for example, it isn't so noticeable that you're alone. There's so many people that even you don't notice. I still can't really explain the difference or why I felt the heaviness of solitude in such a way. Me, so independent, feel that way? Yes. Further proof of how much things have changed in my life and how I've even changed these past few months.
The humidity had me very sticky and uncomfortable so I went into a bakery for some ice cream. There was a British couple ahead of me at the counter making their order awkwardly and paying awkwardly. With two scoops (cookie and panna cotta) on a cone, I perched myself at one of the tiny tables under the awning outside. A middle aged woman made some comment to me in Dutch. I did not have the slightest idea what she said but I was almost certain it was a question so I smiled, nodded, and replied "ya" with gentle enthusiasm. I assume she had simply remarked about the day. "Nice weather we are having, isn't it?" Or about my melting treat. "Well, doesn't that look delicious?"
However, the sunny weather broke not long after. Rain had been predicted so I finished my ice cream, crunched on the cone on my way to the information stall about the cheese market, for which Edam is most known. There I encountered another British couple who were asking about how and where they should park their care. I was reminded of my bike and the impending storm so I tasted the sample cheese quickly then set off back to Middelie.
The clouds, which had come in suddenly at first, slowed as soon as I was almost back to the house. Exhilarated from my first little, lonely adventure I decided to go for an extra loop on the bike path. The wind really picked up and when I pulled into the driveway I was exhausted from having to pedal against it on all the longest stretches. The rain started just as I got my keys for the front door out of my bag. The house was empty and grey, my host family gone on some errand, so the rain echoed loudly through the open windows.
I took a brief shower and laid atop my barely made bed, still buzzing from pedaling so fast and slightly sick from the earlier anxiety about getting lost, being alone, and eating ice cream in the heat. I need to prepare myself for Amsterdam if a trip just over the way to Edam was so exhausting.
There are no grand adventures for me to report just yet. So far, only quiet ones set in the countryside. I've taken up a truly Dutch habit - bike riding.
I have gone on a thirty minute route, which circuits the pastures surrounding the village and turns me back again in a corner of Edam, about every other day for a week now. The path takes me through quaint scenery and clouds of gnats. My favorite stretch is when the setting sun is first to my right then, as I take a curve, falls to my back. First my shadow speeds along on the pasture below, moving alongside me like we're racing, then shifts in front so it seems I am chasing myself. I also like wearing my light, black sweater and leaving the buttons undone so when I go fast enough it explodes behind me in the wind like ferocious black wings.
The weather has been pleasant. Warm and sunny. It truly feels like summer and I only realize how much sun I've been getting when I look at the skin on top of my feet, my wrists, or the freckles stretching across the bridge of my nose and cheeks.
After having such a busy life during May and June because of school, graduation, and preparation for Holland it is nice to finally nestle myself into days that pass slowly and steadily. Even if the children are badly behaved one moment than painfully adorable the next.
Not only am I finally starting to settle (if ever a soul like mine can consider itself settled) but I am at last finding things that I like here. Right now, they're mostly small moments or scenes. Like seeing the reflection of the red sun in the bathroom mirror when I brush my teeth before bed (the sun sets after 10pm here). Or watching American television shows with Dutch subtitles.
I have a nice, quiet little life here. Maybe this is also part of what it means to be Dutch.
There really is not much for me to report about my first time in Amsterdam. I do not mean to say that there is nothing there for me to write about, but simply that my first experience in the city was not conducive to really discovering its true spirit. I merely glimpsed it. But it is still only the beginning, so there's plenty of time for some really good stories.
We all went on Sunday, the coldest day yet since I arrived. They gave me a tour from the car but I could hardly see anything they were talking about. I was in the backseat of their Volvo station wagon, squished between Roeland and Rosa's carseats. To see out the windows I had to hunch down. The children kept pushing me away whenever I leaned over, even very slightly, to peer out their window. I tried my best to take note of where the central station is and the Van Gogh Museum but everything else they pointed out (ie: good streets for shopping, eating, or strolling) did not make any sort of impact on my memory in terms of location. Besides, it is always better to explore on one's own. By foot. The car tour was a fair introduction.
After maybe thirty minutes we parked and had lunch at a bagel place. It was rather busy and as we were preparing to leave a woman dressed entirely in white (save for her belt, shoes, and jewelry) came in with a man, likely her husband. The only table available was a tiny table pressed up against our large one. While Robin and Roeland went up to pay Anna leaned over to me and pointed out how this woman was looking at us - she clearly wanted our table and was obviously agitated we were taking so long to leave. Generally this is rude, but if the situation includes a family with small children the rudeness increases greatly. She sat down on Ruben's spot, facing the table at which her husband was sitting. When Roeland returned he immediately (and very loudly) told the lady, "Hey, that's my seat!" (In Dutch of course.) Embarassed she stood up and tried to be playful towards Ruben, who was not taking it. Later, on the way back to the car, Anna began explaining that some lettuce from Ruben's sandwichhad fallen onto his seat. The woman with the white coat, sweater, and jeans ended up sitting on it. It were almost as if Roeland was setting a trap for her before she even walked in because when she got up after he yelled at her the fresh (and therefore very green) lettuce was stuck to the butt of her meticulously clean white pants.
Lunch was followed by a walk in Vondelpark. Had the weather been nicer it would have been a most enjoyable time but we all made the best of it. Even when it started to rain, only the children had umbrellas, and we were stuck on a bridge being sheltered by some overhanging tree branches, while a German man (tourist?) stared at us through his camera lens.
Other than last weekend I've not left the village. Up until Tuesday evening I had not even left the house since going to Amsterdam. It was too cold and wet Saturday and Sunday for Andrea to show me around on the bike so I can go to Purmerend and Edam. So, I've no place to go and no means to get there. My restlessness reached its peak Tuesday evening. So, I went for a run. I haven't gone for a run since sometime before Christmas and that was on a treadmill. This is how desperate I was to get out and get moving. I went over to the next village which only took about ten minutes to reach. Then from there I got on the paved bike path and headed towards Edam. I think Edam is something like eight miles away and I didn't intend to actually go that far. I just did two miles and turned back. Everyone I passed along the way said "Hej!" or "Hallo!", which made me elated - to find something so similar to Minnesota-nice so far from home.
Hopefully, I'll be able to take the train into Amsterdam on my own soon. Hopefully, I'll learn how to get to Edam and Purmerend on my own as well. I must admit that it is a bit unsettling to come off of four years living at college, where I had control over my own time and life, to be back in a setting where I'm part of a functioning unit. I felt the same way when I lived at home for a summer after living in an apartment in Italy. It has nothing to do with the family. It is just like what I said last time. There is a lot to get used to.
Taken August 2010, my adventure in Brussels. I took pictures of this couple being cute together on their bikes before walking past them later being street musicians near Manneken Pis. See that little rack on which the pack of water bottles sit? That is where I would perch when riding on Annina's bike.
