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.
Saturday, April 25, 2009
Friday, April 24, 2009
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…
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…
Thursday, April 2, 2009
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...
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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
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
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!
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!
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