Nobody But Us

Gwaz lost her job today. Correction: her job was taken from her, position eliminated—there’s a difference, although it looks the same in the end.

James Gandolfini died today. 51. Heart attack.

I rode the metro to work. As I sat alone contemplating the news we found on-line thanks to the internet and email and trying to contain three backpacks and man-bags of stuff, I figured I’d throw caution to the wind. I put in my earbuds and fired up my iPod. I know what you’re thinking: that James F. That wild and crazy guy; iPod on the way to work? What was he thinking?  

Police. Synchronicity. See? There’s always a cosmic explanation.

Is anybody alive in here?

Is anybody alive in here?

Is anybody at all in here?

Nobody but us in here.

Nobody but us.

Music does that for me. You know? It makes connections for me. Musicians say things in ways they mean them, and I apply them in the ways I understand them. It works for me. See, yesterday evening on the way home I listened to Bring on the Night, a live Stingy cd—a double joint with several good songs; and one fabulous one.  Afterward I scrolled to Synchronicity just as it was time to detrain, so that’s where it was this morning.

All I had to do was look around that train car to find something quite literal when Stingy asked his question. So many blank stares, including mine I’m sure. Nobody alive in there. Nobody but us. There’s not much to see from the metro and what there is I’ve seen before. My mind wandered and soon settled on the man best known as Tony Soprano. I started personalizing his fate and eventually started thinking “What if?” (I must say, I am not so prone to think this way; but as long as I was throwing caution to the wind…)

•      What if Bon Scott wasn’t a suicidal alcoholic?
•      What if we stay the hell out of Syria?
•      What if James Gandolfini had a cardiologist?
•      What if I weren’t addicted to the business end of a fork?

You’ll never convince me that finding my iPod set to play an album titled Synchronicity is anything but a perfect example of exactly that—the notion that seemingly coincidental events are connected through their meaning. At about the same time I was telling Gwaz the news about Gandolfini, she was reading an email from her supervisor. His apology for the news he shared was belied by the fact that the decision to eliminate her position wasn’t his. How’s that for contrast? 

Some things matter and some things only look like they do.

•      What if small businesses cared more about people than they do profits?

Nobody but us in here.

Nobody but us.

Trajectum Lumen: A Utrecht Tale of Light

Last weekend I had an epiphany: if you want to snazz something up, call it by its Latin name. Think about it…which sounds better? I am naturally adept at propagating Taraxacum officinale…or…My yard is full of dandelions. The problem is that calling a box turtle Terrapene ornate doesn’t make him any faster. See what I mean? Let me explain.

When Gwaz told me about the “light show” in Utrecht, I was excited. For one thing, I had never been to Utrecht, and for another, it was a “light show.” Cool, right? Um…the thing is…calling it Trajectum Lumen and printing fancy maps still doesn’t make it a “light show.”

We went, and I’m glad we did for a number of reasons; the least of which was the light show. Trajectum Lumen is actually a walking tour best attempted after dark because, as the name indicates, one finds a number of illuminated locations—all of which provide a lovely walk through this ancient place. Utrecht, the Netherlands’ fourth largest city, is old. Duh…that’s nothing new, but it has one very unique feature—the canals are sunken (so to speak). All along the Oudegracht (old canal) the water is lined with subterranean warehouses built and perfectly situated to facilitate the loading and unloading of canal boats. Today these “sunken” walkways seem perfect for the restaurant terraces that line the canal.

 

Granted city rights in 1122, Utrecht grew from the original Roman settlement named Trajectum ad Rhenum in 50 BC. (Traiectum denotes a location suitable to cross the Rhine River. It became known as the “Dutch Trecht”. The “U” in the modern name comes from the old Dutch word “uut” meaning downriver—so as to differentiate the location from one further north known as “maas-tricht”.)

Since the 8^th century Utrecht has been considered the religious center of the Netherlands. By the 12^th century Utrecht was becoming an important commercial and ecclesiastical center. In the 14^th century, construction began on the massive gothic cathedral (Dom) and it’s remarkable tower at city center; and in 1522 Adriaan Florenszoon Boeyens, born in Utrecht, was elected Pope Adrian VI of the Holy Roman Catholic Church (becoming the last non-Italian pope until John Paul II of Poland 455 years later! He was one of only two popes to retain his baptismal name.) He died in 1523. (It is reported that Adriaan was mocked by the people of Rome, who purportedly rejoiced at the death of such a “barbarian”!)

Until the Golden Age, Utrecht was in many ways the most important Dutch city and remained relevant for several significant reasons. It became home to Utrecht University in 1634 and was the site of the Peace of Utrecht, the treaty that ended the Spanish War of Succession in 1713. The city was revitalized by the introduction of the railroad in 1892 and the merwedekanaal (loosely translated as “new channel”). Today, Utrecht is home to over 300,000 permanent residents; and thanks to one of the largest railroad stations in the Netherlands, an impressive collection of restaurants and hotels, and promotions such as the Trajectum Lumen, Utrecht is a very popular tourist destination as well.

Texel

Texel is the largest of the Dutch Wadden islands, the North Holland archipelago that extends almost to Denmark. Pronounced "Tessel" (as the x assumes an ss sound), it received city rights in 1415 and is currently home to approximately 14,000 permanent residents. When the weather is acceptable, as it was recently, that number swells with tourists eager to enjoy the quaint towns, rustic and rugged landscape, seacoast and beaches. It is estimated that over 900,000 people visit Texel every year!

The Wadden Islands were formed in the 12^th century when storms and floods unleashed fury on the coastal barrier, creating the string of islands. Texel’s size, proximity to the mainland, and vestiges of civilization including rather developed shopping districts, a fashionable seaside resort, and an efficient ferry and bus line, make it the destination of choice for many Dutch vacationers. We noticed immediately that the tourist industry catered to two demographic groups: Dutch and German. The flags of both nations flew from restaurants, and menus were often printed in both languages, often excluding English. We decided that Texel is probably not a big attraction for English speakers, especially those from Great Britain as they have many similar quaint towns and seaside resorts, but not so for the Germans.

Texel is home to Ecomare, a wildlife museum, rescue hospital and wildlife retirement home of sorts. Located amid the dunes near the North Sea, Ecomare is a sprawling assortment of buildings and outdoor enclosures. As a seal sanctuary, Ecomare is home to more than a dozen permanent residents, blind or wounded warriors who could not survive re-entry to the wild. As a rescue hospital, the folks at Ecomare tend and return to the wild dozens of injured seals, porpoises, waterfowl and sea gulls every year.

Texel is known as “The Netherlands in a Nutshell.” From typical Dutch architecture in the towns to its very own brewery, from the many, many pubs to more bicycles and polders (soggy farm fields separated by small canals) than you can count, from tulip fields to beaches, dunes, and scrub landscapes, from all-too-familiar rainy weather to magnificent cloudscapes that have inspired generations of Dutch artists, Texel has earned it’s nickname.

There’s Much to be Learned from The Killer

I ride the metro alone ten times per week on average. I can best describe my daily commute by misquoting Dorothy Parker’s description of Katherine Hepburn’s acting,  I’ve seen “the entire gamut from A to B”—every day and every ride is virtually the same, sort of. In the mornings I read or write for most of the thirty-minute one-way trip. In the afternoons I complete the majority of a Sudoku puzzle and/or listen to my iPod. I get thirty minutes every day with the music that defined my last four decades on earth.

Depending on my mood and what appeals to me on any given day, I scroll through the menu and find one of my musical inspirations; and, as with countless other examples, I tend to get a bit obsessive. Since January I have listened to my entire collections of the Doors, Prince, J. Geils, G. Love, Axl N’ Roses, and the Sugar Hill Gang (OK, OK just Rapper’s Delight but all 14 minutes several times over)—to name a few.

The Killer

This morning after I settled into my seat on the train, I realized I had no book to read and not much to say either, so I put in my ear buds and fired up the Classic. That’s when I found The Killer—Jerry Lee Lewis. When Gwaz and I were only 17 years old she introduced me to Jerry Lee via an 8-track tape of his greatest hits…you know, Chantilly Lace, Whole Lotta Shakin’ Goin’ On, Great Balls of Fire, Breathless-ah. Jerry Lee made his first public appearance in 1949 at age 14 and his first recording in 1956. His latest cd, Last Man Standing, (2006, aged 71) is as much testament to his legendary status as to what he has meant to pop culture. I’m thinkin’ to him the part in the middle is one big blur. The guy lived at break-neck speed. (He was one of the original ten inductees at the Cleveland Museum of Music.)

So there I was sitting alone, listening to Jerry Lee sing his song, Mean Ole Man. I was staring out the window at the same Dutch rail line that I’ve seen twice a day, almost every day when Jerry Lee said, “Thank God I can still do it.”

I thought, “Amen to that.”

That’s about the time it occurred to me that there is much to be learned from The Killer:

• ·      Try to marry the right person in fewer than seven tries
• ·      Make sure you actually divorce the first one before marrying the second
• ·      Make sure you actually divorce the second one before marrying the third
• ·      Make sure your third wife is not your 13 year old cousin
• ·      Too much love drives a man insane
• ·      When you visit Graceland drunk, don’t brandish a handgun while summoning the King
• ·      When your ex-wife drowns, have a good alibi; but stick to just the one
• ·      Trouble is called “trouble” for good reason, so no matter what…never, ever give up
• ·      Make workin’ feel like you’re playin’

Barca

OK quick…word association: Barcelona… Go!

No, I mean that literally; go, you will love it. If you are like me, you immediately thought of that melty church. You probably thought of the ’92 Olympics or Picasso. Tell the truth, did you know the name Antoni Gaudi? If not, one visit to this magnificent seaside city and you won’t be able to forget it.

Modernista

Touring the city neighborhoods is mildly reminiscent of most huge cities; they have one of everything and a bunch of most. Known as a leader in modernista architecture, Barcelona is a tourist’s dream destination. All over the city, all 1249 square miles of the metropolitan region, you can find building after building considered brilliant works of art, and many renowned for their modernista design.

The people of Barcelona are fiercely proud of their Catalan heritage, and they should be. Everywhere are symbols of their glorious culture and rich history. Much more Catalonian than Spanish, they identify with the region first and everything else a distant second.

Spanish royalty belongs to the House of Borbon, but the true kings of Barcelona wear scarlet and blue—the Futbol Club Barcelona. Known as Barca by the die-hards, the franchise is among the most successful sports teams ever and as genuine a symbol of Catalan culture as can be found.

Sagrada Familia

And Gaudi? Ah, yes, that melty church…even if you didn’t recognize his name, you have seen his masterwork, La Sagrada Familia. Work on the site of the cathedral was begun in 1882 as a project of the architect Francisco de Paula del Villar. Gaudi was commissioned in 1883 to assume the work, which he did until his death in 1926 (when he was hit by a tram.) Gaudi knew he would not live to see his dream completed. When asked to comment, he reportedly said, “It is OK. My client is patient. God has all the time in the world.”

The official website for Sagrada Familia calls the basilica “one of the most universal signs of identity of the city and the country”, something Gaudi himself foretold when he claimed, “Barcelona will be known for my church.”

  

A Queen's Day in the Life

8:00

Mounted Police take Position

9:00

Old Guys Marching Band Going Somewhere

10:00

On Museumplein

11:00

De Koningin meets her subject

12:00

Street Musicians in Vondel Park

The crowds build...

Lunch Featuring the First of Many

13:00

...and build...

14:00

On Dam Square

15:00

No cars, no trams, but plenty of boats!

16:00

On Utrechtstraat, closer to home

17:00

19:00

By 7:00 p.m. the king and queen were....zzzzzzzzzz!

He's at it Again!

Recently, I described my growing concern that ultimately I will fall prey to one of the many pickpockets roaming the streets of Amsterdam. On Queen’s Day, a perfect opportunity for the inconspicuous dirty deeds of the untoward among us, my fears were realized.

If not for the public surveillance afforded by Dutch authorities, my story would not have such a happy ending…

Koningin voor de Dag

     

Back in November as Gwaz was rummaging through the racks at Kohl’s and Stein Mart looking for orange-colored clothes she could wear on Queen’s Day, she had no idea how important her choices would become. And, when we moved into the apartment at Amstel 155 and Gwaz did her best Cinderelly imitation, the orangie-yellow hat she found didn’t seem as significant as it proved to be on 30 April. Even as she suited-up for our mega-walk around town, it wasn’t initially obvious that she was “Queen for the Day.” Soon after she hit the street, her coronation began.

It’s funny because neither of us recognized her resemblance to Queen Beatrix of the Netherlands, whose birthday we were celebrating. Known locally as Queen’s Day, this annual celebration attracts an estimated crowd over 1.5 million people to Amsterdam alone. This year, Queen’s Day (30 April) had the added significance of the transfer of the monarchy to her son, King Willem-Alexander. At first we thought the staring and finger pointing had more to do with Gwaz’s orange-haired bodyguard; but after a short while there was no confusion about the attention Queen Gwaz garnered. I think it was somewhere around Museumplein that the first of Gwaz’s loyal subjects approached her for a photo.

By the time we wandered through Vondel Park along with the better part of one hundred thousand people to see the sights, sample the street food, and mull over the hundreds of yard-sale vendors, it was clear that “her highness” was conspicuous among her subjects. In fact, all day we heard the shouts of “Koningin” or were greeted by people asking for a photo with the “queen”.

All those Hollywood types on the red carpet have nothing on Gwaz, who seemed to grow more and more comfortable throughout the day having her photo taken. Early in the afternoon, long after it was abundantly clear that a pattern had been established, an Asian woman excitedly approached de Koningin and not trusting her English, gestured her request for a photo. Using her camera, I snapped the picture. While handing the camera back to her I said, “I married the queen.”

Inadvertently choosing the most appropriate subheading possible for a great day, she replied, “You lucky bastard!”

         

     

Electrische Museumtramlijn

The tram line at the Electric Tram Line Museum begins at Harlemmermeerstation, so that’s where we went Sunday morning—the only day the museum is open. With every intention to ride a antique tram, we found our way to the museum. After a few pertinent questions, we were set for our 11:30 a.m. ride to somewhere past Amstelveen where I work. Cool; right? Uhhh, not so fast.

After about twenty-five minutes of waiting around and several questions to the various men in uniform, it was kinda, sorta clear that we would ride the “5” to the end of the line and return one and one-half hours later. At about 11:20 Gwaz found the necessary room and at about 11:28 she told me where to look. When I came back the tram was loaded, so I got on. One problem, Gwaz wasn’t on there. I stepped off. I called her name and somewhere in the distance I heard, “Yeah?”

“Come on,” I yelled; and she did. Now, if Gwaz heard me, so did the conductor. I say, so did the conductor. As Gwaz approached on the run, the car eased into motion. I say, the car eased into motion. That’s how they roll; no pun intended.

I know and he knows that he knew Gwaz was running to get on. I know and he knows that he could have waited ten seconds. Ten seconds; but…no. And…we weren’t alone. Several people, including a family with a baby strolled missed the tram because no indication was made that it was leaving. No part of me wanted to stay the extra half hour to get the next car. No part of me wanted to give our money to them. Hey, they aine the only ones who roll…

Who knew they'd leave without us?

Who knows? Maybe next time.

Bier

Just like the traditional icons of Dutch culture—windmills, clogs, tulips, ganja, and red lights—beer is a Dutch staple. Walking in just about every direction in Amsterdam, one doesn’t have to look very hard or for very long before noticing beer advertisements. Much like coffeeshops, souvenir joints, and houseboats, beer adverts are everywhere.

Of the “Big Three” (Heineken, Grolsch, and Bavaria) Heineken captures about 39% of the Dutch market, helping to maintain its international standing as the third largest brewer in the world (behind only Anheuser Busch and Miller). Heineken and Grolsch account for (by liberal estimation) 95% of the beer consumed in the Netherlands. Grolsch has the distinction as the leading imported beer to the United Kingdon. These pale lagers are the undisputed kings in a declining industry thanks in large part to factors such as amazingly diverse competition from microbrews to moderation, not to mention their Belgian neighbors—brewers of such popular brands as Jupiler and Duval.

Some estimates suggest that approximately 50% of the beer brewed in the Netherlands is exported—over two billion liters! Certainly Heineken, Amstel (a Heineken product) and Grolsch play major roles in this phenomenon.

To each his own, as they say. Whether it’s the seasonal witbier (white beer) brewed in autumn and spring, trappist brews such as La Trappe, or the international pale lagers, the Netherlands has something for every beer enthusiast.

What Were the Chances?

Earlier this week, I was reminded of my compulsion with which I am increasingly obsessed—the continued ownership of my wallet. As dinner ended at the Three Sisters Pub, we all stood to put on our coats and leave. In a New York minute we all realized that my cousin, Joe couldn’t locate his wallet. After the requisite amount of time spent squeezing pockets and digging through the backpack, we spotted it on the floor beneath his chair. All was well; but once again I was reminded of the reality that some people make their living by taking things from unsuspecting tourists.

Some statistician somewhere might love to know how many times per day I touch my front left pocket—the travel-home of my ultra thin wallet. While researching the topic for this entry I learned that highly skilled pickpockets look for this very behavior to ascertain the target of their efforts. Great…my OCD unintentionally helps the very people who are trying to steal from me! I tried to find an estimate of the number of pickpockets working in and around Amsterdam, but no such information was found. Instead I found loads of entries revealing the sad details of unhappy vacations in Holland.

Two weeks ago after three days in Brugge, Belgium, Gwaz and I found our way through the labyrinth called the train station in Brussels on our way back to Amsterdam. Somewhere between the food court and our platform, Gwaz spotted someone’s ID card on the ground; and after she picked it up, I gave it to the teller in the closest ticket kiosk.  We looked for our platform.

The “fast” train between Brussels and Amsterdam is called the Thalys (tal-eez), but by no means is it the only one. There are more than two dozen platforms, and after a short detour to play good Samaritan, we found our platform and a bench where we started the all-too-familiar ritual of unloading—backpacks, man purse, coats, hats, scarves… At about that time, Gwaz noticed the near panic of four Asian people. She interrupted by asking, “Excuse me, are you looking for an ID card?” They were, but we soon found out that that was not even the right question.

Instead of struggling to understand each other, I took the man to the kiosk where his ID was displayed in the window. After a quick check, the teller handed over his card; the man took it and asked, “But did anyone find my wallet?” That’s when I got the full picture. When pickpockets get what they steal, they cannot afford is to be found in possession of someone else’s identification card…thus the card Gwaz found. That’s why I am incessant about checking my front pocket. It never fails that each and every time I have for reasons closely related to carelessness placed my wallet somewhere besides where it belongs (and it does happen), I am immediately overcome by a burst of adrenalin as I begin patting wildly the rest of my pockets to find my misplaced wallet.

In a huge train station like the one in Brussels, in only one of the many, many avenues within, Gwaz found an ID card. Then, as if for no better reason than to reteach me of the importance of prudence, Gwaz spotted the owner searching frantically for what he knew was gone. What were the chances?

The Feral Parakeets of Amsterdam

In a city known for Rembrandt, canal houses, red lights, and marijuana, if you’re lucky you can find something that is quickly becoming just about as familiar—Rose-ringed parakeets!

A short while ago while Gwaz was Skyping with Anna, our granddaughter, she got proof-positive. Perched proudly on a branch in the tree nearest our kitchen window was one of the estimated 10,000 parakeets in or around town (more than double the amount in 2004).

Introduced during the 1970’s, opinions differ on how the birds first came to Europe. No matter because they seem to be here to stay. These hardy devils (found in the Himalayan foothills!) can also be found in Germany, Spain, Portugal, France, Belgium, and England (with an estimated flock of 20,000 birds in London alone!) Worldwide, Rose-ringed parakeets have been found in places such as South Africa, Florida in the United States, Tunisia and Iran.