The sun rises on the tiny historic fishing village of Durgerdam, along the Durgerdammerdijk in Amsterdam-Noord. I have no idea how to pronounce any of it yet, but I’ll try to learn out of respect. The body of water looks like the ocean (and used to be) but now it’s fresh. Eurasian coots bob along the docks and a mute swan, startlingly white and bigger than a goose, glides by moored boats. This softens the two hundred dollar taxi ride to get here last night. Rick warned me: use Uber. But after 24 hours of travel, I was fuzzy headed and forgot. The bill woke me up real fast.
Yesterday it was Bowen: car ferry bus skytrain plane to London. Then a six hour wait for the Easy Jet to Amsterdam. When I connected my phone to my Airalo, there was a flurry of texts and emails about performance rights. I tried to sort things with my agent while pressing my fingerprints into the passport kiosk for the third time. I kept getting rejected and sent to a new line. Why? Have I burnt off my finger prints with too many cleaning products over the years? When I gently inquired, a big blonde Dutchman in uniform yelled at me, like I’ve been participating in criminal activity:
“For the last time I will explain, get to the back of the line!”
I yelled back, “It’s not my fault you had a terrible mother and now, despite your hair gel and protein shakes, you can’t get laid because they all sense your seething hatred of women!”
(in my head, I yelled this in my head, barely repressed. I worry that in thirty years from now my brain sphincter will loosen and all that scheisse is going to come spewing out, all the time. I will be a danger to self and others.)
When I travel, I try to find quiet hideaways with a view so I can sleep at night and write in the morning. The Holiday home Landelijk Amsterdam (found on Bookings.com) has afforded me this. Anneke is a lovely host: tall and athletic, matching her environment of blue white and grey. She offers me the use of baskets and bikes as she leads me past the shed towards our little garden suite. She’s planted columbines, big fluffy red poppies and determined daffs on their last gasp.
From the living room I overlook a field of purple moor grass. The power lines and skyscrapers of Amsterdam are off in the distance. Black headed gulls fly over. A magpie perches on the deck chair and peers in at me through the window, a curious and impertinent peeping tom. “Yes little sir, these guest bath towels are very small, feast your eyes.
I was surprisingly bright after a good shower and I Ubered back into the city to meet up with Nora at her Aunt Maxine’s house. (She had taken the train in from Paris) We had a terrific visit over pasta and wine.
I think Nora is a lot like her Aunt: the inherent sense of wit and style, down to earth, effortless. Maxine’s eyes sparkle with that fierce intelligence that everyone in that family has. It’s delightful to see them together. Her teen sons are engaging, funny and warm. They gave me a hug as soon as I walked through the door. I’m exceedingly grateful to be the Kopsa hanger-on. MIchael would have loved every second of this. Bittersweetness.
It’s rainy today. Sleeping beauty still slumbers. The field is moving. What the – goodness! They’re bunnies, hopping through the grasses. Now a line of Egyptian goose? I only see their heads bobbing through the marsh. If I came all the way to Amsterdam to see this and family, I’d be happy. But I suspect we’ll ride our bikes to the train stop, then poke our heads into a cafe and a museum. Tomorrow I’ll work on my play. Today there’s only the ability and desire to watch and listen. A reminder that I should live every day like a holiday.
