Memory and the Reason for Writing
Fourteen years begin
to tell you how dull the memory really is. I suppose that is why we write
things down, and probably why this blog exists as a journal of stories and
experiences.
My visit to
Amsterdam, both impromptu and incognito, was for the single purpose of
maintaining the status of a loyalty scheme; one that gives benefits and
privileges money might buy, but at a higher cost.
My preference was
Paris, but Brian adamantly withstood me, fully expressing his concern for my
safety, and only he could know why.
Returning After Many
Years
I was tempted to let
people I knew through my Holland odyssey, which began in May 2000 and ran for
the twelve years I called the Netherlands home, in on the visit. To think I
found a hotel in Hoofddorp, where I started my first job with AUCS Infonet 26 years
ago, is quite something. I was charged city tax; Hoofddorp is over 10 miles as the crow flies from Amsterdam.
Back then, I lived in
Amsterdam and commuted out to Hoofddorp by train each morning; now, all these
years later, I was sleeping in the very town I once travelled out to. So much
has changed, and yet other things remain the same.
Arriving in Amsterdam
yesterday, I made for the public library that opened on the 7th of July 2007,
intending to have a meal at Vapiano, not knowing they had closed their business
in the Netherlands the year before.
Then I thought to
walk up to my old apartment block in the Oostelijke Havengebied, the eastern
docklands. The flat, which I bought in November 2001 and sold on the 1st of May
2012 when I handed the keys over to the new owner, was on the 7th floor and overlooked
two stretches of water: IJhaven and Eersthaven.
These harbours
separated my building from Java-eiland and KNSM-eiland, the two long, narrow
islands that, together with my side, make up the regenerated docklands.
The Lessons Wasted on
Youth
The funny thing is,
for all the ten and a half years I lived there, I never once walked from the
city centre. I took the tram, the bus, or rode my bicycle. If only I had known
the benefits of walking back then, but this kind of knowledge is wasted on youth.
I did not have a
flood of memories when I got there, but soon enough, a resident from way back
then wheeled out from the garage. We both had a moment of recognition and
greeted each other.
That was enough; my
plan to attend my old church on Sunday was now under review, as I wondered
whether I could handle the emotional overload of so many reunions. I honestly
was not prepared for that.
A City Subtly Changed
Tram numbers had
changed. What was once Tram 10, which had not yet been built when I first moved
there, is now Tram 1. Tram 25 to IJburg is now Tram 26, with the terminus moved
to the back of the central station, on the IJ River side.
Then another face I
recognised, still looking good, not weathered by time and deserving of a
compliment, which I gave liberally. The things you think you remember, only to
realise that your memory is a bit jaded.
Even so, all these
encounters encourage the recollections of people, events, and ideas that made
those times significant in their different ways. For instance, I sent a message
to an old friend whom I had once helped pick out gilets and outfits for his wedding,
drawing on my familiarity with the outfitters around Amsterdam and my comfort
with formal wear.
We had gone shopping
together on Nieuwendijk, one of the city's oldest shopping streets, running
north from Dam Square towards the Central Station.
Walking the Singel
Today, I went looking
for a restaurant on the Singel, thinking it was further down the canal. I had
walked all the way in the opposite direction before retracing my steps, only to
find it was nearer the central station after all, and that I needn't have taken
the tram in the first place.
After my breakfast,
which had Danish bacon as it should be, but hash browns as something else
entirely, I set out on a small adventure into the past. My first residence had
been in the Jordaan, where I rented from June 2000 until November 2001, when I
moved to the apartment I had bought in the eastern docklands.
The Jordaan place was
a large garage converted into a one-bedroom apartment with two separate
toilets, on Palmstraat. It was all unrecognisable now; even the old had been
seriously gentrified.
The Indignities of
Travel
You could easily be
housebound in Amsterdam, as I saw no disabled toilets. The public toilets at
the central station charged a hefty €1.10, which is just unforgivable, and
there were no staff on hand to help out with failed automation. But that was
yesterday.
There was a time when
wearing glasses was considered a grave disability, so much so that once laser
surgery for corrective eyesight became widespread, the Dutch were beating a
path to every practitioner offering the service.
On toilet anxiety,
today was worse, as I was far from any known facilities, and the accident
happened. By the time I eventually found a toilet, my underwear had to be
binned. We suffer in silence, hiding the shame that cannot be avoided because
of nature or affliction. Yet we must live life as best we can, for that is the
better story.
The Living Existence
of a Life Story
I can boldly say
Amsterdam is not about the lost, but the living existence of a life story;
visited by adversity and failure, but blessed by the gift of life, the promise
of a bright future, and undying hope that makes every travail transient.
Beyond my
expectations, there was even an ocean liner at the passenger terminal. So much
for reducing seafaring tourism; the reality bites harder than ideas in a
council meeting with harebrained resolutions.
The old lady of green
politics in the Netherlands of the days of yore is the mayor of Amsterdam. Femke Halsema, I doff my
hat. Respect!
