NEIGHBORHOODS OF AMSTERDAM
5/31/2012
Today is another rainy day. Rain and cold; despite my hot shower after the morning swim and with all my available warm clothes layered on me, I am still not as warm as I would like to be. I decide to find a way to be outdoors while being indoors. First I take a basic canal cruise; I want to make sure I visually captured this canal world, now, a Unesco World Heritage, from every perspective, one. Second, the boats are covered with transparent domes, hence, I am indoors but also outdoors. Watching a distorted view of Amsterdam under the rain gives a different romantic flavor to it. My fellow travelers are a loud American family and a quiet Japanese couple. Rain must have pushed everybody into their hotels or cafes, or museums.
The tallest building in Amsterdam, West Church is somewhat distorted as we pass by it.
My plan for the next two days: I will take buses and trams to travel to the periphery of Amsterdam to see more of its neighborhoods; I have a strong sense life within the canal circles must be different than that in the periphery. When the sun starts shining, I will stroll around the small parks scattered through the neighborhoods. First I take a tram and go all the way to Ijburg, in the northeast. Looks like I am traveling through industrial neighborhoods, working class families living mostly in apartment buildings, probably project housing of 4-8 story high. Then I switch to a bus and head southeast. When I get on, 100% black population on the bus is halved. But as more people get on the bus, the rate goes up again from 2/3 black to all the way over 90% black. This is clearly a bus route for black working class people.
I switch to a bus heading to Biljmer. All but me on the bus is black, some Moroccan looking (the largest minority in Amsterdam followed by Turkish), some look like from the heart of Africa. We pass by a school, kids must be in recess, all black not one exception. They seem to be happy. We gradually move into a middle class neighborhood with zero lots. On the bus across from me are an African grandmother and her granddaughter. GM’s hand is on the GD’s legs: to keep her safe. GD is holding onto GM’s hand: to feel safe. They occasionally smile at each other. GM and I exchange glances and smiles. I smile at the little girl, too, but she lowers her gaze down to my lap on which is my city map, open. She gradually raises her eyes toward my face as if thinking “What kind of a woman is this? She is not like us.” I smile at her one more time as warmly as I can. She is cautious, barely 4, has she already learned not to trust whites like my black neighbor kids in Iowa City. My smile is left hanging in the air with no response from her. I wish I could stay longer to get her to smile at me. Alas, I have to get off. GM and I exchange "Have a good day"s and I am off, waving at the little girl from the sidewalk. Aha, I did steal a smile from her, after all.
I am on Princengracht again to catch another bus to travel west when I see a marvellous rose bush. Amsterdam is ornate with a flora consisting mainly of roses among other flowering plants. The roses will gradually become an unforgettable aspect of Amsterdam for me; their scent will remain in my olfactory memory forever. Roses of various colors, white, yellow, pink, red, orange, purple climb up along doors, windows, some cover an entire wall like a carpet. Whenever I see a rose bush I stop and fill my lungs with its deadly scent.
Roses and bikes are part of Amsterdam's identity
This bush is full of red blossoms at various stages of blooming. I hold one fully open rose and breath it in as deeply as I can. Almost dizzy with the scent, I move away and cross the street to satisfy my visual sense after touch and smell. I then notice a young man, probably Zeynep’s age, smiling at me as he is finishing his smoke. I feel obliged to explain to him “You have marvellous roses, you know.” Everybody speaks English in Amsterdam. He looks like he is not even aware of what so intrigues me. He walks to the bush and lifts a branch, which was apparently already half broken. He turns to me and asks me if I want it. I think of all the staff at my hostel. I am sure they will be happy to get a gift as simple as a rose bush. I nod and tell him what I will do with it. He smiles and hollers up, a first story window opens instantaneously, another young man. He drops down a pair of scissors, in a minute, I am being handed a branch, full of red rose buds, a few fully open ones, essentially a bouquet of a dozen roses. I tell him “Wait, I will take a picture of you with the rose bouquet then you will take mine." He agrees with a smile. As we are done with the job I look at him one more time: "Now I can tell my friends ‘A man in Amsterdam gave me red roses.’ We both crack up, so does his friend upstairs I had totally forgotten about. In the evening, when I give it to the female receptionist at the hostel, I get a big smile. Life is good.
I can't say anymore, nobody gave me a bouquet of red roses, thanks to this ananomyous gentleman from Amsterdam:)
Now, I am on a tram going west. Clientele is quite different, mixture of Asians, well-to-do blacks, and whites. As we go west, the flora gets more lush, big parks and a large lake are part of the panorama. Two old Indonesian looking women approach my seat. I get up and gently leave the seat to them. They call their third friend and offer her to squeeze in with them. How TurkishJ They seem anxious, I wonder why. We are now in a wealthy neighborhood with elegant 2-story canal houses. I get off to change onto a bus. The sun is out, the bus stop is awash with sun rays. I move toward the opposite side of the bus stop to use the shade just like (I assume) the woman around the corner is doing, whose purse I can see from the corner. Oops, she wasn’t using the shade alone apparently. Such passionate kissers… I move back to the sun to leave them alone and soon two teenagers, who speak Dutch but look very Turkish join me to share the sun. One looks like he is from the Black Sea coast, the other from central Anatolia. He is trying to hold her hand and to steal a kiss; she is half refusing, how sweet… The boy finally breaks into Turkish. I smile, they understand I understand. We start chatting. They are both finishing high school and getting ready for the university placement exam, they are hopeful. Good kids.
I stop at Rembrandt Park on the way to Central Station to call it a day. As I savor the lush green and the little pond into which I dip my feet, words flow through my mind:
I hear the sound of
my soft footsteps,
nothing else. Oh, and
birds chirping away.
Duck wings fluttering
and lilies blooming.
Symphony of sounds
of near silence.
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