MORE NEIGHBORHOODS
6/1/2012
I will visit the street markets of Amsterdam today. I heard a lot about them, especially the one in the heart of the Pijp, one of the famous boroughs in central Amsterdam, as my Lonely Planet book states. Albert Cuyp market, the largest of its kind in Amsterdam, perhaps in Netherlands, rich with variety from fruits to vegetables, fish to cheese, rugs to furniture, bike accessories to cosmetics, spices to plants, shoes to clothes and antiques and any kind of nick nack you may imagine. I get off the metro so that I can walk to the market. The main street in Pijp is ornate with colorful ethnic stores, restaurants, grocery stores, and others; Turkish, Arabic, Indian, Greek names, plenty. It is relatively early, they are just opening; fun to observe the locals in their daily routine at this early hour.
I approach a Turkish fast food place to ask about where exactly Albert Cuyp is. Asking is just a tool to connect, to strike up a conversation, to get to know a person, a life. A young man in his thirties with a mustache responds, sure enough he is Turkish. I ask him if he has Turkish tea to serve. Unfortunately no, he is serving to the Dutch palate, they don’t like the traditional Turkish tea. I settle down for the instant tea the Dutch seems to like. He pulls two chairs to the side walk in front of his store. He moved to Netherlands in his adolescence. He is now married with three kids. He complains that immigrant minorities, Turks and Moroccans mostly, the two major minorities in Amsterdam are being pushed out of the Pijp into peripheral neighborhoods, specifically developed for minorities. Pijp has become a favorite place for new age type of Dutch being in walking distance to the heart of the city, if you have the time. Thus, it is rapidly being gentrified and although the main floor of the new and modern apartment buildings is occupied still by the ethnic stores, up above is a different set of tenants, now. What was home to immigrants in the past is more Dutch now, rather more Arian; my fellow citizen tells me.
I look around, it looks pretty Manhattan-y: Like midtown Lexington Avenue with lots of small shops, hustle bustle of people running in and out to get a cup of coffee or a quick lunch, or gathering what they need for dinner, with buses and taxis rushing through the rush hour. That is exactly what I am observing as we talk and watch the passers-by. I like being there as a tourist by choice, yet it doesn’t look like this young man is there by choice anymore. There is resentment in the air, I can feel. One of the things that saddens me the most is meeting an immigrant full of disappointments after my now 14-year saga of immigration, luckily brought me to almost full content. Uprooting yourself from the lands you grew up in, severing or semi-severing your ties with the culture that made you, you, are difficult enough tasks to resolve even when you've materialized all your goals and have actually made the new land almost your own. Leaving Turkey for me was not that difficult at the outset. I had aspirations for myself and my daughter that I couldn’t see would materialize in Turkey.
Once the decision to stay in the USA was made, though, the stark realities of immigration hit me like a violent slap on the face. New York City, as big a melting pot as it is claimed to be, actually merely allows different ethnicities to stand side by side not intermingled together. The "othering" if not in the form of discrimination, definitely in the form of ignoring, pretending you are not there is always there to feel at every turn. Eighty-hour work weeks in a very harsh inner city hospital didn’t help, either. The very small Turkish community I was able to build was the only support system my daughter and I had for two years we lived in the big apple. I had to keep my vision for our future I was determined to create for myself and my offspring right before my eyes as distant as it appeared to be during the years 1999-2001 to be able to keep going with full trust in where I was going when all my loved ones wanted me back badly. Now, well established in America and totally fulfilled with majority of aspects of my life in Iowa City, calling Iowa City home after eleven years there, there are times I still have difficulty with cultural, intellectual, and historical gaps due to not having lived there all my life. I can’t imagine what it would be like to be an immigrant only in a country, forever, being discriminated against however subtle it may be, not be fully happy where you live, but not be able to go back, either.
My heart goes to the young man and people like him. He asks me about my visit. At the end of our conversation, I want to pay for the tea. He refuses, “You are our guest in Amsterdam, abla (older sister in Turkish), of course not.” What a sweet Turkish tradition this is. He carries Turkish hospitality as his second identity, still, after so many years of being away from home. What I had vowed to do upon my arrival in NYC when we decided to stay in the USA. I will keep everything good from the culture that made me and add onto it whatever good I come across in this new land and in the lands I will travel to. Holding onto the language was one of the most important variables to preserve to accomplish this, for sure. Hence, we designated Turkish to be the household language to keep both of us but more so Zeynep bilingual. We are very happy to have made that decision, which now allows us to be fully immersed in both cultures in a matter of minutes when needed. I know he will probably never come to America or Iowa City, but I give him my card as a token of appreciation. He puts it in his wallet carefully with clear appreciation. After sincere good-byes, I head toward the direction he leads me to, to Albert Cuyp.
Albert Cuyp almost century old, is soon before my eyes. Colors, colors, colors; one most striking feature of the market is its colors. Clothes of all colors, fruits and vegetables of all colors, awnings of all colors, and people of all colors. Joy is in the air. My spirit is elated again; I buy porcelain jewelry boxes, antique paper cutters, pendant watches, and jewelry for friends, family, and myself, as gifts. I come across a Turkish pide (equivalent of pizza) place for lunch. What a lovely encounter. The pide I order is as good as it would be in Turkey. I am seeking an opportunity to talk to the owners. Unfortunately, they are extremely busy with not only serving the in-house customers, but also trying to keep up with the take-out orders. They don’t have any time for my anthropological curiosity. That is fine. I just watch them, with empathy. They are indeed trying to create a full life for themselves. Kudos for them, I hope ten years down the road they are still happy.
I then head to Noordermarkt, which is a flea market that used to be a traditional pigeon and canary market. Later on, when it wasn’t as popular as it used to be, the famous café Winkel set up nine biological food stalls here serving healthy food and food ingredients. It certainly expanded to include lots of other items being sold there over the decades. The spirit is exactly the same as in Albert Cuyp. I buy a few more pieces from Eastern European vendors. It is about time to get back. I would like this to be an early day back to my hostel. I want to think and reflect.
Once the decision to stay in the USA was made, though, the stark realities of immigration hit me like a violent slap on the face. New York City, as big a melting pot as it is claimed to be, actually merely allows different ethnicities to stand side by side not intermingled together. The "othering" if not in the form of discrimination, definitely in the form of ignoring, pretending you are not there is always there to feel at every turn. Eighty-hour work weeks in a very harsh inner city hospital didn’t help, either. The very small Turkish community I was able to build was the only support system my daughter and I had for two years we lived in the big apple. I had to keep my vision for our future I was determined to create for myself and my offspring right before my eyes as distant as it appeared to be during the years 1999-2001 to be able to keep going with full trust in where I was going when all my loved ones wanted me back badly. Now, well established in America and totally fulfilled with majority of aspects of my life in Iowa City, calling Iowa City home after eleven years there, there are times I still have difficulty with cultural, intellectual, and historical gaps due to not having lived there all my life. I can’t imagine what it would be like to be an immigrant only in a country, forever, being discriminated against however subtle it may be, not be fully happy where you live, but not be able to go back, either.
My heart goes to the young man and people like him. He asks me about my visit. At the end of our conversation, I want to pay for the tea. He refuses, “You are our guest in Amsterdam, abla (older sister in Turkish), of course not.” What a sweet Turkish tradition this is. He carries Turkish hospitality as his second identity, still, after so many years of being away from home. What I had vowed to do upon my arrival in NYC when we decided to stay in the USA. I will keep everything good from the culture that made me and add onto it whatever good I come across in this new land and in the lands I will travel to. Holding onto the language was one of the most important variables to preserve to accomplish this, for sure. Hence, we designated Turkish to be the household language to keep both of us but more so Zeynep bilingual. We are very happy to have made that decision, which now allows us to be fully immersed in both cultures in a matter of minutes when needed. I know he will probably never come to America or Iowa City, but I give him my card as a token of appreciation. He puts it in his wallet carefully with clear appreciation. After sincere good-byes, I head toward the direction he leads me to, to Albert Cuyp.
Albert Cuyp almost century old, is soon before my eyes. Colors, colors, colors; one most striking feature of the market is its colors. Clothes of all colors, fruits and vegetables of all colors, awnings of all colors, and people of all colors. Joy is in the air. My spirit is elated again; I buy porcelain jewelry boxes, antique paper cutters, pendant watches, and jewelry for friends, family, and myself, as gifts. I come across a Turkish pide (equivalent of pizza) place for lunch. What a lovely encounter. The pide I order is as good as it would be in Turkey. I am seeking an opportunity to talk to the owners. Unfortunately, they are extremely busy with not only serving the in-house customers, but also trying to keep up with the take-out orders. They don’t have any time for my anthropological curiosity. That is fine. I just watch them, with empathy. They are indeed trying to create a full life for themselves. Kudos for them, I hope ten years down the road they are still happy.
I then head to Noordermarkt, which is a flea market that used to be a traditional pigeon and canary market. Later on, when it wasn’t as popular as it used to be, the famous café Winkel set up nine biological food stalls here serving healthy food and food ingredients. It certainly expanded to include lots of other items being sold there over the decades. The spirit is exactly the same as in Albert Cuyp. I buy a few more pieces from Eastern European vendors. It is about time to get back. I would like this to be an early day back to my hostel. I want to think and reflect.
I am by one of the waterways along Lucky Lake, looking at the lake from in between two house boats. There is a pot on one of the porches with an interesting plant in it. It looks like it is reaching out to something, or some place. It strikes me quite profoundly for some reason. It looks like it is either going to fall down any minute or fly up to whatever it is reaching out to. Stirs quite a bit of metaphorical scenarios in my mind, feelings in my heart. I see a bit of Kim, a bit of Bill, a bit of my father in variations in this metaphor.
What did Amsterdam mean to me throughout these last ten days? Amsterdam meant freedom from oppression, just like it must have meant to the Jewish of the fifteen, sixteen hundreds. Amsterdam meant joy, full of green and blue, crisp fresh air, sunshine, sunset, sunrise, drizzle, among others that fully refreshed my ever-present connection with the nature one more time. Lucky Lake, with its serene cold waters, its green foliage opened its bosom to me for reflection and rejuvenation. I thought of my friend Kim during my morning strolls and evening sunset feasts, who died two months prior after a 3 year-long brave and fierce fight with her cancer. Grieving for her death brought back memories of Bill and my father, two significant people I lost in my adult life to death. I understood Bill much better than I did right after his death, thanks to Kim. I understood my father with his entire life story much better than I understood when he was alive, thanks to both Kim but more so to Bill. Amsterdam gave me the time and energy to arrive at peace with two losses in one year and revisiting the loss of my father from 8 years prior. I know there is much more work to do to fully embrace what these three losses have meant and will continue meaning to me. Life will continue and so will processing.
What did Amsterdam mean to me throughout these last ten days? Amsterdam meant freedom from oppression, just like it must have meant to the Jewish of the fifteen, sixteen hundreds. Amsterdam meant joy, full of green and blue, crisp fresh air, sunshine, sunset, sunrise, drizzle, among others that fully refreshed my ever-present connection with the nature one more time. Lucky Lake, with its serene cold waters, its green foliage opened its bosom to me for reflection and rejuvenation. I thought of my friend Kim during my morning strolls and evening sunset feasts, who died two months prior after a 3 year-long brave and fierce fight with her cancer. Grieving for her death brought back memories of Bill and my father, two significant people I lost in my adult life to death. I understood Bill much better than I did right after his death, thanks to Kim. I understood my father with his entire life story much better than I understood when he was alive, thanks to both Kim but more so to Bill. Amsterdam gave me the time and energy to arrive at peace with two losses in one year and revisiting the loss of my father from 8 years prior. I know there is much more work to do to fully embrace what these three losses have meant and will continue meaning to me. Life will continue and so will processing.
Here I come, Lucky Lake Hostel, for one last dinner in your courtyard breathing in the scent of your roses, one last stroll to my rendezvous with the sun on your north shore, one last sleep under the lullaby of your trees. I will think of you very fondly in all the years to come.
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