AMSTERDAM -8-

RAIN AND MUSEUMS

5/30/2012

Last day of my museum spree on my I-AMSTERDAM card. As usual, I am up early to do my morning swim off of Clara’s pier. Today, the sky is covered with thick black clouds. It may indeed rain after all. Sure enough, when I walk out of my caravan with my swimming suit on, covered with a large Turkish beach shawl that I tie in various ways around my swimming suit, it is already drizzling. Who cares, I let myself into the gentle caress and the tender rinse of a peaceful rain as I walk down the path. The soil is wet already; I have always loved the fragrance rising from the soil recently soaked with gentle rain. And that is what is filling my nostrils at this early hour of the morning. Nobody up and around, yet, that is good. I am selfish this morning, I want the entire lake to myself.

I tuck my shawl under the picnic table on Clara’s pier. I sit on the wooden plank leading to the water and dangle my feet into the lake. I listen to the whispering lullaby the rain is singing over the surface of the water, for a while. I am fully soaked by now and the rain is getting heavier; time to get in the water. I keep my face above the water as I slowly crawl toward the shore across from Clara’s side of the waterway, I want to feel the rain dance its dance on my cheeks, on my eyes, on my lips. What a delightful dance and what a sensual experience.

This is how gray everything was, the lake and the sky the same color; despite the outwardly melancholy, there was something so serene and soothing about it, deep down.

I will recall this beautiful morning in 2 months when I have yet another first experience in my life with my daughter. The first time we decide to ride bikes together after 4 months of my learning how to ride one (!), it will start raining just as we leave the house. What the heck, we will say. It is the middle of the summer, we can use a soak. She ahead of me, we start riding back to back. In five minutes or so, the drizzle turns into heavy rain, beating our naked arms and legs from every direction. It is fun, we are giggling, heading toward downtown. My vision is not the greatest, instead of my contacts, I have glasses on; I didn’t expect this kind of rain. By now, there is not one inch on our bodies that may be dry; water dribbling, no actually running down every protrusion we have on, helmets, chins, glasses, you name it.

This is what was pouring over us at that point. No, I didn't take this photo, found it on the internet.

It is Zeynep, my daughter, who eventually comes to her senses and stops as we approach our planned turn to get out of town toward North Liberty, for a 15 mile round trip ride. “Mom, I really think we should remain in town, it will be too dangerous to be riding along with traffic in this rain.” Common sense, my dear, certainly, lead on. We take the first turn to head back home to try trails south of my house. There must always be a plan B when you play with the nature, in the nature. And we don’t know, yet, we will even need a Plan C soon. The rain not only gets heavier, but we also have thunders and lightening to go along with it now. Visibility for me is no more than 10 yards now. With every lightening, I count seconds to determine how far it is from us. The count gradually moves from two digits to singles. As if that is not enough, we have a strong wind now, slashing layers of water over us from this side one moment and the other the next. I never thought a creek could run over one’s back! My exercise top is clearly a balloon around my back: an inch thick column of water is running under it.

                         How many of these we saw through the corner of our eyes, I lost count of.

A mile from home, all sky breaks loose along with city sirens. OK, what now, are we talking about a tornado or a thunder storm? Wait, there is more. A huge tree branch is lying across one of the sidewalks. More across the street. They must have just fallen off the trees. What if one decides to land on one of us? There is not one living or moving creature to be seen, we can’t see much anyway. Two Turks, known to be relatively smart ones in town turn out to be the only insane creatures remaining outside, under this sky sending one big wrath from the heavens upon Iowa. I can already hear some of my friends saying “Hmmmm, I thought you were smarter than that, Resmiye.” I usually am, but today was the day, I guess. Couple blocks away from my house, a young woman crack opens the door to her house, barely sticking her head out “Do you need a plastic bag?” She is sweet. As much as I want to give her a hug for her concern, I want to crack up: My 115 lb body weight is about 125 by now with the amount of water I must have absorbed. I smile, and thank her. My daughter is waiting for me a block away. When we finally climb up the little hill leading to my house, we are one happy duo for having survived this uncalled for, unexpected storm on our very first ride together, mother and daughter.

We crack up “This will be an unforgettable piece of our history, Zeyno’cum.” She agrees, just like all the other challenges and storms, literal and metaphorical, we survived together since 1991. I look at her and feel a deep, deep love bubbling up inside of me for this wonderful woman, who has been my child, my friend, my comrade throughout my life since I was 26. I know we have a unique bond, I couldn’t wish any different neither for us, not for any mother-daughter dyad.

How could I know that would happen as I come out of one of the branches of the lake. The Sun has started playing Peek-a-boo with us mortals, few out there by now; the reward is a spectacular rainbow. I wish I had had my camera with me. The rain has slowed down, too, back to its drizzle. Refreshed, I am ready to head back to town. Today will be my Jewish History Museum day and I don’t know what else the day is holding up for me.

I get off at my usual station and walk the couple of blocks up AmsteEl River to reach the Jewish quarter. It is a unique place with a different kind of peace. Quite a bit of the Jewish History in Amsterdam is displayed in the temple. I learn with delight that cultural Judaism started in Amsterdam. Baruch Spinoza, who became an indispensable figure in western philosophy, was the first Jew that adopted Judaism in secular terms as a result of which he was expelled from the Jewish community of his time, sixteen hundreds, that is, with a very harsh language. I liked him right away, I thought we needed more of him in every religious community, ethical, with high moral standards, but not fundamentalist.

The number of Jews had risen to more than 150,000 at the onset of the world war two. Dutch obsession with data collection and record keeping cost the Jewish community big time during the Nazi occupation. Every single Jew was so well documented in public records, Nazis invaded Amsterdam and picked up every Jew with rare exceptions like Anne Frank and her family lasting longer than their poor counterparts. In 1947, the Jewish population in Amsterdam was less than 10% of what it was at the onset of the war. As I read and hear all this information, my blood starts boiling over again just as it did in the Red Light District. How in the world is humanity going to be able to clear its history at least the future one of such atrocities, such shame? My heart is aching even if I haven’t seen those days.

As I go downstairs, I will witness something created by a Jewish woman, Emmy Andreis that will leave ever lasting impressions on me related to Jewish community of Amsterdam.

LENEA AND CRETE -15- TRUE CLOSING

You would think, a professor of 53 years of age, 30 years in academia would be more competent with digital medium by now, right? Well, some are not, dinasour or not, for some reason, I resist learning more than I need to until it is a must when it comes to digital world. I guess, I am still romantic about voice and writing (hand writing the better), old school stuff for some. It looks like now is the time to learn how to insert important images into what I post. It wasn't that difficult either, tiny bit of attention solved the problem. I don't know why I procrastinated for so long.

I had to share with you my Lenea. The woman with a big smile as big as her heart, in the below picture is Lenea, making Greek coffee for me to serve in that huge cup, rather pitcher that will set my heart into a race like no other. The chair she will make me rest in is in the middle of the room behind her, in front of which is the white plastic stool she will sit on across from me. Her citrus and her life story that she shared with me meant the world to me during my visit in Crete. What a welcome from half a century away. I am grateful Lenea'cim, more than you can imagine. If anybody, who reads this post knows her contact information, mail, e-mail, phone number, I would really appreciate to have it all. I know Lenea would love to have a copy of these pictures. She will eventually get them most probably via in person-delivery, but the sooner the better.

Oh, now that I acquired a new skill, I will use it just like a child does, non-stop and insert critical pictures of events into my previous posts, if you care to review, you are more than welcomed to do so. I will start updating from most recent to least.

                                    Lenea, her caminato and coffee making before her citrus

Ugly looking but most delicious, my coffee is simmering

Her kuzina both to heat and cook; just like my grandmother's that I still have in my summer house in Kusadasi, Turkey, to warm up the house during winter visits

AMSTERDAM -7-

RING OF CANALS (for the photos of the canals, please click on the blank space above the name of the canal and follow the link, those are pictures off the internet. photos of schinkel and amstel river are from my camera)

5/29/2012

I will do one more day of museum visitation on I AMSTERDAM today. Tomorrow will be my last day of museum spree, saved for the museums that I AMSTERDAM does not cover, like Anne Frank’s House. It is a pleasant day for museum hopping. I am studying my museum map on the Metro. My plan is to do back and forth zigzagging among the ring of canals so that I can both visit the museums I would like to and also walk along the rest of the canals that I haven’t covered, yet. By the end of the week, I will indeed have walked along all core canals, their interconnecting branches, Amstel River, and Schinkel, all probably twice.

Amsterdam Museum is my second most favorite one. It is a crash course on how Amsterdam came to be. Sure enough, Amsterdam is the story of rising bourgeoisie in Europe. When the rest of Europe was still rotting within the grip of the old ways inflicted upon the peoples of Europe by the Holy Church, Amsterdam was a safe haven for all that survived severe discrimination, expulsion from their lands, harsh treatment due to their religious beliefs, on and on and on. This welcoming attitude was very timely to help Amsterdam prosper since it was the time of Inquisition, the horrible catastrophe stirring up Iberian peninsula. Wealthy Sephardic Jews were welcomed to Amsterdam with open arms, not clear whether just because of humanitarian causes or because the newcomers had lots of wealth and/or entrepreneurship skills to bring along. Let’s be on the trusting side and believe it was the former since Amsterdam also allowed the poor Ashkenazi Jews from Eastern Europe flood the city.  

I must say I enjoyed most of my encounters in Amsterdam and at times I did feel like "I am Amsterdam".




Singel was the earliest canal that was built around the medieval city of Amsterdam and served the city well from 1480 until 1585, when Amsterdam started bursting its stitches with a desperate need to expand. It is now the inner-most canal in Amsterdam's eccentrically spread semicircular ring of canals.

      

                        Singel Canal                                       Herengracht                          

Smart, entrepreneur spirited Amsterdamers of the city council decided to establish a more comprehensive canal system around Singel for many reasons. The ever increasing population of Amsterdam desperately needed more developable land to accommodate growth. New land would open up new opportunities for business and trade. Win, win. They developed a comprehensive map of the current canal system to become. However, they certainly did not have the funds to build it all in one breath. Instead, they built the system in sections, sold the land they gained by the new canals pumping out the water that was and still is always at bay to drown the city. Construction proceeded from west to east, across the breadth of the layout. The first phase was started in 1613 and was finished around 1625. Canals followed one after the other.

Herengracht (Lords’ Canal) was named after the elite and wealthy that governed the city in the 16th and 17th century, who built their double wide mansions with inner gardens and coach houses lined up along the canal. The mansions were so big and deep, the coach houses, which were on the far end of the inner gardens lined Keizersgracht, which became the third canal of the city.

     

            Keizersgracht                                                             Prinsengracht

Keizersgracht (Emperor's Canal) was built as the widest of the three major canals; it was named after the Roman Emperor Maximilian I after all. Prinsengracht (Prince's Canal) was named after the Prince of Orange and is the longest of the main canals. With Northern Church, North Market, Anne Frank House and Amsterdam's tallest church, Western Church, this is, historically one of the most impressive of the canals.

      

                        Brouwersgracht                                                  Schinkel Canal                             

In addition to these core rings, Brouwersgracht connects all four major canals, once the center of warehouses accepting and distributing spices and silk of Asia, now adorned with houseboats and home to numerous little cafes, restaurants, and coffee shops; the most expensive-to-live section of Amsterdam. I must mention the distinct difference between a café and a coffee shop, by the way. One needs to go to a café to have a beer, coffee, or a sandwich. It is a different story with coffee shops where you will most likely be served, weed, hashish, and many other varieties of “pleasure drugs”. Although my daughter’s voice “Mom, you need to try weed at least once, you will make more sense when you lecture on drug endangered children, trust me.” along with a “don’t think you’ll get anywhere with her on that” type of a smile from Bill, is ringing in my ears, nothing in the coffee shops is that inviting really. So, I pass. Cafes in Jordaan on the other hand, are exceptionally inviting. I learn later on that locals have voted Brouwersgracht the most beautiful street in Amsterdam.

                                                                          Amsteel River

Mid day, I will take a break before visiting the Hermitage Museum, Houseboat museum, De Oude Kirk, and De Nieuwe Kirk, with my ice cream bowl in my hand from the famous Dutch ice cream shop on Brouwersgracht. Sitting on the bench next to me is a middle aged woman attending a stroller next to her, at the other end of the bench. Eye contact, I smile, she smiles. We start chatting, it is that easy. There is no door a genuine smile can not open when there are no back burner agendas except for “I’d like to get to know you.” She is resting on her way to her daughter’s houseboat docked along Brouwersgracht, from a stroll with her granddaughter. Her daughter, a physician; -“Oh, really, so am I. What does she specialize in?” “Oh, yeah? Interesting. She is a gynecologist, and what about you?” “I am a pediatrician.”- is married to an officer in Dutch military, who is on his way to the A-B-C Caribbean islands that still belong to Netherlands, residual from the good old colonial days. Where they import most of their insured, registered prostitutes from, my blood is boiling over again. They are, the physician daughter and her family, that is, on their way to the Caribbean. The grandmother, thus, is doing her best to spend as much time as possible with her granddaughter, before the little treasure flies away. I wish her well and head to my next stop, the Old and New Churches, which will become another highlight in my Amsterdam trip.

Old Church is from thirteen hundreds, both are open to art exhibitions nowadays with no masses. How can masses be held in Old Church, which is in the middle of the Red Light District, anyway!? The New Church has a photography exhibition during my visit “The Roma Journeys” by Joakim Eskildsen, chronicling life stories of gypsies from Hungary, Romania, France, Greece, Russia, India, and Finland. The photos take me back to Turkey, to the Roma neighborhood in Izmir, where most families lived in either low quality project housing or in individually “built” shacks made of tin, literally, tin walls and roofs is what I am talking about. I always felt ashamed of allowing human kind live under such conditions as if they were “canned”; people instead of sardines. Fortunately within the last couple of decades, they were moved to better-built and more humane neighborhoods subsidized by the State, at least that is what we are told. Looking at these photographs, that shame and pain come back. There are other Roma world citizens living under similar conditions, no surprise. I hope part of the revenue from this exhibition can reach them.

As I leave Oude Kirk, Amsteel River, and thus Red Light District, my head is down once again as chocolate beauties with minimal amount of material covering their “business tools” hit my visual field here and there. Nobody can convince me that these girls younger than my daughter made an informed and conscious decision on selling their body was THE THING they wanted to do with their lives. There must be a line where free market philosophy should give in to “Some goods are not for sale!” I head to the Metro station a bit defeated.

AMSTERDAM -6-

AMSTERDAM MUSEUMS

5/28/2012

I bought a three day pass to Amsterdam – I AMSTERDAM, costs E60 and allows free unlimited public transportation as well as entry to many museums over a three-day period. These two days are going to be my museum days. Since none opens before 10 am, I can still go through my ritual with The Lake. It is so rejuvenating; I will not give it up one single morning for the entire week, rain or shine, an experience that will change me by the end of the week. I never liked swimming in the cold water when I was younger. the Aegean was and still is one big bathtub anyway, I was too spoiled. I remember concluding one year, the Russian tourists swimming in the Aegean in February or March were insane. That wasn’t my cup of tea until this week by The Lucky Lake. This Alpine, rather North Sea lake and the week in her bosom will become an exposure I never had in my humble swimming history. Wait, I have to take it back. How can I forget my memorable first from Ireland when I had traveled to its west coast with Bill.

The fond memory takes me all the way back to a small beach on the north west coast of the island. It was July, the peak of swimming season in Turkey, thus it must be in Ireland, too, it was an island after all and on the northern hemisphere, surrounded with the Atlantic on all sides. How could I resist swimming? That particular day was the one when the temperature, outside ambient temperature, that is, was just right, the sun was shining, the surf was calm and we were finally on this, one of the rare small sandy beaches. Bill, still cautious in his jeans on the beach, praying silently, I bet, that I’d come back to my senses and give up the idea of swimming. Alas, here I was jumping into the embrace of the Atlantic. For a moment I felt like I was electrocuted. The next, covered with millions of needles outlining the contours of my body, I was convinced one could die of a sensational shock from cold water. And in the next moment I figured out if I didn’t start moving fast, I could become an amorphously shaped ice cube floating toward either Greenland to join an iceberg or better yet to America.

It has always been my instinct to swim toward the horizon once I am in The Water, and that’s what exactly I did off this lovely beach of Ireland on that relatively warm July day. I swam and swam and swam, that’s how it felt. I am sure, though, it wasn’t any more than 5 minutes or so when I decided to turn on my back to see how far I was from Bill. Oh my! Bill was but a tiny dot on the shore, I could recognize him from his dark blue jeans and black shirt, which was his adorable uniform, pretty much all his life. For a moment, I wondered how in the world I could swim that far in such a short lapse of time without flippers. Right the next moment, all my physics and geography came back to me from 3 decades before. My goodness, I was fast on my way to America whether an ice cube or not, within the embrace of the Gulf Stream, or one of its side limbs. I will never forget the silent panic that engulfed me at that moment. One of the bonuses of being a physician is that years teach you to keep your cortex in charge even when storms or hurricanes inside may do their best to call the amygdala to leadership. That skill was the only tool that saved me from the tight grip of the Gulf Stream that day without making a fool out of myself to the entire beach residents. After half an hour of agony trying to break free of whatever undercurrent was carrying me out to the open sea, Bill gradually started growing bigger and bigger, eventually back to his life size. When I finally got out, not only the needles had altogether and long gone, but also my body was boiling over in a soup of adrenalin, hot blood, and shaking muscles, and a touch of disappointment. That would be the end of my daring with the Atlantic at least in Ireland. One more time I longed for the serene, cool not cold, wild but not savage, adorable coves of The Aegean.

How could I not long for this serenity when the currents of Atlantic were so hostile to me...

This lake is different though. It is not scary as the huge Atlantic was. It is as cold, but I can manage the cold now much better than ten years ago, thanks to changing hormonal life, definitely much better than my youth. Having showered with hot, hot water after my chilly bathing in the lake and filled up my belly with a light breakfast, I am now on my way to Amsterdam again. It is overcast, good, in case it rains being in the museums will not be that bad.

This is how Lucky Lake looked like on that very morning, isn't inviting to eternity?

My first stop is Rijks Museum, unfortunately larger wings of the museum are closed for renovation. What is open is still spectacular with lots of Rembrandt, and his contemporaries. One painting for some reason strikes me more powerfully than others. Gerard de Lairesse depicts the myth of Selene and Endymion. Mythology goes: Handsome mortal Endymion was lulled by Zeus into eternal sleep, giving him everlasting youth and beauty. He was kissed to sleep every night by his lover, the moon goddess Selene, who remains faithful to him despite the fact that he would never be Hers again. Cupid, right next to Her is also depicted on the painting, which for some reason stirred in me lots of philosophical, psychological, and humane questions. On the other hand, as famous as he became during and after his time, Rembrandt’s paintings were clearly in the service of the ruling class of his time. And I will learn in two days when I visit his residence, which is now a museum, he had to paint the rich and able in order to have the lifestyle he had to which he ended up succumbing due to his flamboyance and extravagance.

Selene and Endymion

To me, the most impressive art museum was the Van Gogh museum. Hundreds of Van Gogh’s paintings (he painted 900 some throughout his short life) and sketches were such a feast, one that was stimulating mentally, sensually, and psychologically. The story I learned about how Van Gogh’s art was preserved was most impressive. His brother Theo was not only brother to him but also his best friend and support, both financially and professionally. Theo was an art dealer and whatever Van Gogh sold while alive he did so through his brother. However, Theo died shortly after Vincent did, but not before asking his wife Johanna to preserve and collect Vincent’s art and never sell what they already had at hand piece by piece. Johanna turned out to be true to her word and not only collected Van Gogh’s art and preserved them but also triggered Amsterdam elites, which she was somewhat connected to, to establish a museum in his name. Certainly there were self serving motives as well as hopes for giving a wealthy future to her own son, but that doesn’t change the fact that she gave the humanity the gift of Van Gogh and his art.

   Two of Van Gogh's famous paintings

Time to go back to Lucky Lake. A beer by the waterway toasting to the setting sun feels like the right thing to do in an hour. Good night Amsterdam, one more time.

AMSTERDAM -5-

A VILLAGE FROM SIXTEEN HUNDREDS

5/27/2012

I am up early, barely 7 am and I am already on my way to the lake. I walk in and out of alleys adoring the small but unique cottages, cabins, homes, and house boats. The lake, all her limbs, and everything around them are asleep, not a single ripple on the water. I almost feel guilty that I will be the first to break that serenity. Can I lower my body into the water without causing a ripple? It is almost an unforgivable violation of this spectacular peace lying before my eyes. Yet, the water is so provocatively inviting, too. After spending some time daydreaming on Clara’s pier, I can’t help it and cut through the icy cold water as quietly as possible. My crawling in it is like a whisper. I am eastbound, toward The Sun. The thin layer of warmth its early morning beams spread onto my cheeks is in such great contrast with the firm, refreshing cold The Lake encases my entire body in. I am grateful.

                          One of the many arms of Lucky Lake from one of my morning walks

This will be my daily routine every day for a full week. I will come to the lake around 7 am, after a brief walk around it, will let myself into the water from Clara’s pier. Clara will be long gone, back to her work at Dam Square, I will enjoy her pier both for myself and for her sending my thankful thoughts to her twice a day. I will swim up and down along the shore for 30-35 minutes, will take a hot shower before a light breakfast and will head to the city with the 9:30 shuttle and will be in the city a little after 10. After my city tour, I will return to my camp around 7. After having dinner with my ever changing fellow campers, I will head to my usual sunset spot for my evening appointment with The Sun.

                             One of the many sunset scenery I captured around Lucky Lake

Today my goal is to go to Zaanse Schans, a village with still functioning, authentic old wind mills from fifteen sixteen hundreds. Lonely Planet says, there are five of them, but I will find 8 along the bay created by the Zaan River. They are still crushing, grinding, cutting goods for the people. I am at Central Station looking for the ticket booth. Finally I find it, get my ticket and head for the such and such track the lady at the ticket window instructed me to go to. I follow the instructions, I am on the right track. Lonely Planet warns that it is very easy to get on the wrong train to get there. I am determined not to make that mistake, so I take all the precautions. I ask one person, than another, then yet another. I even show them my ticket which reads “Amsterdam C” meaning Central Station to “Koog-Zaandjik”. Everybody is in agreement: I will wait for the train to Haarlem that will leave from track number 4 at 10:30 am. And I do exactly as I am told.

I am enjoying the countryside of Netherlands in a few minutes. The sheep and the cows grazing on the meadows, small rural settlements, everything is invigorating. We pass by couple of small stations, “Hmmm, it looks like this train doesn’t stop at small towns, Koog Zaandjik must be a larger town.” What? The sign that we just passed at 100 mph read Koog Zaandjik!? My goodness, I am heading to Haarlem, this must be an express train. I take out my ticket to show the young man sitting across from me. He is kind of indifferent to my anxiety. He simply states “This is an intercity fast train. It doesn’t stop at small towns.” Thank you very much, I have already figured that out. What now? I think all that silently and he doesn’t care. But somebody else does. A blond, younger looking man, in fact a boy sitting across the aisle from me tells me I would need a “sprinter” that stops at every town. I thank him and plan to get off at the next station to take either a sprinter back to Koog Zaandjik or a fast train back to Amsterdam and find the correct train to Zaandjik. As we pass by small stations one by one, the blond fellow traveler moves to the seat next to me.

Young people are so resourceful with their handheld electronic gadgets nowadays. This blond product of pure kindness and goodness of humanity had looked up all the trains and their schedules on his cell phone in that brief period of time and created an itinerary for me: “Get off at Stracum, go to this track, catch the train to Haarlem in 20 minutes, get off at Uetrich, next station, switch tracks and catch the train to Rotterdam in 15 minutes and get off in Koog-Zaandjik. That’s it. Youth has the answer to everything in their palms now, but if only they have the good in their hearts. His face is shining with an innocent shy smile, I must be nothing but a grateful smile. All I could say is “I will be as helpful to you as you have been to me when you come to Iowa City.” He most likely will never cross my path again, but, I am sure some good human just like himself will do some good to him for what he did for me today. I still trust the universe reciprocates with everything we do, too naïve of me? Who knows, maybe, maybe not.

As I get off the train at Koog-Zaandjik, I meet two Korean young women, who are exchange students studying business in Netherlands for the last six months. They will be returning home soon and took the opportunity to visit Zaanse Schans this long weekend. We walk all the way from the station to the beginning of the meandering path through the old Zaanse Schans. I visit a lovely store, which turns out to sell beautiful jewelry and nick nacks made of pewter, a metal created by mixing tin with antimony at 220 C after which it is casted at 350C. Eric is the artist, who tells me of his many visits to Turkey. He is now married to Clara, who also visited Turkey many times, 14 to be exact. I film both of them telling me their story and buy quite a few pieces of their art, I will need to take home gifts for my family and friends, anyway. Their repertoire is perfect.

I walk through old town, visit the mills, take lots of photographs; of the mills, of the people, of the ambience. Had it not been for the modern crowd all around me, I could’ve gone into a déjà vu feeling of being thrown into the medieval era.  On my way back, I decide to sit down on the stoop of one of the mills where an interesting and personable man is playing his ukulele as he is singing along to kids surrounding him. The pediatrician in me wants to join the kids, I guess. I sit down next to one of them, two kids down from the musician. He is now more animated. The music almost sounds like Irish music. After a while parents drag their kids away one by one and I am finally left alone with him on the stoop. He stops playing and we start chatting. Hans Aris is a retired teacher. He was born in Zaanse Schans and after spending time away for decades, now is back to his home-town. I ask him whether he knows any Turkish songs not expecting he would. To my great surprise he starts playing and singing the same tune to “Yapma, yapma, yapma…” which basically means “Stop it” or “Don’t do it.” I crack up wondering “Where in the world did you learn out of thousands of words in Turkish?” I must have thought out loud. He declares, “I had lots of Turkish students when I taught, that was one word I had to learn to keep them under control until they learned Dutch.” We laugh hard, together now, as if we have known each other all our lives.

Dear Hans Aris, isn't he the prototype of a teacher, so happy with the kids around him, and he doesn't sing for money, either. The cup is his real coffee cup.

 

                                       Hans is singing his "Yapma, Yapma" song to me!

I end my day with an icy cold bottle of beer at one of the cafes right on the water, my feet dangling into Zaan River right off the pier. I will carry Hans Aris along with me on the train, on the metro, all the way to my rendezvous with The Sun by my Lucky Lake.

     Just before dipping my feet in Zaans River to start sipping my beer

AMSTERDAM -4-

SECOND AMSTERDAM

5/26/2012

I leave our pleasant B&B with my friend. We head to the Central Station and part our ways there, she to the airport to head back to Turkey and I to “Lucky Lake Hostel” to explore second Amsterdam, way outside the canal ring, supposedly “surrounded with all blacks”. I take the Metro from Central Station to Gain on a 19 minute ride to Hollendrecht Station to catch a shuttle that is supposed to come every half hour. Yes, there are lots of black people on the metro, I chat with some of the women, they are pleasant. I observe some relating to their children or friends, they are loving and caring. I am trying to find a clue on their faces or attitudes to justify the disdain I saw on Alex’s face. None, nil. Alex, I am sorry, you lost me on this. I think I will have a fantastic week with and around these black people and you may be missing out something my friend.

I am just on time, a white van approaches me, it is my shuttle that will carry me every day from the lake to the metro and in the evening from the metro to the lake. A dark young man, Machee, from Poland with a big smile is my driver. Lots of world travelers find work in hostels of this sort, I will discover soon. Are they legal, are they not, I don’t ask, I don’t know. Another client for the shuttle turns out to be from Athens, Greece. I greet Yanis in Greek, he is pleasantly surprised. He is visiting his friend Maurio from Brasil, who will turn out to be another shuttle driver at the hostel. Maurio will tell me on one of our trips, he is 35 years old, has visited many countries including Portugal, Spain, France, and England; seems to be happy in Amsterdam for the time being… Just as I expected, I am already being exposed to young people from all over the world. This will be some unforgettable vacation, almost a journey around the globe without going anywhere, in one campground…

It indeed turns out to be a unique, modest but very sweet place. A hostel composed of old caravans surrounding a “courtyard”. Kitchen is under a big awning, the walls consist of thick vines with colorful flowers all reaching out to the sun. Roses of all colors, yellow, red, pink, purple, all with a deadly scent adorn the entire courtyard. I breath in rose air, everything is pristine clean. Smiles on faces are genuine. I meet Annabell from Quebec at the reception, who orients me to the place with a very friendly demeanor. Being able to get away from my professional persona, being treated by a woman in her late twenties as her equal is rejuvenating, subtracts couple of decades off my age. I meet a research scientist couple from India working in Germany at a huge research enterprise that plans to return to India to their families after 4-5 years. I meet 20 year-old Hanna from Germany, who spent a year in Tanzania doing volunteer work for children, who will explore this year what she wants to study next year. There is hope for more good in the world.

Path to the lake is short and pleasant meandering through high shrubs, low shrubs, rose bushes, vines of various kinds. Lake is crystal clear, green blue water is biting my toes, but kids are in and out of the water, must be swimmable. I walk in and out of thicket lined alleys exploring the secret corners of the lake. I have already identified which little pier I will be using to swim in the evening. All is well, I never expected I would be having a summer resort vacation in Amsterdam out of all places.

To make sure I am legitimate, I approach the small crowd on the pier, which seems to be either a large family or a group of friends with their families. “Is this pier open to public or private?” The young man turns to a chubby (rare in Amsterdam, since everybody is on their bikes) woman “Clara, is this open?” in Dutch which sounds very similar to German. Clara, with short blond hair, dark bright eyes replies “Open” but turns to me “This is private property, but good people can swim here.” In English, with a smile. I reply “I promise I will be good.” with a smile. Clara owns the “Yuca”, a boutique at Dam Square, Michigan Avenue of Amsterdam. She is talkative; explains they live in Amsterdam and have had this modest lake home for the weekends and holidays for the last 30 years. Clara excuses herself to prepare dinner for the family and joins her husband who has already started the barbecue.

Clara's pier

Parts of the bottom of the lake is covered with vast lilly forests, yet the water is crystal clear.

I jump in the water, after a brief shock, my body adjusts. I move parallel to the shoreline upstream for a while and swim back and past Clara’s cottage downstream. I have created my own larger-than-Olympic-size pool, I smile to myself. Kids are leaving the water one by one as their mothers announce dinner being ready from Clara’s house or neighboring cottages. Enjoying the water with no one else left in it is a new feeling that takes me back to my sunset swims in the Aegean, The Water. Swimming toward the sun during the dusk is a spectacular experience in the safety of the little coves of The Water. Finally, I get out, too. Clara’s husband is now enjoying the serenity of his yard, everybody else in the house around the dinner table, I can see through the big windows. As I walk off the pier, he waves at me, with a smile, I wave back at him, with a smile. Good people are all the same, wherever I go. They smile with a genuine smile opening the gateway to their inner treasures. Connection is something indispensible for good people. I am grateful.

                             One foggy and chilly morning the only color around was this bush.

I pack my peanut butter sandwich and head toward The Sun looking for the best spot to watch The Sun set. I discover other extensions of the lake thrusting itself into the land at unexpected turns. Finally, I find a spot slightly elevated from the meadow extending before my eyes till it reaches the lake. I buy a bottle of beer from the rustic restaurant accessible via a set of stairs, climb back up to the picnic table I already identified along a waterway that calmly flows to reach its destination, Lucky Lake. It is 9:30 pm, already, but The Sun is as bright as it has been except for the lovely red halo gradually forming around it, as if it is debating whether to sink under the blanket of the horizon or not. A thin crescent of the Moon is doing its best to push the sun into the night. The Sun is persistent, fighting for its territory until past 10 pm.

I recall my trip to Ireland with Bill in 2002. The summer skies would not reach a pitch dark black until past 11 pm. Around 3:30-4 am, The Sun would start fading the black sky into gray and finally bright blue within an hour or so. I would have to pull the curtains really tight to be able to sleep. With those memories from Ireland, I savor the beautiful colors surrounding me. Pinks, oranges, reds, shades of browns, finally fading into grays with the stubborn sun eventually giving in to the dark veil of the night. It is 10:30 now and The Sun has said good bye for the day and The Moon is toasting to her victory. It is time to enjoy The Moon on the way to my caravan. I know I will come back to this spot every evening to make sure The Sun safely arrives at her bed for the night.