Left to my own devices on Thanksgiving Day, far from the US of A, it could have been any old Thursday. The stores were open, people were bustling about in the downtown cold, rain sleeting on tram cars as they careened on Amsterdam streets full of people. What would I do with myself so far from family and home?
After a coffee at dawn, well, ahem, that would be 8 am in Amsterdam (I did wait till first light, technically), I laid out my plan. This day was going to be a thanks-giving day for me. A thanks for giving myself a day to me. A thanks for living day, a thanks for being me day, a Thanks-Living Day celebration, to create a new tradition.
I have long been in the habit of buying myself a Christmas and birthday present, and yes, sometimes I wrap them up just so I can open them again, but this was a new idea, on a whole new level. Thanks- LIVING day... a whole day, dedicated to my ALIVEness on this planet, in this place, here in Amsterdam, on this particular Thursday.
A mental landscape open, my exam was turned in the day before, and coffee in hand, I delved into the poetic prose of Canadian writer, Michael Ondaatje. If you ever get a chance to read one of his novels, I am going to suggest something wonderful. Just open anywhere and read one short section. Words drip off the page like they are blooming from it. The man does not write stories, he crafts a textured garment of language you can wrap around you and enter... moving inside the pages of other lives and details that become like your own in minutes.
Book had to come with me... but in this rain? I wrapped it in plastic, jumped on my bike and went out to discover my day.
First stop: Investigation
I had heard rumors of a store by the Heineken brewery, a discount store that shoppers in Amsterdam crave for... name brands for little money, these stores "squat" in unused buildings for one or two months with no overhead, then they are gone as quickly as they come. My bearings were a sticker I had seen on a light post at a bike stop: CloseOut Store open now, area of Heineken Brewery. I am always up for a discount adventure.
The Heineken Brewery is a monster of a building in Amsterdam, and the square it dominates is a criss-cross of tram lines, wandering drunk tourists, and insane cyclists. There is NO store on Heineken square of any kind whatsoever. I detoured my bike through misty rain and headed down a little known street following nothing but gut instinct. No worries- I had already been lost once this day already, on my way to the square when my glasses proved to be able to catch, not deflect, raindrops and I lost my turn. Well, losing the way once means I'm golden from that point on, so I was not worried heading down this little street.
Instinct pulled me in this magic street of little pubs laid out in front of me. Irish pubs, Dutch Brown Bars, Turkish shops, and one store for Indian Saris. An Olliebol Kram was propped up in the center of delicate lights, stretching in either direction. Steam rising, the sweet dough frying filled the air with warmth and smells putting happy smiles on everyone's faces.
In a dark window, the sign I was looking for: closeout... should have been Clothes Out if you ask me. Rows and rows of Calvin Klein, Cos, and designers from Norway, Sweden, London and Paris. I figure if you are going to dress for the cold, the Norwegians know what they are doing. In the rear of the shop I found a jacket, silver-lined, down-filled with fur along the neck, and hey: water repellant!! For less than price of a dinner in Amsterdam, I walked out a warm woman onto the streets clad for snowstorms and ice of the nether-colder-than-lands. Living for me day meaning living warm on cold streets day and the rest of the long cold winter ahead. 8 am dawns and 4 pm dusks are bearable if one is warmer than just baked bread.
2nd stop: Ireland
Well, it was just across the street, actually, and seemed a lovely way to spend a lunch hour. I am notoriously an old grandmother of a young person, so the best place I know to bring out reading glasses and a book wrapped in plastic is an Irish pub in Amsterdam. The Irish don't raise their eyebrows to much, but their glasses are raised to everything. There were three of us lazily waiting for the sun to break through the gray of the day, a typical affair of light for about two hours on these wintery days in the north of Holland. Finding a seat by the window, my neighbor reading his paper, and the proprietor blowing balloons, I savored in the joy of a place where just the simple act of sitting down was enough to warrant one a place to call home. Waiting till the sun had finally emerged, and was warming my back from the square window, I watched the bar tender and proprietor, now my only two companions, as they prepped for an American dinner. Balloons, red, white, and blue, little plastic flags. I felt for sure it must be July someplace, and dammit, if someone would please tell me where that warm sun is! But no, Thanksgiving Irish Pub style meant mashers and gravy, turkey in pie and sliced, and balloons and flags spread along the bar, celebration style... just luring the Americans in. Hmmn, if they only knew where this street was.
In the loo a sticker on the mirror read: Je heb je haar veranderd! (You have changed your hair!) and of course, my grandmotherly nature kicked in as I spoke to the mirror, why yes I have, thank you for noticing.
Stop 3: Sunlight and finger dust
Nothing beats coming out into warm sun on a cold day right in front of the Olliebol Kram. Score.
I have DREAMS of the Olliebol krams when I am home in Utah. These are far-away misty dreams of magnificent proportions. The warm fried dough crammed with raisins, cream, or apples. Sometimes, plain and salty, but always, always dusted with fine white sugary powder. I order one and luxuriate in the sun, fine dust drifting onto my new coat, chasing my Irish coffee down.
Stop 4: Beauty and light
Did I say two hours for the sunlight? I exaggerate. 15 minutes later I was ducking inside again. There is a little-known art museum nestled in the heart of Amsterdam, sandwiched between cultural monuments of buildings. A simple sign belittles the place: Foam.
But behind glass doors and the tiny store, a veritable world opens. The old architecture gives way to modern glass and steel, interacting with stone and wood beams. Open galleries stretch and boast a collection of photographic art worthy of the MOMA in New York. In fact, some of the exhibits find their way there, bearing the stamp of 'Amsterdam' as their new born certificate. New artists, emerging artists, foreign artists, and classics, one can get sucked in quite quickly to the images playing with light and shadow, face and form. Light moves through the building ethereally, as if outside was never a storm. The clink of glasses, soft chinks of conversation as the culturally astute swarm over tea and cakes in the cafe below. I just want to savor the walls and the displays. The one photograph that looks like a painting, the one that is just a silhouette. There is a nook, on the middle floor. A seat overlooking the entry, and onto the canal. A framed living photograph beyond the Foam's walls.
I move on.
4 & 5, a moving afair.
Hot food on a cold day. Hot container burning my hand. Take-out Indonesian with sambal oelek, enough to give heart burn. Just warm me up from inside-out. The heat expands if you let it.
I take my favourite snack on a walk through the 9 streets. The streets the locals cannot for the life of them figure out, and yet once you are here you quickly find your way around. That is, if you are willing to dodge down alleys and side streets in a weave like a maze to find your favorite places. There is the antique map store, the pen store and lamps on the corner. My favorite store of antique dresses, gloves, hats, handbags and shoes, a throwback from another time. The second hand stores with precious finds. The only make-up store completely biological, so expensive I can't buy blush. I find myself in a small boutique with a woman complimenting my Dutch. By the time I leave, we are fast friends, this owner of the store and I. She has told me her story, how love led her around the world, to over 40 countries. How she raised her daughter. Nomadic. Like our family. We have something kindred, and she is envious for younger days. She warns me: consider love, my dear, follow your heart. She shoves a gold scarf into my bag, unpurchased, unbought, a gift of a woman who has seen much to one who has just begun.
A finishing touch:
There is nothing like shopping and elegant wanderings if you can't share them, or show them off. And what better place to do this than the Soho, where again I find myself the single one woman in a bar just opening up. But this bar appreciates a silver-lined jacket with fur trim collar! Red plush decadent seats, fire place, and over a hundred lit candles. I find a seat near the window to watch the last of the light leave the faces of travellers. Darkness descends, and people dive in to the nearest warm places for comfort, food, and appreciation.
Friends arrive and revel in my happiness. I explain the theory- it is simple: be alive, and be me. A Thanks-Living-Day, thanks for living day, for coming this far and enjoying it day. They jump right in, and soon I am swept up in dinner plans. We must celebrate this! Get the wine, dessert and let's begin. A walk through awakening night streets, a new form of traffic emerging. An open door to an elegant floor. Arias float through the walls as risotto simmers. We have tears in our eyes from the woman's voice on the stereo, and don't even know it... pouring wine, savoring the fact that a pillow can be made from Mongolian sheep. Mongolian sheep! Opera and white wine! I think I am living now...
Life stories till midnight. Singers' parades of challenge and fears. Poetry read over bell tones, dessert of tart bitter berries and succulent cream, with laughter, laughter, laughter, and open heart wonder.
I find my way home in a state of grace. Grace is inside you, the author says. Find it and you find God. Find it and you are alive. Or live, and it finds you inside.
