Amsterdam
August 13-17, 2008
Amsterdam, the northern city on the canals. My favorite canal houses are painted in slate blue, which is really just dark North Sea Gray. The windows bare, for all to see. The flowers beckon on lookers to catch a glimpse of Riley's pottery that sits on the sill, as we sing duets in the kitchen and Atreya belly laughs, joy oozing out of his dear eyes.
There was a time when he held me, on a different canal, in a different year, and as his tiny head was on my shoulder, I hummed kumbaya and allowed the tears to stream down my face letting sadness leave my body. I remember holding Atreya as he slept in my underfed arms and I sang begging to find the courage to create the life I longed for.
It has been almost two years since then, and now, his small hand pats his chest when he wants to be held. He mimicks my smooches into the air with such gusto that it makes me laugh outloud. I don't know if I will ever be a mom, more unsure if I need or want to be. But what I do know, is that I have a family full of children and parents that welcome me into their lives to sing, dance, twirl, toss, swing, and jump.
Riley, who, once thought she would be an aunt to MY future children, now is raising a child and doing it with such grace that one would believe there is no other way than for her to be a mother. My trip would last five days. I had escaped desolate Milan. It was a week for Amsterdam to show me her beauty. A full circle. Riley and I wandered the city and enjoyed coffee and wine and even made a trip to Haarlem to visit her friend, Julie.
Julie's house, a sublet from a Dutch couple who wanted to protect it from squatters while they traveled, let in the afternoon sun, as we roamed in and out from the courtyard to the kitchen eating fresh guacomole and tomato salad. After lunch, we walked the small town and found ourselves in a great playground where the two boys under two roamed using the free bikes and toys with fifty other Dutch children who were screaming and laughing.
We, then boarded a train back to Centraal Station and the rest of the night was spent helping Riley create a dinner and then sitting on her front steps with a bottle of wine, with Heidi, a retired dancer from the Frankfurt Ballet. We sat and talked as the canal boats drifted by. Riley telling stories with her accents and predictions, making everyone laugh. It was Saturday night and the city was alive, a stark difference with Milan in August, which completely shuts down as people head to the sea.
I found myself telling a story, the words tumbling out of my mouth, as my eyes glistened. I asked if Heidi would help me get into a mind of a dancer for a piece of writing in which I was working. She put her hand to her heart and said, "Yes, the story is beautiful and I would love to help."
The next morning, Atreya slept in and Riley and I were both thankful. In the morning, we headed to the market and ate apple cake at Winkel's.
I had the afternoon alone in the city. Riley was off to a one year old's birthday party and I decided Van Gogh was calling my name. Armed with a map, I left the house and looked at the glowing sun, hesitant to cover my eyes with my aviator sunglasses. The line at the Van Gogh told me his irises would have to wait for another time so, I turned and thought of the possibilities for my afternoon in the city. As I looked, I saw the number five tram heading toward me, I smiled as I peered into its windows thinking of another day and another time. I found myself walking a route I did not think I still knew,one I thought sadness had perhaps erased. Then, finding I had arrived at the iron fence, I stopped. My hands grazed the metal and I breathed in and was instantly transported to a different moment. Saying the silent prayer of wishing for just one moment more, at the same time, realizing that one moment more would never be enough. So instead, I took the joy of remembering the past, something I have spent a career doing. I turned, smiled at the number five, winked at the fact that I am a different person today and I can't help but be a little proud.
I walked to the Rijksmuseum, feeling like Vermeer might be a close second to Van Gogh. The day and night passed and Riley and I again found ourselves in the living room with a couple of glasses of wine talking. What a beautiful sister.
The next day, Brendan, would come for breakfast. I had not seen him since Susie and Chip took me on a cross country trip when I was 14. He, now an architect, spoke of his travels and the transition from Beijing to Amsterdam. After breakfast, I packed, quickly kissed Riley and Atreya goodbye, walked to the American Bookstore with Brendan, said goodbye and was alone as I grabbed the number five tram taking it to Centraal Station, where I purchased a train ticket to Schipol heading back to my home in Milan.
Amsterdam, the northern city on the canals. My favorite canal houses are painted in slate blue, which is really just dark North Sea Gray. The windows bare, for all to see. The flowers beckon on lookers to catch a glimpse of Riley's pottery that sits on the sill, as we sing duets in the kitchen and Atreya belly laughs, joy oozing out of his dear eyes.
There was a time when he held me, on a different canal, in a different year, and as his tiny head was on my shoulder, I hummed kumbaya and allowed the tears to stream down my face letting sadness leave my body. I remember holding Atreya as he slept in my underfed arms and I sang begging to find the courage to create the life I longed for.
It has been almost two years since then, and now, his small hand pats his chest when he wants to be held. He mimicks my smooches into the air with such gusto that it makes me laugh outloud. I don't know if I will ever be a mom, more unsure if I need or want to be. But what I do know, is that I have a family full of children and parents that welcome me into their lives to sing, dance, twirl, toss, swing, and jump.
Riley, who, once thought she would be an aunt to MY future children, now is raising a child and doing it with such grace that one would believe there is no other way than for her to be a mother. My trip would last five days. I had escaped desolate Milan. It was a week for Amsterdam to show me her beauty. A full circle. Riley and I wandered the city and enjoyed coffee and wine and even made a trip to Haarlem to visit her friend, Julie.
Julie's house, a sublet from a Dutch couple who wanted to protect it from squatters while they traveled, let in the afternoon sun, as we roamed in and out from the courtyard to the kitchen eating fresh guacomole and tomato salad. After lunch, we walked the small town and found ourselves in a great playground where the two boys under two roamed using the free bikes and toys with fifty other Dutch children who were screaming and laughing.
We, then boarded a train back to Centraal Station and the rest of the night was spent helping Riley create a dinner and then sitting on her front steps with a bottle of wine, with Heidi, a retired dancer from the Frankfurt Ballet. We sat and talked as the canal boats drifted by. Riley telling stories with her accents and predictions, making everyone laugh. It was Saturday night and the city was alive, a stark difference with Milan in August, which completely shuts down as people head to the sea.
I found myself telling a story, the words tumbling out of my mouth, as my eyes glistened. I asked if Heidi would help me get into a mind of a dancer for a piece of writing in which I was working. She put her hand to her heart and said, "Yes, the story is beautiful and I would love to help."
The next morning, Atreya slept in and Riley and I were both thankful. In the morning, we headed to the market and ate apple cake at Winkel's.
I had the afternoon alone in the city. Riley was off to a one year old's birthday party and I decided Van Gogh was calling my name. Armed with a map, I left the house and looked at the glowing sun, hesitant to cover my eyes with my aviator sunglasses. The line at the Van Gogh told me his irises would have to wait for another time so, I turned and thought of the possibilities for my afternoon in the city. As I looked, I saw the number five tram heading toward me, I smiled as I peered into its windows thinking of another day and another time. I found myself walking a route I did not think I still knew,one I thought sadness had perhaps erased. Then, finding I had arrived at the iron fence, I stopped. My hands grazed the metal and I breathed in and was instantly transported to a different moment. Saying the silent prayer of wishing for just one moment more, at the same time, realizing that one moment more would never be enough. So instead, I took the joy of remembering the past, something I have spent a career doing. I turned, smiled at the number five, winked at the fact that I am a different person today and I can't help but be a little proud.
I walked to the Rijksmuseum, feeling like Vermeer might be a close second to Van Gogh. The day and night passed and Riley and I again found ourselves in the living room with a couple of glasses of wine talking. What a beautiful sister.
The next day, Brendan, would come for breakfast. I had not seen him since Susie and Chip took me on a cross country trip when I was 14. He, now an architect, spoke of his travels and the transition from Beijing to Amsterdam. After breakfast, I packed, quickly kissed Riley and Atreya goodbye, walked to the American Bookstore with Brendan, said goodbye and was alone as I grabbed the number five tram taking it to Centraal Station, where I purchased a train ticket to Schipol heading back to my home in Milan.
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