Clear blue skies

We have had a couple of very pleasant and welcome clear deep blue skies. And when I say clear blue, I mean it: without a single trace of the familiar streaks that the planes leave. The volcanic ash grounded most of the air traffic in Europe for nearly 5 consecutive days and things are not yet back to normal. Schiphol is really very close to Amsterdam and one constantly hears the soft drone of the planes landing and taking off. It, however, does not give me any activist satisfaction that all the planes are so unfortunately grounded. It was more the realization that there is so much white noise that is just part of our daily lives that surprised me, lying there in my bed on Thursday evening. Honestly speaking, I much prefer the white noise of distance planes to the eerie silence that the grounding has brought with it. Often late in the evening, when the sun has gone down, I go up to our little terrace on the sixth floor and I watch the distance blinking lights of the planes landing at Schiphol over Amstelveen. And I think fondly of the tired business men returning from a fruitful day of sales in some far of Scandinavian country. I imagine gleefully the smiles of the happy tourist arriving from America for a month of fun-packed tulip-filled Europe. I see the brown faces of the Dutch coming back to their little flat spot on earth that they love so much after a week of fun and party in the Southern European sun. Schiphol is and will always be part of the DNA of Amsterdam – even if they move it out to some distant reclaimed island in the North Sea.

As you surely read, millions of unfortunate and some supposed fortunate travelers were been stranded all over the world due to the closure of the airports. Enrico, a good Italian friend of ours from Milan, was one of those that got stuck in a city that they had never planned to spend the weekend in. He had spent the week involved in some arbitration for the company he works for in The Hague and was going to have a nice dinner with us on Friday and then leave back early Saturday morning to Milan and his loving, waiting boyfriend, Antonio. Well, he is still with us and it is now Monday evening! Well, we were pleased to have him and made a fun filled weekend of excursions and cycling out of it!



The Dutch countryside excursions part was Medemblik. Medemblik is one of those picturesque villages that dot the Dutch countryside of the Noord Holland province. With its medieval castle, yacht harbours, daffodil filled gardens and step-gable houses, it makes a quaint and pretty picture. From the dyke that curves around the village you can look out far at the horizon of the Ijzelmeer that once use to be the fickle stormy Zuiderzee. All this maritime history is now long ago and far away and Medemblik has become quite an affluent town with well healed visitors and one of the favourite haunts of the rich yachting crowd. The young locals, however, make quite a contrarian spectacle and have really nothing in common with the affluent visitors and the commuter crowd. You name it and they have them: camo-pants, piercings, load cars, mag wheels and fatty hair! What happened to the image of the conservative reformed countryside pillar of a couple of decades ago! It all makes for a colourful experience and then I’m not referring to the tulips that are only starting to show the first traces of colour.

Saturday evening we went to the beautiful, cavernous Amsterdam Concertgebouw. The Amsterdam String Ensemble played a challenging collection of modern and classical pieces for string instruments. The highlight was the Metamorphoses of Richard Strauss. It is a piece for 32 string instruments that Strauss wrote in the twilight of his life. One cannot but describe it as a requiem by a broken man. Strauss wrote it at the very end of the Second World War when the allied forces were systematically bombing all the major German cities. And Strauss, in his remote chalet in the Bavarian Alps, heard all about the terrible destruction of the beautiful concert buildings and opera houses in Berlin, Dresden and closer to home Munich that he so desperately loved. It evokes the image of a group of wailing women, dressed in black, walking behind a coffin of a beloved one. They all cry their own lament of misery. The one remembers the fantastic evening they had, dressed in an exquisite evening gown, in the front row of the Berlin philharmonic concert building. The other remembers the night when he gave her that shining pearl necklace in the box of the Dresden opera house. Yet another remembers the fresh evening air as they left the majestic opera house of Munich, dressed in their warm fur coats. They cry out their longing for something that will never be again. They moan as they think of the fact that it will take decennia of reconstruction and that even then it will never be the same and surely they will never see it again in their lifetime! And suddenly they are all old themselves. Suddenly they are not longer interested in all of this. They dwell off in their own direction and they prepare for their own destiny. And then in two final soft accords they end their lament in perfect harmony, like two deep breaths. Yes, it leaves you with a wry taste in your mouth and you feel like spitting on the stupidity of it all. Never again! Never again - not in Iraq, not in Afghanistan, not in Congo, not in Somalia, not in Palestine. ..

Sunday was reserved for the favourite Dutch favourite pastime of cycling! Together with nifty Enrico, we cycled through affluent Amsterdam Zuid and its stately homes, past the cruising area of the Nieuwemeer with the heads bobbing up out of the shrubbery, over the bridge along the city canal along Schiphol, and finally over to the green Amsterdamse Bos. The dandelions, celandine and buttercups coloured the shoulders of the road bright yellow. And the fresh willow leaves made picture prefect bright yellow green reflections in the water. What I found most striking about the little round on Sunday was the number of older couples on their bikes. You see these aged couples, wrapped in their spring jackets, peddling away in all seriousness. They know the all too familiar spring routes. They know the familiar little flowers and the blossoming trees. They know where to best stop and have a sweet cup of fresh tea in the morning sun. They know the familiar sight of people cleaning their half sunken boats for the hopefully warm summer that is coming. And I imagine they remember their distant youth, long gone now. They think back of the places where they stopped off in a remote verve part of the forest for a passionate kiss. I imagine how he has his thoughts and she has hers. I wonder if they remember the same moments or whether their youthful fantasies are completely different. I wonder if they find their silent peace in the same place or miles apart in two totally distant worlds.

And then we continued along the Bosbaan where the youth of today were rowing out their lungs in some college regatta! The young crowd of between 18 and 25 years were enjoying the early spring weather to its fullest. There was the young blond female university student taking picture of her puffing handsome boyfriend and his friends in the rowing boat that had just crossed the finishing line. There were the group of young boys standing around joking about the ladies in the rowing boat passing by back to the starting point. There was the handsome couple arriving in their smart sport jackets to cheer on their mates. There were the rowers sitting along the side in their rowing fatigues, beers in hand, enjoying the long awaited spring sunshine. And the cycle of life seemed round like the bicycle wheel spinning under me!