The white and purple crocuses on the Amsterdam roundabouts have made way to the bright yellow of the daffodils. The birds are back from Africa and they chirp happily long before the morning actually dawns. But the spring daffodils and the chirpy birds are not in the clouds yet. The cold winter weather clings on before it’s banished to some far off snow covered Greenland peninsula!
It’s Easter time again. And this year it is a very special Easter: The Catholic and Orthodox Easters fall on the same weekend. For one special weekend, the Swiss can eat their chocolate Lindt bunnies on the same weekend as the Romanians crush their painted red eggs against each other! Easter, and its predecessor the Passover, must be one of the oldest, if not the oldest tradition, in the world.
We went to the Easter services in the Westerkerk on Friday. They performed the St John’s Passion as they have done for more than 400 years now. Needless to say the quality was outstanding and the austere sober protestant interior is the ideal setting for the Passion. The only decorations are the Dutch clouds drifting by in the sunset past the huge glass windows. The tall empty trees stand there like crosses waiving in the wind.
And as the evening darkness settles in, Christ dies again. The music takes your mind back to a place that you have never seen, standing in front of a man you have never met, and in a crowd full of hysterical people. Their fury about a stupidity, someone calling himself the King of the Jews, seems so petty – a pettiness you know all so well in your daily life. And then you see that beautiful man, with his full beard and his hairy chest drained with sweat and blood hanging there. You cannot look at his face full of agony. Is he a scapegoat, a deranged cleric, a self-obsessed narcissist, an innocent dreamer, or a wise philosopher? What can be so dangerous in someone preaching love and sleeping with his followers in the open fields like a bunch of hippies in the seventies? And then as the blood seeps down the cross your eyes follow it, down to where a women looks at her own flesh hanging there. She asks the same questions? She is waiting for her son to die! Her beautiful, beautiful boy is dying. And only then, in that true human tragedy does it touch you. And then the temple curtain tears and the choir ends in what sounds like to battle hymns and we all march out onto the canals with an increased realization of how fragile we are.
The streets of Amsterdam have been buzzing since last weekend already. You see the clumps of tourist increase as the week progresses. There are the dark haired Italians with their maps turned upside down. There are the moon faced winter white Finnish eating in the restaurant on the corner. There are the classy French families, all fashionably decked out, with their green Michelin books. There are the tall Germans bemused by the chaos that is Amsterdam. And normally the last to arrive are the Belgians in their big cars looking for an expensive parking spot for the weekend. Amsterdam becomes a beautiful and colorful mix of European nationalities. The menacing and dividing Greek problem and the mistrust that it creates seems miles away. And the building xenophobia in the Netherlands is packed away for a nice long weekend of friendship.
It is also of course a XL edition of partying! After all there is a lot to celebrate, especially on Monday. So why not! On the gay circuit party, Rapido, rules the roost at present! Honestly, it is an amazingly well organized and compelling concept. Always better DJs, excellent laser shows and probably the most important thing, a great venue. It takes place in the Paradiso, which is a converted church in Amsterdam. There is nothing more exciting than standing on the gallery on the second floor and seeing more than a thousand boys enjoying themselves. The body beautiful of Europe descends on it and tickets are sold out weeks in advance. Great as it may be you always walk out of there feeling like you lost the beauty pageant. It must feel exactly the same way in a beauty pageant! Everyone arrives a bit nervous and scared at around 4 in the afternoon. When the juices start working everyone is a winner – or forgive the pun, the beauty queen of the evening! And as no one is actually appointed as the winner, by 2 in the morning there are only princesses looking for their other glass shoe! Be that as it may, it is great fun and absolutely worth experiencing.
Rapido for the beautiful only – a very short story!
“You are so beautiful” said the short fat boy to the tall handsome man dancing next to him.
“Sorry, what did you say?” said the tall handsome man, looking at him with his blue eyes.
“I said: where do you come from?” said the fat boy gleefully.
“The music is so load, I cannot hear a thing” said the handsome man with the washboard stomach.
“How old are you?” asked the fat boy looking at his soft white skin.
“I can’t hear what you are saying and really it’s none of your business!” said the tall handsome boy while he looked at the muscled body dancing next to him.
“You are so beautiful” thought the fat boy as he danced back into his dark corner putting his shirt on again.
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It spring again in old Amsterdam. It is still too early for the tulips, but there are already thousands of little crocuses on every roundabout! Spring is such a lovely time. Having grown up in sunny South Africa, with its near eternal summers, one never realizes the full significance of spring in the cold North! The little green dots in the grey bushes, the tiny specs of color in the fields herald a new beginning and a thankful ending.