It's Coming Back to Me (Pt.1)

For weeks now I knew I would return to Holland--this time for the longest tenure yet, nine months. Amidst the tidal wave of details (including everything from what to pack v. what to ship to breaking heart-breaking news to at least two people who deserve not to experience such disappointment), actually buried way, way under the really important stuff were the truly trivial things that somehow managed to dominate the limited amount of time needed for many, much more serious considerations.

Want an example? I knew I would start another blog. I know how important it is to me to capture my experiences and to reflect on their impact. I've written three other blogs, and in each case the time spent composing and expressing myself has proven to be essentially beneficial to the overall experience. I remember well the simple question asked of me by my "Irish cousin" after an evening of guaranteeing a reduction in the local supply of Irish whiskey. He asked: what will you take away from your time in Europe?

Deceptively simple that one. Knowing what I will take or, in fact, what I took from a year's worth of living in and around Amsterdam--traveling to almost every Dutch town of importance to me or the ones the tour books insisted upon, seeing the monumental icons of European culture and the history of two world wars, and living a simple existence among the Dutch people--was only recognizable upon reflection. I thought about it, I wrote about it, I cherish it.

Like I said, I knew there would be a fourth blog. The burning question, the one that I considered while I should have been doing more urgent things, was: What would I name it? (I've heard it said before you can truly understand something, you have to name it. It was attributed to the Chinese, but I figure that's only because we seem to want all sources of wisdom to come from somewhere far away.) 

And just as it was with the other blogs, until a name was assigned, there would be nothing to write. As trivial as it seems--and sounds--I gave considerable time to finding its name. I knew it was out there; I just had to find it.

Today, my first full day, I was standing at a Metro stop waiting for the #51 to take me into old Amsterdam to have coffee and conversation with my colleagues whom I have not seen for three years. As I stood there among the commuters and tourists, between the children playing tag around and around the rain shelter, minding my own business and lost in my thoughts, I realized that any number of things were coming back to me. I remember the differences between riding the Metro and the trams (yes, there are differences especially how one purchases fares). I remember how to say 'please' and 'thank you' without butchering the especially challenging Dutch language. I know that spek is bacon, and I know darn well not to step in a bike lane without making sure--real sure--it's safe. Yep, it's coming back to me in a number of ways regarding a number of things.

I knew I had my title. I knew because the phrase can be extended in other ways as well. Amsterdam is an awesome place and as much as things are coming back to me, I am coming back to it. I am returning to a place with a sense of history unlike any other city or town I have ever truly experienced first-hand. It is the home of Rembrandt and Anne Frank. It has stunning architecture and world-class museums. It hosts a daily, crushing flow of tourists, but despite the wounds of oppression and self-inflicted abuse there is a genuine sense of serenity among the canals. Being here and living here are like being behind a two-way mirror, a mirror that serves both as a facade of tolerance and a reflection of who we really are--all bathed in a smoky haze of red light.

It’s all coming back to me. Yep, it’s coming back.