Finding Joy

Forty years ago I was hired to teach fifth graders. Forty years after that, I was hired with the same mission in mind. Forty years ago I gave my best effort with all the energy and enthusiasm of a twenty-two year old with something to prove. Forty years after that I take away all the energy and enthusiasm that comes from a herd of ten and eleven year-olds. From them I have learned to find joy. Oh don’t get me wrong, I’m still the grumpy, old guy they are learning to manipulate, but what I’m saying is that every day—every single day—if I look, and I do, joy is mine for the taking. In fact, I make it my habit to identify at least one daily example.

The day before Easter, our good friend and ex-colleague, Gerbie came to visit us. Traveling alone and getting off to a start that included missing the connecting flight to Europe, I am sure he was at least relieved when he finally cleared customs at Schiphol. I’m guessing it’s hard to find the joy while sleeping on the floor in the Atlanta airport, or wondering where in the world your checked luggage might be, or even in considering that after nine years of marriage things got to the point that you are alone.

Jet-lag is a very real thing, but after losing an entire day of his vacation we acted as if it’s not.  In his five days with us, we managed to cram in the Albert Cuypt street market, the Heineken Experience, a canal boat ride, House of Bols, the Genever Bar, Van Gogh Museum, Hajenius, Café de Klos, Café the Pub (Yep, that’s the name!), Keukenhof Gardens, gawking at the purty gals in red lit windows (and some not so purty ones), the Old Sailor Bar, street urinals, the Royal Palace at Dam Square, the Nieuwekerk (where King Willem-Alexander was crowned), Rembrandtplein and Leidseplein, and restaurants from Amstelveen to Amsterdam, from one end of the city to the other, with enough walking to wear out the soles of his shoes let alone his aging friends. But most importantly, for me, there were many opportunities to talk—and listen—because, after all, what do you say when someone describes heartache? No words erase loneliness or rejection. Emotional confusion doesn’t just end when a conversation does.

Seriously? Who touches the paintings?

We’d have to ask him but I think he would count among the best experiences the chance to meet and hang out with one of my oldest and closest friends, Jim. On Gerbie’s first evening with us, after an extraordinarily long day we crossed into Dam Square, the site of the Royal Palace. As we walked and talked and pointed out all the touristy bits of trivia that Jim and I knew, we realized that Gerb was no longer with us. Amsterdam is the wrong place to lose a jet-lagged American with an absolutely nonexistent sense of direction. A quick scan and we spotted him doing what all first-timers do—staring. The palace is a spectacularly massive thing, and there he stood trying to absorb the grandeur of that moment. See? That’s what I mean about joy.

There was joy in that moment. There’s joy in the giggling of a grown man using a street urinal when he realizes his simple-mined friend has aimed a camera over the awning. There’s joy in convincing your host that you were ejected from one of the world’s great museums for touching one of Van Gogh’s masterworks. (He had a photo of himself actually touching a painting—a present-day copy created for the purpose of demonstrating texture.) There’s joy to be found in the Cuban smoke-filled lounge at the 100-year old Hajenius Cigar and Pipe Shop.

Jim and Gerb at Cafe the Pub

On his next-to-last night in Holland in a local brown bar named Café the Pub, Gerbie, Jim and I had one last opportunity to share a few hours and more than a few pints of Heineken. We laughed about things usually reserved for twelve-year-olds. We created the definitive list of the top three American rock bands of all times (although the two of them got at least two wrong answers). We all shared a more than few memories for sure, but mostly we created some.

There’s joy in the presence of a friend.