A Romantic's View of Amsterdam

Dear B----, I have fallen in love. You've met Her before - years ago, when you were flying home from Germany, you had two glorious hours with Her. Do you not remember? She is eminently practical, yet not at all lacking an appreciation for the finer things in life. If you look into Her eyes you can glimpse Her ancestors scratching out a foundation from the medieval mud, and Her struggle with the wild Sea. The Sea does His best to destroy Her, but She perseveres, and harnesses His strength. He has become Her most compassionate enemy and most bitter friend. She was brought up very zealously and still hides a passion in her breast, but has learned that strong beliefs are not usually worth the blood one pays for them. Once She was very wealthy and vestiges of that glorious and exotic time remain. Though there is, perhaps, some regret, there is no wistfulness in Her air when She speaks of it. That time is past. Since then She has suffered greatly. A distant Cousin once sought to purify Her, imprisoning and torturing Her for a time in His repulsive reich. She starved, was desolate, but She endured. She was not defeated. In Her quiet, patient way she fought Him and in the end Her patience was rewarded. They have since reconciled, but haunting memories still touch Her dreams. I cannot, and will not even attempt, to fully catalogue all Her quirks and charms. Yet I must give some impression of Her. One scene in particular remains emblazoned on my memory. I have not the gift of brush and palette; nevertheless I will attempt to follow in the footsteps of the great and paint for you a picture with my pen. It was morning, of course, and though rather late (for you B---. I was, I admit, still yawning) and the Sun was still just getting up. The sky was a pale blue, but in the bottom left of the horizon, just in the corner, were the beginnings of light - pale pink in colour. It was almost as if the Sun was blushing, embarrassed to get up so late in Her house, for She had been up long before. Indeed, there is reason to doubt She'd ever been to bed. Her canal, like an exposed artery, rippled in the slight wind so that it seemed covered in glistening fish scales and reflected the Sun's pale shame. In fact, it seemed to glow even brighter than the sky, and looking at the water, it seemed to me that I myself was but a reflection in Her life-blood. The true world was just out of reach, but somehow attainable through the water if only I were brave enough to reach for it. The narrow streets on either side of Her canal are of brick, as were the most of the tall, lean buildings that lined her. Usually red brick. She is much, much older than the modern automobile, but She accommodates them in Her fashion. She has no great dislike of them, but they are not at all her favored form of personal transportation. She prefers bicycles. Squished beside the artery, hovering tenuously on a ledge between pavement and perdition, there is a great long line of these horseless carriages parked nose-to-tail. In spite of Her aristocratic background, Her favourite mode of travel is "op de fiets." In any sort of weather and wearing any sort of garb. They were all over the railing on the canal bridge. It is practically impossible to distinguish one bike from another - it is merely a mass of tires and handlebars and horridly uncomfortable seats. Unlike the cars, which are usually shiny and in good condition, most bikes that you see are definitely used. Otherwise, as She has an unfortunate (though slight and perfectly reasonable) disregard for personal property, they get stolen. Sometimes they do anyway - She is human, after all. Looking at Her buildings can be a rather disconcerting experience. They are all right next to each other with no space between them at all, and I was surprised not to feel claustrophobic. At first they looked rather odd, but quaint and kind of cute with their gabled roofs and huge, elaborately decorated furniture hooks near the top of each building. They are tall and narrow, like arrows pointed towards the sky. Yet for all their similarities, each one is different, as if each shaft in the quiver has its own unique lineage and purpose. As I examined them more closely, their age and peculiar beauty were opened to me, and I came see them as open, even expressive. The disproportionately large windows were inviting, as if welcoming the outside world into the parlour, taming and domesticating it. I started to feel slightly off-balance for I could see that the world refused to be domestic, and each building had grown and expanded in its own way as these cramped townhouses tilted crazily in all different directions. I realized that She, the world, and the Sea are perpetually dancing, subtly, slowly waltzing through the ages. Ever so slowly, so very slowly, I was drawn into the dance. All my love (that I can spare), K---------