Lights, Camera, Action: New Year's Eve in Amsterdam

Be careful what you wish for, or what you offer up to your children. Even before the move to Amsterdam, we promised both kids that they could invite friends here whenever they wanted. Somehow, that promise was never cashed in on because of a host of issues including, to name a few related ones: high plane fares and teenagers unable to plan ahead - beyond what's up that evening  - enough to swing a trip overseas. So when Rachel announced in November that her gals (friends since middle school) from Maplewood were planning a trip here, I took a "I'll-believe-it when-I-see-it" approach. Apparently, Rachel's description of last year's New Year's Eve "festivities" summoned up every ounce of empathy in her friends' DNA, and they were determined to show her a good time this year. She had no doubt filled them in on her sad-sack parents idea of a celebration last year (Thai food, dodging firecrackers on the walk home when the trams stopped running, in bed by 11 p.m., being rousted up at midnight by the sounds of full-out wartime bombing, comforting a shivering Casey at our bedside while Rachel sat in the living room of our apartment trying to get a glimpse of the fireworks from the windows). It's enough to make five gals from Maplewood jump on a plane and save their dear friend from the misery of repeating that reputation-threatening experience. 

Before we get to the main event, let's explore Amsterdam at feestdagen: the holiday season. There are lights everywhere. We celebrated the Amsterdam Light Festival by swirling around the canals in a boat a few days before Christmas. This year's theme was, appropriately enough, friendship. We went with some of mine, while Rachel anxiously awaited the arrival of hers. 

Sssssh, don't tell Rachel, but this is my idea of a light show: all color and no noise. I come from a long line of noise-averse folks. My dad used to shush us if we rattled the pots and pans in the kitchen when he was trying to read the morning newspaper and enjoy his coffee. I used to find his brittle sense of hearing so annoying. Now I am him.

And speaking of colorful, we all sat down to an amazing (and colorful) meal at a Lebanese restaurant after the boat ride. I highly recommend Dabka if you find yourself in the Red Light district and have a hankering for something other than fries or a waffle. Or any of the other treats that a visit to the Red Light District finds you surrendering to. 

Also leading up to the main event was our traditional Jewish Christmas celebration. We saw a movie (Carol, with the luminous Cate Blanchett: loved it!) , then feasted on Chinese food. The city was lit up, well, like a Christmas tree. There were streams of people in the streets, and not all of them were tourists. Restaurants were open (not just Chinese ones) and so were the big museums, like the Van Gogh, the Rijksmuseum, and the Anne Frank House. No wonder Amsterdam has been rated one of the best spots in the world to visit during Christmas. I didn't have the usual feeling of being an outsider on Christmas day. Growing up in Trenton, N.J., we lived close to a largely Italian neighborhood where the lights were amazing and abundant. I used to love driving to our babysitter's house at night where we opened the presents she gave us while envying her sparkling-silver tinsel tree. On the way there, I marveled at all the lights and secretly wished we had some wrapped around our house, too. But wandering the streets of Amsterdam, I felt like this was a festival of lights for all of us, everyone from the wandering Jews to the roving bands of tourists in search of weed.

Notice that Rachel is probably laughing at and not with me here. My friend Lauren, on the other hand, looks as happy as I do that the rain stopped just in time for this shot, and also that we had enjoyed some spectacular Chinese food together. 

We got warmed up for the visit from the gals with a two day visit from Kemarni, Rachel's Colgate friend who was studying abroad for the semester in Paris. The Foodhallen (a must-visit when you're in Amsterdam) was full of sparkling lights, much like the ones in Kemarni's eyes when he saw this barbequed brisket.

Olliebollen (literally "oil balls") are a treat served only during holiday time. They are like American donuts, but shaped like balls. The smell is like the fried dough on the boardwalk down the shore in N.J. (for those of you who are from that neck of the woods).

With all of this happiness under our belts, we were ready for the gals to arrive. We got a lot of mileage out of telling all our friends we were putting up six 20 year old gals for a week. With one shower. Let me just say that as with most scary events, the anticipation was way worse than the reality. As soon as they walked in the door, I found myself fully caught up in the spirit of things. And speaking of spirits, with the drinking age 18, and the entrance age at coffeeshops the same, I was glad that the partying wouldn't all have to take place illegally.

This was the photo we sent to their parents verifying that they had in fact arrived. Soon afterwards, they fell into a deep sleep, something I didn't really do the week they were here.

O.K. that is a bit of an exaggeration. But it did make me ask myself when worrying became such an intrusion on my way of seeing the world. I don't think I worried nearly as much when I was Rachel's age. At least I hope not. So is worrying something you start to do when you are a parent? Or just when you start to get old? These are the things I asked myself when I got up to use the bathroom the second night of the gals' visit, snuck at look at the clock and saw it was 3 a.m. and that there were no gals in sight. They were on a tour of the bars /pub crawl in Amsterdam. I guess it ran long. Very long. And after all that walking, of course you need a full meal, no matter the hour. So of course, some of the gals tried to make pasta upon their return home at 4 a.m., with the pots clanging like church bells. That is, until Peter came downstairs and reminded them it was time to go to sleep. From then on, in what would become an oft-repeated joke (by me, of course), whenever they went out, I reminded them that the pile of snacks we had bought was their "pasta". For some reason, I'm the only one who found that joke incredibly funny. I supplied you with the link to the tour, since I know so, so many of our friends will want to go when they visit.

The little daily life activities (grocery shopping, eating, showering) that we take for granted as empty-nesters are a challenge when a flock of six descends on you. In fact, just getting out of the house when you are traveling with an extra six-pack is an activity in and of itself. I didn't think our plumbing would survive the week, but it pulled through for us. The gals were actually very considerate about keeping all shared spaces like the kitchen and the dining room immaculate. Their own living quarters...well, I'll let the photo speak for itself. I had to venture down there for the washing machine one afternoon. It was unclear if there were any humans who had been left behind in one of the piles. For those of you who thrive on details (Mom: this is for you), four of them slept in the downstairs room, and two were in Rachel's room. The girls did the dividing themselves: snorers vs. non-snorers. I love their honesty.

I truly was not snooping. The gals knew full well that I was planning on blogging about their visit. So I consider this just all part of the research process. 

Lest you think it was all worry (from me) and piles of clothes (from them), it was not. It was such fun to see Amsterdam through their eyes. They kindly agreed to let me tag along quite a bit and pose for photos. I learned a new term from them: "gram-worthy". Apparently, a lot of thought goes into figuring out which photos are worthy of posting on Instagram. Not all the ones (or any of the ones?) I slap up on my blog would pass the test. 

Here's the outside of one of the coffeeshops they visited. We parted ways at the door. I went off in search of real coffee. 

All of this was just a warm-up for the Main Event: New Year's Eve. Word has it the Dutch spend over 60 million euros on New Year's eve fireworks. It's a real example of the lack of top-down authority here. Rather than one giant display organized by the city, everyone buys their own and lights them up freely, allegedly between the hours of 6 p.m. and 2 a.m. The reality is that days before, we heard test cases going off. And days later, as we walked past a "college" (where the students hanging outside looked suspiciously like a bunch of high schoolers, to me) we had to dodge their firecracker-setting. The school was located just a block or so from the U.S. Embassy, and nary a policeman or woman showed up to stop them. This year, we decided to spare Casey the agony of hearing the eruptions and sent him off to the suburbs to stay with his dog sitter. It's not that there were no fireworks there, but we hoped there would at least be somewhat fewer. 

The gals were all dolled up and ready to head up onto the rooftop patio at our friends' place for the best view of the fireworks. The fancy clothes were not for the rooftop's benefit. The gals were heading out to a club after the fireworks were over, or at least until there was a break in the action.

Thanks to Rob for creating this movie of the midnight explosion and to both Rob and Darlene for hosting a fabulous rooftop party, complete with a fire, blankets, and hats to ward off the cold.

I'm proud to say that Peter and I stayed up until 3 a.m. that night. We arrived home to find half of the six-pack walking up the street. Apparently, the club had sold out, so only the three who had bought tickets ahead of time got in. The others enjoyed taking in the excitement on the streets before walking home since the trams had stopped running at 8 p.m. So we headed to bed with Rachel and two of the gals safe in their beds, and managed to sleep until morning with no wake-up calls from early morning pasta preparers. Here is the text exchange between Peter and me the next morning as we tried to ascertain if the rest of the six-pack had returned safe and sound. Notice I am not naming names. Gals, I have your backs!

Somehow, the fascination with setting off your own set of fireworks continues, despite the next-day news about all the injuries. The headline of this article One Person Dies in Relatively Peaceful New Year's Celebrations says it all. I guess one man's "peaceful" is another man's chaotic.

Maybe all of those fireworks are just a metaphor for looking fear straight in the eye and letting it go. And letting go is really what being a parent is all about, isn't it? At what point do you hold your worries inside of you and try to let your young-uns make their own mistakes and begin to grow up? No one really tells you the truth about having kids when you are drowning in the early days of babyhood and toddlers: that those early days are relatively easy compared to what's in store once they are big kids. Some people say that each stage of parenthood is difficult when you are going through it. It's only later that you realize that is was a piece of cake compared with the brand new stage. So I apologize right now to all those ladies of a certain age who used to smile at me in the grocery store when I tried to negotiate the narrow aisles with Ben and Rachel in the double-stroller. Those old coots (probably in their early 50's) would prattle on with what I deemed utter nonsense, something like, "They're so adorable. Enjoy them while they're young." Ah, little did I know I would grow up to be one of those old coots spouting that same wisdom.

Little did the gals know that as I watched them have some fun on the playground in Vondel Park, I imagined them looking like the gal on the right.

The visit from the gals helped me take a voyage back in time. I thought a lot about the people I knew and loved back in high school and and college, most of whom I still know and love. What kind of trouble could we have gotten into if my parents had moved to Amsterdam and some of these characters had come to visit me? Best not to think about it. Let's just say there would no doubt be attempts at making pasta at 4 a.m. For anyone left off of the montage, below, I was constrained by the photos I still have. You are with me in spirit!

So, thanks, gals - Ally, Annabelle, Helen, Liz, Nancy, and Rachel - for bringing me back to a time when I wasn't as worried about things, when fireworks were just exciting instead of also really loud, and when I was a night owl. And, yes, I forgive you for the pasta night. This song's for you:

Soon after the gals left, Rachel's friend Charity stayed with us after her Model U.N. experience in Antwerp. After putting up six gals, having only one extra in the house was a piece of cake. 

At the risk of jumping on the David Bowie train just for a line, one phrase does seem particularly appropriate for this post. Plus I was fascinated by him and loved some of his music over the years. "Time may change me, but I can't trace time." I'm not exactly sure what the "tracing time" phrase means. Maybe it has something to do with not being able to go back and trace exactly what you did that got you to where you are today. One thing I do know is that it helps if, from time to time, you can go back, even for a little while, and even if it's vicariously, to the person you used to be. Maybe that's one of the true joys of having kids, or later on (much later on!) grandkids. You get to relive life through their eyes. Happy New Year to all my new and old friends and family. May this be a year full of good health and happiness, fewer worries, and changes only if you want them.

You Can't Go Home Again

In Thomas Wolfe's novel You Can't Go Home Again (famous in its own right, and not just because I stole the title for my blog post), a young writer publishes a novel based on his family, friends, and hometown. When he returns home after the novel is published, they are none too pleased to have their dirty laundry aired for all to read about, and the author is driven out of town. He realizes, "You can't go back home to your family, back home to your childhood ... back home to a young man's dreams of glory and of fame ... back home to places in the country, back home to the old forms and systems of things which once seemed everlasting but which are changing all the time – back home to the escapes of Time and Memory."

Despite's Wolfe's admonition, I do go "home" again, even though we sold the place we used to call home, back in July. This means that we have no "home base" when we return, no place to wash our dirty laundry, and no rooms of our own to wander in when we sit bolt upright in bed at 5 a.m. with U.S. jet lag. Many of our expat friends do still own their home. I think that helps them feel more grounded when they arrive, unlike the Drucker-Vines who must wander from pillar to post, or more accurately from pillow to post. We experience an "If it's Tuesday, this must be Belgium" phenomenon, especially at wake-up time. Are we still at my mother-in-law Lenore's house? Or have we already broken camp and headed to our friends Kate and Howard's place? This lack of a home-base must be particularly hard on Rachel. College students take for granted that they can wander home whenever school is on break (which is a lot of the time) with dirty laundry and an open mouth eager for home-cooked meals. Except when there is no home. She has coped remarkably well, relying on the kindness of Maplewood friends and our family to fill in the gaps. She has a new-found appreciation for what international students at school have to contend with.

Rachel and I posed for a series of sad photos when the house was empty and we had to clear out. 

If only a house could always be as clean as when you are about to vacate.

When you go back to your hometown, but you don't own your home anymore, you can still stalk it. You case the joint just to see if they really did redo "your" brand-spanking new kitchen. And the best part of it is that you don't have to rake the leaves whilst you are spying. I wonder if Casey still has dreams about that backyard and the white picket fence? Truth be told, I really just put this photo in because it's the best photo Ben ever took of Casey. Also, when it comes to being confused about what a home is, I think Casey would have a lot to say on the subject, if only I could understand what he is saying.

For an expat, the concept of home is fraught with complications. On the one hand, it's the comfortable place you packed up and left, where your family often lives, too, and so do the friends you left behind. On the other hand, home now is also your new country. The longer we are here, the more it does feel like some version of home. While some expats bring only their clothes and live in furnished rentals, we set sail for Amsterdam with quite a bit of our own furniture and other belongings. I think that helps bridge the gap between the old and the new homes. However, plenty of our belongings are stacked up in a storage box somewhere in Florham Park, N.J. since apartment living is not on the same scale as suburban N.J. living. It does make you realize how much less you can survive with, now that we have lived for a year without those "essentials". Frankly, I can't even remember what's in that storage box. 

I recently read an article about Saorise Ronan, a young Irish actor who stars in the film Brooklyn (which I haven't seen yet, but hope to soon). Feeling homesick for Ireland while living in London, she asked the Irish director, now an eighteen-year resident of London, about her feelings. She wondered whether or when her homesickness might ease. He told her that it eventually would, but he added the following: “You’re not from the country you’re living in, however great that is. When you go home you’re no longer from that place either. And people view you differently, and you view them differently, and it’s all different. And you can’t tell why.” Exactly!

I certainly felt that way when we went home for Thanksgiving this year. We managed to see most of the family, thanks to the nature of Thanksgiving itself, which gives you the chance to see giant groups of family members in one fell swoop, all while downing giant mounds of food. Yet I was beginning to feel different, like I wasn't quite at home.

Thank goodness for the chance to meet new members of the family, like beautiful Sasha Levin. Since babies change so much, so quickly, she will no doubt be shopping at Forever 21 by the next time we see her. 

So much of the expat visit "back home" (note the contradiction in labeling something both a visit and "back home") revolves around errands. There is the mad dash to your familiar haunts to pick up items you either can't find in Amsterdam, or that you could find if you looked hard, but you just can't be bothered. That means, for most of us, a run to CVS for essentials: lotions and potions, prescription meds that doctors here would never dispense (or so we are told), and a quick flu shot (also not something they readily give out here). But CVS alone does not the expat visit make. There is the run to Trader Joe's to load up on snack foods you can't live without, to Target (even though we have a perfectly good Dutch version called Hema), and in my case, to the local mecca: The Able Baker. For those of you who don't live in or near Maplewood, N.J., it's home to the world's best scone. And I do mean world's best, because I have tried my darndest to find a suitable replacement. Luckily, I finally followed my more senior expats' advice and brought an extra suitcase so I could fit - among other things - the six butter-laden scones that I brought back to Amsterdam with me. 

It's not that Amsterdam doesn't have its own share of delicious treats. It's just that nothing compares to an Able Baker scone. Here's my niece Alissa and her husband Scott indulging in an Amsterdam waffle with melted dark chocolate at the outdoor Albert Cuypstraat market. It did look good. But it's just not on a par with my beloved scones.

Yes, I have to admit that I have this song running through my head as I approach the doors of the bakery, wondering whether they will have my favorite flavors: vanilla, cinnamon raisin, or pumpkin maple walnut. I doubt this is what the fabulous Pointer Sisters had in mind when they sang about being all excited and about to lose control. But I can assure you this is how I feel when I approach the Able Baker. "Get in this town and show me some affection. We're going for those pleasures in the..." bakery. Can you imagine better outfits than the ones the Pointer Sisters are wearing in this video? I can't.

Our visits back to the U.S. (see, I almost said back home) always have a whirlwindy feel. There is never enough time to spend with any one person, or enough time to even see everyone you want to see. As soon as I arrive at my destination, I'm already thinking ahead to leaving, to moving on. This month, I read The Empathy Exams for one of my book groups. One essay in the collection is about the author's visit to see a prisoner, and how the concept of leaving is present throughout the visit. "No matter how much we talk, or what we talk about - no matter how well Charlie describes prison, or how well I listen - our visit will end. Every moment we spend together gestures toward this horizon of departure - like the perspective point in a painting, everything refers to it. Confessing it does nothing to dissolve it." There you have it: "the horizon of departure". I feel like I'm saying goodbye over and over and over again, all week long, during the drive-by visits to see as many friends and family members as we can cram into the short time we are there.

Bye, bye to my sis and my mom.

Bye, bye, Uncle Don. Since you are one of my most loyal blog readers and commenters, you get your own shout-out! Good luck on your upcoming hip replacement surgery.

Bye, bye, Laura and Caroline. You have known me since the olden days, so we have a lot of practice saying goodbye.

Bye, bye to some former students, after our mini-reunion this summer. Luckily, I am still taller than they are. I'm not sure how long that will last.

Sometimes I feel guilty for making everyone drop everything to see us, just because we are in town. I worry that they are humming the words to the best-ever Gloria Gaynor song, "You felt like walking in and just expect me to be free". But really, aren't you still that chained-up little person still in love with me? And didn't you crumble, just once or twice, without me? I have always loved that "chained-up little girl" phrase. It was just a matter of time before I worked it into a blog post.

It's not just in the U.S. that we say a lot of goodbyes. We get a lot of practice here in Amsterdam, too. Because of the nature of the expat existence, people are always coming and going. In my short time here, I have said goodbye to several friends who each helped me adjust to life in Amsterdam. Angie steered me into joining the American Women's Club before setting sail for Portland. Kirsten and her dog Baxter, introduced me to other gals with dogs. Casey and I are eternally grateful to Kirsten. After meeting her, Casey's dog dance card was always full. And recently we found out that our friends Laurel and Richard are heading back to Maine. When expats "move back", you end up inheriting their things: lamps with European plugs, half-full bottles of olive oil and balsamic vinegar, and U.S. cold medications.

Sometimes, the expats don't "move back". Instead they move again. Tracy and Phil recently moved from Amsterdam to Dublin, where they will feel at home in the rain. No sooner do you build up enough time with someone to call them a friend than they leave you. I imagine that kids who go to the International School get a lot of practice saying goodbye to classmates. Maybe I should ask them for tips. This blogger hit the nail on the head when he wrote about this continual process of saying goodbye that is so much a part of the expat life. 

You end up with some serious ex-expat swag when your friends leave. Thanks, Laurel and Richard, for these boxwoods. And for the lamps and liquor, too. We will all miss you. 

I wonder if the longer you stay in your overseas house, the more it begins to feel like home. It's like the start of college. As a freshman - or first year, as I'm told the politically correct/non-gender specific term goes these days - your allegiance is still to your high school crew. You can't wait to get back to see them during your breaks. Somewhere during sophomore year, that allegiance starts to swing. Your "home" becomes college, and you can't wait to go back after your breaks. It's where your new friends are, and the place you feel most comfortable. Or at least that's how I remember it. Except as the years go on, you find that it's the friends from way, way back that you treasure the most. When you inhabit a new place later in life, you return to that same college transition: at first, you feel consumed by homesickness; you constantly imagine what is going on without you in your old haunts. Gradually, those feelings subside and imperceptibly, you start to feel like the new place is your home. Of course, the many means of staying in touch via social media have made it so much easier to feel a part of life back in the U.S. I can't imagine what this move would have been like if we had to rely on that wafer-thin blue airmail stationery as our only form of connection. The process of gradually turning my allegiance to Amsterdam was made a whole lot easier this fall when I returned form the U.S. to glorious fall weather that looked like this:

You might say that all this angst over defining home, and fitting in, is a first-world problem. I can't help but think about all of the refugees who have had to leave home for new places. I smiled with recognition when I read the following definition of the word expat: when you have money and move abroad, you're an expat. If you have no money, you're a refugee. I'm sure people who had to quickly uproot are just glad to have somewhere to sleep. They don't have the luxury of tossing and turning over having to say so many goodbyes when they visit relatives, or when their buddies "move back". For them, there is no moving back, or at least they hope not. We expats are lucky to have problems like which one of our comfortable lives to call home.

When you lead an expat life, maybe it means you trade the security of having one place to call home for the excitement of traveling around. You have to deal with a sort of in-between status in which you don't really truly belong in Amsterdam, but yet you don't really completely fit neatly back in where you came from. So your home is really neither the U.S., nor Amsterdam, or maybe it's both. Conveniently for the purposes of this blog post, Thomas Wolfe wrote another famous novel: Look Homeward, Angel. I think he's trying to tell me something: I need to do my best to keep in touch with my old home, even as I develop ties to my new one.

My face is jet lag personified. I can't account for the yellow glow. Luckily, it seems to be lighting up Rachel and Ben, too, so I can't blame it on jet lag. Ben had just flown in from San Francisco, but seems to be untouched by the ravages of jet lag. Ah, the joys of youth!

Let's go back to Mr. Wolfe again for some sage advice. He wrote in You Can't Go Home Again, "I have to see a thing a thousand times before I see it once." And I think that means I will learn to see my U.S. home in a different way once I see it as a sort-of outsider every time I visit. And even after 15 months of living here, I may need 500+ more times of seeing our apartment on Van Breestraat until I feel it's home. On the other hand, maybe this idea of being at home in both places is really a chimera. I've seen that word tossed around for years, but can never remember exactly what it means. Ah, the beauty of reading on a Kindle: it's just so easy to look up new words. And since I'm learning so many new words in Dutch, why not try to keep learning some in English, too? So I learned recently that a chimera is "a thing that is hoped or wished for but in fact is illusory or impossible to achieve". I hope it's not impossible to keep my feet in both places for now. As my friends The Talking Heads so perfectly sang, "Home - is where I want to be, but I guess I'm already there."

Happy Holidays from our home here, to your homes: here, there, and everywhere!

These light sculptures are part of the Amsterdam Light Festival. They really know how to do lights here.

Our neighborhood looks beautiful at this time of year. Or any time of year, really.

And a Happy, belated Hanukkah, too!

Reading Between the Lines

There's nothing like feeling sick to take the wind out of a writer's sails. Over the past few weeks, I have been laid low by whatever plague has recently been circulating around Amsterdam. The one silver lining to the dark cloud of feeling blah is that you can catch up on your reading. So this seems as good a time as any to write in general about the role of reading in my Amsterdam life.

Back in the day, my brother and sister used to call me a bookworm. They meant it as an insult, I think, but I took it as a supreme compliment (right after kicking them, and hurling insults their way, probably). Our babysitter Julia used to restrict my reading, scolding me that I wasn't allowed to read at the kitchen table while eating. "You're not a Russian princess or Lady Jane," she would remind me. What a life those Russian princesses and Lady Jane must have led, surrounded by their books and mounds of food. I wanted their life. I did some quick research to see who this Lady Jane that our babysitter referred to could have been. I didn't see one mention of her reading at the dinner table.

One of the hallmarks of being a new expat is that you have more quiet time on your hands, at least at first. That gives you more time to read. One of my first stops when we moved here was a visit to the American Book Center. My beloved Maplewood book group, a source of reading inspiration and friendship for over fifteen years, had given me a gift card to spend there, as a going-away gift. I spent hours browsing the shelves, happy to hear English at a time when I knew exactly zero words of Dutch. My Dutch has improved since then, I might add, even if at times the improvement seems slight. 

I love all the pop-up lending libraries that you see sprinkled throughout the city. You just put some books in or take some books out whenever you feel like it. So Dutch, I thought. That is until I went back to N.J. and saw one (below) in Maplewood, our old town.

As I have frequently mentioned, Amsterdam is a wonderful place for peering into other people's homes. It's apparently a Dutch thing to go without curtains, laying your home bare for all to see. And with nighttime creeping ever earlier into the day, it's easier to see inside.  I like getting a look at the bookshelves. When I'm at a friend's house, I often find myself looking at the titles on their shelves, using their reading tastes to get to know them better, or to simply judge them. Come on, you know you do it, too. The difference is that in Amsterdam, you don't even need to be invited in to get a look-see into what's doing on those shelves. 

Here is one of my very favorite home libraries. I have a whole imaginary story going on in my head about the man who sits at the desk and reads those antique books. These are the things I do when I walk Casey. I apologize both to the people inside the homes, and to all of you who have to hear about this.

You might say it is only natural that when I first arrived and knew next to no one, that this ex-bookworm would turn to books as her best friends. In fact, there have been some recent articles suggesting many expats do tend to turn inwards, at least at first. One reason is because you don't know anyone, so you are forced to spend large chunks of time alone. The other is the language barrier. You don't know the language, so you can't even make small talk with strangers to help break up the alone time. Despite the fact that most Dutch people in Amsterdam speak excellent English, they don't speak English to each other. That means that one of my favorite forms of entertainment, the eavesdrop, is not available to me.

So one of my first goals when I moved here was to find a book group that I could call my own. My Maplewood book group was a tough act to follow and I feared sounding like Muffy, the annoying character in the cartoon Arthur, who started almost every story with the annoying tag line, "At my old school...". Oh, shut up, Muffy, all the other characters thought, but didn't say, and that's what I worried my new book group members would come to think about me. A book group is a great way to bond with strangers: you start off talking about Elsa Ferrante's My Brilliant Friend, and before you know it, you understand what they consider important about friendship, about marriage, and about other important things like Italian food.

Here are about half of the members of one of my two Amsterdam book groups. This one is the American Women's Club group. One thing about an expat book group is that at any given time, someone is always either in the U.S., or traveling to exotic places, or just hosting guests and unable to come.

Here's the other book group, part of the International Women's Club. Most of the members are British, and they say things like "astonishing" to mean both amazingly wonderful, and incredibly horrible. And they sound so smart saying whatever it is that they say.

No book group is perfect - other than my Maplewood one, she said in her Muffy-ish way - but just finding some other gals to read and discuss books with was wonderful. Lonely days are gone, I found some book groups here, I thought. I do still read most of the books on the Maplewood list, and check in from time to time - by email, not letter - to see what the consensus was about them. But I no longer feel like I have to get back home just to be part of a book group. 

Here's my friend Annette. This photo was taken during my August visit to the U.S. Annette started talking about how you can have different sets of friends, of varying degrees of closeness. They sit on shelves, like books on a book case. They can move up the case to a higher shelf at any time. We used to be "friends" only because our daughters are friends. It's never too late to move up a shelf, Annette pointed out. So true. Even after knowing Annette for years, I moved up on her bookcase only after we knew I was moving far away. I'm finding that expat friends tend to move up the shelf more quickly. You can take one walk in the park and go for a single coffee, and, presto, you have a new friend. This has taken me some getting used to.

In addition to all the other firsts I've checked off my list since arriving here, this is the first time I have lived in a city. I'm not counting Hoboken, N.J., which at least in those days felt like a slightly more grown up version of college, with its bars and restaurants and twenty-somethings roaming around in search of the most authentic mozzarella. No, Amsterdam is a city, even if it is petite compared to the likes of its European siblings like Paris and London. The nice thing about living in a city is that I can make good on my lifelong suburbanite's dream of doing those things that usually only the city-dwellers take full advantage of: all the museums and music and speakers.

When we first arrived here, someone told us to join the John Adams Institute. Since I knew nothing, including what an institute devoted to an American president was doing in Amsterdam, I joined us up. It was wonderful advice. The JAI brings to Amsterdam "the best and the brightest from a multitude of disciplines – novelists, politicians, historians, scientists, screenwriters, poets, photographers and tech wizards – to the Netherlands to talk about their work, their thoughts, their insights."  It turns out John Adams came to the Netherlands in search of financial support for the Revolutionary War. He lived here for two years, so he was in fact an expat as well. the language of the JAI is English. Music to my ears! I've seen and heard the Pulitzer Prize winning authors Anthony Doerr (All the Light You Cannot See) and Marilynne Robinson (whose recent claim to fame is that she is one of Obama's favorite authors). I rushed out to see the author Leslie Jamison after a hot tip from my U.S. writer friend Pamela, the source of all hot tips when it comes to books and reading. I sat there mesmerized while Ms. Jamison read from her essays and talked about writing. And I found myself turning into my parents, as I marveled at how young she is to be such a successful writer. It's happening, I guess: the realization that many, many people have accomplished so much more than I, in their fewer decades on earth.

One great thing about the JAI is that it gets you out and about in the city to some beautiful venues. And if you get a little tired of listening to the speaker, you can look around at some gorgeous 17th century building or another.

When I first arrived in Amsterdam, I jumped to the wrong conclusion about the Dutch. Whenever I was on the tram, I didn't see anyone reading. I thought of the NYC subway, and how all the riders have their heads buried in books or Kindles. It turns out that the Dutch folks who show up at the JAI talks are incredibly well-read. And the reason no one reads on the tram is because it twists and turns like the roller coaster at Coney Island. And then when I was last in New York in August, I took a closer, more observant and less nostalgic look at subway life. It turns out there isn't as much reading as I thought. Most folks are huddled over  iPhones, studying  them as intently as if they were deciphering ancient hieroglyphics.

You might say that reading is a solitary activity, one that keeps you firmly rooted to the inside of your house. I always think about what my dad used to say about reading: since it transports you to distant lands and places, who really needs to actually travel at all? Well, my mom did for one, so he did often have to make do with the real thing from time to time. But it is true that when you read, you do get to visit places you never dreamed of seeing. This year I have been to Malaysia (Tan Twan Eng's Garden of Evening Mists) and Chechnya (Anthony Marra's A Constellation of Vital Phenomena). I have travelled back in time to 17th century England (Geraldine Brooks' Year of Wonders) and been hurtled into the future (Gary Shytengart's Super Sad True Love Story). All without leaving the house, or at least Amsterdam. My dad would have been so proud of the world-reader (and also the world-traveller) I have become. If you care, here are some of the people I have been hanging out with and places I have been in the past year. Otherwise known as some of my best friends: my books. I need to read a lot to counterbalance the songs I hear at the gym, like Big, Big Booty and It's All About that Bass (another anthem to the rear end). Songs like that are likely, in the immortal words of Rick Moranis in the movie Parenthood, to "suck the intelligence out" of me. So the reading helps even things out. I hope. 

Now you can peep inside of our apartment and see one of our bookshelves, without having to leave the comfort of your own house.

If I'm lucky, I can find one of my book group books at one of the books stalls at the markets. This guy lays out his wares in neat, organized piles by genre, kind of like an elementary school teacher's classroom. Bliss for those who veer towards OCD or for the teachers among us! 

Although reading is something most of us have done with ease since we were young, I have come to realize that you can actually always get better at it. Or at least learn some new tricks. This year, I took some online courses for the first time. I figured that the distance from the U.S., coupled with my new-found leisure time, gave me the chance to take some classes. The first one was a literature class called Living Writers through Colgate University, Rachel's school. I had the chance to hear two excellent English professors (one the former chair of the department) lecture via video, and to read and discuss (via online chats) books like Martin Amis' The Zone of Interest and Marjane Satrapi's Persepolis. I also got to hear the authors speak when they came to campus, all from the comfort of my living room. In my sweatpants. What could be better?

I've given a lot of thought these days to how you learn to read, and how darn complicated a process it really is. That's because I am trying to learn to read in Dutch. I have a new-found appreciation for what my struggling students went through as they winced at streams of words they didn't understand in books they longed to read. I recently felt the burst of pride that many first graders feel when they finally conquer their first chapter book. For me, it was a book from the beloved Jip and Janneke series that all Dutch children of a certain age have grown up reading. As a beginner reader of Dutch books, I experience all of the thrills (and frustrations) that any new reader feels. I think it has helped me as I attempt to teach two young French children to speak, read, and write English. What a challenge! I've had to dust off some very rusty French to help them learn. My French is better than my Dutch, but both are very creaky. I'm still trying! My friend Vera, born in Germany but married to a Dutch man, has kindly agreed to take a bunch of us Americans under her wing for Dutch conversation "classes" over lunch or coffee. She somehow manages not to burst out laughing when we garble the language. We call it our Dutch Babble group.

 I went to the library and broke out into a huge smile when I saw this giant homage to my favorite new Dutch chapter books. 

Just a few of my favorite books these days.

Dick Bruna is the author of the Miffy (Nijntje in Dutch) series. I am way beyond those baby books now (ha!), but never too old to pose in front of this statue at the museum in Utrecht dedicated to Bruna.

While I work so hard to learn to read, I can't help but think back to my 5th grade class at Seth Boyden School. We rewrote the lyrics to the song, Get Lucky, renaming it Get Smarter. The theme behind the song was that it takes hard work to get smarter. We flash-mobbed the noisy cafeteria filled with first graders, showing off some dance moves and singing the new lyrics. You might barely be able to hear the words, but some particularly important ones are, "We work so hard to read more, we work so hard to explore, we work so hard to ensure, we work so hard to get smarter." Oh, the things teachers do at the end of the year to keep their students engaged! But it is not bad advice for this American gal in Amsterdam.

I'm thinking of all the readers in Paris. Here's one of the world's great bookstores: Paris' beloved Shakespeare and Co. I'm proud to say that my niece and her husband are heading there tomorrow, after a visit to Amsterdam. They, along with all the other tourists who refused to cancel plans, show the world that life marches on, with visiting and eating and wandering, and frequent stops at bookstores like this to refuel.

Bon voyage, Alissa and Scott! L'chaim! 

Red Light/Green Light

It is impossible to follow up on last week's blog post about Janet and Arthur's inspiring trip to Amsterdam. I felt tempted to hang up my blog-writing clogs after the overwhelming response I received from both my own followers, and Janet and Arthur's extensive fan club. I decided to take on the challenge and deal with the reality that any topic would pale in comparison to the story I told about their unique brand of Cohen courage. So I will soldier on, knowing full well that this will feel like a let-down to most of you, including me. I decided to take on a topic that many of you have asked about at one point or another: Amsterdam's twin evils - or "goods", depending on your mindset - prostitutes and weed. Note to parents of my former students: you may not want your kids to read this one. I'll leave that decision to you. 

I remember summer evenings where I grew up in Trenton, N.J. We all invaded our neighbor's backyard because it was big and flat. Once we were all assembled, we played round after round of a game called Red Light, Green Light. The way I remember the rules of the game, the person who was "it" turned their back on the rest of us who lined up at the edge of the field. Then the "it" shouted, "Green light!"; we ran like hell until the "it" person called out "Red Light" and we all put on the brakes. And then as soon as we heard "Green Light" again, we ran like hell once more. The winner was the person who tapped the "it" person first. This game was the perfect outlet for my competitive spirit, and I can remember the thrill of waiting to hear whether it would be a red or a green light. If you are wondering what that game has to do with Amsterdam, you can now relax. I imagine many visitors to Amsterdam experience the thrill I got from playing Red light/Green Light when they take a proper thrill-tour of Amsterdam: through the Red Light District and the coffeeshops. 

This is the Oude Kerk, or Old Church, built in the 13th century and the oldest building in the city. It's conveniently located in the Red Light District, so you can head right over and atone for your sins immediately. 

As any self-respecting writer knows, you need to do your research. With that in mind, I signed up last April for the American Women's Club Tour of the Red Light District. I did find it somewhat incongruous that a bunch of American ladies, most of a certain age, with some husbands in tow were touring this area, trying to catch a glimpse of the ladies of the night. I'd like to note that the tour guide knew her audience well and pointed out a few important sites she might otherwise have neglected to mention with other Red Light tourists, like the best Thai restaurant (Little Bird) or a great little spot for tapas (Centra). I was way more excited about those tips than I was about taking in the other "hot" spots in the area. But I didn't want to lose the group and find myself lost in the narrow, twisted streets clogged with tourists. In fact, our tour guide told us that the more tucked away the alley, the better. Apparently, the prime real estate in this area is a window hidden from the crowds. That way, you can sneak in without being seen. In addition to buying a lady, you can also shop for other exotica/erotica. 

Just so much window shopping to do here!

And so colorful! 

I'll share a little of the history I learned. Prostitution has been around in Amsterdam at least since the good ol' days of the Middle Ages. However, it has only been legal in the Netherlands since 2000. Prior to that, it was tolerated but not legal (more on that famous toleration later when we get into the "green light" section of the blog about marijuana). It's regulated by the city, and the police do indeed respond if a Red Light woman calls and is in danger. In 2013, the minimum legal age for a prostitute was raised from 18 to 21. The most famous form of prostitution here is "window prostitution". There is an unwritten but oft-repeated rule about not taking photographs of the ladies in the red light windows. When we came to look for an apartment in April 2014, we walked home after dinner with a work colleague of Peter's. As the two of them chatted, I took in the sights, and suddenly noticed some ladies sitting in the windows. I was afraid to even look. But from the corner of my eye, it appeared that they were all staring down at the ground. They're sad, I thought. Or maybe just bored. When we were at a safe distance across the street, I finally looked carefully, and saw they were not in fact looking at the ground. Rather, each one was staring intently at the screen of a phone. So even the gals in the Red Light District are addicted to their phones. And they want their personal space, at least when it comes to passersby with iPhone cameras.

Recently, I went on a boat ride along the canals, thanks to a friend who owns a boat. She circled back so I could snap this photo. "Come on", the other friends in the boat prodded me. "This is the only time you can get a photo." Still, although I had the chance, I felt strange about invading the privacy of those ladies. If you look carefully - and you care enough - you can see two spots of fluorescent orange two doors to the left of the kid in the red jacket. Yup, that's her. This photo shows how life goes on, around and about the prostitution. In fact, right next door to these red light windows is a great place for coffee, Quartier Putain. My friend Cristina, who speaks a lot of languages fluently, including French, told me putain is a not-nice word in French that means prostitute. At Quartier Putain they make really excellent coffee and have a real juke box, which sort of works, with American classics and Suzanne Vine favorites like Dock of the Bay and We are Family. 

I do find it somehow inconsistent with the famous Amsterdam celebration of individuality and personal freedom that everyone here respects the rule against photography. Somehow, no one finds it just a wee bit ironic that women can have the freedom to work their bodies, but people walking by don't have the freedom to pull out their cameras. However, I'm all in favor of at least one place in the city where tourists aren't going selfie-crazy. And I certainly don't want to test the logic of the photography ban by having someone smash my iPhone or throw it in a canal.

Like any good business endeavor, even the Red Light District has at least one satellite office. There is a substantial Red Light branch office in the neighborhood called de Pijp. It is situated along a canal, right across from a large Montessori school. Now that's what I call an education! I  wonder what the conversations are like between parents and children as they pass by the ladies in the windows at drop off and pick up time. Or maybe they just ignore what they see and talk about homework and recess. I do feel like I, too, have started to pay less attention than I did when we first moved here. You become a bit blasé, I guess. Perhaps that's what happens even to  curious ten-year-olds. It's just all a part of the background at some point. When we took the tour of the Red Light District, I peeked into not just the windows with the red lights, but into people's homes. There I saw families crowded around the dinner table, or kids doing homework. It's just the way things work here. You do your thing, and other people do theirs. And sometimes before they do their thing, they sit in a window in their underwear. No big deal. 

Just getting the chance to include the song Bad Girls made this topic worth writing about. 

Now that we have toured the "red" part of the city, it's time to learn a little about the "green". Most tourists know that you go to a place called a coffeeshop not to buy coffee, but to sample some marijuana. What they don't know is that smoking weed is not legal in Amsterdam. It's "tolerated". The word in Dutch for this is gedogen. The Dutch government does not enforce the laws against it. But the government goes further than just allow it. They have set up some regulations, like you must be over the age of eighteen, you can only buy small amounts, and you can only smoke in places designated for smoking. There are laws about how far away from schools coffeeshops must be, but apparently - as I previously described - it's O.K. to look out of your physics classroom and see a lady bathed in the glow of red lights. Although many people think it's illegal to smoke outside, that is not the case. You are permitted to smoke outside as long as doing so doesn't create a nuisance to anyone else. One man's nuisance is another man's nirvana, but somehow it all works here, I guess. You also can't purchase marijuana on the street, only in coffeeshops. So enjoy yourself in one of the approximately 250 coffeeshops, but you can't order alcohol to go along with your weed. Or, in most places, any food either. I love this informational video that Ben sent me. It is geared towards tourists, 35% of whom visit a coffeeshop during their stay. During the busy Christmas to New Year's "high" season (sorry, couldn't resist), I saw firsthand the difference between the American way of handling drug use and the Amsterdam way. There were large electronic billboards warning tourists not to buy drugs on the street. Several tourists had died and others were in the hospital due to street drug use. I appreciated the honesty and the bluntness of the information. There's a matter-of-factness about drug use and a focus on avoiding injury and death that we could learn from. 

You can, however, choose your weed from an extensive and extensively descriptive menu at the coffeeshops. For example, at a spot called Dampkring, you can order something called g13 amnesia with a "full sweet" smell, a "strong, full, and fruity" taste, which will land you with a "very clear body high". Anything with the word "amnesia" in the description can't be good for a gal who already struggles to remember names and passwords. And at Barney's, one of the most-visited and well-loved coffeeshops, located in a 500-year-old building, you can get the party started early. They proudly proclaim on their website, "Open every morning at 7:00 AM so you can start your day the right way." Several months after we moved here, a group of lost-looking and slightly disheveled young men asked me where the nearest coffeeshop was. Since they looked like they could use a good strong cup of coffee, I wasn't sure what type of shop they meant. I had no idea at the time that coffeeshops opened so early. Luckily, before directing them to the local spot for coffee and a croissant, I was able to ascertain that they had other ideas and I gave them directions to the closest place I knew. I have heard that native Amsterdammers don't take part in the coffeeshop culture much. I'm not sure if that is correct. I do know that most of the folks I see (or rather smell) in Vondelpark, or coming out of the coffeeshops, are tourists. At some times of the year, the city overflows with bachelorette and bachelor parties, groups of happy British, Spanish or Italian young people coming to Amsterdam for that last fling before adulthood takes over, or at least until the next friend's wedding. 

Here's the cozy (or as the Dutch would say gezellig) interior of Barney's. The photo is pulled from the Barney's website. I swear.

Just thought I'd mention  that Amsterdam has a great assortment of places to get High Tea, like this one at De Bakkerswinkel, smack dab in the middle of the Red Light District. Rachel and I treated ourselves to a delicious spread when she visited in May. This is the kind of "high" tea I favor these days, although Rachel may have other ideas of what a proper high tea entails when her Maplewood friends come to visit in December. 

Actually, the Drucker-Vine family now has a proud association with marijuana, since Ben is gainfully employed as a software engineer by a medical marijuana delivery system called Eaze. They have risen to fame with their nickname: the Uber of weed. When Rachel heard the news in July about her brother's new job, she posted the following on Facebook:

To be clear, I haven't suddenly turned into a stay-out-all-night owl (or for my high school friends reading this, reverted back to one). On the other hand, I have come to see that the tolerant policy towards "soft" drugs here may be where the U.S. is or should be heading. Why not be able to walk into a place where you can sit down and relax, like you would in a bar with a beer, except it's a coffeeshop? When people overindulge at a coffeeshop, I suspect they go home and fall sound asleep. They don't go out into the streets breaking bottles and leaving other unpleasant evidence of their fun on the sidewalks. And I can't help thinking about friends who really could use the medical marijuana. Why is it so darn hard for them to get some relief? My father, a famous - at least to us - doctor in Trenton, N.J. had the following philosophy: everything in moderation. So wise! I even came across my dad's wisdom in my Dutch textbook. "Geniet, maar met mate" ("Enjoy, but with moderation."). Dad would have been delighted that the Dutch agree with him.

When it comes to my own adventures here, I haven't taken advantage of all the red light and green lights in Amsterdam. It's like the amusement park rides pictured at the start of this post: things that are unbelievably fun for others, but that I'm content to do without. Since I have been thinking lately about all the old bands and singers who are touring around in their twilight years, this made me think about the Hall and Oates song, I Can't Go for That. Lo and behold, I found this remake of the song with Cee Lo Green and it is "live from Daryl's House". Who is Daryl, I wondered, until I listened carefully and realized Daryl sounded pretty good. Then I realized that "Daryl" was in fact Daryl Hall, the original singer from my high school days. "I'll do anything that you want me to do, but I can't go for that. No can do." And yes, Mr. Hall and Mr. Oates, I feel the same way about some of the options here in Amsterdam: no can do!

Here are some things I can "go for" and have gone for in Amsterdam: 1. Biking in a dress and grown-up shoes just like the Dutch ladies; 2. Pulling up to a restaurant in a boat - with dogs on deck - and getting served boat-side. Fun! 3. Riding bikes to the fishing village of Marken (about 50 kilometers - 31 miles - round trip on my creaky Dutch bike with Ben and snapping this photo of him with a don't-you-dare-mom face as I looked longingly at the photo op with cut-out faces just behind him; 4. Seizing the photo-op at Muiderslot Castle when I had no one in tow who could possibly be embarrassed by me. Oh, right. Peter and my friends Darlene and Rob were there. Come to think of it, they did look embarrassed - both by and for me. 

My idea of a wild night these days has changed somewhat since my olden days. These days, it's defined as dinner at home, a friend's house, or at a nice restaurant with - if I really want to paint the town red - time afterwards to watch a quick episode of some American T.V. with Peter and my knitting before nodding off to sleep. However, I do appreciate the idea that there is a wild side of Amsterdam just outside my front door where others can stimulate their five senses. It just doesn't have to involve me. Last week, I started reading a terrific history of the city of Amsterdam by Russell Shorto - Amsterdam: a History of the World's Most Liberal City. I love how he describes the craziness: "So yes: a crazy place, where you might think the sky would be perennially in danger of falling from the sheer weight of mayhem. And yet, most parts of the city have such a blanket of conventional calm on them, such an utter paucity of craziness, that one might think the only drug consumption in the vicinity was some kind of middle-class sedative." Yes! I'll get my red light/green light excitement flowing with a bike ride through the streets of Amsterdam. Believe me, that's thrilling enough for me these days. Then again, you might be able to persuade me to come with you. Just to observe, of course....

Here is the sweater I made during my first year in Amsterdam. And no, it's not just the perspective: it's huge. It's more of a dress than a sweater. Or it's a sweater-blanket. Maybe it's my "blanket of conventional calm" like in Shorto's Amsterdam book. I like to think of it as a symbol of my first year in Amsterdam: it didn't quite go according to plan, it took its own meandering path, but it's done and I'm proud of it. 

And with colors like these around this Fall, who needs any other thrills?

Spotted in Amsterdam a week after the Cohens left: the first pickle store in Amsterdam. Was it just a coincidence that I ran into a pickle store for the first time right after my pickling friends were here? Medicinal pickles to go with your marijuana, anyone? Arthur and Janet: this one's for you!

Hall Full/Half Empty Glasses

A few lifetimes ago, I made the first of many visits to Bernardsville, N.J., childhood home of Sarah, one of my college roommates. Despite all of her impressive horse memorabilia, my eyes went immediately instead to a postcard taped to her wall, written in a six-year-old's chunky handwriting. The words on the postcard went something like this, "I have had a great summer. Except something terrible happened to me. A seagull peched [sic] my brother." I immediately loved that postcard, with its perfectly placed misspelling and self-centered viewpoint. Over the years, that postcard sentiment has made its way into many Drucker-Vine conversations. To me, it sums up the autobiographical way most of us have of seeing the world: even when a seagull pecks at our brother, we can only see it the way it affects us. So it's a tragedy for us, too. Things might not change much when we are older and wiser. Hopefully we are a tad more empathetic in our old age, so we actually do feel personally attacked when those seagulls go after our friends and family. It's in that spirit that I write this week about some friends of mine. 

First, a bit of history. Like many of you, we spent years of our lives on the sidelines of soccer and baseball fields. In the process, we made some great "sideline" friends. By that I mean, we spent hours and hours chatting with other parents, but we didn't always take the next step to go deeper with those friendships. Somehow, all of us were content to have those relationships stay in those places: the sidelines and bleachers next to the fields. One big difference now that we are expats is that we don't have the time to keep relationships on the sidelines for very long. Most of us are are only here for a few years. Also, we don't have the luxury of the huge pool of potential friends we had in the U.S. (O.K., huge may be exaggerating things just a bit. There were many. Alright, some. But they all spoke English when we were together). So maybe that's why when we meet someone we think we might like, we have to go deeper much faster. There's just no time to keep things on a sidelines level. Before you know it, someone could be moving back to the U.S. or on to Kuwait. 

On the other hand, it's never too late to go deeper. One chance we expats have to do this is when sideline friends come to visit. The people who come to visit may not have been our closest pals, but when someone is in town, you can spend some quality time together. It's a way to compress a lot of friendship into a short period of time.

Enter Arthur and Janet into Amsterdam last week. One thing you need to know is that there are other connections between us, beyond just the sidelines. Arthur is a photographer. He took our son Ben under his wing when Ben started a photography business of his own at the ripe old age of fourteen. Then there's the Amsterdam connection. Arthur's father was born in Amsterdam, and has one of those Holocaust-survival stories that sounds Hollywood-created, except the story is both real and terrifying. His cousins still live here. When Arthur heard we were moving here, his face lit up, he launched into Amsterdam love stories, and he promised to visit. 

Arthur has one of the most generous spirits you will ever encounter. His smile can reach in and grab you and make you skip along with him. He's the kind of person who looks like he would literally be up for anything. And his wife Janet seems like the rare breed who can handle whatever comes her way, in a quiet, no-nonsense way, without fanfare and definitely without needing any applause. 

Here's Arthur and Peter at one of our favorite neighborhood joints: Oud Zuid. That's also the name of our neighborhood. And sadly, it's one of the hardest phrases for my American mouth to pronounce. I say it differently (and probably incorrectly) each time I try.  

Another thing you need to know about Arthur is that he has ALS (Amyotrophic Lateral Sclerosis). The next thing we usually say when we hear those initials is "Lou Gehrig's Disease". Now we also think, "The Ice Bucket Challenge". Or we think about Stephen Hawking. Eddie Redmayne's performance in the movie The Theory of Everything brought us face-to-face with how this relentless disease can unravel a family.

I have to admit that when Arthur told me in August he and Janet were visiting Amsterdam, I was worried. How would they manage all the cobblestone streets, the tall curbs, the confusing maelstrom of bicycle, car, motorbike, pedestrian traffic? Or endure the plane ride, which takes me a week to recover from? (I get seriously grumpy nowadays when deprived of even a night of my beauty rest). Thank goodness they didn't give in to any worries they, too,  may have harbored. Last week, I got to see a side of Amsterdam and the Dutch I hadn't seen before. Because Arthur was traveling around Amsterdam in a wheelchair, I saw the kindest and most helpful face of the Dutch people. In a restaurant in our neighborhood, a waiter helped Arthur up the tall steps at the front door. At the photography museum, FOAM, they also met us at the door and ushered him inside. Another visitor insisted on holding his arm and escorting him down the stairs when we finished touring. Each time, Arthur flashed his smile and thanked his Dutch helpers. It's easy for expats to rely on the stereotypes we hear about the Dutch: they are independent and self-sufficient. I haven't noticed much concern about passers-by. I once saw a young woman skid and go flying off her bike. No one else stopped to ask her if she was hurt or if she needed help. She looked surprised when I helped her get her bike upright and off the tram track. Yet I have to be careful about drawing conclusions about an entire country based on one bicycle mishap. It might be considered rude to ask a perfect stranger if he or she needs help. Anyway, those stereotypes came crashing down like the girl's bicycle when Arthur and Janet were in town.  

Now let's go back inside FOAM, the photography museum. The exhibit the Cohens particularly wanted to see was about an almost-extinct photography tool: the contact sheet. You had the chance to see various contact sheets and the notes the photographer made, giving you a window into the decision about which photo best encapsulated the subject. Going through the museum with Arthur, my portable professional photographer, was a wonderful treat. Arthur tapped out his spot-on comments on his phone. It's sometimes hard to understand his voice, which must be frustrating for him. So he has turned into an expert on authoring haiku-like observations. I learned so much from him at the exhibit. Most times, I could only guess which option on the contact sheet was the best, and why. Arthur seemed to get each and every one. 

Needless to say, this shot was his idea. For those of you who didn't figure it out, there was a mirror at one end of the elevator. I never would have thought to shoot into the mirror. That's why I am a teacher, not a photographer. I love that Janet was the only one ready for the actual shot. 

Right before Janet and Arthur arrived, I woke up to an email from them with the subject line "Emergency". I gulped and read the email, not sure what I would find. Happily, the "emergency" was that their daughter Tess, who is studying in Prague this semester, was arriving in Amsterdam one day before they would, and had no place to stay. That was a happy emergency! Tess and I had dinner together on the town and then she stayed at our place. One terrific by-product of moving to Amsterdam is that you are suddenly cool in the eyes of your kids' friends. Had I stayed in Maplewood, N.J., I certainly would not have been dining with 20-somethings the way we have been called upon to do here. Yes, I know that if you offer a meal to them, they will come. But a girl can dream, can't she?

The giant smile and half full glass attitude are clearly in the genes. Tess is hoping to land in the movie/T.V. world after graduation. She's funny, smart, and hardworking. Want her resumé?

It's not easy for me to write about friends who are dealing with a tough hand of cards. It's easy to get sappy really quickly. On the day the Cohens arrived in Amsterdam, an article appeared in the New York Times about two friends, their journey to watch the Red Sox play, and one friend's struggle with ALS. Coincidence? How about the fact that the author, Dan Barry, comes from Maplewood, our home town? I realized after reading the article that the process of writing can help you sort out your own complicated feelings: about loss, about unfairness, about feeling powerless to help. Thank you, Dan Barry. Driving up to that baseball game with his friend was something Dan Barry could do. Using my big feet to help push Arthur's wheelchair up and over the huge curbs in Amsterdam was something I could do. Riding Janet on the back of my bike so she could have an Amsterdam biking experience was also something I could do. Listen carefully for her, "Uh oh," followed by her self-calming, "O.K." in the video she took, below. She told me this was one of the highlights of her trip to Amsterdam. There is something about a bike ride - even one on the crowded streets in the center of Amsterdam - that makes you feel like a kid again. After all that Janet has been through these last months, I'm glad I could give her some joy, or at least joy mixed with sheer terror. Maybe the joy was at least as much mine. Happily, we made it safe and sound (and quickly) to the Portuguese Synagogue, where Arthur's cousin Bas gave us a tour, full of insights I never would have learned just from the audioguide. Thank you, Bas.

You can't help but feel grateful for your health when you see how fragile good health can be, and how it can be snatched away from you in a blink. Just a week before the Cohens came, I found out that a teacher-friend from N.J. lost her long battle with cancer. Joanne was an expat years ago, in Moscow, and in France. When she heard we were agonizing over the decision to move to Amsterdam, she marched into my classroom and told me there was just no way we could pass on this opportunity. She was dealing with her second recurrence of cancer, and every day looked like a struggle. Imagine being a teacher when you feel like crap. Putting one foot in front of the other and moving forward is what teachers do best, and Joanne often had to do this when she was moving with pain. Yet when she talked about her life as an expat, her face lit up. She texted me from time to time over this year to let me know how much she was enjoying my blog. "Travel as much as u can," she wrote earlier this year. She died two days before her birthday, and left four children and a husband behind, along with many family members. It's hard to be a friend who is left behind. You feel like your grief pales in comparison to the family's, so you try to keep quiet and move forward. It's tough. 

That's Joanne, in the red dress, with some of her peeps from Seth Boyden School. Talk about a smile and a half full glass philosophy! I'm always going to remember Joanne, that spectacular smile and her advice about traveling. She knew how to enjoy each day she had on this earth. I just wish she had so many more.

In another coincidence (or maybe not?) a dear friend, Kelly - who also lost her breast cancer battle many years ago - was an expat back before most people knew what that term even meant. In fact, her son Nick was born in Japan. Our kids were young together, and I admired Kelly for the way she just rolled up her sleeves and made the best of the rotten deal she was dealt. I know she would have been proud of us for taking the plunge and moving to Amsterdam. I thought of her when we were going back and forth over the decision. I could imagine her listening to me read my Pros and Cons list, and then laughing loud and long. "You have to go, you know? You're going to love it over there," she would have said. And she would have been right. On November 2, it will be eighteen years (did I get that right, John?) since Kelly died. I love that we have had the chance to watch her kids grow up, and to see her husband John find happiness with Susan, a Rock of Gibraltar for those kids. I see glimpses of Kelly in all three of her kids, and seeing them makes me happy. She would be so proud.

Photo credit to Rachel. Missing from second photo: my son Ben (center of top photo). He was in San Francisco, making the world safe for the instant delivery of medical marijuana at the time of the photo op. Missing from the original photo: Sam (center) John and Susan's wonderful son, who just smiles and puts up with his three older siblings. On the far left is Fenway (the dog, named after that unfortunate ballpark).

It's hard not to feel grateful by now about the good health most of us lucky ones have. So let's go back to Amsterdam. After the Cohens flew off to Prague, to continue what Arthur termed his "Second Act", we went to a concert at the Concertgebouw, Amsterdam's Carnegie Hall.

The acoustics in this place are considered perfect. You could hear every sound. I loved how everyone waited until the short breaks between movements to cough in unison. You could hear each cough perfectly.

What a a great way to spend a Sunday morning. Yes, you heard that right: Sunday morning. Even I can keep my eyes open and concentrate on the music on a Sunday morning, fortified by a few cups of coffee. When I listen to classical music, I sometimes struggle to stay focused on the music. I find my mind wandering off to things or places or people the music reminds me of. At this concert, I mostly stayed right there in the Concertgebouw. That is, until the second movement of the Mozart. Truth be told, it was the first piece. But I couldn't help but hear - in the way the violin and viola talked to each other - our friends Janet and Arthur. The instruments  sometimes finished each others' sentences, sometimes interrupted each other. At other times, one talked, and the other listened. And in the end, they played in graceful unison to a standing ovation. The audience - like any classical music audience in the U.S. - was mostly white-haired, and I felt young in comparison. When the piece was finished, I had tears in my eyes. Were they caused by the beauty of the music, by thoughts of Janet and Arthur, or some combination? I think you may suspect the answer to that question. Here's the music - with different musicians - so you can hear what I heard. For the first two minutes it's just the orchestra playing. To complete the metaphor, that's us: the friends. At minute two, you'll hear the "conversation" between the "couple" begin.

It's a shame we can't find some way to live each day remembering that some of our friends and family members would love to have just one of our so-so - or even our crappy days - for themselves. I think Janet expressed it best when she wrote to me, "Honestly, I don't think you have any choice but to plow ahead and make the best of the time you have. Arthur's attitude inspires me every day. Which isn't to say I don't cry a lot because I definitely do. But it's astonishing how humans can adjust to a new normal as shitty as the new normal is. Again what choice do you have?" Amen to that. If we do have the choice, let's choose to see the half-full glass whenever possible. Of course that is hard to do (and so much easier said than done) for our friends and family members whose mental health struggles are inside, where we can't even see them. That makes it even harder to know how to help. I tend to fall back on magical thinking: "Why can't they just find a cure of this?". But what if there is no magic at hand?

Arthur and Janet have put aside magical thinking and turned to real-life work. They created an organization called Pick-ALS. If you want to learn more, or even help out by buying Arthur's pickles, I'm sure they would be so grateful. It turns out he's been growing his own cukes and perfecting his pickle recipe for years. That's yet one more connection to add to the pile: I have always been a serious pickle lover. And Arthur's pickles are allegedly the best. Ever. And created with love. That is his answer.

You might call them coincidences: the little things that happen that make us think someone is pulling us around like marionettes. So I'll leave you with this "coincidence". I was finishing off this blog post and for some reason thinking about the theme song to the Netflix hit Orange is the New Black. The song is called You've Got Time. I really love it. What else has that singer, Regina Spektor, written, I wondered. And when I googled her, I came upon this song, called Reading Time With Pickle. I don't even know what most of the lyrics mean, but these stanzas stood out to me,

Has it always been this way?
Is it possible all this magic went unnoticed?
Maybe things will start to change
And life will turn a better page
No more rain

Singin': love is the answer.

But pickle jars are just pickle jars
And pickles are just pickles
Ingredients ... water, salt, cucumber, garlic and pickling spices

But love is the answer to a question
That I've forgotten
But I know I've been asked
And the answer has got to be love

So, love to Arthur and Janet, to Joanne, and to Kelly. And also to my dad, who I "coincidentally" think about so often while I roam around Amsterdam. Hoping that life will "turn a better page" for Arthur and co., that somehow, someway, someday soon, some medicine will be found and approved in time to help. A seagull pecked our friend, and we all want to continue to applaud his second act. So raise a glass of wine, or fresh mint tea, to anyone out there dealing with a disease that shakes up their lives and presents them with a "new normal". Let's all raise a half-full glass, and a pickle created with love, to the Arthurs in our lives!

Yet another reason to love Amsterdam: you can be wandering around thinking about a blog on friends and family who are sick or no longer even on this earth, and then you suddenly - like magic - look up and see something like this. It helps you remember they would be the first people to want you to cheer up and enjoy every day of your life.