Going over the Atlantic Ocean, Jake and I unsuccessfully tried to knock ourselves out with Dramamine. Once we accepted our failure, we watched My Own Private Idaho together. Perfectly syncing our back of the plane chair TVs. It was my second time watching it and I found it less tragic, more Shakespearian. A similar movie came to mind: Paris, Texas. Same long, slow shots over rural America. Same look of desolation and confusion on the main character's faces.
I can't believe I am going back to Europe. I'm thinking of my friend Giuly a lot. All of the beautiful things she has seen with her eyes. We were so happy running around Barcelona together a few summers ago. Speaking Spanish and eating strange cuts of meat. Wondering how we thought our stomachs could handle it in the first place. She told us that it is vital to visit Anne Frank's house. I'd like to go and pay her some respect.
I have never seen an address as long as the one we will be borrowing for 10 days. The travel day ended up wrecking my "holy shit I'm in Europe" attitude. My ears clogged horribly on the plane, and I grew weaker and weaker as we navigated the airport, trains, and a bus to get to where we are staying. I fell asleep after a tired cry. I am so vulnerable when I travel. I'm pretty bad at it. It's a labor of love for me, always. When I woke up from my cat nap, Jake had yogurt, berries (which the Dutch refer to as 'forest fruit'?) and croissants. Some espresso with delicious local cream and I was saved from my own suffering. You must remember: a rough start does not imply a rough stay. Bread and sleep, baby. Bread and sleep.
Anne Frank Day
Yesterday we fought through our jet lag and ended up having a very special time in the city. Thanks to our obliterated and out of wack circadian rhythms, we woke up extremely early and waited for a bakery to open. Bakkerji Wolf was the name. Shakshuka for Jake and pancakes for me. We popped our little heads into some shops, embarrassed ourselves badly at a hotel where we tried to con the front desk clerk into giving us a free phone charger adapter, and finally found ourselves at Anne Frank's house.
It's difficult to describe how it felt to be inside such a historical and heavy place. The streets of Amsterdam feel so happy, even in Winter. The houses are whimsically built, all in rows and facing gorgeous canals. Everyone is dressed beautifully and biking to what I imagine in their lover's house. How was it that years and years ago Nazis were driving up and down the streets and committing mass murder? Surely that was not here. I remembered that even I live in a place that was brutally stolen. Violent history leaves a rotten stench on even the loveliest modern places.
Inside the annex, I stared at Anne Frank's portrait for minutes at a time. It felt as if she were looking back at me. Her biggest dream was to be a successful writer. Her fate was cruel, but I thank God that her dream came true in the end. I found her writing so antsy, hopeful, and youthful. The anticipation and yearning she must have felt, being in hiding for two whole years. Being denied the right to feel the sun on her face. Children need life around them. I felt sickened by what Germany got away with. So many angels in heaven. Anne Frank with her own special seat.
After digesting our visit, we walked through the unbelievably stunning nearby church. At Le Bastille, we ate eggplant, fava beans, bell peppers, rice, green beans, and chicken. The chef in the open kitchen ground large amounts of pistachio and hazelnut for baklava. I enjoy the restaurants in Europe and Asia where you walk in and they serve one thing. The day ended softly with Aperol drinks at a bar and a few rounds of playing cards. We watched The Sopranos until our eyes became heavy.
Wijk aan Zee, Netherlands
Not working is bliss. For the past few months, I have been consistently working six-day work weeks, and it has been...harrowing. Being here is relaxing and I am reminded of the fruits of my labor as I enjoy my leisure, far away from my daily routine. These are some of the best moments in life. Where you have the privilege of truly getting away and seeing yourself in a new light. Jake and I took a train to a small Dutch village off the coast of the North Sea. We attended the Tata Steel Chess Tournament. Accidentally arriving early, we killed time by walking along the beach and collecting shells. Later we ate fish soup at a weird seaside cafe. Then we watched the most famous modern chess players compete against each other. The venue was silent. Everyone tuning into each and every move made by the players. It was novel. Jake and I played our own game of chess at the mermaid-esque bar around the way.
Hopping back on the bus, and then a train, we arrived back in Amsterdam and ate at Pesca. A restaurant where you pick out your fish and wine in a market. Then they cook it up for you minutes later. We ate ceviche, seaweed butter on bread, potato with grilled leek, prawns, scallops, and burrata and beet salad. Best of all: a salted whole sea bass. Fish is God's meat.
Brussels, Belgium
My twenty-fifth birthday was spent in a state of awe and gratitude. It started with reading Patti Smith's "Bread of Angels" in bed. Just the right book and just the right woman to start the day off with. She's a real guru of mine. An omnipresent grounding force. When I read her writing, I feel like I am taking in sage advice tailored to my very ear. From Patti's pen to my heart. Yoga in the kitchen while Jake sipped coffee and of course...played chess. Woodpecker 47 served us insane pancakes (my favorite thing about America). I was transfixed by Belgium. There are three main languages spoken there: French, Dutch, and German. We discovered the best vintage store in the universe: Melting Pot Kilo. Right there in the middle of the city.
Our apartment was also centrally located. Every ten minutes the ancient bones of the apartment would shake with the passing by of the train. Jake bought me a massage in a nice spa where the woman cracked me like a chiropractor. Not exactly what I signed up for but...I feel really good. After being folded in quarters, we ran to this nearby gyro place where we had previously visited the day before. Everything about this gyro was right. We watched one of the Greek staff members of the restaurant chase a crazy (possibly shoplifting) teenager down the cobblestone alley and into a huge crowd of tourists. Yelling in spiteful and passionate French. It was a sight. To digest, a walk uphill, following the beautiful towering view of a church felt poignant. Back to our place for a nap and a Sopranos episode. Dinner was at a Portuguese restaurant where the language barrier was harder than expected.
We were on a time limit, with pending tickets to The Toon Theatre. A French theatre that puts on puppet shows a few nights a week. On my birthday, they would be performing "The Three Musketeers". We thought we would miss the show, but we were just lucky enough to make it. It was, naturally, all in French. Despite not understanding the dialogue it was enchanting enough to hold our interest. Hundreds of previously used puppets hung from the ceiling all around the theatre which was, yea, creepy. But awesome. The experience really was fabulous, and my birthday felt just the same. It was one of the first birthdays where I felt zero weirdness. My ground felt a little more established. Look at me, seeing a little French show in a new country with my angel of a boyfriend. Miracles happen every day. I can't say thank you enough...
I am writing this from a beautiful pub back in Holland. I will keep you updated with details as they come. I met a crazy stoned Dutch guy yesterday and I really need to tell you about him. Crazy people are the best. Here's my view from where I wrote all this down:
