the Netherlands

I rather love the word Musculation, at my gym, WellNess in Aix

I had mentally started a post last week about French culture, specifically at the gym. After arriving early for a stretching class, which is about as appealing as hanging over a swamp full of alligators, I got my mat, put down my towel and claimed a much prized space. As people started to filter in, you would have thought it a cocktail party, with kisses, exclamations, laughter, groups of joy that didn't fit with stretching, at least for me. Of the perhaps 30 people in the room, I was the only one not involved in a conversation with someone else. Had they been doing this class together for years? Were they neighbors? Strangers? Long lost cousins?Couldn't say. And then there's that group of men about my age naturally in the Musculation area. Out of a movie with tidy haircuts and shiny technical gear and clothing that almost always includes weightlifting gloves not acquainted with a dumbbell. They lean on the fly machine like it's a cocktail bar, opining, seemingly oblivious to it being one of the most heavily used pieces of equipment. It matters not. Instead, there might be some nodding or shaking of heads and certainly, that classic French  stretched out mouth/pulled down chin that I realize usually implies disagreement, but sometimes a reluctant agreement.  It's a beautiful thing to watch it all, and makes time go quickly.

This new pensioner status provides for nice and lovely extra time, the dogs of responsibility no longer nipping at my heels. About a month ago, a hiking buddy told me about a book she'd read that changed the way she parented. Despite my daughter being happy and thriving, there were things this friend mentioned that drew me to the book. It was starkly clear that what the author wrote was right, and new to me, hitting hard and in the gut. It brought to mind missed opportunities to be supportive in certain ways, and ways that have a better insight into what it's like to be a child of ours, of mine. All those judgmental comments in therapy from many years ago echoed loud "When I'm a parent, I would  never ....." Ugh.  So yeah, heading north before heading west seemed important. 

In the apple not falling far from the tree department, after mapping my destination from Schipol to Utrecht, I inadvertently ended up at the same address in Amsterdam. But being flexible folk, Nat and I both pivoted and met there, behind Vondelpark at a sort of brown bar called Craft and Draft. I sat looking out the window waiting for her, and was moved to see her biking by with her blue Ikea bag, just so very Dutch in her cycling casualness. 

I have a friend who has a house she's recently renovated but not yet moved into in Utrecht. She is a good friend and I had talked to her about this book I'd read and the regrets I was feeling. While the plan had originally been to stay in Amsterdam in an Airbnb, she offered us her home, which,  even though she was in another country, was such a huge hug. Nat was game, and so we had this sanctuary, in a neighborhood so pretty and tidy it looks fake. That her house is something well-suited to an Architectural Digest spread didn't hurt at all, nor did the park across the street so perfectly manicured, yet wild. There was a feeling of grace.

Luxury of light and space and beauty

Life in an Architectural Digest spread

It was the perfect place to talk about experiences, regrets, challenges, misunderstandings, but also goals, how to do better, to move forward. I'm so proud of my daughter, for her unwavering honesty, even in difficult situations, her bravery and clarity. And so, we talked and then we did things.

Earnest perennials, Utrecht flower market

So much color, Utrecht flower market

Score

Florin, Utrecht

We wanted to go somewhere new, and while Nat claims that all cities and towns in the Netherlands look alike, I can say with confidence that Delft has white railings on the canal bridges, whereas Utrecht and Amsterdam have black. We happened upon a candle store in Delft, and fell into a lengthy conversation with the owner, who had been a teacher who burned out during COVID, something about which his wife wasn't initially enthused. And no, he said, his mental health didn't improve because he was under such pressure to make things work financially. He brought on his burned out school colleagues and politie, as the police are called, and I had to keep from giggling as I imagined all these exhausted people holding strings, too tired to talk, repeatedly dipping them into melted wax, starting at a wall. A different sort of therapy, perhaps. He was warm, kind and engaging. After taking eons to cheerfully wrap our package, he handed it to us and when we thanked him and said goodbye, he said "goodbye hummers", as apparently we'd been entertaining ourselves by singing along with some song from the 90s, couldn't tell you which. Which reminds me, Nat told about a little boy she babysat for every week who would ask her to play the same song repeatedly, here is the ear worm she gave me and I now give it to you.  

The mean alleys of Delft

Town Hall? in Delft. I've forgotten. It was impressive though

Not a good picture of Seybold van Ravesteyn's Rotterdam train station

​As we had already wandered south, why not go further to Rotterdam? Europe's largest port, this geographically challenged writer found out, is inland. We listed favorite train stations, and Rotterdam's was up there for both of us, which when researched, we found was designed by an employee of the railway and not some star architect like Calatrava. After stopping for a beer in the sun, we marched to what is considered the best Szechuan restaurant, SanSan. Rotterdam is much more multi-cultural than other Dutch cities, so we had some hope it might be good. After being knocked over by a wave of Chinese retirees on a bus holiday, we thought we might be on to something. Despite it being a warm spring evening (and being inside), the bus riders all kept their coats and baseball hats on during dinner, and were similar to teenagers on their phones, no one talking. Like a colorful tornado, they whipped through quickly and were gone, leaving in their wake piles of dirty dishes and an overwhelmed staff. I would say that the meal was a B-, Nat said she'd give it another chance.

We also had some time in Amsterdam, playing ugly tennis at Festina in Vondelpark, where we were again reminded there's a 12 year wait to become a member, unless you're the person who is telling you about it who just happened to get in on merit. Beautiful red clay, a wee clubhouse with a thatched roof and perfectly manicured perennial gardens. ​

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Bread Nat made at Farine, the boulangerie where she's doing her internship. Brought some back to the mother country, it was so good.

Here she is at the bio coop

Have to have one classic

Don't know what the movie is about but this makes me want to see it

Lots of preparation for King' Day, a holiday that involves selling your old junk, wearing orange and doing stupid things while drunk. 

Dutch orange. I wonder what William would think

Special for Kings Day

Not special for Kings Day, but there's a lot of it about

At the Stedelijk

Super competitive ping pong in the park across from our nest. 

So, yes, as a retraitée, as I'll be called in France, there'll be lots of time to think about different things that might never have been able to make it to the front burner. And while it won't always be comfortable, I welcome this digging in and reflection and am obscenely grateful for the daughter who has graced my life. It certainly made for a lovely time in the Netherlands. Wait, I forgot to say, it was sunny. EVERY day!

See you in a few, Boston.