Travelogue 871 – September 27
Dry on Arrival
I’m monitoring the weather constantly. I watch the skies. I check the forecasts. The daily forecast says the same thing every day now: rain. But the general forecast for the day is not enough. I need to see the hourly forecast. Being on my bike so much has made me acutely watchful.
The first half of September was lovely. I seem to always forget how beautiful September can be. Thoughts of September during any other part of the year are coloured by the remote stress of returning to work and starting the school year. Then September arrives like a gentle, cool breeze at the end of a summer day, coming in so much more quietly than imagined. It was a lot of exercise, hitting the bike paths again, but the skies were clear. The temperatures were perfect. And the wheels at work started turning again more gradually than I had feared.
This week, the skies changed. We had watched the change coming. Every day, the block of rainy days approached, and we saw there was no end to the chain of days devoted to rain. At the last minute, the leading edge of those days softened. We were blessed with a few more nice days. But there would be no escape. I dug through closets and boxes to locate all our most serious rain gear. It turned out we didn’t have much.
In Ethiopia, weather forecasts were irrelevant. It was sunny. Then it was rainy season, and it rained every day. In rainy season, you stayed indoors. You travelled by taxi. There wasn’t much at stake when it came to the weather. The stakes had been much higher in Minnesota, where temperatures could plummet fifty degrees in one day. You could find yourself driving in a blizzard. You could really suffer.
In Holland, the stakes are different. The risks are rain, rain, and more rain. Sure, compared to the risk of freezing to death in your car during a Minnesota white-out, rain is an inconvenience. As a Minnesotan, you take it all rather lightly. But then one day you find yourself on your bicycle in a sudden shower on your way to work. In moments you are soaked. You start the workday wet. Even your shoes are wet. Everywhere you look, people are sniffling. The view out your windows is gloomy. You begin to shiver.
The stakes change. Daily strategies change. In the Low Countries, water is our element. It shadows you in canals. It washes across the road. It leaks into your shoes. It falls from the sky. You invest in the best gear. How do you get on a bike and arrive dry three kilometres away? It’s an absorbing puzzle.
Friday, September 27, 2019
Tuesday, September 17, 2019
Travelogue 870 – September 17
Dredging Season
The new sculptures beside the river are dark in theme. They’re dark in colour, a gritty reddish brown. They are cast in familiar shapes, bicycles and shopping carts and scooters, but these are depictions of abandonment and decay. They sit among trails of debris; they are making a mess of the pavements.
This must be the season for dredging. I don’t know when they do it, but suddenly these items are appearing alongside the river. I take my exercise there, running several kilometres along the river and crossing to return on the other side. The route is now populated by these relics. They are rusty. They are coated with mud. Some have shells on their flanks, like barnacles on the keels of ships.
I can afford a few distractions in my running routine. This fall’s training season hasn’t been pleasant. It’s allergy season, and that has become an issue. It’s not just that I have sneezing fits and a stuffy nose. Bad allergy days leave me dead tired and muscle-sore. I just want to sleep.
With the date for a half marathon approaching, less than a month away, I’m not sure what to expect. Some days, I feel the benefits of all the training: new strength and new resilience. Some days, I feel only the days I’ve had to skip because of allergies: fatigue and failing speed. So I vacillate between great hope and sad resignation.
The barge comes to my rescue today. I’m running north up the Schie, and the boat is heading the same way. These boats ply this river all day long, long and shallow troughs, lying so low in the water it seems they’ll founder. They’re sturdy; they move smoothly forward. They are driven from the stern, where there is a deck and a cabin. Often there’s a compact car tied down on the deck somewhere. In the bed of the long trough is often nothing but piles of sand.
These barges are perfect rabbits. Their speed is closely matched to mine, though a knot or so slower. In the span between bridges over the river, I can overtake one; sometimes I can pass it. Usually the boats chugging this direction are loaded down with sand. I’m able to catch this one easily, and I run alongside it now.
Up ahead the bridge has been lifted. I arrive there before the barge does, running underneath the road that passes so near overhead. Pedestrians are waiting for the bridge; they watch me run underneath them and underneath the bridge. It’s cold there, and dark. The part of the road that rises is a short piece over the middle of the river. The road is held up by rows of pillars. I’m running in a narrow passageway between pillars dividing the river’s edge from the parallel road and the pillars dividing a small channel from the wider middle, where the barge will pass.
Emerging into sunlight again, I consider idly how far ahead of the barge I can get in the next span. I consider pushing myself into a sprint to the next dredgers’ sculpture.
Dredging Season
The new sculptures beside the river are dark in theme. They’re dark in colour, a gritty reddish brown. They are cast in familiar shapes, bicycles and shopping carts and scooters, but these are depictions of abandonment and decay. They sit among trails of debris; they are making a mess of the pavements.
This must be the season for dredging. I don’t know when they do it, but suddenly these items are appearing alongside the river. I take my exercise there, running several kilometres along the river and crossing to return on the other side. The route is now populated by these relics. They are rusty. They are coated with mud. Some have shells on their flanks, like barnacles on the keels of ships.
I can afford a few distractions in my running routine. This fall’s training season hasn’t been pleasant. It’s allergy season, and that has become an issue. It’s not just that I have sneezing fits and a stuffy nose. Bad allergy days leave me dead tired and muscle-sore. I just want to sleep.
With the date for a half marathon approaching, less than a month away, I’m not sure what to expect. Some days, I feel the benefits of all the training: new strength and new resilience. Some days, I feel only the days I’ve had to skip because of allergies: fatigue and failing speed. So I vacillate between great hope and sad resignation.
The barge comes to my rescue today. I’m running north up the Schie, and the boat is heading the same way. These boats ply this river all day long, long and shallow troughs, lying so low in the water it seems they’ll founder. They’re sturdy; they move smoothly forward. They are driven from the stern, where there is a deck and a cabin. Often there’s a compact car tied down on the deck somewhere. In the bed of the long trough is often nothing but piles of sand.
These barges are perfect rabbits. Their speed is closely matched to mine, though a knot or so slower. In the span between bridges over the river, I can overtake one; sometimes I can pass it. Usually the boats chugging this direction are loaded down with sand. I’m able to catch this one easily, and I run alongside it now.
Up ahead the bridge has been lifted. I arrive there before the barge does, running underneath the road that passes so near overhead. Pedestrians are waiting for the bridge; they watch me run underneath them and underneath the bridge. It’s cold there, and dark. The part of the road that rises is a short piece over the middle of the river. The road is held up by rows of pillars. I’m running in a narrow passageway between pillars dividing the river’s edge from the parallel road and the pillars dividing a small channel from the wider middle, where the barge will pass.
Emerging into sunlight again, I consider idly how far ahead of the barge I can get in the next span. I consider pushing myself into a sprint to the next dredgers’ sculpture.
Wednesday, September 11, 2019
Travelogue 869 – September 11
Bogeymen
We had ghost issues last night. I’m feeling rough today. My eyes are burning as though the tear ducts have dried up and have accumulated dust through the night. It’s a long day for me: three long classes and a play rehearsal. I wish I could close my sandy eyes. The days never start in gentle ways. The girls are fed and dressed, everything in a whirl, and then I’m lifting Baby into her bike seat. I shove off from the curb, and we’re on the road.
At midnight, the fire alarm went off. We jumped out of bed and stumbled around in circles. We retrieved a chair for me to stand on so I could bang on the disc hanging from the ceiling, jab at the mysterious buttons on its surface, twist it in efforts to unseal the cap. But the thing kept sounding. We opened doors to clear the phantom smoke. Nothing seemed to work, until something unnamed did work, and the thing shut off. We stood underneath it in wonder, breathing from our exertions.
Ten minutes after we returned to bed, the alarm went off again. And a ceiling light that had been dead for months turned on.
The ride to school is a pleasant one. We wind through the quiet streets around our building and by the busy transit hub at Marconiplein. Then we have a long stretch along a bike path well-insulated from the busy street. It’s misting this morning. I tell Baby to pull the hood of her jacket over her head. “Why is it so donker?” she asked when we woke her at 7:15. Why is it so dark? “Winter’s coming, Baby.”
Ghosts always seem like they’re distracted. Their efforts are sporadic and indirect. It’s like they can’t focus very well. Or they just don’t have the energy to do everything they intended. They communicate by means of these trivial acts, and the message is foggy at best. They become alien to us; their logic changes over time. What seems clear to them is a mystery to the humans.
Our ghost doesn’t seem particularly malicious, though I don’t like much that he’s messing with the electricity. Usually, he’s content to pace and whisper. He sets a ball rolling in the middle of the night. Once in a while, he turns on the TV. He’s like a bored pensioner.
Baby and I arrive at the school yard. I release all the straps and lift her out of the seat. I lock the bike, and we head in. The halls are busy. This is the busiest building in the neighbourhood at this hour. The teacher greets us with a smile. I wish I had more to give back. I’m something of a ghost myself today, my concentration waning and every effort half its intention.
Bogeymen
We had ghost issues last night. I’m feeling rough today. My eyes are burning as though the tear ducts have dried up and have accumulated dust through the night. It’s a long day for me: three long classes and a play rehearsal. I wish I could close my sandy eyes. The days never start in gentle ways. The girls are fed and dressed, everything in a whirl, and then I’m lifting Baby into her bike seat. I shove off from the curb, and we’re on the road.
At midnight, the fire alarm went off. We jumped out of bed and stumbled around in circles. We retrieved a chair for me to stand on so I could bang on the disc hanging from the ceiling, jab at the mysterious buttons on its surface, twist it in efforts to unseal the cap. But the thing kept sounding. We opened doors to clear the phantom smoke. Nothing seemed to work, until something unnamed did work, and the thing shut off. We stood underneath it in wonder, breathing from our exertions.
Ten minutes after we returned to bed, the alarm went off again. And a ceiling light that had been dead for months turned on.
The ride to school is a pleasant one. We wind through the quiet streets around our building and by the busy transit hub at Marconiplein. Then we have a long stretch along a bike path well-insulated from the busy street. It’s misting this morning. I tell Baby to pull the hood of her jacket over her head. “Why is it so donker?” she asked when we woke her at 7:15. Why is it so dark? “Winter’s coming, Baby.”
Ghosts always seem like they’re distracted. Their efforts are sporadic and indirect. It’s like they can’t focus very well. Or they just don’t have the energy to do everything they intended. They communicate by means of these trivial acts, and the message is foggy at best. They become alien to us; their logic changes over time. What seems clear to them is a mystery to the humans.
Our ghost doesn’t seem particularly malicious, though I don’t like much that he’s messing with the electricity. Usually, he’s content to pace and whisper. He sets a ball rolling in the middle of the night. Once in a while, he turns on the TV. He’s like a bored pensioner.
Baby and I arrive at the school yard. I release all the straps and lift her out of the seat. I lock the bike, and we head in. The halls are busy. This is the busiest building in the neighbourhood at this hour. The teacher greets us with a smile. I wish I had more to give back. I’m something of a ghost myself today, my concentration waning and every effort half its intention.
Monday, September 09, 2019
Travelogue 868 – September 9
Dutch Parenting
Suddenly, I’m on my bicycle more than I have been in months. Suddenly I’m on the bike more than I’m on the ground in many of my destinations. And, what’s more, it’s not the same old bike. Suddenly, it’s a lumbering beast of burden. I’ve added a tall and clumsy children’s seat on the back. It’s worth more than the bike itself, so I’ve thrown on various security devices that I have no room for. There’s a chain I have to wrap around the handlebars and a U-lock that fits into its holder on the down tube.
Any true Dutchman would have known better than to install a children’s seat on the back of a traditional ‘men’s’ frame with top tube. Mounting is a new and strenuous procedure, particularly when Baby is strapped into her seat. To make matters worse, when Baby is in her seat, I have to wear my heavy backpack in the front. I’m getting used to all this re-distribution of weight. Our most perilous moments are not on the street, but when Papa is trying to get on the bike and then trying to get it into motion.
Baby is a good sport. It’s exciting for her. She shouts, “Whee!” and I shout it back to her. We cruise steadily down the bike path. Papa takes it slow. It feels like we’re riding high because of the very proper posture enforced by the bag in front of me. We come to slow stops at traffic lights, get very slow starts.
Baby finds the whole routine of going to school very entertaining. She brags about every aspect of it to her little sister and makes her cry. We have to comfort Little Ren that she has her own pre-school, and Papa will take her on the bike one day. I’m comforted that my girls fight about who gets to go to school, and who gets to ride with Papa. Realizing they will roll their eyes over all of it in years to come, I relish every moment.
But do I have the stamina? During the summer, a cycle ride was the height of relaxation. Now, overnight, it’s become fall, and pedalling is hard work. I’m pedalling to Baby’s school. I’m pedalling across town to work. After work, I do the reverse. I have to fit in a side trip to the store, where I add some more weight to my self-powered lorry. Then come the evenings. Some evenings I’m cycling into town for an evening class. Other evenings, I’m cycling to rehearsals in The Hague.
Precisely the week that school started up, we started rehearsals for the fall performance of my new plays. I go to the Schiedam train station, where I catch a train to The Hague. In Den Haag, I get an ‘OV Fiets’, a very cheap bike rental provided by the public transit authorities in every train station. I pedal across the centre of Den Haag to our rehearsal space. After a breathless rehearsal, I’m straining to make my train. Otherwise, I wait an extra half hour at the station, when I should be getting the girls ready for bed. Getting ready for my own bed ….
Lying still and waiting for sleep to come, I’m beset by images that flash across the mind like fragments of the day, torn apart by its own centrifugal force. Images are shot through with late summer sunshine, piercing through the gloom of fading consciousness like it did through the clouds. The days are a perfect prelude to fall, bright spells of warmth overtaken by quick showers. Grey clouds are ever on the horizon, blown by chilly gusts. It’s impossible to avoid the rain altogether, but the precipitation is light and blows over quickly. The sun dries you before the next shower.
Dutch Parenting
Suddenly, I’m on my bicycle more than I have been in months. Suddenly I’m on the bike more than I’m on the ground in many of my destinations. And, what’s more, it’s not the same old bike. Suddenly, it’s a lumbering beast of burden. I’ve added a tall and clumsy children’s seat on the back. It’s worth more than the bike itself, so I’ve thrown on various security devices that I have no room for. There’s a chain I have to wrap around the handlebars and a U-lock that fits into its holder on the down tube.
Any true Dutchman would have known better than to install a children’s seat on the back of a traditional ‘men’s’ frame with top tube. Mounting is a new and strenuous procedure, particularly when Baby is strapped into her seat. To make matters worse, when Baby is in her seat, I have to wear my heavy backpack in the front. I’m getting used to all this re-distribution of weight. Our most perilous moments are not on the street, but when Papa is trying to get on the bike and then trying to get it into motion.
Baby is a good sport. It’s exciting for her. She shouts, “Whee!” and I shout it back to her. We cruise steadily down the bike path. Papa takes it slow. It feels like we’re riding high because of the very proper posture enforced by the bag in front of me. We come to slow stops at traffic lights, get very slow starts.
Baby finds the whole routine of going to school very entertaining. She brags about every aspect of it to her little sister and makes her cry. We have to comfort Little Ren that she has her own pre-school, and Papa will take her on the bike one day. I’m comforted that my girls fight about who gets to go to school, and who gets to ride with Papa. Realizing they will roll their eyes over all of it in years to come, I relish every moment.
But do I have the stamina? During the summer, a cycle ride was the height of relaxation. Now, overnight, it’s become fall, and pedalling is hard work. I’m pedalling to Baby’s school. I’m pedalling across town to work. After work, I do the reverse. I have to fit in a side trip to the store, where I add some more weight to my self-powered lorry. Then come the evenings. Some evenings I’m cycling into town for an evening class. Other evenings, I’m cycling to rehearsals in The Hague.
Precisely the week that school started up, we started rehearsals for the fall performance of my new plays. I go to the Schiedam train station, where I catch a train to The Hague. In Den Haag, I get an ‘OV Fiets’, a very cheap bike rental provided by the public transit authorities in every train station. I pedal across the centre of Den Haag to our rehearsal space. After a breathless rehearsal, I’m straining to make my train. Otherwise, I wait an extra half hour at the station, when I should be getting the girls ready for bed. Getting ready for my own bed ….
Lying still and waiting for sleep to come, I’m beset by images that flash across the mind like fragments of the day, torn apart by its own centrifugal force. Images are shot through with late summer sunshine, piercing through the gloom of fading consciousness like it did through the clouds. The days are a perfect prelude to fall, bright spells of warmth overtaken by quick showers. Grey clouds are ever on the horizon, blown by chilly gusts. It’s impossible to avoid the rain altogether, but the precipitation is light and blows over quickly. The sun dries you before the next shower.
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