Travelogue 1033 – February 21
And The Shocks After

The winds haven’t abated. If anything, the city looks more of a wreck today than immediately after the storm – if such a moment could ever have been defined. Dumpsters are tipped, plastic chairs lie on the tram tracks, shreds of plant life lie strewn here and there, clay shards from flower pots are sprinkled along the pavements. And the winds are still blowing. It’s as though Eunice were the roaring spirit – wingspan as wide as the English Channel - who ripped the membrane between worlds, opening us to an invasion of smaller sprites flying in her wake. I thought I spotted a few this morning, white cloaks in the air, snapped up into the ethers when I turned to my head to look.

But I’ve been having nightmares. Maybe I’m just seeing ghosts of them in the morning. I have unsettling and restless dreams, hopeless chases and endless piles of refuse that I’m responsible to clean. It must be that part of the animal brain that corresponds to the dog’s instinct to pace and whine before a storm. Or it’s the electricity in the air, making us all edgy.

I’m not the only one who is edgy. When I left the house this morning, a neighbour was shouting. There was a policeman outside his door. This neighbour has a history of walking round the complex in the middle of the night, spooking other residents. These wind spirits proved to be too much for him. When I returned the police were gone, and so was he. His door was boarded up. In the rain gutters beside his door, a pool of dirty water stood stagnant, its surface rippling with the wind. Debris from the storm had blocked the drains.

Travelogue 1032 – February 20
Eunice the Sprite

Storm Eunice has gone her way. She swept up the northern European coast, blowing and wreaking havoc, pushing things over like a drunken bully at a chess tournament.

Eunice has gone her way, but still there’s a wind advisory. It’s set to rain all day, though Eunice herself brought barely any precipitation. When the storm crossed borders, she changed names. In Germany, she was Storm Zeynep. In Denmark, she was Nora.

The name-changing and shape-shifting is an entertaining European phenomenon. The same street can change names every kilometre. And, in this region in particular, the same river changes names many times. Heraclitus would have been delighted: there had never actually been an object we could reliably call a river. Even if I had crossed it every day on one stable bridge, it might have last week been a foreign river and next week some other body of water altogether.

Eunice blows by and becomes Zeynep. She leaves behind something like the real storm in her wake. We wonder where the storm begins and ends. We wonder whether storms (and streets and rivers) are not spirits some to visit, whether they are not geesten, whether they are not ghosts. We were witnesses. We saw the wild nature spirit, Eunice blow by. Winds were her broad sleeves and rains her long skirts. She leaped and flew, veered and dove, roaring and laughing. Then she was thunderous Zeynep, severe Hanseatic matron, spreading her dark cloak over the towns. She became Nora, a capricious playmate of Loki, slapping ships in the harbour. And then what will she become? Will she fly inland to become artillery smoke over Ukraine?

Travelogue 1031 – February 19
After Eunice

I was out early this morning. The winds have died down; Storm Eunice is gone. Or nearly gone; winds are predicted to pick up again later. It’s hard to define Eunice; she’s powerful but elusive. She brought us only wind. This morning, the skies were clear. Only looking up, it could have been an Ethiopian sky, pale blue and set with clouds of summery virtue. But at ground level, you felt the blustering breezes and the drop in temperature. You saw the debris, the killing fields for potted plants, the tipped and scattered bikes, like skeletons at Pompeii.

Air is my tragic element. I was born under an air sign, and I live under skies. I love and dread my skies. I admire them and I assess them every day. Weather forecasts are like throwing bones. Various practitioners of naturopathic medicine have told me that lung problems were a sign of grief, and I so I was born bereft. I have struggled for breath my whole life. Since COVID, the struggle and the pain have become more acute. I use my inhalers; I rest; I see doctors, lots of doctors. I feel better, and then the winds bring me another petty virus. I’ll be coughing a lifetime. That’s my air; that’s my wind. Winds cleanse, they say. I don’t know. They rob me of breath when I face them. They collect air, and they sweep things up into the sky. They tip us over. They close our eyes with sand. They wipe our memories clean.

Travelogue 1030 – February 18

Eunice

It’s mid-afternoon, and we’re waiting for Storm Eunice. Workplaces and schools are closed. Public transit has been stopped. Wind speeds are mounting outside.

February is the time of winds. Sure, Holland is always a windy place, but February is a wind sculpture, twisting airily, balletically. February has pressed itself in my body memory as work, making life strenuous and electric.

The winds have been coming all week, knocking potted plants over, sprinkling the parks with twigs and branches. They overtake over you as you cycle, turning the front wheel precariously, or sweeping you forward suddenly so that you coast without pedalling.

The big winds are coming today. They roar outside already, whistling at the windows and rattling the door. Already, random items are bouncing down the walkway outside, plastic flowerpots and watering jugs. Anything left loose outside will come tumbling past our door. In the street below, cans and bottles are rolling. People have secured themselves indoors. Above, white, shredded clouds are scudding quickly by, despatched inland, admitting sharp glances of sunshine from overhead.

February is the tiring time of winds. You bow your head when you go outside.

Travelogue 1029 – February 9

A Day With Ren

My friend asked me for funny stories about my girls to cheer him up. At the time, I couldn’t think of any. Now in the middle of the night, I’m thinking about my funny Little Ren.

She was home yesterday because the day before she had fallen from the playground equipment at school, and she had split her lip and bumped her head. We were advised to watch her closely for a day. In the morning, she was sullen but by afternoon she had cheered up.

I was working at the computer at home, and she was playing by herself. She was so used to playing with her big sister, she longed to find a playmate. She reached out to me. I agreed, and she happily circled a length of curled and elastic plastic around my wrist. I was to be her pet. She told me to come along; she was going to take me to the doctor.

At the doctor’s office in the kitchen, Ren bid me sit quietly and wait for the doctor. She advised me that now she was going to be both my mother and my doctor. When she came back, she put a toy cup to my chest and said she was measuring my heart. She counted to two, and she decided my heart was doing fine. Then she rolled a hair band around my hand and up my forearm. With that she checked my blood pressure and judged that it was good.

Now she needed more specialized instruments. She counselled me to wait patiently while she went upstairs for her equipment. The first one of those was Duckie, her favourite ‘snuggly’. With Duckie’s bill, she took a blood sample from my arm. The results came quickly. She told me there was no fat. She was bound to return the blood she had taken, and so she pressed Duckie’s bill against my arm. There, it was back. She brought a bowl, and she bid me close my eyes. She was going to take my eyes and examine them. It took only a minute, and she was able to inform me that there was no fat in my eyes, either. I was in very good health!

The doctor’s examination was over. She gently put my leash back on, and she led me home, where my laptop was. “Now you can play your games,” she said. And I did. I went back to my games, feeling reassured about my condition. My Little Ren returned to her own games. She likes to imagine all sorts of adventures for her toys. While she does, she narrates in a sweet voice little voice, sometimes singing the story. The sound of her play makes my time with her ineffably happy.

I reflect in the middle of the night on my love for her, how my desire for her happiness and safety is like an instinct, like a fire in my not-fat blood, like a hunger. I want her to play happily day after day, without a care. I would watch over her and Duckie for a lifetime, content and charmed.