Travelogue 1121 – 31 January
This Is Europe

I’m shopping near the university, in a cosy little neighbourhood of Rotterdam known to be on the posh side. Posh or not there’s a man who is tottering and mumbling. He is dressed fine and groomed, but there’s something wrong with him. He confronts an elderly pair sitting on an outdoor bench. They are speaking in Italian. He interrupts them and starts in a reasonable tone, informing them that they are in the Netherlands, advising them they should speak Dutch. The couple are confused; they question; then they protest. He raises his voice. “Oh, Dio,” complains the woman. This is Europe now. It’s a tiny country on a continent that is a patchwork of languages, but, sure, Holland for the Dutch! To be sure, this man was unbalanced in some way, and he was put in his place by a few locals, in Dutch. “Sod off,” yelled one ordinary-looking bystander in Dutch. “They’re in the Netherlands,” the poor man replied, thinking we needed one more reminder.

In Italy, meanwhile, a museum director in Florence complains that tourism has turned the city into a ‘prostitute’, and this brings down upon her head a frightful torrent of outrage. Maybe that was to be expected; it was strong language. But the story becomes confusing when you look at who complained loudest: a lot of right-wing allies of Italian Prime Minister and Mussolini fan, Giorgia Meloni. It might have seemed at first blush like a sentiment they would applaud: damn those foreign interlopers. You wonder if it might have become economic. Tourists provide profit. But no, you only need look as far as the museum director’s surname: Hollberg. It turns out that Meloni’s government has been trying to push non-Italians out of top cultural jobs so they can be filled by sympathetic cultural warriors. Ms Hollberg chose a bad moment to voice her opinion, especially in such colourful terms.

Travelogue 1120 – 20 January
Twist and Shout

We will be tortured for ages by the image of Trump awkwardly dancing to “YMCA” on rally stages. We will be tortured for generations by the memory of Trump recommending bleach for COVID.

I’ve always wondered about the paradigm established among the shouting social media cliques for evaluating the COVID response. It was always a question of who was right. As a topic, that’s fair enough: in retrospect, both sides ought to be able to admit they were wrong on some points, medical and historical. But what an odd sum to take as the final measure! Right and wrong are material for discussions about lessons learned for the next time, not for moral judgement of humanity, or leadership, or the medical establishment struggling with crisis and fear.

The fact is, we succeeded. We succeeded in caring. The world mobilised to protect men, women, and children. The details of implementation pale in importance next to this singular achievement. The efforts made to save lives were authentically remarkable.

The social compact relies on the impulse of charity. And, yes, charity does exist. It’s not the time to hash over adolescent debate topics like “altruism is really ego in disguise”. There was never a need to make great efforts to dress up greed as charity, as the fleshy former president demonstrates for us every day.

Please, with one internal eye always on the horror of Trump’s herky jerky Twist, let’s give our academic cynicism a rest, when all that’s good is already under attack. Let’s forego the self-conscious poring over brain scans for the chemical signature of caring; let’s take a break from the tiresome campaigns to impugn everyone’s honour and intentions. Everyone’s doing the best they can. And the finest human systems are still flawed. Corruption and ignorance and waste find their way into any environment, and good people can do no more than minimize it. Baby might still rate more than the bathwater, say.

I’m not Christian, but I think of a Biblical author. Paul had his moments. He wrote, “And now there remain faith, hope, and charity, these three: but the greatest of these is charity.” He also wrote, “When I was a child, I spake as a child, I understood as a child, I thought as a child: but when I became a man, I put away childish things.” Children shout over each other; adults ask them to stop and listen.

Dancing Trump is a totem of bad times. Dancing Trump is the gargoyle. Cement him into the wall of the temple as a reminder. Look upon him and shudder.

Travelogue 1119 – 18 January
Just a Drop

When in Holland, look for signs of change in the forms of the water. Now the water has become white, and when it falls, it falls in pellets. On the ground it crunches and causes hazards. On playgrounds, it lies in patches of white. On the canals, there are thin sheets of ice on the surface. Seagulls stand on it, looking uncertain.

Big changes, we describe in terms of floods. Floods of immigrants, for example. Or we whisper about the literal tide predicted with climate change, quite possibly the final one for low-lying towns like The Hague.

But a big change is already upon us, isn’t it? Flood tides rising and threatening to overcome their barriers and run free. They swept over Iowa this week; we spot them in Europe, too. These are the waters of Narcissus, rising to their highest mark in decades. They claim a few inches every month, a few dozen souls every week, victims of the Narcissian malady, the crippling trance of self-regard. Victims are mesmerised by their image, hypnotised by their voices, enraptured by their opinions.

Liberals have loudly declared – and, bless them, the libs can be counted on to be loud, in all seasons – that Trump is a threat to democracy. That begs the question: do you believe them? The Trumpist right has only two answers to choose from: no we don’t, or yes but we don’t care. It’s a tragic binary, both sides founded on discord, distrust, defiance, and nihilistic abandon. It’s not the most inspiring political programme: there’s little to recognise as optimism there.

The “Trump or democracy” dynamic seems familiar to me, parallel to the dynamic formed during the COVID crisis. Do you believe in the public health officials responding to the crisis? No we don’t, or yes but we find it very inconvenient. It’s dark reasoning. It has some parallels with the bedrock position of Republicanism: do you believe that paying taxes provides for the public good? No it’s a conspiracy among civil servants, or yes but we don’t want to pay.

In none of these litanies is space allowed for a pause. Narcissus responds without hesitation, self first with immediacy, self first without reflection.

Society might require an antidote to the Narcissian waters. In crisis, one must care first for the welfare of others. One forgets the self for a moment, releases ambition and self-expression, sets aside righteousness, and settles a gentle focus on the needs of other human beings. No need to proselytise, no need to debate.

I’m prescribing a drop from waters of Lethe, the peaceful sleep of forgetfulness. We do so love our “ideas”; and they will return to us once the medicine wears off. There is nothing to fear.

Travelogue 1118 – 7 January
The Orthodox Holiday

We successfully negotiated Janus’s gate. We are in a new year. As though straining to differentiate itself from 2023, January’s temperatures have taken a dip. Last night, I detected a taste of Minnesota as I breathed deeply of the crisp night air over Rotterdam. I could see stars. That was itself a delight in this season of clouds.

But the calendar still plays its tricks. In an act of mirroring worthy of two-faced Janus, or perhaps of all the water still on the ground, today is Christmas. It’s Orthodox Christmas this time. We, in our exhaustion, defy the mirror. We spent our energy early, starting with the Dutch holiday, Sinterklaas, in early December. There’s little left for December’s Christmas, and less for New Year’s. Orthodox Christmas is just a pleasant occasion for wishing everyone well.

Is Janus still watching? Every day is a gateway, after all, and this is his month. The two-headed god is charged with gates and transitions. What moment is not a transition? His very physiognomy suggests his function, with four eyes to watch. So we must be seen nearly every day, tripping through a doorway.

Furthermore, everything we pass has a god or goddess attached, the trees, the banks, every field buried under a street, every river. Understanding their function is challenging. What did the ancients imagine their gods did from day to day? Did they live in Olympus or were they everywhere? Did they form the essence of the thing they represented? Was Janus simply a deformed citizen of Olympus, or was his spirit inside every doorway? Or maybe both? Why not? Was he just a bureaucrat, a manager of sorts? Was it his job to ensure that doorways didn’t malfunction, perhaps turning people back the way they came? Or was he some sort of Heisenbergian observer, making everything possible just by his eyes? Would the gates dissolve without his gaze? The mystery formed a part of their divinity, I suppose.

One hardly knows what to reverence anymore. On these cold mornings, so slow to warm into day, one ventures out in layers against the weather, and a longing dawns inside, as slowly as the light, to offer devotion, to find the loitering god like Janus and leave something at his feet. It arises from one’s vulnerability, and it only seeks the worthy object.

I hear the answer that is obvious to the secular group mind: reverence everything. Love all, tread lightly, be gracious. And I admit it makes sense. I also admit I make a rather poor model of these virtues, especially during Janus’s own month. I am irritated with city life, and, as far as I can tell, so is everyone else. The winter has become unkind, and it lingers too long. Not even the tardy Orthodox Christmas has much power to lift spirits.

Travelogue 1117 – 3 January
God of Gates

Janus looks forward and back at the same time. At midnight of the new year, I wonder what there might be to see. I imagine only tunnels of wind in both directions, rippling through the veils of rain. One year becomes another on a wet, winter night, and old Janus presides.

Newscasters make the most of the change, trumpeting the drama of our times, but they discover the truer note when they drink on air and enact silly sketches. Joy becomes enjoyment, and celebration becomes self-indulgence. Fireworks are a handy substitute for hope.

The first day of this year offered us one small and singular note of optimism. It was right away, as we left the house. To get to Metro, we have to pass through a narrow square of sorts, a span of pavement between two low buildings of residencies. It’s a depressing stretch, usually littered with trash. On New Year’s Day, in particular, it’s an unpleasant sight, full of the remains of fireworks, remains that decay in the rain into an ugly sludge.

That morning, and it was early for a holiday, we encountered a sole neighbour with a trash bag in one hand and a garbage picker in the other, moving methodically across the plein. He had clearly begun his work much earlier; the plaza was uncommonly clean, even for a regular weekday. He cut a lonely figure in the heavy air of a morning after. But he had a patient smile, and we were sure to give him a salute for his service. Here was my first hero of 2024.

He continued his labours as we carried on, emerging from the plaza into the broad open space before the transit centre, climbing the wide steps up to the tram lines. Janus is the god of gates; we advanced under his watchful eye. Our neighbour lingered behind in the shadows of the square. Had Janus seen him yet?