Travelogue 888 – January 27
Dark Town
And so 2020 has been a year, so far, of grey skies and mild temperatures. It’s been a year of running. I’ve been accumulating the kilometres, turning in the long runs with fierce discipline, allowing only minimal down time between them. And I’m feeling fine.
Once I reach a certain training distance, I start arranging runs to Delft. When I’m not running, I find myself missing this dark little town. It’s small and accessible. It’s local. It’s pretty. It’s many shades of rose, darkening into brown and charcoal, all shades reflected in the town’s small canals.
When a run is two hours long, it’s hard to reach Delft before dark, even on weekends. So the town lives in my imagination as a stimulating mix of shadow and endorphin high. There’s a dark quality to the medieval, in any case. Whether that’s the preponderance of stone and brick or the narrow streets and the high shadows, I can’t say. If it’s dark in summer, it’s sepulchral in winter.
Even the earliest start in winter means I spend twilight in the flat fields between Schiedam and Delft. I watch the clouds change colours; my watch buzzes when it counts off the kilometres. Once I’m near town I steer myself by the crooked tower of the Oude Kerk. The tower is distinctive for its fourteenth-century beauty, its clockface, its turrets at four corners and its central spire. It’s distinctive because it visibly leans. It was probably built on land reclaimed from the nearby canal, a canal that was redirected for the church’s sake. The tower began leaning before construction was done. It came to be known early on as Scheve Jan, ‘Crooked John’. The Old and the New Churches dominate the small town and the surrounding flat landscape, as they have for centuries.
If we’re able to arrange a baby-sitter, Menna meets me at a café near the Oude Kerk. We stroll through town. We find somewhere for a beer, where the tables are set too close to each other, where candlelight barely penetrates the gloom, where university students practice laughing at volume.
The way back to the station leads through alleys so narrow that we have to stagger ourselves to let others by. It doesn’t stop the students on bikes. The tighter the space, the harder that Dutch people concentrate on staring past you. That’s all right. We all avoid mishap, and the two of us enjoy our walk under the uneven brick gables.
Monday, January 27, 2020
Tuesday, January 21, 2020
Travelogue 887 – January 21
On the River
The Maas Tunnel was closed for renovation, and I had to find a way to get home. Fortunately, it wasn’t too cold. I had time to regroup. But when you’re standing outside in shorts, covered in sweat, it doesn’t take much to send the body into a spiral of cold. I had to keep moving. I had directions to the ferry, so I set off, jogging along the path beside the river. The neighbourhood consisted entirely of humble apartment buildings. There were shabby parks by the river, bits of grass, bits of old pavement. No one was out. There was a little café near the tunnel entrance. Inside were three men smoking shisha watching me go by. Any further west, and the riverside turned into port facilities. You could see the forest of cranes.
The ferry departed from a little square harbour called Sint-Jan. It wasn’t any further than half a kilometre from the tunnel. Even in the worst case, I wouldn’t have to wait more than twenty minutes.
Worst case: as soon as I was in sight of the entrance to that harbour, the bow of the ferry emerged into sight, leaving the harbour and heading toward the other side. I cursed my luck. I carried on running until I reached the little quay for the ferry. I watched the ferry go. You could watch it all the way across the river. But I needed to keep moving. Rather than take any risk getting lost or losing sight of the ferry itself, I turned around and ran back to the tunnel. I watched the low-lying boat, looking like a padded dust pan, chugging across the river and then gliding into the harbour on the northern side of the river, a harbour called Sint-Job. That’s a place I know well, only a few kilometres from home, only a few blocks from Baby’s school.
I watched the squat little boat return. I was at its quay in plenty of time, and I watched it drift into place. The gate was opened for southbound passengers. And they opened a gate for us. I boarded the ferry, which offered so much more space than we humble passengers needed, built as it was to carry autos and now carrying only a few two-wheelers and a fatigued runner. I searched quickly for a place out of the wind. There were a few little cubbies built for narrow benches set in shallow recesses with foggy windows. I sat. I stretched, and, without much ceremony, the boat lurched out into the water.
This is where the story discovered a new tone, where the misadventure became adventure. Being on the water was different than admiring it from the shore or the bridge! It was so easy to forget the simplest things during the ordinary course of my days. On the water, the quality of sound changed. The quality of light changed.
It was so refreshing. The sun had just set, and the city stood on the shores, removed and hushed. The play of colours on the water were subtle and complex. The sky and its quiet revolutions seemed more immediate, while ever untouchable. And this was not at all a scenic bit of cityscape. Here were both the verges of the big city, the lights of which lay east, and the verges of the port, the garish lights of which looked like they might aspire to be the set of a Netflix science fiction series. But the whole canvas was both dynamic and peaceful, a sum more than its parts, and being here on the river awakened some old affection for the city. In recent years, I had passed a point of deadening familiarity.
I disembarked at Sin-Job feeling sincerely renewed in some way. This complication in the day’s schedule had cost me very little: I lost half an hour at most, and I felt fine once I started running again. And in return, I had taken on a little light.
Sometimes renewal and refreshment seem absolutely inaccessible. And sometimes they are so easy. You stumble over your own soul sometimes, like tripping over a running shoe left at the foot of the couch.
On the River
The Maas Tunnel was closed for renovation, and I had to find a way to get home. Fortunately, it wasn’t too cold. I had time to regroup. But when you’re standing outside in shorts, covered in sweat, it doesn’t take much to send the body into a spiral of cold. I had to keep moving. I had directions to the ferry, so I set off, jogging along the path beside the river. The neighbourhood consisted entirely of humble apartment buildings. There were shabby parks by the river, bits of grass, bits of old pavement. No one was out. There was a little café near the tunnel entrance. Inside were three men smoking shisha watching me go by. Any further west, and the riverside turned into port facilities. You could see the forest of cranes.
The ferry departed from a little square harbour called Sint-Jan. It wasn’t any further than half a kilometre from the tunnel. Even in the worst case, I wouldn’t have to wait more than twenty minutes.
Worst case: as soon as I was in sight of the entrance to that harbour, the bow of the ferry emerged into sight, leaving the harbour and heading toward the other side. I cursed my luck. I carried on running until I reached the little quay for the ferry. I watched the ferry go. You could watch it all the way across the river. But I needed to keep moving. Rather than take any risk getting lost or losing sight of the ferry itself, I turned around and ran back to the tunnel. I watched the low-lying boat, looking like a padded dust pan, chugging across the river and then gliding into the harbour on the northern side of the river, a harbour called Sint-Job. That’s a place I know well, only a few kilometres from home, only a few blocks from Baby’s school.
I watched the squat little boat return. I was at its quay in plenty of time, and I watched it drift into place. The gate was opened for southbound passengers. And they opened a gate for us. I boarded the ferry, which offered so much more space than we humble passengers needed, built as it was to carry autos and now carrying only a few two-wheelers and a fatigued runner. I searched quickly for a place out of the wind. There were a few little cubbies built for narrow benches set in shallow recesses with foggy windows. I sat. I stretched, and, without much ceremony, the boat lurched out into the water.
This is where the story discovered a new tone, where the misadventure became adventure. Being on the water was different than admiring it from the shore or the bridge! It was so easy to forget the simplest things during the ordinary course of my days. On the water, the quality of sound changed. The quality of light changed.
It was so refreshing. The sun had just set, and the city stood on the shores, removed and hushed. The play of colours on the water were subtle and complex. The sky and its quiet revolutions seemed more immediate, while ever untouchable. And this was not at all a scenic bit of cityscape. Here were both the verges of the big city, the lights of which lay east, and the verges of the port, the garish lights of which looked like they might aspire to be the set of a Netflix science fiction series. But the whole canvas was both dynamic and peaceful, a sum more than its parts, and being here on the river awakened some old affection for the city. In recent years, I had passed a point of deadening familiarity.
I disembarked at Sin-Job feeling sincerely renewed in some way. This complication in the day’s schedule had cost me very little: I lost half an hour at most, and I felt fine once I started running again. And in return, I had taken on a little light.
Sometimes renewal and refreshment seem absolutely inaccessible. And sometimes they are so easy. You stumble over your own soul sometimes, like tripping over a running shoe left at the foot of the couch.
Monday, January 20, 2020
Travelogue 886 – January 20
Over the River and Under
I’m passing over the river this morning, like I do every workday, pedalling the bike up and over the Erasmus Bridge. It’s always a nice view, looking west over the widening river and toward the clutter of machinery in the distant port, looking east into downtown, looking down at the rows of tidy houses on the western end of the river island known as Noordereiland, red and white houses from another time. Further east stands the red Willemsbrug, linking the other end of the island to downtown.
Just yesterday, I ran over the Willemsbrug. I set out from home in mid-afternoon. I had just enough time to put in a long run before the sun set. I was scheduled to put in at least seventeen kilometres. I ran into downtown. It was a clear day, cool but not cold, just about perfect for a winter run. I crossed the Willemsbrug and did a loop around the island before crossing to the south side. My plan was to run west to the Maas Tunnel, cross under the river and run home.
When I lived a bit closer to it, the Maas Tunnel was a staple among my training routes. It was fun to run underneath the river. The tunnel had a pedestrian level, and so I was saved the emissions and noise that came with running alongside a highway. Completed in 1942, the tunnel had an atmosphere I enjoyed; maybe the closeness of the space, maybe the close air, maybe the green tiles and the wartime yellow lighting.
It had been a long time since I ran this way, crossed one of the bridges and run through the south side of the city. I realized how long when I passed my workplace, and it came to me I hadn’t run this way in the year and a half since we relocated. I realized how long when I arrived at the entrance to the Maas Tunnel to find it quiet and encircled by construction barriers. It had been closed for renovation for two months already, I found out later.
I stood there in disbelief. Going back via the bridges would add another at least five more kilometres to the run, just when I was about to wrap up with the final stretch. I knew I couldn’t deliberate too long in the winter air. The site seemed deserted. What were my options?
But I had an abiding faith in Dutch systems. I knew there had to be a plan. This is a land of convenience and contingency. There was always a plan.
I finally spotted someone in the neon colours of construction sites everywhere. I rang my keys against the barrier and waited. She ambled over, and sure enough she spoke English, and sure enough there was a plan. She fetched a pamphlet for me, pointing out the map leading me to the ferry. For the duration of the renovation, this ferry across the river would be free.
Over the River and Under
I’m passing over the river this morning, like I do every workday, pedalling the bike up and over the Erasmus Bridge. It’s always a nice view, looking west over the widening river and toward the clutter of machinery in the distant port, looking east into downtown, looking down at the rows of tidy houses on the western end of the river island known as Noordereiland, red and white houses from another time. Further east stands the red Willemsbrug, linking the other end of the island to downtown.
Just yesterday, I ran over the Willemsbrug. I set out from home in mid-afternoon. I had just enough time to put in a long run before the sun set. I was scheduled to put in at least seventeen kilometres. I ran into downtown. It was a clear day, cool but not cold, just about perfect for a winter run. I crossed the Willemsbrug and did a loop around the island before crossing to the south side. My plan was to run west to the Maas Tunnel, cross under the river and run home.
When I lived a bit closer to it, the Maas Tunnel was a staple among my training routes. It was fun to run underneath the river. The tunnel had a pedestrian level, and so I was saved the emissions and noise that came with running alongside a highway. Completed in 1942, the tunnel had an atmosphere I enjoyed; maybe the closeness of the space, maybe the close air, maybe the green tiles and the wartime yellow lighting.
It had been a long time since I ran this way, crossed one of the bridges and run through the south side of the city. I realized how long when I passed my workplace, and it came to me I hadn’t run this way in the year and a half since we relocated. I realized how long when I arrived at the entrance to the Maas Tunnel to find it quiet and encircled by construction barriers. It had been closed for renovation for two months already, I found out later.
I stood there in disbelief. Going back via the bridges would add another at least five more kilometres to the run, just when I was about to wrap up with the final stretch. I knew I couldn’t deliberate too long in the winter air. The site seemed deserted. What were my options?
But I had an abiding faith in Dutch systems. I knew there had to be a plan. This is a land of convenience and contingency. There was always a plan.
I finally spotted someone in the neon colours of construction sites everywhere. I rang my keys against the barrier and waited. She ambled over, and sure enough she spoke English, and sure enough there was a plan. She fetched a pamphlet for me, pointing out the map leading me to the ferry. For the duration of the renovation, this ferry across the river would be free.
Monday, January 13, 2020
Travelogue 885 – January 13
Friends of the Moon
Leaving our flat together in the morning, Baby and I are singing “Itsy Bitsy Spider”. We walk by the quiet flats of our neighbours in the half-light of dawn. “Out came the sun and dried up all the rain ….” Above, the clouds are crawling like spiders across the sky. They are crawling across the face of the gibbous moon. After they have passed over, the moon is bright. Baby likes to say the moon is following us. “It likes us,” she says, and I agree.
It seems to me the moon was full three days ago or so when I did my long run to Delft. The sun was going down on my left and the moon rising on my right, just as I was crossing the fields that lie in between the two urban areas. The land was completely flat. It was the perfect place to witness the end of the day. The clouds in the west were lit by a low fire. And high above, clouds were pink with the last of the direct light. That pink rose higher each minute, until the fire went out. Then it was like a light was shut off among the clouds. There was still light in the sky, but cooling into blue now. In the east, the moon hung just above the fields, a round white orb, swollen by the humid air into something grander than the sun, huge and elegant. It was an active hour for the birds. Flocks flew overhead, and dozens bathed in the canals beside the bike path. They were raising quite a fuss.
This morning, the moon is waning. And it’s on its way toward setting. Baby struggles with the idea of the moon ‘going down’. She asks me about it repeatedly as we descend the stairs to ground level. “Is the moon going down?” she wants to know. “Is it going down like we are?” She has a way of posing challenging questions. Is she asking if the moon has its own stairway? Or is this some observation about humanity?
“The moon likes us,” she says. It’s following us! I can’t say how refreshing it is to hear something so positive, so encouraging, so cheering. Could it be possible, after all, that the elements in nature do smile on us, like they do in children’s cartoons? I hadn’t realized how choked the stream of hope had become. Year after challenging year, the world around me took on steely shades of hostility. The gods became Greek in their capriciousness and contempt. But here it is again, optimism, like a spring flower.
“The moon likes us,” she says, and I enthusiastically affirm that it must.
Friends of the Moon
Leaving our flat together in the morning, Baby and I are singing “Itsy Bitsy Spider”. We walk by the quiet flats of our neighbours in the half-light of dawn. “Out came the sun and dried up all the rain ….” Above, the clouds are crawling like spiders across the sky. They are crawling across the face of the gibbous moon. After they have passed over, the moon is bright. Baby likes to say the moon is following us. “It likes us,” she says, and I agree.
It seems to me the moon was full three days ago or so when I did my long run to Delft. The sun was going down on my left and the moon rising on my right, just as I was crossing the fields that lie in between the two urban areas. The land was completely flat. It was the perfect place to witness the end of the day. The clouds in the west were lit by a low fire. And high above, clouds were pink with the last of the direct light. That pink rose higher each minute, until the fire went out. Then it was like a light was shut off among the clouds. There was still light in the sky, but cooling into blue now. In the east, the moon hung just above the fields, a round white orb, swollen by the humid air into something grander than the sun, huge and elegant. It was an active hour for the birds. Flocks flew overhead, and dozens bathed in the canals beside the bike path. They were raising quite a fuss.
This morning, the moon is waning. And it’s on its way toward setting. Baby struggles with the idea of the moon ‘going down’. She asks me about it repeatedly as we descend the stairs to ground level. “Is the moon going down?” she wants to know. “Is it going down like we are?” She has a way of posing challenging questions. Is she asking if the moon has its own stairway? Or is this some observation about humanity?
“The moon likes us,” she says. It’s following us! I can’t say how refreshing it is to hear something so positive, so encouraging, so cheering. Could it be possible, after all, that the elements in nature do smile on us, like they do in children’s cartoons? I hadn’t realized how choked the stream of hope had become. Year after challenging year, the world around me took on steely shades of hostility. The gods became Greek in their capriciousness and contempt. But here it is again, optimism, like a spring flower.
“The moon likes us,” she says, and I enthusiastically affirm that it must.
Thursday, January 09, 2020
Travelogue 884 – January 9
The New Number
The year (the decade?) came in with a bang, as is the tradition in the Netherlands. No one sleeps; fireworks are set off all over the city through most of the night. You emerge in the morning to the debris of battle, stepping over scattered piles of spent casings of firecrackers rockets, little pink, cardboard cylinders, burnt at one end and abandoned. After a few days, and a few rain showers, they melt into a pink sludge, gathered in anonymous mounds along the pavements.
We didn’t dare step out, but at midnight we held the girls up to the windows and watched the rockets in the night sky. Some fireworks were part of the shows downtown; some were set off a block away, and their sparks rained down on the roofs of the apartments across the street.
As it happens, a few days ago, the city council in Rotterdam decided to ban consumer fireworks, making it the first major Dutch city to do so. They cited injuries, and ‘an atmosphere of lawlessness’.
It did always strike me as a bizarre indulgence, this city-wide assault on the senses. Locals would call it ‘celebration’. Admittedly, there’s a moment or two among all the cacophony that does feel celebratory. I hold Baby as she stands in the upstairs window, and she watches with amazement. She names the colours among the explosions in the sky.
Then I think about the kids down in the streets, lighting rocket after rocket. I see the fun in ten minutes of that. I have trouble seeing the fun in hours and, indeed, days of it. Even the girls are losing interest after ten minutes or so of watching the lights in the sky.
I explain to Baby that it’s a new year. I recite the number. But this is rather abstract for her. She’s only recently gotten a grasp on seasons. Christmas came, and then it was winter. She complains that there should be snow if it’s really winter.
I’m not sure I’m really on top of the concept myself, the concept of these changing years. The change comes too abruptly. The timing of it seems odd. Why this moment a few weeks into winter? And why in the middle of the night? As I’ve said, I do find the human response to the new year hard to fathom. Let’s light up some gunpowder! But I’ve always been partial to reflection over celebration. And if any holiday seemed made for reflection, it would be New Year’s. Instead, we make the most noise possible, as thought to drive off reflection. Reflect on this: what sort of profile would you draw up for a personality averse to reflection?
The New Number
The year (the decade?) came in with a bang, as is the tradition in the Netherlands. No one sleeps; fireworks are set off all over the city through most of the night. You emerge in the morning to the debris of battle, stepping over scattered piles of spent casings of firecrackers rockets, little pink, cardboard cylinders, burnt at one end and abandoned. After a few days, and a few rain showers, they melt into a pink sludge, gathered in anonymous mounds along the pavements.
We didn’t dare step out, but at midnight we held the girls up to the windows and watched the rockets in the night sky. Some fireworks were part of the shows downtown; some were set off a block away, and their sparks rained down on the roofs of the apartments across the street.
As it happens, a few days ago, the city council in Rotterdam decided to ban consumer fireworks, making it the first major Dutch city to do so. They cited injuries, and ‘an atmosphere of lawlessness’.
It did always strike me as a bizarre indulgence, this city-wide assault on the senses. Locals would call it ‘celebration’. Admittedly, there’s a moment or two among all the cacophony that does feel celebratory. I hold Baby as she stands in the upstairs window, and she watches with amazement. She names the colours among the explosions in the sky.
Then I think about the kids down in the streets, lighting rocket after rocket. I see the fun in ten minutes of that. I have trouble seeing the fun in hours and, indeed, days of it. Even the girls are losing interest after ten minutes or so of watching the lights in the sky.
I explain to Baby that it’s a new year. I recite the number. But this is rather abstract for her. She’s only recently gotten a grasp on seasons. Christmas came, and then it was winter. She complains that there should be snow if it’s really winter.
I’m not sure I’m really on top of the concept myself, the concept of these changing years. The change comes too abruptly. The timing of it seems odd. Why this moment a few weeks into winter? And why in the middle of the night? As I’ve said, I do find the human response to the new year hard to fathom. Let’s light up some gunpowder! But I’ve always been partial to reflection over celebration. And if any holiday seemed made for reflection, it would be New Year’s. Instead, we make the most noise possible, as thought to drive off reflection. Reflect on this: what sort of profile would you draw up for a personality averse to reflection?
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