So long Amsterdam, hello Belgium. Not exactly a giant geographical leap, but I’m pleased at having left The Known for The Unknown. After four weeks in Amsterdam I was ready to leave the city, though reluctant to leave a small group of friends whom I like very much. If any of you good people read this, and I know that at least one of you will, I thank you for your generosity and company during those four weeks.
It’s difficult to describe the place that I’ve come to. I’m now in Olen Centrum, which is in the district of Antwerp. It’s a small town with a sleepy conservative character. Belgian architects must be busy, as each house is unique. Or perhaps just a couple of Belgian architects are rushed off their feet, as the houses are almost all of a common style. If what the movies have shown me is correct, then Olen is much like a typical American suburb. The people here are clearly house-proud. The houses and gardens are immaculate, mostly detached and often have Dutch names that I don’t understand, but must surely be kitsch. The people outside of my residence appear to be emotionless. I don’t recall having seen a single smile, laugh or frown in five days. Everybody is extremely well behaved. There is no evidence of crime or disorder. Somebody called Sam has painted his name on the pavement down the road. I imagine Sam has since been politely deported, or perhaps he was just passing through. Olen’s straight face makes me wonder whether anything more illicit lurks below the surface. David Lynch has changed my perception of small-town life. I went for a walk this morning in the local woods, hoping to see signs of illegal raves, occult meetings, public sex or anything out of the ordinary. Alas, apart from a few empty (Belgian) beer cans the woods were neat and tidy. But not to worry; I’m not very interested in occult meetings, etc, and that’s not why I’ve come to Olen.
The place at which I’m living and volunteering is called De Sterrewijzer, which in Dutch means something like ‘the star seeker.’ It’s not quite as hippy as it sounds. The project actually began as an old people’s home, which is still here. My host, Charles, witnessed the care that is typically given to the elderly when his father was dying, and didn’t much like what he saw. Charles decided to open a home that would provide the social and spiritual stimulus that some elderly people desire. This is a huge task that took Charles, his family and supporters over a decade to accomplish. Charles is no longer in charge of the home, but instead is now in the process of setting up various complimentary projects in the grounds. I am here as a WWOOF volunteer to help build a kindergarten and to tend to the vegetable patch. I already like it here and am glad that I came. Charles is effectively my boss, but he doesn’t act in an authoritative way. Beyond the most necessary instructions I’m free to get on with the work. I came here hoping to have to work hard and also to learn as many practical skills as possible. Charles is constantly doing something toward the upkeep of the project and is obviously a very capable person. There is one other volunteer, a young Turkish guy called Hasan, who is currently away on a trip to Eastern Europe. He’ll be back later today and I’m looking forward to having his company. I’m not sure how long I’ll stay here, but it will be for several weeks as I feel that this place could be good for me.
A couple of good books have passed through my hands in the last week. Indignation by Philip Roth was incredible. I wasn’t aware that sentences could be so long and yet so elegant. I encourage you to read anything by this acclaimed master, and intend to read more myself when I next come across an English book shop. The second book is Homage to Catalonia by George Orwell. Orwell is blunt in expression and inspiring in character. I think it’s a pretty big deal to volunteer to fight in a foreign war, and maybe Orwell does too, though he’s careful not to show it. I plan to read more narrative history books; it’s such an enjoyable way to learn.
Finally, I want to recommend a radio programme podcast that I’ve been re-listening to whilst weeding the potatoes. I’ve already mentioned this to many of my friends, but I’ve been reminded of just how great it is so I’ll say it again. The programme is called This American Life from Chicago Public Radio. All of the shows are available to download for free on their own website and through iTunes. Some of them are a bit too cheesily-American for British ears, but on the whole I think they’re excellent. I suggest that you start with #199 House on Loon Lake and #220 Testosterone, which are quite old now (2008) but are two of my favourites. If anyone has any recommendations for other radio podcasts please let me know. Farewell for now.
Sunday, 30 May 2010
Tuesday, 11 May 2010
Post 4.
Public libraries have been indispensable to my lifestyle for a few years now. In post-university Sheffield I spent almost as much time in the central library as I did at work. When studying in Amsterdam the spectacular central public library provided a welcome alternative to my desk. Norwich Millennium Library offered the internet and was a place of refuge when on a break from work. Now, once again, Amsterdam library guarantees shelter, internet, English periodicals and people to peep at. The library here is always busy. Most of the seats are currently taken with students beavering toward the end of term. The other seats are usually occupied by retired or presumably unemployed men. I feel a certain solidarity with the old blokes; they too have a lot of time on their hands and perhaps realise that the pub isn’t always the best place to while away the daylight hours. I also feel a connection to the students because I know of their toils and I expect that on appearances they assume I’m one of them. It feels good to be amongst these studious types, and particularly to be an impostor in both camps. At the moment I don’t fancy being a student again, and I certainly don’t want to be an old man. I suppose that I must admit to wilful unemployment, but that carries no stigma for an Englishman temporarily in Holland. When in the library I get to enjoy all of its benefits without the pressures of time.
Yesterday I read The Independent’s post-election coverage. I now understand more of what’s going on in London, but only vaguely (I actually wrote this post yesterday and the situation has now changed, but anyway…) Actual politics and governance has always passed me by. Thanks to the West Wing, I have more knowledge of the American administration than of the Houses of Parliament. To some extent I take no pride in my own disengagement. However, having read about some of the finer details of current politics, I can see that maintaining a decent knowledge of UK politics would take diligence tied with a genuine interest. I lack both of these things. If this is my fault, the blame for my lack of basic political knowledge can be laid at the feet of the National Curriculum. Why weren’t my classmates and I taught about politics at school? Why weren’t we taught about the fundamental ideological differences between left and right, or the history of UK government? Being educated on politics doesn’t have to be political. I suppose that’s it’s now my responsibility to catch up with this deficit in learning. I’ve added it to the list.
I joined the WWOOF (World Wide Opportunities in Organic Farming) organisation yesterday. WWOOF bring together organic farmers and volunteers who want to spend some time on a farm. I’ve known about this for years, but was reluctant to get involved. Why work for free when farmers usually pay workers for their labour? I thought ‘WWOOFing’ to be ridiculous middle-class tourism that probably gives the farming community a good laugh. I still think this, but I no longer think it ridiculous to volunteer one’s time. I’ve had my fill of city-living, due to many factors of differing complexity (which will have to be a future subject as I’m not in the mood to discuss them now). I’ve chosen to pursue the WWOOF route because I want to test the satisfaction that can be had from a day’s tough physical work. It’s been a long time since I was last physically stretched. I hope that by living in the countryside, away from the desk, pub and supermarket, I’ll naturally get fit and healthy and hopefully stop relying on a lot of the things that surround here me in the city. In this respect, WWOOFING is also a good way to avoid spending precious money. Volunteers are provided with accommodation and organic food from the farm. Other benefits obviously include the opportunity to meet new people who share some common interest or intention. I’ve sent a couple of messages to farmers in the North of the Netherlands, not too far from Amsterdam (nowhere in the Netherlands is really that far from Amsterdam). I’m thinking of modifying Eddy into a kind of touring bike. This is probably a bad idea, as touring bikes are usually chosen for their lack of weight. However, the Netherlands is flat, Eddy is dependable, and a proper touring bike costs a ton of money. “He ain’t heavy, he’s my brother…”
Yesterday I read The Independent’s post-election coverage. I now understand more of what’s going on in London, but only vaguely (I actually wrote this post yesterday and the situation has now changed, but anyway…) Actual politics and governance has always passed me by. Thanks to the West Wing, I have more knowledge of the American administration than of the Houses of Parliament. To some extent I take no pride in my own disengagement. However, having read about some of the finer details of current politics, I can see that maintaining a decent knowledge of UK politics would take diligence tied with a genuine interest. I lack both of these things. If this is my fault, the blame for my lack of basic political knowledge can be laid at the feet of the National Curriculum. Why weren’t my classmates and I taught about politics at school? Why weren’t we taught about the fundamental ideological differences between left and right, or the history of UK government? Being educated on politics doesn’t have to be political. I suppose that’s it’s now my responsibility to catch up with this deficit in learning. I’ve added it to the list.
I joined the WWOOF (World Wide Opportunities in Organic Farming) organisation yesterday. WWOOF bring together organic farmers and volunteers who want to spend some time on a farm. I’ve known about this for years, but was reluctant to get involved. Why work for free when farmers usually pay workers for their labour? I thought ‘WWOOFing’ to be ridiculous middle-class tourism that probably gives the farming community a good laugh. I still think this, but I no longer think it ridiculous to volunteer one’s time. I’ve had my fill of city-living, due to many factors of differing complexity (which will have to be a future subject as I’m not in the mood to discuss them now). I’ve chosen to pursue the WWOOF route because I want to test the satisfaction that can be had from a day’s tough physical work. It’s been a long time since I was last physically stretched. I hope that by living in the countryside, away from the desk, pub and supermarket, I’ll naturally get fit and healthy and hopefully stop relying on a lot of the things that surround here me in the city. In this respect, WWOOFING is also a good way to avoid spending precious money. Volunteers are provided with accommodation and organic food from the farm. Other benefits obviously include the opportunity to meet new people who share some common interest or intention. I’ve sent a couple of messages to farmers in the North of the Netherlands, not too far from Amsterdam (nowhere in the Netherlands is really that far from Amsterdam). I’m thinking of modifying Eddy into a kind of touring bike. This is probably a bad idea, as touring bikes are usually chosen for their lack of weight. However, the Netherlands is flat, Eddy is dependable, and a proper touring bike costs a ton of money. “He ain’t heavy, he’s my brother…”
Wednesday, 5 May 2010
Post 3.
Post 3.
Fashions change slowly in Holland. The style of Amsterdam’s young adult population hasn’t a changed a bit in two years. Or to put a finer point on it, the style of the groups who I used to come into contact with is still very much the same. Painting in broad strokes, affluent young Dutchmen take inspiration from Jeremy Clarkson. They fine tune the blazer, loafers and jeans with a smirk and long hair slicked back. I have little knowledge of what they talk about, but I can imagine that cars and conservative opinions figure largely in their conversation. The counterpart girls aspire to be either a pirate (boots) or motorcyclist (jacket) and apparently get their hair done in Essex. Outside of this ‘traditional’ Dutch costume, many of the young people in central Amsterdam dress like British/American hipsters, or indeed may well be British/American hipsters. High-top trainers, skin-on trousers and oversized jumpers were also popular here two years ago. I find this an surprisingly appealing combination, even with the huge NHS vanity specs. The appeal could well be due to fear that I can no longer get away with such outfits, which more or less equates to envy. If so, this is a mark of lost confidence, though also, I like to believe, a sign of refined judgement.
The pace of life here remains much the same too. People leisurely move around with a very occasional rush. This could well be because the city is always covered in tourists. Then again, if there is any connection between a community’s ways of life and its built environment, then the stasis of Amsterdam may be rooted in its architecture. My wonder at the beautiful old buildings of this city has been renewed. So too am I reminded that nothing is built here that doesn’t fit in with a wider design. Property developers, it would seem, are not allowed to erect cheap and ugly blocks for a quick profit. It may be because of this consistency that it’s easy to feel the same here on every visit. It’s certainly then also easy to slip into the same habits.
This last weekend was a series of welcome reunions with friends and the revisiting of neighbourhoods I used to live in. Queen’s Day on Friday was the jolly fest of exuberance that I remember. Steady Eddy’s now on autopilot and attracts absolutely no attention. My own attention is, however, irretrievably on other bikes and I’m having thoughts of kitting myself out with a modern machine that can carry me through Europe. My attention is also on other riders, specifically the Dutch women, who have an elegance on the bike that they rarely possess on foot. The Dutch Caucasian gene pool must be relatively narrow, or shallow. By which I mean that White Dutch people obviously mostly prefer to have children with a physical (and probably economic) match. I’m not remotely qualified to talk about genetics or sociology, so all I’m pointing at here is the physical trend amongst White Dutch people. Many are tall, athletic, blond and well-sculpted, both in face and body. In my experience, the Dutch seem to befit the Scandinavian stereotype better than the Scandos themselves. Clearly, this a winning combination in some respects, and can be quite daunting when twinned with the confidence that prevails throughout Amsterdamers. The Dutch have a reputation for being forthright, which I tend to agree with, but they also have a public confidence that I admire: gazes are held high and people openly watch one another in public.
At the moment I’m staying with my friends Maaria and Paavo (Paddy) in the west of the city. They are incredibly kind (and beautifully Finnish) and it’s a pleasure to share a home with them again. This part of the city has a sizable Dutch-Arabic community of which I knew little before. Apart from a preference for mopeds over bicycles, there are very few overt differences between the White and Arabic communities in the west. Even the Islamic religious preference is low-key. Many Arabic women wear Islamic dress, though barely any of the men indicate belief in this way. I’ve noticed several halal butchers, but not a single mosque. On Friday I walked through secluded Arabic neighbourhoods, openly drinking beer with my German friend Micha, and none of the few residents seemed to mind. It’s difficult to imagine feeling such an absence of conflict in an English city. Strong lines are still drawn around ethnic and religious communities in the UK, to benefit of nobody. But then, perhaps there are strong ethnic lines drawn here too: there is little clear evidence that Arabic Dutch and White Dutch families are converging. As much as I like blond women, I also like social harmony and the absence of racial barriers. I’m on the look out for families who prove this hypothesis wrong, and then another point for Dutch society can be added to the already sizable tally.
Fashions change slowly in Holland. The style of Amsterdam’s young adult population hasn’t a changed a bit in two years. Or to put a finer point on it, the style of the groups who I used to come into contact with is still very much the same. Painting in broad strokes, affluent young Dutchmen take inspiration from Jeremy Clarkson. They fine tune the blazer, loafers and jeans with a smirk and long hair slicked back. I have little knowledge of what they talk about, but I can imagine that cars and conservative opinions figure largely in their conversation. The counterpart girls aspire to be either a pirate (boots) or motorcyclist (jacket) and apparently get their hair done in Essex. Outside of this ‘traditional’ Dutch costume, many of the young people in central Amsterdam dress like British/American hipsters, or indeed may well be British/American hipsters. High-top trainers, skin-on trousers and oversized jumpers were also popular here two years ago. I find this an surprisingly appealing combination, even with the huge NHS vanity specs. The appeal could well be due to fear that I can no longer get away with such outfits, which more or less equates to envy. If so, this is a mark of lost confidence, though also, I like to believe, a sign of refined judgement.
The pace of life here remains much the same too. People leisurely move around with a very occasional rush. This could well be because the city is always covered in tourists. Then again, if there is any connection between a community’s ways of life and its built environment, then the stasis of Amsterdam may be rooted in its architecture. My wonder at the beautiful old buildings of this city has been renewed. So too am I reminded that nothing is built here that doesn’t fit in with a wider design. Property developers, it would seem, are not allowed to erect cheap and ugly blocks for a quick profit. It may be because of this consistency that it’s easy to feel the same here on every visit. It’s certainly then also easy to slip into the same habits.
This last weekend was a series of welcome reunions with friends and the revisiting of neighbourhoods I used to live in. Queen’s Day on Friday was the jolly fest of exuberance that I remember. Steady Eddy’s now on autopilot and attracts absolutely no attention. My own attention is, however, irretrievably on other bikes and I’m having thoughts of kitting myself out with a modern machine that can carry me through Europe. My attention is also on other riders, specifically the Dutch women, who have an elegance on the bike that they rarely possess on foot. The Dutch Caucasian gene pool must be relatively narrow, or shallow. By which I mean that White Dutch people obviously mostly prefer to have children with a physical (and probably economic) match. I’m not remotely qualified to talk about genetics or sociology, so all I’m pointing at here is the physical trend amongst White Dutch people. Many are tall, athletic, blond and well-sculpted, both in face and body. In my experience, the Dutch seem to befit the Scandinavian stereotype better than the Scandos themselves. Clearly, this a winning combination in some respects, and can be quite daunting when twinned with the confidence that prevails throughout Amsterdamers. The Dutch have a reputation for being forthright, which I tend to agree with, but they also have a public confidence that I admire: gazes are held high and people openly watch one another in public.
At the moment I’m staying with my friends Maaria and Paavo (Paddy) in the west of the city. They are incredibly kind (and beautifully Finnish) and it’s a pleasure to share a home with them again. This part of the city has a sizable Dutch-Arabic community of which I knew little before. Apart from a preference for mopeds over bicycles, there are very few overt differences between the White and Arabic communities in the west. Even the Islamic religious preference is low-key. Many Arabic women wear Islamic dress, though barely any of the men indicate belief in this way. I’ve noticed several halal butchers, but not a single mosque. On Friday I walked through secluded Arabic neighbourhoods, openly drinking beer with my German friend Micha, and none of the few residents seemed to mind. It’s difficult to imagine feeling such an absence of conflict in an English city. Strong lines are still drawn around ethnic and religious communities in the UK, to benefit of nobody. But then, perhaps there are strong ethnic lines drawn here too: there is little clear evidence that Arabic Dutch and White Dutch families are converging. As much as I like blond women, I also like social harmony and the absence of racial barriers. I’m on the look out for families who prove this hypothesis wrong, and then another point for Dutch society can be added to the already sizable tally.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)