The proposal was simple enough. A job offer as
producer-director at the public television station to begin in three months. My
response was quick and clear. After volunteering at the station for over six
months and moving up the ranks as floor man, cameraman, audio man and overall
gopher, I gladly accepted their offer. Then I told them I’d return in three
months to take the job.
The next day I gave my notice at the Public Health
Department and bought a plane ticket for Amsterdam.
No real reason to stay home. I had grown tired of writing PR
releases in public health. I wanted to return to Europe to make up for my sad
venture the first time around and there were no female enticements for me to
stay. And, of course, I had never made it to the South of France.
Why I thought this second trip to Europe would end up better
than the first a year earlier, I have no clue. Just a gut feeling that this
time I had a better idea of what to expect in a foreign country. I knew which
foods to eat for sustenance. I was determined to make more of an effort to get
to know people. I can’t say I was more
mature, just more ready.
Like running a marathon, one never quits. It’s not an
option. I had to return to Europe and make this trip a better experience than
the first one. I had no other choice.
I can’t remember why I ended up in Amsterdam. Probably
because my first brief stop there the first time had wetted my appetite for the
unexpected. And I remembered hearing all those tales of a city running rampant
on sexual freedom, the arts, new music and strange coffee shops. Wonderful
tales being magnified by bar stool poets I knew back home. It was like some
strange mysterious force was pointing me in that direction.
Nothing much has changed in forty years. To get ‘there,’ you
still exit the train station, cross the canal bridge and turn left. I remember
exiting the train station, backpack instead of suitcase this time, and
following those simple instructions, I found myself in the Red Light District.
For reasons then unknown to me, the girls immediately began
speaking in English.
There were bargains galore that afternoon but I didn’t have
spare change or the courage to venture under that red light bulb in the
entryway. Two gorillas on the corner watched my every move. But they had
nothing to worry about. I was more tentative than I was curious, more scared
than I was willing. (Oh my gosh, she isn’t wearing any underwear).
They seem so friendly. (Does she really like me?) I quickly
learned just to look and move on. Talking to the girls only invited the
gorillas to move closer to me.
Coffee shops were more inviting. If you wanted the good
stuff you had to ask for it. I just wanted a light roast and my obligatory
muffin. Most of the smoking was sequestered out back where the strange looking
people gathered. I sat in a corner with my book and kept repeating to myself:
‘Seriously! You’re not in Minnesota any more.’
The first of my wonderful friends just appeared in the
doorway the next afternoon. John slowly perused the room, spotted me as an
American, (how did he know?) ventured over and sat down next to me. John said
afterwards he always wanted to talk to an American his own age to find out more
about America. He guessed by my jeans, boots, and plaid shirt that I probably
fit the bill. All that was missing was my guitar.
John made it clear, that unlike a lot of other Europeans, he
loved America. And because I fit that demographic, I became his defacto
translator and sounding board for all things related to America. We talked
world politics, the arts, movies, popular music, his home in Amsterdam and
anything remotely considered American.
As he peppered me with questions about my homeland, my chest
swelled. I pretended to know what I was talking about. And apparently my
limited knowledge of anything political wasn’t enough to dissuade him from
continuing our conversation late into the night.
Question: How could something like the assassination of RFK
and Martin Luther King,
happen
in your country?
Answer: There is no
sane, reasonable answer for that question.
Question: What do you
think of the general strike in France?
Answer: Say what?
Question: What do you think of the war in Vietnam?
Answer: I did my
time, stateside not overseas, but I feel for the soldiers over there,
just
doing their job.
Question: What did you think of ‘The Green Berets” starring
John Wayne?
Answer: Seriously?
Statement: Just kidding!
We met the next day and took up Trivial Pursuit/America
style where we had left. I had a new best friend in Amsterdam and was feeling
very good about my stay in the country. We (John and I and some of his buddies)
took in canal rides, long bike rides, crashed a couple of black light parties
and even hit a couple of the more notorious coffee houses that favored noxious
weeds and strange brews. I stuck to my black coffee and John just smiled at my
timidity.
John lived in a third floor flat above his parents place.
His grandparents still lived on the first floor after being there forever. It
was quite common for extended families to share multiple flats in one building.
John’s flat was on a canal and was a spectacular spot for watching people,
water and bicycle traffic.
John was an artist extraordinaire. He was just trying to
break into the business when I first meet him. He could draw freehand,
portraits, pastoral scenes and dabbled in photography on the side. I still have
a cache of his pictures of Amsterdam, circ. 1968. The man had talent.
I remember John was tall, always had a beard and a smile and
a wonderful personality. He loved practicing his English on me day and night.
His taste in music was superb. We shared a love of Bob Dylan, Jimi Hendrix,
CCR, Cream and, of course, the Beatles. How could we not connect?
I remember we hung out in Amsterdam for probably a week.
Then he introduced me to another fellow who also wanted to practice his
English. John’s friend and colleague was named Ronald. John had originally meet
Ronald when he drew up Ronald’s wedding announcement.
Ronald was an interesting anomaly. He was in his late twenties,
had never held a real job and had no interest in finding one. He was on
government assistance and perfectly comfortable with his situation. As someone
rather hungry, I couldn’t understand that attitude but I accepted it for what
it was; someone else’s life, not mine.
John hinted that mental health issues had prevented Ronald
from getting any kind of meaningful work. Despite his intelligence, Ronald had
an anti-social bent about him that prevented him from being a part of any
organized endeavor. So he and lived happily as an essayist, a potter, a
housekeeper and a devoted father to his daughter.
John and I and Ronald spent a couple of afternoons in some
pub, debating the war in Vietnam, the anti-war movement, politics in America (I
passed on that one) and other topics of general interest. It was like a debate
/ humanities / logic / and history course all wrapped up into one elongated
discussion that went on for hours. My brain was numb when we finished each evening.
After spending several afternoons at some pub with the pair,
Ronald surprised me by asking if I’d be interested in spending some time with
him and his family so he could continue practicing his English. Let me see?
Free lodging, a stack of rock and roll records, and great Indonesian meals. I
jumped at his invitation.
Ronald lived with his wife, Felixia and their daughter in a
two bedroom flat outside of central Amsterdam. His public housing project
looked no different from any of the other housing units around. And Ronald had
no qualms about living there. It always fascinated me that Ronald never aspired
for better things. He was content to let his wife work part time while he
dabbled in his various interests. I still don’t understand that concept.
While Ronald was very intelligent, high-strung, quick to
overreact and famously curious, his wife was just the opposite. A perfect
counter-balance for her unbalanced husband. Felixia was originally from
Indonesia. She and Ronald meet in Amsterdam and despite their cultural
differences, family resistance and lack of financial support, they married and
thrived.
Felixia was the anchor in the family. She was forever
patient, understanding and devoted to her husband and daughter. She loved her
Ronald despite all his faults. And she was a great cook, tolerated high volumes
of Rock and Roll (until bedtime for the baby) and our being out most evenings
until the pubs closed.
Ronald and Felixia’s wonderful generosity, social charm,
sharing of their home life and our late night intellectual musings were like a
banquet for my soul. It was all so new and glorious.
Felixia and I cooked and cleaned and took long walks into
the countryside with the baby. Her broken English more than compensated for my
lack of Dutch or Indonesian mastery. When Ronald came with us, we’d talk
foreign and domestic politics, family (I had little to add there), love, the
war and an assortment of other subjects as our whims might unearth.
One time we went to a huge park that had an exact replica of
the Rotterdam Harbor in miniature. Ronald pointed out details that no one else would
have ever seen. The baby loved running around, pointing at all the miniature
buildings and ships.
Other times we’d go back into town and explore various shops
and food stalls. Ronald knew just about every coffee shop in town. Felixia knew
most exotic food stall vendors by name. I just held the baby and followed them
around. I was part of the family and loving every minute of it. Occasionally
we’d hook up with John and his girlfriend and spend the evening in some pub
someplace alongside a dark canal. It was hard to imagine that just weeks
earlier I had been working in a television studio half a continent away.
We’d almost always listen to rock and roll at home or in
some pub, honoring the greats of America and abroad. I even discovered a couple
of favorite groups from the Netherlands. A steady beat and solid bass are
universal. Even lyrics in Dutch, once translated, can carry meaning to the
uninitiated.
Their daughter (wouldn’t you know I forgot her name?) was my
first exposure to a young child other than the cursory social exchanges I had
with my new nieces and nephew. She was bright, energetic and full of life. She
was so loved that I wanted to grab at part of that affection for myself. It
almost didn’t seem fair that such a young child could be so loved.
I remember they let a babysitter and I take her out one
afternoon. We played in the playground, went for ice cream and fed the ducks at
the local pond. Her parents meet us by the schoolyard where we were watching
kids flying kites. It was unconditional
love on her part. I hadn’t felt that before with another person and it felt so
good.
So for an all too brief couple of weeks, I was a part of
Ronald’s family. Total uncon-ditional love and acceptance. It was wonderful.
For a young man who grew up in a single parent household devoid of love and
affection, it was a wonderful eye-opener. And some-thing I knew I wanted in my
life in the future. Someplace, somehow, with someone.
Upon my return to the states, I was struck by the ease with
which I could rent an apart-ment, buy a car, get a job and put money aside for
savings. It was so unlike my new European friends who had to struggle for years
just for the down payment on rental housing.
In retrospect, I was a fool not to stay in touch with John
and Ronald. Together, we all just let our communications start to falter and
finally fade away. Like so many other young men back then, and probably still
today, I was more focused on myself than others. At the time I had no idea of
the blessing I’d just been given.
What a wonderful legacy I could have passed down to my kids
if I had kept in touch with John, Ronald, Felixia, and their daughter. Friends
abroad to share life stories and world events. A broad sweep of continental
issues to share via Skype. I should be so lucky today.
We all make mistakes in life. That was certainly one of my
biggest.
I suppose I can take solace in the fact that I still have
their images on a digital disc someplace and if I want to return to Amsterdam,
circ. 1968 I can pull it out and gauze at my computer screen once again. But it
certainly won’t be the same.
I can still see (in my mind’s eye) all those wonderful faces
and rekindle those fond memories of finding family, for the first time in my
life, in a public housing project on the outskirts of Amsterdam.
