Amsterdam - in english

WHAT’S THE PURPOSE OF YOUR VISIT?

Eight o’clock in the morning, Singel Straat. I’ve been in Amsterdam for less than an hour and already a motorcycled policeman is interrogating me and holds my passport in his hand.

It all started when I decided to buy some pastries and sat on a bench next to a canal, enjoying the bread, still soaking in the idea of being in the old continent, next to the 18th century buildings, watching the boats gently rocking, the quietness of the place… Until a few meters from me a couple of guys started yelling at each other. They got louder, their late night stepping on the toes of my early morning, they pushed around each other and finally pulled up out knifes as they rolled about on the street. Ah! the canals, the trees, a stabbing. Then the cops arrived they asked me if I saw anything.

- I saw everything.

- Can you describe them?

- They were both black, both short hair…

- How were they dressed?

- Mmh…

- Was one of them wearing brown jacket?

Crap! Details, details. Who does he think I am, Sherlock Holmes?

Mmh… think so, can’t really remember.

The cop sights and hands back my passport asking: “What’s the purpose of your visit?”

Purpose? If I had a purpose I wouldn’t be here!

I try to think of a short English expression for: “Well, I tried to find something to do with my holidays that would give me a great sense of accomplishment. Something that after two weeks would produce something I would be proud the rest of my life: the seed of an epic novel, learning the skills for a new lifestyle, something with an impact on society, the environment, or at least myself. I called my friend Oscar to ask if he needed help to produce his short film, I considered joining Rob on climbing one of the seven highest peaks of the world, I browsed the internet looking for volunteering positions in needy countries (other than my own), I looked into going to a Yoga retreat, or any body purifying / mind brainwashing experience that would convert me into a person saturated with inner peace. But I found nothing that really interested me. So, lacking a good purpose, I decided to travel with absolutely no purpose: I declare that this time is up to goddess Fortune to create something fantastic for me. I decided to go to somewhere that was nowhere, with no friends, no agenda. My only duty was to get myself into fortune’s reach, let’s say Amsterdam”.

So I just looked back at the cop, took my passport and answered: “The purpose of my visit is… just holidays”

And Fortune did her part.



SERRAO’S

As soon as I booked my ticket, my dear Alexandra Devries reminded me that she was born in Amsterdam, that she had family and some really cool friends there. So, on the night I arrived, I met her sister Melanie outside Anne Frank’s house. Turns out the next day was the national holiday, she took me to the streets of Jordaan, the city was boiling, a festive beehive, people drinking right in the street, first time in who knows how long that I’m in a place where just everyone pours alcohol openly on the street (Puerto Vallarta Dec 31 1999??), but these were such beautiful streets!

Melanie, and her brother Marcello guided me through Queens Day, introduced me to the whole Jewish community of Amsterdam, took me to a party, as well as to fantastic corners of the city, such as the petit distillery pub: seven hundred square meters vaccinated against the twenty-first century right in the hearth of downtown, wooden shelves bending under the weight of a 100 bottles, and same number of years of service, fruit flavored brandy in glasses that looked like little tulips…

Having heard much about her, I was surprised when Melanie said that Alex hasn’t talked about me before. It made me wonder: do my brother’s know the name of my closest friends? AlexShawnYanikCaraRenaGabyJuanJohnCasOscarTonyJorgeAlexAlexLeonMikeGenMarcelAmandaDanielClaraMirna, etc, etc, etc. Do I talk with my friends about the Ramirez clan: 8 siblings and 20-something nieces and nephews? (and counting). If you don’t know about them, how well can you really know me?

…Anyway, after a few hours sleep I woke up for Queen’s day: a complete mayhem: city wide flea market, beer, music bands, food, sunny patios crowded with laughter since ten a.m., more beer, hundreds of party-on-a-boat cruising the canals displaying their customs, dancing around the deck… A small car repair shop turned into a court, with euphoric mechanic-kings wearing caps and crowns. We all sang along at their royal command the lyrics written on a board over the garage’s entrance, at the back you could just see a few cars with the hoods open, patiently waiting for the next day, when someone would work on them.

Following the orange rivers, as everyone was wearing the national color, I ended up in Leidseplein (Leidse square), three guys with 70’s outfit and bright wigs were goofing around in a stage, everyone was dancing at the hyper-silly, hyper-catchy pop coming from the speakers, I understood only “loco-loco”, but the damage was done, I could not take the stupid tune out of my head for the next 7 days. I had a flashback to Vancouver in 2003: Sylvia Van Dommelen explaining to me that the Dutch national sport was to sit around in patios, drink (of course), and sing “summer songs” that is, silly, catchy pop. She proceeded to illustrate her point by singing in shameless Spanish “voy a comprar un tractor amarillo” as she danced in her seat. Now I was getting the exuberant and 500,000 person version of that. And I was really in the mood for a tractor amarillo!!

Queen’s Day! Netherlanders take their royalty seriously. Actually, the congress has to authorize any royal marriage! You would think is just protocol, but in 2001 the Prince elected was to marry an Argentinean woman… daughter of a member of the military elite during the years of the dirty war. Having recently read ‘Children of Cain’, an account of violence in latinoamerica, and the particularly chilling chapters of the Argentinean military, my stomach literally ached to the idea that the Dutch royalty would open their arms just like that to a daughter of one of the generals. But then I was told that congress proved to be wiser: acknowledging that she, after all, is not responsible for the actions of her father, the union was accepted… but the father was not allowed to attend the ceremony.

SEX AND… WELL, THE CITY

Everyone asks me Amsterdam’s red-light district. But in Toronto I just have to walk a block from my place before running into a fetish store, a cluster of small and large sex stores, a strippers club that takes half a block of the busiest street downtown, where there is always a cloud of limos picking and dropping patrons. You only have to browse the last pages of Toronto Now to find endless offer of good, bad and ugly sex. But oh, well, everyone asks about Amsterdam, so here we go:

What is different about Amsterdam? Maybe temptation is more urgent when you can be strolling on the street and suddenly less than 1 meter from you there is a woman in her underwear. Safely kept behind the glass, smilingly inviting you to her bed (some of the rooms looked really cozy) while having the freedom to keep walking away, as if you didn’t notice. Touched, yet untouched. The heaven of morbid puritans. Where the woman is on display so you can lust, judge, assess or laugh with fantastic perspective but no involvement. I saw many windows in the first few days, scattered around downtown, but when I finally visited the red light district I got a bitter taste in my mouth of how much of a human zoo it was, tourist craving to be shocked, herds of asian businessmen looking for action, but no one having good, healthy fun with the sex options, except maybe the father laughing and pointing to his 12 year old son the marble fountain in the shape of a giant phallus with two playful balls spinning at it’s base.

There are women at the windows 24 hours a day. Many women are black, some of them were chatting on their cel phone, working on their laptop, knowing that their lingerie will do the marketing. It’s quite obvious that even if you do that for a living you can’t be sexy and full of lust for hours in a row. The same way you can’t be focused or courteous all the time. The same way you can’t be happy the whole time.

And no, I didn’t get first hand experience… bad choice of words: I didn’t request any professional services nor visited the sex shows. I should have left this bit to the end, just to keep you guessing!


PLEASED TO MEET YOU…

If 10 years ago someone told me that I would walk out of a Rolling Stones concert while they were playing “Sympathy for the Devil”, I wouldn’t have believed it. Yet, last summer I did just that. Watching them on stage I realized that Jagger, Richards and the others are no longer the Stones, but have become a tribute band that plays covers of the Stones.

“Pleased to meet you, hope you guess my name…” The song, I learned recently, is based on a Russian book by Bulgakov called Master and Margarita, that I was reading on the train between Bruges and Amsterdam. I put down the book and looked around: there was a girl with a guitar in the seat across the aisle… (Europe is a place to meet people, on the streets, cafes… I met two dutch videographers, one german writer, curators and art historians by the dozen, painters, a prima ballerina of Netherlands National Ballet, PhD students who complained about life being just work, backpackers who would looked at me in astonished disapproval when I mentioned that there should be a purpose in life other than traveling)… anyway, I put down my book, switched seats, and started to talk to the girl in the train. After a brief exchange of sentences I asked:

- What do you do?

- I write… poetry

- Ah! do you have something with you?

I have had quite a few occasions when women read to me their poetry in estrange circumstances. This one is in the top three: promptly she pulled out a notebook, every poem was in a plastic sheet, like the menus in the restaurants, she started to read. For my life I could not make any sense of it. Absolutely no sense.

- I also have a script for a movie

- Ah! what is it about?

- Philosophers, discussing their relationship with earth.

I decided to change topics, I started talking about the book I was reading ‘Master and Margarita’: “Is really funny!” I said “is about the devil appearing as a gentleman in Moscow, playing tricks with people’s minds, making them hallucinate, and every single one of them ends in the mental house”

I have been in a mental institution –she said.

To cut the story short, she had just left the asylum that very same day. Why was she in to begin with? She has visions. Apparitions. “Real ones, I’m going to look for a psychologist in Amsterdam. There they’ll understand” She was quiet for a while, then “Do you think that in Amsterdam they will be more people willing to hear my poetry?”

Then the train stopped. A voice announced that we would be stuck for an hour and a half.

I looked at her, terrified at the perspective of the next 90 minutes. Then I looked around, hoping for a lifesaver. And there it was: In the seat that I had occupyed 20 minutes before now there was a young woman who talking on her cel phone saying she’ll be late. I asked if I can use it and called the Serrao’s. As I gave her back the phone I took another look at her: she was really attractive, dressed all trendy and carrying fashion magazines. I asked myself if I would do something as impolite as staying and to talk to her instead of coming back to the delusional poet. But… How would it feel, in your first day out of the hospital, to have someone walking away from you? Wasn’t I supposed to be a little bit more supportive? Or at least more curious about the madness than about the fashion? But, like Dylan said “I used to care, but... things have changed”. So I started to talk to this Belgium woman (Sarah), who turned out to be a quite interesting person, a very young theater director. Every train car should have someone like Sarah in case you get stuck for an hour. Every delusional poet should have someone who listens with attention at least the first two poems.

When the train started moving again, I could hear in the back of my head “Pleased to meet you, hope you guess my name…”


BRUSSELS, LIFE IS NOT SOMEWHERE ELSE

OK, as you’ll have guessed I’m not going chronologically… this story has no course of action, just as the trip itself had no plan. So, now let me tell you about the Sunday I left Amsterdam on route to Brussels.

The train ride from Amsterdam was a exuberant display of the choices that are open for someone who has free time and no plan. As we started moving I waved goodbye to all the things undone in Amsterdam: Rijks Museum, clubbing all night long. But then, ten minutes later I was cruising through beautiful countryside landscapes, with old windmills, lazy grass fields, canals and everything, the whole postcard. The possibility of renting a bike and spending the day wandering those paths thrilled me. Then the train stops at Rotterdam, the urban landscape (Phoenix from Hitler’s fire), the massive modern architecture. Then we crossed to Belgium and the Flemish countryside, all those picturesque farms that we the tourist love (and that keep afloat with the subsidies from the European Union, 48% of EU’s budget goes to agricultural subsidies, money that comes in part from… tourism). Next stop was Antwerp (Amberes). The train entered the magnificent station like a vision from Verne, OK at least Harry Potter. An old, powerful, vault, golden, tired and dirty. The little I could see from the city was almost gothic, yet different, I had to restrain myself from hopping off and starting to explore…

I love Kundera’s title: “Life is somewhere else” because the title invokes a strange syndrome I’ve had since early childhood: sometimes, in the middle of something, I used to get this uncomfortable certainty that whatever I was doing, I was missing out something better and brighter somewhere else. An acute case of grass is greener on the other side, without the other side. I know, it is very sick, it has taken me years to cure myself from it. Sometimes I confirmed this theory by meeting the exception: Let’s say the night when last minute my brother dragged me to see a Chilean play that turned to be the most fantastic theater performance ever. As I left the theater I was thinking: “only 80 of us saw this, the rest of the city was in the wrong place, unaware that tonight, life was here”.

So, that Sunday morning, where was life? Sleeping in Amsterdam after all night clubbing? Biking the Dutch or Flemish countryside? Discovering the steel and concrete geometries of Rotterdam? Letting myself be bewitched by Antwerp’s spell? I found the answer in Brussels. After visiting the cathedral, I discovered a little square full of life, restaurants, a market where I bought a funky red t-shirt, lost myself in an alley and as I was entering the main square, it hit me clearly: Life is not somewhere else. Life is everywhere. Anywhere. Wilde was right: “Paradise is wherever I am”.

When you walk into Brussel’s main square, the visual impact of buildings like the Brewers’ house leaves you astonished. You feel as if someone had dropped in your head a box containing Polaroid pictures of that building taken every day during it’s 150,000 days of existence: one snapshot at the entrance at dawn in 1531, one during a lighting storm in 1810, one during a party in 1899, and so on; all of those pictures in a big heavy box suddenly hitting your head, waaaam! So I stood there, speechless, feeling like if a complete symphony orchestra was playing in my head. Then I turned my head to the right and realized that indeed a symphony orchestra was playing next to me, as part of the celebrations of European Union’s expansion.

Under a sunny sky, in the middle of the crowd, the only thing I needed to be utterly happy was an ice cream, so I headed towards what looked like a dozen food stands. But they turned out to be public relations cabins for East European countries joining the EU, they were giving away maps, brochures, flags, history synopsis, etc. I wanted bliss in the form of pistachio ice cream, and all they could offer me was the heart and soul of the Czech Republic! I spent the rest of the evening basking in the sun, drinking Belgium beer with Sole, a guapa Spaniard whose cel phone is always on strike.

The next couple of days I spent with my friend Steve and his family in a residential neighborhood. The daily chores, going to the street market to but bagels and cheese, push the stroller of their 2 year old (who kept on pointing everywhere “Le chien!”), and walking their cute 5 year old girl to her school (she would switch from French to English seamlessly when she realized I was in “listening” distance). I found myself thinking “I could live here, other than my lack of papers and the shortage of jobs”. But there again, I can live in Toronto, other than the winter. Or in Vancouver, other than the rain. Or in Guadalajara or Queretaro, other than the economy and the justice system. Or in Mexico City, other than Mexico City. So the question boils down to: Where do I really WANT to live? Doing what? Being whom?

Brussels is a fantastic city. While in Russia Volgograd has forgotten it’s previous name, up to today there is a street called Stalingrad in Brussels. The justice palace is one of the few buildings I’ve seen in my whole life, (‘en mi re-cochina vida’, diriamos en Mexico) that overwhelms you by the sheer dimensions. The stock market is crowned by a series of Rodin sculptures, I read somewhere that Carlos Slim, the richest Mexican, has in his living room the largest private collection of Rodin’s. In my living room I have a cacti with a pink flower. And then, of course, Brussels holds the European Union headquarters. Funny enough, downtown Brussels has always been known as The Pentagon.

And I stole one of my friend Steve’s rituals: every day on his way back from the office he visits the food stand close to the train station. Well, one night, riding the last bus from downtown to his place, I discovered that oasis of deep fried temptations, I instantly knew why Steve could not help it, those spicy deep fried sausages are deadly addictive! I spent the rest of my holidays trying to find that very same taste, like a heroin junkie wondering in search of needles.


THE WHITE BOOK

Brussels, 8:30 pm, four naked woman lie on the floor, supporting mirrors on their hips, music starts playing and the dance begins. I didn’t liked any of the modern dance performances that night, nor the media installations. The most interesting performance was that of a couple of cyclist who, after riding around the city, delivered their testament of the day in a powerful and humorous poem. That, and the multiple intermissions in a funky lounge, where I was talking to this really cool guy, Jack, about the challenges of biking on San Francisco, or Toronto during the winter. The latter is for me in the same group of tasks as drawing a triangle with 4 sides.

I asked if he was an artist. ‘Yes’ he said ‘I work mainly with meat, preserved through a chemical process’. He must have seen the expression on my face, because he explained that he works with road kill deer, and with some kind of taxidermy he combines them with metal and puts them in un-natural scenarios, such as a tea party. Two strange things happened. The first: I said ‘yeah, of course, I know your work’. And I did. Sometime, I think it was in Mexico, I was listening to this radio show about controversial art, back then, it was hard for me to imagine any possible statement the artist was making. So, there I was, talking to the artist. And I asked him: why? This is when the second weird thing happened, this smart, articulated guy told me in a couple of sentences the emotions and questions he was exploring with his art. And the answer was simple, convincing and human. Now I know what dead deer stand for.

Ah!, then the White book, but this is a long story. Let’s just say that in my living room there is a book with a Dutch poem on the first page, and 99 white ones are waiting to come back to Antwerp in 2005. Some of you will hear more…



HOW LONG DOES IT TAKE TO GET TIRED OF BRUGES?

To be your bread, your food,
All the love that there is in life,
and the poison for your monotony
Cazuza

Brussels is so fantastic! I reluctantly took the train to Bruges. But boy, every time you think that you’ve seen the most beautiful place, there comes the world with an Ace on it’s sleeve: Bruges! I’ve heard before what beautiful city Bruges is, but I wasn’t expecting that much. I spent two days walking and biking almost non-stop through the enchanted streets, like following Hamelin’s flautist, like a lost soul condemned to wonder endlessly until you’ve seen every corner, every church of the city.

I visited the Church of the Sacred Heart of Christ (Sagrado Corazon de Jesus!) and I felt a rare familiarity, maybe the Greek Orthodox church in Vancouver? Or the Shintoist temple in… wait a minute! I suddenly recalled that I was raised Catholic! This was MY church, another branch of places where I prayed hundreds of times during my childhood. I was not a tourist, but a stockholder of the franchise.

During the night I walked into an old convent, resting against a wall there was a man-height carved stone illustrating two medieval gentlemen and a large text probably in Flemish… I know that to feel yourself transported to the past is an utterly common place, but let’s admit it: we all go to Disneyland for the ride. And quite a ride it was for me. I wasn’t sure if I was staring at a medieval archduke’s wedding, or the account of some medieval battle. All I know it’s that for a brief period of time I was in the scene of one of those stories I used to read as a child. Those stories where some child would always be lost in the forest, where the girl with the red dancing shoes ends up losing her feet, northern places with magic, pain, happiness and fear. Unreal landscapes, countries with gray skies, castles, and green forests. Too concerned with where I was I almost forgot who I was. Isn’t that the idea of meditation?

Amsterdam: checkmark. Brussels: checkmark. Bruges: checkmark. How many cities must the world have in order for to keep you fascinated with discovery 365 days a year? Why can’t we choose a place, in this or that continent, and learn to be always a tourist, never an outsider. How long does it take to get bored with one of the most beautiful city in the world?

It actually takes one second. I timed it. It takes one second, any second, as soon as you let your guard down. Let me tell you: In the second day in Bruges, I climbed 400 steps to the highest tower in town, I even got the medieval inquisition atmosphere courtesy of a couple who dragged their 4 year old with them. The screams of the spoiled brat filled the tower like the lamentations of condemned souls tortured by Torquemada (or for that matter by, the US army in Iraq). Afterwards, I decided I wanted to visit again the places in the city that had impressed me the most. There I go walking at ‘catch-the-last-bus’ pace, avoiding the groups of tourist as if they were lepers. I crossed a familiar stone bridge over a dreamy canal, I passed between two large buildings… then I suddenly stopped and turned around. I had just passed by oblivious to the convent and the carved stone that just the night before amazed me so much! We should learn to be always a tourist, we should carry around the neck a little jar with poison against monotony. Because against routine you don’t need an antidote to cure it, you need a poison to kill it.



THE DOORS OF PERCEPTION

I couldn’t drag myself into Amsterdam coffeeshops, the places where tourist go to have pot, hash and spend hours recycling travel stories. In the best of cases they looked sleazy, sordid in the worst. Maybe I wasn’t in the mood, maybe the 9 to 5 and the monthly mortgage payments have really turned me into a bourgeois. In any case, marihuana is not for me. Hey, I lived in Vancouver for 3 years, and never got into it!

But the hundreds of magic mushrooms shops caught my eye. I don’t buy into the illumination culture of the hippies who devour Carlos Castaneda and the teachings of Don Juan; I don’t consecrate the experience by trying to par with the Mexican cultures and their peyote ritual. No, I walked into one of those stores with the same spirit as Aldos Huxley: a personal curiosity, and the knowledge that it’s a natural drug with no risk of addiction, hangover or secondary effects. Well, for Huxley it had the secondary effect of making him write “Doors of Perception”, a superb chronicle of his mescaline experiences in the 50’s. It’s a lucid, cultured deciphering of the experience, exploring analogies with mystic illumination and artistic fire.

After shopping around, I chose my shaman: a smiling Finish 20 year old girl. She pointed me to the several kinds of mushrooms, they were separated in sections with cards mentioning origin, recommended amount per trip, time-to-take-off and time-of-flight, description of the typical visions (which vary from mushroom to mushroom) and price. And of course, they take VISA. “Ticket to Amsterdam: 600 $CAN; Hawaiian mushrooms: 15 euros; instant karma: priceless!” She didn’t use the New Age lingo to explain the magic of the mushrooms, she also spared me the scientific explanation on how the visions are caused by the inhibition of sugar getting to the brain. She was pure pragmatism: “The effect is better if you don’t have breakfast, if you want to cut the effect, have orange juice and sweet things; if you take these ones little by little you feel very happy and you giggle a lot, with this ones you feel like talking a lot with anyone…”

As I was walking along the streets, I heard the sound of a bicycle screeching, a clear, surrounding, absolute sound. I looked back and I saw the bicycle was almost a block away; the doors of perception were open. The effect of the mushrooms is mainly visual. But that’s such a poor description of the experience. It’s like saying that watching a sunset from the top of the mountain is just a visual experience. Think of the most magnificent natural surrounding you have ever been, the most exquisite piece of art you have hold in your hands. When you are in mushrooms, every single object has the same potential to cause you awe and pleasure beyond that. You see the world with the same eyes as a new born baby discovering shapes, colors, movement; the same eyes of Adam the first day of creation. You see a green plant, you feel is the first one you have ever seen, you perceive every single detail, and understand it’s magnificence.

At some point I sat on a patio to have some soup, a couple of tourists sat on my table and started to chat with me (nobody can tell that you’re on mushrooms, you can have a normal conversation), but I hated talking to them, because they would not let me focus on the experience. Without focus the magic just doesn’t work the same.

So, is it like King Midas touch? Can you turn any object into a vision? Yes and no. Some objects are more dull, but if you focus enough, you can make this Midas gaze transfigure a simple brick wall into the Platonic ideal of a brick wall. But other objects need little or no help, and some just make the magic happen even if you don’t want: bright colors, rich textures catch your eye blocks away, and you can not help but stare at them, it’s such a luscious experience. Just like a two-year-old baby, I went into a store fascinated by the cheap plastic buckets, yellow, blue, red, green. It’s like being color blind all your life and suddenly discover color.

Then I got into a gallery that had an exhibit of the Brazilian painter Britto. His pop art is cartoonesque, hyper-bright colors and rich textures. So, how does it look in mushrooms? They move! the images get third dimension, they spin, undulate, shift, play. They are alive! This Midas gaze not only made things look different, it makes you feel different about them. Then I decided to try my superpowers on people. I looked at a couple of woman across the street, I focused on one of them, blonde, blue eyes. I was wondering: can I transfigure her? Can I look at her face and see the most beautiful woman ever? Can I make her face Helen’s or Venus’? It didn’t work. But there again, let’s remember that there are some objects easier or harder to transfigure. Maybe is the same with people.

A few times since I came back to Toronto I have tried to look at some objects and get the same fascination and same lust for the world. I’m, of course, fascinated by the sky during the electric storms, by the blue water at Georgia Bay, some buildings at the Distillery district, things like that. It feels like as tough once in a while you recover a watered down version of that superpower. With or without mushrooms, there are some things more fascinating than others. I also wonder if one of these days, while sitting at a cafe I will unexpectedly get back this Midas gaze, if a woman across the table will suddenly be transfigured into the most beautiful and fascinating woman ever. I wonder who will be sitting across the table when that happens.


Alejandro
Amsterdam/Toronto May 2004.