End of Week 24: The 80/20 Language Split

Occupied by the written signs and conversation of others, surroundings confront dilution from only a small percentage of its aggregates, the elements that instruct and tell rather than suggest and guide. Street signs obstruct the actual view of the street, conversations of the couple two steps behind overpower the other flutterers and meanderers passing by. Language can actually get in the way of other matters being told.  However, when depending on the ability to read one’s surroundings - the movements of individuals or orientation of the city - only a minimal amount of language is needed to supplement these observations.

In my case, only enough to equate to twenty percent.

The train that day toward the Hils calmly slowed down to a standstill on the tracks. A couple of newspapers ruffled, but no one looked up almost as if thinking that this was not the day for a problem with the train. I continued reading page 41 of An Edible History of Humanity and the content businessman next to me scrolled through his music. Or checked email, I wasn’t sure. A young woman laughed under her breath at an article in her magazine and the twenty-year-old across from her continued to look out the window, at this point onto a static scene. All these activities sufficed to passing the empty time on a train commute. Over the loud speaker the conductor announced:

"Goede morgen… dit trein…vertrekt op vijf minute..."

I understood twenty percent of the speech, but eighty percent of everyone’s actions around me. The businessman did not take off his headphones; the young woman flipped through her magazine, searching for another humorous anecdote; and the twenty-year-old, well, he fell asleep. No one cared, so in effect, I did not either. It’s the 80/20 language split that for the last six months commanded my reactions to situations with a usually high success rate. And not just by watching others, but by interpreting the orientation of a city as well. If lost in an area off of the laminated map dependably tucked in my purse, and before taking out an smart phone, simply looking up to observe the direction of the trams, the flow of traffic, and whether certain buildings are visible from my vantage point could put me on the right course. Never a girl scout - I do not know what side moss grows on trees, or how to track animal footprints - but I can figure out my way around without a compass and I didn’t even receive an emblematic badge for it.

My reading advanced to page 42 and the train progressed toward the Hils.

Even at six something in the morning during the first sign of recognizably colder temperatures, only twenty percent of language afforded me the ability to read a situation. A bitter veil cloaked that day. Of course the already quiescent morning stood even more idle than usual with the negative five degree Celsius temperature straining its early hums. The air floated hollow between the two sides of the tram stop, and indiscernible activity on the tracks three blocks down appeared to be the reason. Difficult though, my sleepy eyes barely able to differentiate the vehicles parked next to or on top of the train tracks. Was that truck’s rotating light for an apartment emergency or track repair?

The scene lacked its usual suspects: the woman with the pinched face wearing a drab tan trench coat and outgrown haircut, the little lady with the rolling shopping cart who, though could stand absolutely anywhere on the empty tram, frequently found her place a couple a feet in front of me. Cars did not even pass through this part of Ferdinand Bolstraat and other than the couple across the way who looked like out-of-towners, no one else waited for tram twelve or twenty five. After an exchange of sentences, the couple finally moved off the platform, only then was I able to see the sign behind them:

Halte...tram 12 en 25…werkzaamheden...

I immediately turned away and started walking. 

Weekend 24: Chinese New Year in a Styrofoam Box

Nieuwmarkt: Stalls set up selling food and knick knacks to celebrate the Chinese New Year. 

Food: Grabbing a bite to eat was the main interest of visitors who ate sitting, but usually standing outside of crowded stalls. 

Picnic Benches: The tables became dumping grounds as many just left empty food boxes after indulging. 

Mid-Week Moment 24: Under the Train Tracks




Under the Tracks: Businesses line up underneath the train tracks utilizing any space available in this layered city.

 

End of Week 23: Goals of an Overachiever

A backpack, a gym bag and a purse, two straps across the front and two wrapping up around my shoulders, all perfectly crisscrossed and weighting me down, my walk from the tram stop home begins. It’s short. And painless - almost mindless - as only two streets and three bike lanes need to be crossed before turning the corner toward home. My shoulders tired, my head determinately following the sideway three feet in front of me, I only look up for these occasions of crossing. Stepping off the side, my head jerks up. A biker plainly peddles by, texting, holding his phone in one hand as the other finds the letters needed to compose his message. Though he moves swiftly down the street, lit just enough for me to follow his movement for three blocks before the 9 o’clock darkness, his upper body sits uninterrupted, as if easily settled in the seat across from me during my tram ride home. My shoulders accept the inevitable weight of jealousy from this sighting – this no-handed rider and I continue on, a curious overachiever.

But this was not the first spotting of a no-handed rider and their no-minded tasks, actually the third that afternoon, maybe tenth within the last three days. Many before peddled by unnoticed, and like the realization that occurs during the holiday season when the twinkling lights seem brighter and Christmas music louder, one day I just suddenly noticed what had been going on around me for the last few months. This no-handed nonsense: riding while texting, riding while checking make up, riding while dragging a suitcase, riding while even reading a book. My skills only extended to “just riding,” and sometime pretending that my balancing exceeded its capacity by taking one hand off of the handlebars to casually place it in my pocket, peddling steadily down the bike lane, until hearing the high pitched honking of a motor bike, slowing down for no one with a delivery of Thailicious, or another friend, on the bake. Then my bike swerves to the inside of the lane, my hand retreating. Good try.

It was not until yesterday that I tried the one-legged mount placing my left foot on the left peddle while swinging my right leg over the back of the bike to mount while moving. It came at such a surprise my confidence revived that one day that I would be able to ride no-handed, maybe even hula-hoop. Pick up that plastic, candy-striped hoop - in this imagined scenario the pink and white one that used to lay dormant under my childhood bed - gear up, fling it with considerable speed, and move those hips to keep it airborne as long as possible. Two hulas if luck strikes, three on one occasion, and all watched with a bit of confusion by my friends as my past accomplishments as a dancer had no impact on succeeding at this child-like game, and balancing on a bike for that matter.

However, on occasion, down the small street toward my apartment or a straight stretch on an empty street during a later night, an entertaining notion suddenly chimes and the dialogue toward taking both hands off of the handlebars begins:

            Okay, keep peddling forward. Keep peddling like nothing is going to happen.

Take off both hands, quickly all at once, but keep peddling. Okay, okay, yes, one, two, three…

Both of my hands escaped their white knuckled grasp for just a moment as my front wheel twisted to the left, my hands retreated yet again. My journey home continued with a hope of no-handed riding left behind that will surely be picked up on another outing, just as my desire to hula hoop will be delighted yet again in a friend’s apartment, but surely with new, and hopefully advantageous, method to try. Maybe if I peddle faster and take one hand off at a time my ambition will be fulfilled. Next time.

Yes, the goals of an overachiever: no-handed riding and hula hooping.

Weekend 21: At The Movies




Picking the Movie: The Movies, yes the name of the theatre, plays a mix of popular, independent, and classic films. 

 

And a Drink: A restaurant and cafe adds to the intimate atmosphere of Amsterdam's oldest movie theatre.




In the Neighborhood: A cozy Art Deco interior hosts movie goers as well as neighborhood groups.

 

Mid-Week Moment 23: A Visit to the Farmaceutica




Farmaceutica di Santa Maria Novella: Founded in 1221, this pharmacy still keeps its doors open for customers looking for unique remedies and perfumes. 

 

End of Week 22: The Two Hour Fear

Growing up in a state where a two-hour drive might be enough to escape into another county or even reach another major city, if traffic permits, only further skews a child’s already ingrained impatience toward travelling. Understandable, as time progresses at a faster rate during those years, trying to keep up as parents are with the outgrowing of clothes, lost teeth, and sometimes unwelcome increased vocabulary.  Forever, at age six, is a twenty-minute car ride to the Arcadia Mall, an hour to my former gymnastics club as an impatient ten year old, or third period in middle school with an uninspiring history teacher. My definition of “forever” evolved and now entails waiting for food at an Amsterdam eatery as I bit my lips, hungrier than a baby dinosaur. Sitting through an hour slide show at work, doable, a three-hour car ride to Maine, easy, a two-hour flight to another country, why not?

Yes - why not.

Since moving, my concept of close over these first months in Europe keeps changing just as my definition of forever did throughout my childhood, slowly realizing many of the cities on my to do list are less than a two hour flight: London, Vienna, Prague, Zurich and Edinburgh, an hour and a half; Milan and Budapest, two hours. Just enough time to either sleep through the snack and drink period, catch up on those two hours last night sacrificed for packing and last minute worrying, or breeze through a palatable conversation with the person to the left that goes just far enough past introductions to keep it engaging, but without the commitment. And the stories that surface usually add a little more intrigue to the part of travel that can be so colorless.

She’s afraid of flying. Luckily no one picked 24E, the middle seat on the right side of the plane, allowing her to put down Bill Bryson’s A Walk in the Woods just far enough from my 20 Under 40 by the New Yorker to delineate an even split of 24E. From her accent I knew the destination of this flight, Milan, was not her home, but wondered why she sat calm but visibly timid as the overhead compartments closed, signifying take off. “On the way to New York, right after take off,” she started “I saw lightning hit the side of the plane and so did the girl next to me. We wondered why there was not an announcement or a reaction from others.” She continued with the story, describing how in the end the pilot’s announcement that the mechanic gave the go ahead allowing the plane to remain on course, over the curve of the earth to land safely the next morning at JFK. Memories like this lodge onto already thriving fears of flying, making the experience that much more intimidating, even to the point where, I have heard, an individual avoided a two-hour flight to Vienna with a fourteen-hour train ride.

To what extent does fourteen hours requite a fear that only lasts for two? Deeply seated anxieties toward a transportation untethered to solid ground and unrelated to everyday activity – many do not casually hop on a plane to fly down the street to the supermarket – can make those two hours for some individuals last forever, like my twenty minute car ride at age six, or one hour at ten. However in this adult instance, the “forever” is only determined by an ephemeral anxiety that justifies fourteen hours on the ground, disagreeable to my impatient preferences. I would rather take the risk to enjoy the benefits of a long weekend amongst the French speakers or Italian cooks, walking through either the capital of Hungary or sitting at a bar in Edinburgh to a half a day on a track, behind a window, and planted in a fabric covered seat. London, Vienna, Prague, Zurich, Milan, Budapest, and Edinburgh you are all so close, I just need to start planning.

Weekend 22: As Things Pass By




Fiume Arno: An afternoon crew team interrupts the reflection of classic Florentine buildings. 

 

Fortezza da Basso: It's easy to stand out, as well as blend into, the fashionable crowds of Florence. 

Mid-Week Moment 22: Fotoautomatica

Florence, Italy: There was a lot of street photography going on in Florence this week.

End of Week 21: GT-E1170i

GT-E1170i, described by its maker as “Curvy Simplicity,” with a polished black exterior detailed with a touch of chrome and black rubber, could solve those long morning commutes to the Hils with heated seats and a comfortably enclosed interior, or begin the ambiguous copy of a Samsung, twenty-five euro cellphone. Finished off with some buttons, numbers, and an archaic screen, it happens to unfortunately be the latter.

“What would you recommend?” A question posed as if this cellphone held some importance in my everyday life.  The once-Atari-gamer now balding, thirty-something-year-old Telefonkopen manager paused as we stood in front of the glass case, looking at the “economical” unlocked phones on the top shelf. Does it really matter? “Well, what do you want your phone to do?” He started his rap as if reading from a cellphone seller’s handbook, a slanted grimace passed over my face as my authoritative hands-on-the-hips hoped to display the start of a decisive declaration. “Only to text and call,” a conclusion quickly found and blurted out after fighting off the designer and instilling a little more practicality, however not fully, as I still continued.

“Does it come in other colors?”

A valid question, well in this right-brained driven thought process, only to be met with a squinted look behind rectangular rimmed glasses. A definite no: yes, black should work just fine. Walking out of the store I put the curvy GT-E1170i cellphone in my pocket, the same pocket that held my white iPhone some days before, keeping my hand on this prized twenty-five euro cellphone as my zigzag path down Kalverstraat avoided tourists, baby strollers, and Monday afternoon shoppers. Eager customers, including myself, jostled the streets after patiently waiting for the noon openings of many shops as if brick-and-mortar needed the same Monday morning coffee kick after regrets of sleeping in on the weekend as we did.

To my surprise around 3am after celebrating the New Year in Amsterdam, exhausted from a night more eventful than expected, my iPod chirped: an iMessage from a friend back home. In a time zone nine hours behind my own, he probably discreetly waited at his parent’s house before washing the New Years’ night away with chats and drinks at a properly crafted hotel bar in LA. Without reading his message, only catching a fraction of his words, my fingers worked in frustration. Three text bubbles appeared in response to my tantrums:

Are you serious??

What happened

I’m so sorry em

Those text bubbles, though only quickly glanced at as I arranged the needed information for tomorrow’s outing to the police and Vodafone on Kalverstraat, comforted my weary shoulder, one weighted by the days and potential weeks ahead to resolve a minute’s misjudgment.  It could have been worse - it was not my purse – and somewhere amongst the crumpled hours after the incident, I felt better. A couple of text bubbles later, he even offered to beat up the perpetrator, who only mentally animated as an indescribable someone walking unnoticed into a continual crowd. Haunting my waist and watching my hand as it left my pocket and iPhone unprotected, this phantom, a swift black image over the tan, gravel walkway around Museumplein, could only be imagined as a simple apparition with a deliberate hand.

However, as I neared the end of Kalverstraat after visiting Telefonkopen, walking past hundreds of people in the matter of twenty minutes, none warranted a suspicion as the probability of meeting the phantom again valuated lower than seeing my white iphone again. Unfolding the crumpled receipt for my GT-E1170i cellphone from my pocket, scanning its contents, the time my transaction occurred stood out. 15:00. But after stepping onto the crosswalk letting the cars drive over my briefly designated path, the feeling of significance fluttered with my passing steps down Vijzelstraat. A straat that frequently sees my contemplating, or sometimes absent, steps when a long walk on the weekend takes preference over the worshipped, rusty bicycle. It needs a new bell.

As a usually responsible traveler, without a careless loss or stolen cellphone, and a victim of a quick incident, I did not step over a straat of frustration, disappointments, and the limitless what-ifs; but realized of how quickly this could occur and even to the most experienced travelers, not to mention almost four month resident! Even experience can weaken after a long New Years’ night. It could be a long ride in the curvy GT-E1170i as the phantom celebrates his deliberate hands and I continue to resolve a minute’s misjudgment. Hello 2012.

Weekend 21: The Smaller Lights of New Years

Off Vijzelstraat: A family sets off fireworks and the kids wave around sparklers. 

Around Prinsengracht: Kids play in the streets with bottle rockets and other small fireworks. 

Mid-Week Moment 21: Early Start to New Years

Around 8pm: The kids enjoy their own fireworks before bedtime.

End of Week 20: New Year, New Family Calendar

Four hugs later my aunt emerged, meandering around a small group of uncles and cousins for the fifth welcoming embrace of the evening with the accompanying, enthusiastic greetings. Christmas Day and the entire Southern California family, from cousins to almost cousin-in-laws, family to considered family, gathered to celebrate the season with its savory treats and our own family publication - the yearly calendar. In only twelve months, the entire family’s story expanded across twelve 14x11.5 inch pages, with family moments in addition to individual’s journeys: a cousin starting his ninth year in Hawaii, another learning Spanish as a necessity to live in South America for two months, and two parents courageously corralling six kids, four of them indefatigable young boys.

That Christmas Day, aunts, cousins, and almost cousin-in-laws assembled around a single calendar and single loveseat standing, leaning, or sitting what ever way possible to get a better view - even though each could look at their own. Comments got thrown across the room as eyes scanned each page for either classic or humorous photos, babies always receiving the most fanfare as no way exists to compete with a baby in a polka dotted hat or asleep on her dad’s white checkered shirt. Or then there is the little duck costume: a bright yellow, zip up dream for every parent with an orange beak on the hood and a beige oval as the duck’s belly. Done, officially bested out of the running.

In the calendar there were photos of elephant rides, river rafting trips, big wave surfing, rough water swims, life-size waffles, Thai gongs, Burma hikes, competitive fencing, bedtime stories, sleeping babies, and dinosaur shirts; the journeys of the everyday and highlights of an adventure. Mostly smiles, some looks of surprise, and others wearing that Elvis sneer or Popeye grimace. Hairstyles changed, as did boyfriends or girlfriends, even the choice vacation destination held a surprise. However, clothing preferences only gradually evolved as many already discovered their style after years of experimenting and probably exhaustion from living in the 80s. Luckily my four years in that era were easily forgotten to building blocks and crawling around my parents beige carpet. And luckily for everyone, the family calendar only started twelve years ago, just missing those days of bright colors, big hair, and shoulder pads.

Originally the family calendar started as a gift for my aunt’s father-in-law who had everything except the memory to hold all of the birthday dates for his kids, grandkids, and other dwellers on all those little branches of the family tree. Not only that, but years passed since he gathered up-to-date photos of his grandkids; in his eyes, one of his little granddaughters still wore her duck costume on Halloween, even though it transferred hands years ago either to another cousin or Goodwill location. Voilà, identify the need then fill it – yes, conversations with entrepreneurs slowly start to seep into my writing, even when speaking of family matters.

This story began in 2000 with my aunt assembling and producing the family calendar herself, prior to the wide use of emailing photos by every family member, and prior to Shutterfly or CVS to easily produce a casual layout of images. My aunt took her collection of photos, those scissors, that glue stick, and most probably a ruler, to create the twelve master collages by hand before proudly standing in front of a Kinko’s copier to photocopy a set for each receiver. Over time, the process advanced. In 2003, she bought a digital camera; 2004, produced each calendar at home with an Epson printer; 2007, that printer broke down; and 2008, the calendar was finally outsourced to Costco, a company that still prints our family calendar.

With a publication such as the yearly family calendar, family business can become everyone’s business, especially when the calendar hangs out on the corner of a kitchen table, like mine does, or decorates an office space frequently visited by colleagues. Yes, I could take out my iPod, tap on the camera icon, scroll through, and find a photo of a family member to show; or just sit down with something, say, ten times larger and month by month introduce the entire family. This thought actually crossed my mind two nights ago.

Though this is the start of 2012, I would take a 2000 version of the calendar any day, even if it meant cutting, pasting, measuring, and copying it all at the Amsterdam equivalent of Kinkos myself.