Chronicles Continued

It is easy to miss the announcement in the local paper. But by paying attention – reading each weekly paper, one finds the list of the what the Carillons in the towers of the City will play. The summer schedule: In the Fortified Tower [Drommedaris]: On the hour: Green grow the rashes – Robert Burns. 15 minutes past the hour: Katinka [an entry at the EuroSongFestival in 1962] – Joop Stokkermans. On the half-hour: Fantasia para un Gentilhombre – Joaquin Rodrigo. 15 minutes before the hour: Die Lorelei – Fredrich Silcher. From the Southern Tower: heard: On the hour: Der Konig in Thule [see two dots over the o]- Frans Shubert. 15 minutes past Katrinka [[this means it will repeat immediately, so in fact will be heard 2 x an hour] On the half-hour Menuet nr.70 [De Gruytters Beiaardbook] Joannes de Gruytters and finally 15 before the hour: Die Lorelei [again an immediate repeat]. It is great to know what the titles are so that when hanging out the wash or working in the garden, one recognizes the selection time and again, filing it away – to what end remains to be seen

There is a juxtaposition here; perhaps the strict utility of the buildings; no fuss, no muss, no bother. One is the Central Station in Amsterdam. The other a Protestant church in a large City.

This gives new meaning to “going on vacation”. What do you need? Transport, a place to sleep, clothes, bike, food, ah just take everything including the kitchen sink! My neighbor leaving to go on his holiday – note the bike on the ‘deck’.

When biking, as when driving, it is a good time to organize thoughts, organize the lists and generally take care of business while paying attention to the traffic. It had been a busy afternoon, and I decided to miss the masses by taking a side street home. Passing a group of three, one of them called out a question about the mansion at whose side they were standing. “What had it been?” Such a good question indeed. To my own surprise, I stepped on the brakes, straddled my bike, backed up and gave them the full history; an interesting history. The original owner who built the house in the mid-1700 made a literal boatload of money with slavery. Among the many facts: he left a 5 million guilder fortune at his death. of 5 million [100 guilders from that time is worth $6,000. today.] He had 6 daughters, a couple died, none married and so the fortune was put in a trust that still finances the upkeep of all the properties bearing his name. As their eyes began to blur over, I jumped back on my bike and peddled homeward.

The “why” I was visiting the Dr.’s office is unimportant. What is important is that I forgot to greet all five persons seated in the waiting room. Upon entering such a space, it is expected that one say a greeting reflecting the time of day: ‘Good morning, good afternoon’. As my thoughts were completely swept up in determining which chair was the most socially isolated from the group, I failed my social obligation. No one was amused. When the next person entered and greeted the group, the response chorus of all five was exceptionally loud.

They picked the spot to hang..out. It is a complete mystery as to what it eats. There is no web to see. They have been here about 8 weeks now. I have hung a tiny sign nearby to hopefully insure no one sweeps them away. What can I say.

Rather a far-cry from the whirly-gigs of sandbox days.

The past few days, on the inside mat at the front door, I see the slim trails of a snail. When a friend came visiting I asked where they thought the snail was gaining entry. They believed through the gap at the back of the adjacent meter closet in this small hallway. I plugged the gap with newspaper expecting 100% success, but next morning, more snail-trails. Looking more closely I saw another ‘gap’ outside the meter closet so plugged that with recycled plastic. The next morning: snail trails. Outside my front door, I removed the free-spirited-ground-hugging flowers growing up to the stoop. Next morning: inside snail trails. I even got up one night in the dark, to see if I could “catch the action”. No luck, saw nothing. I sprayed the front stoop and the mat with glass cleaner– that seemed to help. A few days of no slim. Then I thought to ask the friendly workmen, whom I know, repairing the second-story porch on the house kitty-corner from my backyard. Calling up to them I explained this unique, irregular phenomena I was experiencing. “OH JA”, all three said in unison, “That happens all the time!”. And I thought it was only ME. The horticulturist owner of the house, climbed on a ladder to reach the roof of the shed at the end of my garden, placing a box of ‘slug-bait’. I retrieved my very long ladder, ironically with three snails clinging to the bottom rung and put it up against my side of the shed to reach his proffered box. Took it, climbed down, made a small bag of bait for myself, climbed back up, replaced the box which he then climbed up from his side to retrieve. Back on the ground my next question. “Do I put it inside the door or outside on the stoop?” They did not have an agreed upon answer. The snail-bait claims not to poison the neighbors dogs and cats but in the interest of the shared cat that comes for his daily ration of fish, I opted to put it inside the door. At present I have two little piles of green snail-bait grains sitting untouched.

It was a multi-layered contact. The short, somewhat plump middle-aged woman, with brown skin and dark hair covered by a scarf, began her contact by asking in very limited Dutch, which way the train would be heading when it arrived in the station. I pointed toward the North. With much hand-gesturing, she explained that she had boarded a train heading south, by mistake and ended up in Amsterdam. I asked her where she wanted to go. She named a place, somewhat unintelligible that I took to be the next stop, once the train left the station. I agreed that the expected train was the one she wanted. It arrived. To my surprise she followed me into the limited seating area I specifically choose during this “time of ‘cholera'”. She said I had a nice face, though due to the mask I was wearing, only my eyes were on view. She sat across from me, clearly wanting to make conversation. She once again ‘explained’ that she had boarded the southbound train by error and that was the reason she now kept asking about the direction of the train she was on. Searching for another subject, asked where she was from. A bit of confusion then she said ‘iretra’. Seeking clarity I questioningly repeated the name as I heard it. She indicated that this country was at war with Ethiopia. Ah, I was now at least Continent-wise, but otherwise in total ignorance regarding the country to which she referred. Thank goodness for train-wifi and phones. Eritrea. a tiny land on the East African Coast, bordered by Ethiopia to the South, Sudan to the West and on the SE yet another unknown country to me: Dijbouti. The North and East are coastline on the Red Sea. Once I had the correct name and repeated it, she smiled happily. Her next question: was I Catholic? Shook my head no. Christian? Again a head shake. Now she her face looked worried. She began pointing to the train ceiling saying “…God …..” It was amusing with how much fervor she preached, trying her best in the short time she had left to convert me from my unbelief. There was true concern in her speech; clearly I was doomed. Her stop arrived before the prayer and offering, forced to leave me in my unbelief she reluctantly left the coach. Once home I looked up more information on her country:

The country has three working languages, in addition to seven recognized national languages divided among the nine recognized ethnic groups .It is an ancient country evolving out of the Kingdom of Aksum during the first or second century AD and Christianity took hold around the middle of the fourth century*. At some point Ethiopia annexed the country and the rest as they say….

What number was Dutch on her list of language skills? Because she mentioned the war with Ethiopia my assumption is that perhaps she is in NL on refuge status. I still smile as I think of her concern for my spiritual well-being. It’s been sometime since someone wanted to save-my-soul. All sweetness.

*thank you Wikipedia

Waiting 1.5 meters behind the person at the flower counter to finish their purchase, all at once, in an unexpected movement, I watched the clerk swing the bouquet of roses off the wrapping paper on the counter top and stick it under the counter; momentarily out-of-sight. At the same instant, the sound of a whirring motor could be heard. It took a minute to realize that the clerk was dethorn-ing the stems of the bouquet. First time for everything!