Just Walk Across the Bridge and You're There

Everytime I hear German or Dutch spoken (which so far has been when I was in Germany and Holland, respectively) I remember that English is derived from these languages. If I listen from far enough away, the words blur together and sound almost like somebody speaking English with a really heavy accent I can't quite pinpoint.

It's interesting; English shares so many derivatives with French and Spanish that seeing those languages written tends to trick one into thinking they're closer than they are. But hearing them is something else entirely. It took me four months of hearing French every day to realize when one word was starting and another was ending, and it was more from trial and error than actual aural acumen.

Not so with Dutch, which is one of the many things I noticed over last weekend, when I went to Amsterdam with Michael and Debs. Hearing Dutch I think: Wow, it's like Holland was a colonial power in the 17th century and they spread their linguistic seeds everywhere, including our very own New World. But reading English written by Dutch can be confusing. For example, if the directions to your cabin say "Just walk across the bridge and you're there" you might think it was going to be a simple jaunt, instead of a twenty minute hike under a suspension bridge near an industrial canal. You would also then wonder about the phrase: "Surrounded by nature."

In fact, my very first impressions of Amsterdam were wary at best. Until about 1:30 am on the first night I had basically boiled the city down to a post-apocolyptic Vegas. When we first emerged from the Centraal Station, we were met with clouds in the sky and construction on the ground. Then came our introduction to our Post-Apocolyptic Hut (as we lovingly named it after we realized that in the summer it must bustle but for now it just creaked, eerily) and I was about to throw in the towel on the city. No wonder they've legalized drugs, I thought.

But then at night the lights from the lamps reflected in the water. The air was fresh off the sea; it tasted amazing. In the morning, the sun came out. Somewhere along the Stigel canal, which winds its way along with all its cousins and brothers through a picturesque Old World City, I realized: Wait, this place is amazing.

It appears I've been chronically underestimating the Dutch my whole life. Mainly by forgetting about them. For example, I was surprised to remember the whole Golden Age (when Holland was the richest nation in the world), the Dutch East India Company, and Rembrandt. Oh, and Van Gogh and Anne Frank, both of whom have wonderful museums dedicated to them in this winding city full of tall, good-looking people who are really, really good at riding on the backs of bikes whilst others pedal forward.

I'm including a link to some pictures I took: http://picasaweb.google.com/kellyokelly/Amsterdamnit

But I warn you, they're disappointing. It's not that I didn't try. It's just that the dimensions there are impossible to capture on film. The depth and stillness that the water adds to the city, which rises straight up from the canals in rows of narrow buildings, is difficult to capture on anything but a panoramic, three-dimensional camera. It's really extraordinarily pretty in a very unique way, and I'm not just saying that because I spent a lot of time in coffeeshops, indulging my weakness for Dutch...er...coffee.

That's another English word the Dutch use that, written, is confusing. Coffeeshop. We see that and we think: Maybe if the proprietor had had his coffee he wouldn't have missed the punctuation in the sign. But then we realize, oh, duh. In Amsterdam "Coffeeshop" means something like, I don't know, "Civil Liberties." Roughly translated. So we had ourselves a grand old time and I realized, once and for all, that when it comes to vices real coffee is just about as good as they come.

So that's about it. We got back on Monday night and I've been working during the day, entertaining company by night. (Here, in another interesting linguistic twist, "entertaining" means delegating my nanny duties to friends and guests.) On Saturday morning we're taking a weekend road trip to the Loire Valley to see chateaux and drink wine.

According to the website we "just drive down the A10 a little ways" and we're there. Which is a claim we will have to wait to judge for now.

Blog au Crudite

Here's an interesting cognate: cru is the French word for raw. Thus, for example, you can get a poulet au crudites sandwich, which means you're getting chicken (not raw) with crudites (raw vegetables). At my new-favorite Marais restaurant Le Petit Marche, where we ate with John Nation and Catherine Cunningham during their wonderful stay here last week, you can get a thon a cru (raw tuna) or you can verbally wrestle with the waiter in awkward French until he finally sends his English-speaking coworker to tell you that lotte is a monkfish and yes, it's cooked, and yes, you can have it for dinner.

Just recently, my sister sent an update email from her Harlem apartment. For those of you who don't know or aren't my sister, she is doing Teach for American in the Bronx. It is apparently an experience which is alternately inspirational and harrowing. She points out in her email, as I often did in my emails when I worked at the Hippie School, that children's emotions can best be defined as raw.

Which got me thinking about the French cognate, and how we refer to a person who speaks too much and without thinking: crude. Trust me, I know all about these people. They're everywhere. Even sometimes in this apartment. Typing at this computer.

With children it seems our job, as the adults who care for them, is too teach them to take their raw emotions (frustration, fear, sadness) and help them put them in perspective, or at least help them, say, not throw yogurt all over the floor in a fit of fury when it turns out they wanted to stir it themselves. Random example. This will be a helpful skill later in restaurants when they're on dates.

So what we're doing is taking a raw emotion and adding bits of socially acceptable seasoning, mulling it over until it softens a bit, perhaps roasting it on a spit so it gets evenly cooked and presenting it to the world in a digestible fashion.

Please note we're cooking the childrens' emotions and not the children themselves. Lisa and Ben sometimes read this blog so as their children's nanny, I want to be very clear on that point.

For the most part, I think teaching children to cook their emotions just a little bit is a crucial tool. If only because a moment's pause or perspective can help show you that everything, actually, is okay. You're still going to get a turn. There's plenty of food. The ladybug didn't actually eat you. (Ladybugs don't eat raw children, see...)

But I also think adults would be well-served, sometimes, by revisiting raw emotions. We tend to maybe over-cook things. Until they're burned. Like, for example, this metaphor.

Anyway, I feel pretty lucky to work with kids, if only because it's fun to sometimes react to things like a kid. For example, I'm looking forward to our trip to Amsterdam with a child's excitement. Debs is going to be up from Austin and the three of us found cheap train tickets to the city, where we will visit the Van Gogh Museum, ride bikes, enjoy the canals, and see what else there is to do. Nothing comes to mind. Suggestions welcome.

I'm pretty excited about all our visitors: Kristin and Mike, Debs, Michael's mom, maybe Mary. The list goes on. We've had such a good time with our visitors so far (Bob, John, Catherine, Ally) that I can't wait to welcome more into our humble little apartment, which everyone reacts to with a grown-up, processed, slightly cooked version of their original sentiment (Egad! Where will I sleep!) by saying things like: "It's so...cute!"