After every trip, I’m possessed by the greatest of ambitions to capture the stories before they evaporate into the routine of our daily lives. And then the unpacking and Laundry Mountain and the groceries and the Zoom Life overtake me. When I collapse into my favorite corner of the couch after dinner, I just can’t resist the new season of Emily in Paris.
But in all things, sometimes a little is just enough. And when I reflect on our time in Amsterdam this summer, it’s a bunch of little moments. Little stories.
There’s our first walk to the local Voorburg Hoogvliet grocery store for provisions and to see what interesting foods we’ll find. And the lady conversationally rattling off a string of Dutch to Jacob. The only clue she’s talking to us is the repeated use of what sounds like “boys.” We look around us. Behind us. I mistakenly think our meer presence emanates American, but apparently not when you’re in a local village. We enjoy a mutual laugh as she switches into English and explains she has a bad back and needs help lifting a big bottle from a lower shelf.
There’s the walk back to Majelleke’s house where we pass a group of school children playing on the playground. Amidst another flurry of Dutch, I distinctly hear “skibidi” and laugh out loud. Prompting Nate to declare “brain rot.” He should know.
There’s our first train ride to the city where we never see a ticketing machine or counter. The trams have on-train ticket machines. Apparently, the trains do not. I talk my way out of a fine while the conductor teaches me to use the train app. The next day, we lug our suitcases back to the station, hot and sweaty, only to find no sign of the same train from the day before. Jacob luh-uh-uhves to say, “Mom, remember that time when you stood at the train station and just stared at the schedules screen with your mouth open. For so long. With your mouth open.”
Then there’s our arrival at our hotel room in Amsterdam and the unexpected surprise of big beautiful doors opening onto a terrace overlooking the canals. It’s our spot for all manner of outdoor picnics. Nate’s research uncovers a takeaway pizza place within walking distance. He still remembers it’s called nNea. We eat life-changing croissants filled with vanilla custard from Salvo. One evening, I relax in my bare feet with a fancy cocktail and the sunset.
There’s the history talk at the Ann Frank Museum prior to our tour. The young docent explains how the people of Germany were suffering. Standing in food lines for hours. Little kids playing with piles of worthless money. And how a politician rose to power with a simple narrative, “You are suffering. I know you’re suffering, but it’s not your fault. These other people are to blame. Minorities, the disabled, the gay community, and the Jews. Just get rid of them and all our problems will be solved.” Later on, we talk about this timeworn story and how politicians use it to divide people, foment distrust, and increase their own power. Where are we hearing this story now? The story Hitler and countless others have used to demonize people that are different? We talk about not only being alert and skeptical of this story, but also why it is imperative to speak out against it.
Then there’s the afternoon I sip a cappuccino on a bench along my favorite canal, Bloemgracht. The entire street taking pride in its name. Planters and sidewalks spilling over with flowers. My favorite are the hollyhocks planted in the cracks of the pavement. I find a dutch cheese slicer at the antique store across from my bench. And as the boats pass, the helmsmen wave at me and smile.
There’s our trip to the botanical garden, where we fall in love with the butterfly house, visiting it twice. The boys show me how to get carnivorous plants to close. We stop for drinks and snacks.
There’s the afternoon, after hours of walking, when we collapse into the first open chairs we see at a sidewalk cafe. Jacob’s rapidly deteriorating into hanger until presented with the most fantastic spread of Spanish pinxtos outside of Spain.
There’s our second to last night, when we take an Uber to a little village on the outskirts of the city for an Indonesian rice table experience. Best satay ever. Fifteen different little dishes to try. An idyllic outdoor location along a river. The boys love when a server cautions us on what’s “spicy” and they deem it almost imperceptible. We all order our own desserts.
And there are the teachable moments about the differences between coffee shops and cafes. Stumbling upon women in their sixties sitting in the windows of the red light district, chain smoking in their lingerie. Nate and I visiting the dutch version of a Sephora, twice, for cologne testing. And our serendipitous overlap with the gay pride parade on the canals, and the colorful, festive party that envelops the entire city.
Little moments. Little conversations. Little stories. That all add up to big memories.