p.s.

(Tell me something, do you even look at the acknowledgements in the books you read? I didn't think so; me either. But we understand why they're there.)

My time in Holland and working at ISA can safely be called one of the best experiences in my life. I will feel better if I thank a few people for helping me make it that way. (I will feel just as bad afterward when I realize whom I left out.) Since last November when I started writing Waking Up In Holland, I have mentioned many, many people. I hope that due credit has already been given. I’d like to mention some of them again and few I’ve neglected.

with Gwaz in Heaven

 Thanks to Gwaz who seems to understand my unwillingness to end my career, but I do imagine that my absence was balanced by a six-month-long sense of relief!

Jim and Ev in Den Haag

Thanks to Jim and Eveline for just about everything from being my family far from home to their 

practical advice for living in Holland. It was their big idea that I apply for the job at ISA in the first place.

Susan and Sarah

Thanks to Dr. Ed Greene and Miss Sarah Grace for hiring me to teach at ISA. Thanks to Assistant Head Susan Loban for all her concern, care and intervention. (I still think they should revisit calling someone “head”. OK I’ll stop.) Thanks to the many, many ISA staff members who supplied everything from friendly conversation to direct assistance. I should mention my “reading buddy” Laura Doolittle, the grade two teacher whose class was mentored by mine. (To Andrew, the GQ guidance counselor in the upper school, I meant it when I said I wasn’t going to introduce my wife to you. Did you ever meet her? See?)

Thanks to the many, many strangers who provided answers to my questions. I am on record regarding the anxiety that accompanies getting on a train when you are not absolutely sure it’s the right one! Way back when I decided, whenever possible, if I had to ask someone a question, it would be someone who looked least likely to want to help me. Worked like a charm. Big scruffy footballers, neon-haired Goth-types, businessmen reading their morning papers with briefcases in hand…never once—not a single time—did someone refuse to help. Most times they went out of their way. (I shall never forget the sweet old lady in a Paris underground who walked me to my platform, then waited with me until the train was due to arrive. She didn’t speak English and it wasn’t her platform!) I decided early on that I would do the same for lost strangers whenever I could. I sure know what it feels like to spin a map round-and-round wondering where the heck I was.

Thanks to P.G.C. Hajenius. An occasional Cuban was one of the great pleasures of living here.

Ronan at Hajenius

Thanks to the H-Tel staff. They probably thought more than once when their phone rang or they saw me approaching the front desk, “Uuut, here we go again.” A special mention of Michael: He is a poster-boy for customer service.

Many thanks to all my chums back home who sent me cards and emails. As Cindy has pointed out, living in Europe creates separation on various levels: one is literal and another—so very much more challenging—is psychological. Knowing that your family and friends are thinking about you reduces the proximity. Speaking of that, Gwaz, MLS, Beam and Anna know how much I appreciate the Facetime/Skype sessions.

To the parents of my students: thank you for trusting me with your children. You made an old teacher feel pretty good.

…and to Adi, Anna, Ava, Daiki, David, Emma, Goncalo, Kouhei, Lily, Mitchell, Nicholas, Sara, Sophie, Thomas, Tom, Victorine, Vienna, and Will: We were only together for six months, but you will stay with me all the days of my life. You know how I feel about you because I told you so almost every day. (Am I going to I miss you? Yes! And I won’t change my mind!)

...oh yeah, thanks to you for reading Waking Up In Holland. It's been a gas.

Coda

After six months, 173 days, 4152 hours, 249,120 minutes, 14, 947, 200 seconds; more than a dozen cities, countless train, tram, bus, bike and elevator rides; absolutely too many dirty dishes, laundry loads and dryers that don’t do what the name implies, Waking Up In Holland caught up with the author…

Waking Up in Holland: So.

Me: So.

WuiH: All done huh?

Me: Almost, well, not really.

WuiH: Oh?

Me: This is the assignment that won’t end.

WuiH: Won’t end? I thought it ended June 21^st. No?

Me: Well, the teaching part ended June 21^st, but I still have more to do.

WuiH: Like?

Me: Like… I still have to file Dutch taxes for 2012.

WuiH: Holy cow! How do you do that?

Me: Through an accountant, which means I have to leave my bank account open.

WuiH: So, other than that, all done?

Me: Almost, well, not really.

WuiH: Oh brother, back to the taxes?

Me: No, shipping.

WuiH: Oh right.

        Me: I already sent two huge boxes home. Bit of a nightmare, that. They were held up in customs for a week.

WuiH: Ooooh? Heard the sirens singing; did ya?

Me: Stop.

WuiH: You’re the one who brought it up.

Me: It’s not like that. The paperwork was messed up.

WuiH: Messed up? What’s that mean?

        Me: It means…you would think the currier would know if the paperwork was insufficient before he accepted the packages.

WuiH: You’d think.

Me: Well, we would, but apparently they don’t.

WuiH: Get it straightened out or will you get our own cell in a Dutch prison?

Me: I said, “Stop.”

WuiH: Sorry, too easy.

Me: That aine funny. I know funny and that aine funny.

WuiH: Let’s talk about your time in Holland; can we?

Me: Sure.

WuiH: What have you done the most?

Me: The most? Let’s see…the dishes.

WuiH: Very funny.

Me: Funny, but not fun. Housework, laundry, ironing…the absolute worst.

WuiH: (Laughing) You don’t sound like a Merry Maid to me.

Me: Let’s just say I have a new appreciation for…um…doing the laundry.

WuiH: I see how this is going. Can I ask you about the blog?

Me: Sure.

            WuiH: You called the blog “Waking up in Holland.” Is your newfound appreciation for housework, laundry and ironing whatever, an example of “waking up”?

Me: Yeah, it is.

WuiH: Do you have other examples?

Me: I’m sure I do, let me think.

WuiH: That could take a while.

Me: Excuse me?

WuiH: Nothing, go on.

Me: Rembrandt and Swiss cheese.

WuiH: Told ya.

        Me: Let me finish… Did you know there’s no such thing as Swiss cheese? There’s cheese from Switzerland but there’s no such thing as Swiss cheese.

WuiH: How long did it take you to figure that one out?

       Me: Um…the first time I asked for it. The cheese ladies probably laughed like hell after I left.

            WuiH: So, you lived in Europe for six months and your big awareness is that Americans have made up a generic name for Emmenthaler cheese?

Me: Well, when you put it that way…

WuiH: Oh brother. You mentioned Rembrandt?

Me: Can’t get enough. How did I not know?

WuiH: Want to talk about that?

Me: Have you even looked at my blog?

WuiH: I can see you’re getting worked up. Not my fault you’re from Essex.

Me: What’s that mean?

WuiH: Can we go on?

Me: Sure.

WuiH: What’s the plan now?

Me: What plan?

WuiH: What now? What’s next for you?

Me: Let’s see. I don’t have a plan, but I can tell you this much, whatever it is; it’ll be with Gwaz.

WuiH: That’s sweet. Is your skirt too tight?

Me: Beg your pardon?

WuiH: Sorry. Can you explain?

Me: At this point I don’t want anything if I can only have it without Gwaz.

WuiH: Awwwl...that's lovely. Getting' weepy; are you?

Me: You're startin' to irritate me.

WuiH: What doesn't?

Me: Good point.

WuiH: What about teaching?

Me: What about it?

WuiH: What did the ISA administrators say?

Me: I don’t know.

WuiH: What do you mean you don’t know? Did they say anything?

Me: No.

WuiH: No?

Me: No.

WuiH: Damn.

Me: That’s what I thought.

WuiH: Didn’t they watch you teach?

Me: The head came in for twenty minutes the first week I was there.

WuiH: Twenty minutes? That’s it?

Me: That’s it.

WuiH: Head? I can think of several uses for the word ‘head’ but not as the principal of a school.

Me: No comment.

WuiH: Isn’t head when…

Me: Let it go.

WuiH: Yeah, probably best. But did you learn anything? I mean, about you?

Me: Let’s see… um…I don’t pretend to know me.

WuiH: I’ll say.

Me: What’s that?

WuiH: Nothing. Go on.

Me: Doing the same work I first did 36 years ago has been…um…it’s been in a strange way a privilege. I mean, how many of us get to go home? I mean really go home? How many people get what I was given?

WuiH: How many want it?

Me: Yeah, that too; but for me the path from where I started isn’t exactly what I would have predicted back in the day.

WuiH: Why is that?

Me: It’s just the way things worked out. One thing leads to another. One thing led to another.

WuiH: …and it led to this; right?

Me: Right. See…you get me!

WuiH: Uhhh…not really, But can I ask you this? Do you have any regrets?

Me: You mean like pot and red light?

WuiH: Are you saying you regret doing those things or you regret not doing them?

Me: Hello! My wife will read this.

WuiH: She’s probably the only one…

Me: What’s that?

WuiH: Nothing. I was asking about regrets.

Me: I lost my hat.

WuiH: Lost your hat? What, like in the casino?

Me: What? No. I believe that expression is “lost my shirt.”

WuiH: Oh, yeah. So you lost your hat?

Me: Yeah, darn it.

WuiH: You lost your Canadian Nerd Hat? How in the…

Me: No, no. I lost my Eddie Bauer toboggan.

WuiH: How’d that happen?

Me: If I knew that, I wouldn’ta lost it; now would I?

WuiH: OK OK man…touchy.

Me: I liked my hat.

WuiH: Clearly. Jeese. Can we go back to the one thing leads to another thing?

Me: Sure.

WuiH: What’s up with that?

Me: I choose to see it that way.

WuiH: What way?

Me: …as one thing leads to another.

WuiH: Oh OK, go on.

Me: I was destined to be here. I was meant to be here. I was supposed to intervene in the lives of these children—and they in mine. This is the start of their lives…

WuiH: …and the end of yours?

Me: Right. Wait, what? Do you know something?

WuiH: Just kidding; relax.

Me: That aine funny. I'm tellin' you some things just aine funny.

WuiH: Sorry. What were you saying?

Me: Are you even listening?

WuiH: What’s that? OK just kidding…I’m listening. Go on.

Me: I look at it this way: their lives are added to mine; and my life was added to theirs. Know what I mean?

WuiH: Does anyone? OMG. How does anyone stand you?

Me: Yeah, not sure really. Hey! Wait one darn minute…people like me.

WuiH: I know, I know…young, thin, and handsome; right?

Me: Exactly. Don’t forget…winning personality.

WuiH: How could we?

Me: Beg pardon.

WuiH: Nothing. Before we go, is there anything else?

Me: Actually there is.

WuiH: Why does that not surprise me?

Me: Can I finish?

WuiH: By all means...

Me: Hey Cindy and Ronan, I love you both for taking care of me; and say goodbye to my girlfriend for me.

WuiH: That was nice.

Me: Don't start.

WuiH: Girlfriend? You? Oh ...nevermind, you meant the dog; yeah that was funny; please go on.

Me: To my other "girlfriends"...I will never forget your kindness. As I was swimming like crazy just so I didn't drown, you were all there with the life-jackets. I will never forget you.

WuiH: Until next time?

Me: Until next time.

Helena, Lisa, JT, Heidi, Lisa

Graduation?

Lisa, Victoria, and Heidi backstage

I haven’t changed my mind. Calling a ceremony for fifth graders “graduation” is not right. But, before I get all worked up and say stuff as only guys from Essex can, let me clarify.

with Helena, the stage manager

Like many other schools worldwide, ISA celebrates the accomplishments of its fifth graders with a ceremony attended by parents, grandparents, friends, and the rising fourth graders. They call it their "graduation". Therein lies the problem.

with Lisa in the wings

Like any graduation, the ceremony features processionals, music, speeches, tears, and the awarding of “diplomas” (although to their credit, no one called the rather officious looking certificates that).

some of the "graduates" of 5JT

A rather famous Brit once said that a rose by any other name would smell as sweet. I am willing to get down from my high-horse long enough to admit that the whole affair was awesome. Part of me thinks that for the amount of money parents pay in tuition, ostentatious displays are part and parcel. But the emotional old-man in me appreciated the very unique opportunity to publicly reward every one of my children for all their effort and achievement.

A object-lesson...

Graduation is what happens upon completion of one’s education. It is not what milestones should be labeled. That said, I was pretty darn proud of them.

...in metaphor

What I’ll Take Away

At The International School of Amsterdam, the school where I work, there are some really talented people, none more so than Steve York. I first met Steve because his daughter, Anna, is in my class. We were introduced…nice guy, the usual. I was told that he was an art teacher at ISA. What I was soon to learn was that Steve is an artist who teaches at ISA; there’s a difference.

Did you ever meet someone and know, somewhere way down inside, that you were meeting a truly singular person? Seriously, there is something about people like Steve. There’s energy surrounded by serenity. Stephen York is one such person. There’s something indescribable about Steve. Steve’s art captures Dutch culture. Steve’s art expresses Amsterdam.

Steve York

In Amsterdam art is prevalent. The shops, the markets, the galleries, the sidewalks—art seems to be everywhere. Heck, in Amsterdam there’s plenty of inspiration. The canals, the bridges, the buildings…no kidding, every street is scenic. The place drips culture. But living here is a series of trade-offs. It’s gloomy most of the time but when its not the sunshine is brilliant. No one even looks your way on the street until they think you are obstructing them but that’s not always bad. Vice is a part of the tourist trade but no one forces it on you. See? Trade-offs. Here’s the most prevalent one of all: for all the crap you deal with here, you still get to live in one of the most exciting cities in the world, and the foremost exciting part is the culture of art.

For the last six months I have been immersed in Dutch culture. Living here is different than living in little ole Wake Forest. The differences are significant, most of which involve weather, transportation, social behaviors, food, beer, and heritage and history. I am on record regarding all of them: better have a decent umbrella and bicycle, don’t expect people to look you in the eye or even be nice, the cuisine and the suds are darn tasty, and the sense of history is a thousand years in the making.

Rembrandt's stool at easel

Omaha Beach

Ronan once asked me a simple question with an impossibly complex answer. He asked: What will you take away (from Holland when you leave)? I can’t remember what I answered, but I haven’t stopped thinking about the question. In my life I have stood on the very same spot where years before (at different times) Abraham Lincoln and Jefferson Davis stood. I have been in the exact space once occupied by Generals Lee and Grant. I have stood on the sand where thousands of young men were slaughtered in June 1944. Now I can say I stood at the easel of Rembrandt Harmenszoon van Rijn. At the Mauritshuis in Den Haag, I stood gazing at Vermeer’s A View of Delft in the same place where Vincent Van Gogh once stood doing the same thing. As silly as these things might sound, they mean a lot to me. In Holland I can go, and I have gone to see the art of Rembrandt, 

Rembrandt van Rijn

A View of Delft

Vermeer, Fabritius, Van Gogh, Hals, Reubens, and van Dyck and many, many more—a list too numerous to include here. Europe, namely Holland, particularly Amsterdam, is a metaphorical candy shop—it is virtually impossible to get enough, no matter how many times you visit or how long you stay.

Some time ago I was contacted by a parent of one of my students who (thankfully) alerted me that my kids wanted some class time to show me something they made for me and some parents wanted permission to attend so they could see it also. I’m thick but I aine dull; so I knew what that meant. Sure enough, the whole affair was quite emotional. I hung on; and hung on; and hung on. Then several parents spoke. Man…yeah…OK so much for hanging on.

They gave me classic Dutch footwear.

They gave me some bubbly…and then they gave me this:

Not long ago I went on record claiming that since I’ve been in Holland I had met two Dutch artists, and I owned originals by both. Steve, please forgive me. I should have said “three.”

Months ago I realized that the amazing paintings I saw in various places throughout the school were done by Stephen York. The more I learned about Steve as an artist, the more I admired the man. He’ll be incredulous at the implication and possibly quite dismissive, but how can I not make the connection? In this place, this very special place, I have met yet another Dutch master. No words can describe how I feel knowing I own a York original.

Good Times and Riches

I have a weird inclination to attribute significance to silly coincidences. Hey, after my new chums gave me a painting by one of only two local artists I have met and admired, I’m sticking with my tendency.

Every morning I wake at 5:45 to my iPod playing songs. I have to laugh at how often I make connections between the random selections and whatever is happening for me. I know it’s a stretch but I am getting quite used to it.

Before I leave Amsterdam for good, I made a short list of things I still want to see. On Sunday I toured the Amsterdam Heritage Museum and shopped for my grandson on Kalverstraat before walking to the Leidseplein for a few beers and a chance to use my pen. I sat down, made my order, and dug in my man-bag for my iPod Touch.

Here’s what I heard:

If it suddenly ended tomorrow

I could somehow adjust to the fall.

Good times and riches

And sonofabitches

I’ve seen more than I can recall.

                                         --Jimmy Buffett

Is it me? OK, probably, but you have to admit…