Wake up to the Sunday morning, hop on your bike, cycle to the park, and feel the smell of the trees around you, listen to the chirping of birds, feel the wind breeze. It’s spring, and we’re at the Oosterpark. It’s 10 a.m. and unlike later on in the afternoon, it is quiet over here, and there’s SPACE. My friend Catarina from All In Yoga is about to start the class. As much as I love dancing the night out, the feeling of starting the day early, and in this fashion, is incomparable.
Imagine this. You’ve decided you’re moving to another country. You don’t exactly know why you’ve chosen that land, other than it’s widespread reputation for being a good place to live in. You think it’s better to start writing to people prior to your departure. Those people are already living in the country of your choosing, and could hypothetically help you settle. Some of them are friends of friends, others write blogs you like reading. You never met them in person, so it’s basically a shot in the dark. There’s this girl who writes for a fashion platform you came across, and she is based in Amsterdam. You give it a try.
The only moment of the day in which you can quietly walk along the city center of an overcrowded Amsterdam is at the crack of dawn: that’s the time when you carelessly go around parts of the city you would otherwise avoid. That is also the moment in which, as a local, you feel that the city is yours again ( was it ever…?) – even if just for a couple of hours, before the sea of tourists awakes. However, and despite the fact that I love this sensation, I somehow really need to have a strong reason in order to wake up early. And the good reason for me is always art-related.
It is 09.30 in the morning. My backpack is ready. There’s a laptop in there, yoga clothes, maybe a portable breakfast if I didn’t have the time to eat it before leaving the house. I hop on my bike, get out of the Staadsliedenbuurt, cycle across the Westerpark – that fresh morning wind bringing me back to life -, and then I find this tiny bridge which welcomes me into the Spaarndammerbuurt. In the wink of an eye I am unlocking the door of Tula Yoga.
Once upon a time there was a person who was afraid of the cold. She was the Strandmeisje.
She was brought up at a coastal area of a country where summers were long and temperatures high. Come May and the Strandmeisje was already laying on the beach, an activity which she would commitedely perform until mid September.
Last weekend I had a city-break and ventured to Belgium, where I was hosted at a stunning little castle near the city of Ghent. It was a two full days in the countryside, listening to the birds, contemplating nature, and strolling around the property. That trip reminded me of the tale of the farmer – The Wind.
Once upon a time there was a farmer living in a castle. He was no duke, in fact he had absolutely no noble title before his name, but he lived within the property of one. The duke liked having such a hard-working man around, one he could trust to help protecting his domain, together with the concierge. The farmer didn’t come from afar but none knew much about him, except for he was named after the wind. The Wind – just like a native of some long lost tribe – the last man of his own people, one bound to a special mission.
Last week one of my theater mates proposed we went to see the “De Andere Stem”, a theater play which starting point is Jean Cocteau’s classic “La Voix Humaine”( “The Human Voice”). I am an enthusiast of classics, especially in The Netherlands, where they are always staged from a contemporary perspective. I am fond of Toneelgroep Amsterdam as well – the company resident at the Stadsschouwburg, the national theater located at Leidseplein. The stars seemed well aligned for a proper theater evening.
Warning: This post may not be suitable to those with colour-allergy.