I’m sitting on the dock, listening to a small tourist ship squeaking against rubber tires.

To my right is an astonishing pink boat, festooned with lots of Dutch, musical notes and small china figurines.  I’ll take a photo on my way back.

I’m alone.  Except for whoever’s hammering in some unseen workshop.  I like being alone.

On another dock, I saw the cargo ship Layla.  Beneath the name was written “St. John’s”.  

“O my God – a vessel from Newfoundland, Canada.  I’ve been there!”  Except Google research revealed that its home port was St. John’s, Antigua.  More of the world.

Earlier this morning I walked through the same park as two days ago on my way to breakfast.  Do you remember the photo of four folks sitting on four chairs at the edge of the water?  Today that was me.  I thought of their bums and so many others from yesteryear.

I watched a young man doing push-ups as his girlfriend looked on admiringly.  Soon after they were meditating.

I ate at Lunchroom Benny’s, a fabulous Moroccan place with a waiter whose eyes smiled.  Amazing pancakes, each folded up, accompanied by goat cheese, tiny nuts and honey.

On my way to the docks I walked on the other side of the lake.  An elderly woman was coaxing the world’s slowest dog.  I’m sure he or she was smiling while ignoring the pleas to speed up.

Further along the path, I looked across the lake to see the chair I’d been sitting in.  An earlier me … and I thought of all the chapters that have been my life.  May there be many more.

From over the water I heard kids playing at recess.  Later I found the school.  Everybody was still at recess, it seemed, and all were moving, except one very young couple enthralled with each other.  And there was a football game:

***

“Bruce, you’re writing too much!  Nobody’s going to read all this”

“Too bad … I’m writing it”

***

Now I’m sitting with my cappuccino … with a great view of Amsterdam’s Centraal Station, and more importantly, of people. Look at these cyclists, each with a story to tell:

And then there’s the car with eyelashes:

What a great spot! I’m looking into so many faces. Plus there are seagulls. Time for a second cappuccino.

Okay, this is amazing. I am witness to hundreds of cyclists doing subtle slow motion maneuvers that I can’t do. I celebrate life.

Now I’m looking at maybe fifty gulls circling overhead. I’d say that I’m home except that Ghent got there before Amsterdam.

Now my feet have led me back to Anne Frank’s home. No Google Maps. I’m sitting across the canal from Prinsengracht 263. Over there, between the sidewalk and the canal, ordinary people are having a beer on a terrace, facing the water. Behind them … so many selfies at Anne’s door.

***

It’s 4:00 pm and it feels like I’m done with writing for the day. But here are three more pics. The first one shows us lots of Amsterdam residents who have just left the pub and need to rest:

And who can resist boats and bridges?

See you tomorrow

I suppose you’re expecting a vivid travelogue about the wonders of Amsterdam centrum.  Well … not yet.

There’s lots to laugh about so far today.  What else can I do?  Actually it started last night after I left Pllek.

I was standing at the bus stop for number 35, as patient as a tourist can be.  It didn’t take long.

“Oh good.  Here comes the 35 … and there goes the 35!”

I was in the correct place and the driver just kept on truckin’.  I walked up to a fellow waiting for another bus.  “What’s with that?!”  >  He smiled.  “If you don’t wave your hand, they won’t stop.”

All righty then.  When in Rome …

Today started inauspiciously.  I woke up nauseous.  Yuck.

I headed to the bathroom with my utilities bag.  I reached in for this and that.  And cut the middle finger of my left hand with my razor.  I stared in wonder at the blood flowing freely.  Years ago, I had a blood clot in my leg.  Since then I’ve been on a blood thinner.  So if I cut myself, the red stuff comes out easily.

I reached for a tissue and pressed hard.  After a few minutes of that, I called out to Harry to see if he had a bandage.  No answer.  So I kept pressing.

“So, is this going to be my day – stuck in the bathroom?”  No chance.  I switched to squeezing the tissue with my left thumb.  Now liberated, my right hand could perform my usual morning activities.

So … I washed and rung dry my compression stockings, shaved, washed my hair and other necessary places in the sink, put on my clothes.

I was fascinated by what I could do with one hand.  The blood flow was easing, Harry had a bandage, and all was right with the world.

And now for Amsterdam centrum …

***

I went to church … the Basiliek van de Heilige Nicolaas.  At the entrance I saw a sign in Dutch which basically said “No tourists”.  Once I’d refocused, I saw they meant during Masses, and one was starting in five minutes.  I stayed.

Here’s a photo I took after the Mass:

The priest’s voice echoed in the sanctuary.  There was a transmission of goodness.  Even though I’m not Christian, I felt the spiritual energy … of love, of togetherness.

The Lord be with you … And with your spirit

Let us pray to the Lord … Lord hear our prayer

There were astonishing paintings of Jesus approaching his crucifixion.  See the man in white raising his hammer to impale Jesus’ hand with the nail:

Afterwards I talked to Johan, one of the church volunteers.  He talked of his years in Thailand working with orphaned children whose parents had died from HIV AIDS.  There are heroes everywhere.

***

Weeks ago I Googled the Anne Frank House in Amsterdam and found out that tickets were sold out for the days that I’m here. I was sad.

This afternoon I roamed towards Prinsengracht 263, where Anne and her family hid from the Nazis for two years. The modern Anne Frank tourist destination was two doors down.

I sat on a bench in front of 263 and felt into the terror she must have felt in 1940. I stayed there for almost an hour as hundreds of tourists posed for selfies. It looked like very few people were touched by the enormity of such evil and heartbreak. Maybe I’m wrong about this but I don’t think so.

Anne and her family were just a few folks out of millions who suffered at the hands of Hitler. All this incredible pain … that I’ve never had to live with.

Here are two photos – 1940 and 2023:

Life is so big

I’m sitting in the Antwerp Centraal station, waiting for my train to Amsterdam.  I’m in a new city, in a new reality.  Above me are three more levels of train tracks.  It’s a huge world.

What will the next eight days give me?  It’s such a mystery, and I’m thrilled to be smack dab in the middle of it.

Half an hour ago I looked out from my window and saw ancient buildings and masses of parked bicycles.  Then I snapped to the realization that I was no longer in Ghent.  This was elsewhere in Belgium.  Brand new.

As I followed the route on Google Maps, I saw that there was a highway far to my right which was slowly going to come close to the tracks. Way over there was a huge green truck, hauling some load. I got excited to think that in a few seconds I’d be right beside the driver.

Road joined train tracks and no truck came by. (Sigh) I guess I was travelling faster than my new friend.

On I go

***

The second step of my journey was strange. Into the flatness of The Netherlands – farmers’ fields and virtually none of the old buildings that I so treasure in Ghent. Rivers were crossed by tunnels underneath, so no great expanses of water favoured my eyes. And often there was a really high fence beside my window, way above my head. Part of the fence had a pattern that I could see through but I still felt hemmed in. No real sense of what The Netherlands is.

Upon arriving at Amsterdam Centraal Station, I made a mistake. I was so focused on figuring out the local public transportation that I barely noticed the building towering above me. Tomorrow I’ll rectify the situation. Tomorrow I return to the heart of Amsterdam.

After buying my four-day pass for the Metro, buses and trams, I was ridiculously focused on getting to my Airbnb. No doubt my great need to pee had something to do with it.

I took the M52 Metro to Noorderpark Station, then Bus 35 to Purmerweg. Each step of the way I was graced with helpful people. I admitted to one woman that I didn’t speak Flemish. She looked at me funny till I realized I’m in The Netherlands, not Belgium. The language is Dutch, not the dialect of Dutch called Flemish.

Harry is a great host and after an introduction to his place I did what any polite guest would do … I fell asleep.

***

I searched Google Maps for dinner and found a neighbourhood called Waterlandplein about a 15-minute walk away. The descriptions of the several restaurants in the area all lacked a word that may be essential for human happiness – “beer”. Oh well. I set off anyway.

I passed through an exquisite park. Wide green spaces, picnic tables, mature trees, a lake with white birds enjoying themselves, and this:

Yes. A family of four enjoying each other. Parks are for people.

I was indeed correct about the beer. The penne with salmon was scrumptious but the server confirmed that there were no pubs anywhere near.

What’s a man to do? I was looking for a funky place to sip and write. Google, the Bus 35 route and friendly locals landed me here … at Pllek. And as you can see, all is well:

There’s a whole lot of Amsterdam water out there, and right in front of me folks lounging on tables, in red chairs and plush bean bag sanctuaries. The beach is tiny pebbles that feel good underfoot.

***

It’s a happy Monday

To be followed naturally by a happy Tuesday

Ghent centrum is spectacular. If you Google the city, you’ll see the famous churches, the musical bell tower, the Leie River lined with hundreds of people sitting and standing – enjoying the sun. I love this too. It’s a big part of being at home.

I’m also a curious soul. What is life like on the edges, where few tourists ramble? Where do the locals hang their hats?

I’ve found many such places. They’re ordinary … and real. Last night I sat on the sidewalk of the Sleepstraat, a street at the centre of the Turkish community in Ghent.

I discovered an Afghani and Iranian restaurant called De Saffraan. I was welcomed with big smiles by two teenaged employees. I sat outside and over the next hour-and-a-half discovered exquisite flavours: chicken with a secret spice, saffron-laced rice, a huge flatbread sweetened by tzatziki sauce, spinach with little nuts, and a mysterious, delightful pudding.

I was going to taste an Afghani saffron beer but they were out of it. So I gladly sipped on my Duvel. Mid-meal the liquid had disappeared so logically I needed to have another.

The server, perhaps 15-years-old, was so sweet. She really wanted me to enjoy the meal. Like me, she loves Ghent. I asked if she wanted to live again in Afghanistan and she said no. Women are treated like possessions there.

I had other visitors. As I sat outside, the windows to the restaurant were open. To my left there was a large upholstered sitting area. One little boy, and later another, poked their head out and we waved to each other. They spoke their language. I spoke mine. We understood each other’s smiles.

And then there was life passing by me on the Sleepstraat. I thought of a Bruce Springsteen song:

When I’m out in the street
I walk the way I want to walk
When I’m out in the street
I talk the way I want to talk

Families walked by. Friends. Languages I didn’t know. Trams floated. (I love trams) Some young cars revved their motors. Here and there a stooped old man or woman. All of it! A few who came close smiled. Me too.

***

Did I mention I’m happy?

We are together … you and me and so many others.  As human beings, we are joined.  Sometimes the lines are visible, such as two kids having fun on the ends of a skipping rope.  Or when two arms reach for hands.

Often, though, the lines are hidden from normal ways of being.  The physical eye doesn’t notice the connection but it’s alive nonetheless.

Alex Grey is my favourite artist.  See mom kissing away the child’s owwie.  See their eyes.  The line is real.  May it always be so between them.

I remember another line.  Decades ago I had a gall bladder attack and ended up in the hospital.  My former wife Rita contacted my then girlfriend Jody to see if I was all right.  The line joining us told Rita I was in trouble.  What mystery!

I have friends living in Toronto, Belmont, New York City, California, Alberta, England, Maarkedal … and Ghent.  The lines are there, bringing us close, creating a glistening spider web of human intersections.  All with nothing needed to be said.

Ahh … I’m sensing the world wide web now.  The eyes of people from the countries of the world are with me.  I haven’t met them, and I know them.

Here we all are

The big going was completed on January 28 … I left Canada and arrived in Belgium to live.

Four months later, it’s time for another going. On Monday I’m taking the train to Amsterdam for four nights and then to Brussels for three more. Just me – splorin’.

I hope that my future holds “I’ve never been to _______ and I’m heading there.” And how about “I’ve never done ________ and I’m going to?” Yes.

Staring me in the face is Amsterdam and the world between here and there. Why not? Why not Monday?

All I have are stereotypes about the city, such as it being overun by tourists and having the biggest “red light district” in Europe. And art! Some fellow named Rembrandt. Plus there was Anne Frank and Hitler’s war machine.

Will I go visit some of the famous stuff? Probably … but I want to be unpredictable. Who knows what will beckon me in the moment?

I’ll roam some tiny curving streets, walk into some “sketchy” cafés and see who I can talk to there. I want to reach people whose lives are way different than mine. If a Canadian comes by that’s fine but I’d prefer conversations with Iranians and Italians, Muslims and Sikhs, and folks with dark skin.

I’m familiar with “I know” but that gets boring after awhile. It’s time for more “I don’t know”s – more mystery.

What do Dutch people have for breakfast? No idea. Hopefully I’ll sample things far from my morning routine.

Will there be dancing in the street? Weird and wonderful animals strolling by? All the clothes of the rainbow? Let’s say yes.

But (wait for it) there’s Thursday! Bruce Springsteen and me. I’m pretty sure he’s arranged a backstage pass for me. If he hasn’t, he should.

50,000 of us will be in Johan Cruijff Arena to hear “The Boss” rock the night with the E Street Band. And I know that he’ll sing Badlands just for me. We the crowd will blast out the chorus … no problem.

I’ve seen Bruce twice, many years ago. But I’m leaning into a fresh 73-year-old, giving the classics delightful twists.

Okay, enough about Amsterdam. I travel from there to Brussels on Friday, May 26. Up ahead on the weekend is the Core Festival – techno music, awesome light shows and breakthrough dancing in Osseghem Park. I wonder if there’ll be 50,000 more human beings to grace my life. Peut être.

My body will be sore. My soul will be soaring. And my feet will fly!

Who will I meet in two Airbnb’s, on the sidewalks, in the park, on the terraces, at street corners? May they be weird and wonderful, “out there” folks who want to grab onto life for all they’re worth. Pistachio please, only a bit of vanilla.

***

I’m revvin’ up

I’m painting pictures in my head … all of which could be wrong!

Who cares if they are?

P.S. For those of you who have been reading me lately, tonight I’m going back to Kompass Klub

P.P.S. Okay, I lied. I’m too tired to go dancing tonight. A woman just told me that the moving and grooving only really gets going at 2:00 and lasts till at least 7:00. It’s so beyond my previous life. I was planning on going alone tonight but I need companions to inspire me for this to work. (Sigh)

My friend Lydia has come from Maarkedal to visit me for two days. Nearly six years ago, on a hiking trail in Alberta, Canada, Lydia told me about the children that she and her friends sponsor in Senegal. They visit the kids most Christmases.

“Would you like to come with us?”

And the rest is life turned upside down. I would be sitting in Belmont, Canada today rather than in Ghent, Belgium were it not for my friend.

Lydia and I love each other. We want each other to be supremely happy, to have outrageous adventures, to smile all the way to the end.

I met her late yesterday afternoon as she got off the train at the Gent Sint-Pieters station. I tried to hide but she was too fast for me. “Welcome to my city.” She’d always been the one welcoming me.

And then my street … the Oudburg. Up the stairs to my apartment. “Welcome to my home.”

We sat on my white couch talking about life – her kids and my new friends, the joys of really being in a new country. I’m a resident, immersed in the flow of humanity strolling the streets of Ghent centrum.

We had dinner at Petit Comité, only a three-minute walk from me but around the corner from the busy Oudburg. One of the owners welcomed us so genuinely and guided us through the menu possibilities. We had five little courses to share – small portions of eye-opening flavours.

We were nourished by warm Brie cheese, pork ribs, spicy corn-on-the-cob … as well as the tiramisu. The real sustenance, however, was in our friendship, in the gaps between the words, in the eyes.

It was quiet and slow. No phone calls. Room to breathe.

We went for a walk after dark. Meandering down the cobblestones in the oldest part of the city. After crossing a wee bridge we sat on a bench on the Lievekaai. Here is what we beheld:

Silence reigned. We said very little as night closed around us. We lingered in the stillness.

Lydia’s life is so busy: entrepreneur, mother and friend. Finally a time to rest, to fall into the slumber of the city, to sigh.

***

All was well within the embrace of nighttime

The embrace of friendship

I’m not going to ride a bicycle anymore.  My friend Baziel will soon be taking Betty on his commutes to university in Ghent.

I’ve had a strange cycling career.  It didn’t exist until I was 47.  Never had a bike as a kid.  A decade or more later, I started leading short rides with the London Cycling Club in Canada.

In 2012, I had a blood clot in my left leg which I happily survived.  But I started noticing my balance was off, and it’s remained so.

It had been my goal to ride the Tour du Canada – a bike ride across my country.  In 2018 I was 69.  “It’s now or never, Bruce!”  I trained hard.

I lasted four days.  The fitness was okay.  The bike skills were not.  I fell several times and couldn’t do the slow motion maneuvering in downtown Vancouver.  And I was terrified of the semi-trailer trucks blasting by three metres to my left.  I quit.

My right hand shook for weeks.  The PTSD was alive in me … and it still lingers.

As I contemplated my move to Belgium, one task was clear: “What do I keep and what do I give away?”  I felt into the question and my quiet voice said “Take Betty across the ocean.”  So I did.

“How many times have you ridden in Ghent?” you ask.  “Zero,” I answer.  Right now I feel a twinge of embarrassment about that but it’s being magically overwhelmed by a smile.

I’ve watched cyclists ply their trade in Ghent centrum.  Navigating the tram tracks, the approaching trams, and slow-moving pedestrians.  I shake my head with wonder and really get that I no longer have what it takes to do that.  Plus I don’t want to do that.

Did I mention “strange”?  Especially with me smiling in the moment.  Prevailing wisdom probably says that I should rise to the occasion, “gird my loins”, be a man. 

Take on the challenge!

You can do it!

Fly!

***

No … I don’t want to

Just that

Is it bright or dull?  Is it “out there” or “in here”?  Is it seen or hidden?

We show each other our clothes, our smiles or frowns, the spirit of our walking.

Do we have a sign hanging around our neck, revealing who we are?  Or is the back of the sign facing outwards … blank?  And maybe there’s no sign.

Do we reveal our creations?  Is it clear that we are a growing thing?

Do we choose to blend in, adjusting ourselves to each new environment?  Or do we joy in contrast so that the heart of things can stand out?

Do we walk alone?  Just with a favoured few?  Or do we welcome all the world’s residents to stroll the paths with us?

Are we curious, freely admitting the span of our not knowing?  Or perfectly sure of ourselves, confident with our “rightness” in every conversation?

Do we prefer curves or right angles?  Are we akin to brick or wood or aluminum siding?  Do we gaze up to the roof or peer into the basement windows?

Who does the world see as you pass by in the street?

And do you even want to know?

There’s no rule saying you need to

David Attenborough, the British broadcaster and creator of nature documentaries such as Planet Earth, turned 97 a week ago.

One Facebook page is up to 74,000 likes and loves and 5,700 comments full of birthday wishes.

I ask myself “What would it be like to be so revered? Is that what I want in my life, to be showered with adulation? To be known far and wide for my good works?”

No … I don’t want that.

Yes … I want to be loved, but if it’s just a few folks that’s okay. I want to lead a loving life and the quantity of love returning is not important.

Still there’s a part of me that would like to hear things like this:

You are an inspiration to us all

You are so loved and admired and respected

You dear kind caring loving Sir

There will never be another you

The world could certainly use more like him

It’s seductive … these thoughts of being loved. Do I unconsciously adjust myself so that the praise will come? Do I tiptoe around difficult moments rather than just saying what’s true for me? Do I linger in the receiving too much and burst out in the giving too little?

Here comes a smile, which I always see as a good sign. “Just continue doing what you’re doing, Bruce. Fall into the moments of generosity. See who needs a hand on the shoulder.”

***

There will be no statue of me at the end of my days

But I bet there’ll be a few smiles of remembrance

One or two would be fine