Post-Yule 2014
We did it; the Yule is over, and the sun has been reborn! And Artur finished installing our new kitchen and tiling both toilet floors on the concluding day of the yuletide. It was an exhausting, virtual camping out experience in our own home, but the time in Amsterdam was still rich, full and wonderful. It was not the solstice advent I had originally imagined and planned, but it retained the congruent element of magical surprise nonetheless. And the cessation of keeping up with the news was an additional delight. Freed as I was from being constantly reminded of how badly we can collectively pass our ephemeral time caring for our planet and managing our living on her, I could almost glimpse if not indulge in the golden age of Saturnus’ reign. Io Saturni!
Ironically if not actually to be expected, our dinner plans with Solveig and Hans and their daughters at Pasta e Basta did not materialise. Esther had not made a reservation (perhaps she had for the previous week), and Solveig forgot. We did not know and waited 45 minutes and were given our cranberry juices ‘on the house’. We then went to Va Piano, had pizza and a delightfully relaxing and unexpected interval. Such was our time between non-time and time.
For the Saturnalia on the 17th, we began our outing to Barney’s for lattes et al. From there, it was the Foam Museum with a marvelous show of photographs taken by Vivian Maier (1926-2009). Many were of the New York City I had known in my youth, and it was a nostalgic travel back – way back for me – in time. This was the New York that was already legendary in my expectations, and, from where I grew up, it was ‘just over there’. ‘No, it cannot be!’ ‘Yes, it is!’ In fact, if we climbed South Mountain on which my hometown backed into, we could see the metropolis itself beyond the Jersey ‘Meadows’. Most of Maier’s works were black-and-white photos, and their visual impact was immediate and arresting. With her later shots in colour, the viewer was required to look at and study them. Effort was necessary whereas it was not with the earlier pictures.
After the Foam, we visited the Begijnhof chapel – always an ancient numinous and cultic delight – and then the Amsterdam Historic Museum with its further wonders. A return to Barney’s, this time for milkshakes. Finally, an evening before the domestic hearth and its flaming warmth along with whisky, salmon and more nostalgic recollections with John. It was not for us a Saturnalia of carnivalesque revelry, role reversals and exchange of strenia or gifts but one that was no less celebratory and emancipating.
The following evening was the Perdu Theatre and an old-fashioned European one-man show with Ger belting song after song as Victoria False. This was an intimate and relaxed drag queen performance. She/he was joined by a guitarist for the second half. All in all, it was a thoroughly entertaining moment.
The Opalia on the 19th I always remember for the ‘Bambi party’ in Rome at John Daly’s splendid apartment adjoining the Teatro di Marcello with everyone dashing home to gossip as soon as Bambi (whose entrance had been described by a shocked Peter to me at the time as the first “Bambi flop” he had ever seen) talked the hottest number present and in whom everyone was interested to take her somewhere for ‘real food’ despite the huge spread of treats and delicacies at the party itself. She had declared out of feigned boredom that she was “hungry.” On the occasion of the Opalia this year, we had instead a quiet evening before the fire with Warren with various seafood treats, cheeses, whisky and my first quiche made in the new kitchen.
The following evening we enjoyed a delicious sushi dinner at Yvonne and Eric’s apartment on the Brouwersgracht. Art friends of Charles, interesting, cultured and well informed, it was most pleasant to have the opportunity to get to know them better, along with Yvonne’s most attractive daughter Roos. The solar rebirth occurred as we were walking home. On this occasion I virtually had to put Richard to bed.
Because of our train reservations for the 24th, we had decided to celebrate the Divalia instead of more usually the Larentalia. We started late and with milkshakes again at Barney’s, this time made by Costa. It was the Museum Willet-Holthuysen next – an enchanting 18th century Dutch patrician house in which we enjoyed casually wandering. Here are also to be found two wall murals by Rochussen in the Garden Room – a late 19th century Dutch painter who is particularly special for us after finding an 1893 watercolour by him literally on the street. We followed the museum on this occasion with two rounds of Irish coffees at the Pulitzer Hotel and then whisky, the fire and various foods at home.
The following day, Carlo and Jean-Christophe collected some of our heavier luggage to bring to us at the farm the end of the month. I moved much back into the kitchen from the dinning room where we had stored it. Since we were fasting for the day, I collapsed relatively early.
And then it was/were the Larentalia. Richard and I performed a token funeral for Larentia on the Rembrandtsplein and then each had warm krentenbollen from the Kerstmarkt on the square. Whiskys and feasting before our final fire and with John concluded the day, and I collapsed again but even earlier than I had the night previously.
Finally listening to the news the following morning, I fell asleep each time I put it on. John left for London, and not much later, we left for the Centraal Station and the Thalys to Paris. The day was Ben’s 30th birthday, and we joined the celebrations at Marie-Laure’s on the Rue d’Oberkampf along with her, her sons Jonathan and Robin, her ex Jose and his wife Corrine, Ben’s partner the stunning Cynthia from Singapore, Ben’s friend Drop, Marie’s cousin-once-removed (?) Emilie and her partner, an American friend Owen and finally dear, cute and energetic Toby. It was in all another feast – beginning with smoked salmon, oysters, foie gras, Jonathan’s banana-and-coconut muffins – huge amounts of each – and the Dutch geitenkaas met truffes that we had brought. Much champagne of course, then a beef ragout as well as an Asian chicken with pomegranates – all superlative. And finally the most over-the-top desserts that Ben had brought. It could not in all have been a more enjoyable gathering – lovely people, the dazzling Marie-Laure, her incredibly handsome sons, and the easiest of flowing times and perpetual delight. Someone received a text message to wish a ‘Happy Christmas’, and it was 0:15. So we walked home and slept late the next day, but, because it became sunny and despite that we are now fasting, we walked to the Seine, enjoyed expressos at Au Petit Cheval à Fer on the way back and are simply savouring to be in Paris even though I have yet to have an internet connection to post this. Io Saturni! Salve Sol!
* * * * *
Postscript: Even without an internet connection, I find I am receiving emails through my mobile phone. And I have just heard from Florida that my friend Gene Tunezi (-12.12.2014) has died. I was wondering if there was a special significance to my drawing the tarot card XIII several times during the yuletide. I met Gene in Venice in 1961. I was 21; I think he was at the time 27. We became friends after a magical visit together to the island of Torcello where an ancient burial had just been unearthed in the town’s central square. He was the set designer for the soap opera “All My Children,” came originally from Illinois of Italian and Lithuanian descent, Capricorn was his birth sign, and he lived in New York – eventually settling into an apartment on West 78th Street. I do not have dates for him, but he was over the years a good friend – also a stubborn and head-strong person. He fell on the city’s pavement and broke his hip. During his recovery, he was told not to walk, but during the night he did get up to urinate, fell again, broke his hip a second time and had eventually countless operations subsequently – something like twelve in all. One of these last was successful but became infected, and his doctors were required to re-break the fracture to cure the infection. It finally reached the point where no doctor was willing to operate further on him. He could no longer walk. His friends Gary and Hedy became his caregivers – a full time job. Gary had recently retired. They pooled their financial resources but could find nothing suitable outside of Florida and so settled near Daytona into what was for Gene a bleak existence. With failing eyesight, he could no longer read or even watch TV. He has lived like this for at least ten years. His memory had also failed, and he scarcely remembered who I was the last time we talked by phone. So I can only say that I am glad now for his release.