Beth Kaplan's Blog, page 17

A quiet Sunday morning, yours truly a bit better, definit...

A quiet Sunday morning, yours truly a bit better, definitely, though shaky.  I’ve just been out to look for the Sunday papers, which I couldn’t find – no news-stand in the tube stop, no newspaper shop open. A sign of the times. Shops here open at noon on Sunday; I’ll try again later.

It’s another lovely day, cooler than yesterday, which was 22 degrees, the hottest day of the year so far. Christopher rode his bike over to get my theatre ticket and we spent the afternoon together. I’ve known him since he was an infant, born in northern France, where his parents were running a L’Arche community. From my theatre school in London, I came across to visit. Here was my best friend, married with a baby, and I, about to set off on my life as an actress. Christopher now has four younger sisters.

I strolled once more through  Kensington Gardens with him, the park even more marvellously crowded, and then invited him to sit in my hotel’s garden and have a glass of wine. Utterly delightful. One of the first babies I’d ever held is now over fifty, a banker with a Spanish partner and a ten-year-old daughter. And of course, he has read Loose Woman, where his family, and even he, figure heavily. He said he enjoyed it very much. I hope it’s true.

A quiet day ahead. If I have the energy, I’m heading for a Marks&Spenser to stock up on underwear, mine getting worn out after my last trip to M&S some years ago. Maybe a walk with Tony, maybe not. Usually when I travel my schedule is jam-packed; this is showing me another way. I am certainly getting my money’s worth out of this hotel room. Tomorrow, a new phase of the trip, my ancestral tour – meeting Penny in Northampton. And a guarantee of rain.

Here’s what I wrote on the Eurostar:

So – France and the French. As Lynn says, a people who live in heaven and think they live in hell. The level of attentive care given to its populace is surely unparalleled anywhere, except maybe in Scandinavia. Lynn told me that after Denis had heart surgery, the government paid for a taxi to pick him up every morning to take him to rehab. I’ve long marvelled that after they give birth, French women get free physical therapy to get their bodies back in shape. On top of that, the transit, the medical systems, and of course the food – oh, the food – mostly fabulous.

Yes, there are huge problems. Lynn feels the education system is going to the dogs; the universities are free and anyone can get in, lowering standards. At the same time, French standards at the top end are rigid and critical, leading, she says, to a lack of courage, confidence, and creativity.

BUT – the validation of beauty is everywhere – buildings, people, streetscapes, shops. Not to mention a culture that honours writers, artists, and history. A program called Apostrophes, featuring lengthy in-depth interviews with writers, was one of the most popular programs on French TV – can you imagine? Elle magazine, which I used to love and have finally given up on – the latest shows the new fashion of wearing your underpants as if they’re clothing – always features pages on writers and their books.

But – that rigidity, stuck on tradition – and the fact that the French complain about everything, it’s their default mode. Even when they’re chatting amiably, they sound like they’re complaining. But – careful attention to and great appreciation of the fine things in life.

Lynn gave up Canada, with its openness and casual self-deprecating friendliness, over fifty years ago. She is more comfortable with the formality of France. I am glad to be a Canadian who visits.

It was not an easy week for us with me so sick. And yet our only real disagreement was the usual one: fiction versus nonfiction. She has no time for memoir, and thinks my intention to read my parents’ letters and write about them is invasive and disrespectful. She thinks my work, helping people tell their most important stories, is valuable, but that the subsequent writings should probably not be shared with the wider world. “I don’t want to read them,” she says. She prefers the filter of fiction. I prefer true stories in which a writer is not pretending to be someone else. We are very different in that.

But otherwise, a gem of a friendship. She told me a high-school friend recently reminded her of a song she wrote back then, and sang, “My baby’s dead. My baby’s dead.” I finished it for her, because I too remember the song. “Run over by a train. Gonna get that train.”

I guess you hadda be there. Our laughter goes back fifty-seven years. (Photo from twelve years ago or so. I am wearing the same coat today.)

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a quiet day in beautiful downtown London

This, my friends, is the definition of surreal for me: it’s a gorgeous sunny day in one of the most exciting cities in the world, and yours truly is doing nothing. Or nearly nothing. As D. Trump would say, “Sad.” Mais c’est la vie.

Woke up knowing the sickness has not diminished much, if at all. Plus, to add to my pleasure, I have a black left eye, no idea why – perhaps I smacked myself in the face in the night, or else blew my nose so violently I burst blood vessels. In any case, it’s most attractive. I think it’s the wisest thing to revel in the luxury of a quiet hotel room with a view of the garden and the sound of birds

So plans are different. Lynn’s son Christopher, with whose family I was supposed to have lunch in Marylebone tomorrow, is coming over in an hour to pick up the National Theatre ticket for “Nye” I have for tonight. He has hosted me many times; I’m happy to give him something back. My original plan was to spend the day walking down to the Thames and across, visiting interesting things along the way, stopping for a pub bite before the show. But the thought of getting through the city and sitting in a theatre – not happening.

I did go this morning to Portobello Road, couldn’t not, because it’s right across the street from this hotel. I was last there in 1972 with my cousin Ted, visiting from New York, who bought me a funny black glass art nouveau candlestick I still have. I looked at the vendors today, understanding their struggle, from my years as a purveyor of vintage stuff. The street was packed, with people looking at antiques, posters, stamps, war memorabilia, rock memorabilia, jewelry, hats, clothing, just about everything. Fun. I bought nothing.

I’d had a big breakfast at the hotel and slipped a bun, some cheese and a hard-boiled egg into my purse; that was lunch. Sat outside in the heavenly garden, reading a shockingly depressing article by Sam Knight in the New Yorker about the catastrophic decline of Britain under 14 years of Conservative rule. Really really sad, as D. Trump would say.

I’ll go for a walk with Christopher, and buy some take-out dinner to eat here. A day to remember in beautiful downtown London.

Pix: 1. Kensington Gardens, yesterday – you can’t really see the forest of bluebells under the tree and a small child in red, playing. I remember clearly delighting in bluebells during the years we lived here, 1956-57. 2. A tiny section of this vast, spacious park. 3. The start of Portobello Road this morning. 4. The Battle of Waterloo with lead soldiers. 5. The street, before the action really got started. 6. Wisteria, glorious everywhere. 7. My happy place. 8. The view from my window, over the lovely hotel garden, a lifesaver. 9. The corner where I perched in the garden an hour ago – cherry blossom and more bluebells. 10. A visitor, very close – a baby robin. 11. A library! They sure know how to build libraries in this country. Except that the budgets have been slashed so brutally that …

No, let’s forget that on a lovely day, with my lungs, I am sure, healing. Peace.

    

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this green and pleasant land

Just watched a beautiful pink sky fade behind a narrow church steeple outside my hotel window. Birds are twittering. There’s a lovely garden below. The city seems very far away.

This is what I need — an oasis, a silent sanctuary. My own space. I love my friend and was very glad to spend time with her; the living space of the apartment she rented for us was wonderfully bright and tasteful, but she had no way of knowing that the second bedroom was very small with a lumpy bed and nowhere to put things. I’m an organized person, especially while travelling, and not knowing where anything is drives me crazy. The minute I arrived for three nights in this hotel room, I nested, unpacked everything, put clothes away on shelves and hangers, papers, electronics. I am a happy, organized camper.

I’m also able to hork. The expectorant pills I bought in Paris are helping to clear my lungs of the gunk filling it, but I need to make that horrible noise and just couldn’t do it with someone else around. Now I can hork and my lungs are clearing, I think.

TMI?

The hard part about this morning was saying goodbye to my dear friend, who was setting off back to Montpellier. Not sure when we’ll see each other again, but despite my illness, it was a fine visit, and I’m grateful, as always, for all she does to make France feel like home for me. And for putting up with my feeble self this week.

I walked up to the #26 bus — stopping first at our local boulangerie to buy a pain au chocolat, a croissant, and a tuna baguette — this on top of the ham sandwiches I’d made for Madame et moi for the journey. The bus took me straight to the Gare du Nord. Seamless — as the Eurostar hurtled through the French countyside at 250 kms. an hour, I chatted to a Frenchwoman taking her two Potter-mad daughters to the Harry Potter studio tour in London. And then we’re in the chunnel — it still seems unimaginable, how did they do it, build a tunnel under the Channel? — and 15 minutes later we’re above ground and hurtling through the British countryside.

At King’s Cross station (famous from the Potter books) I updated my Oyster card, got the Piccadilly line to Holborn, changed to the Central line, got out at Notting Hill Gate, an area I don’t know at all. Spent ten minutes in the swirling chaos of a busy street getting my bearings, and found this quiet street and my quiet hotel. Vincent House has a common room downstairs with a bar, a piano, a pool table, books – and a pretty garden outside. And inside, my little room with shelves and hangers. I am in heaven. And a big breakfast included.

It was a glorious day, supposed to be fine all weekend but rain next week. After recuperation and organizing, I walked through Kensington Gardens, the most enormous park, so different from a French park – this one unstructured, just acres of trees and grass, people sitting and walking everywhere. The children’s playground dedicated to Princess Diana was packed with joyful noise. I strolled, trying to get my bearings on the phone, sorry I hadn’t been able to find an actual map — I still need a paper map because dinosaur. And then there was a discarded London map lying in the grass! I also found a man’s phone in the grass and brought it to a couple picnicking nearby, hoping they’d know how to get in touch with him.

I was happy to be surrounded by so much green.

Back at the hotel, I bought a small bottle of wine and went up to my room to hibernate, ate the tuna sandwich from Paris with some wine for dinner, looking at the sky. I feel better. I feel better. Still shaky, still coughing, but organized.

New adventures await. In the meantime – BBC TV!

For some reason, my most recent pix have not downloaded, but here are the ones that did: 1. One of these women got up at 5 a.m. to do yoga, and the other has been sick for five days. 2: on my way, backpack on, tiny suitcase crammed. As careful as I was, there’s still too much. 3. The very busy Gare du Nord seen from the Eurostar perch. 4. Short story dispenser – love it. 5. Diana’s playground. Unaccompanied adults not allowed in, which is a good thing. 6. Came out the other side of the park to see this – Royal Albert Hall. That queen sure loved her hubby.

   

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last day in Paris

I decided in the night that what I have is a little case of walking pneumonia. Maybe, maybe not. In any case, whatever it is is still there, although the melatonin product I bought yesterday worked wonders – a little film that melts on your tongue and leads to slumber, amazing.

Months ago I’d booked tickets for us to visit the Musée d’Orsay, a special exhibition about the early days of Impressionism in 1874. Lynn was willing to go alone if I didn’t feel up to it, but finally I couldn’t not go. We got the metro to the Tuileries, walked across the gardens to the river and across to the museum, that magnificent building with its giant railway clocks. The exhibition was of course a zoo, jam-packed, difficult to see the pictures, tour groups clogging the route, but still, they were pretty great, those painters. Monet – is there anyone like Monet?

Below, a gorgeous Renoir, friends with Monet who painted the same pot of sunflowers and dahlias, and a beautiful Degas, whom I do not associate with skilful, sensitive close-up portraits.

Then out into a lovely Paris day. The weather has been wonderful, I’ve felt not a drop of rain after all that fuss. We wandered along the rue du Bac and found a great restaurant for lunch: confit de canard, delicious, with a small pichet of wine. We toasted our fifty-seven years of friendship.

And then to Monoprix, where Madame bought me a pair of crimson linen pants as a Christmas present. So I have a souvenir of the trip, because otherwise have bought nothing except medicine. And then walked with the thousands hovering around Notre Dame, over to Chatelet metro and home, back to my happy place — on the sofa under a blanket.

Tomorrow, off to the Gare du Nord to get the Eurostar to London. Once I get to my London hotel, I can just stay in bed for a day if I want. I do have a theatre ticket for Saturday night, but if I’m not well, I’ll take it easy. The good news is, I have a doctor’s appointment for shortly after I get home. Enough already. My lungs hurt, but I’m alive, full of art, food, and friendship, and moving on.

Below: crossing the Tuileries with the Louvre in the background – the redbud trees are glorious. Les Deux Magots, where Sartre and de Beauvoir wrote. The Fontaine Saint-Michel, the famous meeting place at the start of the boulevard.

So beautiful, this city. So full of life and creativity and style. Crazy making sometimes, but superb. I’ll be back. With lungs.

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old friends

A quick word before I lie down – just came back from the friendly local pharmacy where I bought expectorant cough pills, throat lozenges, and a sleep aid, at a cost of 24 euros – about $35. Not cheap, this sickness business. I am not better and have written to ask my son to make me an appointment with our mutual doctor for as soon as I get back. Time to get to the bottom of all this. My lungs hurt, couldn’t sleep because stuffed up. And outside, all day, the most gorgeous Parisian day.

Something surreal about being here in this incredible city and feeling rotten. But I’m glad I bestirred my bones this morning anyway to go and visit a very old friend. Michele lives in a suburb south of the city, took me an hour and a half by metro and suburban train to get there, but it was worth it. She was a student and then a scientific colleague of Dad’s; we met in 1964 when I was 13 and she was 27. Now she’s 87, has had cancer and a back operation, can hardly walk. Her husband Daniel, who was considerably younger, died suddenly a few years ago of a brain hemorrhage. She lives alone in their house, almost a farmhouse, in the countryside, her sons not quite close enough. She’s a lovely open woman who used to hike and camp and do ethnic dancing.

We had a most moving conversation, because — here’s the story — not long after marrying Michele, Daniel had a passionate affair with my mother. After that ended he went on to have many more affairs; that’s just who he was, and she put up with it because she loved him and wanted to keep the family together. He was an extraordinary man, a musician and teacher, organizer of events and communes, full of ideas and energy. He could even pilot a plane. But his ways were hard on her.

She took me to lunch in the beautiful village of Gif and then we returned to walk very slowly through the woods outside her house, and to look at the photo books she’s made of adventurous trips Daniel took with their grandsons.

And then the long metro ride back. Madame is out for a walk; it’s just me and my medication. One more day in Paris. A trip to remember, despite all.

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ma nouvelle famille

It poured twice today, and both times I was inside. It was cold and windy, but I was dry. Hooray!

Today was about family — meeting my British fourth cousin Lesley and her husband Duncan for the first time. She got in touch with me three years ago, out of the blue — she’d been researching her great-great-grandmother’s side of the family; she was the sister of my great-great-grandfather, and Lesley tracked me down. So we are distant relatives, and since I have so few cousins — two, to be exact — I was happy to add another, no matter how removed.

So after emails of family trees and photographs back and forth through the years, we arranged to meet today at the Gare de Montparnasse. They were coming from their home in a village near Poitiers. But before telling you about them, I must extoll the Parisian transit system. It is phenomenal. An app not only gives you many choices on how to get where you want to go, but it tells you exactly how long it will take, what end of the platform you should wait on to be most convenient for your next move, and how many calories you’ll burn getting there. This enormous, complex system is beautifully marked — I think especially carefully now, before the Olympics; the platforms tell you exactly when the next train is coming. Riders are polite and clean. It’s a marvel, in a city this size, how well it works. I am ashamed for Toronto.

I got to the Gare early — because efficiency etc. — so wandered around the huge Monoprix near the Gare. It is Madame’s favourite store and mine also; originally like Woolworth’s, with a bit of everything, it is now a storehouse of beautiful things at reasonable prices — this one had housewares, small appliances, computer accessories, prepared food and bread, a huge makeup section, of course — is there a country on earth where the people take as good care of themselves as France? Maybe Brazil, but otherwise, no — and clothes, lovely clothes in great colours, I was drooling.

My only purchase, however, was a box of Kleenex for my runny nose. Europeans, I’ve found, do not seem to believe in Kleenex. I also had a major coughing fit while in the store. I’m not well, but better. I went to a pharmacie and bought some Berocca, a product I’d read about that people stock up on when in France, full of vitamins for my immune system.

And there they were, Lesley and Duncan. I liked them on sight. We walked, chattering, to the restaurant she’d chosen — it said Bistro du Campagne so I knew it would be perfect. And it was; we were the only non-French people there for lunch. So we dined, and we talked. And what interesting people they are — have been living in France for 20 years and love it. She told stories of how kind and welcoming their neighbours were to them immediately, how many friends they’ve made, how at home they feel. They praised the French medical system, which they’ve both had to make emergency use of; Duncan is 74 and she is 67. They’ve published a book, Using Tradesmen in France, for English-speakers needing help to navigate home renovations here. She’s a writer too! She told me she should have been a detective, because she’s so thorough in tracking things and people down. What luck for me. And I told her she needs to write a book about her discoveries. As I always do, I reminded her that once the stories are in a book, they’re there forever. I hope she does.

And not only are they interesting, well-travelled, and kind, but they are both reading my books, he Loose Woman and she All My Loving. Lesley is going to order Midlife Solo now that it seems to be available. Family!

Normally, after lunch, I’d have gone for a stroll — there in the heart of Paris. But I needed to get back to Belleville and rest. And miss the next rainstorm.

Below: fourth cousins; with Duncan; their book.

We’ll meet again, somewhere, dear cousin. Thank you for getting in touch.

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human again

First, the best news: a friend just wrote that her bookstore finally had Midlife Solo for her, and it’s also on Amazon. My beloved book is more widely available for sale! Made my day.

Okay, enough gloating. When you hear that your faithful correspondent is in Paris, I’m pretty sure this is not what you imagine: that I’ve spent a great deal of time lying on the sofa in a lovely apartment in Belleville, an interesting, shabby working-class immigrant neighbourhood. This is not a Paris I have known. No, that’s not true — when my family lived here in 1964-65, it was in an HLM — a low-income high-rise — in Gentilly, a Communist suburb south of the city. Gentilly, and Belleville, are not shown on the tourist postcards. But they, too, are Paris.

Today, I watched as a chochard — a presumably homeless man — finished his bottle of wine and walked over to put the empty in one of the plastic bags that are everywhere keeping the city clean. The city is amazingly clean. And the delicious wine that Madame and I had for dinner cost $5 euros – about $8. Jealous.

It’s a relief to tell you I’m better — definitely not 100%, but human again. Yesterday I was capable of nothing. Today, after resting in the morning, I got dressed, and we went out into the sunshine — it was hot, over 20 degrees today, but will be back to cold tomorrow. We walked to the Parc du Buttes Chaumont, a lovely big park about 15 or 20 minutes away, and then to the Parc Belleville. Both are built on hills, and at the latter we climbed to the top for the view — there in the distance, la Tour Eiffel, the towers of Notre Dame, the Panthéon. Yes, this is Paris. The parks are vital oases of calm and beauty in the busy, noisy metropolis.

And then back to the apartment to lie down again, and a dinner of leftovers followed by delicious cheese and chocolate.

As Lynn said, just as well you got sick here, where there’s at least some sunshine, as opposed to England, where it’s always raining. She has a point. Thank God, I’m getting better. Friends have been sending kind messages, which help a lot; I thank you. It feels so ridiculous to come all the way to Paris to get sick. But mostly, I came here so my best friend and I could spend time together. And we are.

My new Substack came out today, written before I left and posted by Patrick; FYI, https://touchpointsawriterstruth.substack.com/p/the-value-of-on-the-spot-writing?utm_source=post-email-title&publication_id=2235540&post_id=143147845&utm_campaign=email-post-title&isFreemail=false&r=3d8wo&triedRedirect=true&utm_medium=email

So my friends, no fancy pictures. Parc #1 had a moving sign with a list of the names and ages of Jewish schoolchildren from the quartier deported and murdered. There are reminders like this throughout the city, and, indeed, the country.

Park #2 – Parisians enjoying a sunny day, with beyond, unseen, the Paris skyline.

The eclipse is happening soon, back home. Anna is of course having an eclipse party. Hope you are too. Here, a bit of live-streaming, early to bed, to rise, I hope, even better tomorrow.

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down and out in Paris

No new photos today, no nothing. I have been lying on the sofa under a blanket in our airbnb all day. I’m in Paris, and I’m sick with what feels like flu. It’s infuriating! We were going to explore the quartier, go to the nearby park and an exposition. Instead, Lynn worked on her computer much of the day and walked alone, and I lay here, feeling dreadful.

I have to do something; this happens too often. Lynn thinks I don’t eat enough fresh food, fruit, and veg — that my habit of cooking one day a week and eating whatever it is for days after is not healthy because over time, food loses its nutritional value; I didn’t realize that. Chris thinks it’s stress, and that’s what I think too — that getting out of the house and over the ocean and into Paris then to Amsterdam then back to Paris — at one time, easy peasy, no problem, just adventure. But now, there’s stress, and maybe that leads my immune system to go down.

For whatever reason, it’s down. Luckily tomorrow, nothing is planned, but Tuesday I’m meeting relatives I’ve never met for lunch and Wednesday going to stay with an old friend in the suburbs. I have to get well. Enough already.

I have apologized profusely to my friend; it can’t be fun for her to have her guest, a friend she rarely sees, hacking on the sofa. But she had a lot of work to do, and I had to listen to some of the audiobook, so we got stuff done. She cooked another nice meal. I am going to doze here and then tonight take a strong sleeping pill and hope and pray that tomorrow this thing is on its way out.

Someone, hearing about the travails of my book and a few other things, said, You’ve been having bad luck recently. Add this to the list. May this be the end of it.

Luckily this place is bright and comfortable, with a lovely kitchen. I took this after my arrival yesterday — my idea of heaven, Madame cooking and Monsieur opening a bottle of wine. Cheers!

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a summer day in Paris

My last morning in Amsterdam, I was hoping to walk around the old city on the way to the train station, but it was raining, so, after a restless night, I had a quiet morning before the midday train to Paris. So smooth, so easy, 3 1/2 hours through mostly green farmland. Many wind turbines, although just as we were leaving Holland, there was one real windmill.

Arrival in Paris one minute early, and then the fun began, looking for the right metro, a long walk through a tunnel under the Gare du Nord along with half the people in Paris, to get the metro to Belleville. But I got there, then got lost finding the apartment, but got there. Lynn, Denis and I were reunited. It’s a lovely bright apartment with just a few problems, the greatest being that Lynn rented it because, although Belleville is quite far northeast from the centre of Paris, there’s a great metro line, the #2, that goes everywhere from here. When she arrived, however, she learned that the #2 line is being shut down from tomorrow till next Friday, that is, our entire stay here.

However. There are other metro lines, we’ll just have to figure it out. Paris is preparing for the Olympics and there’s work going on everywhere.

Madame made us a delicious dinner followed, of course, by the cheese platter, and the three of us jabbered, as we do, as we have been doing for many decades. Dear dear old friends.

Today, we went to L’Ebauchoir, a good restaurant Lynn and I discovered by chance more than ten years ago and have since recommended to many friends who’ve adopted it too, including my neighbour Monique and friend Eleanor. The meal was, as always, superb, appreciated even by M. Blin, who is shall we say hard to please. French, don’t you know. But he enjoyed it too. And then Monsieur set off back to Montpellier, and Lynn and I began our solo adventure together. We walked — nearly 8 kms. according to her phone — around Bastille, a long sit in the sun at the Place des Vosges, meandered across the river, and there was Our Lady, battered, held up by a million scaffolds, but as beautiful as ever. They’ve put a viewing platform in front of her, a staircase to nowhere like in Times Square, jammed with people just looking at her over the hoardings that enclose her now.

We made our way through the 5th to my hotel, le Port Royal, to pick up the suitcase I’d left there, and then to figure out how to get clear across the city to home. Ah, the 91 bus would take us nearly there, perfect. We hopped on, and six minutes later were told for a reason we didn’t understand that the ride was over. “That’s France,” Madame said, and standing on the sidewalk, phone in hand, she figured out another route. We got one metro, transferred to another, and finally got home, nearly 15,000 steps later. We are on our computers, will eat leftovers with not much wine because we shared a bottle at lunch.

This is a new view of Paris, up here. This apartment is extremely reasonable and has a fine kitchen where Madame can cook, so we will hardly eat out. She is, of course, after five French children and over fifty years in France, a terrific cook.

Tomorrow and Monday, no definite plan, depends on the weather. We are so compatible, my friend and I, who met outside a modern French literature class at Carleton University in September 1967. I was at her wedding to Denis in northern France in October 1971. She was at my wedding party — where Anna was the star guest — in August 1980. What a gift this lifelong friendship is. I told her today she’s the most positive person I’ve ever met. This is not something she can say to me, but I guess I have my qualities.

Pictures: Last view of Holland, from the train. After the meal — mellow. La Place des Vosges — it was 27 degrees today! Bizarre, won’t last, but le tout Paris was out. L’Hotel du Sens, built in the Middle Ages, with its lovely patterned gardens. Notre Dame’s scaffolding from behind, and the view from the front. The cafés were packed; this is a city that understands and honours street life.

 More anon. Stay tuned.

Oh, one more thing: I have a cold. Don’t know how that happened, but yes, sneezing, runny nose, sore throat. C’est la vie. My friend never gets sick, and I get sick all the time. More positivity, please!

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Vermeer’s A Little Street hits me again

Day 2 in Amsterdam – lucky again. It was pouring when I woke up and dry when I went out; the sun even emerged, briefly, later. After a long breakfast with Pam and much more talk, I set off for the Rijksmuseum. Pam’s street took me almost right there, a 40 minute walk.

What a place! Massive and jammed, with it seemed almost every schoolchild in Holland on the floor, listening to a teacher tell them about their artistic heritage. Inspiring. I headed straight for Vermeer. Last time I was here, in 1979, the museum was sparsely occupied; I saw the two other Vermeers first, and then happened on “A Little Street” which overpowered me, the meticulous detail, the affection with which the artist depicted those tiny humans, preoccupied with their lives. The brick, the clouds, the unfinished whitewash – everything spoke to me, and I wept, and fell, for the first time, in love with a specific artist, and art.

Today, rounding a corner into the Vermeer room, “A Little Street” was the first canvas I saw and again, started to cry. Not just because of its beauty, but because I was 28 when I first saw it, and now I’m 73. Still the same and yet so different.

Stood there weeping, and then moved on to the other Vermeers, and then to the Rembrandts, and then to the special Frans Hals exhibition, which was an eye-opener. I didn’t know he was revolutionary for his use of loose brush strokes – the opposite of Vermeer – and for depicting street people and laughing people – only the poor laughed for painters in those days. I didn’t know Van Gogh thought of Hals as his precursor. But standing in front of one canvas, I thought, this could have been painted by Van Gogh, only in 1640.

Sat, had a muffin and some water to revive me, went to the Renaissance section where there’s a lovely Fra Angelico, but finally, after 2 1/2 hours, my legs were wood and I left. Instead of exploring the town, I went to sit in nearly Vondelpark and watched ducks and a big crane. Heaven.

Meandered home, where … what are the chances? … I happened upon a shoe-store for the big-footed woman, one of the few in Europe. Size 42 up to 45, the giant 45s, oh Mum, my size 45-wearing mother, how I wish you were here to see this. I bought a pair of 43’s, slipper shoes, very light, just what’s needed here, for example, where people leave their shoes outside the door.

Pam made dinner. In this brief period, I think we know just about everything about each other now. Perhaps one of the reasons I’m so near tears here is because of the miracle of this new friendship that sprang from my father. She feels I’m like him in many ways, and so, just as he and she were close friends, she and I, who’ve met only twice, are now close friends.

I know for sure I have to come back, visit again, and next time, rent a bike and ride it.

Pictured: the Little Street, though of course you can’t see how exquisite it is

The scene in front of Rembrandt’s famous “The Night Watch”

Schoolchildren learning about Rembrandt

Frans Hals “Malle Babbe” in 1640, could have been painted by Van Gogh, no?

Vondelpark’s floating tulip boats

An Amsterdam parking lot

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