I’ve been pretty lucky at most things.

My trips have always turned out well.

Sometimes things catch up to you though.

I should have stayed in Wonderland.

But this day wandering through the Rijksmuseum will be all the more memorable for that.

Four Vermeers in a little alcove.

I’ve seen them on loan in exhibitions but hadn’t visited them in Amsterdam since I was a sophomore in college, backpacking around Europe.

So long ago.

But they haven’t changed.

Never to be forgotten.

The vast galleries. Rembrandt. Van Gogh.

I thought Rembrandt was for old people when I was young.

I like him now. The wide-eyed bemused visage on many of his portraits and self-portraits.

My legs are fine. It is my left arm that’s screwed up.

Now I just want to go home and stop contemplating mortality.

Contemplating books, especially old ones, is a kind of immortality. Even if I’m just part of a book’s multimillenial existence, still it was a part of me. And I was its shepherd, if only for some years or decades.

I left Maryland last Saturday afternoon. Fall will strike there in force soon. The acres of fern brakes on the mountain are dying back.

I’m sure the leaves will have colored by now. And many will have fallen.

Soon, there will be the first fire of the season in the Vermont Castings Defiant woodstove. That life ritual will begin again.

Dried firewood. Flames. Heat. Ashes.

For the next six months or so.

As with gardening, the woodstove ritual makes me feel a part of nature.

Cutting my own dead wood.

Seasoning it in the barn.

Hauling it in.

Setting it afire.

Enjoying the homemade heat.

It is not trouble or work, but a way of life.

Late at night when the only light on the mountain is in my home. The orange “dragon’s eye” glowing through the glass doors on the iron firebox. Only ten paces from my bed. I feel I could be living a thousand or four thousand years ago.

But here it is 2024.

I was last in the Netherlands in 1974. I was traveling on a tight budget.

Tonight, I am eight stories above the water.

The Dutch have tamed this bit of water once called the Zuiderzee.

And time can take me back to those long ago years when I listened to Steve Goodman (writer of “City of New Orleans” who died far too young in 1984) who popularized the song “The Dutchman.”

All but forgotten despite his great work.

And more forgotten is Michael Peter Smith who wrote this song.

This version is sung by Bob Shane—one of the founders of The Kingston Trio.

All but forgotten.

But they were hugely popular when I was a tiny boy and would sneak up to my brother’s third floor garret and play his records over and over while he was away.

And here I am back again. High above what was once the Zuiderzee. The ancient center city of Amsterdam just across the water.

“Long ago, I used to be a young man. And dear Margaret remembers that for me.”

Life’s leitmotifs.

Vermeer. The Dutchman. The Kingston Trio. Books threading through a long lifetime. Brothers. Parents. Children. Loves.

They come and are a focus in you for a bit. Then they pass on only to return years or decades later.

Except for books. They are a part of my life every day somehow.

This late night high above the water, an email drops in while write this.

Fall in love with color.

I can’t get away.

This creation of mine was scoffed at for years. “Colleagues” publicly mocked me and my company. Where are those guys now?

All but forgotten.

Did it bother me?

No. The sources surprised me sometimes. It made me work harder. It made me become more creative in order to rescue books, doomed books.

Nearly every one of the six million or so books strewn throughout the vast warehouse, the three stores, my homes—nearly every one would be destroyed but for the Wonder I invented and grew.

Last Saturday.

Back home, the books have been fabulous. Before I left, I went through several of Annika’s weekly carts laden with books that had signs “Ready for Chuck” attached to them.

Firsts of Wordsworth and Poe (the Prelude and Poems.) Both with condition problems, and the Poe is one of two volumes. But both are still eye opening. Signed Easton Press of Kurt Vonnegut’s The Sirens of Titan. No big deal, but it will sell in minutes. A US first of Gogol’s Dead Souls (“Tchitchikoff’s Journeys” is how the U.S. title begins.) Surprisingly expensive. What the reader who first bought this book must have thought upon opening it. A first of Ballard’s Crash with a nice jacket but for a stained jacket corner. Cheap to restore to near fine. Lolita in hardcover. A bio of Harry Truman signed by him. A bilingual Common Prayer in Dakota and English. 1963 Harvard Review—fine—with a cover article by Timothy Leary and Gordon Alpert on “The Politics of Consciousness Expansion”, a couple of other essays on hallucinogens, mushroom rites of Mexico… Rackham. Nixon—his signature is appearing more and more as that generation lets go of their books. And more…

These remind me of the pleasure there is in treasure hunting there. Despite my complaints of frustration and overwork, this sort of thing can bring me back to an even keel.

And the rescue. The evangelism.

I’m not mentioning the many things set aside for me that led Annika to dead ends or results so mixed or confusing that the only option was to set them aside and not lose time going down rabbit holes.

But what to do with them?

A number of items got shelved on the “manuscript wall.” It is an ever-expanding group of bookcases where photo albums, diaries, scrap books, stamp albums… get stored until… forever? Once there, at least I no longer need to handle them and allow more time and mental energy to be drained away.

I’ve been sending some stamp albums to a bookseller colleague out west. He volunteers at a stamp museum and has a good feel for the things. He’s paid me more than I expected. A solution for a few things out of thousands is a blessing if only a drop in the bucket.

All saved from the pulper.

The “Endymion.”

The Oscar Wilde inscribed to his lesbian American agent.

The accidental medieval illuminated manuscript…

And the thousands of others mentioned in previous stories here going back nearly four hundred consecutive Fridays.

And the acquisitions like the Second Folio. The Darwin. Jane Eyre. Tolkien. Joyce. Milton. F. Scott Fitzgerald. And other illuminated manuscripts.

I’ll shepherd those and thousands of others for a bit longer.

And the millions coming in during the coming months.

And going out.

All but forgotten.

It is good work.

Saving the mighty and the modest.

Serving the mighty and the modest.

Memories… The Kingston Trio. All but forgotten for this little boy whose memory of them is in black and white.

---

Sunday.

I am in Amsterdam. It is late at night. Sleep eludes me. Too many worries and problems. The overnight flight from 6 p.m. Saturday to 7 a.m. Sunday didn’t help. In the rush to get ready, I left my Half Moon Bay hoodie in the car. The plane was very cold, and the flight frequently bumpy. I couldn’t get comfortable or find any sleep. The room was not available Sunday morning, so I walked and walked the streets of the Dutch city with my friend Laurelle.

I ate too much, and the wonderful Dutch beers were too inviting. The food and drink did not make me feel better.

Now, it is 3 a.m. Monday morning, and life feels out of balance.

Rest and peace elude me.

It is all of my own making. Perhaps I should not be here.

---

Wednesday night.

In an ER in Amsterdam. Cursing my carelessness.

Struck by a speeding bicycle 3 hours ago. My left arm is swollen and ugly.

So stupid. I looked both ways and was crossing an unmarked bike lane. I was thinking of my friend a couple of steps behind me. I was worried for her and looked left. Then right. Then left. I started across, and a young woman speeding on her bike swerved toward me without signaling. There was nowhere to go. It was so fast. She hit me, and I hit the ground.

I was more angry that injured.

“I could not stop. I was going 30 kilometers.”

“You saw me and could have turned!”

Nothing to do but stand and check my bones.

I was ok. Nothing hurt but my pride. My left arm—was it struck by her bike or by the pavement?

I got up, and we continued. We headed for the nearby church that was our destination. It was closed. What a waste.

I had a lined raincoat on and a long-sleeve shirt beneath it. But squeezing my forearm, I could feel it swelling.

And swelling.

I was supposed to attend a dinner, but knew I’d bow out of that.

We went to a couple more sites, and then I told her, “I’m going back to the hotel and see how I feel.”

It was about a one-hour walk. I thought of getting an Uber but decided I wanted to see the city.

At the hotel, I told the lovely young woman I’d hurt my arm and asked what she recommended.

“I think an ice pack if nothing hurts and your arm and fingers work.”

Then I pulled my sleeve up, and the sight of my colorful swollen limb made her eyes widen.

She went and got her manager.

“We have a hotel doctor, but I’m sure he would just send you to the hospital. We have to make an appointment with a care facility that must see you first to determine if the hospital should see you.”

So, I’m in an ER. It’s gone pretty fast so far. About an hour to get checked in and get X-rays. Now awaiting the results. 7:30 pm.

When was the last time I was in a hospital?

I really can’t remember. 24 years ago? For my bicep tendon—a soccer injury. Or was it the thyroid operation about the same time? I can’t remember anything else. Not even urgent care.

Life can change in a flash. So stupid… so unnecessary.

The trip has been ok. I’ve spent a lot of time in northern European port cities in the last few months. That takes some of the drama from the water and boats.

Copenhagen. Riga, Tallinn. Helsinki. Stockholm.

…It is a quarter to 9. Things are beginning to ache, and I don’t have painkillers. The ice pack the hotel gave me has melted.

I’ve seen a world of hurt pass by in here. All ages. Babies in their parent’s arms. Aged people clearly close to the end. A young guy just came in and flopped across 4 chairs and proceeded moaning.

Still waiting on X-ray results. If nothing’s bad, I’d like to go back to my room and put ice on things.

More time passed. Finally, I was taken into the actual ER and told to lie on a bed. A young man, an intern, Ramses, began asking me questions.

“Does this hurt?”

“Can you feel this?”

“Did you lose consciousness?”

…

More time passes.

He returned and said he had consulted with the ER physician. The X-rays were negative. The swelling might take a couple weeks to subside.

“You should use your arm as much as possible. That will help the healing process.”

Then I was out on the dark street summoning a car with the app on my cell phone.

---

Amsterdam… lots of beauty, but such a crush of people.

And bicycles.

I think we were told there are about 1 million people here and 2 million bikes.

There appear to be no rules or speed limits. They drive like Costco shoppers—blinders on and with no regard for anyone.

They also allow motorcycles and large “fat tire” electric “bikes” in the bike lanes. Those add to the speed variations and confusion.

The bike lanes themselves are often poorly marked or completely unmarked as to what direction they are going. They are supposed to be distinguished by red-tinted asphalt, but often the color is faded and indistinguishable from sidewalks and roads.

And plenty of bicycles operate outside the “bike” lanes.

Well, enough of that. I slept well with my arm raised. The doctor said it may take a couple weeks for the swelling to go down. My arm operates well. They wrapped it up like a mummy, so it is a little stiff.

Live and learn.

Certainly a cautionary tale.

I’m thinking of flying home early. I’ve had enough of this city. A great place, and the problem is certainly me. But maybe there’s a reason why I haven’t been back for 5 decades.

(Locals complain about the bikes as well. Total disregard. From what I can tell, their philosophy is “if we pay attention and drive with caution we will be expected to stop and yield to others.”)

---

It is Thursday morning. The day after my bike wreck. My left arm is wrapped up like a mummy in a compression bandage. It doesn’t hurt much. Just feels swollen.

I decided I wanted to go home. I’ve had enough Dutch experiences, thank you.

The people have been so very kind. Positive. Beyond helpful. Nice. Upbeat.

It is me. I’m just not in the mood. I love walking around, but being constantly on guard is distracting, to say the least.

I had nearly 20,000 steps yesterday, and so many of them involved being worried about crossing a street or, especially, an unclear bike lane.

I called United. To get home tomorrow would cost $1000. Saturday is $1. The Hotel Jakarta is lovely and comfortable, and I can just hunker down the extra day. The staff there has been wonderful and so very caring.

United Airlines was very cooperative, and once they learned of my injury, very accommodating.

Yesterday’s ILAB tour began at the Six Museum. It is a canal side mansion that has been in the Six family for many generations. The current Six’s still live there and have 2 small children. My small group was led through the home by a knowledgeable young intern. No photos were permitted. This will tell you more about the venerable estate.

Jan Six the First was a close friend of Rembrandt, and the portrait of Jan in the front room is a beautiful large thing, full of friendship and executed with personal warmth.

Among the books were two “Pandora Books.” At least that was my understanding of what they were called. The guide said these were the reverse of Pandora’s Box, whose opening released all the evils on the world. The books were more like aristocratic scrapbooks. Important things we place INSIDE the books. Rembrandt sketches and other important family documents are bound in the ancient tomes.

A substantial volume under glass was a 17th century tulip catalog. Some of the price written in for a single bulb could purchase a house at the height of Tulipmania.

The home is filled with paintings and antique bric-a-brac from Holland’s golden age of East India colonies and seapower. The guide had many family stories about objects spanning the many Six generations. (The current Six’s are the 10th to live here, I think.)

From there, we headed through the Jewish quarter to the Maritime Museum. As with most European countries, the Jews of Amsterdam were rounded up and sent away for the “final solution.”

(The Anne Frank house was fully booked, and I’d already visited it long ago.)

Imbedded in the sidewalks are 4×4 inch brass blocks engraved with the name of a person removed from the house adjacent by the Nazis. Some houses had 8 or 10 blocks in front of them.

Chilling.

There was a lunch at the museum, but I was a bit queasy and had too much of the gourmet beets and sweetbreads at the Michelin-starred Rijk restaurant the night before still with me. I sat out on the docks below the replica Dutch warship. It was warm and sunny. I tried to write but didn’t get much done before I was texted that lunch was over. The group had a guided tour of the nautical museum. But Laurelle and I had already visited the day before. The library is open to the public, so we thought there wouldn’t be much to add to spend another afternoon there.

I should have done my duty and stayed. I wouldn’t have been run over if I had.

---

It is Friday morning in the Netherlands. It is still Thursday back home.

I wonder how the dogs are. And my home. And the books.

It has been a short trip. A fast month.

So many balls in the air.

I’ve actually enjoyed lying in and reading and writing. I wish I’d brought a sheaf of old verse to transpose (“to change in form or nature”) from paper into type and then to print back home. Then to file the printed leaves into the milk crate with all the rest.

Well, not all. My college writings have vanished. I’m sure they are somewhere in the old manse in Pennsylvania. I should go up and look. Somehow, I can’t bring myself to dig into the past like that. At least, just not now.

The fog has come in. From my balcony I cannot see across the narrow strip of water my iPhone seems to identify as IJhaven. I’ve heard a couple of muffled announcements from the cruise ship docked on the other side.

Soon, I must rise. Laurelle got tickets for the Van Gogh Museum a couple weeks ago. We’re supposed to be there at 10. I’m in the mood for that.

My last day in this city of canals and bridges. It is a kind of reflection of Venice in that regard. A colder grayer mirror image.

I haven’t written much about the good things I’ve experienced here.

Arriving Sunday morning, there were no rooms ready.

Out and across the bridge to the mainland.

Right along the waterfront to rendezvous with the hop-on hop-off bus not far from the central station. The ride on the double-decker bus gave us time to get our legs and get a sense of how the city is laid out.

Then we got off and began walking. It was chilly and damp. I picked up a nice leather coat from a sprawling flea market in an ancient square. Tents and pile of clothes dumped on the cobbles. Portable racks with coats on hangers. It was a good deal for 30 Euros, I think.

But I was immediately warmed and comfortable for the rest of the day.

It was about then I got a text from home. The dog’s babysitter reported Giles was missing from his pen. I felt so helpless an ocean away, but told her he probably didn’t go far.

That was a blow. I felt so… responsible.

A little while later, they found him hiding beneath the porch. He had pushed his way under the chain-link fence somehow. Poor guy. He must have been lonely. Naturally, I was worried for hours until they figured a way to repair the fence.

Walking on through the old town, we went through the Grand Palace with the maps of the world and the heavens etched onto the marble floors.

Much of North America was terra incognita.

Manhattan was unnamed.

Atlas holding the globe above over the large gallery.

For some reason, we were drawn to a tavern across the square. It was dated 1725 above the facade. A neon martini glowed in the window above the door. The young bartender, however, had no idea what a martini is, and we had to train him—pointing out stem glasses and the shaker. I told him not to open the bottle of martini vermouth he had set on the bar.

From there to the Old Church (Oude Kirk.) The grand place has been mostly secularized, and its interior features stripped away. It was a sad hollow place.

We made our way back into the city through the red-light district. It has been greatly toned down, I believe. The storefront windows with women seated behind plate glass seem to be gone. At least during the daytime.

Back to the hotel and then an Uber to the other side of the water to the Lowlander Restaurant. It is in an old waterfront warehouse. The food was odd but good. Burrata and a bowl of new potatoes, and we shared a small steak.

Exhaustion was closing in fast. So after a final gin and tonic, we Ubered back across the water to the city and then back across more water to the island where the Hotel Jakarta is.

---

Monday

We had tickets for the Rembrandt House early. It was a fascinating slice of life from the 1600s. He lived and painted and taught apprentices there. Their tuition provided much-needed revenue, but he still went broke. The auction records for the sale offer a post mortem on the artist’s home and possessions at the end. They were used to reconstruct the home’s contents. The tour goes up through narrow nearly vertical stairways. Many or most old Dutch townhouses have a special beam protruding from the top floor. Attaching a rope and pulley was the only way to get larger objects—such as furniture—to the upper floors. One room had a printing press, and a volunteer was rolling ink onto a plate and rolling the press over it to create a print from a facsimile Rembrandt etching.

It was beautiful inside and out.

Then on to the H’Art Museum. It was previously called the Hermitage and affiliated with St. Petersburg, but ties were cut after the Ukraine invasion. There was a large Kandinsky exhibition there.

The maritime museum seemed like a good next choice, and it was indeed fascinating. One gallery was devoted to huge tapestries of a sea battle between French and English and Dutch warships.

The library was open to the public as well. We were told we could even look at the books but not to try to reshelf them.

The day was aging.

The ILAB dinner was to begin that evening with a welcoming dinner. It was a buffet in the hotel. Rijsttafel (rice table) is a Dutch specialty imported from Indonesia which was once a colony. When I went to such a place as a college student in 1974, it seemed very exotic. Now, it seems very much like Thai/Malay/Southeast-Asia cuisine.

I caught up with some friends. Avoided a few people like the plague.

After dinner, many went up the 8th floor Malabar Bar, and a couple of friends kept buying us champagne.

---

Tuesday

After breakfast, a private ferry took us from the hotel up through canals in the city to the Rijksmuseum. Bikes flow under the archways in the building, and there’s really now way to get to the museum entrance without dodging your way across the flowing lanes.

In the museum, we were treated to a visit of the impressive library.

Rare books by the score were set out on tables propped open on easels. 100 or so book geeks, including yours truly, hovered over the offerings, oohing and aching at the treasures set before us.

From there to an auditorium where there was a harpsichord and a mezzo-soprano soloist who regaled us with ancient tunes. “Songs in Time.”

Then it was time for lunch.

I’m a poor guest when art and books are present. I confess I snuck away from my colleagues and lunch to go visit the art—especially the Vermeer’s but also the Rembrandts and the Waterloo Gallery and the medieval galleries and…

I was a bit disappointed when my friend texted that lunch was ending. I hurried back to join the crowd.

Our large group was broken up into smaller groups where were each led by interns who took us on a whirlwind tour of bookish paintings and rare objects throughout the vast Rijksmusuem.

It was all a bit exhausting, and I Ubered back to the hotel to freshen up and rest a couple hours before returning to the exact same place for the aforementioned Michelin-starred dinner. We were given seat assignments by nametags, and somehow fate placed me next to the last person in the world I wanted to be with.

What are the odds?

About 160 to 1.

I confess I picked up my nametag and moved it to an unmarked place setting a couple of seats away. (I was by far not the only one doing this. I only wish I’d been as bold as some of them putting their own groups back together.) It was “from the fire into the frying pan”, as those around me did not speak much English, and I couldn’t keep up with their French and German. But everyone was jolly and smiling, and the wine smoothed the rough spots.

It was a very interesting meal. Something I might have ordered feeling adventuresome. But it was a bit daunting after such a long hectic day and jet lag weighing upon me.

I think it was about four hours later when I snuck out with some bookseller friends before dessert.

---

It is Friday afternoon here. I spent the morning at the Van Gogh Museum.

A life-changing experience. I’m trying to remember what it was like in 1974. Something makes men feel like it was “new” then.

That will have to wait til next week.

I need to proof this jumbled mess and send it across the Atlantic.

I’ll go back out in a little while with my poor swollen and purple arm. It doesn’t hurt; it just looks… deformed.

---

(I wrote this on my second visit to the Rijksmuseum the morning after my arm injury and visit to the ER. I was obviously not in a good mood.)

A Matter of Rijk and Death

Though I was thy medieval maiden
frozen forever in oil on canvas
yet I wait for thee incorruptible
Unlike you, corrupt in life
and rotting now as a corpse

But I will wait for you
upon this wall in this gallery
until the trumpet calls
when you will rise

Come visit me to see
what you have missed for ages
Though still unattainable
You may look
but you cannot touch

---

And I feel I can append this poem written long ago and placed in this 2017 book story. Since it as the end you can easily skip it.

vermeer

it is me she sees
through her casement.
me reflected in her iris
if you could get close enough.
me inverted on her retina
if i could get close enough
to look inside that camera obscura.
i’m not sure i should enter
if i should cross that threshold
but i must know
so i pass that portal
in to her vestibule
toward the light.
crossing through her door
i pass her by
because the tilt of her head
is non committal
i cannot chart her countenance—
coy or concerned or questioning.
“so he’s back”
i know that much
is behind her eye.
i’d been away long
and now
we neither knew where we stood.

passing her
i would break that light
put her in brief darkness
as i stride passed in pride
to the map hung upon the far wall
too prideful to look.
no
too worried to look because
if she cast her eye down
what it would mean
i know
but
if her gaze followed me
o what it would mean
to where i stand
looking at the map of the world
where i’ve been.
the world or her
i know now where in the world i stand.
i’ve made my choice.
to prove my works
i would note the errors
on that world
“it’s not like that you know.”
“was it grand?” she replies.
“i see more in this room
than mysteries of the deep
or on distant shores”
i confess with no conceit.
would she would then stand
and come to my world
lay a hand upon my shoulder
looking too
upon her wall
before which we have been before
so often.
no
she would not leave the light
where she’d been all along.
would i could step to her
turning my back to the wall
away from the world
and touch the sunlit cheek
my hand casting a shadow
upon her face
but i am transfixed by fear
for to touch would be to know
perhaps to know finality.
i’m in her picture now
and so i stand where i stand.
then she touches a string.
it’s her favor to me
i know.
we two sang this song
we knew long ago.
i know now.
so i may.
i can step to her
my shadow moving unseen
because of the sun’s station
and stand at her shoulder
and with her last verse
raise her face to mine
from the work of her hands.
both faces brightening
in the window’s light
and wordless lips
speak
i’d not gone too far.

—2007