Amsterdam, the Venice of the North. Risen from reclaimed marshland. The city of Rembrandt. The city with the harbor and the cruise ships. The port where the crowds buzz like a beehive. The city where dormant changes can suddenly rear their heads. The city with once the beating Jewish heart. Where once Jewish life flourished and vibrated. The heart brought to a halt by betrayal and murder.
I am sitting on a quiet terrace opposite the Museum Square, right next to Museum Square the Concertgebouw. The sun slowly begins to draw melancholy shadows from people and buildings. The birds of the city migrate over to find a safe roost in one of the surrounding parks. The cars, streetcars and cyclists roll silently by. The rush to be home is marked on the faces.
Amsterdam pulls up to the dinner table. People passing by carry with them a variety of food. Above them the hungry faces. The restlessness of the end of the workday is almost palpable. People and the city are getting ready for the coming evening and night. The poverty of the city is also visible in the form of vagrants, begging and trying to scrape together some money to get something to eat.
The terrace where I am sitting is not full. I like watching people. An sich, man is an evolutionary marvel. The Museum Square I am looking at is lined with museums: the Stedelijk, the Van Gogh, the Moco and a little further…
