A little over a decade ago I fell in love with a Dutch person, three weeks before he was set to permanently move back to Holland.

Aggressively on brand for former t. It followed all my favorite early relationship stages: (1) Find a talented, unconventional and most importantly unavailable person (2) Get involved (3) Put all your energy into convincing them to love you, even (especially!) when they refuse.

Looking back now it all seems hazy. It’s wild to be back in Amsterdam. He took this photo of me on my first visit here, my forehead still sunburned because I didn’t realize that Holland had beaches or sun that required any protection. You can just barely see him in the reflection of little baby t’s sunglasses, which is the adequate amount of recognition he deserves. I don’t deny his existence, I don’t celebrate it. He existed, and he got me to Holland and all over Europe in those years.

For that, I’m grateful.

It’s odd, though, to be here and have all those years of semi-context. I boarded my first flight here in 2009 powered by adrenaline and youthful ignorance. When I arrived, I realized how little I knew.

I hadn’t done any research. I had lived in New York my entire life. Wild as it sounds, I just … hadn’t considered what Europe was in any way shape or form. I giddily drank in this city of cobblestones from my vantage point on the back of his bike.

That first trip was magical, and then, well, we both had to actually meet each other. We soldiered on, though, pretending it could work between two people who made no sense together. Due to old tendencies for devaluing myself and a love for the impossible, this state of purgatory dragged on for five turbulent years. Eventually it met step (4) of my former relationship steps: Fiery/repeated/dysfunctional breakup(s).

So, yeah. In my defense, there’s a lot I’ve blocked out about Amsterdam. When I arrived here this year, I felt like I had walked all these streets once in a dream. I knew words, a bit, I knew things about the banking system. I knew about the glorious Dutch double bike lock, and I knew about slagroom soesjes at Albert Heijn.

What I didn’t know was that for the first two years of my time here, that guy lived literally in the heart of the original Jewish center of Amsterdam. As in - For two years I spent large portions of my life knee deep in Amsterdam’s Lower East Side, and registered 0% of it.

I know this because my new friend Iris, a reader of taalitalk and all around legend, gave me an epic tour of Amsterdam Jewish history last week. I am still buzzing from it. Our walking tour happened on a spectacular 70 degree day (I sunscreened up this time, trust), and felt like the first time I’ve exhaled all year.

It was such a relief to simply see someone. Iris picked me up in her car (remember cars with other people?!), and we masked up and drove to the city center. With her wealth of knowledge and brilliance, she explained the intricate circumstances that led to Holland having the highest per capita death count of Jews in the Holocaust (75% of their Jewish population perished). Side by side with that heavy subject matter, she embodied a deep and contagious love for the progressive and thriving Jews of 2021 Amsterdam, who are her community, and who are living.

It was joyful. Iris loves legendary Dutch philosopher Baruch Spinoza. When Iris talks about Spinoza, her eyes light up. We stood at Spinoza’s statue overlooking magical canals and discussed the role of the critical thinker in society. I’m grateful to have grown up in a space where, for the most part, my key people celebrated and encouraged that part of me, unlike Spinoza’s family who sentenced him to exile and pain for the same.

It was delicious. Iris knows all the best food in Amsterdam. There was a chocolate place from my former hazy/blocked out time in the city I had been desperately searching for. Of course Iris had it on her walking tour. I have happily gained more pandemic pounds since.

And it was also novel, which is something I desperately need. My creative brain is craving new information anywhere I can get it. I felt deep joy to even be in a parking lot, because a parking lot is new information at this moment.

That’s where I’m at, my friend. Parking lots feel awesome.

Right before we got to the chocolate place, we landed on this completely silent and perfect street, which used to house many of Amsterdam’s former Jewish community. One of the weird unexpected beauties of the pandemic is that I’m re-meeting this city with almost no tourists. Please feast on the below photo, new buds and all. My iPhone does no justice to the peace I felt walking with queen Iris, learning about the context these streets held for our shared culture.

I don’t know how any of this factors into the new album, or if it even does, but the album is moving steadily along. I’m working on a new song around the concept of a “silver bullet.” That elusive feeling I’m always seeking, my constant craving for a physical solution to a spiritual problem. Though you and I haven’t met yet, I’m certain you know this feeling. It’s the voice in your head that thinks, “I just need ___ and that’ll fix it.” And then, after the pint of ice cream has mysteriously disappeared or the netflix binge has ended or whatever your current vice is, you’re left feeling that same dread plus some.

I am dangerously drawn to these quick fixes. They do not exist, but the idea of them is my kryptonite. I reconnected with my dear friend Sima this week, who just made an epic and courageous life choice. Sima is running full speed into the fire and not looking for any silver bullets herself. I’m so inspired by her, and if the song makes it on the album, I’m leaning toward calling it “Song for Sima” (a nod to Joni’s magnificent “Song for Sharon”).

Until then, I keep going. Every night I light a big fire in the wüdbürner. Usually the fire is too big and José reminds me that this is a wüdbürner, not a fireplace, and I should channel my pyromaniac energy elsewhere. So I think instead on all of us, our stories that follow us, our ancestors that live in us, and I hope I can channel that fire into this album. I write for Iris, for Sima, for myself, for you.

Hope you’re doing well and finding your equivalent of a newly joyful parking lot. See you next week.

With love,
t

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