Sylvia's Journal

Last night I went to a reunion/alumni event at the Societeit Minerva in
Leiden. This is a socio-cultural phenomenon that is nearly impossible to explain to anyone who does not know about traditional student life in
Holland. It was a gathering of hundreds of gentlemen, generally well off, mostly in grey suits and with grey hair, and smattering of women (the male society merged with the women’s society in 1972) in a cavernous hall that is completely brawl- and beerproof. It smells and looks that way. There is not a square inch of loveliness to be found in that place. Even architecturally it is a monster but it is most functional. The event, I suspect, generates nostalgic reminiscences, family updates and inquiries into retirement. I watched and participated in it both as an alumna myself and as a foreigner. There is nothing quite like it. It is, from an American perspective, totally not politically correct (no diversity in the room, no handicapped access). I tried to forget about my foot because sitting down was imposisble until dinner started, quite late in the evening.

I had arrived very early in the morning at Schiphol airport after a mostly smooth flight. KLM cabin personnel had once again been very sollicitous and put an aluminum container in front of my seat so I could keep my leg up during the flight. I did not sleep much; nights remain somewhat difficult in anything that is not a flat bed.

My taxidriver to Den Haag was a young man from Jalalabad who had fled with his family from Pakistan to
Holland some 10 years ago. We spoke in Dutch the entire trip.
Holland is his new country. He dropped me off at my brother’s place. My sister-in-law Greet who is a Re-Balancing therapist, gave me a treatment in the morning which was happily received by my worn body. I emerged relaxed and slowed down to a crawl to find my other brothers Reinout and Willem with their mates who came to see the new, repaired and, hopefully, improved me. We had a noisy reunion where everyone talks at the same time. This is genetic. It can be rather intimidating to more introverted types. We, born into it, are masters of the craft.

The only one missing was my sister Ankie. She returned to her
Brussels home from a hospital stay and was not quite ready to drive down to Den Haag. Instead we had a very long phone call comparing hospital experiences, abdominal scars and the recovery process. After a wonderful lunch we visited the Mauritshuis, a lovely small museum at the government center in the center of Den Haag to see an extraordinary exhibit of seventeen-and eightteen-century Dutch portraits from the most famous painters
Holland has ever known. One couple painted 300 years ago that had been languishing on their separate panels in musea in different countries, were reunited again. You can imagine what a happy event that was.

On December 5^th we Dutch celebrate Saint Nicholas day (Sinterklaas). The Saint arrives usually a few weeks before. What luck! While in the museum, Sint Nicolaas arrived on his white horse at the square next the the museum. From our second floor window we could see the action in a side alley where Sint’s horse trailer was waiting to take the horse back to wherever it came from. Americans, I suspect will find it a very bizarre thing: an old bearded man, dressed like a bishop (one piece of clothing that has not changed over the centuries) sitting on a white horse with tens of white people whose faces have been painted black so they look like royal slaves, dressed in the garments that were in fashion in the 1560s. They all have the same name (Zwarte Piet, Black Peter) and throw small spice cookies and candy that they carry around in pillow cases into the mass of kids and their parents who have gathered to watch the event. I can see it through the eyes of an American because I am an American. My Afghan taxi driver admitted that at first he thought it was a weird celebration. But now, after ten years in
Holland, he and his family enthusiastically participate in the event and think little about what it really portrays. It is much like Christmas in other parts of the world, a feast where, originally, the rich give gifts to the poor.

I was dropped (off) in
Leiden and met five women friends from my yearclub in a small restaurant to catch up in an environment more conducive than the cavernous hall for conversation. We had seen each other in June for some other nostalgic event and so we continued form there. Of course everyone wants to hear my story. There was actually not that much to tell since they have all followed Caringbridge and know most of what there is to know. Each had brought a poem that they had written or a favorite from a Dutch poet and a gift to celebrate my second life. I was touched deeply and will be reading through all this quietly again on my flight back to
Boston.

I came home at 1 AM from the
Leiden event. It was probably a bit much for someone in recovery like me but I would not have missed it for the world. And now, back home.