22-Mar-2005
14 th March 2005
I am looking outside the window of my apartment. The window overlooks the square of the Nieu Markt. There is no TV in my apartment. There are no newspapers. The apartment perhaps derives its character from me – from my imaginations, desires, fears and articulations.
I am watching the people walk paths on the Nieu Markt square. There are:
ü Chinese youngsters
ü Old Chinese men and women
ü Groups of boys
ü Biking girls
ü Shivering college going young people
ü Coat clad women heading towards office
ü Some Oriental tourists clicking pictures of each other
Constantly, people are crossing paths – a Chinese crosses paths with a white man or woman; a white young man crossing paths with a white young man; a white old woman crossing paths with a white young woman. As people cross paths, I wonder whether the square is simply a functional space. Strangers cross paths in a city but what is it that makes them talk and enter each other’s lives even if this is entry is momentary.
As I watch the peoples, I start to think that this is a small city and since there are few people in it, do the same people meet each other everyday? Do people know each other by face? My email pal, Patrice Riemens, later informs me that meeting the same people in the streets is a rarity and if that happens, it is a matter of great surprise. I meet Geert a few days down the line and he tells me that Amsterdam is a very dense city but people do not realize the density because there are few persons walking on the streets. “So where are the rest of the people?” I ask Geert curiously. He points out to the houses and says, “Inside ‘em!” Hmmm …
Concluding this part of the day with a newspaper column which I have read in the Amsterdam Weekly. The column is titled “Portable City” and the article for today is “The First Breakdancer”.
I sit in the tram, looking at the tourists shoving their way past the gables on the Damrak. I imagine that Amsterdam looks like a big city to them – that, despite the bikes and the cuddly canals, this city creates the impression of being a metropolis.
That big-city feeling has less to do with the size of a city than with its spirit of place. Aren’t there hundreds of much larger cities that are more boring than most villages in the countryside?
A real city consists of conjectures about people, clubs and restaurants that you don’t yet know. A big city is anonymous, which gives its inhabitants opportunities to take distance from themselves.
But if – like me – you grew up in Amsterdam, the illusion of being in a big city is continually being dispelled.
It’s because of the people: there aren’t just enough of them. I’m always running into people whose faces I know. Sometimes they greet me with a brief nod and sometimes they quickly look away. Some of the faces belong to people I know from school, or university. Other, more recent faces are those of people I know from restaurants, cafes or parties. All of them have a story of some kind that I remember.
Take the driver of the tram I’m sitting in now. In the early 1980’s he was the city’s first breakdancer. I’d see him in the middle of the Leidseplein, dancing to the pumping hip-hop beats coming from his ghetto blaster.
That’s the good thing about recognizing faces. But what disturbs me about so many faces I know is that they’re changing. Sometimes I’ll see someone who I’ve seen around the city all my life whose face has got fuller and who’s proudly pushing a pram. When I go out I see the same faces everywhere, but now they’ve become harder or fatter. For this reason alone I’d sometimes really prefer to be living in a bigger city; at least I wouldn’t have to see myself growing older.
What, by the way, could I ever do with all the people I know? How many people does one really need: 30, eight? Maybe only one?
The tram comes to a halt at Leidseplein. I get out and walk in front of the tram. I look up and see the first breakdancer of Amsterdam. He’s wearing a blue uniform, and he makes sure to rung the tram’s bell before driving on.