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A place for Writing 12 students to read each other's writing, to critique, to suggest, to improve.
About Me
- Brad
- Former adult teacher who loves island beaches. Happy homebody and family man; once devoted dog owner, now without Tashi, my Tibetan Terrier. I prefer the absurdity of the imagination to the absurdity of imagining nothing.
5 comments:
An Amsterdam Welcome
I stood in front of a house where a Jewish man had sheltered from the Nazis for four long years. Thousands like him were saved by Amsterdamers, who considered Jews equals in their city. Joe, our capable guide, told us of the February 1941 uprising, when the citizens of Amsterdam had taken to the streets in support of the Jews. The results were predictable: Germans separated women from men then executed some women, publicly. Amsterdam paid a heavy price.
I knew then I had to visit Anne Frank House. We wandered empty rooms watching video installations in each room showing the history of Anne Frank’s family. They hid for over two years before being betrayed and deported. Only Otto Frank, Anne’s father, returned.
When I listened to Miep Gies, an employee of the Frank family, I began to understand Amsterdam and her people. She related the tale of Otto Frank coming to ask her if she could help them (and others) by obtaining food using counterfeit ration cards (an act that could have lead to her execution).
Miep’s answer, given without hesitation? “Yes, of course.”
Visiting the city of Amsterdam fills the senses with delightful sights and sounds but, best of all, introduces one to a uniquely public-oriented citizenry, people who do many things that make city living more tolerable for all.
On jam packed trams, three times Amsterdamers politely tapped on our elbows, handing us something we had dropped—and, more importantly, spoke to us in Dutch, accepting that we might be fellow Amsterdamers. Every day we juggled cameras and scarves, tickets and tram passes and every day we experienced the kindness of Amsterdam’s citizens.
Often, I watched multiple passengers offer help quickly—to the old, to mothers with bulky strollers—in a way that seemed natural and routine. Only once did I see slight annoyance— a crew of mothers and strollers blocked access to standing room further up the tram.
Despite being built on sand, Amsterdam has an underground metro, along with extensive tram lines that make getting around easy. Visitors buy an hourly pass, available in one day increments (24, 48 hours and so on), to match the duration of a stay. At seven Euros per 24 hours, the radio frequency pass is a bargain.
And, that flexibility in the passes (unlike, say, Paris, where you need to commit to a weekly pass at minimum) typifies the attitude of Amsterdamers—practical minded and tolerant yet still friendly towards the hordes of tourists in their midst. Which brings me to something rare and wonderful about Amsterdamers: their bicycles.
I heard the ring of bicycle bells often, many times because I had again blundered onto a bicycle pathway, which is very often wider than the sidewalk. In Amsterdam, the bicycle has the right of way. It fits with the prevailing attitude: clearly, bikes are the fastest, most ecological and healthiest way to get around, so they take priority.
Bikes are everywhere. Every street has bunches of leaning bikes, mostly black, single speed and basic. Our Amsterdam guide told us local people own two bikes: one for everyday use left locked on the street and the other for weekends, to ride easily into the countryside, since bikes are allowed on the metro (with hooks for stability and tire guideways on stairs).
The biking scene seems fantastical to a Vancouverite (not only because there are no hills to climb in Amsterdam!). No one wears helmets, adults nor children. Yet everyone rides— white haired grandmothers, guys in suits, women in mini skirts and heels. Parents carry children on bikes with wheelbarrow-like carriers on front or on tiny seats, perched on the handlebars or behind the rider’s seat.
Often, I saw children strapped in, enjoying the ride, and wondered if we were in Vancouver whether the mom would be arrested for endangering children!
Then, I imagined Miep Gies in the 1940s, on a bicycle packed with groceries, riding up a cobblestoned street beside the canal, matter of fact, helping because it was the right thing to do.
Welcome to Amsterdam!
Recipe for Tteokbokyi (Korean spicy rice cake):
*Store bought rice cake.—200 gram or 1 box.
*Onion—4/1.
*Carrot—30 gram.
*Shiitake mushroom—2.
*Green pepper & red pepper—1 each.
*Vegetable oil & sesame oil—a little bit.
[seasoning]
*hot chilli paste & hot chilli pepper—1 spoon.
*Seasoned rice wine & sugar—2/1 spoon.
*Chicken stock—3 spoon.
*Sesame seed, black pepper, & sesame seed oil—a little bit.
1.Put chicken stock into a wok with 200 grams of rice cake –if the rice cake is hard, take it out of the fridge before cooking, until it’s soft.
2.Chop ingredients beforehand and set it on high with vegetable oil.
3.When the water is reduced, and when the rice cake is smooth, turn it down to medium or medium high, put chilli paste, and chilli pepper to the wok and stir them until it’s well distributed.
4.Put chopped ingredients, seasoned rice wine and sugar to the wok, as to your preference.
5.When it’s done, turn it down to low, and put the sesame oil, black pepper to the wok.
6.Place them in a plate, sprinkle sesame seed, and enjoy Tteokbokyi!
FIELD WORK: observations while shopping.
Last week, my friends I went to an ice cream parlour, and laid before us was a variety of flavours to chose from. Having eaten a mango flavoured ice cream at home (which I heartily enjoyed) before going to the said parlour, I settled for the maple syrup one. I didn’t enjoy it. It was too sweet for my taste, too sticky, too. But was it really too sweet and sticky? Or perhaps, I was only dissatisfied with my choice because there were more than ten flavours right in front of me--mango, my favourite, included. Knowing that one of those flavours would be the best for taste lessened the satisfaction value the maple syrup ice cream could’ve had. Of course, I could buy another different flavour, if not, try all of them. But that would be a waste of money. (If I ever had some.)
In the book, The Paradox of Choice by Barry Schwartz, he talked about the importance of the choices we make, and how it affects our lives. He argues that the freedom we hope and fight for can actually hinder us from achieving satisfaction, and happiness. That equating liberty to choice, as if increasing the number of choices defines freedom, can be harmful to us, and might cause us psychological disorders such as depression.
I am not saying that the abundance of choice is evil, but that it has a negative and a positive side. For example, having too many options to chose from consumes an enormous amount of our precious energy and time doing unimportant things like spending a day in a shop looking for a perfect clothing Knowing that there would be thousands of designs makes us search more intently for the best one. At the end of the day, we try on the product, and still feel that it is not the perfect choice, because somewhere, someone is already wearing it. Also, it increases our expectations, therefore, we are more disappointment prone. On the positive side, more options gives us higher possibility of making the right choice.
Paulo Coelho, author of The Alchemist, said: “Freedom is not the absence of commitment, but the ability to chose--and, commit ourselves--what is the best for us.” It is not about the quantity of choices. It is about making the right choice. I think, to escape or to overcome this dilemma is to know what we really want, what we love, and to pursue it. Be it in choosing what to have for dinner, what cell phone plan to sign, or car to buy, up to more personal things such as who to chose as a husband or wife, (if given a chance to choose) we should think carefully and thoroughly and commit ourselves to our decision. Only by that, we’d be able to achieve happiness in the choices we make. (By the way, I ended up trying three more flavours of ice cream!)
TaiWan is a beautiful island located on the east-south side of mainland in China. We have some relatives who live in there, but we haven’t been getting in touch for over 40 years because of the long civil war constanted almost 50 years in 19th. Luckily, my husband and I got a chance to visit TaiWan. The procedure of applying documents was even more complicated than going abroad. But, never minded, because we had urged to adventure that place with many legend.
We felt really worth to go along with those emotional explorations. The two sides had many similar points from tradition to culture, from face to foods, no matter how long time we were apart. We also had some different. For example, Taiwanese spoke mandarin with slight accent that the tone seemed a litter bit soft and informal. They still kept using the traditional Chinese character instead of mainland’s simple renovation. They were proud of the advanced economic and attractive environment. They admired another side’s development and wild ground.
TaiWan has priority geography consist of mountains, ocean, lakes, and plains. The complex builds a wonderful traveling favor. The gorgeous sun rising view, the mirror-flat peaceful lake, and the delicious ten-thousand kinds of snacks, all are the dream of visits. Extremely, tourists could eat ice-cream for cooling down in winter, to escape cold typhoon in summer. As Taiwanese, they are passional and hospitable, and crowed, of course.
Personification example, November 4 assignment:
His Mother cries while watching the sunrise,
Hoping it’d stay until she falls asleep,
And light the beauty of her dark streets.
Inside his Mother’s womb,
Lives the rich and the poor.
Her blood is fused with their blood;
Her flesh, adhered to their flesh.
But in time, like most of Her offspring,
They’ll set off under the sun, singing:
“I’ve found a job, but nowhere to sleep.
My Mother worries. My Mother weeps”
A son has flown to the other side of the world—
At the realm of the setting sun.
He milks not his Mother's breast.
He sleeps not at his Mother's chest.
He feeds not at his Mother's nest.
Has he grown to be an orphan of the West?
As he plough the land (not of his ancestors)
He looks at the sky and remembers what he’s once been told:
"Where your heart is, there will be your treasure, also."
Even if the mud that he works with shine like gold—
He puts down his spade, his rake, his pitchfork—
It is not his own, not his to hold.
"Mother, please take me back in your arms," the lost son pleads.
"Let me see the sun through your eyes,
In your lands let me scatter and grow my seeds.’
One day, when he steps again at Her soil,
He will never leave without Her lore.
It is Her who cultivated who he is today.
Without Her he’s a man of nowhere,
A man without a name.
For he who values not his Motherland,
Wouldn't reach his destination like a trackless train.
As he tears away the gold on his skin,
The Brown Man in him redeems his dreams.
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