After being ushered into his office, the man went to his side of the desk. He looked very official and as he sat, he unbuttoned his well-fitted grey suit. I inhaled slowly, letting breath out slowly through pursed lips, preparing myself for inevitable rejection.

“Hello. I’m Robert Noonan, the Genesee County’s District Attorney. Thank you for coming. When I received the call from our police department, I was surprised to hear someone inquiring about a case from so long ago. The officer said you were asking for records about a murder that happened here, what – twenty-five years ago? What interest do you have in the case? Who are you and why do you want with them?”

He couldn’t see my fists clenched in my lap, a spontaneous reaction because I was both nervous and determined. A part of me resented being asked why, mainly because I’ve had to answer that question many times over the years. “Why do you want to know?” was my grandmother’s response any time I inquired about our family history. Aside from curiosity about our unusual family makeup –for years I’d believed my grandmother was my mother and when I discovered the woman I called “Mom” was not, I naturally wondered where my “real” mom was. Since I learned that both my parents were dead and how they had died, I wanted to know what happened. Who wouldn’t? Yet it seems I’m the only one in the family interested in pursuing answers.

I took a deep calming breath and said, “I’m Lisa Gioia. It was my mother who was murdered in 1958 when I was just a baby. I’m researching my family history and know very little about what happened, only what I’ve managed to find in newspaper articles. I am hoping there are records that I can see”

I wanted to say I believed I had a right to them. Aren’t records such as this supposed to be made public? Yet I didn’t want to come off as pushy. At twenty-six, I’d had a lifetime of not standing up for myself. That was changing and I believed it was because I’d learned my mother died trying to leave my father.

Recently I’d found the strength to leave my unhappy six-year marriage, becoming a single mother at the age of twenty-six the same age my mother was when she was killed.

Although my estranged husband never hurt me physically, I experienced emotional abuse. During one of my attempts to leave the marriage, his threat, “If you aren’t careful, you’ll end up like your mother,” was enough to put fear in me that my children would grow up without a mother. Perhaps that is why I am so determined to know more about my mother and father and have taken to investigating without help from my family. Their determination to keep me in the dark was infuriating. I was hoping this meeting wouldn’t prove to be another brick wall.

He said, “I see. There are records and I recognize your last name, Gioia, as being the same as that of the victim. I also wanted to make sure there were no photographs in the files, which I wouldn’t want you to see. There weren’t any, but there are a considerable number of other documents.” He added, “If you follow me, I’ll take you to a room with some privacy.”

Relief swept over me as I stood. There were files. Answers awaited me, more answers than I’d garnered so far and while I was anxious to see them, I felt trepidation as well. What was I going to find? Would I finally come to understand what happened the night my mom was killed, leaving me, a year-old baby, and my three older brothers orphaned?

Over the last few years, I had uncovered the basics of the story; my father had killed our mother and days later committed suicide. Those were the facts presented in news articles I’d obtained from the local library. What I didn’t know was, why? What would have spurred my father to commit such an act? The little my mother’s family, with whom I’d grown up, would tell me, painted a picture in my mind of my father as a jealous, controlling man who was mentally ill and my mother a saint who suffered abuse from him.

 It was the relationship developing with my father’s family, with whom I didn’t meet until my teens, that made my curiosity go into overdrive. They claimed my father was a loving, devoted man. While they never used the word “whore” to describe my mother, their insinuation that she was unfaithful contradicted everything I’d been led to believe. Perhaps I thought as I followed Mr. Noonan down the hall I was about to find out the truth.

We stepped into a room containing a large conference table surrounded by high-backed chairs. The bookcase-lined walls were a deep mahogany in color, the wood gleaming with an old-world feel. Leatherbound law journals with wide, weathered spines were encased behind glass and covered all four walls. I was in a room in an historic building, fitting for my purpose here. As he showed me to a seat, he placed a manila folder before me.

“My secretary will make you copies of any documents. Please take your time,” he said with a note of, was that compassion or pity in his voice?

“Thank you,” was all I managed to say. He left the room, closing the door behind him.

Looking out of the window before I opened the folder, I saw trees laden with the green leaves of summer blowing in the wind. This little town, equidistant between Buffalo and Rochester, New York, where I was born and lived for only that first year of my life, was the starting and ending point of my short-lived family. I thought about the people outside going about their day-to-day lives, people who, had my family circumstances been different, would have been my neighbors, friends, and future.

I opened the folder and began to read.

Before he died when I was a year old, my father was the proprietor of Gioia’s Pizzeria in the town of Batavia, New York. His partners were his younger brother Dick and nephew Ronnie.

Of course, because of my age I never tasted his pizza, and perhaps was never taken to his restaurant. I know the general location of where it was located but have not tried to find it. Maybe that will be something to do next time I visit my hometown.

After his death I don’t know what became of the business. Did the brother and nephew keep it open? I doubt it. Batavia was and still is, a small town and because of what my father did to cause my mother’s and his own demise, I’m sure no one would have patronized Gioia’s Pizzeria. The nephew’s daughter, my second cousin, opened her own pizza restaurant in another state and from what I understand, used the original Gioia pizza dough recipe. When I finally met her when in my forties, I asked for the recipe, and it was given to me.

It was a bulk recipe, making thirteen doughs at a time, so I rarely used it. Since then, I’ve created my own dough recipe after learning to make Levita Madre, a low hydration sourdough version. I’m having success with a flavorful, thin crust, just how my family likes it.

When I am shaping the dough, trying to gently stretch it evenly in order to add toppings, I find the skill challenging. I think about the pizza makers I’ve seen on television, in movies and in authentic Italian restaurants. They toss the dough high, stretching it when it makes contact with their fisted hands. Yes, I’ve tried the method and am woefully inadequate.  Which brings me to think about my father, a man I never knew but whose presence lives deep within my subconscious and who makes himself known unbidden and unexpected.

When I make pizza, I wonder: did my father have that skill? Did he impress customers by throwing his dough into the air, stretching, and shaping with hands balled into fists? If so, where did he learn to do it? If not, did he feel he was shortchanging his ancestry?

These questions and so many more are ones I wish with all my heart I could ask the man that fathered me. Throughout my life I have been instructed to let the past go, stop obsessing about it and move on. I have moved on, but as anyone who has mourned the passing of someone must admit, moving on is one thing, forgetting yet another. It’s the little things, like making pizza, that bring up thoughts and memories, even if, like me, I never knew the person I’m desperately missing and mourning.

It’s a new year and like many others, I feel an urgency to start afresh. For me, that means tackling the job of deep cleaning the house, which in turn means reorganization. Sifting through boxes that have gathered dust, I am revisiting treasures of the past, like this collection of early childhood drawings made by my now grown daughters.

I asked myself what to do with them. Do I repackage them in a clean, discarded plastic pillowcase bag and place them once again in storage? I’m not DIY-savvy enough to create a collage, besides, I don’t have a wall big enough for all I’ve saved.

Of course, I’ve offered them to said daughters, but sadly they are not interested like their mother is in their early artistic efforts. I did share with my seven-year-old granddaughter and she enjoyed them, but I’m afraid she’ll eventually lose interest.

There is no way I would ever discard them in a trash bin. As a historian, I have cringed and felt saddened when I’ve happened upon photos in thrift or antique stores. I always feel a sense of obligation to buy them to honor those smiling, hopeful individuals in the photos, not leave them in a box to forever live in obscurity.

It’s a cold day and I have a fire warming my home. Perhaps I could bring myself to say a proper goodbye to the construction paper hearts, the glued beads, the “I love you, Mom! Your (sic) the best!” sentiments and feed them to the fire.

Maybe. Someday. Just not today.

For now, a smile forms as I tenderly gather each piece and recall the tiny hands that colored the paper, wrote the misspelled words, and the chubby cheeked child that presented it to me all those years ago, and put them in a box. To be again another year, another organization day.

I remember the day Maya became mine. On Mother’s Day when grandson Aiden was around six years old, he and his mother came for a visit. With a huge smile on his little boy’s face, Aiden produced a bundle of black fur that fit into his tiny hands. “Happy Mother’s Day, Nana,” he said with great enthusiasm.

There is nothing cuter than a puppy, and Maya, well it was instant love.  

For six wonderful years I had Maya as a companion, taking her with me to as many places as I could. After an unfortunate incident involving a Pit Bull and lack of funds for an exorbitant veterinarian fee, I lost Maya. Some would say she was my “heart dog.” I think that’s right. That loss took place several years ago and I still grieve for her. It especially hurts when I see a photograph of her.

Recently, a Maya-looking dog came up for adoption. I stared at the photo of the pup and considered bringing her/him home. But then I said, “It’s not Maya.” While I’d love to give this pet-in-need a secure, loving home I can’t. Not only because I have no room for another dog, but because of those words, “It’s not Maya.” I can’t replace my heart dog with a look-a-like, no matter how much I wish I could.

I will continue to mourn for my lost pet. I’ll continue to rescue those that I can when I can. But Maya is gone, and I will always mourn her. She and I shared a bond. I will cling to sweet memories of her short time with me.

Did you have a “heart-pet?” I hope, like me, you find comfort in knowing that at least we have our memories.

F was one of the elderly people I came to know as a caregiver, a job I took on a few years ago to supplement my income. She was my third client and up until her passing at midnight this morning, the one I worked with the longest. When we caregivers first began with F, she lived in the home she had shared with her husband before his passing years earlier. Her mind was clear and her body strong. She could out-stand me at the table where she worked on 500+ piece jigsaw puzzles, a hobby I came to adopt because of her. Using her walker as support the two of us worked outside in her rose garden, her pride and joy, where she instructed on how to properly trim, water, and fertilize the many different varieties and colors. I took some of the cuttings meant for the trash bin, dipped them in root powder and planted them in my own garden where three of the dozen I brought home survive, a reminder for years to come of my time with a beautiful soul who has now left the earth.

As one of her caregivers I came to know F well: her family history, her biological needs, her likes and dislikes. Being in her presence from her strong years to her eventual decline has been a profound experience and one I will cherish. It was a delight two years ago to share her 95^th birthday lunch at her favorite restaurant, to do small Polka dance steps with her as we watched Mollie B’s Polka Party every Saturday night, and to see her happiness when I arranged a FaceTime chat with her 99-year-old brother whom she hadn’t seen in years. He passed away two months after that video visit.

            F went peacefully and beautifully into her eternal sleep, but the weeks before this transition was a difficult one, both for F and for those of us whose job it was to care for her. At times it was excruciatingly painful to watch her discomfort and fear. Truthfully, I personally wished for her suffering to end long before it did.

But as I looked down upon her cold, prone body lying in her bed in the home she was fortunate enough to have stayed in, dressed in her favorite deep green dress, time-worn hands folded with a bouquet of lavender tucked in them, her skin no longer lined and freshly cleaned, I saw how beautiful death is. I can only recount that it touched me deeply.

F’s heart has stopped in the physical realm, but for the many she touched in her 97 years will remember her in their own still-beating hearts. Rest in Peace, F. Thank you.

As a novice caregiver the few clients I have been privileged to care for have given me amazing experiences. Each client is different in how they are cared for when it is time to invite strangers into their lives and homes to see to their safety and well-being. In talking to caregivers I’ve worked with, I hear amazing stories about their experiences and that of their clients. As a writer and historian, I wish to document and share those experiences. I see it as a project along the lines of “Call the Midwife,” only the content will deal with the end-of-life experience rather than with one’s entrance into this world.

            We all will face the moment when our loved ones and ourselves will reach that final destination. With this forthcoming project I hope to show just how beautiful this human experience is.

Maastricht, Netherlands

When the Flixbus turned onto the highway toward Maastricht, the little town I’d visited a few days before, I felt a weight drop off me. I inwardly sighed feeling like I was in a good place. I remember having this same feeling every time I cross the border back to Oregon from wherever I might have been traveling to. It’s a feeling of returning “home.”

            At the train station I disembarked yet had no idea where my hotel was. Pulling out my phone and opening the Map app, I put in the address and saw it was a 20-minute walk. Hmmm. I’d just been sitting for the last several hours, waiting an excruciating long time in Brussels for the bus, and then the two-plus hour ride. A walk would do me good. Always a challenge with a heavy backpack and pulling a suitcase behind me, especially over an unpaved pathway. It was another relief to see the hotel. At check-in I inquired if there was a room available so I could stay two nights, instead of the one I’d booked. Not only was the answer yes, but the price was one-half of what I’d paid for the first night. Bonus!

Once in my room I did my normal routine of a nice shower and putting on clean clothes. I was really hungry. I’d not had anything to eat but my emergency snacks and it was past 6:00 pm. The Yelp app indicated a café not far and I set out again using Maps. The walk took me along a path with office buildings to my right and a grassy area occupied by geese to my left. Ahead it looked like more of the same open land with weeds growing. I saw no buildings ahead, much less a restaurant. Just before I turned around, I saw a woman with a dog on a leash. When we’d caught up to one another I asked her, and she said there was indeed a restaurant around the corner. Okay, then, and walking further I discovered the place.

I sat outside among many other diners. Over my cool drink I perused the menu. Wanting something substantial I considered steak or fish but decided on the special because the price fit my need to be frugal. It was another non-regional meal (like my two Italian restaurant meals) because it was a weekly promotion the restaurant runs highlighting foods from different countries. Just my luck it was American Week; my meal was a burger and fries. Granted, it was good. It was too much and I only ate half of everything.

It was an enjoyable walk back to the hotel. In my room, dressed for bed I watched television, finding an English-speaking station, but soon turned out the light and went to sleep.

Monday, June 19, 2023

Maastricht, Netherlands

9:30 am

I slept until 9:30 am! My first really deep and long sleep since leaving the U.S.A. for the Netherlands. It was wonderful not to have to set an alarm, be somewhere, and to have the whole day before me to explore. After enjoying two cups of the best instant expresso provided by the hotel, I opened my computer to check in on family and friends and check email.

Prior to arriving in Maastricht, thinking I only had one day, I thought I wouldn’t contact the friend I’d made a few days earlier. I didn’t think I’d be much good company and knew I needed to decompress from my Brussels overload of people. We’d exchanged email addresses and after a good night’s sleep I discovered a message from Don, which made me smile. He expressed happiness in having met me and wished me good luck on my continued travels. Not yet ready to commit to company, I dressed and set out for the day.

The bus pickup point is just around the corner by, of all places, McDonalds. The number six took me to City Center where I sat down for an early lunch. There I decided that yes, it would be nice to meet with Don, my only Netherland friend, if he had the time. I sent an email letting him know that my only plan was to visit the Natural History Museum, my one for-sure place on my day’s itinerary. If he had time and was willing, maybe we could get a bite to eat and have another visit. While I waited to see if he would replay, I headed to the museum.

After buying my ticket (it was the first time someone asked if I qualified for the senior discount. I hadn’t taken my friend Sue’s advice and sought it on my own), I proceeded to see what the museum had to offer.

The exhibits are all in Dutch, but luckily, I could make out a good deal of the meanings and since I know a lot about what is on display, didn’t have too much trouble. Six-year-old granddaughter Pearl would be in heaven here. She is a lover of all things dinosaur. I took photos for her. Here in Maastricht there have been two famous discoveries of the Mosasaurus. Like Pearl, I love this stuff. My favorite exhibit was the recreation of the private collection of someone from the early 20^th century. There were several specimens floating in bottles with original handprinted descriptions displayed behind a glass cabinet. Other specimens around the room were various skeletal body parts and several stuffed mammals and birds. Another great exhibit was the 1990s discovery of a Mosasaurus. The first one found is unfortunately in Paris, taken there as a war trophy when France occupied the city. It’s a shame it has not been returned to where it belongs. I learned much about the early history of Maastricht.

After leaving the museum I made my way back to City Center. There I discovered a bustling crowd of people filling the small streets. Stores were open and there were small vendors selling wares, including a flea market! Heaven again.

I checked my email and Don had written, offering to meet me later. He suggested a visit to a popular area called Sint Pietersberg. I wrote saying that would be wonderful, but I needed to return to the hotel to recharge myself and my phone. I would meet him at the train station, a nice central location for both of us.

Once refreshed, I met Don, later than we’d planned. I didn’t think we had time to go to Sint Pietersberg but he it was only a short bike ride from where we were. Uh, Oh. I can ride a bike, or course, but here? I’m game for just about anything so I said a hesitant OK. Bike rentals with my handy-dandy OV-Chipkaart is only 4,50 euros for twenty-four hours. I did great on the bike, following behind Don and in fifteen minutes we were at the base of what Don said was, “the highest point in Maastricht.” It is 171 m (561 ft), much smaller than the hills I’ve trekked in Oregon.

Even still, I said there’s no way I’m riding the bike up there, so we parked, locked the bikes up, and hiked to the top. Not too strenuous but I still had to gain control of my breath at the top. The climb was so worth it. The views of the surrounding valleys and town, church steeples and farmed lands is spectacular. Lots of other people were enjoying the views. We walked the very easy paths and Don pointed out where limestone is quarried. From there in the distance is a breeding pair of “Oehoes,” the name given to an owl species in Maastricht. It sounds like “Ooh Who” to me the way Don pronounced it. We couldn’t see the nest, but it was neat knowing it was there. The most amazing place he showed me was the cave where a woman named Greetje Blanckers lived until she was moved to a home for the elderly. Here’s a link to information about her. I need Google Translate to read the full article but check it out. All I can say is, “Wow.”

As the sun set, we headed back to our bikes at the bottom of the hill. There I asked Don to take a photo of me on the bike. I had to have this memory and wanted to share with family and friends. At the train station we returned the bike I rented as I wouldn’t have need for it anymore. We checked and discovered the bus to take me back to where I could walk to my hotel was 25 minutes away. Don offered to take me on the back of his bike!

Come on! I said there was no way he’d be able to carry me, much less that I would be able to hang on and sit comfortably on the rack that had to be only about 12 by 6 inches. Well, I went for it. Why not? Ha Ha. After only one stop to readjust my seat by putting the sweater on the rack and holding on to his backpack, he literally rode me the ten minutes to where I could easily walk to my hotel. What a sight I made, at my age and weight (although all my walking has surely dropped a pound or two)! I couldn’t believe he could do it, yet he did.

Thanks Don, for the great memories! You are truly a nice person and I wish you well on your upcoming trip to India. Should you make it to the United States, you will be my guest on a tour of our town!

Back in my room I soaked in a nice hot bath laced with Dr. Bronner’s Lavender castile soap. Ahhh. Once settled in bed I fell asleep and woke up at 8:00 am.

I am now on a train headed to the town of Utrecht. I am told it is similar to Maastricht with regard to population and history. Two nights there to explore!

Let’s just say I can’t get out of this town, this country fast enough. It’s 2 ½ hours before my bus leaves. I’ve been at the station since 11 am, four hours before I needed to be there. I booked a 3:45 pm bus because of the price $19.95, the direct route, and with the idea I would sightsee before leaving. No way. I have not felt safe or comfortable at any time, save for in my hotel room and at dinner last night (see the post for Thursday, 6-16). Not wanting to hang out in the area where my hotel is because I hated being in that dirt-filled area, not wanting to see the homeless, not feeling safe, I checked out 1 ½ hours before I needed to. I did take time to write but anxious to leave, I did so.

            Finding my way to the subway was easier than it was the day before. I was a little worried that I might not be on the right track, but after confirming with a woman, I boarded the subway and got off correctly. Whew. Not sure how to exit, however, I was able to ask a worker on a cleaning machine. He spoke English and told me where to go to get to the North Station where I would board a bus to return me to the Netherlands. He even told me that I needn’t walk as the tram ride is included with my subway ticket. I was back at the bus/train station in one minute. With over almost four hours to kill I sat on a bench in order to figure out if I should/could go somewhere. If there had been a museum close by, I would have loved to go. There’s a botanical garden but it wasn’t close by according to my map. Unlike the Netherlands, I didn’t feel at all comfortable on public transit. I went back inside the station and decided to chance putting my suitcase and backpack in a storage bin.

            It was easy enough to figure out how to do it. Cost was 11 euros for 24 hours. The numbered extra-large bin’s door already open, not a good sign. When I placed my items inside and closed the door, I noticed the bottom left portion of the metal door was not securely closed; it seemed as though it had been pried open at one time. This concerned me. Would my things be safe and secure? My computer was in there. I couldn’t lose that, and losing everything else would have been just as devastating. Telling myself to trust that all would be well, I left.

            I couldn’t quite figure out where to go. I could have gone out the front; I was familiar with the surroundings. However, I saw people walking out a different location and decided to follow. I walked out onto an area filled with cafes, people sitting at tables eating and drinking,  store fronts being washed clean of the debris before opening. As I continued past this, I found myself on a street full of stores with all manner of things for sale. I am pretty sure I was in a strictly Muslim area based on the dress of the women and the items for sale. That didn’t concern me but it was crowded and dirty. It smelled. Carpets, suitcases, shoes, clothing were for sale at very inexpensive prices. Had I not felt so out of place, I would have loved to take my time, browse, go inside the shops. I had never felt my “American-ness” so keenly. With the current state of things in my country, would these people welcome or resent my presence?

Wanting to keep the station where my belongings and where I would need to board the bus in sight, I didn’t stray far. Still thinking my items were okay and I had plenty of time, I walked a bit away from the shops, where less people were hanging outside on stoops. I took very few steps in the direction I was going before my skin began to crawl. I felt/saw eyes on me. Men and women checking me out. I told myself I am not safe. Leave. I turned and quickly left the area and got back to the station.

            Inside, while still not experiencing the most secure feeling in this place, I was at least not “out there.” I walked past my storage box. Still intact. I felt better. I went inside a small deli-type shop and bought a water and picked out a tomato, cheese, and basil sandwich. I didn’t want to risk taking any meat as the refrigeration was not very cold. Maybe the cheese was also a risk, but I bought it. 7,50 euros. I took a few small bites, but my nerves wouldn’t allow me to eat more. I packed the sandwich into my bag. I drank some water. As I headed toward what looked like a grocery store, a youngish woman dressed in a brown, full-length covering and head scarf asked, “Parlez-vous francais?” Thinking she was asking for direction, I guess her dress and youngness took away my guard, I responded, “No. English.” From that she said, “Please, no money. Just food,” as she pointed a thumb behind her toward the store.

            My immediate reaction to the several solicitations I received so far, and there had been a few is a firm, “No!” With her I mumbled something and began to walk toward the store. I heard her say, “Is okay?” I went inside, walked around an aisle or two and headed toward the exit. I heard, “Madame?” and saw the woman inside holding a loaf of bread. I waved her off and left the store.

            Given the opportunity that I was baggage-free, I decided to take a walk once again. This time I headed out the front door from where I thought it was at least a step up for safety and cleanliness. Tall buildings, lots of glass, shiny and colored gray from their steel walls felt like sentinels to me. Was I safer? It felt a bit so because maybe these are businesses and I was in a better area. Even still, was I any safer? There were some people walking. There was a park where a few children played. Yet, my red flags still made their presence known and once again, I turned to go back to the station.

I followed in behind a woman using a small brown cup to ask every passerby for money. Luckily, I got past her and was not solicited. Still unable to relax without my things, I opened the storage box after just one hour and removed my baggage. My body relaxed knowing my things were in my possession, even though I’d wasted 11 euros. I found a seat in a photo booth that was inoperable. In the booth I was able to put my suitcase in to my right, backpack off and atop the case. I secured my purse to my right side and sat down to watch the activity go by.

For the most part it was a small, safe place that offered me a feeling of sanctuary. I was, however, also a sitting duck. A man stopped and pointed to my bags. He spoke French, I believe, but it was so low I couldn’t really hear him. I thought perhaps he was a staff person telling me I couldn’t sit there. No. He wanted my water. I said, “No.”

One or two more people caught my eye to beg. “No.” A woman in a maroon full-body dress pushing a stroller with a child in it and her little boy, maybe five or six years old walked by. The little boy and I made eye contact. I smiled. He smiled back and raised a thumbs-up. I felt so good seeing that. I returned the gesture. I then saw the same little group walking round and round asking for handouts. The little boy once again gestured thumbs up to me, this time with both hands. His mother saw me and asked for money. Once again, I refused. This time, it was with a sense of regret, but I just couldn’t give.

From these encounters, the numerous solicitations I witnessed or was approached about, I felt a sense that I should give, that my karma would benefit from doing so. But I stuck to my original response of not going into my wallet, accessing my limited money, and giving to what I saw as poor souls. This is not my obligation. While I feel so badly for them, like the disabled man in a wheelchair, the old woman sitting at the entrance, I needed to stay to myself, remain anonymous. Protect me.

Although the photo booth felt safe, I decided to go around the corner to McDonald’s. Inside I found a table and sat. Hoping not to be asked to leave if I didn’t purchase something, I decided my time waiting for the bus, three hours, could be spent writing. So here I am at the end of this essay. As usual my anxiety level lowers when I get things out of my head and down on paper, virtual or otherwise. While writing I am surrounded by people of all kinds coming and going. I hear foreign languages assaulting my ears, but it soothes me. I am alone, yet not alone.

I still have two hours and fifteen minutes before my bus. I really can’t wait. I feel bummed that I didn’t get any chance to discover what this city and country has to offer. I doubt I will ever return. Once again, I so wish I could go home early. I think I’ve had enough. Perhaps my last three days in the Netherlands will change my mind. As long as I feel safe, my belongings and my person, I will find the joy in exploring again.

Brussels, Belgium

8:00 AM

Holed up in a hotel in the city center of Brussels I have the television on to a station that has music in the background while showing panoramic views of various landscapes. It is quite soothing while I write about yesterday’s adventures. The hotel that I left in Amsterdam was conveniently located near Central Station, which I loved, but its location was in the heart of the touristry section, which I didn’t like. After a brief walk and breakfast, I gathered my luggage and backpack and headed to Central Station. There I took the train to the Flixbus station and waited for the bus to Brussels. The bus, although packed full, was clean and comfortable. Happy the transportation vehicles all have phone chargers. My phone does seem to be losing battery life rather quickly, although I try not to use it except when necessary. I need it for directions for sure. My seatmate on the bus was a nice young guy who I conversed with during the three-hour journey.

At the bus/tram station in Brussels, my ability to find my way was impeded by the fact that French is the primary language, lack of signage I could understand, and not being able to find help readily. My hotel room was not close by. When I finally got assistance, I walked about a half mile to the subway (Metro). Again, I had difficulty figuring out the correct train to take, but eventually got on the right one. I had to count on my fingers after each stop to ensure I got off on the right one because there was no announcement and I probably wouldn’t have understood it, in any case. The train was stifling hot and very crowded. My hotel was not far from where I got off, so that was lucky.

After another cooling shower I headed out to find a place to eat. I don’t like the city center of Brussels. I did not feel comfortable or even very safe. I needed to focus keenly on my location – where my hotel was (across from a Domino’s Pizza), which direction I was headed in and how to get back (I stayed on the same street the whole time). The sidewalks were crowded with café and pub seating. Homeless people lay about or congregate together. It smelled of trash and graffiti is plastered everywhere. I went inside a church and admired the beautiful stained glass and alter. There were about three people sitting in chairs in meditation and a man asleep on the floor. I think I heard one of the women hiss at me for taking a picture of the balcony, although I tried not to be obtrusive.

Looking for a someplace to eat took some doing. Inside pubs when I asked if they served food, I got a “No, only drinks,” response. I finally settled on a little restaurant because the slim, blonde woman with short hair smiled at me, clapped her hands as I looked inquiringly at the menu and made me feel welcome. Both that meal and the one the night before was Italian. I might just as well be in Italy for my food choices! The food and service were great. I took a picture of Georgina, who owns the restaurant with her husband. She is from Puglia. She graced me with a nice small drink of Limoncello after my meal and sent me off with a blown kiss. Nice.

Back in my hotel room I made plans for the next day. Deciding not to go to Paris because I really felt it would be too difficult to navigate the language and city, I booked a bus back to Netherlands. By the way, the bus prices are unbelievable. $20.00 for one way from one country to the next. My meal cost more than my bus ride!

I hadn’t wanted to spend my whole time in the Netherlands. England, France, and even Germany is so close, but I now feel comfortable in the Netherlands. Not Amsterdam; too expensive and too crowded. I’m heading back to Maastricht for the night. There I will enjoy walking about the historic town and learning about it more. On the recommendation of my bus mate, I will stay in a town called Urtecht at least the night before my return trip home next Wednesday.

Frankly, I wish I were going home sooner. While I’m enjoying my solo journey, I would rather be with someone I like traveling with. It would make the stress a bit easier to handle. And going early would alleviate my concern about how expensive this trip is, the greatest cost is hotel accommodation.

Until next time.

Amsterdam

7:07 pm

Yesterday I checked into my city center hotel. The hotel and room are wonderful, life outside not so much. I find Amsterdam to be too overwhelming with people, shops, smell, and filth (much more apparent at 7:00 in the morning after the revelers have gone to bed).

I finally ate a full meal at a Chinese restaurant recommended by the hotel front desk staff. A small bowl of soup with mushroom, which was delicious and a noodle plate, which was okay but filling. After much walking and before retiring to my room I stopped at an Hungarian sweet shop and had a delicious “chimney cake.” I photographed and videoed the making of it and will post it on my Facebook page. It was yummy and very filling. My stomach actually made lots of noise after the influx of food after so many light days of eating. In my room I climbed into the nice comfy bed and was asleep around 9:30 pm.

And then woke up at 3:00 am. That’s how I got such a beautiful picture from outside my hotel room. After reading was able to sleep for another hour or so.

I woke up with the decision to take the train to Maastricht, a town at the very southern tip. It was a 2 ½ hour ride each way through towns and the countryside – lovely. The purpose of this trip to Maastricht is really the whole reason I’m here in the Netherlands at all. A year and a half ago my uncle asked if I knew anyone that would accompany him here because he had a heart mission to fulfill. His beautiful wife, who is unable to travel such a distance from home has an uncle, her mother’s youngest brother, buried in the Netherlands American Cemetery. He was a casualty of WWII. My uncle and I planned this trip together but two weeks before we were to fly out, his health took a turn and he had to cancel. Both of us had purchased insurance on our flight so for me it was a decision I had to make whether or not to go or stay home. So, here I am on my own and today was able to travel to the American Cemetery, locate the grave and take photos for my aunt and uncle back home.

Public transportation here is AMAZING. Trains, trams, and buses run so well, are clean, and easy to navigate. People are very helpful in answering questions, as well. When I got off the train in Maastrict, I asked how to get to the cemetery in Maargarten. “Take that bus, #350. It drops you off right in front.” And it did. On the way to the cemetery a man sitting across the aisle from me asked if I had relatives I was visiting. I explained why I was going, and that short conversation turned into much more. He was on his way to a town past the cemetery to teach a yoga class at a center for the elderly. After small talk we said our goodbyes and I got off the bus. When it was time to catch the bus back to the train station, I waited on the other side of the road. When it arrived, I hopped on and heard, “Hi, Lisa.” It was the man I’d met. I asked him what happened, and he said no one showed up for his class; it was the first time that had happened to him so he was returning home.

Now before you think I was being stalked; it all was a coincidence. He didn’t know when I’d be taking the bus back. I felt very comfortable, so I sat next to him and for the 9-mile ride back to town we got to know one another. Since I hadn’t yet eaten, I asked him to join me for lunch. Over our meal we talked, sharing a little about one another. Nice man. Once he discovered my background and love of history, he took me on a tour of the town where he has lived all his life. What an historic place – it is fascinating. I have photos of all that, as well. At 1:30 pm I said farewell to my new friend and boarded the train back to Amsterdam.

Here I sit, having reorganized my belongings, taken a nice hot bath, recharged my computer, phone, and video camera. I’ve made reservations for a visit to Brussels tomorrow. Will stay there overnight and then Paris is supposed to be next for two nights. I’ve booked a room in a monastery there (I had such luck with one in Rome). However, I am unsure from one day to the next what the plan is so we’ll see.

The days are moving along but not having solid plans of where I’m going and where I’ll be staying is disconcerting. So, stay tuned. More to come.

Haarlem, Netherlands

8:40 am

My body still felt the effects of jet lag yesterday, although I had a fairly good night’s sleep. After packing I left the lovely hotel in headed to the Amsterdam train station via tram around 9:00 am. I found that several businesses throughout the city would store luggage for tourists and spent some time online checking out several vendors. Before giving a location of such business, however, you needed to book online. I held back doing this and decided to take my luggage along with me and see if I could find a place by just walking in. This proved unsuccessful, so I made my way to the Anne Frank Museum. I had a ticket that I’d purchased in advance before the trip. It was a fifteen-minute walk from the Central Station. Lugging a suitcase and heavy-loaded backpack over the cobblestone walkways, not to mention navigating the many construction zones made for a difficult trek. However, it was early, I had stamina from my rest and made it just fine. At the museum I was lucky to be granted access even though I was two hours early for my appointed visit. Another bit of luck is that a little café just around the corner holds luggage and the price was better than the online advertised ones. With that settled I went to the museum.

I had been looking forward to seeing this memorial. I felt it was not only an obligation, but for me, being inside the walls where this history took place is profoundly significant. When I first walked in the crowd was light, but soon there were many bodies, including a small school group of middle-school children. The building inside is very confined so it was in some rooms difficult to move around. The audio information provided was helpful, as was the reading material and photographs on the walls. Other objects were on display such as a yellow fabric Jewish star and facsimiles of documents.

The most touching portion of the tour was being in the actual rooms where the Frank family and others hid for two years. Photographic recreations of the layout of the rooms helped me to envision what it looked like as the occupants hid for two years. The early years of the 1940s was not that long ago so the architecture of the rooms and remaining appliances did not feel ancient to me.

In Anne’s room the walls were covered with images and news clippings she placed there. I gazed at the sink where they washed, the windows from which they looked out, the stairs leading to the attic they she frequented to visit with Peter. I just kept thinking, “if these walls could talk.” In addition to this mesmerizing experience, I found myself in the room where I could see her actual diaries. This was profound.

During about the middle of my museum tour I began to feel physically uncomfortable. Was I hungry? I had not long before eaten a good meal. Did I need more hydration? Most likely. While I didn’t want to hurry my visit, I knew it wouldn’t be long before I needed to leave, sit down, perhaps get a bite to eat. I didn’t stay to take in the very last rooms, which was a shame. Upon leaving the museum I went to a small café where I ordered still water and a savory Dutch pancake of ham, mushrooms, cheese, and tomato. I could only eat a small portion, so it wasn’t hunger that was affecting me. I soon went to retrieve my belongings, caught a tram back to Central Station where I hopped onto to train to the town of Haarlem where I would spend the rest of the day and night.

What a delight Haarlem is. After a call to the hotel to inquire the best way to get there (asking directions is such a great help and people are happy to assist, that is if they can speak English), I got on a bus and was dropped off just a few minutes from the hotel. The city center is laid out conveniently. Walking out from the hotel I’m in heart of it and walked all around, marking my location by the ancient church across from where I stayed. Feeling better physically, I was able to enjoy a small beer (only 3.20 euros!) and later, a gelato. By around 7:00 pm I wanted to get back to the room.

Walking in the room was stifling. This hotel has no air conditioning, just a fan. Even though I’d left it running, it was necessary to open the window for fresh air. My room was located on the first floor. Across from me is a residential building so I needed to be careful about being seen so I used the thin white curtain for privacy. I spent the rest of the evening on the computer figuring out the next days’ itinerary. I ruled out a trip to England. Would go to France the days I’d planned and not earlier. And realizing that I might not be lucky with finding accommodation, I booked another two-night stay in Amsterdam. I hadn’t planned on staying there but the other towns/villages I checked out were too unfamiliar to me. I decided that transportation from Amsterdam was so convenient I could get by with day trips.

I slept really well. Turned out the light after 10:00 pm and woke at 7:30 am. Although groggy from such a deep sleep, I dressed and went downstairs for breakfast. That first cup of coffee, as my best friend would say was “the elixir of life.” Check out is 11:00 am so soon I’ll be packing up once again, getting to the bus stop that will take me to Haarlem station and back to Amsterdam.

The adventure continues.