sd gross
08-13-2009, 08:33 PM
:hi::hi:
]The Night We Met the Queen of Orange
by Stephen D. Gross
Queen Beatrix! A chill November rain soaked the Museumplein, deserted at Midnight, the recital at the Concertgebouw had finished an hour ago, and there she was, leaning out the window of her Citroen waving at us. We were still stoked from herbal indulgences at the Bulldog, and we couldn't believe it.
Gloria and I were in Scheveningen-By-the-Sea (that's the North Sea) , walking on the old boardwalk toward a glass enclosed Wave Pool overlooking the ocean, that was a tropical oasis despite the near-freezing temperature outside.
Called the "devil-may-care" part of the municipality of The Hague, the stately city that is the seat of the Netherlands Government and the residence of Queen Beatrix, is peopled by fishing villagers, deeply religious people, who trace their community to the time of the Franks, and their ancestors were not exactly thrilled when an entrepreneur opened a bathing pavilion on one of the dunes in 1818; from this grew a lively seaside resort. Bathers took to the water in horse-drawn wooden cabins that deposited them in the surf and hauled them back, modestly intact. Now the windswept, tired boardwalk, home to a tiny aquarium and other dated attractions was virtually deserted except for those intending to spend a few hours in the heated pool with surrounded by jungly foliage and quivering in syncopation to the big wave generator. And the charming inn called "The Bad Hotel" still beckoned to travelers in the hazy afternoon sun.
We heard some terrific music around a bend in the boardwalk and strolled over to check out the 'band', which was comprised of a a guy with a red twelve-string Guild, a harp rack and two battery powered bull nosed speakers. Singing in English and doing some dazzling picking the entrepreneur's guitar case lay before him, swiftly filling with the currencies of a dozen nations. About 60 or 70 people stood shivering in the late Autumn chill, apparently transfixed by the energetic guy's virtuosity.
The First Miracle
As we stood listening and watching I began to sense a strange familiarity in the guy's style and delivery. And after about ten minutes it struck me that he sounded and played a lot like my old friend Lance Wakely, a truly amazing studio musician that I'd been good friends with when he lived on New York's West 19th street, but hadn't been in touch with in 20 years. Dismissing this illusion we were reluctant to leave when the busker began making the rounds of the growing crowd who circled him and as he stood in front of us I looked at him and said, "Wakely - is that you?" ...which made him abruptly stop in mid-sentence and stare at me through those familiar coke bottle glasses.
Turns out it was. He'd been an expatriate for almost a quarter century and was currently living in Amsterdam, in a comfy flat near the Rijksmuseum and the downtown area.
We'd hitchhiked back and forth to Miami from New York, and to his grandfolks' farm in Pennsylvania's Dutch Country. We' done dozens of all-nighters with Lance and his roommate Monte Dunn furiously jamming with players whose names almost anyone would now recognize. He'd turned me onto the Stones, the Staple Singers and people he frequently played with such as John Sebastian, Bob Gibson and the Monkees, for whom he did considerable studio work. And now he invited us to stay at his little flat, intending to spend the week we planned to be there with his Hare Krishna girlfriend across town. Of course he gave us the Grand Tour, introducing us to a few of Holland's finest Indonesian Rijstafels and a considerable number of Cannabis cafes. We couldn't believe our amazing luck. What a serendipitous experience.
We gained many insights into what makes Amsterdam so special, but the last night we were there was the most memorable. We'd spent the day at the Van Gogh and Rijksmuseum, where Rembrandt's "Nightwatch" lived in a sofa lined room of its own. We'd strolled in the chill, steady rain hitting half the town's chocolate emporiums up for samples of the World's Finest Chocolates. We were tired from indulging our senses all day when we crossed the big plaza studded with museums, on our way 'home'.
And then The Second Miracle
We heard, between the spattering of raindrops, a faint heartbeat, dark ominous rumblings, faint cries of distress - it was all very spooky. The Museumplein was dark, wet and we felt an immediate need to be in Lance's warm, cheery flat. But curiosity drove us toward the sound which led us to a somber column surrounded by stainless steel panels.
Dedicated in 1975 as a memorial to the women and children held prisoner in the Ravensbrück Nazi concentration camp during World War II, strange sounds accompanied by intermittent flashed of light created an eerie sense of dread which immediately riveted us, making us forget entirely about the relentless rain and the undecipherable shadows that consumed us where we stood.
The wreaths and flowers which, we learned, typically cover the monument were 6 months behind and in front of us. Tonight the Ravensbruck memorial had an audience of two. The gut-wrenching spectacle sucked my tear ducts dry and after we had our moment of misery, we managed to drag our butts out of the blackness and walk ourselves home. But our route led us past the back door of the Concertgebouw and what befell us was
The Third Miracle.
A tiny crowd stood respectfully at the concert hall's rear door behind golden ropes which marked the borders of a very wet red carpet. A few long-haired police types stood around looking half-bored and flirting with a sprinkling of attractive young women. I approached one and asked if something eventful was happening, and he replied with a juicy accent, "Oh yah - der Qveen is at the concert and it's almost over." The Queen? I hadn't had any queens in my life. Not even when playing poker. I couldn't imagine, in 1985, seeing a real live one. "She'll be coming out the back door (of course!) in a few minutes - you can wait around and see her!"
I was stunned. I never imagined I'd see a real, live queen, much less one close up! I couldn't believe there weren't cadres of armed Swat cops, serious armor and weaponry, the security befitting such a beloved Head of State as Queen Beatrix. I thought these guys were having fun with me - putting this gullible Yankee on. But we were there - we needn't do anything but stick around and see. We were already drenched. A little more water wouldn't matter.
And quite suddenly, with minimal bustle and no commotion, the heavy door clanged open and out she strode, beaming from her resplendent evening out at the Concertgebouw. The 50 or 60 spectators oohed and ahhed, smiled and very politely applauded, and she walked toward her painfully modest "limo", unhurriedly nodding, smiling and applauding back. When she looked straight at us I got uncharacteristically mushy - I'd never been eye to eye with royalty before. And then the car door closed and she was gone.
What with the museums and the Ravensbruck memorial and treats from the Bulldog Cafe No. 2, it was almost too much to take. Walking on a cushion of unbelievabilty, we fired one up and advanced toward Lance's place where we could dry off and consider all that had happened. The streets were whispery, we were almost there, and then we heard a car quietly approaching. And as it passed we looked over and there she was again! Leaning out the car's window, her babushka dripping rainwater and an easy smile which lit the night! She gave us a very personable wave, and then she was gone for good. And that's how it was the night Gloria and I met Queen Beatrix of the Netherlands.
[/B][/B]
]The Night We Met the Queen of Orange
by Stephen D. Gross
Queen Beatrix! A chill November rain soaked the Museumplein, deserted at Midnight, the recital at the Concertgebouw had finished an hour ago, and there she was, leaning out the window of her Citroen waving at us. We were still stoked from herbal indulgences at the Bulldog, and we couldn't believe it.
Gloria and I were in Scheveningen-By-the-Sea (that's the North Sea) , walking on the old boardwalk toward a glass enclosed Wave Pool overlooking the ocean, that was a tropical oasis despite the near-freezing temperature outside.
Called the "devil-may-care" part of the municipality of The Hague, the stately city that is the seat of the Netherlands Government and the residence of Queen Beatrix, is peopled by fishing villagers, deeply religious people, who trace their community to the time of the Franks, and their ancestors were not exactly thrilled when an entrepreneur opened a bathing pavilion on one of the dunes in 1818; from this grew a lively seaside resort. Bathers took to the water in horse-drawn wooden cabins that deposited them in the surf and hauled them back, modestly intact. Now the windswept, tired boardwalk, home to a tiny aquarium and other dated attractions was virtually deserted except for those intending to spend a few hours in the heated pool with surrounded by jungly foliage and quivering in syncopation to the big wave generator. And the charming inn called "The Bad Hotel" still beckoned to travelers in the hazy afternoon sun.
We heard some terrific music around a bend in the boardwalk and strolled over to check out the 'band', which was comprised of a a guy with a red twelve-string Guild, a harp rack and two battery powered bull nosed speakers. Singing in English and doing some dazzling picking the entrepreneur's guitar case lay before him, swiftly filling with the currencies of a dozen nations. About 60 or 70 people stood shivering in the late Autumn chill, apparently transfixed by the energetic guy's virtuosity.
The First Miracle
As we stood listening and watching I began to sense a strange familiarity in the guy's style and delivery. And after about ten minutes it struck me that he sounded and played a lot like my old friend Lance Wakely, a truly amazing studio musician that I'd been good friends with when he lived on New York's West 19th street, but hadn't been in touch with in 20 years. Dismissing this illusion we were reluctant to leave when the busker began making the rounds of the growing crowd who circled him and as he stood in front of us I looked at him and said, "Wakely - is that you?" ...which made him abruptly stop in mid-sentence and stare at me through those familiar coke bottle glasses.
Turns out it was. He'd been an expatriate for almost a quarter century and was currently living in Amsterdam, in a comfy flat near the Rijksmuseum and the downtown area.
We'd hitchhiked back and forth to Miami from New York, and to his grandfolks' farm in Pennsylvania's Dutch Country. We' done dozens of all-nighters with Lance and his roommate Monte Dunn furiously jamming with players whose names almost anyone would now recognize. He'd turned me onto the Stones, the Staple Singers and people he frequently played with such as John Sebastian, Bob Gibson and the Monkees, for whom he did considerable studio work. And now he invited us to stay at his little flat, intending to spend the week we planned to be there with his Hare Krishna girlfriend across town. Of course he gave us the Grand Tour, introducing us to a few of Holland's finest Indonesian Rijstafels and a considerable number of Cannabis cafes. We couldn't believe our amazing luck. What a serendipitous experience.
We gained many insights into what makes Amsterdam so special, but the last night we were there was the most memorable. We'd spent the day at the Van Gogh and Rijksmuseum, where Rembrandt's "Nightwatch" lived in a sofa lined room of its own. We'd strolled in the chill, steady rain hitting half the town's chocolate emporiums up for samples of the World's Finest Chocolates. We were tired from indulging our senses all day when we crossed the big plaza studded with museums, on our way 'home'.
And then The Second Miracle
We heard, between the spattering of raindrops, a faint heartbeat, dark ominous rumblings, faint cries of distress - it was all very spooky. The Museumplein was dark, wet and we felt an immediate need to be in Lance's warm, cheery flat. But curiosity drove us toward the sound which led us to a somber column surrounded by stainless steel panels.
Dedicated in 1975 as a memorial to the women and children held prisoner in the Ravensbrück Nazi concentration camp during World War II, strange sounds accompanied by intermittent flashed of light created an eerie sense of dread which immediately riveted us, making us forget entirely about the relentless rain and the undecipherable shadows that consumed us where we stood.
The wreaths and flowers which, we learned, typically cover the monument were 6 months behind and in front of us. Tonight the Ravensbruck memorial had an audience of two. The gut-wrenching spectacle sucked my tear ducts dry and after we had our moment of misery, we managed to drag our butts out of the blackness and walk ourselves home. But our route led us past the back door of the Concertgebouw and what befell us was
The Third Miracle.
A tiny crowd stood respectfully at the concert hall's rear door behind golden ropes which marked the borders of a very wet red carpet. A few long-haired police types stood around looking half-bored and flirting with a sprinkling of attractive young women. I approached one and asked if something eventful was happening, and he replied with a juicy accent, "Oh yah - der Qveen is at the concert and it's almost over." The Queen? I hadn't had any queens in my life. Not even when playing poker. I couldn't imagine, in 1985, seeing a real live one. "She'll be coming out the back door (of course!) in a few minutes - you can wait around and see her!"
I was stunned. I never imagined I'd see a real, live queen, much less one close up! I couldn't believe there weren't cadres of armed Swat cops, serious armor and weaponry, the security befitting such a beloved Head of State as Queen Beatrix. I thought these guys were having fun with me - putting this gullible Yankee on. But we were there - we needn't do anything but stick around and see. We were already drenched. A little more water wouldn't matter.
And quite suddenly, with minimal bustle and no commotion, the heavy door clanged open and out she strode, beaming from her resplendent evening out at the Concertgebouw. The 50 or 60 spectators oohed and ahhed, smiled and very politely applauded, and she walked toward her painfully modest "limo", unhurriedly nodding, smiling and applauding back. When she looked straight at us I got uncharacteristically mushy - I'd never been eye to eye with royalty before. And then the car door closed and she was gone.
What with the museums and the Ravensbruck memorial and treats from the Bulldog Cafe No. 2, it was almost too much to take. Walking on a cushion of unbelievabilty, we fired one up and advanced toward Lance's place where we could dry off and consider all that had happened. The streets were whispery, we were almost there, and then we heard a car quietly approaching. And as it passed we looked over and there she was again! Leaning out the car's window, her babushka dripping rainwater and an easy smile which lit the night! She gave us a very personable wave, and then she was gone for good. And that's how it was the night Gloria and I met Queen Beatrix of the Netherlands.
[/B][/B]