On The Road To Firenze, My (Long) Journey to Italy

Do Re Me, Part 2

Autumn of 1977, I Leave Israel

By the autumn of 1977 I had lived in Jerusalem, completed my college degree, founded a new kibbutz along the Jordanian border and completed my mandatory army service. And like most graduates of the IDF (Israel Defense Force, Nahal) I found a foreign haven where I would smoke away the stress of military life.

Leaving Kibbutz Hulda where my sister’s family was growing (two young daughters) I flew off to  Schiphol International Airport.

First Stop,  Apeldoorn, The Netherlands

Arriving in Amsterdam, I hopped a train to the eastern edge of the Netherlands to a small, picturesque farming community close to Apeldoorn.

I visited Brodie, a fellow Hulda volunteer who lived with his parents on a small, charming farm, with an out-house and all.

We shared laughter and memories and smokes. We cycled along the sparkling clean brick roads of local villages, visited bakeries and cafes filled with mouthwatering raisin bread and cookies, drank bowls full of coffee and celebrated local Harvest Festivals.

Early one morning Brodie and I ventured into Germany. A few hours away we cycled through the beauty of the Dutch countryside.

Tree-lined flat roads. Windmills, horses, cows, haystacks and farmhouses.  A never-ending wealth of images. And the soft, changing colors that obviously penetrated the eyes and the souls of the Dutch Masters of Art.

After two wonderful weeks with Brodie and his parents, it was time for me to move on.

Next stop, Amsterdam.

Onward to Amsterdam, A Golden Egg Awaits

Leaving Apeldoorn in the afternoon, it was already dark when I arrived at the Amsterdam Central Train Station around 6pm.

A chilly evening, I boarded a tram leading into the heart of the city. Unknowingly I got off in the infamous clean, safe Red Light District. I wandered around and found myself in front of a ‘chain restaurant’ that could be compared to Howard Johnson’s.

It was quiet, clean, warm, and cozy with booth seating.

As I took off my jacket and scarf, getting myself comfortable, a 30-something waitress came over, placed a menu on my table and started to speak to me in Hebrew.

I curiously looked at her and laughed.

Smilingly, she pointed to my small, art portfolio where my name and address was written in Hebrew.

Daniella sat down, we chatted. I showed her a photograph of myself in uniform.

And there, in the Golden Egg Restaurant, as if my pure magic, Daniella said, “I’m leaving tomorrow for a month-long vacation in Barcelona. If you want or need a place to stay, come back when I finish my shift at midnight. You can sleep over and tomorrow the apartment is all yours.”

Oh yes! I returned to the Golden Egg just before midnight. Daniella and I walked to her apartment. And for the next 30 days I lived on the top floor of a building with four apartments located around the corner from the Van Gogh Museum.

Jazz Singer, Clubs and Nina Simone

My downstairs neighbor was the red-headed, funny, joyful, very talented jazz singer, Peggy Larson from Pittsburgh.

While I spent my mornings and afternoons in the Van Gogh Museum, Rijksmuseum, Rembrandt House, Anne Frank House, Stedelijk Museum and walked among the flower markets and spent hours along the canals dreaming of residing on a houseboat, nighttime was reserved for jazz clubs and cafes.

Wherever Peggy Larson performed, I was there.

One weekend Brodie visited. He surprised me with tickets for an unscheduled Nina Simone Concert at Amsterdam’s stunning Concertgebouw.

Besides the traditional auditorium seating, there are seats around and behind the stage.

Brodie and I sat front row, stage level, to the right side of Nina’s Baby Grand Piano.

Wearing a shocking electric blue blouse, grey slacks, black leather boots, wrapped in a black cape, Nina the Great descended a flight of stairs that led to the stage.

She flipped the cape off that seemingly fell onto the floor in slow motion.

As she curtseyed to her highly passionate audience, Nina received the first of a night filled with standing ovations.

She put a spell on us and we were seduced.

Not only her voice, but her fingers that transformed that piano into a symphonic orchestra.

When she returned from a short intermission, Nina sat at her piano and started to perform. She unexpectedly turned her head to where Brodie and I were sitting.

She beckoned us with her hand gestures and said, “Come over, please. Come join me on the stage. Yes closer. Oh don’t be shy, come sit around the piano.”

I spent the rest of the concert lying under the piano of the divine, magnificent, transcendent Miss Nina Simone.

My Final Days In Amsterdam

The following day Brodie would climb back on a train to his small farmhouse near the city of Apeldoorn. It would be the last time we ever saw each other.

With only a few days left to enjoy the world of Amsterdam, I walked along a street filled with bookstores and cafes still wearing the lingering embrace of that night with Nina.

Suddenly, without thought I turned into a small, narrow ally.

I was facing a dark, black-draped window display.

The world became still, the city completely silent.

Nothing moved, nothing breathed.

Nothing existed except the black drapery and a photograph.

Entranced, I continued slowly walk towards the window display.

I was staring at a black and white photographic portrait by Richard Avedon.

It was perfection. It was the perfection of the male human body.

I silently gasped.

With his naked back facing me, his head ever so slightly turned, his piercing eyes followed me.

I was in communion with a photograph of Rudolf Nureyev.

Little did I know that 14 years later I would be sitting with him in his Vienna living room.

TO BE CONTINUED….

ON THE ROAD TO FIRENZE, ITALY