I left quite abruptly from the cafe in Tilburg because my friend Connie had finally arrived from the States. It was no easy task for her. The weather in Amsterdam was so hot, her original, Salt Lake flight had to dump a lot of weight before take off. Some thirty plus passengers were 86'd and she didn't get out. Determined, she flew to Seattle and from there caught the next plane to Amsterdam. She rented a car, bought a Dutch phone and drove about two hours to south central Holland to pick me up.
I was waiting for her, reminiscing about the damned bike and my travels so far. I had cycled, on just the shittiest bike, for the better part of eight hours over two days. Sore heiny? Absolutely. But it was a fantastic exercise, in more ways than just physical.
It took two trips from Eindhoven to Nuenen to finally visit the van Gogh Village. When I finally found it, I was amazed to see all of the streets were named after Vincent, his family and even failed love affairs. Not only is there a Margotstraat (the only woman whom Vincent left unrequited), there was also a Sienstraat, the prostitute he lived with for two years in The Hague. How curious she is now immortalized in Nuenen!
I parked my bike at Vincentre, a small museum that pays homage to Vincent. While they don't have any paintings, they do have canvasses by those whom Vincent was close to and inspired while he was there. Lovely little depictions by Anthon van Rappard, Antoon Hermans and others.
I told one of the curators of my quest. We sat outside, had a coffee and discussed Vincent in some lovely detail. A retired insurance salesman, Theo was well versed in Vincent's time in Nuenen. My expertise is some three years later when he was in Arles. We discussed my theory and The Potato Eaters; the pinnacle of Vincent's time in Nuenen. I don't think I convinced him. It seems to be the way... the more one has studied Vincent, the more resolute one becomes in his ideation of him.
So! From Nuenen, I returned on the borrowed bike from Vannesch. I arrived half an hour before our expected rendezvous. He was working on the bike when I entered his little shop. I thought he was just finishing up. I think he rushed it. I think he had another half an hour of work... but, not wanting to be rude and keep me waiting, exchanged bicycles with me.
With the new tune up, I asked, "Will this now get me to Antwerp?"
He quickly decided to give the bike another once-over. I should have guessed something was up at that point. As I shook his hand and bid adieu, I rode the bike back to my AirBnB. Carool Coraal. What a gal! She helped me a lot on this journey. The bike's seat, however, was not properly secured and quickly slanted backwards, pushing my scrotum through my bellybutton.
At Carool's, I grabbed my bags and went back to the shop, having Vannesch tighten up the seat. I should have had him tighten up the breaks too...
From there I was determined to ride two hours, about 40 kilometers to Tilburg; a town Vincent lived in as a high school student. Getting lost a bit on the way, it took three. Que sera. When I finally found my next AirBnB, with the fabulous Nathalie, she and about seven of her gorgeous friends were dining on the terrace above her apartment. A birthday celebration.
She let me in, showed me around and returned to her dinner. I was in need of a shower. After which, I communicated some business details with my son, Sam, who is running the shop while I'm away. Thirsty, I asked Nathalie where the best place to get a beer was. She was adamant the best place was a couple of miles away and offered to drop me off and pick me up as she and her girlfriends were going out for more celebrating anyway.
She chose well. The place had 300 beers, even three IPA's. The bartender was as knowledgeable as any I've found in Portland and took great care of me. I met a couple of locals, Marco and his ride. Marco is awesome. A laborer by trade, like me, he insisted on buying my beer. We're now friends on facebook... I have added a fair few friends since beginning this journey.
Nathalie picked me up and I slept well. In the morning, I rode the bike to the Centrum, getting lost along the way. Although, something I have discovered; you can't be found until you are lost. Well, that's Dante in a nutshell, isn't it?
There is so much more to tell. And I will. But now the Paris sun is streaming through my fourth floor's window and the museums are calling. I have made progress. More on that later. For now, I leave you with one picture; the apartment where Vincent and Theo lived for two years in Monmartre.
Au revoir for now,
Jared
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