At dawn, I’m standing next to my hodgepodge luggage at the end of the driveway, watching for an Uber. I see Linda, my friend whose house I’ve been living in for the last 27 months, through a small crack in the door, waiting in her flannel pajamas and bathrobe to hug me goodbye.
He turns the corner in a small red car. He stops. I think to myself, oh no. He shouts something to me that is neither Dutch nor English, then he gets back in his car and drives away.
Five minutes later, a station wagon pulls up. I say, “Uber?” and he starts loading his car. He says nothing there or on the ride to Schiphol.
The ride seems to take a long time with road detours and my deep anxiety. I don’t want to look; I don’t want to catalog my leaving Amsterdam.
A month ago, my Nederland residence permit was due to expire, and I applied for an extension to stay another two years. But then I learned my mom had started falling a lot, and hospice was called in.
And, since the first of the year, I have been suppressing a quiet discontent living in the Netherlands. Like a stick of gum that was juicy and flavorful at first, over time, life has become a tasteless, monotonous chew. And, I don’t see anything changing. My plan here has always been to have a home where I can settle in, have pets, and build my life. But today I know I’ll never have this in the Netherlands.
Living in Amsterdam had been my dream for years, but now my situation suggests something else:
So, I buy a one-way plane ticket to Dallas and start getting rid of my stuff.
Firstly, I’m not shipping anything to America. Everything is going on the plane with me, so everything I’m taking with me has to be small, light, and important in some way.
I always thought I would live in the Netherlands forever, so I thoughtfully bought home, office, and art supplies.
Now I have to get rid of all that. The table that I love. The nice big monitor. All the art supplies that I accumulated but did not use. The light table. Ring light. Paints. Colored pencils. Sketchpads. My new bed.
Focusing on the chore of getting rid of everything helps me ignore the emotion and attachment to it all.
The fact that I can just start over and buy new does not help this time. Am I really attached to my colored pencils and watercolor paints? Yes, yes, I am, but they can’t go with me. I sort my unopened packages of clay with a heavy heart. I pack embroidery thread and hoops. I love my tortilla pan and the dishes I bought at Blokker. My new oven. My new lamps. The loaf pan I just bought at Dille & Kamille.
I’m bringing most of my artwork with me, except for the Rokin building rendering. It’s too big to fit in my luggage, so I fold it in half and throw it out. Ouch.
In the past, I would get an apartment for a year while I figured things out. However, I’ve promised myself I will buy a house, so no more apartments. Mom’s house is sitting empty in West Texas, so I could move there until she passes.
When I finally board the plane for Dallas and everything I own is on board, I have a small plan. I’ll rent a car and drive to Austin, where Mom is. Then I’ll drive to West Texas, where I will not want to be.