Anniversary Sweater
October 28, 2004
"Making love and breaking hearts It is a game for youth But I'm not waiting on a lady I'm just waiting on a friend"
I leave for Amsterdam on Monday. Last I knew, the plan was to meet Brian at Schiphol Airport. His plane is due to arrive within a couple of hours of mine, and we decided to meet there and ride the train into town together. But I haven't heard from him in weeks, and he's notorious for changing his plans at the last minute. "Sorry, dude. I can't meet you tonight. There's too much shit I gotta do," is the usual line. Which is fine. "No problem," I usually tell him. "Call me when you can." But this is a little different. I've already bought myself a non-refundable, non-transferable ticket. Not that I can't spend ten days in Amsterdam by myself--I've done it before--but honestly, I wouldn't be going if I didn't think Brian was going too. Who knows? He still has a couple of days to tell me one way or the other.
There was a Halloween party last night at the coffee shop down the street from where I live. After already spending several hours there during the day working on my book, I decided I'd pop in at night to see what the scene was. Free beer was the major attraction. Cans of PBR were passed out to the throngs of kids doing the cool jerk on the makeshift dance floor while Troma films were projected on a bedsheet hanging on the wall. After getting myself a can, I walked outside to where a loose crowd had gathered on the sidewalk.
I spotted Jen, the coffee shop girl, and walked over to say hi.
"Go inside, Jamie, please."
So many open containers out there were bound to attract attention, so I nodded and headed inside.
"Geeze," I heard her say, "I don't need the attitude. We're giving you fucking free beers."
She couldn't have been talking to me, could she? Did I give her attitude? I don't think so. The entire group was being told to head inside, too, maybe it was them. But seriously, she shouldn't have been out there drinking so openly herself if she was going to start telling others not to. Either way, it soured my mood, and after finishing my beer, I walked around the corner to the local bar and had myself a paid drink. The bartender there asked me what I was doing for Halloween.
"No plans," I said. "How about you?"
"I'm working."
"May as well," I shrugged.
"Besides," she continued, "I'm leaving town the next day."
"No kidding. So am I. Where are you going?"
"Home to San Diego. How about you?"
"Amsterdam."
"Nice. How long are you going for?"
"Only ten days."
"Only ten days," she repeated, sarcastically. "Ten days in Amsterdam sounds pretty nice."
"You’re right. It’s just that I’m going with a friend, and he’ll be traveling the world for a year. Maybe longer. So ten days feels short. But you’re right. I can't wait." I took a sip of my drink and repeated, half to myself this time, "I can't fucking wait."
October 30, 2004
Lately, my life feels like a series of controlled burns. A few years ago, I was so scorched and blackened that I doubted anything would ever grow back. But life is persistent. Eventually, shoots of green began to appear. But whenever I notice signs of renewal, I find myself bracing for the next fire.
Fires are part of nature. Some forests depend on them. Certain pine cones, for instance, only release their seeds in the heat of a blaze. Yet people fear fire—it destroys. We like our things intact. Smokey Bear insists, “Only YOU can prevent forest fires,” but that’s not really true. Fires can’t be prevented, only delayed. And when we suppress them too long, the eventual explosive blaze is catastrophic, leaving behind a moonscape where nothing grows for years, if not decades.
That’s why park services sometimes ignite intentional blazes: controlled burns. Managed destruction meant to stave off something worse. It’s controversial, and I’m not sure whether the controlled burns in my own life are wise. Maybe not. I can’t decide. What I do know is that I never want to be reduced to gray ash again.
After the last episode that left me ruined, I ran. I spent months in Amsterdam, living under the illusion of a new life. The earth had been spinning so wildly that I felt like a child clinging to a playground merry-go-round, dizzy with nausea and half-mad laughter. Amsterdam slowed the spin to something bearable. For the first time in a long while, I felt happy. Not purely—life is never simple—but happy enough to remember how to smile.
I’ve returned a few times since. Amsterdam feels like an old friend who checks in to see how I’m doing. I rarely have much to report. But that’s all right. Sometimes it’s true: no news is good news.
November 1, 2004
Although Brian and I will be traveling to Amsterdam and Paris together, only I will be coming back. Once we part ways, he’ll be off to walk the earth.
Brian and I met for breakfast to firm up our plans, and now I'm about to pack up my computer and head to the airport. I have no idea how long it will be before I post again, but whenever it is, I'm sure to have a good story or two. Assuming Brian lets me write about it. "Dude, don't put that in your blob."
What happens in Amsterdam stays in Amsterdam and all that. Whatever. I'll just give him a new name and pretend I'm writing about someone else. You won't tell on me, will you?
I was impressed with how little luggage Brian had packed for a year-long trip. "Yeah, dude. I'm going light," he said, lifting his suitcase to demonstrate. "I'm only bringing one pair of shoes. That should be fine, right?"
"If you need another pair, you can always pick them up along the way."
"Yeah, I guess." He pondered the deep recesses of India and tried to imagine where he’d find shoes.
"Easy,” I said. “Just swing by the NIKE factory."
November 4, 2004
The thing about red-eye flights is that they utterly destroy any sense of chronological time. Tomorrow is yesterday before you even realize it's today. So now, here it is, the day before tomorrow--and tomorrow Brian and I leave Amsterdam on a high-speed train to Paris. And I have written a word, yet, about what we’ve done so far. So here it is: Not much.
It's hard to put into words, but I'm not a huge fan of Paris. No, that’s not true. It’s just that I can’t keep up financially with the lifestyle of the people I know there. Regardless, it's a lot more fun when you're with someone who speaks French -- which the hostess for our visit, Nicole, does fluently. Nicole is Brian's ex-girlfriend. I've stayed with her in Paris before, and she's quite a gracious hostess, but I think Brian was overestimating her graciousness when he started saying things like this: "I'm hoping Nicole will set me up with a pretty French girl."
"You're nuts," I told him. If any of you know Nicole, you'll know I'm right.
Brian's schedule is wide open, and he's not sure how long he wants to spend in Paris, so he only bought himself a one-way train ticket. Since I have to be back for my flight to New York next week, I needed a round-trip ticket. Second Class was the cheaper way to go, but as I negotiated my details with the ticket agent, he found me a deal that would put me in 1st Class to Paris for less money. Brian couldn't get the same rate for his one-way ticket, so it meant that he and I wouldn't be in the same car. So what? We're both big boys. I mean, I was only going first class in one direction because it was cheaper. The problem was this: somehow Brian got it into his head that I'd be stretched out in a cushy seat sipping champagne with a Dutch model on her way to a Paris fashion shoot, while he'd be stuck in 2nd Class next to a big, fat Armenian, smelling of tobacco and garlic. (Armenian?) Who knows where he comes up with this stuff, but once he got it in his head, the idea was there to stay. And so he paid the extra fare for a 1st Class seat next to mine.
"Dude," I scolded him. "You just took the Dutch model's seat! Now I'm gonna have to sit next to you." Not that I was convinced of this scenario, but you never know.
Brian laughed. "Sorry, dude."
I know, I know, this is a disappointing post. I suppose there are a million stories I could tell--a thousand anyway. Like how I met Bicyclemark last night and was introduced to his smart and beautiful friend, Brooke. And I suppose I could mention that we arrived on the day of Theo Van Gogh's assassination. And maybe tell something about the fact that our hotel is overlooking a busy alley in the Red Light District. There'll be plenty of time to write about all that stuff, but right now I'm enjoying my time away from the computer, so it'll have to wait.
November 6, 2004
"Like New York, Amsterdam is a city that never sleeps—" claimed the newspaper article I read at the hotel. I guess the writer never tried to get a bite to eat at 7 a.m. the way Brian and I did. From the looks of things, I'd say the city tucks itself in pretty snugly.
We’d woken up early the way we've been doing every morning--to the clatter of church bells--and decided to grab some food before catching our train, but it was nothing doing. Gesloten. Oh well. We made it to the train and settled for the light snack they provided. "Light" being the operative word. When the attendant held the tray in front of me, I thought he was handing me the entire thing. I made a grab for it, but he held on tenaciously and tugged it back. "Would you like a snack?" he asked. So I took one of the little finger sandwiches and popped it in my mouth, then drifted off to sleep.
Once we changed over to the high-speed engine in Brussels, however, everything changed. Suddenly, the cows and sheep became whizzing blips. We zoomed across the countryside into France, where we were offered a bourgeois feast: Smoked Salmon, trout roe, and ricotta with dill, Duck terrine, red currant sauce, and gingerbread, walnut potato salad, Mascarpone cream with orange marmalade and chocolate shavings. Dutch supermodels, or no Dutch supermodels, first class ain't so bad.
Nicole was still at work when our train got in, so I had to use makeshift sign language with the concierge of her apartment building to get a key. We let ourselves in, regrouped, called Nicole, and made a plan to meet her at a cafe.
I think the reason I don’t enjoy Paris as much as many other cities I’ve visited is that Paris has so many similarities to New York that it's easy for me to fall into "city" mode and lose my sense of vacation. I feel like I'm back in New York, except that everyone is wearing cologne and driving smaller cars. I find myself keeping my head down as I weave with purpose, swiftly down the boulevard in urban defense mode. I don't get that way so much in Amsterdam's small, quaint, quirkiness. I know where to find a nearly empty side street to wander quietly and reflect. But since I'll be back there soon enough, I need to just relax and enjoy Paris.
In an attempt to do just that, Brian and I lazed about sipping coffee in a corner café as we waited for Nicole to get off work. "Wow, this place is packed," I said, scanning the crowd as they smoked and drank and spilled onto the sidewalk in wicker chairs, "It's only 4:30 in the afternoon."
"Oh yeah, dude," said Brian. "Nobody works the way Americans do. Nobody."
I thought that was pretty funny considering Brian and I are dyed-in-the-wool under-employed American slackers and we were waiting for his hard-working ex-girlfriend to get home from her European job, but there did seem to be some truth to his observation.
The faster you travel, the further back in time you go. is that how it works? That's what they say, right? Well, I have proof:
By traveling a few thousand miles on a fast plane and a few hundred more via high-speed train, I've found myself thrown through a time machine. Nicole pulled out photos tonight of our college days. A baby-faced Nicole, a young Brian with long ratty hair and torn T-shirt, and me looking like a dork. "You look like you should be in Sixteen Candles," laughed Brian. Nicole started handing me pictures one by one, but then quickly snatched one back. "Do you mind seeing pictures of you with your ex?" she asked.
"I doubt you'll be able to find an old one of me without her," I replied.
And it was true. There we were, wide-eyes and innocent. If only I could have traveled fast enough to go back further in time and warn myself of all that would happen. Bah, who am I kidding? I would've scoffed and done it all the same anyway. "What's done is done, and can not be undone."
"So did I hear you right?" I asked Nicole. "She's seen my blog?"
"Yes. She's the one who told me about it. She said she read about herself, and that you called her fat."
"I wrote about seeing her pregnant. I didn't say she was fat. I said she was unrecognizable.” I thought for a momoent. “I don’t remember what I wrote, honestly.”
People sometimes think that I re-read the things I write--or at least remember them. I don't. Once I get it out, it's gone. Jettisoned into the stratosphere of catharsis.
I take another high-speed train back to Amsterdam on Monday. Brian might go with me as far as Brussels, so he can make a short trip to visit the Guru from Gent. Brian's becoming quite new age in his old age. He even went to Yoga class today. As he dug through his suitcase, he asked me if I thought it would be okay for him to wear his bathing suit to Yoga.
"You can wear your birthday suit for all I care," I told him.
That set him off on a fantasy scenario. He put on his best over-the-top French accent and pretended to call the Yoga center. "Pardon. Eez eet okay for me to wear zee pull d'anniversaire?"
"What the hell is a pull d'anniversaire ?" I asked.
"It means 'birthday sweater,'" he replied.
Did I mention that his French is limited?
November 8, 2004
This sure as hell isn't a good picture of Brian and Nicole, but it's the only one I took. Brian doesn't look very happy, does he? With a hug and a sincere merci beaucoup to Nicole, and a hearty handshake and a bon voyage to Brian, I hit the road--or the train tracks that is--and left Paris.
I'm back in Amsterdam and back online and am littering my previous posts with a few photos. Paris was strange. Brian and Nicole did a little of their old-style bickering, but not too much. Nicole did seem to want to reminisce an awful lot, though—"Remember this? Remember that? Remember when…" But I guess that's what old friends do when they get together, isn't it? It seemed to be driving Brian a little nuts, but since he's a little nuts to begin with, it was hard to tell.
Until Brian flies to Turkey in late December, he's just gonna be kicking around Europe. He was trying to convince me to stick around a little longer. (Did I mention that Nicole's quintessential Parisian existentialist friend made Brian and me official members in his Dilettante Army? It's true.) "I don't know if I can afford to stay any longer," I told him. Although I could've stayed on in Paris and continued to mooch off of Nicole's hospitality, I didn't feel comfortable.
"Go to Ireland," Brian suggested. His family owns a cottage there, and I could stay for free. I've been there before, and it's beautiful--but it's a lonely little house in the middle of nowhere, and I wasn't keen on going alone.
"When will you be heading over there?" I asked.
"I don't know, dude," said Brian. "I have no plans. But why not find a girl to go with you?"
Easier said than done, but maybe. In any case, I still have a day to decide whether or not to change my return flight to New York or not. We'll see.
I hung out with Bicyclemark tonight. I swung by his flat and we sat around drinking Scotch and talking about world politics like a regular couple of intellectuals. That's not all we talked about, though. We also discussed internet dating, blogging, French horns, and his fetish for a South American tea-like drink called Mate. Things were not necessarily discussed in that order, of course, and not in equal measure.
We discussed blogging the most, including Mark's plans to study the phenomenon for his PhD. It's a growing field. He pulled out a stack of papers written by other PhD students already doing their dissertations on the whole mess. As I flipped through the papers, I felt like a jungle tribesman looking at a National Geographic. "Weird," I said. "I've never felt like I was being studied before." I wasn't sure how I felt about it, or whether or not I wanted to read any of the papers. From what I saw, I could write one pretty easily myself. It seems like all you have to do is write about blogging as if you were trying to explain it to a grandma.
Whatever. Maybe if I blog for long enough, I can eventually get one of those honorary degrees like Bill Cosby or Billy Joel. No disrespect to Mark, though. He's been blogging regularly for years and already has a lot of insight.
Mark lives on the East side of town and I'm staying on the West, which meant a stroll through the Red Light District to get there. During the summers, the city in general is a lot busier, but the Red Light District in particular overflows with tourists. The alleys get packed with all sorts of people: curiosity seekers; couples arm in arm; roaming gangs of drunken college hooligans; Japanese conventioneers; etc, etc— Mixed in with everyone else are the street peddling scumbags: "Coke, coke, psst, coke. Ecstasy…" But although the throngs of tourists have thinned considerably, the street hustlers remain constant. And, with fewer people to harass, it's hard to get past them unnoticed. They swooped down on me like flies on shit, whispering a few words in Dutch, then switching to English when they got no response. I guess with so much vice that's legal in this town, the street peddlers have to be especially pushy just to compete.
After I left Mark's place and headed back to my hotel, I ran the gauntlet one more time. Once I was on the other side of the throbbing pulse of the Red Lights, however, the streets were quiet. The water in the canals looked black and polished. I took the long way home, wandering up and down, taking pictures and listening to the stillness. The more I think about it, the less sense it makes to go back to New York on a Wednesday. I mean, I should probably stay at least until the weekend, right? I mean, right? This exchange rate is killing me.
“It’s like this ole friend of mine from Oklahoma says: jest gimme a pair of loose-fittin’ shoes, some tight pussy, and a warm place to shit, an’ ah’ll be all right.”
November 9, 2004
The first time I heard that saying, I thought it was pretty funny, but I don't think I fully appreciated it until just now, when I got up to use the bathroom. The toilet in the hotel isn't in my room; it's across the hall. No big deal. I mean, it's still my private toilet, and it's literally right outside my door. It's just a toilet in a cramped little room, but the size doesn't bother me--I wasn’t planning to be doing morning calisthenics in it--but damn, it's fucking freezing in there.
What am I doing up after only 5 hours of sleep? Oh yeah, I remember: the front desk gave me a wake-up call by mistake.
Will someone please explain the logic behind air fares? I just spent an hour on the phone with a travel agent to see about changing my ticket. The woman put me on hold a hundred times, returning now and then to say, "Thank you for waiting, can you please hold just a few more minutes?"
"I suppose so," I told her, "But this is a long-distance call. If you keep me on hold much longer, I'll have blown all my money listening to muzak and won't be able to stay, anyway."
She finally sorted it all out and told me that, yes, I could change my flight. It will cost 2,200 dollars.
"Whaaat? 2,200 dollars?"
"Yes, sir."
"That's crazy talk."
"I'm sorry, sir, that's the best I can do for you."
I figure the thing to do instead, is simply throw away my return ticket and buy a new round trip (for almost one tenth of that price). I ran the idea by the travel agent. "Well, yes," she said. "Some people do that." No shit. Who can afford to pay 2,200 fucking dollars to change a ticket that costs less than 300 to begin with? That's what I get for trying to do things logically. The whole bloody system is bonkers.
“Sitting in my hotel, hiding from the dramas of this great big world, seven stories high, looking at the world go by. Sitting in my hotel room, thinking about the countryside and sunny days in June. Trying to hide the gloom sitting in my hotel room. If my friends could see me now, they would try to understand me. They would ask me what on earth I’m trying to prove. All my friends would ask me what it’s all leading to.”
November 10, 2004
No doubt about it, I'm a flip-flopper. In fact, I was flip-flopping like a fish all night long. Tossing and turning in body and mind, trying to decide about going back to New York City. I suppose the cheapest and most logical thing to do is to just stick to the schedule and come back to Amsterdam some other time. But the fact is, that I'm here already.
Last night, the beautiful and charming Brooke and I sat at a little table in a 2nd floor corner window of her favorite coffee shop, discussing decisions. How we make them, and how they affect us--a million possible lives, splintering out before us. We talked and talked until the coffee shop closed. "How about a drink somewhere?" I suggested.
Nearly everything else was closing up as well, but I remembered a funky dive from my previous trip that I knew would still be open, so we bundled up and walked across town to find it.
The place was full of rip-roaring drunks swirling and pogo-ing to hardcore punk blasting from the PA. It had the distinct feel of a rec room. A rickety disco ball hung from the corner, creaking in circles and throwing points of light across the walls painted with flames. It was too loud to continue our deep, ponderous discussion, so we contented ourselves to scream stories into each other's ears instead. She did an excellent job of making me forget I might be leaving. Brooke had to be up early for a morning train to Rotterdam, so about 2 a.m., we called it quits, and I walked her home.
"So are you gonna stay in Amsterdam?" she asked as we said goodnight. If not, I won’t see her again before I leave.
Her apartment is on the other side of town from my hotel, and I was determined to make a decision on the long, chilly walk home.
"I don't know," I told her.
My plane leaves in less than four hours, and I still don't know. Still.
It was a cold and rainy morning; a perfect day to leave town. I made it as far as the airport. I called Brian--who is still in Paris--to ask for some advice.
"I don't know what to tell you," he said. "What's waiting for you back in New York?"
"Absolutely nothing."
"Well, what do you feel like doing right now? 'Cause you know what I say: do what you want to do, when you want to do it."
The problem was, I didn't know what I wanted to do--I felt like a crumpled-up ball of tinfoil, and he wasn't able to kick me one way or the other. "If you stay," he said, "I'll be back through Amsterdam in a couple of days."
"Yeah, that'll be cool."
We continued to talk until the time on the phone ran out. Disconnected without a goodbye. I waited until I couldn't wait any longer. Final Boarding. Then I turned around, got on the train, and came back to town.
It felt good to be on a train. Riding in a car, on a set of tracks, with a distinct direction, I could close my eyes and still know I was going somewhere specific. I wish my life were like that. Riding along, knowing that everything was on track.
I got off the train, checked into the first cheap hotel I saw--one of the shittiest hotels you could ever imagine--and swan-dived into the brown synthetic blanket, letting its musty smell carry me off to sleep.
An hour later, I woke up depressed and angry. I wasn't sure why. Money, I suppose. That's part of it anyway. But also, I hate the fact that I don't have anything compelling me in any particular direction. What's the fucking point of all this aimless rambling? Any ideas?
November 11, 2004
Hey, guess what? Brooke likes to wander around the city and take pictures, too. I had just sat down to eat some dinner last night when my phone rang. "Ha. So you stayed," laughed Brooke when I answered.
"Yeah," I sighed.
"I saw your post. You went all the way to the airport? That's awesome," she said. "And then you posted a picture of the plane—like, I mean, it wasn't just an exaggerated story. That's hilarious."
Yeah. I'm a regular laugh riot.
"So how do you feel?" she asked.
"Like I should've gone."
"Of course you do. Now that it's too late."
She invited me out for Indian food with a friend of hers, but since I had just ordered dinner, I had to pass. Instead, we made a plan to meet at Dam Square later on. That gave me time to go back to my crappy hotel, nap for an hour, and hopefully wrangle my unwieldy mess of ambivalence into a manageable size.
I was taking pictures of wet cobblestones and Japanese tourists when Brooke rolled up on her bike. "Hey," she said as we hugged hello, "will you hold my bike for a second? I want to take some pictures too."
We took photos of the National Monument, and the Royal Palace, and the ever-present wet cobblestones. I took pictures of her taking pictures, and then she took pictures of me taking pictures of her taking pictures. You know how it goes.
We headed west, locked her bike to a canal railing, and wandered. We nestled into a cozy spot and talked about this and that. After an hour or two, she asked if I wanted to go somewhere else. Sure. Instead of walking, however, she wanted me to ride on the back of her bike. "Have you ever ridden on the back before?"
I had, actually. Pauline, the girl I’d rented my flat from during my lost summer, rode me around once. But Pauline is an inch or two taller than I am and I wasn't sure Brooke had it in her to chug over the canal bridges with me as dead weight. But she did. I directed her from the back to a nice bar in the Jordaan. She was impressed and said, "You really know your way around Amsterdam."
"Well," I explained, "When I was living here, all I did, day after day, was aimlessly cruise around on my bike. The city isn't that big."
We wobbled toward a construction barrier, and I suggested we take a detour. "No, I can go around it, it's okay." When my knee smacked into it, knocking it onto the street with a loud clash, all we could do was laugh. We went into the warm, dim bar, sat by the window, and talked about people and things. Brooke has a lot to say. She told me about school and the things she's been learning, talked about Toronto and her friends, and went off on a long monologue about her friend's new baby. "I feel like I'm babbling," she said. "Like when someone talks about a baby and goes on and on and on. You know what I'm talking about, right? Has that ever happened to you?"
"Of course," I said. "It happened to me about 15 seconds ago."
Seeing as how I'm a self-appointed evangelist for existential angst, what better way to spread the word than on a bike? I rented one for my remaining time in Amsterdam — however long that might be. Meeting Brooke has brightened my disposition, considerably and I feel like I’m getting my Dutch groove back.
November 13, 2004
In the meantime, I've been thinking about scaling back my presence in New York. "Reducing my exposure," you might say. Selling off my things, finding a cheaper apartment, and loosening my ties. The number one stress about being over here right now is worrying about my New York shit. I’d like to keep a place there, for sure, and maintain the few employment connections I have, but otherwise—I don't know. Being a Type1 diabetic doesn’t help anything, either. It never does. I have doctors to see and prescriptions to fill.
Brian is supposed to be coming back through Amsterdam in the next day or two, but since I can't remember his new e-mail address, I have no way to reach him. If anyone out there has it, will you send it to me, please?
November 15, 2004
From: Brian
Subject: where are you
Date: November 14, 2004 12:41:37 PM CET
To: Jamie
Hey, since i didn’t hear from you I assume you’re back in the USA. The city of Gent was totally excellent. Awesome old buildings and castles. The Belgians however are a most disagreeable lot. The ashram was lame, got a bad vibe from the people there, and didn’t really feel the presence of anything, and I couldn’t see the guru because there were no hotels in the whole city available. Techno Fest in town. running out of time. later.
From: Jamie
Subject: Re: where are you
Date: November 14, 2004 17:41:37 PM CET
To: Brian
Dude, I'm still in Amsterdam. I didn't get back to you because I couldn't remember your e-mail address. If you can, call me on my mobile number: 06 XXXX XXXX I'll probably be here until the middle of next week. Sucks about the ashram. But you don't need no stinkin' guru. Where are you??!
From: Brian
Subject: Re: Re: where are you
Date: November 15, 2004 10:04:10 AM CET
To: Jamie
Dude, you are the epitome of lameness. Ever hear of "contacts" or "address book"? i’ve been here since Saturday, leaving Tuesday morning for Ireland. I'll try to call. If I can’t reach you by phone, meet me at the Waag (the place with the free internet) out in front at noon, today, Monday. later tater. I'll be checking my mail again later.
From: Jamie
Subject: Re: Re: Re: where are you
Date: November 15, 2004 1:28:23 PM CET
To: Brian
I just got this message, so I missed you at de Waag. Where are you staying? Where will you be later? My internet access is limited. Call if you can. I know. I suck.
November 16, 2004
Somewhere along the line, Brian acquired a quirky habit of whistling a short, birdcall-like whistle. He does it absentmindedly and sporadically. I first noticed it when we were in Paris. After he'd been doing it for a few days in a row, I finally asked about it. "Dude, what's up with the whistling?"
"I don't know," he said. "It's just something I started doing."
So, as I stood around in front of the cafe where we were supposed to meet last night, and I heard it from across the courtyard, I recognized it immediately. "Hey brother," Brian said with a grin when I looked up.
"What's the word?"
"Oh man," I said as we shook hands.
"I can't believe you've been here since Saturday."
He scolded me again for not having written his e-mail address down.
"I know, I know. I've been in another world. I’ve been spending my time with a Canadian grad student and now I don't even know what day it is."
We walked to a cheap Thai restaurant for dinner and caught up on each other's adventures. "Gent was an excellent city," he told me. "When I first got there, I thought it was kind of beat. A lot of big, bogus office buildings sprawled all over the place--really ugly. But as I walked around, I discovered all the cool old architecture. Old churches, Belgian Guildhalls—It was intense." He'd gone there to look in on this Belgian guru dude that he met in New York--hoping for a little guidance before he begins his world travels in earnest. But he was unimpressed and disappointed with the place and how inaccessible the guru was. "The ashram was totally lame," he said. "It was way out on the outskirts of town, right next to a major highway. You could hear the cars constantly whizzing past. There were all these weird, secretive, Belgian SNAPS (*Spiritual New Age Players) running around asking me: 'Who are you? Who sent you? Why are you here?' It was an uninviting vibe. They told me to come back later, but once I got to my hotel room, I started thinking, 'fuck that place,' and I didn't go back. I went into town and had some Belgian waffles instead. Have you ever had them?"
"Belgian waffles? No. I mean, not in Belgium anyway."
"Oh dude. They're fucking devastating. I must've had about five of them in less than 24 hours."
After we finished our Thai dinner, we went for a coffee, but before we did, Brian said he wanted to stop into a funky new age-y gift shop to buy himself a little Buddha statue for his Irish cottage. The woman behind the counter showed him a small brass one for 13.00 euros. "Hmm—" he pondered as he held it in his hand.
"Or," the woman said, holding out a smaller one carved from stone, "I have this one for only one euro ten."
"Ahh, now you're talking," said Brian. "At that price, I'll take two."
He turned to me and asked if I wanted one.
"Me? Nah. I don't need one of those."
"Oh really?" he said. "Then you're doing a lot better than I am, my friend."
We wandered until we found a cafe that wasn't too smoky, then lounged around drinking coffee for another hour or two. It was probably the last time I'd see him for another 8 months, so I did my best to convince him to stay out, but he had an early flight to Dublin the next day and decided to call it a night. "I can't wait to get to my house in Ireland," he kept saying. "I can't wait."
"Okay man," I said as we stood in front of his hotel. "I'm glad we got to see each other one more time before you head off."
"Yeah dude, it was good," he agreed.
"Have fun, and be careful."
"I'll be in touch," he assured me. "I'll e-mail you."
He pulled open the hotel's front door, and I headed down the street. "Hey," I turned and called to him just before he went inside. "I hope you find what you're looking for."
"Thanks, man. You too."
November 17, 2004
This weather is good for two things: Taking pictures (which I did last night) and sleeping (which I did all day today) My ticket home came from FEDEX today. The FEDEX agent handed me the clipboard to sign for them, but the paper was so wet that the pen wouldn't write.
"Ja," the guy said, "It's a liddle vet. De Dutch vedder."
The plane leaves on Friday. I change planes in Munich, which means I have to travel in the wrong direction for an hour or two before I can officially be considered "heading home." But whatever, you get the picture. It's a peculiar and unsettled lifestyle I've developed for myself. There's very little, if anything, that seems to ground me in one place or another. When I think about what I'm heading back to New York for, all I can come up with is this: poor planning. My car is ticking off 10 dollars a day in long-term parking, December's rent is looming large, I have a few plants that may or may not be lost causes by now, and my mailbox is undoubtedly overflowing with bills, offers, and useless flyers. All of these things seem like rather weak reasons to head back, but—well—I don't know—that's what I'm doing.
----------------------------------------
“You are a splendid butterfly
It is your wings that make you beautiful
And I could make you fly away (I could make you fly away)
But I could never make you stay”
November 18, 2004
I went by my old Amsterdam flat last night. It was raining, of course. Everything reflects everything else. I turned down my old street, along the small canal, and pulled up to the front door. The third-floor windows were dark. If anyone's living there now, there was no one home. Across the street, the canal was filled with flat, black water. A motley assortment of boats floated quietly in what looked like tar. A single duck swirled in circles, dipping its head now and then. I locked the bike, sat on a bench, and tried to think of something. Anything. Nothing came. I would've been surprised if anything had. Who knows how long I sat there, but by the time I got up, the rain had stopped. It wasn't a heavy rain to begin with, just wet air. I rode aimlessly until I found myself turning onto Vondelpark's desolate path. A few headlights flickered like fireflies from other bikes up ahead. The squeak of my tires sounded like crickets. Wet leaves, brown and red, littered the path and filled the air with the muddy smell of fall. I passed a jogger or two. A man walking his dog. A girl under a yellow streetlamp laughing quietly into her phone. As I rode through the park, I thought about writing this post. This one, right here--that you're reading right now. In my mind, it was beautiful and poetic. Metaphors and insights fell together and explained the inexplicable. The things I'd been trying to think of before became organized, simple, and pure. The words were honest and true, and everything made sense. Everyone who read it understood. I parked my bike again and sat on a bench across from where the horses sometimes graze. I looked for them, but they weren't there.
