The sky didn’t darken until late in the afternoon that day in Amsterdam. It’s normal for it to rain at least once every day here but I had confused the shadow of the towering thunderheads with the coming of night since their coming coincided completely.
Our trio had hurried home from a stroll around the old center of town that had culminated in our stopping by our favorite Thai food place in Amsterdam, “The Bird”. We’d ordered the usual takeaway pad thai and other miscellaneous dishes. We went back up to my flat at the Nieuwmarkt and finished the hodgepodge we’d wandered out for earlier that night. Then we filled up the glasses on the table. Each of us had a half pint of beer in front of us and it was Shane’s job to keep them full with the tall boys I’d scattered around the kitchen. He and I also had small tumblers of bourbon that I was to keep wet. Jo had a glass of wine since she was wary of the Jim Beam I was pouring, and even more afraid of the unopened Jack Daniels that stood eagerly over the fridge.
I’d recently returned from my trip to Saudi Arabia, where I did business for two weeks straight plus another two weeks after a pause. I’d suffered in their heat and their strange customs for what seems like longer. I’d spent almost two months on the road, coming home for barely six hours at one point just to do laundry during a coincidental layover in Amsterdam. I’d strolled in Rome, hopped to New York, hung out in Barcelona, slaved in Riyadh, taught in Prague and then made a sale in Zurich, with a bit of time to head back to Amsterdam and take some sailing lessons. It had taken a brutal toll on my body. And, you know, it doesn’t really end there: Edinburgh and Istanbul are next.
It wasn’t the travel, though; I’ve been doing this for far too long for my body to complain about small confined spaces like economy seating and the perils of jetlag. I’ve been doing this for long enough to have withdrawal symptoms if I stopped, come to think of it. No; what was taking a toll on my body was a combination of stiffled desires and high levels of stress induced by the rigors of social mores in Saudi Arabia and a very serious lack of fun. Never knowing what’s appropriate and what’s not, not inclined to be the jackass American and start guffawing inappropriate questions left and right and no access to good information will drive a writing traveler insane in no time at all. I’ll get to that in a minute.
Because for a moment there I was back home and there we were, drinking ourselves silly under the pretext of discussing international politics and the place of culture in business and ethics in culture.
“Is it true that they have no women there?” Shane asked, only half joking. I guess that’s because I could only be half sure, since all you have when in Riyadh is half a notion that someone is a woman covered in a black abaya, or else a ninja assassin, which is what I told him about.
“How do the women feel about how they’re treated?” Jo asked.
“You mean the ninjas.” Shane corrected her.
“Yes, Shane, the ninjas. How do the ninjas feel about how they’re ranked in society?”
“Well…” I started, already knowing it would make little sense. It never made sense to me and I had to go there just to understand why it would never make sense to me. “I asked around, because nothing I ever read made any sense to me. It still doesn’t, but I can tell you what they told me.
“I talked to these two women at the airport, foreigners, of course. A Brit and an Ozzy. They were wearing their abayas, though not covering their faces. I approached them at a coffee place at the terminal and using my charm and signature reporter’s notepad, told them I was writing a piece on women in the international marketplace. They must’ve assumed I was from the New York Times or something.” I paused, then looked up at Shane and Jo.
…
“Yeah. You must’ve been SOOOOO charming.” She said, breaking my silence cynically as all hell. She can do that. Shane smiled his goofy smile and waited for my comeback.
“Yeah, well. They talked to me, so, there. She didn’t retort but Shane looked disappointed, and rightfully so.
“They told me that their agency had told them to get abayas before coming and that they had to put it on before they got off the plane! Crazy, right?” I could see they agreed.
“Yeah, but how did they feel about it?” Jo asked. Obviously, her interest in the matter was more deeply rooted than Shane’s.
“Who? The foreigners or the Saudis?” I tried to clarify.
“Everyone!”
“Well, the foreigners are pretty much in accordance that they resent it and don’t understand it, but do it because it’s not their law and they don’t want to make a commotion. The locals don’t seem to love it, but that’s what they’re used to - taking it away from them would leave most of them in a distraught state of disarray. Not to mention that to them tradition is more important than history or happiness. Or at least maintaining the illusion of tradition. Understanding is not a requisite of obedience for them.”
Blank stares. I knew it. I didn’t understand it; how could I hope to explain it? I tried again.
“It’s like I heard the other day: ‘you’ve got to catch a girl without getting caught’…” I paused, hoping they would get it because a taxi driver had told me this with a lot of confidence, and I didn’t have time to have him explain it.
But, nothing.
“Look, as an example: I asked 3 cab drivers, 3 Saudi co-workers, 3 co-workers from Dubai and then did some reading…there’s no legal or acceptable way for a boy and a girl to meet.”
“WHAT?” snapped Shane, incredulous.
“I know. Crazy.”
“Does it have to be arranged, then?” Shane followed up.
“Legally, yes. But no one does it. You can imagine kids our age these days… our generation, as spread over the globe and facebook and myspace and all that… it is knows enough about the size of the world to realize that arranged marriages are about as good an idea as moving to Kansas City… it’s bound to fail.”
Shane laughed but Joanna didn’t get it and just mumbled, “… you American boys…”
“So how do they do it?” Shane asked.
“Well, there’s chat rooms online, but most people use bluetooth technology on their phones to find people within 10 meters of them and chat that way, and if they like each other they agree to meet secretly.
“I turned my phone on once and searched for available devices… you wouldn’t believe the shit that came up, man.
“In the airport, with parents and what not all around them… all I saw were children, between 10 and 16. The older girls were already old enough to cover themselves with veils and abayas… but a list of at least 40 different phones came up, with names like ’so good to you’, ‘lonely and looking’, ‘girl unclaimed’, and ‘what’s your mobile nmbr sexy?’ I was appalled. I’ve never heard of such sexual frustration. Not even at an airport.”
“This is nuts!” Jo proclaimed.
“Everyone knows, of course, but the important thing is not to get caught. Parents supposedly facilitate it for their kids by looking the other way and giving them some privacy, but if caught, the fines and jail sentences are steep. It’s a savage place, man.
“Do people get out?” Shane asked. “You know - like the Dutch from Holland?”
“Some do, but it’s very difficult. You have to either be unemployed or else have permission from your employer to leave. And god help you if you’re a woman. Then you need a husband’s permission or a father’s… or you can go to Bahrain like the older men do for prostitutes.
“Surprised? You shouldn’t be. It’s like putting too much liquid in a glass bottle. You can’t try to stuff it in there; it’s got nowhere to go. People have needs, man.”
“Why do you keep calling me, ‘man’?” Jo asked. A fair question, I thought, but I ignored it all the same.
“But that’s just HYPOCRITICAL!” Shane announced. I agreed.
“I know. But it’s no different then those Catholic priests in Boston, man. These guys get on a plane in Riyadh on Wednesday nights (their Fridays) bound for Bahrain, a plane full of men in traditional and pious clothes. Everyone knows why. They get off in Bahrain, or Dubai, or wherever they went and their first stop is the duty-free shop, where they load up on whiskey, vodka, cognac and cigarettes. I’m talking CRATES.
These rich guys disappear into the prostitution houses of Bahrain and Dubai and when they come out on Friday (Sunday) they have their traditional clothes on, their heads covered and their smiles soft, likely like other parts of their bodies at this point. They get on a plane back to Riyadh and live out the rest of the week proclaiming how bad alcohol is for the spirit and so forth.”
“That disgusts me,” Jo said. I told her I understood.
“What’s really weird is how there is a lot that is similar to Brazilian society, at least on a detailed and fundamental level. You know, things like male-dominated structures, strong sense of religious propriety and favoritism for outsiders. Actually, that’s just like anywhere that has allowed religion to dominate the society…
I paused for a second, contemplating the fact.
“But nothing quite like Riyadh. Take this time, for example, just outside my hotel on like, the 2nd night that I’m there…
“I had gone to the food court at the mall across the way for some fish & chips and spring rolls (yeah, that’s a combination they’re into) and was going to eat them sitting in the middle of the grass. It was 11:30 at night and the heat was starting to get bearable. That and there was a fantastic full moon I wanted to get familiar with.
“I didn’t know whether it would be ok for me to sit on the grass in front of the hotel… I didn’t know if there was a policy or religious rule, you know, that said that that kind of thing is or is not ok… but I went and sat anyway.”
Shane scoffed at me. “You rebel.”
“I know, right? But soon I saw a handful of kids come running out onto the grassy area where I was sitting, doing cartwheels, sommersaults and basically being boys. They fell somewhere between 12 and 16 years of age but in that kind of crowd, boys will definitely be boys.
“They were chased off of the hotel’s grass suddenly and efficiently by 6 men in black suits that came out of nowhere. 4 men in desert fatigues came after them, armed with automatic rifles and vests that looked heavy with something or other. I froze, trying to reason that I couldn’t possibly be in any real danger there, right in front of the hotel but totally unsure of that. Riyadh is not a place to dick around and kids here have to learn fast or else get their balls cut off.
“Well, on that day, 2 of them were arrested, it seemed. I guess all I know is what I saw. They were 14 or 15 years old and they were dragged off by a group of 6 to 8 armed men… who KNOWS where they’re being taken or what became of them?
“As I watched the kids go off in a dark sedan I noticed a black figure coming towards me across the lawn. Still sort of frozen, afraid to run and unsure of what to do if I stayed, I squinted until I could see that it was a thin black man in a dark suit, approaching me at a pretty committed pace. Even though his stature was small and his face was thin I was filled with a sudden panic. His stride was long, his steps, purposeful. It was definitely ME he was coming for and I didn’t know why. All I was doing was eating bad fish & spring rolls and drinking orange soda at 11:30 at night… but then, what were those kids doing?
“He walks with no swagger, but full of purpose - scrawny, unshaven, like so many of his ilk…
“My left hand shakes, ever so slightly. ‘Don’t let them see it, Pete’ I tell myself, unsure of what else to say. ‘Don’t let them smell the fear on you…’
“Another black suit approaches on my left. The air is warm. The night is fiercly dark and the dust is building in the atmosphere, but things are well-lit by the full moon. As the man on the right approaches he has a stern, slightly confused but genuine look on him of what-the-hell-do-you-think-you’re-doing? I remain silent, sure I’ve had it for good this time but still curious to know why, to know how deep this hole here goes. I must understand the obstinately obtuse resolution of these people. I say nothing. He says something in Arabic and I quiver but I don’t cower. How bad could this be?
“The man on my left approaches, smiling like he recognizes me. Must be a security guard from the hotel, I think, to kindly tell me to leave the hotel’s grass. That’s fine, I think to myself, having figured that I was pushing it anyways. But the other guy…
Uh-oh. The other guy is pretty upset, still.
“Then I hear the word ‘guest’ from the smiling man. He repeats it to the upset man, ‘hotel guest’. He smiles at me and tells me I can stay, ‘it’s ok, alright, please.’ he points to the place where I was sitting.
“‘Hot damn,’ I think. Thank God for preferential treatment for foreigners. They’re just like Brazilians in that sense. Man! I love a good string pull.”
Shane chimed in: “Yeah, I’ve heard the people there can be very angry-sounding.”
“Yeah,” I said.
“Yeah,” Shane replied.
“Totally,” I said. Joanna shook her head.
—
“So what about this heat?” Jo asked me with an urgency that suggested her next meal selection might depend on this knowledge.
“Well, it’s serious,” I said, trying to get it across. “I mean, 45 degrees isn’t a number to be taken lightly. And it’s DRY, you know? Sometimes at lunch time I have to walk something like, 5 blocks to get to the shopping mall where there’s food. In my work shirt and pants, I walk 5 blocks in 45 degree heat and don’t sweat a DROP. It’s nuts.
“And they keep the air conditioning in the office down to like, 4 degrees. That’s like a refrigerator, dude! These people have no concept of the term “comfortable work environment”. I have to take my suit to work because it’s too cold to work without it. And then when you leave the building, if feels like you just stuck your face next to a catalytic converter.”
“Wasn’t there a sandstorm you called me about once?” Shane asked me. I remembered back to the first time I’d seen a sand storm in Riyadh.
“Was there! The sky that morning had a yellowish hue to it, as if a field of mustard had exploded in the distance and spread over the horizon. Around the time I got to work and viewed it from the 13th floor of the al Anoud tower I could tell that whatever it was, it was closer than it had been before breakfast, and coming on fast. By noon time most of the city was covered as if by a thick desert fog, cutting visibility down to less than 200 meters. Riyadh had disappeared right before my eyes in the matter of a few morning hours.
“‘What IS that haze that’s covered the city?’ I asked no one in particular as I paused my work and stared out the window for a bit. The office didn’t even have cubicles, but was one of those ’shared workspace’ environments that are getting more popular these days: just open desks all over the place. I suspect that it has to do with making people less apt to surf facebook or other such riff-raff, but anyone who walks around any IT office environment knows that hasn’t stopped.
“‘It’s a sand storm,’ said Hiatham, a friendly and deeply religious Saudi co-worker. ‘It’s the season for these. This is the 3rd one since you were last here.
“‘Sand storm…’ I mumbled to myself, remembering seeing these in films and having no idea there were this viscous. I’d always thought it was an exaggeration of Hollywood. But this thing was consuming radio towers and football fields and beginning to pile sand high against the corners of buildings still under construction. Nothing stays young for long in that place, man.”
“I’m glad you got back with your life,” Shane said.
“Me too,” I agreed.
“COME BACK ‘ERE WIT’ MY PANTS, MATE!” we heard some dripping wet English bloke yelling outside my window on the streets. I appreciated the distractions of Amsterdam, and was, surprisingly, still getting to know them well.
Outside there stirred our own great storm, fierce and violent like ancient angry gods. Whenever we saw the flashes we’d get giddy, and when the thunder roared, we cheered. When the sky brightened we jumped, laughing like hyenas and we felt like children staying up past their bedtime. It brought back memories of those afternoons in Brasilia and of those nights in São Paulo, where all the world was in a spiral around the tower of my hotel, where it seemed the very wind wanted to whisk me out by the throat, where the lightning wanted me saved for its own prickly little fingers. That was a turbulent time for me, when my divorce was still in its early stages of conception, when the trouble was brewing slowly and the bubbles hadn’t even reached the surface yet. And that lightning and that noise grounded me, gave me focus. I remembered it well.
But what I saw now only reminded me about the good parts of those days, like the fury and the texture of the violence in the wind that was such a rush to me. It brought back none of the loneliness or guilt or regret that I struggled with then because here, there was company. Good company.
Jo changed the subject, fumbling with a bowl of M&M’s and running her fingers through them like it was a beach full of sand: “I’m glad you’re back too,” she said, “you boys need to stop and stay in this town for longer than a day or two sometime. It could be fun, you know?”
Shane and I looked at each other.
“You didn’t tell her?” I accused him. “She’s gonna be pissed!” Shane shrugged, unsure of what to say.
“Tell me what?” Joanna asked, sort of innocently.
“Jesus. Jo, Shane lost his job and has to go back home.” Shane looked at me accusingly.
“Yeah, well, HE’s decided to move back to the States and start a business with me,” Shane said, putting what I thought was a little too much emphasis on the ‘HE’, but whatever.
“Oh,” she said, after some pause. We didn’t know what to say. I knew how badly the three of us needed each other’s company in this lonely place and I was afraid that with the two of us gone, Jo would either retreat into a corner somewhere or else blow her top and go absolutely nuts. Maybe she’d find a Dutch guy to hang with, or maybe she might even move to Belgium. You never know what a person will do in the throngs of sudden desperation, right?
“We need to get drunk, immediately,” she decided. I was relieved.
And then we did.
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It was sunny for a couple of days, and I’d taken the incentive to realize that no one would miss me if I just worked through the night, during the hours when everyone else sleeps and I don’t. So I’d spent a day or two sailing by myself in one of the absurdly man-made lakes around Amsterdam, eating Albert Heijn prepacked ham & cheese croissant sandwiches and drinking enough red bull to keep a corpse on its toes.
But there was strife in me — internal struggle — and there had been for days already. The long hours of summer sun had been on their way down and the rain was coming more frequently, and it was colder when it came. The friends I’d made over the year had either disappeared into jobdom or else moved on from that city. It was starting to occur to me that it would soon be time to leave Amsterdam.
And that’s ok. You can only follow one path and my time has afforded me a vision of all the paths spread before me. It has shown me at least that much. Amsterdam hadn’t made it easy, but that’s more of an observation than a complaint. I’d put in my hours of silent struggle with this place, with these people, and if you were to snide at me for seeming to throw in the towel then you’d snide at someone who knows better than you the woes of a lonely existence among the Dutch.
Silly reader.
But there was a question that was keeping me in agony, stirring me from sleep, and that question was where to go next from here? The work situation had degenerated with the American economy somewhat and that wasn’t helping things; in fact it was only limiting my options. Thankfully, having spent a year traveling in Europe I had fewer preferences and knew, for example, that under no circumstances did I want to live in, say, Antwerp, Stuttgart, Frankfurt, Madrid or Brussels. Good weather and proximity to large bodies of water had become a much bigger priority for me than say, tall, blond women.
I had plenty of time to ponder the issue when Maryla threw a going away party for herself. I knew almost no one in my house that night. They were all her friends from grad school - various nationalities represented in my living room. I made small talk and flirted a bit with the cute German girl from Maryla’s class and had a nice laugh with the group of Greeks and Spaniards, who seemed to talk about nothing but olives and politics. I even danced a bit with the African girl from Tanzania. They talked loudly and smoked in the living room but I felt myself slipping and soon I was straddling the window sill in the kitchen, nursing a mug of vodka, wondering how it’d gotten so low.
I sat there, pretty much alone and looking towards the other rooftops, wondering things - occasionally watching the people walk past me a floor below. What is so different about this place?, was the thought that constantly found its way back into my mind. Why is it important to me, this “Europe thing”… what is it? Was it the charming and ancient streets that some towns have? That kind of architecture that makes everything feel like a village is not far off? Was it the horse-drawn carriages that woke me up on Sunday mornings? Because these were just THINGS.
Was it the people? Maybe it was the vacations, the attitude towards work that cares more about results than it does about appearances. That could be it. I mean, I went to London once for a couple of days and worked out of the Wi-Fi signal of a PUB, drinking BEER to sustain my right to be there. I went to Barcelona and worked in my brother’s attic for some time. I went to Zürich and worked on the banks of the Limmat for the cost of 7 coffees… hell, last week I went sailing and worked at night…
And no one noticed. The American working style of answering email every two minutes simply wouldn’t allow for that kind of effective productivity. But that couldn’t be it.
A drunk Lithuanian boy scurried by, unaware he was being watched. A few minutes later two Irish blokes looked up at me from the street below and asked me “you live here? Where are the hookers?”
Ahh, Europe.
–
I was walking up a cobblestone street today the width of a horse’s ass and I noticed that the buildings around me were stone, worn and full of history, not a trace of memory. I don’t know what that means, really, but there’s something there. Try to get past the association with subsistence farming for a second, try to get beyond the hippy-ish notion that “we can ignore the corporations, man”, and see the value, the nobility in having the things and comforts you WANT to have, and ignoring the argument that you use on yourself that you NEED these things.
I don’t know. A stable economy? Universal Health Care. Foreign Policy that makes sense? Hypocrisy and corruption in your government that you can stand against, maybe even understand?
Hmmm. Maybe it just turns out that I’m a socialist or something. Barry Hart would go to pieces if he ever found out.
It could also be the unforced linkage to a more civilized age, a connection to society that is more intimate than what I grew up around. The resistance to unnecessary technology and services, to absurd products and ideals thrown at you from the oligarchy above was something I could admire in a people. Their ability to think critically and to give a shit, to have an educated opinion that even if you didn’t agree with you could a learn a thing or two from it. The notion that the world is not black and white, despite what say the powers that be. That they understand, on this continent, the shame I feel for what America has become.
I’m not sure; none of that quite hits the mark.
My fascination with the closeness of the major cities, the proximity to such disparate cultures and languages might very well be a driving force. I love driving on a highway and having virtually every road sign you pass have the name of a major city that you’ve visited, or would like to visit. Zürich, Basel, Berlin, Brussels, Amsterdam, Paris, Lyon, Prague, Budapest, Geneva, Milan, Florence, Rome, Vienna, Munich, Stuttgart, Madrid, Barcelona, Lisbon… the list is virtually endless. It’s not as if you see a sign for Sacramento, and then drive 2000 miles and see one for Chicago, having been through countless Virginia City’s, Winnamucca’s, Lovelock’s, Battle Mountain’s and Elko’s. And even then… Chicago? Who cares?
That’s the familiarity talking, I’m sure, but it’s an important part that can’t be discounted. These things are now, and will always be foreign for me. The languages, the customs, the people, the street signs, the license plates, the food… no matter how used to it I get there will always be an element of strange, of different, of exciting. I thrive on that shit.
There is also the obvious inter-relatedness of things that are so close to one another is equally captivating to me, how the history of everything has common causes, and I can understand things more easily this way. History is a fascinating thing, and we don’t have enough of it in America. Here in Europe you can see it in the bending of their streets.
I thought of all of this, of course, the first time I watched the Bourne movies. It all made sense to me then. Damn you, Jason Bourne!
Ahh. Europe.
–
A girl dressed in a plaid shirt walked into the kitchen for, I don’t know, more cake, let’s say. She saw me by the window and thought mistakenly that I was in the mood for a bad conversation and started telling me where she was from in Canada but that she was actually born in Montana, but that she thought that people of the northwest in America were basically just misplaced Canadian hicks or some other damn thing…
Jesus.
I hadn’t told her where I was from, but I got the feeling it wouldn’t have made much of a difference to a girl in Amsterdam from Halifax, Nova Scotia. After a few minutes of my not engaging her conversation all that well, she decided to get political.
A mistake.
Of all the things I didn’t want to discuss in my state of flux, in my indecision about my career, in my vacillation about what to do next, the last fucking thing I wanted to be reminded of was what would happen if McCain actually wins the Presidency. Or why that was still a possibility. And Canada-Montana there, who was feasting ravenously on some kind of a biscuit chocolate cake thing sitting on the kitchen table, wanted me to explain the FISA bill to her, postmortem.
sigh…
Why does it have to always be reactive with you people? Why can’t you fucking follow the important stuff while it still matters? We shouldn’t be putting these assholes in office and THEN wanting to learn more about their addiction to escort services, Cuban opium, toenail fetishes with 14 year old boys and this thing that you can do with a few star fruits if they’re ripe enough.
I don’t want to talk about that one.
I mean, I guess it doesn’t matter that SHE was asking; I don’t even know for a fact that she was still a citizen and could make a difference with her voice, except to aggravate me on my kitchen window. But it’s so much like everyone else I talk to, who wants to know if I’m an “Obama supporter”, or if I’m a “Hilary man”. What the hell does that even mean? Don’t you realize that there’s no choice? What do I think will happen if John Mc-two-face-Cain wins the Presidency? It’ll be the end of the god-damned planet, is what. It’ll be the second coming on fast-forward. And boy is Jesus going to shit his pants when he sees what we’ve done with the place, mostly in his name. The plane will crash into the mountain, and America will be the bane of the world in less than the four years it’ll take for him to get ousted out of office, and I’m not even sure you people will get the message then.
STOP VOTING FOR THESE LUNATIC AND CORRUPT ASSHOLES
Just stop. If you don’t know, if you think all you have is what they’re giving you, you’re probably right. If you haven’t asked someone who is smarter than you about the REAL problems, if you haven’t read more than one paper in the last 3 months, just stay home. It’s the right thing to do.
Oh, and if you MUST vote republican, don’t vote for McCain. Just buy a gun and shoot yourself in the face. It’ll work out better in the end, all without violating your right to bear arms.
–
But the FISA thing? Ugghh…
You have no idea, do you? You don’t know that what the congress passed and the president signed, that what you will now have hanging over your head like the carcass of a dead ferret for the rest of our natural lives is THIS:
-Releases electronic communication providers from liability with regards to civil action that may be brought up in any court due to assistance provided to the government in obtaining electronic surveillance if such assistance was authorized by the President before January 17, 2007 or if such assistance was the subject of written directions from the Attorney General or heads of the intelligence community indicating that the activity was lawful (Sec. 201).
What I have to say about this is: IF?
… IF such assistance was the subject of written directions from the Attorney General or blah blah blah?
Why don’t you just say, “spying on American citizens is illegal and we’ll rip your balls off, but, this bill releases Dick Cheney, George W. Bush, Alberto Gonzales, Harriet Miers, John Bolton, Karl Rove, Don Rumsfeld, George Tenet and a slew of other incompetent but evil-ass motherfuckers from any liability or criminal wrong doing… assuming they did it.”
This is, simultaneously, an admission of total and ultimate guilt followed by an assertion that “it doesn’t matter; everything we’ve done up to now has now become legal, back to the date that we did it.” It’s the most comprehensive FUCK YOU ever given to a collective audience. It’s the largest and will be the most enduring middle finger ever thrown to a captivated people. And “your man,” Obama, voted for it, just like most of everyone else.
I told her all this in between spasms of fury and frustration.
“Wow,” she said, and poured herself the last of the whiskey. Then she scampered off to find more cake.
Fuck.
…moments become memories very quickly on a night like that. The rage just drowns out everything else, and the loneliness is like a blanket over your face to help you forget it in the morning. The mug of vodka just doesn’t hurt…
You know?
Posted in Politics, Rants, Travels | No Comments…
After many trials, much deliberation, constant interruptions and no less than 3 death threats the search is over. I have new flat mates. And not a moment too soon.
With one Katie gone and the other soon bound for the grey Isles of Britannia, I was left wondering how to replace such characters in my life. That and their respective rent payments. They’d become such dependable friends and I knew I would miss them so.
Remaining-Katie helped me to shed some light on the matter from her usually helpful female perspective. Her reliable company by the window was just as appreciated with our almost mandatory tumbler of whatever alcohol sat on top of the fridge. Already-left-Katie, bless her heart, could do little from the heart of darkness, the war-and-disease-ravaged lands she currently assists in raising to civility. She wrote to me of her daily issues - problems of blatant and rampant racism, crossing war fronts in the line of fire, outrageous palm beaches with hammocks for the evenings, savage kitten-spewing cats, missing pants and large rats that were somehow responsible for the absence of the pants in the first place. Suddenly my issues of not having flat mates seemed pale in comparison.
But everyone has their problems, and large or small, I had to deal with mine.
So let’s get to the hunt for new flat mates. What this city holds in terms of dubious characters and outright weirdos is understood by some and well-known to most. I imagine almost any place on Earth with a large enough population of humans will have its fair share of shady types so know that I recognize that and am not here peddling in insignificant judgments. There’s no need to get all self-righteous or defensive and protective of your own town of wayward freaks. I know they’re everywhere. I’m from San Francisco and I have friends in other strange places like Portland, Manhattan, Las Vegas, Fairbanks, Brussels and Tilburg. I know these things.
But Amsterdam, friends… it’s a housing mess. This is true. Sure, New Yorkers pay 3 grand for a studio apartment in Manhattan and Parisians have to deal with the French - but do they have to worry about squatting mafia connections and large porn kings returning from a 2-year long flight from the cops?
Rhetorical questions, of course.
But seriously, you’d think that for an apartment in the center that is practically a living postcard with canal-side natural light, an absurdly large living space, a large kitchen, a sink in the bathroom and a decently normal flatmate with all of his teeth would attract good people so fast you’d wonder where they had all been living before.
But lo - the oddities of humanity are larger in number, and they love to answer them some Craigslist ads. They came in droves.
The first two girls that replied were from Spain and came as a pair. Ideal, I thought, and they seemed interesting. Red-and-blue-hair-kind of interesting - true - but interesting nonetheless. That is, until they asked about the possibility that I dye my hair green so that the mood would feel more rounded and we could project ourselves better across the continuum.
“What continuum?” I asked, naively. I shouldn’t have.
“You know, the essence of ‘x’,” said one of them.
“What?”
“Ecstasy,” she corrected me. “It’ll be more soothing when we all do ecstasy.”
It went downhill from there.
All in all I received:
- 21 responses from people living abroad who wanted the place no matter what.
- 12 promises to deposit all necessary funds into my own account no matter how strongly I pointed out that we might have mice and maybe they should see the place first.
- 10 Jesus freaks.
- 8 propositions of marriage for a visa. Eight.
- 6 responses from people whose names were so unpronounceable it was impossible to know their sex. 4 of them wouldn’t say. What’s up with that?
- 6 replies in languages I could not identify.
- 4 requests that I stop posting ads on craigslist because of global warming.
- 4 Nigerian Bankers.
- 2 accusations that I was actually an ex-missionary in Africa who should burn in hell or else pray there’s no afterlife. Apparently there’s an explanation for these on the craigslist website, but damned if I’m going to read it.
- 5 responses from ex-professional athletes in their late 30’s who did not seem to read the HUGE part about how I was looking for young students/professionals between 20 and 30, and not large ex-linebackers for the Flevoland Flounders.
- 1 pet chicken.
- 1 proposition that I help a couple raise their child.
And as I said, no less than 3 death threats.
…what? I don’t always know how to react to people.
Along the way I got, of course, numerous tugs on the sleeve and side-lip-whispered rationales and explanations out in the corridor for things ranging from criminal records to massive debt to schizophrenia. Naturally, I’ve left out the handful of otherwise reasonably normal people that I actually let come over and see the place. But even among these I had:
- 5 exceptionally boring people.
- 4 cases of clinical B.O.
- 2 people with interpreters.
- 1 violent allergy to peanuts AND ketchup.
- 1 more Jesus freak
ughh.
Nothing like Tweedledee and Tweedledum, but trouble all the same. I tell you, looking for a place to live or for flat mates to share your own is one hell of an exercise in getting to know humanity, assuming you’re into humanity. So you can imagine my glee when 2 girls of caliber and seemingly normal levels of decency showed up at my door with registration papers, phone numbers, passports and a fun and friendly demeanor. Hold on to them, Pete!
I snagged each of them by the arm, one at a time, and yanked them into the apartment, thrusting the contract and clean dishes at them with promises of respectful living conditions and no more than 1 mouse at a time since, you know, it’s Amsterdam. You can’t keep those little fuckers out forever.
Tibi Dabo, I told them, so long as they didn’t have pet chickens and didn’t set fire to my books.
And wouldn’t you know it? They signed on the dotted line and paid up. Jelena with her thorough accountant style and Maryla with her indifferent nonchalance to anything that might bother her. You can tell high caliber when you see it, I’ve been told. And that night, we all saw it.
Good times lie ahead, I think.
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Recently the discussion has come up around why I’m so nonchalant towards the idea of a girlfriend (to put it mildly). It’s a question I hate to even have to address in this place but even the people closest to me seem to be unable to stand the curiosity. So let’s just get this over with, shall we?
Katie walked into the living room one evening as I was working on a piece to frighten the love right out of one of the editors at the San Francisco Chronicle.
“Oscar, how come you haven’t met any girls here yet?”
“Hang on a sec. I’m almost done telling this editor in San Francisco why he must run my article in the Chronicle… ‘ and if you don’t address this issue then the terrorists, sir, have WON. Period.‘
“Ok, sorry. What did you say? I wasn’t listening.”
“I asked you how come you haven’t met any girls here since you’ve moved?”
“What are you talking about? I’ve met plenty of girls since I’ve moved here.”
“None that don’t serve you your breakfast or make your martinis in the strange places you frequent. Oscar, waitresses and bartenders don’t count.”
“Why the hell not? Is there a better kind of woman? Because I’m this close to giving up on smart and engaging girls entirely and just making sure that I hook up with girls who know how to make a good martini and a well-buttered piece of toast in the morning. God, are those that low-enough standards or what?”
“You know what I mean. You’re a good-looking guy with a solid job and a steady paycheck. You cook. You play the guitar. You use napkins. You floss.”
“I think you made up the napkins one.”
“See? You’re funny too. And athletic. You speak three languages…”
“Four.”
“What?”
“I speak four languages.”
“Are you counting Dutch?”
“Yes.”
“You can’t count Dutch! You speak it like a chimp with a stutter.”
“But I do speak it, yes?”
“Fine. Three-and-a-half languages.”
“And… ? Ok, so I’m great on paper - my CV is a glowing beacon of the American Dream. So what?”
“Don’t pretend to be modest. You think you’re fantastic.”
“I am fantastic.”
“Yeah, I know. You actually said that last week. I heard you.”
“No I didn’t…wait, what did I say? There’s context to be considered if I’m going to be accused.”
“You said: ‘if there were more of me, we’d have fewer problems. God, I’m fantastic.’”
“Hmmm. Yeah, there’s very little room for context there. Ok. But I AM pretty freaking sweet. A pretty good deal, as they say.”
“So, ok. Why no girl then?”
“First of all, what’s so great about ‘having a girl’ anyway? Why do people define themselves based on whether they can depend on someone else for happiness? That’s horse shit. Besides, fuck if I know. You’re the one with a habitual cling to Sex in the City reading the goop that the British tabloids slide into our mail slot. YOU tell me why I haven’t met someone yet.”
“Well, you’re obviously not trying. Probably at all.”
“Whatever. I sang for that girl at the cafe the other night and she wouldn’t even look at me. Why the hell doesn’t that count?”
“You mean that time when you got up from the table, ran across the street to the canal and joined a platoon full of Irish boys hollering football chants at the passing boat of freshman girls?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Wait. You’re asking me why chanting football slogans with Irish hooligans at other, younger women doesn’t count as singing to a girl, right?”
“Well, when you put it like that anything sounds bad. Besides, she had a boyfriend.”
“You’re missing the point.”
“No, I’m avoiding it very successfully.”
“Is it really that hard to find a nice girl?”
“Without a boyfriend?”
“Sure.”
“Then yes.”
“But you go out all the time. What do you do, snarl at them?”
“Look, I’m not looking for a girlfriend when I go out. I’m just looking around, sometimes hoping to be looked at right back. It’s validation and a hope of an off-chance encounter with someone who’s as adventurous as me, if not more so. I always want to learn new shit, know what I mean?
“Women are creatures of the sirens who cost a lot of time. I have plans - plans more important to me than having another person on speed-dial, than having one more person who wants me to call when I’m traveling. I have plans bigger than weekends of dreamy-eyed mornings wasted on my bed. Time is precious. I have cities to check off my list, guitar rifts to learn and kilometers and kilometers of road to put under my feet.
“Don’t get me wrong. I’ll happily make out with the first pretty thing that crosses me with eye-contact. I’ll smooch all night and even bring her home if she’s up for it. The trouble is, so far it’s been either Dutch girls (who don’t flirt), or a bad case of the boyfriends. I hate boyfriends.
“No eye contact at all?”
“Seriously? Two girls have looked at me at bars since I’ve been here, and I’m confident one of them may have been a leper. The lighting wasn’t that good, but still. I’m not that good with bacterial diseases.”
–
“Oscar?”
“Yeah?”
“…where did you learn to sing Irish Drinking Songs like that?”
“Vallejo Pirate Fest 2007.”
“Interesting.”
Who said that every wish would be heard and answered when wished on the Morning Star? Somebody thought of that, and someone believed it, and look what it’s done so far…
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Here at the top it’s easy to talk. The city listens to me think, even though it won’t shut up.
Moments pass in the São Paulo night that never seems to darken completely. As if there is a porch light that is always on somewhere, the night in São Paulo is unnervingly light. A glance upwards towards the stars reveals the reason almost immediately, though at first you don’t believe it.
There are no stars, only cloud cover - smog that rises at night, just above the buildings. Reflected off of it are all the lights from the city that come seeping from all the tiny windows in the buildings, pouring forth from all the headlights, spewing onto the streets from the street lamps and even buzzing from the spliced wires in the favelas…
It gives the city’s night a radiating feeling, as of respiration, as of perspiration as of… a leaking nuclear reactor.
But nobody pays attention to that here. Like their coffee in the afternoon that is so rich and takes forever to drink between the words, there are more important things for them: like lunch breaks and weekends…these people are absurdly good at taking it easy.
–
Tired as hell, I can’t get myself to go to bed…not yet. The scene, a moment that the Beast decided to spare for me is a masterpiece in time. It has to be allowed at least that much. It has the grandeur of kings, the omnipotence of nature and despite the darkness, it holds no mystery. A great architect must have stood here and not known what to say. He did his thing, left the words to me, and here I am, speechless.
What a waste it would be to not enjoy it, at least.
Estanplaza Hotel balcony, Sao Paulo - March, 2006
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