Niels, I said, it was the smallest thing. Tables and chairs placed outside on the city sidewalk. Just the expectation. Yes now. This is describable joy: the flush of my skin, the smile that bubbles with goofy intensity, and the bounce of my step. Yes, yes, welcome, welcome!
But Spring doubts herself. Darkens. Weeps this whole, chill day.
(Come back soon.)
---
I spend the afternoon reading in a Kreuzberg cafe with my back to the gray sky and the slick streets. The Confessions of Max Tivoli by Andrew Sean Greer. Have you read it? It’s another offering from the apartment shelves and a relief from the gritty intensity of Clockers, which I’d finished a couple of days before. I’m reading voraciously these days.
Still, the new table of smokers is finally driving me off. There’s a right moment in the book to stop, so I pay the tab, shove the book in my bag and shuffle through my iPod for the walk home. Yes, a few miles walk, despite the soft, steady rain.
Lips are turning blue
A kiss that can't renew
I only dream of you
My beautiful
Sing for Absolution…
Muse. I pay little attention to the streets. Instead, I am back with Julian at the 9:30 Club on the crowded, dark dance floor on November 8, 2004. What a great concert that was. (What a tragic weekend.)
I cross the Spree on Oberbaumbrücke and climb the hill towards Friedrichshain. I take a small detour under the U1 train tracks. I’d spied a neighborhood from the train just recently (how could I have missed it all of these days?) and now’s a good time to explore. But the streets are mostly empty. Quiet, modern apartments. Office buildings. A couple of building guards—old men with their thick paunches—take a cigarette and coffee break. A teen girl walks to the station with her head down.
I shop at a quiet grocery store on these backstreets. Fruit and eggs for tomorrow’s breakfast. And, at the last minute, some pork medallions.
With saukerkraut? You know who you are.
---
I figure that I have plenty of time to get to Cliff and Katarina’s for dinner, but I scan the email for the directions and see that Cliff had written 6 p.m. It’s 6:30.
I call, apologize, slip back into my clogs and head out. I find a cab quickly enough, and then we’re off on the darker streets to Prenzlauer Berg. I’ve only been to the neighborhood once before. With Martin for a Berlinale film called One to One. I hadn’t really seen the neighborhood then. We’d had a spicy hotdog on the street, griped about the lack of popcorn at the theater and enjoyed the movie. But even from the cab window, I can see that the streets are bustling with people. Hip and happenin’ Berlin.
Cliff and Katarina have a lovely apartment. It’s on the topmost floor of a typical East Berlin building and, just as Cliff had boasted, it is thick with books. They line both sides of the entry, crowd the walls of his smoky study, and climb floor to ceiling in the living room.
I am curious. How many of these have you actually read, I ask with a teasing laugh. He considers it seriously. Two-thirds? He settles with “three-quarters.”
Politics had so dominated our last meeting, that I make a valiant effort to direct the conversation away from his reading. Movies? Ventures out into Berlin?
No luck. He’s obsessed with the details of the September 11th attacks, and tells me of the radio shows, books, and movies that he’s seen on the subject.
I try again. How’s your translation work going, I ask.
He waves it off. No time, because of all the reading. I’ve only slept four of the last 72 hours, he says with something like pride.
Katarina quietly serves a simple and delicious dinner: a fresh salad of nuts, cheese and greens; poached salmon with rice and broccoli; chopped fruit with fresh whipped cream. I acknowledge her effort with my fork and smiles. Cliff chatters on, careless with us both, and she eventually pulls his dish aside for later.
I consider her endurance. Is this love?
My undoing is in declining to see footage of the fall of the Twin Towers. He has conclusive evidence that it was a controlled demolition, planned by a top-level U.S. agency, and not the fault of the crashing planes.
It's just 10 minutes, he says. Do you want to see it?
Granted, I’m already exhausted from playing “audience,” but it’s more than that. I had watched the footage of the Towers repeatedly, like so many worldwide. Frankly, it is a horror. In the weeks that followed, I decided that my recovery had to include a ban on news. I simply shut it down.
Do I need Cliff, my fellow American, albeit an expat, to show it to me here, in this apartment of books, and light-loving plants, and a German wife who’s already attempted one retreat to the living room to read?
No, thank you, I reply.
And again. And again.
I decline repeatedly.
I can’t believe this, he says, with obvious disgust. Don’t you care that your government killed 3,000 people?
Weary, but with a pointed look, I ask: So has my leftist card been revoked?
I am grateful that he calls an abrupt end to the evening.
The rain welcomes me back to the street.
Sunday, March 26, 2006
Thursday, March 23, 2006
To Ann Marie, because it never got mailed
23 March 2006
I think I've written you a number of letters. Most of them never actually made it to paper. The rest are the crumbled balls at the bottom of the waste basket.
Things here are much like I describe in the February letter, despite the month's difference. I actually did get into the Badeschiff, that swimming pool complex, although I didn't blog about it. It was after I returned from Amsterdam, and it was with the friend of whom I last wrote. He and I were the only two in swimsuits and googles. The rest of the guests were either wrapped in robes and relaxing around the complex on lounge chairs or they were naked and in the water with us. The entire complex is co-ed. The lockers. The showers.
Um, and there are no curtains. Him, me, and others taking our turn under the showerheads, reaching past each other for shampoo, lathering up...
Cue the porn music!
LOL, you would have loved it. Okay, maybe not the nudity (am I wrong about that?). But I think you would have been charmed by the rest. About walking outside from the lockers to the pool on a mat dotted with patches of ice. (He was smart enough to bring flip-flops.) About the pool itself, submerged in the Spree. (How cool is that?! When we were in the water, we could actually hear the crack of the ice breaking on the river.) About being able to slip out past the pool's sheeting and enjoy the cold air and the night sky.
Yes, we were there at night. Around 8ish. No, no, it must have been later. But I remember that we ate dinner really, really late at yet another Indian restaurant on my block. Not too bad.
There's a lot of work to do today, but I promise to write again. Okay, at least a postcard. And I'll update the blog more, and not in this cheating way. (Even my mother was complaining that I hadn't written lately.)
BTW: Will you keep a blog when you're in Vietnam? If not, send a postcard. And how long are you staying anyway?
Ok, enough. Miss you. Wish you were here.
Tammi
I think I've written you a number of letters. Most of them never actually made it to paper. The rest are the crumbled balls at the bottom of the waste basket.
Things here are much like I describe in the February letter, despite the month's difference. I actually did get into the Badeschiff, that swimming pool complex, although I didn't blog about it. It was after I returned from Amsterdam, and it was with the friend of whom I last wrote. He and I were the only two in swimsuits and googles. The rest of the guests were either wrapped in robes and relaxing around the complex on lounge chairs or they were naked and in the water with us. The entire complex is co-ed. The lockers. The showers.
Um, and there are no curtains. Him, me, and others taking our turn under the showerheads, reaching past each other for shampoo, lathering up...
Cue the porn music!
LOL, you would have loved it. Okay, maybe not the nudity (am I wrong about that?). But I think you would have been charmed by the rest. About walking outside from the lockers to the pool on a mat dotted with patches of ice. (He was smart enough to bring flip-flops.) About the pool itself, submerged in the Spree. (How cool is that?! When we were in the water, we could actually hear the crack of the ice breaking on the river.) About being able to slip out past the pool's sheeting and enjoy the cold air and the night sky.
Yes, we were there at night. Around 8ish. No, no, it must have been later. But I remember that we ate dinner really, really late at yet another Indian restaurant on my block. Not too bad.
There's a lot of work to do today, but I promise to write again. Okay, at least a postcard. And I'll update the blog more, and not in this cheating way. (Even my mother was complaining that I hadn't written lately.)
BTW: Will you keep a blog when you're in Vietnam? If not, send a postcard. And how long are you staying anyway?
Ok, enough. Miss you. Wish you were here.
Tammi
Saturday, March 04, 2006
But was it worth it?
Ken has startling grey-blue eyes. Light. Clear. A morning sky in Spring. But when I ask again—you didn’t exactly answer my question, I say—his eyes can’t quite meet mine.
It’s not that Ken is dishonest. No, I can already see that he’s someone who has found no shelter in subterfuge. I like him for that. But the question is too hard.
When your life unfolds to bring you here, sitting across from a woman you just met in a place to which you’ve just escaped, the easier question is would you do it again.
Yes. Absolutely.
But that’s not my question.
I met Ken on Thursday afternoon. He is an ex-pat (equals expat equals expatriate, Niels) from California. He’s a little older than me, but he has already experienced more than his years should allow. Still, the first moments of our conversation travel the well-worn paths of the just-met. Where are you from? How did you get here? What do you do?
His eyes widen slightly.
FAMM, he says. I know FAMM.
Ken is the previous head of a medical marijuana clinic in California. For those of you who follow the news of the U.S. Drug War, you’ll recall that California voters passed Proposition 215 in 1996 allowing the possession and use of marijuana for seriously ill patients, such those suffering from AIDS-related illnesses and cancer. In 2001, the U.S. Supreme Court overturned that decision, holding that federal law (namely the 1970 Controlled Substances Act) did not allow for medical exceptions.
Regardless, cannabis clubs continue to operate in California jurisdictions, placing the state and the feds in a dueling match over whether it’s a permissible (taxed and regulated) business or wholly illegal and subject to felony prosecution.
It didn’t take long for the raids to start.
Ken was away in Canada when they issued a warrant for his arrest. He had already won a similar case—and tells me about the patients who testified on his behalf with real tears in his eyes—but the feds are vicious. Twenty to life.
While the legal teams from both sides battle it out, Ken simply stays…away. First, to Cambodia for a year’s work of teaching and working in a medical clinic. And now here doing…well, let’s not talk about that.
But he misses his daughter. And his mother, who thinks maybe he should just turn himself in. (She still believes in a just American system, poor dear.)
Was it worth it, I press.
It’s Friday now, and we’re at a corner pub. I had told him of my interest in seeing the Rembrandt-Caravaggio exhibit at the Van Gogh Museum, and he has agreed to join me. I’ve just finished my lunch—a large, flat plate of eggs, ham and cheese that I ordered by simply guessing at the Dutch words—when Ken joins me.
He’s not sure how to answer me.
The museum is just down the street from the pub. A nice walk in the cold air. There’s no rain today. Nor hail or snow. Just a cold, sunny day.
Despite the subject of our chat, we are both in good humor. We talk for just a bit about skipping the exhibit. I can’t believe how expensive the tickets are.
More so than a live sex show?
I suppress the urge to giggle, and let Ken and some weird thoughts of “balancing my karma” sweep me into the exhibit.
The place is packed with people. My audio tour drowns them all out, including Ken, who is lost in his own audio playground.
I flippantly decide that I am no fan of Rembrandt. Heresy! But Caravaggio…
His colors are bold, decisive. And the attention he gives to his subjects is, well, loving. Boy with a Basket of Fruit, Saint Catherine of Alexandria, Supper at Emmaus, The Taking of Christ, Judith Beheading Holofernes…Amor Victorious stops me in my tracks.
Impish. Sensual.
Loving.
Van Gogh was a fan of Rembrandt, so besides the Rembrandt-Caravaggio focus, there is the Van Gogh and Rembrandt treatment and then the rest of the Van Gogh permanent collection. Although there are special extended hours until 10 p.m., Ken and I are exhausted by 5:30. It is just too much.
Want to come with me to a coffeeshop, he asks.
Sure.
The term “coffeeshop” in Amsterdam bears no resemblance to Starbucks. Here, at the Greenhouse for example, it’s a place where you smoke pot and drink. Sure, there’s more on the menu, but…
I am the only one not smoking.
What do you want, he asks as he heads to the bar.
A hot tea, please.
We are sharing a table with two college students, men, from the U.S. One is a dark-haired all-American type from upperstate New York. The other is shrouded by his hood and from Chicago. They met while studying in Italy for the semester. Because class is just two days per week, they spend the rest of their time traveling through Europe. Other parts of Italy, yes. But also Spain, Switzerland, the U.K. and here.
Ken pulls a cube of hash and a pipe from his waist pack. Pretty, I remark. A gift from a friend, Ken replies.
I sip my tea while the others spend time talking about what they do and don’t like. Ken offers us all a hit from his pipe. The hooded kid dislikes hash, so declines. The All-American declines, but offers his joint to Ken. Ken lights it. Inhales.
***
We are on the tram again. Ken is heading to work, and I am on my way to dinner. We make plans for another museum, hug goodbye at Overtoom, and I step off the tram for the Hap-Hmm. The guidebook had recommended it. Cheap. Tasty. Utterly Dutch.
The Hap-Hmm is a family restaurant, tucked away on a side street on the first floor in a row of little homes. I had wanted to eat lunch there on Wednesday, but a man stepped from the narrow door to tell me that he had just started cooking the evening’s dinner. He’s nice, very warm and friendly, so I pledge to come back.
The place is just like him. Nice. Warm.
They all assume that I am local, so seat me (in Dutch), tell me that they will get to me in a second (in Dutch), and ask me for my order (in Dutch). I am prepared to just go with whatever they bring to me, but when the English burbles from my lips, the older proprietress says, “Oh!” and walks off to fetch an English menu.
The guidebook had referenced a traditional pea soup, so I order that. I also order the dish I spy at another guest’s table: a large fried meatball in sauce, served with cooked broccoli and boiled potatoes. Don’t let the description fool you: the meatball is delicious, and the vegetables are cooked to simple perfection.
I regret the pea soup though, as I am too stuffed to finish the rest.
I want to read more of “On the Water,” but decide to call it a night. I thank the proprietress profusely, such a wonderful meal and such a charming place. I am not sure she understands everything I say, but she gets that I am very pleased. She presses a restaurant flyer into my hand, and smiles.
It’s not that Ken is dishonest. No, I can already see that he’s someone who has found no shelter in subterfuge. I like him for that. But the question is too hard.
When your life unfolds to bring you here, sitting across from a woman you just met in a place to which you’ve just escaped, the easier question is would you do it again.
Yes. Absolutely.
But that’s not my question.
I met Ken on Thursday afternoon. He is an ex-pat (equals expat equals expatriate, Niels) from California. He’s a little older than me, but he has already experienced more than his years should allow. Still, the first moments of our conversation travel the well-worn paths of the just-met. Where are you from? How did you get here? What do you do?
His eyes widen slightly.
FAMM, he says. I know FAMM.
Ken is the previous head of a medical marijuana clinic in California. For those of you who follow the news of the U.S. Drug War, you’ll recall that California voters passed Proposition 215 in 1996 allowing the possession and use of marijuana for seriously ill patients, such those suffering from AIDS-related illnesses and cancer. In 2001, the U.S. Supreme Court overturned that decision, holding that federal law (namely the 1970 Controlled Substances Act) did not allow for medical exceptions.
Regardless, cannabis clubs continue to operate in California jurisdictions, placing the state and the feds in a dueling match over whether it’s a permissible (taxed and regulated) business or wholly illegal and subject to felony prosecution.
It didn’t take long for the raids to start.
Ken was away in Canada when they issued a warrant for his arrest. He had already won a similar case—and tells me about the patients who testified on his behalf with real tears in his eyes—but the feds are vicious. Twenty to life.
While the legal teams from both sides battle it out, Ken simply stays…away. First, to Cambodia for a year’s work of teaching and working in a medical clinic. And now here doing…well, let’s not talk about that.
But he misses his daughter. And his mother, who thinks maybe he should just turn himself in. (She still believes in a just American system, poor dear.)
Was it worth it, I press.
It’s Friday now, and we’re at a corner pub. I had told him of my interest in seeing the Rembrandt-Caravaggio exhibit at the Van Gogh Museum, and he has agreed to join me. I’ve just finished my lunch—a large, flat plate of eggs, ham and cheese that I ordered by simply guessing at the Dutch words—when Ken joins me.
He’s not sure how to answer me.
The museum is just down the street from the pub. A nice walk in the cold air. There’s no rain today. Nor hail or snow. Just a cold, sunny day.
Despite the subject of our chat, we are both in good humor. We talk for just a bit about skipping the exhibit. I can’t believe how expensive the tickets are.
More so than a live sex show?
I suppress the urge to giggle, and let Ken and some weird thoughts of “balancing my karma” sweep me into the exhibit.
The place is packed with people. My audio tour drowns them all out, including Ken, who is lost in his own audio playground.
I flippantly decide that I am no fan of Rembrandt. Heresy! But Caravaggio…
His colors are bold, decisive. And the attention he gives to his subjects is, well, loving. Boy with a Basket of Fruit, Saint Catherine of Alexandria, Supper at Emmaus, The Taking of Christ, Judith Beheading Holofernes…Amor Victorious stops me in my tracks.
Impish. Sensual.
Loving.
Van Gogh was a fan of Rembrandt, so besides the Rembrandt-Caravaggio focus, there is the Van Gogh and Rembrandt treatment and then the rest of the Van Gogh permanent collection. Although there are special extended hours until 10 p.m., Ken and I are exhausted by 5:30. It is just too much.
Want to come with me to a coffeeshop, he asks.
Sure.
The term “coffeeshop” in Amsterdam bears no resemblance to Starbucks. Here, at the Greenhouse for example, it’s a place where you smoke pot and drink. Sure, there’s more on the menu, but…
I am the only one not smoking.
What do you want, he asks as he heads to the bar.
A hot tea, please.
We are sharing a table with two college students, men, from the U.S. One is a dark-haired all-American type from upperstate New York. The other is shrouded by his hood and from Chicago. They met while studying in Italy for the semester. Because class is just two days per week, they spend the rest of their time traveling through Europe. Other parts of Italy, yes. But also Spain, Switzerland, the U.K. and here.
Ken pulls a cube of hash and a pipe from his waist pack. Pretty, I remark. A gift from a friend, Ken replies.
I sip my tea while the others spend time talking about what they do and don’t like. Ken offers us all a hit from his pipe. The hooded kid dislikes hash, so declines. The All-American declines, but offers his joint to Ken. Ken lights it. Inhales.
***
We are on the tram again. Ken is heading to work, and I am on my way to dinner. We make plans for another museum, hug goodbye at Overtoom, and I step off the tram for the Hap-Hmm. The guidebook had recommended it. Cheap. Tasty. Utterly Dutch.
The Hap-Hmm is a family restaurant, tucked away on a side street on the first floor in a row of little homes. I had wanted to eat lunch there on Wednesday, but a man stepped from the narrow door to tell me that he had just started cooking the evening’s dinner. He’s nice, very warm and friendly, so I pledge to come back.
The place is just like him. Nice. Warm.
They all assume that I am local, so seat me (in Dutch), tell me that they will get to me in a second (in Dutch), and ask me for my order (in Dutch). I am prepared to just go with whatever they bring to me, but when the English burbles from my lips, the older proprietress says, “Oh!” and walks off to fetch an English menu.
The guidebook had referenced a traditional pea soup, so I order that. I also order the dish I spy at another guest’s table: a large fried meatball in sauce, served with cooked broccoli and boiled potatoes. Don’t let the description fool you: the meatball is delicious, and the vegetables are cooked to simple perfection.
I regret the pea soup though, as I am too stuffed to finish the rest.
I want to read more of “On the Water,” but decide to call it a night. I thank the proprietress profusely, such a wonderful meal and such a charming place. I am not sure she understands everything I say, but she gets that I am very pleased. She presses a restaurant flyer into my hand, and smiles.
Thursday, March 02, 2006
High Art in the low lands
“You can never get silence anywhere nowadays, have you noticed?” (Bryan Ferry, British singer, musician and songwriter)
On Monday night, Sheryl and I spend some time after the second set talking. She lives here in Holland with her husband and son. It’s been 20 years, so she knows the both the language and her way around the music scene. When I mention that I am staying across from the Concertgebouw, she says “be sure to check out the free Wednesday concert at noon.”
So I stay in on Wednesday morning to do just that.
I have forgotten to change my breakfast order at the Bema, so it arrives with the same bad coffee. Oh well. I choke it down, send my “I miss you” emails, and take my time showering, dressing.
Although I get across to the concert hall early, the foyer is already thick with people. Most have full heads of grey hair, and the chatter is distinctly Dutch. The regulars. Retirees.
I stand and read Gaiman’s “Neverwhere.” It’s not the typical literature of my book group, but I am so hooked that when the crowd begins to push forward into the hall, I am reluctant to put the book away. I don’t really, so I find the perfect seat and continue reading with just the occasional lift of my head to scan the room.
The hall is massive, with majestically high ceilings and beautifully crafted detail. The stage is in tiers that climb to a central hidden organ whose ornately decorated pipes reach high above and behind it.
I am surprised though to find the tiers otherwise bare, missing the tell-tale chairs and stands of any musicians.
A door opens high on the right, and the audience begins to clap for the lone man descending the stairs. They quiet down, and he welcomes us with a joke. At least, I assume it’s a joke, as it is in Dutch and all I can understand of it is his body language and the audience’s appreciative laughter. He finishes, the audience applauds again, and then he climbs the stairs to sit, hidden, at the organ.
It isn’t until the room fills with organ music that I understand that no other musicians are coming. It’s a beautiful composition by the French organist Louis Vierne, but I am just too engrossed by the novel. I carefully turn the pages as to not disturb my fellow concertgoers, and I look up with each pause in the symphony as if it had my undivided attention…
The concert is over too soon, just thirty minutes of it before we are back out in the cold.
It *is* colder today, so my motivation to randomly walk about is low. I need to pick up another tram pass, so I hop aboard a passing one headed to the central station. But I am hungry for lunch, so hop off north of it…into the middle of tourist hell.
Oh the kitsch! Totes, hats, magnets, mugs, t-shirts, bottle openers, bracelets, bells and spoons…
[A side note to my mother: N-O]
And food food food. McDonald’s. KFC. Burger King. The glut of the mundane creates fierce competition for business. Restaurant workers call out to me directly to come here here here.
I’m ravenous but overwhelmed. I duck into an alley and find a quiet shop serving Chinese and Indonesian dishes.
What’s the better choice, I ask.
Chinese, says the Chinese waiter.
By the time I have eaten and made my way to the train station, it is too late to cross town for the museum. Besides, there’s postcards to mail, coffee to drink and books to read. Except I’ve finished “Neverwhere” and find myself with nothing but maps and the hotel’s complimentary visitors’ guide.
The nearest bookstore?
I accost a woman on the street. She’s short, dark-haired, in her 30s, and a real cutie with her glasses, jeans and backpack. I smile and play helpless. She stands close and runs her finger over the map. Merely asking for directions hardly warrants an introduction, but I consider it. Let it go.
Scheltema. She has to say the name of the store three times. She smiles, so I don’t feel too bad about it.
It’s within walking distance, and her directions are solid. It’s your typical box style bookstore: a Borders, a Dussman, and now a Scheltema. I thumb through a Lonely Planet guide to Amsterdam on a hard-as-a-rock chair that I had flopped into expecting some yield. There’s a lot I am missing without a proper guide book. I drift over to the literature in English and enter an internal debate about having something weighty (“Lolita” or “A Wild Sheep Chase” or “Life of Pi”) versus something light (namely, another Gaiman novel). Guilt gets the best of me and I purchase a novel by a Dutch writer named Hans Maarten van den Brink. “On the Water.” I skip the higher priced Lonely Planet for an older and discounted copy of Let’s Go Amsterdam at a nearby kiosk Little changes in city life in a couple of years. But just outside it begins to hail with a fury, and the sidewalk is quickly slick with ice.
I am cold and just want to sit with my new book someplace warm. I spy a bar in the basement of a colossal building. CafeCox. I buy a cappuccino and watch the hail turn to fat, wet flakes of snow.
It’s quiet, more a function of good design than the absence of people. There are plenty who, like me, are waiting out the snow. It doesn’t stop though, so I finish my coffee and search for a proper place for dinner, this one a recommendation from the guidebook.
The place is Balo, and all it serves is Indonesian cuisine. The prices have not changed at all since the guide was published. I have my fill on a heaping plate of beef, chicken and pork. (Yes, that was “and.”)
I toss back a beer and all is well with the world.
***
“If you visit one of the women, we would like to remind you, they are not always women.” (On the Red Light District, Gouden Gid’s Visitors Guide to Amsterdam 2006, p137.)
I am sitting on a stool in a kebab take away that is just too bright for the dark streets beyond. I am nursing another cappuccino and thinking it through.
Directly across the street is a ticket outlet for the Casa Rosso, a homegrown Amsterdam establishment known for delivering the “classiest” live sex show in town. I had read about it in the Let’s Go book, and decided it was a must see. Or a maybe see. Or maybe a don’t see. Hence the cappuccino and more thinking.
To get there, I first stop at the Prostitution Information Center. The Saturday before my arrival, they had coordinated the first ever Open House of the Red Light District. It’s election season, and the prostitutes are defending their turf against conservative political elements (who are no doubt among their best customers). The public response was absolutely overwhelming. About the Casa Rosso, the Amsterdam Weekly reported “By mid-afternoon, the hourly ‘dry-fuck shows,’ with partially dressed performers, had to be increased to every half hour in order to accommodate the long queues.”
Unfortunately, the PIC is closed for a private tour group when I arrive so I miss the chance to buy their pamphlet on the best spots.
Instead, I wander among the alleys. The canal views are still there, and even a large cathedral with a bell that sounds out the time. But ringing the cathedral are red-lit windows with the stuff of fantasy. Blond. Brunette. Slender with flat bellies. Round with thick thighs. White. Black. Asian. There are bikinis, thongs, heels and bare feet. But they are also real. On their cell phones. Brushing something from their outfits. Laughing into doorways to their friends.
But now I am nursing a cappuccino. Is it worth it to pay, I wonder. It’s a show after all, and the things that I like about sex—our fleshy shapes, our honest moans, the ouches of a too sharp bite or a sudden tug—will be something too choreographed.
At least that’s what I presume.
But I don’t want to presume.
I finish the coffee, settle the bill and cross the canal to the kiosk. The man who sells my ticket is the one who had drawn me back. I had passed plenty of places along the way, but I like him most. Middle Eastern and a big guy. But his good humor and sincere “I’ve seen it all” way makes him almost huggable in a teddy bear kind of way. I consider it a bizarre, but good sign.
He hands me my receipt and says, Have a good time.
The Casa Rosso is a small theatre. Most of the people there are men, Japanese, Chinese and Korean from what I can see in the near dark. But there are two couples. I am the only single woman.
I walk in just after Nicole has started her set. It’s just her, and she’s in some latex outfit. She doesn’t look aroused, she looks bored. And her eyes are not resting with the crowd but somewhere above our heads to the back. Maybe she’s concentrating on her cuing. The dance number reminds me of something from a cheerleader’s tryout. She slaps the pole with her whip. Strips.
The next act arrives in a nun’s habit from behind me. Her partner is on the stage and standing with legs planted apart under a black shroud. She climbs the stage to the figure, and strips out of her habit into a black latex bikini.
I guess this is someone’s fantasy.
Then she undresses the shrouded figure. Like her, he’s blond and long-haired. It’s not long before they are both naked, and she’s got him in her mouth. He’s semi-erect, no doubt from already having been at this for hours, if not days. She has a metal ring through her labia.
Yes, I am watching that closely.
But, again, they are bored with us. They are talking to each other, and I can see that they have the easy nature of people who have worked together long and well. The act is over when the music ends and the announcer asks for applause. We’re a generous audience, so we clap appreciatively. They wave, a bit self-consciously, before the curtain draws.
I won’t give you the, er, blow by blow of each act. But I will confess to dancing with Nicole on stage (they were asking for volunteers from the audience, and she asked me directly… twice…while dancing next to me in this really skimpy costume). It’s all a blur, but there was a guy in an ape costume, his hands cupping my breasts and then me eating a banana from Nicole’s raised and spread legs.
I did take a bow before taking my seat again. I do remember that distinctly.
But the rest was what you imagine a live sex show to be. A choreographed show. With naked people. Penises. Vulvas. Boy on girl. Girl on girl. (The latter gave one of our audience members a rise and the guy with the flashlight—there’s always a guy with a flashlight—had to tell him to put it away.) Lots of tongue. Lots of pounding.
Ohmygod. Someone ask me about the brother with the large… Or about the woman with the candle... Her kegels...
I left happy.
Bouncing.
On Monday night, Sheryl and I spend some time after the second set talking. She lives here in Holland with her husband and son. It’s been 20 years, so she knows the both the language and her way around the music scene. When I mention that I am staying across from the Concertgebouw, she says “be sure to check out the free Wednesday concert at noon.”
So I stay in on Wednesday morning to do just that.
I have forgotten to change my breakfast order at the Bema, so it arrives with the same bad coffee. Oh well. I choke it down, send my “I miss you” emails, and take my time showering, dressing.
Although I get across to the concert hall early, the foyer is already thick with people. Most have full heads of grey hair, and the chatter is distinctly Dutch. The regulars. Retirees.
I stand and read Gaiman’s “Neverwhere.” It’s not the typical literature of my book group, but I am so hooked that when the crowd begins to push forward into the hall, I am reluctant to put the book away. I don’t really, so I find the perfect seat and continue reading with just the occasional lift of my head to scan the room.
The hall is massive, with majestically high ceilings and beautifully crafted detail. The stage is in tiers that climb to a central hidden organ whose ornately decorated pipes reach high above and behind it.
I am surprised though to find the tiers otherwise bare, missing the tell-tale chairs and stands of any musicians.
A door opens high on the right, and the audience begins to clap for the lone man descending the stairs. They quiet down, and he welcomes us with a joke. At least, I assume it’s a joke, as it is in Dutch and all I can understand of it is his body language and the audience’s appreciative laughter. He finishes, the audience applauds again, and then he climbs the stairs to sit, hidden, at the organ.
It isn’t until the room fills with organ music that I understand that no other musicians are coming. It’s a beautiful composition by the French organist Louis Vierne, but I am just too engrossed by the novel. I carefully turn the pages as to not disturb my fellow concertgoers, and I look up with each pause in the symphony as if it had my undivided attention…
The concert is over too soon, just thirty minutes of it before we are back out in the cold.
It *is* colder today, so my motivation to randomly walk about is low. I need to pick up another tram pass, so I hop aboard a passing one headed to the central station. But I am hungry for lunch, so hop off north of it…into the middle of tourist hell.
Oh the kitsch! Totes, hats, magnets, mugs, t-shirts, bottle openers, bracelets, bells and spoons…
[A side note to my mother: N-O]
And food food food. McDonald’s. KFC. Burger King. The glut of the mundane creates fierce competition for business. Restaurant workers call out to me directly to come here here here.
I’m ravenous but overwhelmed. I duck into an alley and find a quiet shop serving Chinese and Indonesian dishes.
What’s the better choice, I ask.
Chinese, says the Chinese waiter.
By the time I have eaten and made my way to the train station, it is too late to cross town for the museum. Besides, there’s postcards to mail, coffee to drink and books to read. Except I’ve finished “Neverwhere” and find myself with nothing but maps and the hotel’s complimentary visitors’ guide.
The nearest bookstore?
I accost a woman on the street. She’s short, dark-haired, in her 30s, and a real cutie with her glasses, jeans and backpack. I smile and play helpless. She stands close and runs her finger over the map. Merely asking for directions hardly warrants an introduction, but I consider it. Let it go.
Scheltema. She has to say the name of the store three times. She smiles, so I don’t feel too bad about it.
It’s within walking distance, and her directions are solid. It’s your typical box style bookstore: a Borders, a Dussman, and now a Scheltema. I thumb through a Lonely Planet guide to Amsterdam on a hard-as-a-rock chair that I had flopped into expecting some yield. There’s a lot I am missing without a proper guide book. I drift over to the literature in English and enter an internal debate about having something weighty (“Lolita” or “A Wild Sheep Chase” or “Life of Pi”) versus something light (namely, another Gaiman novel). Guilt gets the best of me and I purchase a novel by a Dutch writer named Hans Maarten van den Brink. “On the Water.” I skip the higher priced Lonely Planet for an older and discounted copy of Let’s Go Amsterdam at a nearby kiosk Little changes in city life in a couple of years. But just outside it begins to hail with a fury, and the sidewalk is quickly slick with ice.
I am cold and just want to sit with my new book someplace warm. I spy a bar in the basement of a colossal building. CafeCox. I buy a cappuccino and watch the hail turn to fat, wet flakes of snow.
It’s quiet, more a function of good design than the absence of people. There are plenty who, like me, are waiting out the snow. It doesn’t stop though, so I finish my coffee and search for a proper place for dinner, this one a recommendation from the guidebook.
The place is Balo, and all it serves is Indonesian cuisine. The prices have not changed at all since the guide was published. I have my fill on a heaping plate of beef, chicken and pork. (Yes, that was “and.”)
I toss back a beer and all is well with the world.
***
“If you visit one of the women, we would like to remind you, they are not always women.” (On the Red Light District, Gouden Gid’s Visitors Guide to Amsterdam 2006, p137.)
I am sitting on a stool in a kebab take away that is just too bright for the dark streets beyond. I am nursing another cappuccino and thinking it through.
Directly across the street is a ticket outlet for the Casa Rosso, a homegrown Amsterdam establishment known for delivering the “classiest” live sex show in town. I had read about it in the Let’s Go book, and decided it was a must see. Or a maybe see. Or maybe a don’t see. Hence the cappuccino and more thinking.
To get there, I first stop at the Prostitution Information Center. The Saturday before my arrival, they had coordinated the first ever Open House of the Red Light District. It’s election season, and the prostitutes are defending their turf against conservative political elements (who are no doubt among their best customers). The public response was absolutely overwhelming. About the Casa Rosso, the Amsterdam Weekly reported “By mid-afternoon, the hourly ‘dry-fuck shows,’ with partially dressed performers, had to be increased to every half hour in order to accommodate the long queues.”
Unfortunately, the PIC is closed for a private tour group when I arrive so I miss the chance to buy their pamphlet on the best spots.
Instead, I wander among the alleys. The canal views are still there, and even a large cathedral with a bell that sounds out the time. But ringing the cathedral are red-lit windows with the stuff of fantasy. Blond. Brunette. Slender with flat bellies. Round with thick thighs. White. Black. Asian. There are bikinis, thongs, heels and bare feet. But they are also real. On their cell phones. Brushing something from their outfits. Laughing into doorways to their friends.
But now I am nursing a cappuccino. Is it worth it to pay, I wonder. It’s a show after all, and the things that I like about sex—our fleshy shapes, our honest moans, the ouches of a too sharp bite or a sudden tug—will be something too choreographed.
At least that’s what I presume.
But I don’t want to presume.
I finish the coffee, settle the bill and cross the canal to the kiosk. The man who sells my ticket is the one who had drawn me back. I had passed plenty of places along the way, but I like him most. Middle Eastern and a big guy. But his good humor and sincere “I’ve seen it all” way makes him almost huggable in a teddy bear kind of way. I consider it a bizarre, but good sign.
He hands me my receipt and says, Have a good time.
The Casa Rosso is a small theatre. Most of the people there are men, Japanese, Chinese and Korean from what I can see in the near dark. But there are two couples. I am the only single woman.
I walk in just after Nicole has started her set. It’s just her, and she’s in some latex outfit. She doesn’t look aroused, she looks bored. And her eyes are not resting with the crowd but somewhere above our heads to the back. Maybe she’s concentrating on her cuing. The dance number reminds me of something from a cheerleader’s tryout. She slaps the pole with her whip. Strips.
The next act arrives in a nun’s habit from behind me. Her partner is on the stage and standing with legs planted apart under a black shroud. She climbs the stage to the figure, and strips out of her habit into a black latex bikini.
I guess this is someone’s fantasy.
Then she undresses the shrouded figure. Like her, he’s blond and long-haired. It’s not long before they are both naked, and she’s got him in her mouth. He’s semi-erect, no doubt from already having been at this for hours, if not days. She has a metal ring through her labia.
Yes, I am watching that closely.
But, again, they are bored with us. They are talking to each other, and I can see that they have the easy nature of people who have worked together long and well. The act is over when the music ends and the announcer asks for applause. We’re a generous audience, so we clap appreciatively. They wave, a bit self-consciously, before the curtain draws.
I won’t give you the, er, blow by blow of each act. But I will confess to dancing with Nicole on stage (they were asking for volunteers from the audience, and she asked me directly… twice…while dancing next to me in this really skimpy costume). It’s all a blur, but there was a guy in an ape costume, his hands cupping my breasts and then me eating a banana from Nicole’s raised and spread legs.
I did take a bow before taking my seat again. I do remember that distinctly.
But the rest was what you imagine a live sex show to be. A choreographed show. With naked people. Penises. Vulvas. Boy on girl. Girl on girl. (The latter gave one of our audience members a rise and the guy with the flashlight—there’s always a guy with a flashlight—had to tell him to put it away.) Lots of tongue. Lots of pounding.
Ohmygod. Someone ask me about the brother with the large… Or about the woman with the candle... Her kegels...
I left happy.
Bouncing.
Wednesday, March 01, 2006
A speck of dust on a canvas of stars.
The knock on my door came at 8:30 a.m. as promised. But I am groggy from a restless night’s sleep that includes dreaming of someone else wearing my favorite patchwork socks.
They deliver breakfast to your door at the Bema. Early. Nothing fancy: a boiled egg, a slice of meat, a slice of cheese, toast, jam, juice and coffee. The coffee is God-awful (no, really), but I drink it anyway, munch slowly on the rest, and blog.
I take my time. My knees ache from the previous days roaming, as my clogs have well-worn heels. I think about getting some shopping in.
By the time I finish the blog, shower and pack up, it’s approaching 1 o’clock. It was snowing when I woke, turned to rain while I typed and is now hail. I ditch the idea of returning to Gambrinus, and duck into an equally charming French café. At least, I think it is French. I walk through its entry of heavy burgundy drapes and am taken by the chalkboard menu and the multi-level seating. It’s quiet. There’s a couple enjoying lunch in the front window, and a man sitting alone and watching the hail fall from the side windows. I climb to a third floor perch and settle in for a while.
I have a Portuguese fish soup in a clear and lightly seasoned broth. It is served with some of the best bread I’ve had in Europe. Dark long slices with a hearty, crunchy crust.
Hm. Not French.
I’m reading and occasionally speaking to the café’s cat. He loves me…or my bowl of fish soup. The slut. He wanders among the legs of the table, rubs his back against my bag (and makes a gift of his hair) and refuses to leave me until I stroke him appreciatively.
I take care to wash my hands later, but I’ll eventually rub my eyes and…
Damn allergies.
I decide that I’ll do just one touristy thing each day. Today: Jordaan. It’s a neighborhood of Amsterdam known for its small shops tucked into its small, winding alleys. I’ve forgotten my camera again, but the weather makes it just as well. I am simply walking again, admiring the views, window shopping…
…and fighting my own moodiness. I’m on vacation, but the bigger questions about The Future trouble my calm. Graduate school? Germany?
I push them aside and find a place for tea and more quiet reading. It’s a hip coffeebar downtown with a large window onto the street. It’s the end of the workday now and the commuters are streaming by on their bikes. There are more everyday cyclists here than in Berlin, and its amazing to see. There’s actually cycling “traffic” so the distinct car- and pedestrian-free lanes are crowded. It’s a joy.
It’s too late to find new shoes, and my left knee aches enough that I decide to call it an early night. I hop a tram back to my neighborhood, and find a relatively cheap takeaway serving the usual.
Wait, do I spy ribs?
mmmmm
I am complimenting the owner on the meal and paying the bill when he asks me where I am from. America? He claps and exclaims with joy.
He’s a Kurd, and formerly of Iraq.
The Future? Complicated.
They deliver breakfast to your door at the Bema. Early. Nothing fancy: a boiled egg, a slice of meat, a slice of cheese, toast, jam, juice and coffee. The coffee is God-awful (no, really), but I drink it anyway, munch slowly on the rest, and blog.
I take my time. My knees ache from the previous days roaming, as my clogs have well-worn heels. I think about getting some shopping in.
By the time I finish the blog, shower and pack up, it’s approaching 1 o’clock. It was snowing when I woke, turned to rain while I typed and is now hail. I ditch the idea of returning to Gambrinus, and duck into an equally charming French café. At least, I think it is French. I walk through its entry of heavy burgundy drapes and am taken by the chalkboard menu and the multi-level seating. It’s quiet. There’s a couple enjoying lunch in the front window, and a man sitting alone and watching the hail fall from the side windows. I climb to a third floor perch and settle in for a while.
I have a Portuguese fish soup in a clear and lightly seasoned broth. It is served with some of the best bread I’ve had in Europe. Dark long slices with a hearty, crunchy crust.
Hm. Not French.
I’m reading and occasionally speaking to the café’s cat. He loves me…or my bowl of fish soup. The slut. He wanders among the legs of the table, rubs his back against my bag (and makes a gift of his hair) and refuses to leave me until I stroke him appreciatively.
I take care to wash my hands later, but I’ll eventually rub my eyes and…
Damn allergies.
I decide that I’ll do just one touristy thing each day. Today: Jordaan. It’s a neighborhood of Amsterdam known for its small shops tucked into its small, winding alleys. I’ve forgotten my camera again, but the weather makes it just as well. I am simply walking again, admiring the views, window shopping…
…and fighting my own moodiness. I’m on vacation, but the bigger questions about The Future trouble my calm. Graduate school? Germany?
I push them aside and find a place for tea and more quiet reading. It’s a hip coffeebar downtown with a large window onto the street. It’s the end of the workday now and the commuters are streaming by on their bikes. There are more everyday cyclists here than in Berlin, and its amazing to see. There’s actually cycling “traffic” so the distinct car- and pedestrian-free lanes are crowded. It’s a joy.
It’s too late to find new shoes, and my left knee aches enough that I decide to call it an early night. I hop a tram back to my neighborhood, and find a relatively cheap takeaway serving the usual.
Wait, do I spy ribs?
mmmmm
I am complimenting the owner on the meal and paying the bill when he asks me where I am from. America? He claps and exclaims with joy.
He’s a Kurd, and formerly of Iraq.
The Future? Complicated.
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