I rode my bike to Stedelijk half past eleven. I arrived well before noon and waited for Che outside, leaning against my bike smoking a cigarette. The day was cloudy and cold. The wind had no bite; at least there was that. I watched thin crowds moving, some in and out of the museum, some passing on their way to the Van Gogh, and throughout Museumplein. I checked my watch every now and then. Noon, 12:10, 12:15, 12:20. Fuck, she wasn’t going to show. I waited longer, sitting down on the pavement next to my bike. I was on my third cigarette when Che arrived.
“Sorry I'm late. Were you waiting long?” I looked up and held out my hand. She grabbed hold of it and pulled me up. I rubbed my hands against the ass of my jeans to wipe off dirt. “Half hour, I guess.” Che blinked, a bit surprised. “What time is it?” I looked at my watch. “It’s almost 12:30.” She shook her head and put her hand to her mouth. “I’m really sorry I didn’t get here earlier. I didn't realize I was that late. Um, I have to go. I swung by to let you know." I sighed and limply held out my hands. "I wasn't sure you were going to come at all, but ... you have got to be kidding me." Che grimaced. "I know, I know. Look how about meeting me here at 6:30? I promise I will be here.” What? “What's going on?” Che sighed, “It’s complicated, but not serious. I forgot I had this thing this afternoon. We can go out to eat tonight. Sound good?” Che smiled and more convincingly said, “I promise I will be here and we will have a good time.” I shook my head, but smiled. What choice did I have? “Okay, colorful one. I'll see you later.” Che's muscles relaxed and she kissed me on the cheek before waving and running off. She was wearing the same clothing as the day before except her leggings were black instead of pink.
Shit. Well … shit. I rode home, dejected, but at least Che showed up and we had plans later. I trusted that she would keep her word since she did bother to come and apologize. I made soup and a sandwich, had a puff of Super Silver, and indexed most of the afternoon. I showered and dressed late afternoon then left on my bicycle around six. I cycled back to Stedelijk with my light on—it was dark—and saw Che waiting for me when I arrived. I stopped next to her and said, mockingly, “You’re early.” Che waved her hand. “I know, I’m sorry about earlier today. I just forgot about my meeting yesterday.” I waved my hand and said, earnestly, “I’m glad you showed up and told me. That was cool of you. I almost left, though. I’m glad I didn’t.” Che smiled. “Me, too.”
“Ready to go? You can ride me, right?” Ride her? No, no, Michael, no jokes. I had never cycled with anyone on a bike except on handlebars when I was young. I mounted my bike, smiled inside, and waited for her to hop on side-saddle. I waited, but Che didn’t sit on the bike. I looked back. “Are you getting on or not?” She said, “Yeah, as soon as you start pedaling.” Oh. “Really?” She looked at me, broke into a smile, and shook her head. “You are such an American.” I grimaced. “That’s just mean, woman.” I turned back and slowly started pedaling. I felt a sudden jolt, swerved back and forth, but kept accelerating and steadied the bike. “Well done, tourist.” Without turning my head I said, “Fuck you. Where are were going?” Che said, “Turn right on Van Baerlestraat then west into Vondel Park.
I turned right and pedaled aside heavy traffic with Che seemingly invisible on the back. I was surprised how much easier it was than I thought it would be. It was fun. I cycled several blocks and followed Che’s directions into Vondel Park—the traffic was heavy. Che told me to cycle along the north-side paths as we would be exiting the park that direction. The park was lovely even at night. I loved biking through Vondel Park. I had rented bikes on previous trips to cycle through the park and along the canals. Those ventures were during a warmer, sunnier time of year. September in Amsterdam … paradise.
As I cycled, I mentioned to Che I had done some research about autonomism and social anarchy. I told her they fit my values more than any other political philosophies I had ever read. Che said, “Good. Can you keep the bike steady, though?” Oh. “Yeah, sorry.” Che told me to turn right after I had biked nearly half the length of the park. I took the short path to the street, Overtoom, and Che told me to turn right. I cycled less than half a block before she told me to stop. She hopped off and I looked for a space to lock my bike. Che motioned me to follow her inside a building. She said, “OT301.” I didn’t know what that meant, but okay. Once inside, we took the first door left and walked into a restaurant. Che said, “This is De Peper. It’s a volunteer collective. All organic, all vegan.” I said, “That’s incredible. Great idea.” Che smiled. “Wait until you taste the food. Then you will really thank me.” Che paused then said, “It’s a set menu. They ask for donations, but the basic idea is that, well, those who have more pay more to help those who have less. It’s just a recommendation, but it's your choice.” I nodded and grabbed my wallet. What a wonderful practice, yet another consistent with my principles. I couldn’t believe this place even existed. I grabbed a fifty Euro bill. Che’s eyes widened. She whispered, “Damn, Michael, that’s generous. A donation like that really helps others afford to eat.” I wished I had more cash on me. This was a project I wanted to support wholeheartedly.
Che approached a person working and said hello. They clearly knew one another. Che turned to me and said, “This is Michael. He’s a sympathetic American.” The person acting as host or server—I wasn’t sure—smiled graciously and introduced himself as Andries. I handed him the bill. He looked at Che then back to me, “Thank you. That’s a real gift.” Such gratitude. I felt humbled. “I’m just learning about this movement, philosophy, practice, and I think it’s amazing. I feel fortunate to be here, to witness something I never thought could exist in this world.” Andries smiled and grabbed my arm. “That’s wonderful." He looked around, smiled, and held out his arms. "We exist. You can pick up your starters at the counter.”
Che and I walked to the kitchen counter, grabbed our plates, water, silverware, and found a table. I took a bite and just about died. I tried to keep my voice down, but I said, “Oh my god, this is incredible!” Che laughed and motioned with her hand to keep it down. The place wasn’t quite packed, but there were a lot of people present. I asked Che, “So, is everyone here a squatter?” Che looked around and shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe. It’s usually squatters, activists, and artists from around Amsterdam, but there are travelers from all over who squat, even traveling artists and activists who visit. There are a lot of squatters locally who don’t have kitchens or money for food. This project is part of a much larger community and everyone tries to do their part to support one another. That is the ethic and it’s critical for the continuation and growth of the community.”
Che continued, “This is De Peper, the restaurant, but OT301, the building we’re inside, is an artists’ live/work space. There are studios for film, dance, music, theater, and other art forms. Artists create here and there are performances, too. Workshops are offered and there’s a bookstore. Everyone living here and visiting here contributes in some way. This is far from being the only space doing things like this, believe me.” I interrupted Che—not purposefully, just out of a sense of incredulous awe. “You’re kidding? That’s amazing. So there are other spaces throughout the city doing similar things?” Che shook her head and said, “Yes, and other things besides. The group living here is diverse, not just Dutch. It’s international. They are involved in the overall Amsterdam autonomist/anarchist community. This place has more stability than most squats because the group managed to buy the building last year. It is weird, but given the current political climate it was a smart move.”
“What is the current political climate?” Che took another bite of food and I remembered I was eating, too. She wiped her mouth with a cloth napkin and said, “There is pressure to limit squatting and even to ban it. It looks like Amsterdam will pass legislation to allow owners to occupy an empty property for just a day--which is absurd--to keep it from becoming legally available to squatters.” I stopped Che. “Hold on. I’m a little confused. What do you mean, an owner occupying an empty property?” Che leaned back in her chair and shook her head, an open-mouthed smile matching her laughing eyes. She was obviously amused by my ignorance. “Wow, you really don’t know anything about what’s going on, do you?” I said, “No!” I put up my hands and whispered, “Sorry, I’ll keep it down.”
Andries walked over to us. I thought he might chide me for being loud, but he merely mentioned that the main course was ready. Che and I finished our starters then I followed Che back to the kitchen counter to pick up our entrees. I took a bite when we sat down and said, again, “Oh my god. Who are the chefs here? They’re unbelievable. And the ingredients.” I put my fingers to my lips and popped them out as I said, “Mwah.” Che grinned. “I know. Delicious.” I said, “Wow, people are stupid if they think the quality of life would diminish without capitalism. I think it’s the opposite.” Che nodded her head and took another bite. I took a drink of water and continued eating.
“Che?” She looked at me expectantly. “Earlier you were going to tell me about owners occupying their own property to keep squatters out.” She nodded her head and put down her fork. “Yes. Okay, in the early '70s squatting was legalized in The Netherlands, but in the mid-90s a new law passed making it illegal to squat in a property that was empty for less than a year. People adjusted, but now there is a threat to allow owners to have anyone occupy a property on the 364th day after it had been empty and the government will give the owner another year to find occupants.” Che became more passionate, “The squatting movement started because owners were sitting on properties to raise the price for the buildings, whether for sale or rent. There were housing shortages so people squatted illegally. When squatting became legal that changed things—for the better. Owners stopped sitting on their properties to drive up prices that were out of reach for regular people. But then the law in the mid-90s changed that and this new law will make it even worse. But that’s not the end of it. There is a wave coming to ban squatting altogether.”
I was eating while Che was talking, engrossed by this story. I wiped my mouth and put down my fork. I was pissed. “That's bullshit. I can't believe Amsterdam would do that. On the other hand, I’m not entirely surprised. When I first visited in 1998, this place was different. It was before the European Union formed, the guilder was still the currency, and American dollars were worth twice as much. The place felt different then, not nearly as wealthy. Amsterdam seemed behind the times technologically and otherwise then. Now? Shit, it puts American cities to shame. It’s noticeable how much more money is here now and how much more 'corporate' and 'hipster' the place has become. You know, I was worried when the EU formed. I wondered if the countries would lose their autonomy, their sovereignty, if they’d get sucked much, much further into globalization and other bullshit with less of a say. I was really surprised Holland voted for the EU.”
Che plopped her fork down and finished chewing. She looked just as intense as I felt. “It was contentious. You were right to be concerned. The EU is not good for squatters, for autonomous communities. Why would it be? It’s an arm of business posing as a governmental body. All governmental institutions have that flaw. The EU is simply another layer on top of The Netherlands government. Power dynamics, robbing us of voices, destroying the environment, marginalizing us, squeezing us out of meaningful decision making.” I interjected, “So, is it the EU that’s behind these threats?” Che shrugged. “Maybe, but the momentum is here. The country is not Amsterdam. There are a lot of conservatives all over Holland, especially in smaller towns and rural areas. Racism, homophobia, hatred of immigrants.” Che looked at me a little funny. “That surprises you, doesn't it? It’s true, though. Compared to the United States? It is not as bad. But you were right when you said things have changed since the '90s. The Netherlands is more conservative now, more corporate, too. There is pressure to eliminate our culture. I am not militant. I haven't had to be. As a culture we haven’t had to be. We had decades of license for squatting and some other autonomous rights. There was some upheaval in the '80s, though, but the autonomous communities in Amsterdam and around The Netherlands? We have been 'fat and happy,' so to speak. That will likely change soon. We are waging a losing battle right now. There is a lot of activity, though, to try to garner the support we need. I don't know what will happen yet.”
I considered her words as I ate. This was certainly a way of life I didn’t want to see die; hell, I had just discovered it. I could understand being willing to fight for its survival. I didn’t like the prospects, though. If the state and business interests wanted to shut down squatters and quash autonomists, they would do it by all means necessary. Being under the umbrella of the EU didn’t help matters at all.
I looked at Che as she was eating. Her sandy blonde hair was peeking out of her orange winter hat just as it had yesterday when I first walked alongside her. That button nose of hers was delicately cute and those lips, moist from the food and drink, were vibrantly pink, naturally pink. I noticed her eye color for the first time. Hazel, but more gray-blue than green or brown. She had a tiny dimple on her chin; I hadn’t noticed that before. She had taken off her green parka and wore a long sleeve thin sweater with wide horizontal burgundy and violet stripes. It hugged tightly against her body. She had smallish breasts, but she was athletic. She was attractive, cute, pretty, and yet I hadn’t thought of her sexually even once. I didn’t know why, but I wondered if it was because I was so jazzed about autonomism, squatting, the history and details. She was smart, funny, and incredibly knowledgeable. In all ways she was wonderful.
We continued eating in relative silence for a little while. I remembered when I first met my ex. I hadn’t been immediately sexually attracted to her, either. What attracted me was her intellect, her sense of humor, and her passions for literature, art, and politics. I was physically attracted to her, but it was in balance with the fullness of her being. S.’s politics were liberal, but much more conservative than mine. By the time we split, her politics and personal views had changed so much that I was disgusted by her. I couldn’t even believe she was the same woman I had met thirteen years earlier.
Che, meanwhile, was every bit my equal when it came to her political views. She put me to shame in terms of her activism in relation to her views about autonomism. I wasn't as knowledgeable, I hadn't been exposed to such ideas, and there certainly wasn't anything in the United States that was like the communities here in Amsterdam and around Europe. But now, with Che and I eating and only lightly talking, I noticed more of her physical quirkiness and subtle sensuality. But this was a rare case where my mind overruled my heart. I wanted to know more about the local squatting situation. I broke the silence and asked Che, “What would it take for me to become a squatter in Amsterdam?” Che looked up at me, surprise on her face. She said, “Are you serious?” I shrugged my shoulders and said, “I don’t know. I’m curious, though. I mean, the more I learn the more attractive this life is to me.” I thought for a moment and expressed an anxiety. “There’s a part of me that feels like I’m not worthy of being accepted. Maybe that’s just it—I never knew about this, I never even dreamed it existed in this way. I knew squatting existed, but my perceptions didn't match the reality. I have been politically jaded for so long that I had pretty much given up hope that anything good could ever happen again. Eight years under the Bush administration, believe me. I knew things were better in Europe, but this? I had no idea.”
Che smiled. “You are so different than the person I first met yesterday. I never would have guessed. You are full of surprises—in a good way.” Che laughed, "I still can't believe you walked alongside me the way you did. You were funny. I kept wanting you to go away, but you won me over. You were so weird!" Che laughed again then took the last bite of her entrée before saying, “If you wanted to become a squatter, you would meet with more experienced squatters to help you out. You could squat on your own without being part of the community, but, well, good luck with that. There are planning meetings and you could go to get advice and assistance. There is a huge network of autonomists, anarchists, and squatters. It is difficult to get choice squats. There's not exactly a waiting list, but ... it's like a de facto waiting list. Not really. I don't know how to describe it, but there are limited properties available. Eyes and ears are always open for properties about to become available. It will get worse if new restrictions are passed. I don’t know what’s going to happen. The point is that you would go to a kraakspreekuur—” I interrupted, “A what?” Che closed her eyes, shook her head, and said, “A consultation meeting. You would go and find out more, make connections, start getting involved in the community. The more you contribute, the more help and guidance you’ll get in return. This is an open community. We want to welcome people and help them become more involved in our communities, our way of life.”
I shook my head, smiling. “Wow, that’s awesome.” I had finished my meal as well. The restaurant had filled up and it looked like people were waiting to sit and eat. I motioned to Che and she noticed as well. We cleaned off our table and returned our dishes to the sink. I thanked the cooks for making such a delicious meal. They looked at Che then back at me and smiled. We left the restaurant and I asked Che about the rest of the building. She asked me what time it was. I looked at my watch. “It’s about 8:30.” She said, “Another time. Let’s go.”
We walked outside. The cold was bitter. Fortunately, there wasn’t much wind. We were both shivering. I said to Che, “What now?” Che said, “Well, I’m going to Berlin tomorrow so I am going home to pack and rest.” I was surprised. “Berlin?” She nodded. “Yeah, I have friends there that I am visiting. Part pleasure, part work.” Work? “What do you mean ‘work’?’” Che laughed. “Michael, this is an international community. It's not just Amsterdam, not just Holland. We have relationships with communities all over Europe, the world. So, yeah, I have work to do in Berlin, work that will help our cause in The Netherlands.” Wow. Of all the people I could have chosen to walk alongside, I chose this magnificent woman without a clue that she was as remarkable as she was. I said, “Che, I am so glad you dress so colorfully and that I woke up on the bridge yesterday. It’s strange. I feel like I’ve known you a long time and yet we met completely by chance—well, I took the leap to meet you. Still, I didn’t know who I was meeting. Thanks for not telling me to fuck off.”
Che smiled and nodded. She looked down at her feet then back up at me. “I am glad I didn’t I didn't tell you to fuck off--and that you’re attracted to bright colors!” I laughed as she continued, “Next time, though, you’re going to do the talking. I want to know how you ended up on the bridge in the first place and … more.” I said, “Deal.” I paused then said, “How long are you going to be in Berlin?” Che shrugged her shoulders. "It’s open-ended. A week, a week and a half." Hmmm … “Well, how will I, you know, get in touch with you again?” Che said, “Good question. I tell you what. Meet me here at seven o'clock, two weeks to the day. Go inside De Peper and if you don't see me ask for Che. If I something comes up and I can't make it I will leave a note for you. Okay?”
I nodded. "Sounds good. I suppose a phone number is out of the question, though." Che said, “I don’t have a phone." Che pursed her lips with a twinkle in her eye. "Don't fret. I will see you again." I felt myself blushing. “Would you like a ride home?” Che shook her head no. “That's kind of you, but I can walk.” She paused and seemed to be searching for the words. "I want to keep my address private for now. Just ... let's see what happens over time." I understood. We just met. I asked Che if she had a bike. “Yeah, I do, but I loaned it to a friend this week.” Oh. I stood there awkwardly, wondering what the hell to do. Do I kiss her, hug her, or just say bye and take off? Che resolved the issue by kissing me softly on the lips. “Thank you for a wonderful dinner.” She turned to walk away, but looked back. “And thanks for being a great guy. It is just as weird and cool to me that I met you as it is to you, you know?” A totally different smile from Che and my heart kicked my mind completely out of the way. I looked at her dreamily, possibly smiling like a drunken idiot. She giggled and waved goodbye. I waved back, watching as she turned to walk away. After several steps she turned back. I was watching her. She yelled. “Go, silly!” She turned away, laughing, as I unlocked my bike.
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