Amsterdam Forty-Two: Can't Computers Do That Now?

I didn’t shroom when I returned to my apartment, the first night without shrooms in nearly a week. Every trip had been incredible yet each trip was completely different—different insights, different experiences. The mornings after were glorious. But I took a break for no reason at all. I listened to music and began reading Haruki Murakami’s Kafka on the Shore.

I woke the next morning and laid in bed half-sleeping for an hour. I had waking dreams, drowsy fantasies. They weren’t about Che, though. They started as dreams and fantasies about Che, but each one transitioned to cartoonish endings of global capitalism. In one dream, I convinced the world’s leaders and the world’s wealthy to disband governments and corporations to promote universal solidarity. I telepathically converted sociopaths to empaths and psychopaths to peace-lovers; the greedy became generous, the slothful became motivated, and the gluttonous became disciplined. In another fantasy, corporate CEOs were forced to fight to the death against one another in giant arenas televised worldwide. The CEO of ExxonMobil ripped the head off of Wal-Mart’s CEO … then was eaten by lions in front of cheering crowds. On and on the fantasies went until I was completely awake.

I indexed morning and afternoon. Outdoors? More clouds, cold, and wind. I stopped working late afternoon to shower, shave, and dress before unlocking my bike to ride to Bloem. When I arrived, I locked my bike on the rack near the side entrance, had a cig, and went inside. Daniel was at a table conversing in Dutch with a woman who appeared to be about his age. His back was to me and her face was lively. She smiled as she talked. She looked up at me as I put my hand on Daniel’s shoulder. He looked up, surprised, and said, “Michael, hey, have a seat. This is Suzette.” He turned to Suzette and said, “Suzette, Michael.” I nodded with a smile and she waved a hand. As I sat, I said, “I hope I’m not interrupting.” Daniel and Suzette shook their heads. Daniel said, “Suzette is a grizzled veteran of the Daniel Wars. We worked together years ago.” Suzette interjected, “When we were students at the University of Amsterdam.” I was incredulous. “Am I the only who comes here who isn’t affiliated with the University of Amsterdam in some way?” Daniel: “Yes. That’s why we keep you around. You add diversity.” A few more people came through the front entrance and sat down. Daniel rose and walked to them. I looked behind me and noticed Isa was behind the bar.

“Are you American?” I said yes and Suzette asked if I worked in Amsterdam. “Well, yes, but I work from home for publishers in the U.S.” She had a shy smile that went well with her short dirty blonde hair. She was attractive. She didn’t have the stunning looks of the other women I had seen in Bloem, though. In fact, she seemed more like me; decent-looking in most environments that were not Amsterdam. In Amsterdam, I supposed we would be considered ugly. I had no idea, really. I thought she was cute; of course, I seemed to be attracted to every woman on the planet.

Suzette was dressed professionally: business skirt, short heels, and a tan shirt/blouse/something—what the fuck do women call shirts that aren’t blouses or sweaters? “Shirts”?—beneath a dark woman’s blazer. I was dressed in urban walking shoes, jeans, and a black t-shirt; pretty similar to Daniel, I noticed, although he was wearing a stylish black sweater. I had put my coat on the back of my seat.

“Publishing? Are you a writer, an editor?” I shook my head. “I’m an indexer.” The typical response followed. “What’s an ‘indexer’?” Sigh. I had told this story 1,756, 437 times. I needed to type a few paragraphs explaining indexing, print a dozen copies, laminate them, and carry at least one around with me in my coat pocket at all times so I could hand one to each person who asked the question. “Okay, let’s see how to best explain this. You know when you’re reading a textbook, a trade book, or a reference book for research and you want to find the page such-and-such a name or concept is located? You go to the back of the book and look in the index for the word or words you want to find in the text, right? Well, I create those indexes.”

“Really? That’s a real job? I always thought the author or editors made them.” Oh, Jesus. Another response I typically heard. “Yes, it really is a job. I’ve been doing it for thirteen years now and the publishers keep paying me so …” Suzette leaned back in her chair and folded her arms. She looked at me skeptically. “Can’t computers do that now?” I hung my head and slowly shook it from side to side. I sighed loudly, over and over. Dear fucking fuck, she was parroting the worst of every conversation I'd had about indexing. I looked up at her and simply stared. Suzette was silently laughing. She said, “Okay, I’m sorry. I’m not sure what I said, but obviously I sound ridiculous.”

I leaned forward and took a breath, almost playing with my body language, exaggerating it. “You don’t sound ridiculous. You sound like nearly every other person I’ve talked with who knows nothing about indexing. It’s not your fault.” I dramatically raised the pitch of my voice, “It’s no one’s fault. It’s funny really, like I’m trapped in a surreal talkscape answering the same questions over and over again. In a way, it’s fascinating. I mean, people from all walks of life, from all educational backgrounds, from every ethnicity and religious belief system, from all income levels, from every imaginable career field or work background, from nearly every geographic location, and even every slice of sexual orientation, all of them, nearly every last one of them, has the same set of questions. I don’t know what this means, but there must be something there, something about how human brains work because the questions are always the same!”

I paused for a few seconds while Suzette threw her head back laughing. “You know, I should submit a grant proposal to do research on this. I’ve already encountered a scientific sample size, you know?” Suzette composed herself, but couldn’t get the wide grin off her face. I said, “Okay, to answer your question, no, computers can’t do the work. Everyone seems to think computers can do absolutely anything. I don’t know where people got that idea. I’ve tried spoken language software and it sucks. I can type five times faster than it takes to enunciate the words well enough for the software to understand. I thought it would be great for indexing, but I index books used for graduate level education in fields across the academic spectrum. Spoken language software is useless because it has only the tiniest fraction of the vocabulary I need to index any given book.”

I took a deep breath. I was getting deeper into a rant. I looked at Suzette and her eyes were glazing over. “Sorry for going off on a tangent. No, computers are useful for making compendiums, but indexing requires complex contextual and relational thinking that computers aren’t even remotely capable of performing. Consider this: A given human brain has about 86 billion neurons and each of those neurons is connected directly to possibly 10,000 other neurons and, indirectly, to every other neuron. Each second there are approximately one thousand trillion synaptic connections between neurons but each second the connections differ in configuration between various neurons. There isn't a computer in the world that is even remotely as complex as the human brain. Computers have more in common with rocks when it comes to flexible processing capacity, diversity, and creativity.”

I asked Suzette what type of work she performed. “I work as an interpreter at the International War Crimes Tribunal in Den Haag. I translate in Dutch, English, and Russian.” I was impressed. “Wow, that’s intense.” I paused for dramatic effect then looked at her with the utmost seriousness. “Can’t computers do that now?” Suzette punched me in the arm. “Touché.”

We smilingly quieted down. Daniel came over and apologized for not asking me if I wanted anything. “I got caught up with other customers and a problem in the kitchen. I forgot you probably came here for food or drinks.” I looked up at Daniel and told him, “I might have to fire you, man. What’s the special tonight?” Daniel said, “Chicken satay.” A Dutch staple. “Sounds good. Could I have a glass of house red as well?” Daniel bowed slightly. “If you insist.” He looked at Suzette and said, “Hey, I’m sorry I haven’t had much time to talk. Fleur is coming in soon so I might have a little more breathing room.” Suzette waved her hand. “That’s okay. Michael’s keeping me entertained.” A devilish grin. “Yeah, yeah, that’s what I’ve been doing. I think we’ve exhausted the topic of computers, though, so I’m not sure what we’ll talk about now.” Daniel looked confused and Suzette lowered her head to one hand. “Don’t ask, Daniel.” He shrugged and walked behind the bar.

As Daniel brought my wine, Suzette said, “The reason I stopped to see Daniel was because my boyfriend and I were chosen for a basement apartment on Reguliersgracht. We had been on a waiting list for ten years.” I said, “Whoa, that’s great news. Congratulations! Reguliersgracht, damn, that may be the most romantic street and canal in Amsterdam.” Suzette beamed. “I know! I still can’t believe it.” I didn’t know anything about waiting lists so I asked her. “Most rental apartments in Amsterdam’s center are rent-controlled rather than market-priced so the waiting lists are long. The odds of landing an apartment in a choice location like ours? It never happens! No one gives up those apartments once they get them. I will be living in that apartment until I die. Guaranteed.” Hmmm. I wondered, though, since she mentioned she and her boyfriend were awarded the apartment. Each of them or one of them rather than the other? Now that was an incentive to make a relationship work.

“I think you should go to the casino tonight. Keep rolling the dice until you hit craps.” She shook her head. “Nope. I’m celebrating here then going back to my new apartment to hang out with my man.” I smiled and said, “Right on.” I loved seeing good people receiving good fortune. Daniel brought my meal and a glass of water then sat down with us. Fleur arrived and was working with Isa now. “Ah, feels good to sit down. So, did you tell Michael your news?” Suzette smiled dreamily. “Yes, I just mentioned it.” Daniel and Suzette continued to talk as I ate and drank wine. Their conversation drifted from the apartment to their days working together long ago. Isa came to ask if I needed another glass of wine. I nodded and thanked him.

The satay was delicious. When I finished, I motioned to Daniel to see if he wanted to join me for a cigarette outside. He nodded and I put on my coat. Suzette came with us. After I stepped outside and lit up, I said to Suzette, “I didn’t know interpreters were allowed to smoke.” She blew smoke in my face and I decided no more teasing Suzette. Daniel said, “You’re in a good mood tonight, Michael.” I shrugged. “What’s my mood usually like?” Daniel tilted his head and looked up. “Well … I don’t know. You seem different, though. More playful.” Daniel looked at me and shook his head while smiling. “You seem more at home, more relaxed.” He shook the fingers holding his cigarette at me. “More confident.” I nodded. “I guess so. I hadn’t noticed.” Daniel widened his eyes and emphatically nodded his head. “Exactly! You’re less self-conscious. Not that you were overly self-conscious, but you're at peace with yourself tonight.”

I didn’t know how to respond. I hadn’t thought about it, really. The past week had been a whirlwind. I had only been back in Amsterdam a little over a week, but it felt like three months. The shrooms. Boldly shrooming night after night, facing whatever came, not backing down, squashing fears and anxieties, acting not so much impulsively but as if the consequences of my actions weren’t so serious or frightful. Winding up on the street after shrooming, not remembering how I got there, and then nonchalantly walking and talking with Che instead of running back to my apartment out of fright?

The thing was … none of it seemed significant to me. So? Why would that be of consequence? This was a new attitude, I realized. I couldn’t access who I had been a week earlier. I remembered the events, flying to Amsterdam, accidentally attending Anabel’s party, being invited to dinner with her family, but who I was during those experiences? I couldn’t remember how I was or how I thought or what I felt. Not specifically. The experiences were from someone else’s life. I felt more like who I had once been … but better than I had ever been. I was stronger, wiser. The confidence from my youth hadn’t yet faced the heartbreaks and losses, the severity of depression, or the crippling social anxiety. I felt none of those things now; until Daniel spoke, I had forgotten I had ever experienced them. It was just one week, yes, but it was not like any other week I had previously experienced. There were no reference points. How radically I might change over the next few months? I might not recognize myself--or recognize who I had been.

As we puffed our cigarettes in silence, I wondered about Daniel’s powers of observation. This wasn’t the first time he had shared astute insights. He hadn’t been making a judgment about me one way or the other, either how I had previously been or how I was now. His nonjudgmental attitude allowed him to be acutely observant. Judgments diminished observational acuity; to see clearly an unimpeded view was necessary. Judgments were clouded lenses distorting what was as it was. I thought again as I had in the past: Nonjudgmentalness was a vastly underrated virtue. I was finally realizing that self-judgment is as much of a problem as external judgment. I hadn’t been viewing my actions or thoughts with any judgment the past week. I had been observant in the way that seemed to come so naturally to Daniel. Without realizing it, I had been learning through observation and inquiry … for no conscious purpose at all. I had been enjoying life and the primary practices creating my enjoyment were watching, listening, asking questions, and sharing observations. There was no room for anxiety or depression, no room for self-doubt or shame.

Daniel and Suzette had gone inside as I smoked a second cigarette while thinking. I found my thoughts and discoveries interesting, but I shrugged my shoulders. “Eh, okay. I’m losing interest.” I went back inside to have more wine and merriment.

When I returned inside, Suzette was sitting at the end of the bar next to the sink. Daniel was cleaning glasses and talking with her. Isa was behind the bar pouring drinks and Fleur was serving a larger group of people, all men, who had apparently entered through the front while I was having a smoke. I sat next to Suzette at the bar and ordered a bottle of wine. “To celebrate your good fortune.” Dnaiel said, “That’s a great idea,” and walked down the bar to grab a bottle of cabernet. He poured a glass each for Suzette and I then worked on the orders from the men in the front of the bar. They were mostly standing, but some were seated in the small lounge on the right side of the front entrance. I looked back now and then as Suzette and I talked. Bloem continued to fill with more people. Daniel, Isa, and Fleur were swamped and Dorlan, the Turkish chef, was likely frantic in the kitchen. Apparently, this was an unexpected crowd. Sunday nights had been fairly relaxed when I visited previously.

While on our second glass, the wine bottle empty, a well-dressed mid-thirties drunk from the group of men walked by slurring something in Dutch. Suzette scoffed as the man made his way to the WC. “What did he say?” Suzette unpleasantly shook her head. “It’s not worth repeating. He’s just an ass.” We went on talking and when the guy walked back he once again said something in Dutch then English, “Oh, that’s right, you’re an American so you didn’t understand that.” Then he said something in Dutch again and gave me a disdainful look. Suzette bit back hard at him in Dutch. I figured he had said something derogatory about me or about Americans, but I brushed it off. A drunk Dutchman who didn’t like foreigners. Che had given me the heads-up about folks like him the previous day. I chuckled to myself as I thought, “Maybe not knowing Dutch isn’t such a bad thing after all.” Meanwhile, Daniel went over and talked with him. I wouldn’t have noticed had Suzette not pointed it out. I looked behind me and as Daniel spoke the man put up his arms as if to say “I didn’t mean anything by it!” Daniel left him and then went about his business. The drunk guy came by and slurred, in English, “Sorry if I offended you. I’m just a drunk asshole. Have a good evening.” With that, he left.

Suzette and I shared another bottle of wine while the crowd settled down and began to disperse. Fleur and Isa began cleaning up tables. Daniel was doing dishes in the sink talking with us. I asked Daniel what he had said to the drunk guy. Daniel kept cleaning dishes and, without looking up, he casually said, “I told him if he couldn’t be civil then he could leave. Some of the Dutch aren’t happy with the proliferation of English being spoken throughout the country. You wouldn’t have guessed it from looking at him, but he was ‘Traditional Dutch.’” I asked what that meant. Suzette said. “He’s a conservative.” Before I could say anything else, Daniel said “’Conservative’ is code for anti-immigrant bigots.”

Suzette chimed in, “They’ve always been here and it’s worse in the rural areas. It’s been especially bad ever since the assassination of Theo Van Gogh.” Theo, the great-grandson of Vincent Van Gogh and a controversial filmmaker, had been gunned down by a young second-generation Moroccan Muslim who had become a radical while attending university. Van Gogh had made an 11-minute film depicting passages from the Koran on the bodies of naked women. The film, of course, set off a firestorm of debate about free speech, tolerance, and respect. Theo had been walking down the street not long after the short film was released—he had no bodyguard and lived in the city as anyone else, going to and from places as any other local would—and the Moroccan youth shot and killed him in the mid-2000s.

Daniel continued cleaning along with Fleur and Isa. I asked if I could help at all. Suzette asked as well. Daniel said “Yes, drink more!” It was a good, and necessary, laugh. Suzette finished her glass and walked over to Daniel to give him a hug. Then she came to me and kissed me on each cheek. "It was a pleasure talking with you." I said, “I had a great time. Hopefully I’ll see you again some time.” Suzette responded, “I hope so, too. You’re going to be in the city for a few months, right?” I said. “Yeah, more or less.” She smiled as she waved goodbye.

Daniel, Isa, and Fleur continued cleaning. Most of the hard work was finished, but I grabbed some glasses from a couple tables and brought them to the sink. Daniel looked at me as if to say, “Michael, stop it.” Instead, I kept at it. Daniel poured a round of beers and we joked around as we finished up. Fleur left and Daniel thanked her for working on short notice. She waved a goodbye to Isa and I. Daniel and Isa were getting down to the nitty-gritty work behind the bar. I sat and drank my beer, conversing with both of them about nothing in particular.

I had a strong buzz and I looked about the bar. It was clean and orderly once again. I looked up and noticed for the first time that there was an upstairs. There was an opening in the center of the ceiling and there was a see-through grated iron floor around the outer edges of the downstairs café. I asked Daniel if I could go upstairs to check it out. He said sure and laughed. “You didn’t know it was there?” I said, “I had no idea. I wondered where you went sometimes when you headed back that way. I figured you were walking to the kitchen or the WC.” He shook his head. “No, some customers prefer the upstairs. Check it out.”

I walked up the tight spiral staircase. It had a completely different feel than the downstairs café. Lots of windows, more sources of outdoor light. There was a room with a long table over the top of the kitchen. The floor was wooden in that section. It was completely out of view from downstairs. I imagined it was used for private parties or large dining groups. The other space was essentially a “U” of tables on raised wood floors around the grated iron floor that served as a walkway. I loved the railing. I took a look at the tables next to the window looking out over the canal and thought, “Wow, that would be a great spot to work.” The view was wonderful and I noticed it was possible to see over the wall of the zoo. I didn’t see any animals; the trees were too high and I didn’t know the layout inside, anyway. Still, a great place to index, write, waste time. There were also windows next to the tables on the long side wall, similar to the dynamic on the first floor.

When I went downstairs I mentioned how great it would be to work up there. Daniel said, “Oh, yeah. A lot of people use their laptops up there. Students, workers, neighbors.” He looked over at me and laughed. “Sometimes, even vagabonds like you.” Smiles. “I prefer 'wayfarer'.” Daniel objected. "Yeah, but you're not on foot any more; you have a bike." I said, "You're killing me here. Let's go with wanderer. That work?" Daniel just smiled. I paid my tab, grabbed my coat and bag, and waved goodbye. I unlocked my bike and rode home, buzzed and happy.