What a mind fuck. I didn’t sleep well. I smoked the rest of my dope when I got back home, but it only marginally helped ease the pain and confusion. After showering and eating breakfast, I stared at the screen of my laptop. I was working on two indexes simultaneously, one on psychology and the other, ugh, marketing. I knew I could finish the marketing textbook in less than a day’s work so I went with it even though I knew the content would upset me. My day started ruined so I figured it was a good time to get it out of the way. Plus, there wouldn’t be a need for much thought and I didn’t think I would be able to think well, anyway.
Fucking Sterre. Sartre: “Hell is other people.” I was struggling not to internalize Sterre’s judgment of me. I hadn’t experienced judgment from many in Amsterdam and none as harsh and unexpected as Sterre’s. It wouldn’t have stung so much if I hadn’t opened up so much with her. As I worked on the index, I tried to assess whether I believed what I did was harmful or if I was now substituting Sterre’s assessment for my own. I had fun, I was playing, and there was nothing within me that suggested I was causing harm to others in any way. If there was harm, it was inconsequential in reality and inflated by the perspectives and interpretations of others. I couldn’t control what others thought or how they felt and I sure as hell couldn’t curb my enthusiasm for living well based on the judgments of others. That was how I wound up depressed in the first place, how I became a shell of myself.
At a certain point, I felt angry, pissed off at Sterre for imposing her judgments onto me. As I neared the end of the book around noon, the anger had passed and I admitted to myself that she had a right to her own reactions and because we were together she was within her bounds to express how she felt and to part ways for the evening—or for good. The latter was an issue I didn’t yet feel like exploring. By the time I finished the book, though, my mind felt clear of whatever damaging detritus had been floating around since the impact of Sterre’s judgment. Well, it was clear enough that I felt more at ease.
I ate a sandwich and some yogurt for lunch then got ready to go out, my Boss jacket, my hat, and gloves. No need for a scarf, really. It was partly sunny, the sun appearing and disappearing behind clouds now and then. I first biked over the Magere Brug to the Greenhouse on Nieuwe Herengracht. I bought three grams of Arjan’s #1 and went to sit on a comfy couch to break up a few buds to load into my dugout. I loosely packed it full then ground the bat into it. I lit up, inhaled, and let out a cloud of smoke. There were three guys sitting adjacently around a small table with what appeared to be space cakes and bottles of juice. They were young, all had dreads, speaking a language I didn’t know. Two of the fellows were black, one was white, and they were passing a fat joint from one to the other.
I ground another round into my bat and smoked. I felt a bit of a buzz, a light and airy high. My tolerance was fairly high now so I had to smoke more to feel the effects, even pot with a substantial THC content like Arjan’s #1. I cashed the ash from the bat and ground more ganja. I pulled out a cigarette first and enjoyed the tobacco, an organic brand of cigarettes I had purchased recently. The flavor was so different than the chemically-saturated American brands. My taste buds weren’t entirely pleased—I was addicted to the chemicals even more than the nicotine—but I actually got a buzz from it which was something I hadn’t had from cigarettes for a long time.
The guys at the next table grumbled, apparently turned off by the smoke. One of them turned to me and said something in Dutch. I recognized the sound of it compared to other languages. I didn’t need to know what he said to know he didn’t like the cigarette smoke, though. The problem for them, though, was that smoking cigarettes and tobacco was still legal in coffeeshops, the only indoor commercial environments where doing so was legally allowed. I smiled lazily while looking at the guy then put the cigarette to my lips and inhaled hard. I held the smoke briefly and exhaled while casually uttering, “Lekker,” a word with a preponderance of meanings, one of which was “nice,” as in “cool” or “Damn, that’s good.”
Inflection and context determined the meaning of the word. In a sense, the word was like fuck even though the connotations were exclusively positive—it could also mean beautiful if used in reference to a woman or man. In this case, though, the meaning was as close to negative as it could get, meaning “I’m enjoying this cigarette and there’s nothing you can do to stop me no matter how much you detest it.” My thought was, “Leave if you don’t like it or simply move further away from me.” One of them said something in another language, clearly disgusted by me, probably some derogatory words. Whatever. Sometimes it’s preferable not knowing what others are saying. Their vibe communicated everything I needed to know. They turned back to their own business and that was that.
After my cigarette, I lit up the bat again then put the dugout in my inner coat pocket and zipped it shut. I got up and left, paying no notice to the band I left behind. I rang out a “Ciao” to the guy behind the counter and he waved. My face was well enough known to the people working there even though I rarely chilled to get high on the premises. Neither they nor I was overly friendly, but there was certainly no animosity. I unlocked my bike and thought little of where I was going other than to head east.
I was just high enough to leave thoughts of Sterre behind. The world was alive around me and I was satisfied just biking through it. I followed Middenlaan to Plantage Kerklaan. I rode up to Bloem and thought briefly of stopping, but I wanted to be outside and explore. Maybe I would stop on my way back from wherever I rode. I passed by Bloem then turned right on Laagte Kadijk. I rode a few blocks on the residential street with newer buildings—I couldn’t tell how old; they were possibly renovated like those on Entrepotdok, part of the warehouse district of the former Dutch East Indies Company. I turned left onto a short side street then right on Hoogte Kadijk. The residential buildings seemed even newer here. I was enjoying roaming an area of the city I didn’t know at all.
After a few blocks, I turned onto what at first appeared to be a narrow, go-nowhere street called Overhaalsgang which, to my surprise, led over a bridge spanning a canal I did not know. As far as I was concerned, finding new canals and bridges were cause for celebration. I glided across the bridge, nothing particularly special about it, and peered both ways. Commercial and industrial boats filled up the waterways. In a sense, it was quite an ugly expanse, nothing of significance to note. I saw bridges far off on either side and nothing about either of those bridges seemed inviting, either.
Still, I was entering new territory. I wondered if I was entering an industrial district. If so, I could always turn back. But as I neared the end of the bridge I realized this was a new neighborhood. There was a grand building standing by its lonesome with streets cutting up either side, but I turned to the left to ride past it toward older buildings that reminded me, somewhat, of the older areas of Amsterdam. The bricks didn’t look as old and even though the buildings slanted outward above the sidewalk from floor to floor just as in the old neighborhoods (reminding me of that law from long ago that levied taxes based on first-floor square footage). There were shops on the ground floor and the floors above seemed to be apartments. I saw a pizza shop and parked my bike to buy a slice and some water. A nice break.
Once I finished, I rode back toward the grand building and turned north on Kleine Wittenburgerstraat, passing an Albert Heijn and newer four-story residential buildings with curved bay windows. I was definitely in a self-contained, self-sufficient neighborhood. Albert Heijn grocery stores were usually markers of living neighborhoods. As I kept riding I passed a few side streets and more four-story buildings with bay windows, some with curved balconies which created a different visual dynamic. From the street below it was enjoyable seeing this new architecture. The buildings were certainly built in the twentieth century, definitely well past the 1950s. I may have been on an island; there was no way for me to know. As always, I left maps at home and learned through sight and urban layout. Discovery was the point of ventures like this and maps tend to tell a narrative of their own, one that robbed the user of what was physically present.
This proclivity of mine went back to my youth. I loved roaming streets and countryside by bike then later by car, not knowing where I was going or what I would find. There was always the possibility of an architecture I had never before witnessed or had never known existed around every corner, or, if in the country, a City of Gold just beyond the next hill. That sense of childlike excitement for exploration never escaped me and I had a sense that if I had been born hundreds of years ago I would have set out to discover the world given half a chance.
I passed by an inlet from a canal, a canal that looked nothing like those in the city center. Much more modern, contemporary—not in style per se, but in age. The streets I had been riding were brick, but newer, flat, not bumpy at all. On my left, there had been rows of trees and a central walkway dividing the street from the other side—I was on a one-way—but that divider had ended. A red brick building that looked as if it could have been from an old downtown in the Midwestern United States rose up four stories on my right and a light beige brick building six stories high—and much newer—rose up on my left. They were both residential.
The street ahead looked to be much the same, the only difference being a newer park one might see in any given suburb in the Midwestern or Western United States. I turned left heading west, passing more apartment buildings that were neither attractive nor ugly. Nevertheless, they reminded me a bit of rather plain developments from the 1950s through the 1970s in outlying urban areas of medium-sized American cities. There were subtle differences, most notably the prevalence of bike trails along the streets, but otherwise uninteresting. Well, they were interesting in the sense that they differed from the old cities, but if I had taken photos of them and showed them to anyone in Amsterdam or back in the States I would have been greeted with confused stares declaring, “What is it that I’m supposed to be seeing here? They just look like long brick apartment buildings.”
I rode across a pedestrian/cycling bridge spanning a small canal; the canals were the one thing that provided attractiveness and differentiation from apartment complex areas in the U.S. I followed a dirt bike path past another long four-story apartment building, long balconies connected one after the other overlooking the canal. The building wasn’t terribly attractive, but I imagined the views of the canal were nice, but on the other side of the canals was row after row of the type of apartment buildings I had been riding past earlier. The sameness of each one reminded me of America, a bunched-up ugliness without any differentiation.
Nevertheless, I thought of Auriana’s beautiful apartment. The building itself hadn’t appeared to be anything special, although nicer than these, but the exterior didn’t suggest the interiors would be so well designed. Perhaps the interiors of these apartments were similar. Either way, they weren’t far from the Plantage or the city center and the rents were likely much cheaper. They may have been condos as well and they were no doubt less expensive than those across the larger canal I had crossed earlier.
The path zigzagged parallel to the road, the long apartment building twisting without a break as well. A much larger waterway signaled the edge of this island or neighborhood and I saw much taller residential or office buildings across the way, each one a different design than the other yet all of them essentially eight to fifteen story boxes or rectangles. I sighed, disappointed to see such repetition. Then again, newer developments everywhere seemed to lack the charms of old world architecture and urban design.
I decided to continue onward, though, as I saw a bridge far up ahead that would take me across to those rows of much larger buildings. Maybe up close the cityscape would appear different. I kept rolling past the same damn apartment building. It followed every zig-zag. The buildings must have been a quarter mile long including the turns. I knew there were housing shortages in Amsterdam, but I would have thought zoning commissions would be a bit less American about expansion. Reality had a way of squashing fairy tales.
As I crossed the bridge, a rather busy street, I appreciated once again the ever-present bicycle lanes. No matter how droll the architecture had become, respect for cycling was always included in city planning. At least parts of the fairy tale remained. In addition to that boon, the buildings on the other side of the long bridge became more and more attractive as I neared. They weren't set up in tidy rows after all; it just appeared that way from a distance. I rode through an underpass alongside other cyclists; when I hit the main road the bikers showed up in full force. We came to stop at a red light at a major intersection. The buildings were far more interesting up close. The scene was strange. These were clearly newer buildings, built within the past twenty years, some possibly only a few years old. I couldn't tell whether they were apartments or offices. There were vast expanses between buildings where there were no roads, courtyards of a sort. What was most striking was the absence of people walking or cycling.
I cycled onto one of the street-less expanses. To my surprise, the courtyard wasn't a courtyard at all. The pavement continued around and between buildings, all rising up in staggered distances between as well as forward and back. No matter how far I rode through the canyons of mid-rises there were no people. It was eerie; I felt like the last man on earth, Charlton Heston from The Omega Man. The architecture kept me fascinated. There were walkways four and five stories above connecting some of the buildings. The colors ranged from charcoal to sienna to white, many of the exteriors patterned, some mostly glass. I came to an area in the maze of buildings with huge boulders, some ten-feet high and wide, scattered her and there across thousands of square feet between several buildings, the buildings staggered brilliantly to create dizzying sight lines. The buildings were never in neat little rows and some were so close together that only bicycles could have passed through; through the gap, though, another building could be seen rising up so high it wasn't possible to see its top because of the perspective created by the narrow passageway between buildings. That building could have been a million kilometers high but only five feet wide; it was impossible to tell visually. It was also a starkly different color than the two that stood close together.
The boulders, though, perplexed and intrigued me more than anything else. Why were they here? Some were clumped together, of different sizes and shapes, three or four huddled as a pack separated by hundreds of feet in one direction from a single monolithic boulder and perhaps seventy feet from a couple of smaller boulders, maybe only five-by-five. The ground was brick, dark reds created squares around light greys. The boulders were a mid-range gray, jagged mostly although there rounded curves, too. Everything else was modern: clean lines, manufactured vertical and horizontal space, and even the ground was perfectly manicured in brick and stone. They made for a bizarre contrast, like a Neanderthal had stumbled into a PowerPoint presentation and no one seemed to think it was even remotely unusual.
The fact that there wasn’t soul around despite the massive size of the buildings, so many floors in each, made the scene surreal if not absurd. It was as if a god had thought, "I will create an amazing visual experience in a place where no one will ever set foot." I thought, "Why god, why choose me?" God: "Because no one else ever thought to explore this area before you. More than a million people within twenty square miles of this place and yet you are the first to veer a thousand meters from that busy intersection. There are more people from Amsterdam who have visited Antarctica in the last ten years than have walked even ten meters onto that open square that you first crossed. Don't get too excited, though. You're not the chosen one or anything. You're just the first person who had enough imagination to explore a place that is begging to be explored. I place my best works in spaces only geniuses, fools, and crazy people will look. You can decide which one of those three describes you best." Then god laughed at me and I cried.
It was a joy having the place to myself. I rode around no handed, did donuts around the boulders, popped a few wheelies, Sterre coming to mind once although she faded from awareness just as quickly. She had provided proof yet again that most people aren’t interested in doing what I liked to do when on my own—and often made judgments about me, to boot—and what I liked to do was whatever caught my fancy at any time. I never liked plans because they prevented discoveries. They were sometimes a necessary evil, but I couldn’t discover anything like this if I had planned my day because no amount of planning would have given me a clue that spaces like these existed.
There were no guide books mentioning unpopulated mid-rise caverns with mind-boggling visuals absolutely begging for someone to scream through on a bicycle. Nothing on any map I had ever seen highlighted this area; of course, I didn’t even know where I was, but I knew enough to know that I was north and possibly east of the city center. I had seen nothing suggesting north was an area to visit. I knew there were islands and peninsulas to the north and then more landmass that made up north Amsterdam, but other than the curiosity to visit an island there was no hint that there was anything special to see. It was likely no one thought this space was particularly interesting and it wasn’t likely that the prospect of having such a space all to oneself appealed to anyone writing guidebooks or suggesting “Things to Do in Amsterdam.” I knew exactly what to do: smoke more herb. As I loaded the one-hitter I thought about how incredible it would be to shroom in this area. An outdoor playground like this all to myself while booming? Oh, fuck yeah. I was going to have to come back again.
After exhaling the smoke from the sweet leaf, I thought about the guide books again. Those books were written for tourists and travelers who weren’t going to be spending more than a week in the city and I supposed that, comparatively, this site couldn’t compete with all the other possibilities availiable. Besides, how many people liked roaming through architecturally unusual caverns while cycling alone? I didn't know anyone with my sensibilities, not when it came to issues like these. Somewhere in the world there had to be others who would have gotten off on an experience like this. There seven fucking billion people in the world; there was no way I was the only one who wanted to roam around a perfectly preserved urban mindfuck that wasn't populated by a single soul. Aloneness, though, was such a taboo in the world, something to be avoided, something that suggested there was something wrong with those who liked to be alone. I didn’t want to be exclusively alone, but often enough to satisfy my cravings to do what I loved without having to be concerned with whether others were enjoying themselves or making judgments about what was, for me, heavenly.
I thought about who else might want to use the space while alone. A Buddhist monk, perhaps. That poor woman would have been sitting on a boulder meditating before I disturbed her decade-long silence by yelling "Yee-haw!" while coming around a corner popping a wheelie. She would look at me, shake her head, and think, "Well, he must have something going within him or else he wouldn't have bothered coming here alone." I would likely say, "Hey, you had your time here. Give me a turn. I won't take nearly as long; come back in six months. I'll be ready to go exploring elsewhere by then."
I must have ridden a half mile, probably more, through the empty urban jungle. I decided to head back to the main drag, though. I weaved my way through the buildings at breakneck speed. Not having to worry about traffic of any sort was a thrill. I wasn’t sure how fast I rode, but I passed huge buildings in seconds, everything in peripheral vision a blur. When I came to the main road, the one I had taken to cross the bridge, I saw that the bike land crossed under a very interesting building and, it appeared, there was yet another bridge on the other side. With layouts like these I didn't even have to make decisions.
The bridge was incredibly long and actually sloped upward, forcing me for the first time to pedal uphill. It felt great. The waterway was massive, clearly not just a river or canal, but a gateway to the sea. I knew this because there was massive ocean-going cruise ship, possibly twenty stories high and much longer than I could gauge from such a long distance away. If I hadn't been on an island I certainly seemed to be heading to one now. I marveled, too, that there were bike paths on these major roadways heading out to islands. Fucking cool.
Across the waterway on the other side of the bridge were large six- to eight-story buildings, much more clearly residential than on the previous island. Those buildings were to the east of the bridge. On the west side, well, was the end of the island, just a small park and a parking lot. Once I was on the islands, the road curved to the east just two blocks later. On the right side of me was a long dark red brick building, six stories high—a monolith. On the other side of me was another large waterway. When I finally came to a cross street heading south I took it.
I could see the other end of the island. The island was truly only two blocks wide. The street was divided by a narrow canal lined with small motor boats and sailboats, none more than six feet wide, leaving about a ten foot expanse of unobstructed waterway between the boats tied up on either side. All the buildings were connected, but these were clearly four- to six-story houses, each adjacent one of a different height, different architectural facade, different colors, and made from different materials. Every design appeared to be cutting-edge contemporary architecture. It was abundantly clear that these houses had been built in the 2000s. I wondered if the island itself was reclaimed land.
One home had a ladder leading from a top floor balcony up to the roof, making it clear that there was a rooftop patio. With the sun shining the way it was and the temperature relatively decent, I thought it would be lovely sitting in a lounge chair reading a book. On the other hand, the islands were a bit windier than the mainland and it was probably worse on the rooftops. Still, in summer it would be a delight.
Another house had a second-story window that jutted out from the building at an odd angle, offering a view downward toward the canal. Each building was a different color and made of different materials—at least the street-side facades were. One was dark-brown wood, some were multi-colored brick with three smaller windows next to one another on each floor, another was metallic silver (and also curved in and out floor to floor like a desert sidewinder) with single large windows on each floor, yet another was all glass, one was stucco and had different sized and shaped windows on each floor. On and on it went from house to house. And yet, these delicious houses on either side of the street covered just one block. There was a pedestrian bridge over the canal between the two blocks (the block with the architectural wonders was the longer of the two blocks). The bridge had an artistically designed chrome metal railing, curving and winding and twisting on either side of the bridge.
A bike and pedestrian path ran either direction between the blocks, presumably the back side of the long buildings lining the outer edges of the island. I decided to turn onto the street running along the waterway on the south side of the island. There was bike path along the waterway and I swiveled my head from the water to the apartment/condo buildings. While they didn’t compare to the architecture of the wonderful side street, they were interesting and certainly not monolithic, possibly only four to eight residences per floor. All the buildings were connected, no spaces between, but each one had different designs, colors, and materials, some with balconies, some glass, others brick, and so on.
I came to another side street with a canal separating each side. I rode down it and noticed the architecture was identical to the previous side street and so was the design of the pedestrian bridge. I went back to the south and continued on to the east. More of the same apartment buildings, not identical to those on the street along the waterway previously, but close enough. The residences were clearly upscale with great views across the waterway. They likely had spacious, bright, and well-designed interiors. As I continued riding, I found another side street. It was similar to the previous two, but the facades were somewhat different. They were not quite as spectacular, but still intriguing—and, of course, each one differed from those adjacent on either side. There was another pedestrian bridge but this one had a high arc; otherwise it was the same chrome artistic design.
I went back to the south and turned to the east again. I wanted to find out if this truly was an island. It may have been narrow, but it certainly was long. I was getting a hell of a workout riding, although I was pedaling at a mostly leisurely pace. My thirst was growing, too. I had taken off my hat earlier as the sun was warm, but I was likely getting a bit of a sunburn with my closely cropped hair which was also plenty thin. I was hoping that somewhere on this residential island there was a store or café.
Another side street similar to the others, though the facades were even less interesting than the last. I had been spoiled by that first side-street, a street that may have been designed by Dr. Seuss. I loved it and would have been quite happy living in any one of those stylish cartoon houses. As I continued onward to the east, the waterway and the apartments similar enough, I took more notice of the houseboats that had been lining the length of the island. Most of them were very large, much larger than those along the canals in the Grachtengordel. The large buildings across the waterway were the very ones I had ridden through in the ghostly expanse. This island, however, was peopled by cars, cycles, and pedestrians.
I came upon grassy areas next to the apartment buildings, picnic tables dotted here and there. The apartment buildings behind me went right up to the sidewalks next to the road--although the sidewalks were wide and there were tall trees lining the street. Now, though, the path veered somewhat inland as a long park stretched out along the waterfront. I followed the bike path through the park-like area, apartment buildings scattered her and there, not as attractive but then again they had lovely park space and easy access to the waterway. With the sun, the island was beautiful. Along with the cyclists and pedestrians, the place had the feel of a resort combined with a quiet college campus.
The feelings I felt were foreign. It was as if I was in an entirely different country, one I hadn’t even known existed. It simply did not feel like Amsterdam. It also didn’t feel like the other areas of Holland I had visited in the past: Haarlem, Delft, Den Haag, Edam, Arnhem, Enkuizen, Hoorn, Scheveningen, Volendam, Gouda, and cycling throughout West-Friesland. There was still so much of Holland I hadn’t explored. Top of my list were Rotterdam, Utrecht, and Flevoland. I was fortunate to have seen so much of The Netherlands and Europe. But no matter what I may have wanted to see, there would always be places that weren't on itineraries and delighted all the more because of it.
When I came to the end of the bike path, I saw a tram pass on a curving road. A tram … on the island … incredible. If I was beat I could catch a tram back to the mainland. Unbelievable. Now I really wanted to live on the island. I turned to follow the tram, intending to continue exploring the island. I rode just half a block, though, before seeing a café across the road. De Zuid Café. I needed a break, water, food … and a beer.
I locked my bike and went inside. I had ridden off all the calories from the pizza slice so I needed food, but water was more pressing. The waitress, a relaxed and kind woman, took my order: water, gerookte zalm, and a beer. The water came quickly; I think she saw I was beat. I was in a good mood, though. I started thinking that the island must be known to more than just locals. The architecture had to attract visitors. Maybe not many, maybe mostly locals, but there had to be a few international travelers. Then again, I had the building canyons all to myself earlier. I hadn’t heard about this place and I had been to Amsterdam on six different occasions.
After eating my food—delicious—and drinking my water and beer, I asked the waitress what the name of the island was. "Java Eiland." I said, "Really, Java Island. Coffee Island, huh?" She laughed and explained a bit of the history, how the land had been reclaimed in the 1800s, the buildings had been dilapidated and occupied by squatters and homeless people until they were razed in the 1990s in preparation for the building of these new residences. She also told me that it was a peninsula even though it was called Java Eiland--she also informed me of the Dutch spelling of "island." Once again, I thought how similar Dutch was to English. Two words meaning the samee thing pronounced almost identically yet spelled different. Dutch was like a halfway point between German and English, probably closer to English than German.
I bid the waitress adieu, thanking her for the delicious food, wonderful service, and interesting conversation. I unlocked my bike and contemplated exploring more of the island, but the sun was setting, the light fading fast, and the temperature dropping. I rode a little of the way back, found a semi-secluded spot, took out my dugout, and ground a couple hits. I had a cigarette afterward, enjoying the nice little high. I turned on the light of my bike as it was dusk and started pedaling, my muscles relaxed and my vibe light. I had a lazy smile on my face as I rode along the north side of the island. There were fewer pedestrians and cyclists than there had been earlier so I had the path mostly to myself. I hadn’t realized how far I had ridden on the island until riding back. I had taken all those side streets and it broke up the ride. Nevertheless it didn’t take terribly long to reach the bridge.
I pedaled across the long bridge, enjoying the gentle slope upward and then cruising down the other side. I passed under the building again and thought briefly of romancing around the building canyons in the dark; it wasn't quite tempting enough so I cycled through the underpass while a train screeched along above and continued straight ahead. I didn’t turn to go the way I came; instead, I stayed on the main road.
The main road just kept going and going, mostly straight with a few zigzags here and there. There were a few cyclists out; I occasionally passed one and occasionally one passed me. There were plenty of trees along the road, too, but it was too dark to see what the buildings on either side looked like. It reminded me of a long residential suburban road, not a major thoroughfare, but a street that had no shops or commercial buildings of any kind. It was strange to ride through an area that seemed so American while in Amsterdam, almost stranger than the Java architecture and the mid-rise ghost town. It was a pleasant ride, though, even though there was ample automobile traffic. Eventually, I crossed a curving bridge spanning a decent-sized canal. I began to recognize where I was--I was on Prins Hendrikkade! I pulled to a stop as I saw sights familiar from the fall; I was a few blocks from the west end of Entrepotdok, not far at all from my old apartment and Bloem.
Once the light turned I crossed the road and passed the cafés on the corners of the street to the north of Entrepotdok. I had stopped in one in the fall, but didn’t like the vibe. I might have felt differently now, but I was ready for Bloem. Koffiehuis Vanden Volksbond didn’t speak to me either. I passed by several cyclists and a couple pedestrians as I finally turned the corner onto Entrepotdok. I pulled up to a bike rack and ground another hit of Arjan’s into the bat. I lit up and felt the freshness of being a high again. I started riding again and passed my old apartment. I smiled at it as I rode past then kept cycling to Bloem, pulling around the side through the tunnel before parking my bike on the rack.
"It’s good to be home." I walked toward the side door I noticed the place was somewhat busy. When I walked in the door I heard the buzz of Dutch conversations, saw Tom behind the bar, and Daniel taking an order. There were two guys sitting at the other end of the bar so I took up residence next to the beer taps. “Hey, Tom.” Tom looked up, a bit perplexed. I wasn’t sure if he recognized me. I hadn’t seen him for a while. I said, “Michael.” He replied, “Yeah, you look familiar. Sorry, I see so many people.” I said, “I’m American, if that helps.” Tom smiled with recognition. “Yes, of course. I haven’t seen you around.” I said, “I’ve been in pretty regularly, but I guess not on the nights you were working.” He nodded, “Yeah, I work Friday and Saturday nights most regularly.”
I ordered a dubbel and Tom filled a glass with a bottle. I asked for a glass of water as well and Tom accommodated me before filling other orders. I drank most of the water then, with great anticipation, put the glass to my lips and imbibed. Oh dear lord, that tasted good. Refreshing. As Tom was working he said, “You, uh, look ... exceptionally relaxed. It's a nice cologne you're wearing as well.” I gave out a mellow laugh, one that matched my condition. “Yeah, I biked all afternoon and needed to relax my muscles so, well, I did what needed to be done.” Tom nodded. “Of course. Yeah, that's good after a day of cycling.”
Tom asked where I went. "I biked north through a bunch of different neighborhoods on my way to Java Eiland. I didn't know I was going to Java; in fact, I didn't even know it existed until I arrived there. A waitress at a cafe told me where I was." That made Tom laugh ... and Tom's laugh made me laugh. After taking another drink I continued, "It's an interesting place, so narrow but so long and a lot of eclectic contemporary architecture. The island, or whatever, before Java was interesting, too. I was riding bike around the buildings and there were literally no people anywhere. I mean, there were fifteen story buildings, dozens of them, maybe over a hundred, I don't know, but not a fucking soul anywhere. I loved it, man. I had it all to myself."
Daniel came up behind me and slapped me on the back. “Michael, when did you get here?” I turned and smiled. “Just now. How are you, man?” Daniel said, “Good. Not as good as you, I see.” My eyes must have been bloodshot and I clearly smelled like I had been rolling around on a carpet made of cannabis. Something needed to be done about that so I asked Daniel if he had time for a smoke break. “Yeah, sure.” He put down his tray and we went out the side door.
I mentioned my bike ride as we smoked. "Java, huh? Why did you cycle up there?” I answered, “Just a meandering joy ride, looking to explore more of the city outside the central zone. It was a good day to be outside, too. I didn’t even know Java Eiland existed before today.” Daniel said. "Yeah, it's good to explore. You should ride further east and check out the Ijburg if you like unusual architecture." I nodded even though I had no idea what the Ijburg was. More interesting architecture sounded good, though. I felt like a kid who found an extra bag of Halloween candy months later. I had no idea idea Amsterdam had more architectural treats in store for me.
I took a long drag on my cigarette and watched as Daniel blew several smoke rings from a single inhalation. I asked him if he could blow a smaller ring through a larger ring. “Sometimes.” He made a couple attempts and, on the third, succeeded. “Nicely done. Impressive.” I thought to myself that the little things in life, blowing smoke rings, riding through deserted urban canyons, and stumbling on Dr. Seuss architecture, were what made life worth living. Fuck why we exist. We just do so we might as well appreciate oddities. I thought briefly that nothing should ever be repeated. Each day should be like the architecture on Java: today should look entirely different than the adjacent days of yesterday and tomorrow.
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