Amsterdam Sixty-Three: The Kiss

I rode through Vondelpark on my way to the Cameleon Theater. I parked my bike on a rack next to the Schinkel. The only distinguishing signs were the flags out front. Was I supposed to go inside? Knock on the door, ring a bell? I was early so I decided to wait. It was only with Sterre that my inability to speak or understand Dutch made me feel like an outsider. Not Sterre herself, but her scene, her community.

I sat on a bench in front of a window covered by a painting of a chameleon on a branch. A pretty good sign that I was at the right address. I puffed on a cigarette and looked out over the Schinkel. It was wide, a canalized-river, probably similar to the Amstel, though certainly not as famous nor as big. The street wasn’t well-lit and even with the wide-open expanse over the river there wasn't much light from the city—the sky was cloudless; low clouds always provided more light. I never liked that light, though. A dull orange, like the city was burning and the glow of the fires were illuminated above. It was like that in most cities. I had first noticed it as a child, maybe nine years old, staying overnight at a friend’s house. I woke around four in the morning and the ominous glow lit through his bedroom windows. I huddled under covers, terrified of whatever hell might descend from above.

The trees along the canal didn’t block the light much; they were without leaves. It was only mid-February, though. The days still ended early and the cold still kept company, though it was generally milder than it had been in January, most days were in the mid-40s to early 50s (Fahrenheit). Sun was hit or miss. It had been partly sunny earlier, breezy, but the night air was still.

I flicked my cigarette into the street, looked at the time on my phone, and pulled out another stog. I lit up and took a long drag. I wasn’t sure what Sterre had planned, but I wasn’t in a Friday-night mood. I had indexed all day, which was good, but I felt dead inside, my mind numb from working on a marketing textbook. I thought of the irony of working on the art and science of corporate manipulation before meeting up with an anarchist. Well, an autonomist, but a close relative to anarchism. What I felt most was the desire to set fire to something, to burn something down.

Working on marketing texts was easy; I had a degree in marketing—I don’t think I had told Sterre that—and all of the concepts were familiar. It was a sick field that leeched off of all the academic disciplines so that manipulation could be more effective. Humans were animals to be herded, to be transformed into purchasers, to addict to consumption. To know more about anthropology, psychology, or perception, I thought people should listen to someone versed in marketing. Forget about psychologists, anthropologists, philosophers, or neuroscientists. For real-world understanding of how people think, feel, and act, marketers are the experts.

My cigarette was burning down to its butt. I wanted to put it out in the eye of the author of the textbook I was indexing. I made a bundle on business-related undergraduate textbooks. Their layouts always followed the same patterns, the headers and subheaders, keywords and buzzwords always highlighted in bold. The books were written for children. There was no guesswork involved, nothing that might cause a person to have to sit back and wonder how or why. It was all laid out in front of anyone willing to read. Reading wasn’t even necessary. Scanning the headings and the boldface type, checking out a few figures, tables, or case studies, and everything that needed to be known was known. There wasn’t a need for a college degree at all, not to understand the concepts. Putting them into practice was another matter. For that, a different type of training was required; or, rather, a certain personality type, excessively amoral, the type of person who wouldn’t bat an eye using advertisements (propaganda) and other marketing techniques to convince Jews to climb aboard cattle cars on trains in the 1930s or 1940s.

I threw my dwindling cigarette into the street, pissed off. Fuck, I didn’t want to be pissed off while meeting Sterre. On the other hand, she, more than anyone else I knew, might share my anger. Still, the last time we were together she was lying on top of me naked after a night of group sex. When I had peppered her with questions about squatting and autonomism she hadn’t been emotional; she was matter-of-fact, intellectual. She showed some signs of anger when talking about the impending doom of Dutch law coming down on squatters, but that was the only flicker I saw. When we first met she had been morose when we stood on the bridge in Oosterpark. Most of the time, though, she was lively, playful, adventurous, and sexy.

Throughout the time I had been sitting, thinking, and smoking perhaps a dozen people had walked into the building, a couple here, a few there, some who had come on bikes, others walking. I looked in the direction of Overtoom and saw Sterre cycling toward me. As she approached, I stood up and checked the time on my phone. About 6:15 PM. Sterre stopped next to me and said. “Shit, I was worried you wouldn’t get my email in time.” I was confused. “What do you mean?” She sighed, “I thought there were going to be films and presentations about social justice all weekend, but I misread the dates. I’m sorry.” I shrugged. “That’s okay. I’m glad you came to let me know.” She got off her bike, leaned it against the bench, gave me a hug, and said, “Well, I was just over at OT301. I suggested meeting there in case you didn’t get my email. That way I wouldn’t have to bike far to check here.”

I laughed at her. She took a deep breath, held out her hands, and shook her head. “I—” She started to speak then blushed. She looked good; blushing brought more color to her face, heightening her features. It was almost as if she was wearing rouge, but it might have been due to biking in the cold, too. Either way, it worked for me. “Well, I’m glad you’re here. It doesn’t matter what we do tonight. I just wanted to see you.” Sterre relaxed a bit and said, “Can I have one of your smokes.” I pulled out my pack. “I didn’t know you smoked, Sterre.” She said, “I don’t. I quit a year ago.” I pulled the cigarette away from her. “Whoa, no, no, no. Don’t do it. A year? It’s not worth it.” Sterre sat on the bench and snapped, “What, you're my mom now?” I laughed. “No, I’m just … I’ve quit twice before and both times stopped for years. Then I had just one cigarette after really, really stressful events. Each time, the one cigarette turned into half a pack a day within weeks.”

Sterre drooped her head as she put her elbows on her knees before jutting her right hand out at me. She was wearing a different coat, a jacket, actually. It was black and had patches and words sewn into it everywhere. She wore a red-and-black beret on her head, too. “Are you kidding me, Sterre?” She looked up, a mix of frustration and impatience. “No, Michael, I’m not.” I sat down next to her. “I’ll give you a cigarette, okay, but why are you so stressed out?” She turned to me, stared at me, a stare that said, “Will you just give me the fucking cigarette, motherfucker?” I handed her a cigarette. “Thank you.” She kept looking at me then said, exasperated, “I don’t smoke, you know? In other words, I don’t have a lighter on me.” Geesh. The moods on this woman, from embarrassed to anxious to irritated in a matter of minutes. I guess she did need a cigarette. Hell, I nearly forgot I had been quietly fuming before she arrived and now I knew that Sterre was quite capable of getting pissed off as well. I didn't have to worry about dampening her spirits; they were already soaked.

I lit her cigarette. She pulled away after it was lit and as she exhaled she went into a coughing fit. I laughed—I couldn’t help it. I knew better than to say anything, though. I put my hand on the back of her jacket and read one of the patches on her arm: “My Body.” The lettering was white and the background was red. I noticed she was wearing a red miniskirt with black leggings, too, but most interesting was her shoes: rainbow-colored, canvas strips stitched together, each strip with a hole for the laces, black.

As Sterre continued smoking I asked her if she made the shoes. She looked down at them and said, “Yeah. You like them?” I said. “They’re fucking awesome.” Sterre smiled then handed me the cigarette. She had only smoked half. Good. I decided not to smoke the rest and put it out next to the bench. When I sat back up she looked at me with admonishment. “What?” She said, “Are you going to throw that away before we go?” I said, “You smoked it, not me.” Then I laughed. “Yeah, I’ll throw it away.” She shook her head, "No, no. You’re right. I smoked it." She rose up, picked up the cig, and walked it down the street to a big trash bin. As she walked away, I shook my head. I hadn't seen her so foul and judgmental before this day. I forgot how little I knew about her--and she about me.

As she walked back, though, I watched her hips sway. She looked sexy; the beret definitely did something for me. That strawberry blonde hair poking out just, mmm, stirred something. I thought of the previous weekend as she sat down. “Mint?” She turned to me nonchalantly. “Ja. My mouth tastes like a dog shit in it.” Not quite so stirred up after that. “So, what do you want to do?” She shrugged. “I was really looking forward to the social justice workshops … that aren’t fucking happening.” She turned to me. “What do you want to do?” I couldn’t stop myself. “You mean besides getting naked with you?” Sterre laughed a little, a mild flicker of life. “Well, we could eat at De Peper again. My treat.” I paused. “And then we could get naked.” Sterre shook her head. “I don’t know. De Peper is great, but we did that. We can again, though. Damn, I didn’t even bother seeing what else was going on tonight.” I hadn’t thought about anything, either.

As I contemplated possibilities, Sterre said, “I know you're just having fun and I really hate to say this, but I may as well get it out of the way. We won’t be getting naked tonight. It’s not that I don’t want to or anything, but tonight won’t work.” Hmmm. “If it’s a matter of not having a place, we can always go back to my apartment.” She turned to me shaking her head, her eyes rolling, and her mouth twisted in a way that said, “Why are you so dense?” Her head stopped and she stared into my eyes with, what? Condescension? “Do I have to say it, Michael?” I shrugged my shoulders. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.” She smirked and said, “Well, Michael, there’s this thing that women experience every month and—” I cut her off. “Okay, okay, okay. Sorry. Yes, I'm stupid.” I blushed, feeling embarrassed. “Nay, you should know about the whole reproductive cycle. You see, there’s blood involved and—” I interrupted again, more forcefully. “Okay! I get it, I get it.” Jesus. What the fuck? I was starting get pissed off myself. I didn't want or need to be her dumping ground for whatever misery and angst she was feeling. “Damn, try to take it easy on me, huh?” She put her hand on the side of my head and shoved it. At least she was being playful.

“Well, now that you know all about reproduction, let’s do something.” Fair enough. “Are you hungry?” She nodded. “Any ideas besides De Peper? This is your city after all.” Sterre shook her head. “No, I’m not from Amsterdam. I’m a migrant.” Oh. “Where are you from?” She said the name of a town I couldn’t pronounce. “It’s near Utrecht. It’s small. Don’t worry about it.” Okay. “Well, you still know the city better than I do, especially in relation to your scene, your community.” She said, “Let’s just do De Peper. It’s close.” I got up and Sterre asked what time it was. I looked at my phone. “It’s about 6:40.” She said, “We may as well wait. They don’t open until seven.”

I sat back down. “Can I ask you a question?” Sterre laughed. “You're asking me a question about whether you can ask me a question? What do you think?” Damn, the sarcasm. Sigh. “What did you say to Auriana before you left last weekend?” Sterre threw her head back, laughing while clapping her hands. “Oh, shit, I forgot all about that. She didn’t tell you?” I shook my head. “Judging from what happened next I have an idea, but I don’t know specifically.” She looked at me, her eyes suddenly twinkling and her mouth open with a devious grin. “Why don’t you tell me what happened first? I haven’t heard from her this week.” Oh, boy. “It’s a bit awkward to talk about that.” She slapped my leg and insisted. “I don’t know where to start. First of all I was standing nude with an erection in front of four women, all of whom were staring and laughing at me.”

Sterre exhaled a grin. The look on her face, so expectant, waiting for juicy details. “Auriana said that you said that I insisted on staying to clean up. Then she said--emphasized, really--that they weren’t going to clean until the next day.” Sterre exclaimed, “What?! The next day? Wow, I need to send Auriana an email.” I kept going. “I was just standing there after you left and Helena and, shit, I forgot who else was there.” Sterre said, “I think it was Anna.” Right. “Well, they were all awake and Auriana said something to them in Dutch, I assumed repeating whatever it was you had said. They all laughed and turned to me, naked with a throbbing.” Sterre doubled over. Well, at least she wasn't frustrated and angry any more, but I emphatically stated, “It was humiliating! … And yet, somehow really hot. Four naked women staring at me and laughing. Honestly, I didn’t know what the fuck to do.”

Sterre was cracking up so I kept going. “After Auriana said that they weren’t cleaning until the next day, Helena and Anna went to shower. I can’t remember exactly what happened next, but I think Auriana called me over and we made out. Helena and Anna left then Eliene took a shower. I dozed off—oh, yeah, Auriana got me high while Anna and Helena showered. I forgot. That’s why I dozed off. But Eliene woke me up after she got out of the shower and we made out while Auriana showered.” Sterre sat up straight and turned to me, shock on her face. “Eliene?” I nodded. “She’s a lesbian, Michael.” I nodded again. “Now I really have to email Auriana.”

Sterre looked surprised and amused, shaking her head back and forth while looking down at the ground, probably just trying to make sense of what I had told her. I continued, “When Auriana came back out of the shower, well, there was ... a lot of sex.” Sterre put her hand over her eyes then yelped, giggled, and cackled. When she composed herself she asked, "That doesn't surprise me at all." I figured that would be the case so I continued. “It wasn't just with Auriana, though. In fact, Eliene fucked me more often than Auriana did.” Sterre’s eyes bugged out. “What?! I—I ... are you joking?” I  shook my head while leaning back and raising my hands, palms up. “It’s what happened.” Sterre was confounded. She muttered “Eliene told me she was a lesbian. Hard core.” I told her that Eliene mentioned having had sex with two other guys earlier in her life. “Sure, maybe while she was still exploring her sexuality, her identity. But why did she have sex with you.” Hey! “With me? What, am I troll now?” Sterre rolled her eyes. “No, that’s not what I meant. It’s just … why would she have sex with a guy period? Was she doing it because of Auriana, involved with Auriana while you two were having sex?”

"Yes, sometimes, but she was also having sex with me independent of Auriana." Sterre, preplexed, "I just don't get it." I sighed and explained. “In the evening we were cleaning dishes after eating and Auriana—or maybe it was Eliene? Doesn’t matter. One of them said that I was ‘womanly’—when it came to sex, anyway.” Sterre laughed, chuckling out, "God, I missed out on a weird day. What the hell does that even mean?” I laughed--finally things were loosening up between us. “I wondered, too, but Auriana explained that … how did she put it? Um, she said … oh, yeah. She said that I didn’t want to fuck women that I wanted to be fucked by women. In other words, that I liked being wanted, that I wanted to be on the receiving end of a woman’s hunger. Something like that.” Sterre stretched her face with her eyes closed and her mouth open before saying, “I ... did not get that vibe from you last weekend.” I looked at her as she thought for a second. “Well, maybe a little bit at times, but I wouldn't have said it was 'womanly.'” She smiled and looked me in the eye, “Most of the time you were with me you really wanted to fuck me!” I laughed my ass off. 

“Yeah, I remember. There was gentleness when we cuddled, though. Affectionate. I don’t think that’s specific to gender, though.” Sterre agreed. “But with Auriana and Eliene, I really was in a ‘fuck me’ mode. I don’t know if that is ‘womanly’ per se, but that was the word they used. They meant it as a compliment, though. Eliene, in particular, said that my 'womanly vibe' turned her on. Up until then I thought she was bi like everyone else.” Sterre shook her head. “Nay.” I nodded. “I know. It blew my mind … and made me feel even hotter. Fuck, I had an orgasm after she fucked me, like ten minutes later. I was lying in a fetal position, trembling, trying not to breathe too much because the pleasure was so fucking intense. It was almost painful; no, it was painful. When I finally took a breath and moved just a little I came like it was the first time in my life. I was like an infant after ejaculating, just helpless and incapacitated by pleasure. That’s never happened to me before. Never.”

Sterre was smiling, perplexed, stunned, amused, confused, and amazed. “I don’t even know what to say.” I laughed and said, “That's not the end of it. Auriana led us upstairs and unleashed toys and games that night. We took more ecstasy and it was, fuck, it was insane. I woke up the next day and my dick was so sore I almost screamed in pain.” Sterre shook her head, bewildered. “Wow. That all happened after I left?” Maybe I said too much. “Yeah. Are you upset?” Sterre looked over at me. “No. I mean … no. I’m …” She sighed. She seemed ... I didn't know. Hurt? “I don’t know what to think. I’m not upset, though, no. I’m trying to process. Eleine, womanly sex?” She looked me in the eye and laughed. “Sex toys, too?” I nodded.

“Auriana went way beyond anything I suggested.” I asked, “Well, what did you tell them before you left?” Sterre looked me in the eye. “I said, 'Michael wants to help clean, but you should make sure he knows you appreciate it.'” I shook my head. “No way, you said more than that. You were talking with them for a couple minutes.” Sterre looked at me strangely. “Was I? I don’t remember. We were probably just laughing, making jokes or something. I suggested to Auriana that she should seduce you. I didn’t say anything about Eliene, though. I figured she’d watch, maybe participate a little or maybe just do something else. Helena and Anna, I guess I figured they'd just leave--and you said they did so I was right about that. Eliene, though, it never dawned on me that she would do anything more than mess around Auriana.”

Had I shared too much? “I figured you knew, that you had been the one who suggested all of it. When Auriana said they weren’t cleaning until the next day I thought that was your idea!” Sterre shook her head, smiling the smile I loved seeing most. "Nay. Damn, now I’m really disappointed I’m having my period!" She looked in my eyes, licking her lips but also playfully laughing. "I have to try this ‘womanly sex’ with you sometime. It sounds fucking hot.” I was amused and turned on. “You shouldn’t have said that. Now I’m going to be thinking about that all fucking night.” 

“You want to go to De Peper now?” I said yes. I unlocked my bike and we crossed Overtoom, riding down the busy street until we reached OT301. We parked and locked up then went inside. I paid at the door, fifty Euros—again Sterre thanked me for being so generous—and we went to the counter to grab our appetizers then found a table. As we ate, I asked Sterre about her interest in social justice. “I grew up with it, but I became more radicalized in college. I was a feminist before college, but I became more active. Environmentalism, too. When I discovered social anarchy and autonomism, though, it all came together. I leaned toward Marxism—and still do in many ways—but it wasn’t full enough. There were too many issues not addressed; it was too exclusively economic. Obviously, economics is at the heart of most matters, but what it meant to be a woman in the world? What it meant to be caretakers of the environment? Marxism doesn't address it. Autonomism, though, it’s a living movement, always changing, adapting, creating. There’s so much life within it. Everyone involved seems more alive to me than those who aren’t. Well, that's oversimplifying things. You’re alive, Auriana’s alive, and there are some squatters who aren’t. But if I compare mainstream society with the squatting community, it’s easy to see which culture has more life, more creativity, more dynamic interaction.”

When we finished our appetizers we ate the entrees. Again, the vegan meal was phenomenal. The chefs had done something marvelous with eggplants. I also listened to Sterre. “Every day is an adventure. Every day. I love living that way.” I interjected. “I do, too. My life is increasingly becoming that way. The difference is I’m not doing it within the type of community you are and I wouldn’t be able to do what I’ve been doing without the income from my work. You know I work in publishing, right? That I work from home?” Sterre tick-tocked her head. “I think so.” I continued. “I fell into it. Believe me, I couldn’t stand working. The jobs I had in high school, during college, and for the first couple years after graduating were horrendous. I worked in migrant farm fields, gold mines, an embroidery shop, and other shit jobs, wage slavery jobs. I couldn’t live on those wages and the work was back-breaking, soul-sucking, and ridiculously unhealthy. I was breathing silica through cheap ten-cent fiber breathing masks while working for the gold mining company. I quit because the repetitive movements were destroying my back.”

I stopped to take a few bites. Sterre said, “So how did you end up in publishing?” Hmmm. "The simple answer is through my girlfriend at the time—we got married later—but that doesn’t say much about it. I was writing before that, not working at all, couch surfing before we moved in together. She was ambitious, but in a more mainstream way than I was. I should never have gotten into that relationship, but at the time I loved her and was willing to sacrifice dreams and even some values to be with her. I rationalized, I think, 'Oh, I’ll write later, I’ll focus on art once we get settled into a groove,' but I felt the pressure from her to work. She wasn’t pushy, more passive-aggressive signals that she was dissatisfied. I was writing well at that time, too."

I took a drink of water then continued. "I was in my mid-twenties and if I'd had another couple years I think I could have really made writing and art my life. She was working as an editor, working from home, and a publisher needed an index done quickly. She didn’t have the time, it was not a well-written book and they just needed something cobbled together. It was a book on oil drilling, for crissakes. I about gagged. But after a day and a half of work I finished it and received a a check for $600.00. Back then, that was an amount of money that meant something. I thought, ‘This is a good compromise; work at home indexing then write on the side. Perfect.’ Writing went out the window, though. After sitting at the computer indexing all day I didn’t want to have anything to do with the computer when I wasn’t working. So writing just ... dissappeared … and so did my soul."

Sterre was listening attentively, her gaze soft and considerate. “If I had grown up here, in The Netherlands, I might have become an autonomist or a social anarchist and I could have been squatting, writing, painting, and performingfor over a decade by now. I didn’t even know communities like this existed. Maybe I can make the transition, though. I’d have to get used to a different lifestyle; it would be a challenge. I’d definitely have to learn Dutch if not German, French, or Italian, too.” Sterre nodded, her chin propped on her hands. She had finished her meal while listening to me. I said, “I’m moving in that direction in a lot of ways. I think that’s all I can ask of myself right now. I don’t want to lose the momentum I have. You’ve become a big part of that, Sterre. Meeting you was--you’ve opened my eyes to a world I didn’t know existed. Yes, you’re sexy as hell and I absolutely love that—I love that—but it’s the world you’re actively creating and the life you’re living that inspires me.” I paused. “Okay, the sex, too.” I laughed as she dipped her head down, her body shaking with giggles.

I started eating again, smiling at Sterre with my eyes. I could feel twinkles dancing as I looked at her. The earnestness, the conviction, and the passion, those qualities we certainly shared. I’d had my time sacrificing my life for another. I was now committed to living my life according to my needs, my passions, and whatever confidence I had gained resulted in my conviction to live my life according to my self-created values. Sterre spoke as I ate, “You’re the most intriguing person I’ve ever met from the mainstream world. You’re really not part of the mainstream, certainly not in spirit. You’ve been oppressed, blinded, caged, misinformed, who knows what else. I want you to be free. In fact, there is no one in this community who wants you or anyone else to remain in captivity. Everything you’re saying fits with autonomist values.”

I interjected, “See, in a community like this, I would want to contribute. I work the way I do—from home—because I want as much autonomy as I can possibly muster while not winding up homeless in America. There’s nothing about American society that makes me want to contribute anything. The culture drains me. I have nothing to give because it takes so fucking much from me. If I said these things in the U.S. to all but a handful of people they would think I was ridiculous, that I was living in a fantasy, wanting a utopia that couldn’t exist. They’d think I was lazy or anti-American or … something derogatory. Most of the people there really believe that the United States is a great country and that the living conditions are good. Obviously, they see the world through a different set of eyes than I do. I feel like they’re settling. It’s been maddening to me that there’s no community willing to live this radically and accept all comers. The fact that autonomism is a species-centered movement, community, philosophy? That is … to me it’s like finding God. There is a God and that God is squatting in Amsterdam.” We shared a laugh.

We cleared our table and cleaned up. There were others waiting and we didn’t want to be rude. When we walked outside the air was colder, brisk, but there was little wind. I sucked on a mint, offered one to Sterre, and walked to my bike. “Michael?” I looked over at Sterre as she unlocked her bike. “You squat to live the way you want to live. You don’t have to wait for a revolution. Live a better life now.” I unlocked my bike and thought about what she said. She continued, though. “You need to prepare, yes, get your affairs in order—I did—but it’s possible to live this life. If you really want it, you’ll learn Dutch or German or whatever and you’ll take the steps needed to find a squat, to integrate. You already know one squatter so …” Sterre mounted her bike and smiled at me. Before I got on mine I walked over and kissed her. “You are wonderful.” Sterre smiled.

As I got on my bike I asked, “What next?” Sterre looked at me. “Good question. I thought about it a little while we were eating.” I waited then said, “And?” She shrugged. Huh. What now? Then it struck me! “I have an idea. Follow me.” I started toward the entrance to Vondelpark. Sterre yelled, “Wait!” I slowed down and looked back. I was riding the wrong way on the bicycle lane, but I didn’t give a shit. Sterre caught up. “What are you doing?” I said, “Trust me, okay?” I heard nothing in return so I kept pedaling then turned into Vondelpark.

As the path widened, Sterre pulled up alongside me. “Where are you taking me?” I turned to her and said, “That doesn’t sound like trust to me.” I heard a harrumphing noise so I said, "You know, ever since I first met you I’ve been following you around, letting you make all the decisions. Don’t get me wrong, I fucking love the decisions you make. But now it's my turn. Hey, if we're going to share, we have to take turns or mutually agree." Sterre said, "If we were walking I'd punch you in the arm right now." Ha! "More seriously, though, I’ve let others lead when getting together socially, leisurely. I actually prefer leading, showing others what I love about life, but few are open to going outside of their comfort zones. I've always been the one who's let others direct so they could feel comfortable. I'm unafraid of trying different things, of living through someone else's path. It's a way to be with them as they really are, but they don't truly discover who I really am that way. I don't want to be condescending, but one of the ways I've looked at that is that I have the courage to allow others more control. Most people really need to be in their comfort zones to feel secure enough to open up in the ways that make them accessible as human beings. I value connection more than any given activity so I've been willing to make that trade."

I turned to look at Sterre. She appeared to be riveted, looking straight ahead and riding, but in a way that suggested she was truly listening. Her silhouette next to the pond provided a powerful natural image, but I shook myself from observing so I could continue. "I was sometimes like that as a child—not always, not with my brother, not with certain friends. But when my family moved to Arizona the culture was so different that there were no shared interests. In order to have anything approximating a connection to another person I had to let them take the lead. They just weren't interested or capable of trying anything unfamiliar. I was sometimes fascinated by the things people liked, though. Even when I was bored with the stuff others were doing or thought it was disturbing I ... I observed, I guess. I was fascinated by how different each person was compared to everyone else. No one was the same. It's really true. Categories like race, gender, ethnicity, and nationality are lies. They might be useful in certain ways, they might tell partial truths, but spend significant time with any two people and the differences become pronounced. Nothing is simple, no one is simple. On the surface, maybe. Unfortunately, in the ways people are shuttled institutionally or by city planners or by laws, but behind closed doors, in the few autonomous spaces absent judgment? That's when individual uniqueness blooms.”

I turned to look at Sterre. She was watching me, listening, but then she said, "That's beautiful ... and incredibly sad." Yes. Beautiful and heartbreaking, like the brilliance of color in a sunset that gradually disappears into the darkness. “One of the reasons I like being alone as much as I am is because I finally get to do the things I like to do. But sometimes, once in a blue moon, I meet someone like you who does things I would choose to do if I was on my own. We share a lot of the same interests. I so rarely get to do the things I love doing while with others. Maybe I've just met the wrong people ... or maybe I'm just that different. I mean, even though we have a lot in common, we still barely know each other. There are almost certainly things about me that you wouldn't like if you discovered them." I shifted gears and lightened up. "In this case tonight, I'm flexible. If you don’t like what I have planned, hey, we’ll do something else. Until then, though," I turned and smiled, “give me a chance.” Sterre smiled back. She was looking at me with eyes different than any others I had seen from her before. She … admired me! I barely recognized the look; I’d been on the receiving end of it so infrequently throughout life. 

Vondelpark was mostly empty except for a few lone walkers, a jogger, and a couple cyclists. The darkness of it, even with the light posts, felt eerie in a cozy way, a feeling more than a look, something from out of a Tim Burton movie. We rode past the ponds, through the Van Baerlestraat underpass, along the narrow, across the automotive violence of Stadhouderskaade, along the bike path through a tunnel under a building into the ugly pedestrian circle where the Hard Rock Café stupidly but appropriately sat desperate and lonely, through another building tunnel, and then down the street toward Leidseplein.

When we arrived, I stopped on the edge of the square, just off the street. Sterre stopped alongside me, giving me a “What now?” look. I said, “This is the first leg of our adventure. It won’t last too long and then we’ll be moving on. Okay?” Sterre shook her head and shrugged. “Okay … I guess.” I looked around the square. A fair number of people moving in all directions. It was still relatively early, but Friday night nonetheless. I got off my bike and motioned for Sterre to do the same. I walked my bike the middle of the square and put up the kickstand. Sterre’s bike didn’t have one so I gently took it from her and laid it down next to my bike.

I put my hands around Sterre’s elbows and said, “I sometimes like to perform, but I never know what I’m going to do until I arrive. I might have an idea, but then it will fly out the window once I’m there. That’s what’s happened. You mentioned to me once that you’re into performance art. I don’t know what sort of performances you do, but I don’t think it matters. The important thing is to be open to play. Sometimes, though, my performances are so mundane that no around even knows I’m performing. I become the ‘invisible performing man’ and that’s my act. In this case, though, what I’d like to do, if you’re interested, is argue, first mildly then gradually building in intensity until we’re screaming the most vile insults at each other. Then, after a crowd of some size has formed, we stop screaming and passionately, wildly, throw ourselves into one another’s arms, kissing and groping and tearing at one another like there’s no tomorrow, like the only thing left in the world is the two of us, that the big one has just gone off and ours is the very last kiss the world will ever know.”

The plea was passionate, but I barely spoke above a whisper because I didn’t want to attract attention. As I spoke, I watched Sterre’s eyes and facial expression shift half a dozen times, from confusion to doubt to ambiguity to amusement to “Fuck, yeah, let’s do this!” She said, “Oh, you are fun. So, what are we going to argue about?” I thought for a second and then words just tumbled out of my mouth. “We’re an American couple on vacation, our wedding anniversary. You want to go to the Paradiso and I’m tired and just want to go back to the hotel. You think I’m an unimaginative, boring curmudgeon who takes you for granted, doesn’t love you anymore and I’m sick of your impulsive childishness, your disrespect, and I think you might be having an affair.” Sterre laughed. “Holy shit, okay. So how do we start?” Hmmm. “Well, we’re going to be winging it, but I guess we can start with you pleading for me to go to the Paradiso. Remember, we’re mildly arguing at first then it builds before we erupt into the greatest kiss of all time!”

I doubled over and Sterre laughingly said, “Hey, come on, get into character, damnit.” That just made me laugh harder. When I stood upright I straightened my face, raised my voice, and accusingly said, “You want to go where?” Sterre immediately reacted, “Dancing! Is that too much to ask? It’s our anniversary, for crying out loud!” I shook my head and wagged my finger inches from her face. “Oh, please! We’re in Amsterdam for one fucking night and then you get the trip you really wanted, two fucking weeks in Paris. Two fucking weeks!” I shifted to pleading, “Is it too much to ask for me to go back to the hotel to get high and relax?” Then I stepped on it. “Can we take it easy for one fucking night before you blow all of our fucking savings to Kingdom Come?!” Sterre squinted her eyes with menace and exploded, “Oh, you motherfucker! This is the first - fucking - trip we've taken since our goddamn honeymoon! Eight fucking years with you, eight fucking years and you still don’t give a fucking shit about me!”

Whoa. I was temporarily caught off guard, but I used the pause to my advantage, looking down, balling my hands into fists, then looking up at her again with as much hateful fury as I could muster before laying into her: “You insolent cunt! You’re giving me shit about the past eight years?! Maybe, just maybe, if you would look at me with anything but disdain I might actually feel like being romantic. You look at me like I’m a fucking dog who shit on the carpet! When’s the last time you even wanted to have sex with me? Every time I come near you, you pour another fucking glass of wine and walk away, like I don't even fucking exist!” Sterre came back quickly, sarcastically: “Oh, I must have blinked the one time you were affectionate. Oh, for you to bring up sex? Sex?!” Sterre’s body tensed. I could feel what was coming even though I had no idea what the words were going to be.

I noticed there were quite a few people all around us, giving us quite a bit of room to yell at each other. Sterre took a step toward me, put her hands on my jacket, clenched her fists around the collar, and screamed into my face, “You fuck like a dog! We don’t have sex—we masturbate into each other. You are the worst lover I have ever had in my entire fucking life!” That actually pissed me off; I didn’t have to fake it. I grabbed her by the wrists, her hands still clasping my jacket, and turned the dial up to eleven. “You fucking whore! How many men have you fucked since we got married?! Ten? Twelve? You're a fucking cunt, a cum-sucking slut!" I shifted down just a notch to become ... mean. "If I masturbate into you it’s because I hate you’re fucking guts and I wish, every - fucking - day, that I'd never met you, that you had never been born, and that I was with a woman,” my voice cracked and I gasped, almost crying, “who loved me.”

Sterre’s eyes watered. She said, so meekly I could barely hear her, “I’m sorry.” I felt all the rage, fake and otherwise, fall to the ground in a puddle. I could feel my eyes watering, too. A tear ran down Sterre’s cheek and I let go of her wrist to wipe it away. “I’m sorry, too." I breated heavily as Sterre sobbed lightly. "I don’t want us to be like this." We were veering from the loosely-crafted script, but this felt much more authentic. Sterre nodded her head. “I don't, either. I do love you. I'm so sorry.” She pulled her hands away from my collar and lowered her head into them sobbing. I put myarms around her. "Oh, baby. I love you so much. I don't want to hurt you any more. I'm sorry." She lifted her head out of her hands, her eyes red and her cheeks wet, and pulled me by my jacket to her lips and we kissed. Her lips were so soft. The kiss was slow, heartfelt. We had never kissed this intimately. It felt like the first genuine kiss between us. My heart opened wide and love charged through my throat into my mouth onto my lips and moistly parted hers. Our mouths were interlocked so completely that I forgot where we were. It wasn’t until I heard gasps and murmurs from all around us that I remembered. I pushed the sounds away and fell back into Sterre.

Sterre pulled away first and as she did my lips tried to follow. My eyes half-opened. I could barely see her. I was blinded, lovestruck. I heard a tiny burst from Sterre and that woke me a little. She was all woman, sexually pulsating, and I felt the most dipshitted grin on my face. I’m pretty sure that was why she was smiling the way she was. She slipped her head beside mine and whispered, “Let’s get the hell out of here—everyone’s watching.” I swallowed hard, trying to maintain some semblance of the act, then turned toward our bikes. I picked hers up and held it for her then got on my own. “Sterre?” She turned to me. “I’m afraid I’m going to fall over once I start pedaling.” She laughed. “Come on, let’s go!”

Sterre slowly made her way through the gawking crowd and I followed behind. She rode down Leidsestraat and signaled to turn onto Prinsengracht. She stopped a few buildings down, just past a bar, next to the railing overlooking the canal. I pulled up beside her. Sterre looked exuberant; I was panting, lightheaded, woozy. I didn’t have my legs under me and it was a bitch keeping up with her. She turned to me, triumphant, “What a rush!” I tried to catch my breath. She looked at me and said into me, “That was a great kiss.” I nodded. “Yeah. It was.” I smiled meekly. “I’m still recovering.” Sterre leaned over and kissed my cheek. I asked her if she had really been crying. “Um, sort of. It was all so intense and when your voice cracked while you were saying you just wanted a woman who loved you?” She held her hands over heart. “It just hit me. I was in the moment. You said it with so much heartache. I was aware we were acting, but still, you nailed that line. It was a great performance. I mean, you meant it.” I nodded my head. “I know. I was surprised the words came out like that. It’s funny, performing like that, just feeding off of each other. You never know what's going to happen. You ... you were incredible!” Sterre said, “I want to do it again! That was a magical premise, a completely believable interaction. I had no idea you could perform like that.” My feet were back under me. “What are you talking about? I put on a great performance the day I met you.” Laughter from Sterre. “Oh, well, yeah but ... this was different. You weren't entirely performing then--were you?” I said, "No, no. I mean, I started off that way, but it shifted the more you opened up." I paused then said, “That kiss tonight, though, wow, you floored me. I forgot where we were. Please don’t tell me that kiss was part of the act.” Sterre licked her lips, raised her eyebrows, and amusedly tilted her head. “Well …” No! “Are you shitting me?!” She nodded her head. “It started off as acting, but, no, my heart was open. I could do that again.” Oh, yes, me too.

We got off our bikes and moved in closer to one another. As we were about to kiss, though, we heard rowdy yelling and screaming, drunken British singing. I looked over to the bridge spanning Prinsengracht and about eight Brits were stumbling down the street, drunk or stoned or both. Just as I was about to turn back to Sterre, one of the Brits stumbled over to the railing of the bridge and yakked something awful. Putrid yellows and oranges hurled violently in a lumpy mass toward the canal below, splashing grotesquely. Another heave and an even bigger splurge of multicolored sickness. His buddies were laughing hysterically, one of them patting him on the back telling him to get it all out so that they could keep drinking. A couple dry heaves later, he sunk to the ground holding onto the railing.

I finally turned to Sterre. "I suppose the kiss can wait." She was grimacing. “Yeah, I just lost my appetite.” Fucking Brits. We got back on our bikes and rode silently down Prinsengracht. I hadn’t ridden along a canal with a woman since I was with S. This felt better, though. I must have fooled myself into thinking I loved S. It was strange how my perception of that relationship constantly shifted. Fortunately, the serenity and romance of Prinsengracht captured most of my attention; Sterre captured the rest. My thoughts disappeared and I absorbed the ambience, allowing it to imbue me with its magic. I loved Amsterdam, even with the drunken Brits polluting the canals with vomit. There was always a risk of a scene like that on Friday nights near Leidseplein. It attracted so many tourists and weekenders from nearby European countries it was just par for the course. As romantic and fulfilling as Amsterdam was for me, my relationship to the city differed from most who came to visit. The weekenders, in particular, were the reason I avoided touristy areas for the most part, especially on Friday and Saturday nights.

An international city like Amsterdam, a city with a reputation for wild excess, supreme freedom, and hedonistic pleasure was always going to attract a sizable chunk of debauchery and frat-like partying. Nothing wrong with that; Vegas was the same way The difference, though, was that Vegas didn’t offer anything subtle, romantic, or beautiful, no social justice movement, no environmentalists, no gay-pride parades, no feminist liberation, no meaningful cultural exchange or immersion, no brilliant urban design developed over centuries, no authenticity, no community, no spirit of goodwill, no gezelligheid, nothing intimate or caring or kind or loving, nothing approximating the fullness of being human. Then again, few cities offered all of those things. There was nothing frivolous about my love for Amsterdam; I loved the city because it was my guide, my loving teacher, a playground for learning what was worthwhile.

Sterre continued riding along and I kept pace. “Where are we going, Sterre?” She looked at me. “I’ve been following you.” What? Laughter between us. “Okay, hold up.” We stopped and Sterre said, “You said Leidseplein was just the first stop. What’s next?” I honestly forgot what I had been thinking of doing next. I had been winging it. “Well, I could get inventive or we could go back to my place, smoke some hash, drink some wine, and try that kiss again.” Sterre smirked. “You are devious. Okay, how about one more adventure and then go back to your place.” Damn. “That’s cool. Okay, give me a minute.” I heard a satisfactory sigh. “I like you leading. I don’t have to think about what’s coming next. It’s nice to be surprised.” Her thoughtfulness made me feel romantic, but I needed to tap into my adventurousness, damnit!

“Okay, follow me!” We were right next to the grandiose Westerkerk so I turned to the east on Westmarkt which became Raadhuisstraat after passing over Keizersgracht which took us right smack dab in front of the stately Royal Palace. I took a zig-zag then crossed Rokin, whipping around tourists and other pedestrians, ringing my bell like a wild man, checking to see if Sterre was in tow every now and then—she was, grinning ear to ear—then cranked a right onto Nes, popping a wheelie past pedestrians, some shrieking, others laughing, as I pedaled like a crazed man, ringing my bell and shouting “Lekker, Lekker, Mooi, Mooi,” at the top of my lungs, winding back and forth across the narrow street to avoid pedestrians then letting go of the handlebars as I held the wheelie in place by relaxing my body becoming as flexible and adaptable as possible to steer while maintaining the balance.

As I passed Frascati, I put my hands back on the handlebars and leaned forward to put the front tire back on the ground. I was breathing heavily, the first time since my early teens I had popped a wheelie. I probably rode it longer than I ever had when I was young and I had never ridden a wheelie no-handed before in my life. Sterre wanted an adventure so, hey, why not? I looked back and Sterre was way behind me. I slowed down and waited for her to catch up. Her eyes were wide, her mouth agape. “Are you insane?!” Well, that wasn’t the reaction I expected. “What? You wanted adventure, right?” She shook her head as we slowly cycled side by side. “That wasn’t adventurous; that was stupid and dangerous. You could have broken your head wide open, never mind all the people you scared half to death.” I turned to Sterre and joked, “We’re on Nes. Everyone’s loaded with money. They’ve got the best cardiac surgeons at their disposal in case of a heart attack.” Sterre shook her head, not at all amused.

“For future reference, adventure should be fun, not harrowing.” Oooh--I didn’t know she knew that word! I guess I had been self-indulgent and insensitive. How, though? Because it was so fucking fun? “You know what, Sterre?” She sighed. She was miffed. “I have never been in a coffeeshop with another person before. I’ve always gone in alone. That was my other thought for adventure, but it didn’t seem that adventurous. I had romantic ideas, too, but you were pretty enthusiastic about adventure. I thought performing again would be redundant. I was just making it up as we went along. We could go to a bar or café for a drink. I have a good friend who manages at a café called Bloem in the Plantage, we could go there. He’s a great guy. You’d like him. And the place is chill.”

Sterre shook her head. “I don’t know.” I said, “Music or dancing?” No response. “Back to my place?” She turned to me and shot daggers into me. Fuck, she was really pissed off. “Look, I’m really sorry, Sterre. I hadn’t done anything like that since I was a kid. I didn't mean to scare you or anyone else. I'm sorry I left you so far behind, too. You know, I feel different with you, like we’re a team when we’re out together. I was just allowing myself to be myself, you know? This is what I meant earlier when I said there might be some things you don't like about me. And there are probably some things I won't like about you over time. But I crossed a line. I wasn't including you when I did that. I fucked up and I’m really sorry. I was an asshole.”

Sterre turned to me again, less anger in her eyes, but her wall definitely up. Fuck, man. We came to “T” and turned toward Rokin, stopping at the intersection. Sterre sighed several times then said, “Maybe we should just call it a night.” Shit. “Sterre, I don’t think it's a good idea to end the night on such a sour note. We had a great time tonight until just now.” Sterre softened a bit—thankfully. I felt my chest loosen, relief. “It’s not the end of the world, Michael. I don’t hate you or anything. I’m just not in a good mood now.” I nodded somberly. I felt like shit. “I still like you. I still want to see you again. I just think we should go our separate ways tonight.”

I didn’t know what to say. There was nothing to say. My feeling of shame became clouded by numbness. My own wall went up, a defense mechanism to bury the hurt, both from causing her pain and for losing her heart for the night … or maybe forever. She said she wanted to see me again, but who knew? Maybe I pushed the wrong button, the ultimate wrong button. Hard to believe something that felt so good could hurt someone so bad. Sometimes nothing makes sense … or our differences were much more significant than I imagined. We still barely knew each other. I showed more of myself in my own ways, most of which she liked, but one way she critically did not.

Sterre was facing straight ahead and when the traffic cleared she turned to me and said, “Goodbye, Michael.” She opened her mouth again, apparently to say more, but she stopped herself and rode across Rokin toward Spui. She didn’t look back. I sighed. I didn’t feel like moving. I didn’t feel like anything. I was stunned that she left like that. The shittiest possible ending to the night.

I straddled my bike for a long time, staring out at Rokin without seeing or hearing anything at all. “Goodbye, Michael”? Fuck.