Amsterdam Seventy-Three: The Mundane

I went out for coffee in the morning. Fortunately, whoever had locked my bike the day before had unlocked it. I was heading toward Eik en Linde, but as I was riding along the Amstel on the east bank of the Amstel I was overcome by a desire to go someplace where I would be anonymous. I didn’t get much sleep and my powers of representation were not terribly strong. I felt fresh, but words still felt foreign and I didn't want to lose that too quickly. I knew it wouldn’t last because it never does. Language fights like hell to dominate the mind no matter how resistant the senses might be. I had just enough handle on language and symbolism to be functional with the abstract norms of civilization, but I couldn’t imagine a conversation with Peter on a morning like this. I missed seeing him, though. Another day.

I stopped at Café ’t Hooischip where the Amstel, Blauwbrug, and Waterlooplein met. I locked my bike nearby—grateful that it was early and that the rack wasn’t crowded—and walked into the café. I went to the bar and took a seat. While I waited for the barkeep to finish with another customer I looked out the window toward the Amstel. The sun was starting to come out from behind the clouds. The ride over had been cool, but not cold. The weather was becoming increasingly mild, perhaps a sign of an early spring.

I ordered an Americano and sat patiently thinking about nothing. The previous day was a memory, one that, in the light of the morning, didn’t seem surreal at all. My life had become unpredictable; what once seemed bizarre now felt commonplace. The mundane became exotic. Breathing in the scent of coffee in a lazy morning café felt like walking into a new world. In a world of language, silence was dazzling.

I dipped a biscuit into the coffee and took a bite, mindlessly looking at items of interest around the café: the stairs that led to the tables and chairs a half-floor up, the dozens of photos on the wall next to the stairs, the bottles of booze on shelves on the other side of the bar, and the dark wood floor, ceiling, and walls typical of brown cafés. It was a cozy little place, not big at all. There were a few patrons sitting half a floor above and a couple at the bar. The volume on the conversations was turned down low. The quiet was a welcome guest and the morning felt slower because of its shrouded presencce. I sighed contentedly as I drank my coffee, imagining the whole day passing like this.

It didn’t, though. I left after my second cup, riding my bicycle to Spui to purchase groceries and then back to my apartment. Once home, I made an omelet, an early lunch. So few thoughts, most of them simple observations of my own movements. An impulse to use pepper went by without a word yet my hand found the spice and sprinkled it onto the eggs. It wasn’t until I began indexing that words flooded my brain. They were all over the pages of the undergraduate history textbook and I had to engage with them. The noise of my mental voice was deafening.

I adjusted, though. I indexed ferociously, perhaps because my thoughts had been cleared of debris. My associative mind created connections that I ascertained the author didn’t intend. The connections existed, though, so I filled the gaps the author had left, massively gaping holes in the history of the United States. I wondered what process he had used to decide “This is important” and “This is not worth mentioning.” It seemed almost random, a collection of parts that, once assembled, told a story that no one with a bit of sense could believe. He had built a combustion engine with silly putty. There were mountain-top tidbits like a Tax Act passed in wxyz by the nth Congress that had been vetoed by President Z vetoing the bill before politically being pressured to sign it into law.

There was nothing about the impact of the law, though, nothing substantial. I thought about the city tax code passed in Amsterdam centuries ago that collected money from homeowners and business owners based on the square footage of the first floor of buildings and how that code led to the creative building practice of extending the floors above the first out over the street to increase the square footage of the second, third, fourth, and fifth floors so that there would be more space to justify higher rents and sales prices. Considering aftereffects like that seemed to be an important way of connecting the passage of a tax code to the practical effects the law had on the way the city developed. Such investigations also provided windows into the mindset of ownership and the importance of spatial relationships.

The fucking book I was indexing was too stupid for insights like that. It maddened me, but I did my best to provide contextual clues in the index, using creative phrasing and conceptual connections that weren't elucidated through the text. A reader using relational thinking would be able to spot the clues and see what I was creating. I was giving information not only about where in the text certain concepts were located but also providing insights into gaps that existed so an industrious reader might realize that further research would be needed if 1+1=2 didn't provide enough information to understand what the hell had happened during Reconstruction.

On the other hand, this was an undergraduate textbook and, as such, it was providing a general introduction to a wide array of information. I wondered about the usefulness of such texts. They gave just enough information to get a student in trouble. Undergrad textbooks do not provide a solid foundation for further research because they determine the starting point for an understanding of a particular topic and those starting points were usually oversimplifications and distortions. Plus, the structures of the textbooks were reliant on separation through categorization. No reader of such texts was going to develop associative thinking skills that might aid in building connections between seemingly unrelated events that, in fact, were dependent on one another.

If I was presented with the code that levied taxes based on first-floor square footage without any more information, I might have walked through Amsterdam without ever noticing that the buildings jutted outward floor by floor. Even if I had noticed I would have wondered why; it's doubtful I would have recalled reading about the tax code and applied that knowledge in a way that led me to think, "Oh, so they built the other floors in such a way that they had more square footage than the first floor! Clever ... interesting how that changed the way the city looks. What a weird world of unintended consequences." Perhaps as a tourist such wonderment is inconsequential, but as a student and observer, one who learns through the mind and the senses, information of that nature can provide a context to see much more than what is physically present. An understanding that the specificity of tax laws can change the shape of the world--in this case, literally. I was likely in the minority when it came to viewing the world in such ways. I was becoming increasingly aware that such thought is what makes thinkers philosophers and shamans and observers artists, aesthetes, and lovers.

I plowed through the text, nonetheless, delighting in these discoveries as I was transforming what might have been maddening into yet another learning experience. I made myself stop at six, though. I checked my email then took a few puffs of Cheese before unwinding with a cigarette on the couch while listening to Phish. After relaxing for a half hour I made a sandwich then got ready to head to Bloem. I unlocked my bike from the overcrowded rack and rode over the Magere Brug to make my way. When I walked inside, I saw Nina near the front entrance in the lounging area with a number of boisterous young men and women. Daniel was working behind the bar talking with Alexander.

Alex saw me and said, “Michael! Hey, how are you?” I could tell he was sauced. Daniel looked at me with what appeared to be relief. I went up to the bar and ordered a La Chouffe. Daniel poured me a glass as Alex talked about international politics. I was intrigued. We started talking about the World Bank and the IMF loans to third world countries, how international nongovernmental organizations forced countries to adopt economic and regulatory changes to reduce interest rates on massive debts. This meant opening up countries for strip mining and deforestation through deregulation, benefiting multinational conglomerates that shoveled the money back to the U.S., Europe, Japan, and--increasingly--China. It was a long-standing game INGOs had been playing with the southern hemisphere in particular. Keeping the poor … poor, as well as raping countries of natural resources.

The subject changed to immigration problems in The Netherlands. Alex told me the story of Theo Van Gogh being shot. I was familiar, but it was interesting hearing the story from a person who had lived in Amsterdam at the time of the shooting. Alex suggested that I purchase the book Murder in Amsterdam by Ian Buruma to learn more about the life of the Moroccan man as well as the historical forces in play, including Amsterdam’s tradition of tolerance.

After an hour or so, Alex prepared to leave and slurred, “Michael, it was good to see you. You’ll have to come over for dinner some time and meet my family. My wife, she's gonna kill me tonight. Too many beers.” He laughed, gave me a half hug which just about broke my ribs, and swayed toward the door. He turned back and pulled out his wallet. “Daniel, oh my gosh, I almost forgot to pay.” Daniel was at the other end of the bar talking with one of Nina’s cute friends. Daniel excused himself and collected on Alex’s tab. Alex turned again to weave toward the door. Daniel waved goodbye then walked over to me.

“Quite the conversation with Alex. I overheard a little.” I said, “Yeah, it was interesting. He’s a fascinating guy. I’m a little burned out on the politics at the moment, though.” I drank from the glass Daniel had recently poured then said,  “What’s the deal with Nina and her friends?” Daniel shrugged. “They’re just hanging out, talking about going to a party later.” I asked about Sophia and he casually said. “She’s good. I’m seeing her after work tonight.”

I took a deep breath and tried to be just as nonchalant as Daniel. “Does, um, Piper come here often?” He looked at me and barely restrained a smile. “Oh, every now and then." He paused as if deliberating. “Sophia mentioned that they're going to a club tomorrow night. You should go with them. I’ll tell Sophia to swing by Bloem around nine or so.” I asked Daniel if he was going, too. “I don’t think so. I’ll be working late so I doubt it.”

Going out with Piper sounded perfect to me. Clubbing and dancing was all the better. I ordered another La Chouffe, but Daniel had me try a specialty beer instead. He said Andy had recommended it. He poured a glass from the bottle and after it settled I took a drink. My taste buds snapped to attention. My eyes must have widened, too, because Daniel smiled and said, “That one might be a keeper.” I responded emphatically, “It would be a crime if you let that one go!” He responded, “Well, it's pricey so I don't expect it to sell too well. I have a small supply. Just have to see how it goes.”

One of Nina’s friends came up to the bar, a guy, and ordered three beers. Nina walked over to me while Daniel was busy. She put her arm around my shoulders. She was buzzed and planted a kiss on my cheek. “So, you’re coming to my competition, right?” I told her I wouldn’t miss it. She nodded and seemed happy. I asked how life was treating her. She sighed, “We have a new roommate at our flat. He’s gross. He’s such a guy.” I asked her what I was. Nina smiled, “You’re not a guy. You’re more like Daniel. You listen, you’re thoughtful, and you're not an asshole.” I laughed. “Let me know if I ever start to become an asshole.” Nina looked at me angrily. “Hell, yeah, I will!”

“Ah, there's the 'angry lesbian' everyone knows and loves.” Nina laughed, but she looked a little pissed off. “I am not the ‘angry lesbian.’” That made me laugh. “I know, I know, I'm just kidding. Sorry, but I couldn't resist.” I settled down and asked, “Besides Anabel and Daniel, does anyone else call you that?” She became even more defiant and said, “Yes! I hate it. Ugh, they make me so mad.” I bent over laughing. “Nina, you’re so fucking funny.” As I sat back up she looked at me incredulously. “What?” I couldn’t stop laughing, though it was now just a chuckle. “You know, the only time you get really angry is when someone tells you you’re angry!” Nina shook her head. Not even a smile. “Michael, you're becoming an asshole.” Jesus Christ, she was fucking killing me.

Even with all the laughter and fun, I was still dazzled by Nina's looks. Strangely, I did not feel sexual toward her. It wasn’t because she was a lesbian—after all, she liked cock and, well, I had one. No, it wasn’t that. She seemed more like the little sister I'd never had. I felt the same way about Anabel even though they were both so passionate. They had an air of innocence in spite of their wild and worldly ways. I felt protective of them, too, the way I might if they were my younger siblings. It was probably because of the way we first met.

I changed the subject. “Have you heard from Anabel?” Nina said yes. “Yeah, she’s having a ball, blah, blah, blah. I miss her, though. She’s going to be gone so long and I’m stuck here in classes.” I asked her what she was studying. “Journalism and Women’s Studies.” Of course. I mentioned I had worked on a few books about feminism. She said, “Oh, yeah, you work in publishing. I forgot.” Someone from the corner of the café called to her. She turned and held up a finger then turned back to me, “Don’t forget the DJ competition. I’m going to kick ass!” She made a tough girl face and pumped her fist. As she walked away I thought, “Damn, who she’s going to become.” She was already something else.

Daniel was talking with yet another sexy woman at the end of the bar. I pulled out my wallet and called to him. I flashed my card and he came over. “You’re leaving?” I said “Yeah, I didn’t get much sleep last night.” Daniel raised an eyebrow. I said, “No, no,” then winked. “That was the night before last.” Daniel swiped my card and I wrote a healthy tip. I figured he wasn’t going to get too many gratuities from college students; well, he wasn't going to get much cash from them, anyway. He looked at the amount and frowned. “Michael …” I stopped him and said, “See you tomorrow night.” I turned to walk toward the side door while Daniel said to ride home safely. I yelled down to Nina and waved goodbye, but she was immersed in an animated conversation with a few friends. I couldn’t tell exactly, but she looked angry. I laughed again as I walked out the door.

I unlocked my bike then pulled out my dugout. I mashed pot into the bat, lit it, and took a long drag. I exhaled and felt that much more relaxed. I got on my bike and sped home, my body loose. I felt giddy. The day had been simple, peaceful in the morning followed by a workaday afternoon before the easy warmth of Bloem. When I came upon the emptiness of Nieuwe Kerkstraat I rode no-handed the rest of the way home.