It was becoming increasingly clear that I was going to need an assistant or, perhaps, to become an assistant. There were no two ways about it, it had to be one or the other. My preference was for a young, tiny Vietnamese woman who was advanced in martial arts, could speak every Asian language in addition to English and Dutch, and had money to burn. However, I realized I was more likely to find a person who needed an assistant and help them with their various needs through cleverness and creativity, my ability to be vulnerable and nonjudgmental, and my willingness to do any type of drug offered to me. The latter had to be worth something to someone. I didn’t care about being paid; usefulness was my goal. What else would it have been?
Whenever I stood in line at a patisserie waiting for an éclair, I thought of such things. And whenever I bit into an éclair after waiting in line, the thoughts disappeared. By the time I had finished I wouldn’t even think to wonder what I had been thinking about while waiting in line. Instead, I would rub my belly and be happy. Why it should be different, I wasn’t sure. I knew it wasn’t different, though, so I didn’t worry about it. What would have been the point even had I remembered? No, it was better to remember that I thought these things the next time I stood in line waiting for a tasty pastry and then forgetting about them again after taking a bite.
I rode my sugar rush to Eik en Linde. It was too early for Bloem and I hadn’t seen Kasper and company for longer than I could remember. After I locked my bike and walked inside, I saw Peter as well as two older gents I didn’t know sitting around the curly Q. One was sitting in my spot, but I had pretty much forfeited claims to any particular seat since I hadn’t visited regularly since the fall. Nevertheless, I found a good spot against the wall. I placed my laptop bag on the counter, put my coat on the seat, and sat down.
Kasper was busy down the bar so I looked over toward Peter who hadn’t yet realized I was there. As usual, he had a beer sitting in front of him. Each of the old cusses on either side of him also had glasses filled with beer in their hands. I turned to look at the backwards running clock. About 12:45 … meaning it was 11:15 AM. Well, at least it was after eleven. Maybe they had just gotten started.
Not that it mattered. Social mores seemed especially ridiculous with time moving backward. What struck me was not so much the drinking at this early hour, but that Peter didn’t seem to recognize me. The conversation between the three of them switched back and forth between Dutch and English. In a way, it should have made following the conversation a little easier, but that wasn’t the case. I understood referents to marching bands then gorgeous women cycling in the rain and then the fascism of taxing cigarettes. I understood just enough to know that this was a typical brown café conversation. It was, like most Dutch conversations, an equal opportunity affair: no subject would remain uncovered.
When Kasper finally saw me and wandered my way he extended his hand and I shook it vigorously. I asked, “Hoe ben je geweest?” He answered, “Kan niet klagen. Heb je honger?” I said, “Ja, een koffie en uitsmijter mit tomaten, paprika, en champignons.” He nodded his head, but gave me a look. “Je hebt gewerkt aan uw Nederlandse.” I smiled and said, “Niet op doel.” Kasper laughed then said, in English, “You’re getting better, but your translations aren’t quite right. Pretty good, though. Amusing, but good.”
When Daniel turned away to place my order with Philip in the kitchen cubby hole, I turned to look at Peter and the other gents. Peter was eyeing my warily. He said, “Ik dacht dat ik je kende, maar spreek je Nederlands te goed om Michael te zijn.” Motherfucker. Too many words I didn’t know. “Peter, I was pretty much at my limit talking with Kasper.” He guffawed. “Oh, I see. So, you can speak Dutch with Kasper, but I’m not good enough for you.” I shook my head. “No, Peter, you’re too good for me.” This did not sit well with Peter at all. “You disappear for a month and then you come back full of American cow shit.” I corrected him, “Bullshit.” I could see the confusion on Peter’s face so I explained, “The term is ‘bullshit,’ Peter. Cow shit is just cow shit.” Then I added, just to fuck with him, “But maybe that’s what you meant.”
Peter sighed. “No, I remember this now. The cow is the woman and the bull is the man. Why the shit of a man should be so much more deceitful than the shit of a woman? It’s the other way around so I stick to my saying: cow shit.” I laughed then he switched to Dutch, “Twee kunt dit spel, je eentalige Yankee.” The two Dutchmen sitting on either side of Peter laughed heartily. I wasn’t sure what he had said, but I knew it wasn’t flattering. “Peter, all I heard was ‘cunt,’ though I doubt it has the same meaning that it does in America. We’ve already established that I’m the one with linguistic limitations, you know. There’s no need to flaunt it with words I don’t understand.” Peter raised his eyebrows. “Judging from your response, I think you may understand more than you know. Still, you’re not drinking beer yet so my respect is limited.” I shrugged, “I wouldn’t want you to waste it all at once. Glad you’re pacing yourself.”
Kasper returned with my coffee and said, to Peter and I, “It’s too early for this.” Peter shot back, “It’s too late to say ‘it’s too early.’” Kasper waved his hand at Peter dismissively and leaned against the counter in front of me. “So, where have you been? I thought maybe you had left for the States.” I added cream to the coffee then said, “No, no, I wouldn’t leave without saying goodbye. Never. I’m on the other side of the Amstel, remember? I don’t make it over to this neighborhood too often in the mornings.” Another customer called for Kasper and I sipped my coffee as he walked away.
I talked with Peter and the other two gents intermittently until Kasper brought me my food. As I ate, I listened to the sounds of Dutch resonating throughout the café. I ordered an espresso when I was finished, told Kasper about some of my adventures and misadventures, eliciting a comment about how he missed the single life. I told him I would be happy to switch places as his life seemed idyllic to me: a beautiful wife, a darling daughter, managing his parents’ café, everyday conversations with a mix of fun-loving patrons, both locals and tourists, veering from the lackadaisical to the utmost seriousness. The grass is always greener.
I went out for smokes with Peter occasionally, talking about nothing, jabbing and needling. As the afternoon grew I wondered if I did want Kasper’s life. I certainly had just months earlier, but as I thought about it more seriously I wasn’t so sure. Being single, particularly the way I was living, was in many ways more fulfilling than even the best years of my married life. Would I really want to go back to living that way? I realized I hadn’t spent this much time at Eik en Linde since November and I thought back to that time, about who I had been, how I had felt, my outlook on life. I could barely relate to that person. November had been a weird and wild month, a month of escaping from depression to take control of my life again, to enjoy it, and to direct it in some fashion, even if haphazardly, fumbling according to desire and pleasure as much as anything else. And yet, I made critical decisions that allowed me, in the early spring, to shift as easily from wild partying with sex and drugs to meandering mornings and afternoons in free-flowing conversations with witty, down-to-earth friends and acquaintances at a cozy, familiar café. There was no more anxiety, no depression, only creativity, adventure, and appreciation.
When I ordered a beer from Kasper mid-afternoon as the café continued to fill up, I thought about how unusual it was to experience so many different modes of being within such short periods of time, how each moment simultaneously shifted both subtly and strikingly without contradiction. Every person sitting or standing within view, within earshot, moved or spoke with different rhythms, different cadences. They contrasted with the movements and sounds of the party over the weekend and yet there were similarities in the sense that the interactions were familiar while being diverse. The commonality was vitality. There was life here just as there had been there. The forms life took seemed different on the surface, but not at their core. This told me nothing in particular; I had no great insight. I felt alive, though, and I appreciated being in the presence of life.
I hadn’t touched my laptop since arriving. When I saw the clock at 7:30—meaning 4:30—I paid my tab. I had already said goodbye to Kasper as his shift had ended at four. Peter and the other two fellows had left early in the afternoon. I hadn’t spoken much in the preceding hours except with Kasper, but I had felt fully immersed in the life of the café just the same, observing expressions and gestures while listening to Dutch, French, and English throughout the afternoon.
I left the café, unlocked my bike, and rode to Bloem. A full day of cafés. It had been some time since I had lived such a day. I locked my bike and walked into Bloem, taking a seat at the bar. I waved to Daniel as he served a customer at a table. Isa was working behind the bar and I ordered a Floreffe. He poured it, knifed the foam off the top, and placed it on a coaster in front of me. After a few minutes of simple but amiable chatting between us, Daniel pulled up a seat next to me. There were only a few customers present so it seemed he had time. The three of us talked about inconsequential matters for a couple minutes then Isa went to attend to a couple that had walked in the door.
Daniel checked on a table then asked me if I wanted to join him for a smoke outside. Once we were outside, Daniel sighed and said, “I’m thinking of breaking it off with Sophia.” Whoa. “Really? Why?” Daniel took a drag and exhaled. “We’re too different. She’s, well, she’s a slob.” I laughed. “I wouldn’t have guessed that.” He shook his head and threw his butt into a coffee can serving as an ashtray. “She gets up at noon, smokes pot, and either goes back to sleep or sits stoned in front of the TV or listens to music. She’s lazy.” Wow. I really wouldn’t have guessed that. I hemmed a bit, though. “She does work late so maybe …” I trailed off as Daniel looked at me sharply. “So do I, but I don’t sleep all day.” I asked in what way she was a slob. “Clutter everywhere. She doesn’t clean up. Too stoned.” Huh. I was usually productive and energetic while high, but then again being stoned was another matter. Daniel continued, “It’s okay, it’s her choice. It’s not what I want, though. I mean, she’s twenty-six. That’s young, yes, but she acts like she’s still in college. We’re not a good fit. I love her spirit, but ... I don’t know, it’s not enough, not long-term.”
They had only been seeing each other three weeks, as far as I knew, and they had been full of fire every other time I saw them. But Daniel was certainly not lazy. He had a consistent high energy, working seventy or eighty hours each week often with enough juice to keep going after work. I had wondered about that in the past, how he always seemed to be fresh even after a long night out. Month after month maintaining that stamina? I didn’t allow myself to wonder too much, though. It wasn't my business. Some people are high-octane, although Daniel never seemed harried. Maybe that was it, too: he was always within his skin, he didn't over-extend himself. Being that relaxed, eighty hour weeks may not have felt like eighty hour weeks.
I understood his feelings about his relationship with Sophia, though. She wasn’t just a friend; she was his girlfriend and they had gotten serious fast. That measure of day-to-day sharing of life meant giving up at least some of one’s self in order to make the relationship work. If Daniel’s perspective was accurate—and I had no reason to believe it wasn’t—then he had been giving much more ground than Sophia. I had a hard time seeing Daniel hanging out all day doing nothing with Sophia sitting in a cluttered room. Daniel was patient and nonjudgmental, but giving up so much of who he was all the time? I couldn’t imagine that being satisfying for him. Or anyone else, really, but I was probably more like Daniel in that regard. I liked a clean space and I preferred activity.
“Have you mentioned any of this to Sophia?” Daniel folded his arms. “Yeah. We’ve had a couple arguments, but that hasn’t changed anything. The longer we’re together the worse it will be. Better to end it early. Better for both of us.” I thought about it, though. She seemed crazy about Daniel. Even after only a few weeks, this would sting. Sophia seemed like one who dove in heart first. She may have had her other habits, but her heart was passionate, beautiful. It was a shame because they had seemed like such a great fit emotionally--she brought out something in Daniel I hadn’t seen before they started seeing each other. Emotions alone are never enough, though. Neither is great sex, though that makes up for a lot. Still, it wasn't like Daniel would be wanting for bedroom companionship.
As we walked back inside, Daniel said, “Don’t tell anyone about this. I just needed to get it off my chest.” I patted him on the back and said, “No problem. If you want to talk about it more or, you know, after, just give me a call.” Daniel smiled a little then got back to work. A few more tables were filled and Isa seemed to be scrambling. I sat back at the bar, my Floreffe nearly finished.
After Isa had dealt with the new tables, he came around the bar to fill drinks. He poured another for me then took a tray full of drinks to the tables he was serving. Daniel was in the kitchen placing orders. Busy for a Monday. I took out my MacBook and placed it on the bar, turning it on while drinking. I figured things would be busy for a while and I wanted to take a look at the PDFs for the next indexing project.
After checking email and reading a little news, I shut it down. The rush had slowed and I ordered the special of the day, chatting with Isa here and there until the food was ready. Daniel took a break and talked with me a bit from behind the bar while Isa waited tables. We kept it light, jovial. When I finished eating I went back to the kitchen and complimented Dorlan. He was Turkish, but spoke Dutch well. Most of our communication was nonverbal and when it was verbal we communicated mostly through tone, volume, and inflection. I liked him, but it wasn’t possible to get to know him well with the language barrier. Most of what I knew of him came from Daniel. I imagined it was the same for Dorlan.
Daniel joined me for another cigarette and this time we smoked in silence. I felt more intimacy with Daniel when there were no words. I noticed his presence more acutely. I still hadn’t figured out a way to describe the dynamic, but I cherished it. If I was stranded on a desert island with only one person, I would want that person to be Daniel. I would choose him over a woman even. Yes, the sex issue, but I would never feel alone if he was present. We could go without talking for months and I wouldn’t feel any distance. He had that quality and I didn’t know any women who had that—I didn’t know anyone besides Daniel who had that.
As the hours passed and Bloem’s customers cleared out, Daniel, Isa, and I talked about all manner of subjects, mostly politics, economics, and philosophy. Isa listened more often than he spoke and he seemed to enjoy when Daniel and I argued over politics and economics. We agreed on many things, but Daniel was more of a capitalist. I understood his point of view and his arguments had merit, but there were flaws. We didn’t see eye to eye over the damage of international trade.
When Daniel’s wife, Ana, walked into Bloem late, she and Daniel spoke in Dutch at the end of the bar. Isa told me he was fascinated by the conversation. “You’re both passionate. I’m learning quite a bit, too.” I knew Isa was an economics major, very intelligent, but he was only 21 so he lacked real-world experience related to a number of economic issues. Ana, meanwhile, walked toward me on my side of the bar. I stood and kissed her on each cheek. Daniel said, from across the bar, “You just picked up an ally, Michael. Ana’s views are aligned with yours. It's bad enough dealing with the Dutch on these issues, but you, Michael, an American?” Danile shook his head and threw up his hands. “What's the world coming to?” Ana seemed perplexed. I said, “Politics and economics.” She smiled knowingly as she sat down next to me.
From our first meeting, I knew Ana volunteered at Greenpeace and lived in a squat. I figured her politics would be more in line with mine. Daniel possessed a minority view in Amsterdam, but certainly not an exclusive view. There were many international businesses in the city and certainly in the country. The Dutch, I had learned, certainly had a “capitalist class.” Daniel was a fan of the United States—for the most part—but it seemed that it was more because he had been surrounded by radical Dutch culture for a decade and held onto an American ideal tightly. He may have been somewhat conservative as a Dutchmen, but he would have been a liberal in the States, certainly on social issues. His wife was a lesbian, for crissakes, and he had as many gay friends as straight. That seemed typical in Amsterdam, though. Daniel was tolerant and, at least socially, libertarian. He wasn't quite as libertarian when it came to fiscal policy. His issues were with what he thought were excessive rights and privileges for workers, but from the conversation he understood that the United States was on the opposite extreme. A happy middle was what Daniel desired and I could understand that sentiment even though I didn't believe such a happy medium could feasibly be achieved.
Ana left at closing time and I stayed only a half hour after that. It had been good to see her again; it was a surprise I hadn’t expected. I had spent over twelve hours in my favorite cafés with good friends over the course of the day. From the wilds of the weekend to the softer rhythms of the early week, I felt fat and happy. I rode through the cold on the way home, marveling, as I so often did, at living in such a magical city.
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