Amsterdam Sixty-Five: Hell

I finished the marketing index Sunday morning and sent it off to the publisher along with an invoice. $1500 for about twelve hours of work. This was why I didn’t turn down the business books. They paid ridiculously well even though they were so fucking easy to do. Meanwhile, I might make only $10/hour indexing a complex feminist critique on international affairs. When it comes to capitalism, the difficulty of the work has nothing to do with income. My work-related experiences taught me that the easier the work the better the pay. Meritocracy, my ass.

When I was done I checked my email. Nothing. I didn’t let my mind go far enough to wonder about what that meant. Instead, I put on my coat, hat, and gloves, grabbed my dugout and keys, and made my way out the door. Low clouds, light rain, cold, no wind. I walked, inattentive to where I was walking. Sullen. I was perhaps more affected by the situation with Sterre than I wanted to admit. The joy from the previous day likely due to the sense of discovery. The sun had been shining, the weather warmer, and I cycled upon treasures I hadn’t expected to find.

This day, though, with its low-hanging clouds, drizzle, and absence of air movement, weighed heavily over me. Whatever relish there was from finishing the index was quashed by the absence of emails. The smallest things could tell the most important stories. Smoke rings and empty email boxes, neither good nor bad in and of themselves, but contextually as meaningful as a car crash or a winning lottery ticket.

I bumped through the grayness, my head too low to see others walking. “Hey, watch it!” or whatever the Dutch version of that sentiment was. I heard that tone of voice several times until I realized I was on Rembrandtplein. Hadn’t I been walking along the Amstel? I thought I was walking toward Eik en Linde. I walked around the square, more attentive to the gangs of men so I wouldn’t run smack dab into them. I didn’t need an eight-on-one fight. There was occasionally a woman or two with the men, but for the most part this was a man's square. Not homosexual men; tourists and ex-pats. Sports bars and over-priced hotels and garish neon--which was not lit up during the day, fortunately.

I hated this square. I hadn’t the first couple times in Amsterdam. It was always thriving with energy and a decade earlier I liked the vibe. Testosterone. It was also Dutch-free. Americans, Aussies, Brits, Irishmen, Scots, New Zealanders. There may have been a few Spaniards, Italians, and Germans, but it was mostly an English-speaking area if memory served correctly. Bars and cafés with big screen televisions everywhere, mostly covering rugby, Australian Rules football, football (soccer), hockey, and even cricket. There were certain places that would show American football or baseball, mostly the big events like playoffs, the World Series, the Super Bowl, but the hours were wrong so the showings were recordings.

I avoided the area like the plague. I was no longer as interested in sports and I preferred the Dutch sensibility. I never felt the need for an English-speaking fix because the Dutch provided that in plenty. I was somewhat intrigued watching rugby since I played on a club when I was in college. I played a number of positions, occasionaly a two because I had legs like tree trunks during that time, but most often an eight or a nine because I was quick, strong, and saw the field well enough to know which direction to run, pitch, kick, or fake. I ran fast and hit hard, that was my strategy. I broke a guy’s nose when he tried to tackle me low—I high-stepped with my knee as he came into me and caught him flush in the face; his fault for going in head first—a lot of college guys did that. They were used to having helmets from playing American football. A good way to break a neck in rugby, though. I hurt a lot of guys while playing—the nature of the game—including a couple who had to be taken to the hospital for broken arms and clavicles.

But I only marginally remembered the rules and I certainly didn’t know anything about the traditions or names of players from different countries. The Aussies and Brits took rugby much more seriously than I did and, as it was in American bars with die-hard football fans, you needed to know your shit or keep your mouth shut if you didn’t want to be ridiculed and possibly taunted into a fight. I wasn’t worried about scrapping even here in Rembrandtplein, but I was alone, without a gang of my own. I was well past that stage of life, anyway. Surprisingly, even the forty-plus year old guys in the Rembrandtplein still got sauced and belligerent enough to fight. Oddly enough, they were often successful businessmen, traders, designers, and techies. I would think a little decorum would go a long way, but the male cultures of the English-speaking world were formed around sports and testosterone-infused aggression. Another reason to avoid the Rembrandtplein.

I made a loop of the square. The only building that was modern was that of Club Escape, a dance club, one I generally avoided. There were better clubs elsewhere and I really hadn’t gotten into that scene, anyway, since I had been married to a woman who wasn’t into clubs or drugs let alone experimenting sexually with others. When we got divorced one of the biggest pains was knowing I had missed out on being single during my twenties and early thirties, a time when I likely would have most enjoyed being single, hitting clubs and parties, doing copious amounts of drugs, and exploring differing sex scenes. I suppose I was making up for lost time in that sense even if I was wanting to find a deeper satisfaction with life. The two went hand in hand at times.

But this scene? No. The names of the places told the story: St. James’s Gate Irish Pub, Hotel Atlanta, Café La Bastille, Rembrandtbar, Terras Café De Monico, Three Sisters Pub, Coco’s Outback, Playa Nasty, and Italiaans Restaurant La Madonnina. There were others, too, all of which suggested this was an area catering to ex-pats and tourists. There was nothing subtle about the place. Everything was over-the-top. It was the sports bar version of the Red Light District.

Nevertheless, I went into a pub for fish and chips and to possibly catch a rugby match. I didn’t feel like doing anything else, anyway, and I thought a rowdy atmosphere might get my blood pumping. I found a seat at the bar that gave me a view of a few televisions. I saw there was an Australian Rules match on one. Good enough, close enough to rugby although there was way too much kicking for my liking. I wanted to see scrums, bone-crushing hits, and the racing speed of a team pitching on the run. I realized that underneath that earlier sullenness was more than a little anger. I couldn’t explain it other than it was related to feeling rejected and hurt by Sterre. Maybe this would provide a temporary escape and then, later, shroom and work it out.

I ordered a beer and food. The bar wasn’t crowded nor was it particularly rowdy. It was early enough in the day that no one was drunk yet. There were enough people scattered throughout, though, and I heard a few cheers here and there. The seats on either side of me were empty until a couple Aussies sat next to me. They looked to be in their 30s, low-key, just ordering beers while chatting. Their accents weren’t too thick so it was easy to understand them. They were talking about work so I tuned out when my food came.

I ate and watched the match on the television, mindlessly wasting time. Eventually, I talked with the Australians. They were friendly enough, working in the city, just out for an afternoon. They asked me if I worked in Amsterdam and I explained a little of my situation. More time-wasting of little significance. I asked them, though, if they veered away from the ex-pat scene. Occasionally, they said, mostly through their Dutch co-workers. I wondered if anyone from out-of-country ever ventured out of their comfort zone. I’m sure some did; I had met so few from elsewhere that I couldn’t say one way or the other. I wasn't going to meet those who did in a pub like this.

After my second beer I left. As I wandered beyond Rembrandtplein I breathed a sigh of relief. I was no longer morose so it had served a purpose. I couldn’t be entirely negative about the space given that. Nevertheless, it wasn’t an area where I wanted to linger. I walked down a side street toward the curve of the Amstel and, surprisingly, found a shroom shop. It truly was a shroom shop rather than a smart shop. Actually, there were crappy souvenirs and trinkets for sale in the tiny place; no herbs or other smart-shop type products. The middle-aged Indian fellow sold the typical varieties of shrooms, though, so I purchased a dose of Hawaiian and one of Thai then walked to Vijzelstraat to buy groceries from Albert Heijn.

When I arrived back at my apartment I put the groceries away and left the shrooms on the counter. It was only mid-afternoon but I decided to eat the Hawaiians, anyway. I hadn’t shroomed much since the sex party. After a toke of Arjan’s and a cigarette, I checked my email again. One from a friend in the States, but none from Sterre. I thought of emailing her, but instead I sent an email to Eliene and Auriana. Thinking of the sex party again reminded me that we had swapped emails. Even if Sterre was finished, they weren’t necessarily. I kept the message simple then took out my sketchbook to draw.

As I felt the shrooms I turned on the stereo, keeping the volume low, and found a trance station. The bleep-bleeps felt good along my spine. I opened the window. It was drizzling again. It had been on-and-off when I was out earlier and now it was on again. The temp was a little warmer, but still cold. Everything within me and outside the window took on a pleasant glow, though. Damn, I had missed the shrooms. I was so glad they were back again.

Outside my window a woman was hiding under an umbrella floating down the street. Her feet moved but they barely touched the ground. Either the umbrella was catching a current of air to lift her or her body weighed next to nothing, made of a substance that was neither flesh nor blood, paper-feathers covered by clothing made of anti-matter. As she disappeared from view, a cyclist who was entirely serious zipped past. Even though he was gone in a blink I saw his Oakley sunglasses—sunglasses? On a dark day like this?—his spandex cycling pants, his tight-fitting windbreaker. What the hell was that? He belonged on the West Coast of the United States; he certainly didn’t dress like a cyclist from this city. Was he preparing for a race or was he just a douchebag?

It didn’t matter. Three pedestrians, two men and a woman, sang past in Dutch, somehow lively while being relaxed. They had not a modicum of care about anything. They were not careless, though; they were simply free of concerns. They allowed me to breathe easier. I wished they would stay. I took a cigarette from my pack and lit up. I became conscious of my interior—interior? Inside of my body? Whatever. I felt the smoke and the heat within. On the seventh day I took a rest and decided it was good.

I looked across at the apartments then up at the indistinguishable gray that everyone believed were clouds. It was just dark gray concrete someone had laid maybe a thousand feet above the city. Fucking ugly and dreary. No wonder I had felt the way I had earlier. Too sensitive to what was beyond me. I tried to look away, but I couldn’t. There was something about the gray that held me transfixed. I felt trapped in a gaze. Not panicked; resigned. This would be my fate, to look forever at a concrete sky. Why wouldn’t the moment pass? It couldn’t for some reason and I didn’t know why.

I felt a flash from my future. Grayness would be my life. Not just the sky above, but slowly descending all around me, buildings and trees and people would all become gray and eventually indistinguishable. My body would become gray then my feelings then my thoughts. Not shades of gray, a particular gray that would make me long for a world seen in blacks and whites. Two colors were at least better than one. Why would anyone want oneness? There was nowhere to go with oneness, nothing to experience, just a fucking ohm of timelessness. May as well cease to be. I couldn’t comprehend any difference between one and nothing. They were essentially the same. How could a distinction be made? A perspective from beyond those conditions couldn’t exist so … that would be that.

I was relieved when I looked back down at the apartments across the street. Perhaps gray was my future, but it wasn’t my present. Differentiation continued to exist. A wave of gratitude and then … a shift. I was … depressed. Sad? Melancholy? No. Those were legitimate emotions; this was depression, the blocking of those emotions. Why would I block them? Because I didn’t want to experience them. I wanted them to disappear forever, to never feel sorrow or grief ever again. Why, though?

They were too close to a past I wanted never to exist again, a pain that had been unrelenting. Even a moment of sadness had become a torture because it was accompanied by a fear that such emotions wouldn’t pass. I lived within them for years without a break, without moments of happiness. I feared that if the emotions came back that they would stay forever. Forever gray.

I had to feel the emotions, though. They had a story to tell. They were screaming to be let out, to be felt. Shit, I had to feel them or else they would stay. That was what depression was: A condition in which sorrows remained unfelt but ever-present because of a refusal to feel them. That refusal was fueled by fear. Wasn’t I in Amsterdam to face such fears? Yes. That had been the purpose of this trip, to discover what laid beneath the surface. Shrooms were the means to see more clearly, to break down defenses, to open the gates, even if they were the gates of hell.

An aversion to hell had confined me in hell. Ironic. If I was in hell then I needed to be aware of being in hell, including all of the accompanying horror. As the emotions rose to the surface, tears flowed and the realization came. Sterre. I was still hurting from the sting of her judgment and rejection. It was more than that, though. The judgment and rejection resembled the more fiercely painful experiences with S. There it was. Nothing grandiose or particularly profound. A very simple intellectual explanation of a cause, but the understanding didn’t alleviate the hurt. I was going to have to allow the emotions to run their course with faith that they eventually would.

I had turned away from the window while thinking and feeling. The softness of the emotions surprised me; I expected harrowing pain, but there was only a quiet sadness, almost sweet. Why would I run away from such emotions? They were beautiful. My tears were not just of sorrow, but of happiness, a different sort of happiness, not joy, but something I couldn’t name. I was glad I knew no signs or symbols for the feelings. Naming them would confine them, distort them, prevent them from being fully felt—or so I believed. I lied down and simply felt the emotions, closing my eyes, disengaging from thought.

Amsterdam Sixty-Four: The Architecture of Happiness

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.

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.