| Hoek van Holland. 12:11 am, still in January. Thomas weighed up the advantages of the slightly bruised Safeway banana becoming older and browner in it's short life so far. Still two hours away, hungry, wanting a bed, but also wanting to pass into some exquisitely friendly surroundings where people would offer beer and smoke. Still miles away from that though. 12:15. Four minutes would fly tomorrow, it would fly in any encapsulated quality time he spent with himself, but he was having problems filing this under quality. Sticky red plastic chairs. Thousands of miles away he felt feint and had to sit on the concrete side of the road, smelling diesel, noisy, then walking uphill, downtown, closer, with someone, and a desire to be in bed with her right now. As personal a daydream as you could have; just touching. Looking and feeling for reactions; a sleepy head resting on his chest or in his lap. Her feet on his thighs for him to massage. Gently, slowly, amity, always... In the café, Eric the Frenchman. No sooner had he finished skinning up his first reefer with a kindly provided Marlboro Light from the proprietor, a shaven headed, can't describe him kind of guy running the place, playing Shirley Bassey and grass adviser to those sharing an espresso in a weird kind of way this morning. Quiet chilly, dancing, and a mirror ball. Supervising a photoshoot assignment from his Paris office, a king and small orthogonal filled with red Marlboro and white widow. A spider. Smoked and talked about language, and where the Homegrown Fantasy there was, and the club, a few doors down, which was having a gay night, which would be really cool, and deep house, and meeting some friends, which would be really cool. Take it for your next line said the proprietor as he left handing Thomas a trusty ML, coming out of Coffeeshop, the Otherside, Centrum off Koningsplein. Eric had gone to take photographs, so Thomas tried to go do the same. Then a funny old day, meeting Red and Orange at Centraal Station, waiting while potential hustlers were hustling around, and beggars asked for Guilders to get to Rotterdam. Finding the generic Grasshopper and meeting the rest of the Crew Part 1. Smoking and finding it hectic, going for some food, a fairly ropey falafel with unidentified fibres surely not meant to be in there, getting to a coffee shop, and losing to Red in a pool game on a red table, with a heavy cue ball. Finding orange, back to the Grasshopper, back out again. Guilders. More pool, Thomas, Purple, beat orange who then dubiously beat Red, bit of a D conflict. Back to the Hotel Arena, spliffs, BBC news and Jennifer Lopez on Top of The Pops. Very Dutch. Siesta. Mobile alarm set, Red sleepy, wanting to get to the Café for 9.30, taking control leading through Weesperplein metro station and further, getting the rainbow there. Good milkshakes, veggie burger and jacket potato after nachos and VOS dark beer. Eating, and meeting an old Dutch friend, catching up, controlled, organised and pretty Dutch. Nice, but really wanting a spliff. Walking back to Purple's Otherside, and 3 joints and Blue's behemoth. More resin, Guilders and a test tube, bang, exploding with blue. Breathe in, breathe out, the basics. Crystal cool air all around him. That's what he needed, but she wasn't here. Pins and needles with the crossed legs, needing a massage, and in no way lured by the red lights, like an overweight firefly, all fuzzy. And tired now, air conditioned, candles, beer and Americans, all crashed out on cushions and rag rugs, or making up elaborate pipes. And all those thoughts from last time, the incredible sex, thinking that several times, as it was incredible. They came, they saw, they lost the plot. Writing in gloves, too cold. Queuing outside the Van Gogh museum, being told it was trippy. Taking photographs of graffiti before seeing a dark indigo purple No. 5 tram electrify past. Sleep had been good, bed comfortable, room warm. Another American at breakfast, Nate from Oregon, like Nike, thinking about Oakland, no, that was in California, like San Fran. Alright, for sure, you got it, just do it. And whatever. 15 Guilders for the sunflower grandmaster, and mad sunflowers they were, displaying all that creative madness Thomas maybe wouldn't cut his earlobe off to aspire to... Powerfully drawn by the analysis of technique and texture, the yellow background and bronzed frame. And seeing his Japanese print copies and trees with cherry blossom which had all the significance and poignancy attached, just like his wheat field with crows, the dark, almost Eastern European looking picture you could imagine from some Stalinist propaganda, with the black omens of impending death cheerily filling golden Autumnal harvest field. And well dressed people looked at well dressed pictures. There was kind of an interference. After the stifling lack of Air last night, this was better, open hard pure floors, worn just enough to not be like a basketball court with the screech of Air Jordan pivoting around into a slam dunk fanfare. European. The 'gh' was guttural as well, and Thomas resiliently resolved to adhere to that, despite Uncle Sam's devotion to the opposite. A red lit Eiffel Tower during the universal exposition of 1889 was blocked by a woman with long brown hair, and beige woollen flares. His socks felt sticky. George Garen's Virlichtig lit up. And then that wobble. A traditional looking master in large gold wooden frame was reflected in a slightly bendy mirror. Flares got wider and the light exhibition had something to photograph, but that wasn't allowed. Thomas sketched the scene and maybe made it last longer. That was how he saw it. Then the Café Etten pub on Reguliers Breestraat drinking Amstel with a Camel Light and pen. Greg Rusedski on TV. Guys propped up the bar in shoes and Reebok classic, waiting for the Premiership football, and just about getting hold of the fact that kick off was 4pm and not 3 as they were in Europe now. Head was quite nice, twinkling about Air in a nice way, biding time before later. Take it easy later, no whiteouts, hurry or claustrophobia. Maybe try further up Rokin, no idea what that was like yet, hoping it wasn't the bit he'd got lost around last time. Denying adjectives, holding little bits back. Always want to be doing this. The dark bright colours went to look for Ajax, but this was good, more local and rootsy. Red squares in diagonals on the roof, dark wood, and old fire with chimney. Then wandering around, finding the sandy and boarded over streets again, and having blue and red flag him down in the street to purvey in more Coffeeshop antics. One long roll. Blue's joint was more restrained than the previous night's, and everybody was a little tired, especially for a Saturday night. You would have expected clubs, and peepshows, but the atmosphere wasn't conducive to that, foggier, time to crumble and burn edit fiercely. Horde sweets under the quilt, just like years ago. Silly, fizzy, squishy circles. Can't keep up much more. Tired, with an eye on getting back, knowing how to do the most direct route , and hoping to do that and get home with a minimum of fuss. Trying to draw the last little bits out though, leaving the appropriate flags on the right streets. USA women, closed off today, plotting to stay after flying in through the fog, loving Radiohead, and suitably blown away by Van Go, the new internet vehicle rental site, so started up and running this weekend. Coffee with powdered milk and sugar, boiled egg, chocolate spread, want and need a shower, still hours and an extra one before home. Americans talked about being paranoid, their national pastime, not trying to be scathing, just filling time. And bottle, lack of it, and a change of direction. Needing to clean his glasses, to remove some of the fog that had got to him here, one magpie, then having to see through train windows to see if there was another. And later there were seven. He picked up the incredibly expensive leather and maybe fur black gloves as she left at Schipol. A diamond ring, two diamond studs in her ear, a black Prada bag, and audacious brown tinted sunglasses which cut squarely round the curve. Her lover was sat next to Thomas, leaving her precious breathing space for her expensive accoutrements. Fields of seagulls, IT business parks with glass mirrored windows, obligatory new chrome and corporate art water features. Then getting into drab grey low maintenance units. Fields with JCBs and more snow. Leaving with a resolute niceness, and slightly less dark than the afterthoughts could have been with all their potential paranoia. Instead, the map was placed safely away with no evidence that would lead back to him. Surrendering his potential evidence to a stool high table in the Grasshopper. So many other plans for it, and at least two disappointed people tomorrow, but it was just safer and after the statistic unsatisfying roughing up of one of the twenty five, there was no real need to court difficulty as the benefits weren't sufficiently worth it. People on the ferry swapped red light stories and started off their 200's. A huge packet of Samson would last for a month, but there was still a sulky disappointment in the sea crossing air that the definition of legal and socially acceptable was the wrong side of liberal here. An unappealing mixture of two days worth of alcohol and skunk clogged his pores. The mainland that tried not to be in Europe would maybe remedy such a personal slide while it was too cold to brave the icy blasts coming out of the shower to the musty smell of Lynx Inca in the ten bed dorm. Land was approaching lights, the horizon converging with orange import terminals and illuminated immigration probably wouldn't check anything, not even the non-stashed away Super Polm and White Widow style leftovers Thomas left over in Amsterdam. Instead, he used the envelope with 4 Guilders of stamps to send Miffy's Dutch cousin Niintje's primary coloured visit to the museum; a different style and feeling about things. Fitting into the outline. Breathing Air. There was so much to remember. Copyright Andy Lepki 2001 04/02/2001 |