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Amsterdam
Alexander Kryszkiewicz
January 17, 2007
As you walk down the street beside the canal the tall, slim buildings stand
in a row on either side. Some lean in slightly as if trying to hear your secrets,
hiding none of their own, windows glowing red with sin. The very soul
of hedonistic indulgence shows with bent, ugly teeth from each grinning
facade. Further down around a bend and 10 hours later a girl rides by on
her bicycle. Her rosy cheeks are pelted with spitting rain. The energy of
the earth is strong and we feel it as wind. As you cross the many lanes of
different traffic, you feel as though you are in a very well organized tree.
You could be a termite and you might feel that you are sharing this tree
with a wide variety of other insects. The articulating tram bug whizzes
past on its many wheels. Suddenly you are aware that you are not a bug.
A man loses his hat as he makes his way up the street between the tram
tracks. He is peddling hard and the loss of his hat frustrates him as he
struggles against the wind.
You take up the game with wind. Wind plays with you as you run after the
hat. Wind teases you like a bully at school. You feel foolish as the hat stops
and pulls away each time you go to grasp it. A victory sees you with the
hat in hand and the man on the bike is smiling. His hair whips around and
the traffic goes by everywhere with motivated ignorance. You are proud
and make your way to the man with his hat in your hand. As you pass
him the hat, you hear a shout behind in the wind and rush of the street. As
you whirl around you see the tram behind you in your peripheral vision.
A split second decision has you leaping in 3 quick, long strides and the
tram misses you by an inch. Much to your chagrin, the woman stops the
tram, summons you, and you are reprimanded harshly in front of many awe struck passengers. You feel ignorant, but alive.
You are on a bike and heading down a main artery towards the heart of the
city. You cross a bridge and turn right down another long street beside the
canal. A long row of green houses overlook the canal. Inside you can buy
any kind of flower you like. Across the street from the flower market you
find a pancake shop. You open the door and find two beautiful girls sitting
on bar stools polishing cutlery. The one with thick, flowing, black hair gets
up and smiles. The menu is returned after you chat with the waitress. The
pancake comes and is as big as the plate it sits on. Apples are integrated
into the mosaic of syrup, icing sugar and whipped cream. The other girl at
the bar glances at you with keen, but passive eyes like a cat that pretends
to sleep on a ledge in a room with many strangers. The pancakes are good,
the look you are getting is better. Unrequited love is a familiar theme for
you.
More bikes in the Vondelpark. Trees, ponds, grand old houses with lush
gardens sit over a rippling body of water. The bikes rush by. The energy
of the earth persistently plays with man’s machines in the sky. Massive
jets overhead thunder and glide. The people on the bikes look happy in a
carefree, bohemian sort of way. A girl rides with tapered black jeans, bright
blue shoes, a black and white striped shirt with a blue cardigan overtop.
Her scarf blows behind her as she glides by.
At night you venture to a small jazz bar with a beautiful stranger. Hans
Dulfer stands on stage and holds his saxophone with one hand, the mic
with the other. The bar is dark and packed with cheerful music lovers and
wannabe ’scenesters’. Energy builds as the famous Dutch sax man tries to
tame the crowd. The crowd is like a bull and only chases his words, not
quite making out the sentences, eager to stomp and sway to the music. The
other sax player looks impatient. His messy white hair and hard eyes stare
out at the crowd. He looks a bit like David Bowie. Soon the music starts.
Tap, tap, tap, tap, click. The drummer uses the rim of his snare drum to
start the beat. Hans begins to wail away. Wild jazz music stirs the crowd
like the red cape of the matador. You fit into a spot against the wall between
two girls from New York who are glad to meet you. The poem behind you
on the wall is called ’Jazz’ and was written by the old crazy guy in front
of you back when he has just cool and not crazy. He mumbles loudly in
Dutch and rubs his hands together vigorously. His eyes look sinister and
lost. Without purpose. Is this what crazy is?
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