A few weeks ago I went to Amsterdam by myself for six days. A conference – frankly a slightly silly one: a few interesting papers dotted here and there among a great deal of fluff and repetition – but that was really just the excuse, to get away and go somewhere fun. Took many pictures, wandered around a lot, shopped like mad, got through my first ever Queen's Day, their mad carnival holiday. And yes I did buy a joint (well, two joints), and I went to some of the sleazier gay bars, but my heart wasn't in it – sex tourism doesn't seem like much fun these days, and I felt distinctly impatient with all that. Even in the Argos, on the last night, my tendency was to talk to the guys there.... I mean, really, can you imagine?
But I did buy things, and they are still around, or at least most of them are: some completely amazing chocolates (well all right, those are gone, but their memory still lingers – they were really something, too), some powerful cheeses (what are tastefully called "mature" ones), and green teas that make the ones I've been drinking look like the American brand of Budweiser to an oenophile. Last night, late, I was recovering from the stressful meetings of the day with the cheese and chocolate....
I can't remember where I read this, but who has explained that those kept in Nazi concentration camps, starved, desperate and miserable, dreamed above all of chocolate and cheese? I used to think that was because of some innate human need for them, but on this trip it occurred to me that this was a very Central European reaction – given the sheer rich electric charge of this mature cheese, of the unbelievably deep flavor of the chocolate, no wonder someone who grew up speaking a Germanic language would dream of them at night.
Those cheeses: although they were covered in wax, they reeked so much that I had to put them in two plastic bags in the refrigerator. It reminded me of the great tale of the cheeses, the finest set piece in Jerome's Three Men in a Boat, which still makes me laugh out loud. And yes, he has it right: traveling with a ripe cheese can draw attention to you – unwelcome attention for the most part.
Two days ago, when walking to work on an unaccustomedly sunny day, I met two big leather-clad, bearish bikers by the side of the road: they asked me for directions through town. While giving it, I said, "Deutsch, aber?..." They responded, "Dutch," and I thought, aha. Two guys on motorcycles, from the Netherlands, on vacation with each other... and I was confirmed in that by the last glance one of them gave me, looking down my body in a blunt gesture of checking-it-out. A shame I was so preoccupied – it was that busy day this week when I had a presentation and a performance – as I probably should have given them my phone number. Ah well, the story of my life: too passive when it gets interesting, too hesitant when I should be forthright, too preoccupied with presenting myself to notice when I'm noticed.
Anyway: I have the cheeses, and still some of the chocolates, and the teas. And my photographs. The rich experiences collected by centuries of merchants. Harbor life....
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