Americans in a carriage
The pink puffy clouds floated, really too pretty, over the post-cardy canals, as two brown stallions pulled Dan and Ellen’s open coach over the bridge.
“I didn’t want to come on this fucking trip. It was your stupid idea”, Ellen hissed.
The horses clopped ahead of the coach, leaving a steaming turd behind. Ellen looked miserably out at the canal while Dan starred ahead.
“Isn’t this great?” he said, to no one in particular. “So European! I think we were smart to grab this bargain, to come to Europe for just 24 hours. You see? We don’t have to disrupt our lives in New York at all, and we can still come here to see all this beauty.”
Cormorants dived into the water in search of dinner while a group of girls tried to navigate a small motor boat on the open river. Two men watching from the bridge smirked to each other about “women drivers”. The boat went in circles while the gay man who was watching thought how hard it must be for the girls to steer it.
“Oh come on, dear” Dan said. This trip cost us a lot of money. You might as well enjoy it. If you didn’t want to come, you should have said so before we left New York.”
“I DID say so…. I… at least I was thinking it. Why didn’t you realize I didn’t want to come. You should have known. This was a stupid idea.”
Dan was silent for a moment. “I’m not a mind reader. You’ll just have to start saying what you really think.”
He paused. “I don’t think I can take this any more” he said softly, as though to himself. A tear started to role down Ellen’s cheek.
August 2014
August 2014
Father and son?
Amsterdam Magere Brug
He pumped and pumped to pull the laden bicycle over the narrow bridge in Amsterdam. The high, black guitar case that was strapped to his back showed white marks of wear. Behind the guitar a boy about 4 years old wore a red T-shirt and squirmed in the clear plastic seat above the rear wheel of the bicycle.
He pumped and pumped to pull the bike on bumpy cobblestones over the peak of the bridge, and then coasted down to the other side of the Amstel River, where he turned sharply toward the rehearsal that he was late for.
The bike hit the curb on the turn, and they almost fell over. Panic gripped the man and his hands clutched the wavering handlebar to steady the bike.
He sat up straighter, balanced the viola behind him and prayed that the kid was still there.
August 2014
August 2014
A kicking kid.
Frederiksplein, Amsterdam
The angry child screams so loud that everyone waiting on the narrow streetcar stop looks pained. His mother is annoyed and tries to grab him. But he runs away and swings his leg up to kick his father hard. The father looks down and smiles, sweeps the child into the air and gives him a big hug. The anger disappears from mother and child and the little family climbs onto the streetcar.
Sept. 2014
Sept. 2014
Why are the sexiest men in the business class lounge?
Amsterdam Schiphol
The iconic footballer, one of the De Boer brothers, is shorter than I expected. He strolls into the Privium lounge and everyone becomes that way you get in the presence of a VIP (unless you want an autograph), the “we don’t really notice you” stance, except for the three uniformed receptionists (one man, two women) whose eyes lock onto his broad shoulders as he walks away.
Since Privium is all men and 95% straight the buzz is more competition than attraction. Despite their years, most members display tanned skin, trendy clothes and trim bodies.
Is it the aura of money, or power, or sex -- or is power actually sex – that gives such a buzz to business class?
Exception: one extreme fatty has more buttons open on his bright pink shirt than any of them, not knowing or caring how he looks.
Dutchy
“Dutchy, How could you trick me like this?” They sat on the couch in front of the TV, tomato sauce streaking the open pizza box. “I’ll have you know: I made a chart to count the romantic emails, phone calls and texts you sent me during the 90 days before I moved to Amsterdam to be with you. You were averaging 2 per hour, 30 per day. Now you’ve dropped to zero. You’d better get with it.”
He put down his beer. He was tired. His English switched off when she got bitchy.
“And now that I’m here, all you give me is your grocery list. I turned my life upside down for you, I gave up a good job and left my husband in London, but now we just have the same boring dinner every night. And our sex life stinks.”
“My darling, living together is not the same as long-distance romance. It’s just not. But I love you just as much as always.” He paused. “Are you having your period?”
“You fucker, you lied to get me here. I didn’t come here to be your hausfrau and I won’t tolerate it.”
“I’m going to bed.” He climbed the narrow steps and left her behind.
Sept. 2014
Sept. 2014