“All tales of youth involve a large measure of folly…” begins Bill Barich in his essay and I must say, I can easily attest to that.
Last Friday, I found myself out in London’s cold, under a dimly lit bus stop, waiting for N381 to come. After countless of clicking and changing itineraries on the Transport for London homepage, it was prescribed that I should take night bus N381to Parliament Square and then change for bus N44 that would take me directly to Victoria Coach Station. From there, I would be able to board the 3.30 am National Express coach that was supposed to take me to Gatwick Airport. And I was meant to check in at 4.20am and board the plane at 6.20 am for Amsterdam. And as luck would have it, if I don’t catch this 381, the rest of the plan can go to hell.
The clock ticked and minutes passed, still I saw no sign of N381. It was already 2.15 am and I wasn’t alone. Another man hidden under the shadows, stood close to the bus stop but away from the lights. My heart beat a little faster, wishing the bus would come. I started contemplating options. Perhaps I should take a taxi. It shouldn’t cost me more than 10 pounds to get to Victoria Coach Station but first, how do I take one. Should I call for one or should I simply flag one down? Being a foreigner in a country is difficult-you are not bestowed with innate knowledge of a local. Being a foreigner means even to take a mere taxi, you have to learn how to do it the right way. Anyway, whilst I was going through a series of choices, I saw the headlights of a double decker approaching. My near-sighted vision had me asking the man in the shadows. He stepped into the light and told me it was N47. He looked nice but blast the bus services, I needed the bloody N381.
-Where do you have to go?
-Victoria Coach Station.
-Oh no, but that’s C10!
-I know, but C10’s services terminates after 1am. And I’ve got a damn flight to catch.
I got on the bus and asked the bus driver for my predicament. It seemed like N47 would take me to a bus stop near Trafalgar Square and then from there, I could board N44 to Victoria Coach Station. Shivering in the cold, I could only board the bus happily, hoping that N44 would also come in time.
***
Schipol Airport welcomed me with a cafe latte from Starbucks. I was worn out, thoroughly beat, and after being sleep deprived for the last 36 hours, I could only bless the coffee company that stands for American Imperialism with gratitude. As the first shot of caffeine drenched my blood stream, I shrugged my fatigue off and set off to find my way to Teun’s place.
I continue to be amazed at my tenacity to meeting and drinking with him again. Last summer was a glorious period of sunshine, alcohol and drama. Friendships were formed, the heart was lifted, broken and then lifted again. When Teun proudly shared with me his personal anecdotes of his life and in the city that everything took place, I thought it sounded like a kingdom of treausres-only crazy miracles can happen here. I vowed to see it, and I did, last summer. I lived and breathed the city, through Teun and his mates, which now became my mates too. Now, I was back for 30 hours, ready to relive history.
Tram 5 took me right into the heart of Museumplein (Museum Square). The city basked under warm golden rays last summer but now, it looked a little intimidating with ominous clouds hanging in the background. Perhaps it was too early. I walked across the sprawling park, in front of the Rijksmuseum and past the underground Albert Heijn supermarket, tasting the biting cold and admiring the Dutch early birds who were already playing frisbee with their dogs. Despite the greyness, the grass was in tender green, covered with spots of fresh dew.
The way leading to Teun’s place was familiar; it felt like going home. I just had to find the canal, the Ruysdaelkade street, and it would lead me to the green telephone booth outside Marjan’s Tiller Gallerie and Teun’s studio apartment is just two floors above it. As winding through a series of streets that are named after artists like Johannes Vermeerstraat, I arrived at Hobbemakade which is right opposite Ruysdaelkade (yes, Ruysdael is famous for his Dutch light paintings). Amsterdam is a city of details; it’s the little things in the pictures that makes the entire portrait ‘gezellig’, a feeling of cosiness or a sense of belonging. It’s like, if that cat wasn’t sleeping on the window pane, it would have changed the entire picture.
I saw two ducks, walking clumsily along the canal….a dark blue boat…..black and white bicycles leaning against walls that are covered with wild ivy and climbing vines…perfect postcard views, except for the fact that my photographic skills are too meagre to capture that momentary expression.
I crossed the ‘Spronken Bridge’, a bridge in front of Teun’s place that hasn’t been named and he wanted it named after his family and slowly, in great relief and triumph, I rung his doorbell. The white door buzzed open and I climbed up the familiar narrow stairway. The steps were cluttered with newspapers, letters and sales brochures, just like how it always was a year ago.
-HOIIII!!
-Heya!!!
And I jumped into Teun’s arms as we embraced and he held me up high, like how a father holds a child. Teun’s towering figure of 6 ft 6 (200cm) made it difficult for conventional hugging hence such extreme measures of affection must be taken. I pushed open his apartment door and walked into the narrow space that I once shared with him last summer. Everything was the same; everything was in place.
***
