12 march 2005
9:24 am
Last nite I was going to take a “nite off,” since my week was: Monday – Doos until closing, Tuesday – Café Alto jazz until 3, Wednesday – lacrosse dinner and Doos until 3:30, Thursday – international finger food dinner at Filip’s, followed by the borrel, followed by Dansen bij Jansen until 5. And Saturday is the big party at Plantage when I’m working the bar.
So when Natalia asked if I would host her birthday dinner on Friday, I said sure. That way after dinner I could settle down with a book.
So at five Natalia came and rearranged my room and looked gloomily at my unvacuumed carpet. We chatted until the guests came shortly after six: three Turkish girls in gender and media studies, and Theresa the fifty-year-old African American woman from Clinton Hill who devoted ten years to cleaning up her neighborhood park. We ate Russian salt soup, southern fried chicken, red wine. After the meal Natalia sang opera while we cut the chocolate mousse cake that I dropped upside-down into the street that afternoon.
At nine it was just me and lots of dishes, and at nine thirty it was just me and the world wide web. All was proceeding as planned. Then Jackie, who lives next door but whom I’ve never met, knocked on my door. She was hosting a party and the smokers in the garden had seen my light on, so she invited me over. She introduced me to half the guests, including Taylor the birthday girl.
We all drank and chatted until midnite, when Taylor, Sebastian – the roommate of my Swedish friend Filip – and I grabbed our bikes and went to Taylor’s for a snack. Since it was her birthday she treated herself to a coveted bag of microwave popcorn. Wine.
Back on our bikes and to Bitterzoet. Shots of Jaeger. Two games of pool, English rules, with a crowd of creepy men on the prowl. Dancing until four when, in Dutch style, the music stopped abruptly and all the lights popped on.
Three messages on my cell from Marie Carmen. They were headed to the Doos. Taylor, Sebastian and I went. Maria and Gianluca working the bar. Half the regulars still there at 4:30. Dancing.
Five thirty. Sudden craving for diner breakfast. No one can think of a place that might be open. Taylor, Sebastian and I back on our bikes, determined to eat that satisfying meal that follows a nite of drinking and dancing. We bike to Waterlooplein, dark and shuttered. We bike to Nieuwmarkt, where the bars are just closing. We bike through the red light district, ornamented with single men stealing home under the first lightness in the sky. We bike to the Noordermarkt, where the organic sellers are just beginning to set up their stalls on the skirts of the North Church.
We are stopped on a corner, looking down the street for signs of opening. The new light suddenly disappears. The sky is dark ominous gray. There is lightning. There is hail, for two minutes. Then the hail transforms into huge flakes of soft snow. In two minutes, the sky is clear again. The only proof of this freak storm, coming too early to be witnessed or spoken about, is our wet hair and the frosty car windshields.
We are cold, but determined. We bike through the backstreets of the Jordaan, checking café windows for opening hours: ten, eleven, ten thirty. It is seven. We are ravenous, and we are cold, and we are tired, and it is beautiful. We cross bridges to see the sky, again clear, reflected in the canals. The streets are empty and the stores are shut but the sky is blue and we have this all to ourselves. It feels magic. It is a secret.
The streetlights all simultaneously pop off.
We cross more bridges. We circle blocks. Dark windows, empty windows. And then: a window with people behind it. A corner café by the Noordermarkt. We are ecstatic. The barman is serving coffee to the market workers. We are cold and wet and surprisingly awake. We drink koffie verkeerds and pick greedily at croissants.
(My alarm clock just went off.)
We return to the rapidly emerging market. There is a stand here I have eyed for weeks where they make pancakes. It is still just a table.
We wander through the cheeses, eye the seeds and eggs. We are told several times that things are not open yet. They need time to set up.
I buy bread, in Dutch, after asking the cost, in Dutch. I feel triumphant.
We hover by the pancake table. The two women slowly, deliberately work through the motions of their Saturday morning: opening Tupperware containers of shredded cheese, zesting lemons, arranging forks.
At last they agree to serve us. We all order pancakes with lemon and sugar: met citroen en suiker. They are delicious.
We are collectively, suddenly, and deeply tired. I am thankful to live only two blocks away. Our goodbyes are brief, since we all plan on attending the same party tonite, the party at Plantage.
It is 9:59 a.m. I live in Amsterdam. I am going to sleep.
Last nite I was going to take a “nite off,” since my week was: Monday – Doos until closing, Tuesday – Café Alto jazz until 3, Wednesday – lacrosse dinner and Doos until 3:30, Thursday – international finger food dinner at Filip’s, followed by the borrel, followed by Dansen bij Jansen until 5. And Saturday is the big party at Plantage when I’m working the bar.
So when Natalia asked if I would host her birthday dinner on Friday, I said sure. That way after dinner I could settle down with a book.
So at five Natalia came and rearranged my room and looked gloomily at my unvacuumed carpet. We chatted until the guests came shortly after six: three Turkish girls in gender and media studies, and Theresa the fifty-year-old African American woman from Clinton Hill who devoted ten years to cleaning up her neighborhood park. We ate Russian salt soup, southern fried chicken, red wine. After the meal Natalia sang opera while we cut the chocolate mousse cake that I dropped upside-down into the street that afternoon.
At nine it was just me and lots of dishes, and at nine thirty it was just me and the world wide web. All was proceeding as planned. Then Jackie, who lives next door but whom I’ve never met, knocked on my door. She was hosting a party and the smokers in the garden had seen my light on, so she invited me over. She introduced me to half the guests, including Taylor the birthday girl.
We all drank and chatted until midnite, when Taylor, Sebastian – the roommate of my Swedish friend Filip – and I grabbed our bikes and went to Taylor’s for a snack. Since it was her birthday she treated herself to a coveted bag of microwave popcorn. Wine.
Back on our bikes and to Bitterzoet. Shots of Jaeger. Two games of pool, English rules, with a crowd of creepy men on the prowl. Dancing until four when, in Dutch style, the music stopped abruptly and all the lights popped on.
Three messages on my cell from Marie Carmen. They were headed to the Doos. Taylor, Sebastian and I went. Maria and Gianluca working the bar. Half the regulars still there at 4:30. Dancing.
Five thirty. Sudden craving for diner breakfast. No one can think of a place that might be open. Taylor, Sebastian and I back on our bikes, determined to eat that satisfying meal that follows a nite of drinking and dancing. We bike to Waterlooplein, dark and shuttered. We bike to Nieuwmarkt, where the bars are just closing. We bike through the red light district, ornamented with single men stealing home under the first lightness in the sky. We bike to the Noordermarkt, where the organic sellers are just beginning to set up their stalls on the skirts of the North Church.
We are stopped on a corner, looking down the street for signs of opening. The new light suddenly disappears. The sky is dark ominous gray. There is lightning. There is hail, for two minutes. Then the hail transforms into huge flakes of soft snow. In two minutes, the sky is clear again. The only proof of this freak storm, coming too early to be witnessed or spoken about, is our wet hair and the frosty car windshields.
We are cold, but determined. We bike through the backstreets of the Jordaan, checking café windows for opening hours: ten, eleven, ten thirty. It is seven. We are ravenous, and we are cold, and we are tired, and it is beautiful. We cross bridges to see the sky, again clear, reflected in the canals. The streets are empty and the stores are shut but the sky is blue and we have this all to ourselves. It feels magic. It is a secret.
The streetlights all simultaneously pop off.
We cross more bridges. We circle blocks. Dark windows, empty windows. And then: a window with people behind it. A corner café by the Noordermarkt. We are ecstatic. The barman is serving coffee to the market workers. We are cold and wet and surprisingly awake. We drink koffie verkeerds and pick greedily at croissants.
(My alarm clock just went off.)
We return to the rapidly emerging market. There is a stand here I have eyed for weeks where they make pancakes. It is still just a table.
We wander through the cheeses, eye the seeds and eggs. We are told several times that things are not open yet. They need time to set up.
I buy bread, in Dutch, after asking the cost, in Dutch. I feel triumphant.
We hover by the pancake table. The two women slowly, deliberately work through the motions of their Saturday morning: opening Tupperware containers of shredded cheese, zesting lemons, arranging forks.
At last they agree to serve us. We all order pancakes with lemon and sugar: met citroen en suiker. They are delicious.
We are collectively, suddenly, and deeply tired. I am thankful to live only two blocks away. Our goodbyes are brief, since we all plan on attending the same party tonite, the party at Plantage.
It is 9:59 a.m. I live in Amsterdam. I am going to sleep.
posted by tortaluga at 10:24 AM
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