Third time I visit Amsterdam, and the city outperforms itself each time. Awesome! An utterly different perception because this time I saw the real Amsterdam, beyond tourism and sleaze. The first time I was there was great, that marvel of a hostel called the flying pig and its fauna – literally… Ah the memories, “I cannot live here… turn on the lights… I do not know whether you are aware that we are living with Mickey and Minnie… But I hardly saw the city due to other activities that left me rather dazed. My second time I just saw the city centre, just like any other tourist. Yet this time I was shown round by someone who lives there and I saw the real Amsterdam of the Dutch who´ve got an utter disregard towards tourists, coffeshops and prostitutes. And I did it like an authentic Amsterdamer, on bicycle.
How marvellous. To pedal my way to the city centre along the Amstel late at night. That there should be almost no cars. Speeding down packed streets, down empty pedestrian avenues. Marvellous, the old port with its hangars, now transformed into architecture firms. The Pjip market, lively and vibrating area where the young and chic Dutch dwell, where I bought a sweater for 5 €. Jordan district, I would give a hand for living here, in one of those Dutch houses. The cleanliness, like in Flanders in Belgium. The open, happy and careless personality of the city. The canals. How sad that hordes of people who come there to visit limit themselves to the red light district and marihuana. I will be coming round again.
I have neglected the blog a bit as of late. Moreover, I have not written anything in English for ages. I am beginning to consider whether I should drop the blog in English; truth be told, hardly anybody reads it. I have not blogged because last week was stressful in Charlemagne, I enjoyed the plat du jour only one day out of five. I still keep myself from posting from Commission. So not a lot of action on the net. But I cannot help but tell you the strange events of last week.
On Saturday the 11th I flooded my bathroom. On Sunday the 12th I triggered the fire alarm while doing some high profile cooking. On Monday the 13th the water heater broke down and it remains very broken today; I do not give a damn but Charlie is rather annoyed, I´d reckon; our landlady is not very helpful. On Friday 17th I arrived really early at Kindergarten (Commission I meant) due to urgent motives that required my attention and:
Imbecile: foolish boy; he who forgets the badge at home
So I had to return home to pick it up. I rather dislike the badge; leastwise I´ve got a magnetic one. Others have to take a tiresome detour. On the same Friday I made a fool of myself at a meeting with some RELEX bigwig. I suppose it is normal, one month here and they let me go alone with no backup whatsoever to such things; besides, I received new instructions barely 10 minutes before the beginning. Thank God the RELEX blokes knew the WTO rackets on bananas far better than I do.
Saturday the 18th dawned bright, autumny, perfect (the best season doubtless, and this year is being long), so I went out to explore Brussels. After two Parks full of that amazing colours that spring up only in autumn, I took to the centre. Brussels´s got but one real sight: the Grote Markt or Grande Place. The centre is lovely but you need to delve deep to find your bearings, for is quite a chaotic maze. Brussels is also the city of the “9th art”, comic strips. In the petit ring, 30 walls show some Belgian comic heroes; they are scattered, hier and there, no order nor rationale. It is a great way to come to know the centre and get off the beaten track, so I went to chase the comic strips. They are hidden and I found only seven before I grew tired. I hope I see them all before I leave, for they are very good. The first chapter: Bruxelles, la ville des comics.
But let us not get sidetracked, shall we? While comic chasing I happened to find myself in an area where:
- There were no women
- There was a group of men in every corner smoking and doing nothing
- They were Arabs
I was lost seeking the comic image that must be there, camera in my hand. All of a sudden and coming from the back, someone grabs the camera while attempting to run away with it; a second later I´m shoved. The camera stayed in my hand since I had its string round my wrist. It was so fast I neither realized, nor got scared. The two Arab wankers (for that they were, wankers and Arabs) just kept on running and disappeared. Now how can this happen? Where the chuff is the bloody police? And of course it is only strange that they were Arabs… the hell it was! Call me a racist, but the natural and immediate wish one´s got after such a thing is that it would be only fair that someone should practice some Nationalsocialist techniques on these arseholes… on the whole frigging lot, because, as it is, I think 90% of them are just that: arseholes.
Well no major problem, I did not even get angry because it happened so fast. I just went back home, took a (cold) shower and posted, very happy with the resulting animation, la ville des comics to the rhythm of the words of one wise man.
