Amsterdam Forty-Five: I AM

Another cold day. I made French toast for breakfast and had a cup of coffee. The rest of the morning I indexed while listening to music. I made a sandwich for lunch then went out to get more shrooms. I rode my bike to Conscious Dreams on Kerkstraat. I wanted to go to the shop in the Oude Zijde, but I didn’t want to fuck around in the cold. I also wanted to get more work done in the afternoon.

As I rode to the smart shop, I thought about how often I might shroom this visit. More often than I didn’t shroom, that much was clear. Doing it every day or night seemed like the best idea. That first week, shrooming almost every night, had a significant impact on my well-being. Why fuck with a good thing? Was I on a vision quest as I had planned? Perhaps, but my experiences weren’t matching my preconceived notions of transformation. If I knew what was to come then I wouldn’t change at all. Riding into the unknown was the way. All of the conceptions of shrooms and other psychedelics as “recreational drugs” missed the mark. New thought, expanded creativity, the development of virtue, the appreciation of being, and then being: They were the hallmarks of shrooming.

I parked my bike, locked it, and went into the store. A pleasant young man worked behind the counter. I chose a dose of Hawaiian, McKennaii, and Colombian. The Colombians weren’t considered as strong, but I wanted to try them, anyway. I wasn’t sure if I would want a deep trip or not. The length of the trips differed with each dose as well. My experience with the Hawaiians was about eight hours, with four to six hours being most intense. The McKennaii seemed to last around six to eight hours with about four hours involving the most profound effects. The Colombian? I would find out. I didn’t plan on taking three doses, but if the weather kept up like this I didn’t want to have to go out every day to purchase mushrooms, either.

Openness to what comes was the best approach to shrooming. My bad trips during the first visit in the fall were marked by preconceived notions and taking the experiences too lightly at the start. During each of my trips this visit I had been open to any experience. I believed that was why I had not only a wide variety of experiences but also deeply enriching expansions. When I took two doses I went further; they were so far beyond my typical state of being that I couldn't process them at all. Yet, those trips seemed to create the most profound internal changes. The changes occurred, though, without my conscious awareness of what was changed or how the changes took place. It was like being under anesthesia during surgery: I came out of the experiences repaired with a stronger heart and mind as well as greater sensory integrity.

I wanted to roam outdoors while shrooming, but I needed to wait until the weather changed. Freezing my ass off while booming wasn’t a good idea. I didn’t think so, anyway. I could have been wrong, but I had no plans to test this possibility. I didn’t know what would happen once I started shrooming, though. Of course, that was the beauty of it. In a world structured in an effort to make everything predictable, the opportunity to experience genuine moment-to-moment uncertainty was a siren song.

Having shrooms available at will filled me with such a sense of playful excitement and deep peace that I sometimes wanted to fall to my knees in gratitude. My gratitude was for the shrooms, yes, but for the country that made them so easily accessible. There was no way for me to convey how much inner security permeated throughout my being because of the constant option of shrooming. Even the availability of cannabis couldn’t compete. When I was in the U.S. I felt like a Soviet in the 1930s standing in a bread line. It was worse than that, though, because there was no bread line. Instead there was an army of DEA agents ready to attack simply because I wanted to experience freedom from the oppressive reality created by institutional structures and mass developments that stifled my being. It wasn’t possible to reach the heights of my potential within such a suffocating legal and cultural environment. I couldn’t understand why there were so few Americans unwilling to revolt. Did I have higher standards than they did, did they not understand how much they were missing, had they simply given up out of fear, were they just trying to make the best of a bad situation? I didn’t know, not with certainty. I had speculated plenty and even asked directly in the past, but I learned very little.

I locked my bike outside of my apartment when I returned. As I walked upstairs I shook many of those thoughts from my head. The point was how wonderful it was to have easy access to shrooms. It was a vital ingredient that had been missing from my diet, the nutritional link I needed to become whole as a being. Bad trips were advertised as the reason not to shroom, but there was nothing more humbling than having a bad trip. They provided opportunities to correct bad thinking and poor action in ways nothing else did. Learning to be attentive to subtleties allowed for greater flow. Shrooming was teaching me how to live when I wasn’t shrooming. My awareness of sensations, emotions, thoughts, and the external environment was becoming more and more nuanced.

I put the shrooms in the fridge and sat down at my MacBook to start indexing. My mind was still whirring, though. I was coming from a mindset not long past that did not value living. I was making a concerted effort not just to live, but to live well, for myself and others. Shrooming was a participatory act of living and creating myself. By expanding my consciousness I was expanding my sense of responsibility in the world because I was an integral part of the world, as essential as everything else that existed while it existed. When I died, I would no longer be an integral part of the world except as memories others had of me or impacts I had made that might never be attributed to me. These lessons I was learning were always subject to change according to new discoveries. Nothing I learned or believed was set in stone as dogma or doctrine. Learning could be unendingly expansive … as long shrooms were readily accessible.

I indexed the rest of the afternoon. One thing I had learned was that I tended to be more relaxed before shrooming if I had accomplished something necessary, tended to responsibilities, and eliminated as many potential sources of anxiety that might negatively impact the nature of the experience. There was no need to create unnecessary stress over things left undone. I was still fascinated by my indexing abilities while shrooming on the Hawaiians. I wanted to continue stretching my horizons, discover and overcome more fears and anxieties, and live life as fully as possible. I wanted this process to become my way of life.

I stopped indexing and made pasta early in the evening. I went through a ritual of object placement. On the coffee table, I placed my pipe, lighter, cigarettes, container of Super Lemon Haze, ashtray, stereo remote, CDs, writing pad, drawings pads, pens, colored pencils, and sharpener on the kitchen table. I put a small bag for trash underneath the table as well. I put my keys, wallet, phone, laptop, and umbrella on the dining room table. My coat was on the back of a dining room chair and my winter hat was in one of the pockets. On a separate writing pad on the dining room table I wrote “scarf” and “gloves,” two items that would improve my quality of life significantly. I changed into comfortable clothing, opened a bottle of wine, and poured a glass. I placed the wine bottle and two glass bottles of sparkling water on the coffee table. I had purchased a nectarine from Albert Heijn, among other items, while out for shrooms; I put it on the coffee table on top of a small kitchen towel.

I ate the dose of Hawaiian after finishing my ritualized preparations. I adjusted the lights in the living room, found a trance station, and sat down to have a cigarette. I opened the window and felt the cold as I blew smoke outside. I looked at the table and laughed. “Okay, that might have been a little anal, but I suppose all rituals are.” I might not use a single item or I might use them all. I had no idea and that was the point. I looked out at the street. There were few outside. Everyone I saw was bundled tightly, the wind still a demon, the cold ever biting.

I loaded a bud of Super Lemon and had a couple puffs from my pipe. Intermittingly, I drank water and wine. I closed the window and lied down on the couch. No thoughts. I felt neither good nor bad. I closed my eyes and noticed only breathing. I sat up after a few minutes and put on a Phish concert CD. I cycled through songs until I came to a version of “Harry Hood.” I wanted a jam but one with bubbly guitar riffs, creative synth/piano, and body-soothing rhythms from bass and drums. I lied down again and closed my eyes. 

I sat up quickly when I heard the shrooms marching in. The CD had played out and there was little sound other than giggling in my ears. I looked at the coffee table, the glorious spread laid out in front of me. “That was very kind of me to do that for myself. Thank you, little me, for attempting to be helpful. You needn’t have bothered, though, as I could have done this for myself. Nevertheless, thank you.” About the room was soft light emanating from the lamps. The tall glass case of figurines in the far corner pleased me. The plant in the corner added a wonderful splash of color. I grabbed the writing pad and wrote, “Water plants tomorrow.” I shook my head. “I think so much more clearly while shrooming.”

It was more than that, though. Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. Which was which? One thing occurred to me: I was more fully conscious while shrooming than when I wasn’t. I was amazed that the difference was so stark. “The person I am when not shrooming is a poor sap trapped from himself. I am the integration of categorization. I move freely throughout thought, emotion, body, and into the wilds of externality. That pitiful little me running the show when I’m not integrated, he tries so hard to do the right things, to figure things out, to understand, to help himself and others, but he is so fucking inept. He’s improving, but the pace is slow.”

I sat back against the couch and thought. “How can I help him be more like I am now each moment of his life? What will it take for him to be able to be free and aware when he isn’t shrooming? He has to be more actively creative each moment, to engage life more fully. He’s getting better, but he doesn’t know why. It’s like he wakes each day without really remembering what he experienced.” It didn’t seem at all strange to refer to myself in the third person. That guy not shrooming was not me, not the me shrooming. “The issue is the predictable nature of his thoughts and actions. Setting up the table for shrooming is indicative of his problems, too often trying to control situations rather than live them. He’s still afraid; he is less afraid than he used to be, less trapped by anxiety, and there can be no questioning his courage. He has so far to go, though, to really live his life. There is no map I can give him, no plan of action, no presentation of the facts. The opposite is necessary. He has to always wonder what will happen next, to really not know what even he will do next. Only then will he break down the walls separating him for the rest of himself ... from me.”

I took a drink of wine and pulled out a cigarette. I cranked open the window and lit up. There was a single woman walking down the street away from the Magere Brug, a distant figure, a shroud. I puffed and blew smoke out the window. “That guy, he’s not even here now. He hardly ever participates while shrooming. Whenever he does, the trip goes bad. He was fucking brave when he forced himself to go into the Melkweg in the fall, but he hadn’t learned how to let go yet. At least he’s learned to let go while shrooming now, to let the whole of me run the show. If only there was a way to keep him from hiding while shrooming, to witness at least if not fully participate. He’s obviously figured out that he needs shrooms at this stage of his life and I guess that could be called wisdom since he doesn’t understand why. As long as he continues on this path he might escape his self-created suffering. He’s still too concerned with the world writ large, too much anger that the civilized world has failed so miserably. He’s not wrong in his analysis; he’s wrong to be emotionally invested. There’s nothing he can do about it, but he can do something about his own life. To his credit, he is. He’s increasingly letting other possibilities within himself to come to the fore. But, fuck, he keeps trying to take the lead back again. He’s not a leader. I am.”

I closed the window, grabbed a bottle of water, and took several drinks. I twisted the cap back on then rose from the couch. I could feel all of my muscles working together as I walked. My eyes scanned the room as I did, peripheral vision as much a conscious part of seeing as direct sight. My ears were attuned. I heard my breath even as I felt it, a communication between two senses that enhanced the experience of breathing. I noticed no smells other than the faintness of cigarette smoke. I didn’t like it so I went to the bathroom to wash my hands and face. The soap and water felt slick, slippery, neither here nor there, simply different sensations. I dried off and walked back into the living room. I looked around as I breathed and listened. I felt the whole of my body pulsating, all of the muscles at attention whether flexed, stretched, or relaxed. I experienced myself as being, my thought entirely sensory, more panther than human.

I felt no fear, no anxiety, nothing but alertness. Heightened alertness, that of a predator rather than prey. I hungered for nothing, though, merely attentive to my kingdom. If I had evolved from anything it was undoubtedly from the family of big cats: Leopard, panther, lion, tiger. Top of the food chain, the god status of the world. I sat on the hardwood floor cross-legged, put my hands on my knees, straightened my back, closed my eyes, and breathed.

Time went on endlessly, but the only measure of it was through inhalation and exhalation. Occasional discomforts arose that brought me back into time, but I shifted my consciousness to account for them and slipped back into the timelessness of breathing. Everything that needed to happen happened.

For no reason other than to create change, I rose. I opened my eyes and everything around me had a vibrancy typically lacking when I looked. The rhythmic breathing aided in this change. I looked at the table and saw the magnificence of the nectarine. I felt my facial muscles widen into a smile. I exuded laughter, my head thrown back, eyes closed. Within my mind’s eye, I saw me as laughing pharaoh. The moment felt entirely Egyptian. When I opened my eyes I was surprised there were no pyramids, no sphinx, no Nile. More laughter, but this time with my mouth closed, a fat smiling Buddha tickled to be. I took several deep breaths to become I again. The panther reasserted itself, picked up the nectarine, and took a bite. A delirium of taste, pores widening, an eye orgasm, quivering limbs, juice gushing down my chin, dribbling down my neck, and onto my chest.

I swallowed and took a huge breath of air, my chest expanding widely. Thunder from my throat, “I am!” From one bite my entire body synthesized and energized. The fierceness within my eyes was total, but not remotely malicious. I was power, the embodiment of power. Neither good nor bad, such judgments ridiculous and obsolete, roared out of existence by “I AM!”

Amsterdam Forty-Four: Cold Wind Blowing

The weather had improved, but only slightly. It was fiercely windy. I pulled out my dugout, the little wooden contraption made for the cannabinoid on the go, and filled it with the remnants of Super Silver, leaving the Lemon intact for my pipe. I peered inside the dugout and saw half a team of baseball players. One guy was on deck swinging the bat with two heavy donuts on it. He looked like he had been waiting ages for the start of spring training. I didn’t want to hold him up any longer so I loaded the bat with Silver and let him step up to the plate. The pitcher wound up, sent a wave of heat toward him, and Whammo! He got all of that one. It was heading for the fences, going, going, gone! He trotted around the bases, taking his time, enjoying the cheers from the crowd. When he touched home plate he let out a long sigh, took the bat with him back to the dugout, and high-fived the rest of the team before taking a seat to chill.

After watching a couple innings from the dugout I got up, put on my warm coat, my winter hat, slung my laptop bag over my shoulder, and braved the weather outside. I walked in the direction of Eik en Linde, my intended destination. I chose not to cycle because the wind was wicked. When I arrived, I said hello to Kasper, Peter, and a few regulars then warmed myself with a cup of coffee. Peter looked at me sternly but said nothing. I said nothing in return and purposefully stared back at him with a silly grin on my face. Eventually he shook his head and took a drink of beer. He opened his mouth as if he was about to say something, but then stopped as I exaggerated my smile. He shook his head and grumbled. I took a sip of my coffee and Kasper returned. I ordered an uitsmijter mit ham, kaas, tomaten, en champignonens. Kasper raised a finger, turned to the tiny window, and spoke Dutch into the kitchen where Philip was confined in the mornings.

I turned back to Peter. He was staring again. The sternness had dissipated. His face now resembled a cooked cabbage which was odd because he usually took on the appearance of a ripe mango. I said, “You’re under the weather, aren’t you?” Peter blinked and wrinkled leaves of cabbage fell away from his face. He slowly lifted his beer to his mouth and drank. He emitted a sound of utter satisfaction, but his cabbage head remained. He said, “Would you have me over the weather?” He was sour, possibly rotting, a boiled cabbage tossed in a dumpster next to soiled diapers and used coffee grinds. “Frankly, Peter, I wouldn’t have you at all.” The cabbage smiled and a few more leaves fell from his face. I could see the faintest of bright colors beginning to appear from under his rotted turd-green cabbage skin.

Peter ordered another beer from Kasper as I finished my coffee. I flagged Kasper, pointed to my cup, and he nodded as he filled a glass for Peter. I pulled out my laptop and set up on the curly Q. I was happy to be in my favorite seat. Kasper delivered Peter’s beer and said he’d be back with my coffee in a second. “Bedankt.” Peter looked at me. He didn’t say anything, but he was smiling. Without noticing he had shed almost all of the cabbage leaves from his face. What appeared from beneath wasn’t the ripe mango, though; it was a shiny red apple asking for me to take a bite. I obliged. “You are strange today, Peter.” He leaned back and slowly shook his head, his lips peaked in the middle and the corners forced downward, appled creases layered on either side of his chin. His mouth opened and … then it closed. “Okay, now you’re freaking me out, man. What happened?”

“Nothing strange is happening. I think it’s strange that you think I’m strange.” First a boiled cabbage and now a waxed red apple were impersonating Peter. “Where’s the ripened mango, for crissakes?!” I don’t think that’s what I said, but Peter seemed to understand. He leaned forward and whispered as Kasper put my coffee in front of me. “I left him at home.” Kasper looked at Peter, furrowing his brow, confused. He looked back to me, an unasked question that lingered in the air. I shrugged my shoulders and shook my head, opening my mouth and saying nothing. Kasper looked at me sideways, his back to Peter, and blinked his eyes in Morse code: “He is fucking weird.” I nodded, dimpling my left cheek as I pulled my mouth to the side.

Kasper tended to other customers and Peter took a drink from the fresh glass. He looked up at me. “I needed a break from myself. I hadn’t been feeling well.” I felt concern. “I’m sorry to hear that.” He nodded his head in appreciation. “I think it’s the weather. It could be the drinking, but if I let myself believe that …” He trailed off. I nodded, saddened. Despite all of our back-and-forth antics, Peter had a tenderness and depth within him. I saw only glimpses and they were erratic at best as he typically covered his persona with fruits and vegetables. Not to say those fruits and veggies weren’t a part of his personality—they were—but they were usually the only parts of himself that played at the café. I didn’t like the idea that his roots might not be receiving enough nutrients. How to rectify the situation without tearing down the trellises he had carefully placed around his inner garden. I couldn’t stomp around expecting to improve it. I couldn’t tell if he needed more rain or sunshine, let alone a downpour versus a mist or midday sun versus late afternoon rays. I simply didn’t know enough about his garden.

Kasper delivered my uitsmijter and I asked for a glass of water. “Coming right up.” The food was still a little hot so I waited for the water. Kasper again looked at me concerning Peter. I shrugged and shook my head again. Kasper nodded and went back to work helping others at the bar. When Kasper brought my water I took a drink and began eating. I noticed the flavors without even being conscious that I was noticing them at first. I had a flash from the previous night and as I ate I focused my attention intensely on each bite, identifying how the mushrooms mixed with the tomatoes, ham, and eggs then noticing how the ham mixed with the eggs, tomatoes, and mushrooms. I continued savoring the flavors in this way, washing my palate with water and mixing the richness of the coffee in my taste experiments.

Peter was staring at me again. I wiped my mouth with a napkin and looked at him expectantly. He shook his head, meaning “nothing, just looking.” Strange. “Peter, have you eaten today?” He shook his head no. “You should have a bite. It might help.” He nodded then drank the rest of his beer. He put down a bill on the bar, walked to the hangers, and put on his coat, scarf, and hat. He waved to Kasper and the regulars then said to me, “This day will end and tomorrow we’ll all start over.” He walked out the door. I took a deep breath. Nothing I could do and, hopefully, he was right.

I finished my meal and coffee. I paid my tab and left a tip as well. As I put on my coat and returned my laptop, unused, to my bag, Kasper asked me what was wrong with Peter. “I don’t know. He was weird. Not in the good way. Downtrodden. The weather and the drinking, I think. I asked him if he ate and he said no. The man needs to eat if he wants to stay healthy.” Kasper nodded. “I think he eats at home, saves his money for drinks.” I grabbed my wallet and gave Kasper a bill. “If he comes in tomorrow, bring him some soup or something and just tell him it’s on the house. Hell, tell him it’s the official day for feeding people with names beginning with the letter ‘P,’ whatever it takes to get him to eat something.” Kasper handed my money back and said, “No need for you to pay. I’ll give it a shot, though. We’re talking about Peter, though …” I nodded. “True. Well, I’m off. See you soon.” Kasper waved and I walked out the door.

I fought the wind to Bloem. I lost most of the battles on the way, but I made it. I walked through the front door, allowed myself to slump, and shuffled back to the table nearest the side door. I sat in the seat with my back to the wall, a large window to my left and the walkways through the café to my right. This was my favorite seat in the café besides sitting at the bar. From this seat I could see all the happenings on the first floor of Bloem including the activities behind the bar. I realized it was Bloem’s version of my seat at the curly Q in Eik en Linde. I liked people watching. There was nothing more to it than that.

Daniel walked back from the kitchen and went behind the bar. He hadn’t seen me as I was hidden from view. I was the only customer in Bloem, although there could have been people upstairs. If it got busy downstairs—not likely on such a nasty day early in the week—I would give the upstairs a try for the first time. I sat still, waiting for Daniel to notice me. As he was organizing glasses, bottles, and whatever else was below the bar, he looked up. The look on his face was priceless. He was seeing the ghost of Michael siting in the corner.

I laughed at him, as much to let him know I was real as anything else. He was released from from his shocked stupor and said, “Michael, you scared the shit out of me. How long have you been sitting there?” I stared at him without expression. “Since last night. You locked me inside, you bastard.” I saw Daniel’s muscles relax and he asked if I wanted anything. “Yeah, I’ll have a Floreffe.” An early afternoon beer to accompany my indexing work. Daniel poured and brought the beer to my table as I pulled out my laptop.

“I’m surprised to see you today. Hell, I’m surprised to see anyone today. The weather.” I nodded. “I know. I was indoors all day yesterday, though. I wanted to get out for a while, try to get a little work done this afternoon while I’m here.” Daniel looked around. “You have plenty of privacy. I’ll let you get work.” I opened a PDF and began indexing.

I worked for about ten minutes and a few young people walked inside, roosting in the lounge area. Daniel walked past to serve them. I kept working another twenty minutes, Daniel bringing me another beer. He asked if I wanted to join him for a smoke. I put on my coat and hat to step outside. The wind wasn’t as bad through the tunneled side of Bloem. There was an archway that allowed through-traffic to pass to the road behind Bloem. It wasn’t so much an archway as a tunnel--there were four more floors above attached to the buildings on either side. I never really looked up much because I was usually underneath the tunnel while having a smoke—protection from wind and rain. Well, rain, anyway. Neither Daniel nor I had much to say. We were in similar states; too much juice for the crappy weather. This manifested as nervous energy with nowhere to go. I wasn’t much in my mind at all; my body was alive and wanted to play. Fucking weather. Throughout our smokes we simply glanced at one another, incredulous that we had to endure such indignities.

We returned inside and before I started working again I thought about how Daniel and I were able to spend relaxed wordless time together. I didn’t know him and yet … I knew him. It was the same, as far as I could tell, the other way around. I felt this awareness from him the first time we met. The sense grew stronger over time. I sometimes wondered if I was a different species and I occasionally met “my kind,” my culturally conditioned mind dismissing the possibility as hogwash—how could that be? Neither science, religion, nor any other belief system supported the possibility. Maybe we were aliens left behind and had been dispersed throughout the planet over the ages.

It didn’t matter what it was; there were some with whom I forged instant connections and then there was everyone else. In a way, they didn't really exist. They couldn’t, not for me, because I couldn’t feel them, couldn’t sense any energy or electricity from them. They were the walking dead, extras wandering the earth to provide more moving objects for the few who were alive. In the end, though, they constituted a mass of unimportant beings no more consequential than Saturday night’s after-hours vomit. Of course, they may have been just as real but operating on different frequencies and they thought I was an extra filling up space. Everyone's an extra in someone's movie and yet we were all the stars of our own shows. I was surprised my show hadn't been cancelled, but I think I pulled out of my slumps just in time to live interestingly enough that the cosmological producers allowed me to continue playing my role. Sometimes I wished they would just pull the plug and let me start over. I thought I could do better with a different script. As it was, i had to do the best I could in the role I played. One shift I needed to make was to act as the star of my own show. Sometimes I let the supporting cast play the lead. Fucking stupid.

Yesterday, though, had been a gold mine of sensory awareness. I had certainly played the lead in my life since landing in Amsterdam thus far during this stay. I was filling out as a being, but today everyone was bound and gagged by intangibles. If I could adjust my eyes and sense of touch I might be able to detect what it was that was trying to suffocate liveliness, but I wanted to get more work done on the index. Maybe that was it as much as anything else: The weather and the bindings of the indexing project were chaining me to the ground even though I wanted to fly. Daniel seemed the same way. He was chained to the slowness of Bloem at the moment and the man liked working. Ultimately, I had no idea what the fuck was happening. The earth may have been spinning at half speed or the sun was to exhausted to shine at full strength.

I took a swig from the glass and continued indexing. I had a good rhythm going after about half an hour. Ann hour and a half later I was ready to stretch my legs. The group in the corner was still hanging out, university students from the way they gathered, laughed, and talked. Two other tables had a single occupants eating, a middle-aged woman reading a newspaper and a late-30s/early-40s man with an open laptop. Daniel was in a rhythm as well, busy enough to keep him moving and happy. I motioned to him to see if he wanted a smoke. He said, “Five minutes.” I nodded and saved my progress as I had found a good stopping point. I went online to check my email and saw it stuffed with new mail. Half of it was junk mail. I went through the process of deleting it, marking it as spam so I wouldn’t have to be inundated by the same crap over and over again. I opened one email from a friend and barely began reading when Daniel tapped my shoulder. I put on my coat and hat then walked out with him.

“Things picked up a little.” I nodded. “Yeah, I saw that. I got into a groove with my index, too. I was struggling earlier.” Daniel looked over at me with his cigarette dangling. “Yeah, I could tell you were feeling it, too.” I smiled and as I did a gust of wind came through the tunnel. We both ducked out of the way. We bitched in stereo, “This fucking weather!” I tossed my cig and said, “Fuck it. I’m going back inside.” Daniel followed.

I went back to work on the index for another hour. I noticed the sky brightening outside and the trees across the canal were blowing less. Thankfully. The sun even made an appearance for a minute before disappearing again. All signs of better weather. I stopped indexing and began writing. I was on my fourth beer so I figured enough was enough. I didn’t write so much as think. The past week played in my mind and it seemed really fucking weird. No rhyme or reason, the only constant being the shrooms. I was stunned at how different each trip was, each one had a diversity within itself and yet each one seemed to have a theme, like I was taking shrooms not known for “body highs” or “cerebral excursions” but “relational thinking discoveries” and “experiential differences illuminated by sensory awareness.”

I could open my own shroom shop and become a connoisseur in my own right. “Sure, sure, I understand you want to experience a body high, but do you want so much twirling that you lose touch with your body or would you prefer the sensation of rolling around in warm mud? I have some other shrooms on hand that provide a specific six-hour narrative and, regardless of setting, you’ll experience the prescribed phenomena of the shroom story exactly as it was written by the gods.” I had been partially joking with Nina when I told her I was a shroom guide, but I was beginning to think far more seriously about the possibility. The specifics? No. In fact, I thought specifics would defeat the whole purpose.

As I was thinking, Suzette entered through the front door. I waved at her and invited her to sit down. She first went to Daniel and gave him a kiss. She put her coat on the rack by the side door then came to sit with me. Daniel came over and took her order. I asked her how she was doing and she shook her head, laughing.

“I don’t know. I’m nervous.” I asked why. “I was working yesterday translating for a contingent of Russians and Americans. I was translating Russian into English and the Russian delegate said something about going on the offensive regarding a particular matter. It was an innocent statement, but there are several translations for “offensive,” you know? I think I translated to the American delegation that the Russians found the Americans approach offensive.” She put her head in her hands. I laughed. "Holy shit!" She looked up, her face more serious and her voice a little nervous as she said, “Shit, I think I fucked up.” Then she changed her mind. “No, if I had done that I would have heard about it by now.” Still, she was upset. Hiding it fairly well, but she was nervous. I asked her if she’d like a glass of wine—on me. She said no, but quickly changed her mind. “There’s nothing I can do about the matter now, anyway, so I don’t know why I’m stressing over it. I’m just terrified that I’ll return to work having to explain why I caused a ruckus between the delegations. I haven't received a phone call, SMS, or email about any problems, though, so maybe I translated the statements correctly. It sucks not knowing, though.”

Internally, I whipped my head in a circle. Fuck. I realized, at that moment, the seriousness of her work. I had sweated over indexes in the past, worried about whether I had made a cross reference to an entry that didn’t exist. Authors and publishers would no doubt be upset, perhaps never work with me again costing me thousands or perhaps tens of thousands of dollars in future projects that would go to other companies, but nothing I did while indexing would cause an international incident. My respect for Suzette grew. It was an impressive skill to be able to translate three languages and working at the International War Crimes Tribunal was certainly serious. Never before, though, had I thought about the important role translators played in international affairs.

After a couple glasses of wine Suzette seemed much more relaxed, even a bit tipsy. The conversation had shifted to other subjects, but the possible gaffe was never far from her mind. It was evident on her face. I tried my best to focus attention elsewhere and lift her spirits, but she was stuck on that issue. Not that I blamed her; I would probably be sweating it, too. Bloem had filled out a bit as we spoke, including a few upstairs. What had started as a slow day now saw Daniel rushing about, so much so he had called in Tom to help out. Suzette excused herself, saying she was going home to relax with her boyfriend. I stood up and gave her a kiss on each cheek. She thanked me for the conversation and providing some distraction. “It’s so weird. It didn’t bother me nearly this much yesterday, but today I can’t shake it.” I said, “Hey, I'm glad you stopped by. It was great to see you again. I’m sure everything will turn out fine.” How the fuck would I know? Just something said to people who are upset. “What? You pushed the red button in the President’s office? Oh, well, probably just for pizza deliveries. I’m sure everything will work out.”

Suzette kissed Daniel goodbye and I ordered from Tom. “Varkensvlees en sla mit tomaten, wortelen, en parika.” Tom went back to the kitchen. “Oh, and another Floreffe when you get a minute.” I heard a distant “Ja” then went back to my laptop. Definitely no indexing at this point. Too many drinks. Writing? Nope. Not in that type of mode and the place was too busy for the quiet I needed to really concentrate. Email? Perfect. I went through the many unread emails on my computer and sent short replies. One required more attention than the others. Just after I sent a response, my food arrived.

Things were slowing down. People paid their tabs and left. Bloem was half as full as it had been an hour earlier. Daniel was behind the bar cleaning glasses. I ate and enjoyed the growing quiet. I had a nice, relaxing buzz. Tom cleaned tables. I asked Daniel how he was doing. He came over and sat down next to me. “Tired. I wasn’t expecting this much work on a cold Tuesday.” I nodded as I continued eating. I wiped my mouth with a napkin and said, “Yeah, the weather improved.” I was almost done eating so I asked Daniel if he had time for a smoke. We went outside and lit up. From out of the blue, I asked Daniel if he had heard from Anabel. “I don’t know. I hardly ever go online so she might have sent an email.” I found that refreshing. I had held out until the early 2000s before caving to get a cell phone, but I was technologically up to date for the most part. Living abroad and working as an indexer made it a necessity. It was nice being abroad, though. Fewer phone calls and text messages. Unlike Daniel, I preferred email to other forms of communication. So much more flexibility in terms of response time. I had shit I wanted to do in person most of the time and I didn't need bullshit calls and texts cluttering my time.

Daniel asked if I had plans for the evening. “Yeah, staying warm.” He smiled. The last two days had been the worst since I had been in Amsterdam. Daniel said, “Every year there’s a cold snap like this. It won’t last.” I hoped he was right. We finished our cigs and went back inside. Daniel went upstairs to check on customers while Tom continued cleaning up downstairs. I shut down my computer. I thought about having another beer, but I wanted to walk home before the weather changed for the worse. The wind wasn’t as bad, but it was still unpleasant. Daniel came back down the stairs and I told him I was going to head out. I paid my tab and said goodbye to Tom. Daniel bid me farewell. I said, “I’ll see you when it gets warmer.” A pause from Daniel, “So, what, I'll see you in March?” I laughed and left through the front entrance.

I noticed the tops of trees in the zoo were swaying more violently. Fuck. Not good. The bitter wind was back, worse in some stretches than others. It was whipping at the corner of Plantage Kerklaan and Middenlaan and almost unbearable over the Magere Brug. By then, though, I was nearly home. I unlocked the street door, checked the mailbox, brought the mail upstairs, and unlocked the apartment door. I put Susan’s mail away and put down my computer. I went to the kitchen and made hot chocolate. I took the cup with me to the living room and loaded a bowl of Super Lemon. I sparked the bud and felt the cloud of goodness fill my lungs. Oh, dear Me, thank you. I had completely forgotten that I’d had my dugout with me the whole day. Damn, would have been nice mixed with the beers. Whatever. I felt good now at least.

I was spent so I did something I rarely did in Amsterdam: I turned on the television and flipped through channels. I found a soccer match. Or futbol. Or whatever the Dutch called it. It wasn’t Ajax, the local team, but a match between teams from cities I couldn’t pronounce. I had no idea if the game was live or a rerun. It didn't matter. Good enough for a day like this. I fell asleep while watching and when I woke around eleven I dragged myself to the bed. 

Amsterdam Forty-Three: Shrooming and Sensation

Monday was freezing. I didn’t go anywhere and indexed all day. I wished Suzette had been right and that computers could do at least some of the work for me. Stupid computers. Not really—stupid humans for thinking computers were so much more advanced than they were. Occasionally, I would take a break to read Kafka on the Shore, write, or lie on the couch to listen to music. I looked online at Amsterdam-related sites now and then. Once upon a time, Amsterdam’s canals froze over and people went ice skating. I thanked the Gulf Stream for changing that, but wondered about global climate change. The temperature had dipped well below 40 degrees Fahrenheit. I couldn’t get used to Celsius. It was as foreign to me as Dutch. Daniel had once explained the formula to me, but I heard none of it because I was daydreaming about Fleur in a bikini. If languages and mathematics were translated through bikinis I would probably speak two dozen languages and figure out how to build a time machine that worked.

I walked to the Greenhouse and purchased three grams of Super Lemon Haze late in the afternoon. I returned, cooked a meal, and took the dose of Golden Teacher out of the refrigerator. The dose was three days old and I looked at the mushrooms closely to make sure there was no rotting or mold. Nada. I chewed the shrooms and washed them down with a beer. I loaded a bowl of the Lemon and had a puff before grabbing a drawing pad and some high quality pens and colored pencils. I sat on the floor and leaned back against the couch, pulling the coffee table to my chest, and sketched. I used a style I had been honing over the past five years: minute details playing with two dimensional geometric shapes that, when looked at with the right perceptual gaze, became three-dimensional. I had learned to “insert” realistic images of faces and other figures that weren’t clearly evident with a two-dimensional observation, but exploded into view when I was able to transition my view in a way that allowed three-dimensions to pop. I had learned to change my vision more reliably over time, a mindset more than skill that allowed my techniques to improve. It had been difficult to learn how to alter my visual perception to see what was not readily evident to the laziness of eyes not accustomed to conscious direction.

I thought, to a greater extent, that the challenge of shifting sight was the real art involved in the drawings. Yes, it took skill and creativity to make the drawings, but it was far more challenging to shift visual focus. Without a prompt to another person they rarely even considered making an attempt. The drawings themselves created opportunities for viewers to change their perspectives. The art, then, was the viewers’ interactions with the drawings rather than the drawings themselves. The visual artists I spoke with understood what I was doing, but not a single “lay person” understood on any fucking level. In my estimation, this was not merely a difference between individuals such as differing hair colors; no, this suggested a significant difference in sensory, conceptual, and creative capabilities.

When the shrooms began to change my perceptual reality, I took a break to simply view what I had been drawing. I saw so much more than I had seen previously in any of my drawings. I was fascinated. There were thousands of small strokes and flourishes of line and subtle shading creating endless combinations of possible configurations depending on the focus of the eyes in relation to the drawing. I zeroed on areas and followed flows. The drawing changed dramatically as I did this. I went around and around, back, sideways, every which way, and no matter which flow I took, I never saw the same thing twice. It was endless. I looked at previous sketches and they had the same qualities. Three dimensions popped out only to revert back to two dimensions; the “popping” itself changed the nature of the two-dimensional drawing from what it had been before my eyes “popped” the drawing to three dimensions and back again.

I wasn’t sure how much time had passed while viewing, but I eventually rose to grab a book of drawings and paintings I had with me. There were representational, surreal, and abstract images of drawings and paintings in the book. The representational drawings and paintings were unbelievably boring, even more than they were to my eyes when not shrooming. Viewers could do nothing with realistic representational drawings. The images were cast in stone and there was simply no room for visual imagination. Conceptual imagination, yes, but not sensory imagination. The surreal art was much more stimulating. When I came to the first surreal painting I felt my whole body relax, an enormous “thank you” for removing the boring ugliness from view. Finally, something worthy of viewing.

The abstracts were mixed. I didn’t give one shit about looking at an image with different sized and colored rectangles and squares combined together. They were preferable to the representational images, but still uninteresting. The “busy” abstracts provided much more action—my sight wasn’t allowed to rest. I had to look and look and look and always there was something more to see. The drawings and paintings differed in style from my drawings, but they shared the quality of “being endless.” It wasn’t possible to be bored by them. The only persons who could be uninterested in them were people too lazy to engage with the works. Those individuals wanted representational images to view because the images did all the work for them. It took me a long time to conceptualize what I intuitively sensed as differences between representational works and (some) abstract, surreal, and experimental projects. The latter required investment from viewers whereas the former allowed the viewer to remain static and unchanged by the experience. “I saw a painting of a pretty horse” versus “I had to shed my preconceived notions of how I viewed the world, of how I thought of what I saw and felt and thought; the experience of interacting with the work gave me an opportunity to reconfigure the relationship between my senses and thought.”

When I walked back to the coffee table and viewed my drawings again I gasped. “Oh my god!” Even the best works in the book didn’t allow for this much of a mind-fuck. At first glance the drawing was chaos, but as I focused more and more intently with greater intensity, allowing myself to fall into it, I saw brilliant complexity. I cried. It was so amazing, such a gift to see something that allowed me to see so much. “I could look at this forever and never get bored. It would just keep changing as I allowed it to change me through my engagement with it.”

I finally put the sketch book down and closed it. The level of intensity I was feeling was almost too great; the joy was overwhelming. I sat back against the couch and sighed a thousand sighs of satisfaction. Being satisfied was being at peace and being at peace was being free of wants and desires. Real freedom emerged in such moments, possibilities of choice arose. The choices were wonderful when not a single option felt necessary or wanted. Giddiness erupted within me and I pulled a cigarette from my pack. I cranked open the window and lit up. As I looked out at the street, I felt the warmth of being fulfilled radiating throughout my body. I saw walkers pass in slow motion and bikers gracefully glide by. I didn’t think anything of them one way or the other. I was internally pleased and what was external was simply external, neither an extension of me nor an internalization of what existed beyond me. I was too internally full from viewing my drawings.

What affected me, pleasantly, was the feel of the cold, moving air and the higher volume and diversity of sounds. The sounds had no distinct rhythm; they were random and they changed pace, intensity, pitch, tone, vibration, and volume each moment. As I listened, I thought of the soundscape as a street version of my paintings. It required my full attention to follow it. I couldn’t get to a point where it became something more, something else; it didn’t alter the way I heard the world but I did heighten my hearing senses through the process. I wondered if not being able to put together the sounds in different ways moment to moment was more a failing within me rather than the diversity of sounds. I realized my hearing was less refined than my sight. True of many, I supposed, but I understood that talented musicians would likely consider me the way I considered non-visual artists: incapable or unwilling to hear what they were able and willing to hear. I realized, though, that it was likely less a matter of capability than willingness, focus, and practice.

There was also the feel of the air, the way the breeze brushed against the exposed skin of my face, head, and hands. The sensations of cold differed from parts of my body that felt warmth and I focused my attention to try to feel all of the sensations at once. What occurred instead was what occurred when I viewed my drawings: I felt sensations in my legs then arms then face then ear then lips then index finger then big toe and on and on and each time I cycled back to a body part I had felt previously the feeling was different. My eyes were closed during this process and my intensity and focus became nearly as great as they had been while viewing my drawings.

When I opened my eyes I felt the same rush of satisfaction and joy I had felt after viewing my drawing. There were differences, but I couldn’t place the differences because the satisfaction was just as full. I began noticing that it was the nature of the joy, the exhilaration. The experiences were relatively were equal in fulfillment, but they differed in quality. Not better or worse, but the joy was felt in different ways. I marveled at this. I didn’t need to figure it out all at once; new realizations would come if I continued this practice.

It was clear to me that my sense of touch and sight were similarly well-developed, but that my hearing was not. Part of the reason for that may have been chronic ear troubles including some hearing loss in both ears. But I also thought that it was because I didn't focus conscious awareness of sound as I did with sight and touch. I didn't know if these were natural proclivities or simply the fact that I hadn't decided to focus the same degree of attention on the nuances of sound over the course of my life.

I knew without making any attempts that my taste was as refined as my touch and sight. I had tried so many varieties of ethnic foods over the previous ten years while traveling, from high-end restaurants to food carts on the street, from French cuisine to Ethiopian, from meat-heavy Argentinian to the delights of vegan. I noticed the differences and appreciated the flavors; I loved trying different foods.

The best dining experience I ever had was at a restaurant named Champs du Mars in the rue Cler arrondissement of Paris. It was the first seven-course meal I had ever eaten. The experience lasted about four hours and each course transitioned seamlessly into the next. The courses built on one another. After finishing each course my taste buds became more and more alive. Every time I was about to think “I’m ready for the next course” it would appear and every time it appeared the flavors of the dish were exactly what my palate desired--without my conscious awareness that I even wanted those flavors! The building of sensations, the diversity of flavors from each course, created a growing ecstasy that was tempered only by a greater and greater feeling of fulfillment.

The dessert nearly killed me; I tasted the tears of angels. When I thought I might explode from orgasmic pleasure, a digestif was delivered and it settled everything within me, quietly and serenely, into a state of perfect equilibrium. I looked up at the server, who happened to be the wife of the chef and co-owner of the restaurant. I was unable to speak. I don’t how my eyes appeared to her but when she looked at me her facial expression changed. She had love in her eyes, proud and supremely pleased with my profound appreciation of the food, the ambience, and her. She looked disdainfully at my ex, S. She ate the same courses I did, but she had nothing like the experience I had. She seemed nervous, self-conscious, and uncomfortable. I agreed with our hostess, but I somehow managed not to look at S. with contempt. The sour nature of her presence impeded my enjoyment of the food. The experience, had she been open to it, could have brought us to the same heights together and led to a night of extraordinarily sensuous love-making. As it was, I wanted nothing to do with her. I merely tolerated her presence and tried not to let it diminish my own enjoyment even as she complained at what she perceived of the rudeness of the co-owner throughout the meal. I thought to myself, "If you hadn't so rudely displayed no enjoyment or appreciation then that wouldn't have happened. It was you, S., that put a damper on everyone else's enjoyment." I couldn’t fathom how she could be negatively affected by the gastronomic symphony. I should have known right then and there that we were incompatible. 

My sense of smell, meanwhile, was probably as poorly developed as my hearing. I had chronic sinus problems and a surgery to repair a deviated septum suffered from a football injury when I was younger. I could detect strong odors and even subtle odors, but I didn’t delight in smells in the way many others did. Well, I delighted in some smells, but I could see on the faces of others when occasionally cooking with them that they became enraptured. At least I noticed the difference and respected that those individuals had greater gifts and talents when it came to smell. That was what disturbed me about many others, including S., though; they didn’t seem to recognize or acknowledge that some individuals could experience sensations in a way that made their experiences more profound in particular ways. I didn’t dismiss anyone who had a better ear or nose than I had; instead, I admired them and was happy that they were able to reach heights I couldn’t. I wasn’t jealous because I had gifts and talents of my own that differed from theirs. I knew, without a doubt, that I was able to experience and appreciate tastes, touches, and sights in ways many others hadn't and perhaps couldn't. Why anyone would feel threatened by that or dismiss it as inconsequential was beyond my comprehension. I tried to view those responses as psychological issues and that allowed me to become more compassionate and sympathetic.

All of this fascinated me. Well after I finished my cigarette and put it out in the ashtray, I wondered if I could focus on more than one sense at a time or even all senses at once. How might a practice like that transform me as a being? If I became capable of seeing as I did when focusing on my drawing and feeling as I did when I focused on the sensation throughout my body, what would that experience be like? I felt my spine tingling, a sense of awe and wonder, and I knew, I knew the experience would be mind-blowing and a regular practice of focusing my attention in such ways would transform me. The process necessarily would expand my consciousness, my awareness. In a way, it would transcend all Westernized notions of conscious and sensory development.

I laughed. Who gives a shit? I let the thoughts go as they were distracting me from my sensory enjoyment. They briefly removed me from my body and dumped me into the swamp of speculation. I wanted to remain embedded within my body because it was so fucking satisfying. It was now and those thoughts were past and future.

I grabbed my pipe and took a hit of Super Lemon. The peak of the shrooms had passed, but I was still tripping. I hadn’t yet drawn while shrooming so I sat down and opened my sketchbook to a blank page. I picked up a pen and began working. Whenever I drew, I had no preconceived notions of what I would draw. The drawing unfolded without my knowledge of what would happen next. This practice was enhanced by the shrooms. I was using strokes and styles I hadn’t tried previously in combination with techniques I had used tens of thousands of times. I started from the center and gradually spiraled outward. I had done this in other drawings, but there were subtle differences.

I stopped after a time to take a comprehensive look at what I had drawn. Strange. I was intrigued, but I didn’t know what to make of it. It was similar to other drawings I had made and yet radically different. How could that be? I stared at the image for a long time and then I turned it upside down. Wow! Oh, yeah, there it was. That was the view that shouted “Look at me!”

The shrooms continued to dwindle so I took another puff from the pipe. I turned the page because I didn’t want to fuck up what I had drawn. I started again, losing myself—as I often did—while drawing. I continued in this manner, smoking pot in between stretches of drawing and observing, late into the night. I eventually ran out of steam and went to bed feeling fulfilled.

Amsterdam Forty-Two: Can't Computers Do That Now?

I didn’t shroom when I returned to my apartment, the first night without shrooms in nearly a week. Every trip had been incredible yet each trip was completely different—different insights, different experiences. The mornings after were glorious. But I took a break for no reason at all. I listened to music and began reading Haruki Murakami’s Kafka on the Shore.

I woke the next morning and laid in bed half-sleeping for an hour. I had waking dreams, drowsy fantasies. They weren’t about Che, though. They started as dreams and fantasies about Che, but each one transitioned to cartoonish endings of global capitalism. In one dream, I convinced the world’s leaders and the world’s wealthy to disband governments and corporations to promote universal solidarity. I telepathically converted sociopaths to empaths and psychopaths to peace-lovers; the greedy became generous, the slothful became motivated, and the gluttonous became disciplined. In another fantasy, corporate CEOs were forced to fight to the death against one another in giant arenas televised worldwide. The CEO of ExxonMobil ripped the head off of Wal-Mart’s CEO … then was eaten by lions in front of cheering crowds. On and on the fantasies went until I was completely awake.

I indexed morning and afternoon. Outdoors? More clouds, cold, and wind. I stopped working late afternoon to shower, shave, and dress before unlocking my bike to ride to Bloem. When I arrived, I locked my bike on the rack near the side entrance, had a cig, and went inside. Daniel was at a table conversing in Dutch with a woman who appeared to be about his age. His back was to me and her face was lively. She smiled as she talked. She looked up at me as I put my hand on Daniel’s shoulder. He looked up, surprised, and said, “Michael, hey, have a seat. This is Suzette.” He turned to Suzette and said, “Suzette, Michael.” I nodded with a smile and she waved a hand. As I sat, I said, “I hope I’m not interrupting.” Daniel and Suzette shook their heads. Daniel said, “Suzette is a grizzled veteran of the Daniel Wars. We worked together years ago.” Suzette interjected, “When we were students at the University of Amsterdam.” I was incredulous. “Am I the only who comes here who isn’t affiliated with the University of Amsterdam in some way?” Daniel: “Yes. That’s why we keep you around. You add diversity.” A few more people came through the front entrance and sat down. Daniel rose and walked to them. I looked behind me and noticed Isa was behind the bar.

“Are you American?” I said yes and Suzette asked if I worked in Amsterdam. “Well, yes, but I work from home for publishers in the U.S.” She had a shy smile that went well with her short dirty blonde hair. She was attractive. She didn’t have the stunning looks of the other women I had seen in Bloem, though. In fact, she seemed more like me; decent-looking in most environments that were not Amsterdam. In Amsterdam, I supposed we would be considered ugly. I had no idea, really. I thought she was cute; of course, I seemed to be attracted to every woman on the planet.

Suzette was dressed professionally: business skirt, short heels, and a tan shirt/blouse/something—what the fuck do women call shirts that aren’t blouses or sweaters? “Shirts”?—beneath a dark woman’s blazer. I was dressed in urban walking shoes, jeans, and a black t-shirt; pretty similar to Daniel, I noticed, although he was wearing a stylish black sweater. I had put my coat on the back of my seat.

“Publishing? Are you a writer, an editor?” I shook my head. “I’m an indexer.” The typical response followed. “What’s an ‘indexer’?” Sigh. I had told this story 1,756, 437 times. I needed to type a few paragraphs explaining indexing, print a dozen copies, laminate them, and carry at least one around with me in my coat pocket at all times so I could hand one to each person who asked the question. “Okay, let’s see how to best explain this. You know when you’re reading a textbook, a trade book, or a reference book for research and you want to find the page such-and-such a name or concept is located? You go to the back of the book and look in the index for the word or words you want to find in the text, right? Well, I create those indexes.”

“Really? That’s a real job? I always thought the author or editors made them.” Oh, Jesus. Another response I typically heard. “Yes, it really is a job. I’ve been doing it for thirteen years now and the publishers keep paying me so …” Suzette leaned back in her chair and folded her arms. She looked at me skeptically. “Can’t computers do that now?” I hung my head and slowly shook it from side to side. I sighed loudly, over and over. Dear fucking fuck, she was parroting the worst of every conversation I'd had about indexing. I looked up at her and simply stared. Suzette was silently laughing. She said, “Okay, I’m sorry. I’m not sure what I said, but obviously I sound ridiculous.”

I leaned forward and took a breath, almost playing with my body language, exaggerating it. “You don’t sound ridiculous. You sound like nearly every other person I’ve talked with who knows nothing about indexing. It’s not your fault.” I dramatically raised the pitch of my voice, “It’s no one’s fault. It’s funny really, like I’m trapped in a surreal talkscape answering the same questions over and over again. In a way, it’s fascinating. I mean, people from all walks of life, from all educational backgrounds, from every ethnicity and religious belief system, from all income levels, from every imaginable career field or work background, from nearly every geographic location, and even every slice of sexual orientation, all of them, nearly every last one of them, has the same set of questions. I don’t know what this means, but there must be something there, something about how human brains work because the questions are always the same!”

I paused for a few seconds while Suzette threw her head back laughing. “You know, I should submit a grant proposal to do research on this. I’ve already encountered a scientific sample size, you know?” Suzette composed herself, but couldn’t get the wide grin off her face. I said, “Okay, to answer your question, no, computers can’t do the work. Everyone seems to think computers can do absolutely anything. I don’t know where people got that idea. I’ve tried spoken language software and it sucks. I can type five times faster than it takes to enunciate the words well enough for the software to understand. I thought it would be great for indexing, but I index books used for graduate level education in fields across the academic spectrum. Spoken language software is useless because it has only the tiniest fraction of the vocabulary I need to index any given book.”

I took a deep breath. I was getting deeper into a rant. I looked at Suzette and her eyes were glazing over. “Sorry for going off on a tangent. No, computers are useful for making compendiums, but indexing requires complex contextual and relational thinking that computers aren’t even remotely capable of performing. Consider this: A given human brain has about 86 billion neurons and each of those neurons is connected directly to possibly 10,000 other neurons and, indirectly, to every other neuron. Each second there are approximately one thousand trillion synaptic connections between neurons but each second the connections differ in configuration between various neurons. There isn't a computer in the world that is even remotely as complex as the human brain. Computers have more in common with rocks when it comes to flexible processing capacity, diversity, and creativity.”

I asked Suzette what type of work she performed. “I work as an interpreter at the International War Crimes Tribunal in Den Haag. I translate in Dutch, English, and Russian.” I was impressed. “Wow, that’s intense.” I paused for dramatic effect then looked at her with the utmost seriousness. “Can’t computers do that now?” Suzette punched me in the arm. “Touché.”

We smilingly quieted down. Daniel came over and apologized for not asking me if I wanted anything. “I got caught up with other customers and a problem in the kitchen. I forgot you probably came here for food or drinks.” I looked up at Daniel and told him, “I might have to fire you, man. What’s the special tonight?” Daniel said, “Chicken satay.” A Dutch staple. “Sounds good. Could I have a glass of house red as well?” Daniel bowed slightly. “If you insist.” He looked at Suzette and said, “Hey, I’m sorry I haven’t had much time to talk. Fleur is coming in soon so I might have a little more breathing room.” Suzette waved her hand. “That’s okay. Michael’s keeping me entertained.” A devilish grin. “Yeah, yeah, that’s what I’ve been doing. I think we’ve exhausted the topic of computers, though, so I’m not sure what we’ll talk about now.” Daniel looked confused and Suzette lowered her head to one hand. “Don’t ask, Daniel.” He shrugged and walked behind the bar.

As Daniel brought my wine, Suzette said, “The reason I stopped to see Daniel was because my boyfriend and I were chosen for a basement apartment on Reguliersgracht. We had been on a waiting list for ten years.” I said, “Whoa, that’s great news. Congratulations! Reguliersgracht, damn, that may be the most romantic street and canal in Amsterdam.” Suzette beamed. “I know! I still can’t believe it.” I didn’t know anything about waiting lists so I asked her. “Most rental apartments in Amsterdam’s center are rent-controlled rather than market-priced so the waiting lists are long. The odds of landing an apartment in a choice location like ours? It never happens! No one gives up those apartments once they get them. I will be living in that apartment until I die. Guaranteed.” Hmmm. I wondered, though, since she mentioned she and her boyfriend were awarded the apartment. Each of them or one of them rather than the other? Now that was an incentive to make a relationship work.

“I think you should go to the casino tonight. Keep rolling the dice until you hit craps.” She shook her head. “Nope. I’m celebrating here then going back to my new apartment to hang out with my man.” I smiled and said, “Right on.” I loved seeing good people receiving good fortune. Daniel brought my meal and a glass of water then sat down with us. Fleur arrived and was working with Isa now. “Ah, feels good to sit down. So, did you tell Michael your news?” Suzette smiled dreamily. “Yes, I just mentioned it.” Daniel and Suzette continued to talk as I ate and drank wine. Their conversation drifted from the apartment to their days working together long ago. Isa came to ask if I needed another glass of wine. I nodded and thanked him.

The satay was delicious. When I finished, I motioned to Daniel to see if he wanted to join me for a cigarette outside. He nodded and I put on my coat. Suzette came with us. After I stepped outside and lit up, I said to Suzette, “I didn’t know interpreters were allowed to smoke.” She blew smoke in my face and I decided no more teasing Suzette. Daniel said, “You’re in a good mood tonight, Michael.” I shrugged. “What’s my mood usually like?” Daniel tilted his head and looked up. “Well … I don’t know. You seem different, though. More playful.” Daniel looked at me and shook his head while smiling. “You seem more at home, more relaxed.” He shook the fingers holding his cigarette at me. “More confident.” I nodded. “I guess so. I hadn’t noticed.” Daniel widened his eyes and emphatically nodded his head. “Exactly! You’re less self-conscious. Not that you were overly self-conscious, but you're at peace with yourself tonight.”

I didn’t know how to respond. I hadn’t thought about it, really. The past week had been a whirlwind. I had only been back in Amsterdam a little over a week, but it felt like three months. The shrooms. Boldly shrooming night after night, facing whatever came, not backing down, squashing fears and anxieties, acting not so much impulsively but as if the consequences of my actions weren’t so serious or frightful. Winding up on the street after shrooming, not remembering how I got there, and then nonchalantly walking and talking with Che instead of running back to my apartment out of fright?

The thing was … none of it seemed significant to me. So? Why would that be of consequence? This was a new attitude, I realized. I couldn’t access who I had been a week earlier. I remembered the events, flying to Amsterdam, accidentally attending Anabel’s party, being invited to dinner with her family, but who I was during those experiences? I couldn’t remember how I was or how I thought or what I felt. Not specifically. The experiences were from someone else’s life. I felt more like who I had once been … but better than I had ever been. I was stronger, wiser. The confidence from my youth hadn’t yet faced the heartbreaks and losses, the severity of depression, or the crippling social anxiety. I felt none of those things now; until Daniel spoke, I had forgotten I had ever experienced them. It was just one week, yes, but it was not like any other week I had previously experienced. There were no reference points. How radically I might change over the next few months? I might not recognize myself--or recognize who I had been.

As we puffed our cigarettes in silence, I wondered about Daniel’s powers of observation. This wasn’t the first time he had shared astute insights. He hadn’t been making a judgment about me one way or the other, either how I had previously been or how I was now. His nonjudgmental attitude allowed him to be acutely observant. Judgments diminished observational acuity; to see clearly an unimpeded view was necessary. Judgments were clouded lenses distorting what was as it was. I thought again as I had in the past: Nonjudgmentalness was a vastly underrated virtue. I was finally realizing that self-judgment is as much of a problem as external judgment. I hadn’t been viewing my actions or thoughts with any judgment the past week. I had been observant in the way that seemed to come so naturally to Daniel. Without realizing it, I had been learning through observation and inquiry … for no conscious purpose at all. I had been enjoying life and the primary practices creating my enjoyment were watching, listening, asking questions, and sharing observations. There was no room for anxiety or depression, no room for self-doubt or shame.

Daniel and Suzette had gone inside as I smoked a second cigarette while thinking. I found my thoughts and discoveries interesting, but I shrugged my shoulders. “Eh, okay. I’m losing interest.” I went back inside to have more wine and merriment.

When I returned inside, Suzette was sitting at the end of the bar next to the sink. Daniel was cleaning glasses and talking with her. Isa was behind the bar pouring drinks and Fleur was serving a larger group of people, all men, who had apparently entered through the front while I was having a smoke. I sat next to Suzette at the bar and ordered a bottle of wine. “To celebrate your good fortune.” Dnaiel said, “That’s a great idea,” and walked down the bar to grab a bottle of cabernet. He poured a glass each for Suzette and I then worked on the orders from the men in the front of the bar. They were mostly standing, but some were seated in the small lounge on the right side of the front entrance. I looked back now and then as Suzette and I talked. Bloem continued to fill with more people. Daniel, Isa, and Fleur were swamped and Dorlan, the Turkish chef, was likely frantic in the kitchen. Apparently, this was an unexpected crowd. Sunday nights had been fairly relaxed when I visited previously.

While on our second glass, the wine bottle empty, a well-dressed mid-thirties drunk from the group of men walked by slurring something in Dutch. Suzette scoffed as the man made his way to the WC. “What did he say?” Suzette unpleasantly shook her head. “It’s not worth repeating. He’s just an ass.” We went on talking and when the guy walked back he once again said something in Dutch then English, “Oh, that’s right, you’re an American so you didn’t understand that.” Then he said something in Dutch again and gave me a disdainful look. Suzette bit back hard at him in Dutch. I figured he had said something derogatory about me or about Americans, but I brushed it off. A drunk Dutchman who didn’t like foreigners. Che had given me the heads-up about folks like him the previous day. I chuckled to myself as I thought, “Maybe not knowing Dutch isn’t such a bad thing after all.” Meanwhile, Daniel went over and talked with him. I wouldn’t have noticed had Suzette not pointed it out. I looked behind me and as Daniel spoke the man put up his arms as if to say “I didn’t mean anything by it!” Daniel left him and then went about his business. The drunk guy came by and slurred, in English, “Sorry if I offended you. I’m just a drunk asshole. Have a good evening.” With that, he left.

Suzette and I shared another bottle of wine while the crowd settled down and began to disperse. Fleur and Isa began cleaning up tables. Daniel was doing dishes in the sink talking with us. I asked Daniel what he had said to the drunk guy. Daniel kept cleaning dishes and, without looking up, he casually said, “I told him if he couldn’t be civil then he could leave. Some of the Dutch aren’t happy with the proliferation of English being spoken throughout the country. You wouldn’t have guessed it from looking at him, but he was ‘Traditional Dutch.’” I asked what that meant. Suzette said. “He’s a conservative.” Before I could say anything else, Daniel said “’Conservative’ is code for anti-immigrant bigots.”

Suzette chimed in, “They’ve always been here and it’s worse in the rural areas. It’s been especially bad ever since the assassination of Theo Van Gogh.” Theo, the great-grandson of Vincent Van Gogh and a controversial filmmaker, had been gunned down by a young second-generation Moroccan Muslim who had become a radical while attending university. Van Gogh had made an 11-minute film depicting passages from the Koran on the bodies of naked women. The film, of course, set off a firestorm of debate about free speech, tolerance, and respect. Theo had been walking down the street not long after the short film was released—he had no bodyguard and lived in the city as anyone else, going to and from places as any other local would—and the Moroccan youth shot and killed him in the mid-2000s.

Daniel continued cleaning along with Fleur and Isa. I asked if I could help at all. Suzette asked as well. Daniel said “Yes, drink more!” It was a good, and necessary, laugh. Suzette finished her glass and walked over to Daniel to give him a hug. Then she came to me and kissed me on each cheek. "It was a pleasure talking with you." I said, “I had a great time. Hopefully I’ll see you again some time.” Suzette responded, “I hope so, too. You’re going to be in the city for a few months, right?” I said. “Yeah, more or less.” She smiled as she waved goodbye.

Daniel, Isa, and Fleur continued cleaning. Most of the hard work was finished, but I grabbed some glasses from a couple tables and brought them to the sink. Daniel looked at me as if to say, “Michael, stop it.” Instead, I kept at it. Daniel poured a round of beers and we joked around as we finished up. Fleur left and Daniel thanked her for working on short notice. She waved a goodbye to Isa and I. Daniel and Isa were getting down to the nitty-gritty work behind the bar. I sat and drank my beer, conversing with both of them about nothing in particular.

I had a strong buzz and I looked about the bar. It was clean and orderly once again. I looked up and noticed for the first time that there was an upstairs. There was an opening in the center of the ceiling and there was a see-through grated iron floor around the outer edges of the downstairs café. I asked Daniel if I could go upstairs to check it out. He said sure and laughed. “You didn’t know it was there?” I said, “I had no idea. I wondered where you went sometimes when you headed back that way. I figured you were walking to the kitchen or the WC.” He shook his head. “No, some customers prefer the upstairs. Check it out.”

I walked up the tight spiral staircase. It had a completely different feel than the downstairs café. Lots of windows, more sources of outdoor light. There was a room with a long table over the top of the kitchen. The floor was wooden in that section. It was completely out of view from downstairs. I imagined it was used for private parties or large dining groups. The other space was essentially a “U” of tables on raised wood floors around the grated iron floor that served as a walkway. I loved the railing. I took a look at the tables next to the window looking out over the canal and thought, “Wow, that would be a great spot to work.” The view was wonderful and I noticed it was possible to see over the wall of the zoo. I didn’t see any animals; the trees were too high and I didn’t know the layout inside, anyway. Still, a great place to index, write, waste time. There were also windows next to the tables on the long side wall, similar to the dynamic on the first floor.

When I went downstairs I mentioned how great it would be to work up there. Daniel said, “Oh, yeah. A lot of people use their laptops up there. Students, workers, neighbors.” He looked over at me and laughed. “Sometimes, even vagabonds like you.” Smiles. “I prefer 'wayfarer'.” Daniel objected. "Yeah, but you're not on foot any more; you have a bike." I said, "You're killing me here. Let's go with wanderer. That work?" Daniel just smiled. I paid my tab, grabbed my coat and bag, and waved goodbye. I unlocked my bike and rode home, buzzed and happy. 

Amsterdam Forty-One: Squatting

I rode my bike to Stedelijk half past eleven. I arrived well before noon and waited for Che outside, leaning against my bike smoking a cigarette. The day was cloudy and cold. The wind had no bite; at least there was that. I watched thin crowds moving, some in and out of the museum, some passing on their way to the Van Gogh, and throughout Museumplein. I checked my watch every now and then. Noon, 12:10, 12:15, 12:20. Fuck, she wasn’t going to show. I waited longer, sitting down on the pavement next to my bike. I was on my third cigarette when Che arrived.

“Sorry I'm late. Were you waiting long?” I looked up and held out my hand. She grabbed hold of it and pulled me up. I rubbed my hands against the ass of my jeans to wipe off dirt. “Half hour, I guess.” Che blinked, a bit surprised. “What time is it?” I looked at my watch. “It’s almost 12:30.” She shook her head and put her hand to her mouth. “I’m really sorry I didn’t get here earlier. I didn't realize I was that late. Um, I have to go. I swung by to let you know." I sighed and limply held out my hands. "I wasn't sure you were going to come at all, but ... you have got to be kidding me." Che grimaced. "I know, I know. Look how about meeting me here at 6:30? I promise I will be here.” What? “What's going on?” Che sighed, “It’s complicated, but not serious. I forgot I had this thing this afternoon. We can go out to eat tonight. Sound good?” Che smiled and more convincingly said, “I promise I will be here and we will have a good time.” I shook my head, but smiled. What choice did I have? “Okay, colorful one. I'll see you later.” Che's muscles relaxed and she kissed me on the cheek before waving and running off. She was wearing the same clothing as the day before except her leggings were black instead of pink.

Shit. Well … shit. I rode home, dejected, but at least Che showed up and we had plans later. I trusted that she would keep her word since she did bother to come and apologize. I made soup and a sandwich, had a puff of Super Silver, and indexed most of the afternoon. I showered and dressed late afternoon then left on my bicycle around six. I cycled back to Stedelijk with my light on—it was dark—and saw Che waiting for me when I arrived. I stopped next to her and said, mockingly, “You’re early.” Che waved her hand. “I know, I’m sorry about earlier today. I just forgot about my meeting yesterday.” I waved my hand and said, earnestly, “I’m glad you showed up and told me. That was cool of you. I almost left, though. I’m glad I didn’t.” Che smiled. “Me, too.”

“Ready to go? You can ride me, right?” Ride her? No, no, Michael, no jokes. I had never cycled with anyone on a bike except on handlebars when I was young. I mounted my bike, smiled inside, and waited for her to hop on side-saddle. I waited, but Che didn’t sit on the bike. I looked back. “Are you getting on or not?” She said, “Yeah, as soon as you start pedaling.” Oh. “Really?” She looked at me, broke into a smile, and shook her head. “You are such an American.” I grimaced. “That’s just mean, woman.” I turned back and slowly started pedaling. I felt a sudden jolt, swerved back and forth, but kept accelerating and steadied the bike. “Well done, tourist.” Without turning my head I said, “Fuck you. Where are were going?” Che said, “Turn right on Van Baerlestraat then west into Vondel Park.

I turned right and pedaled aside heavy traffic with Che seemingly invisible on the back. I was surprised how much easier it was than I thought it would be. It was fun. I cycled several blocks and followed Che’s directions into Vondel Park—the traffic was heavy. Che told me to cycle along the north-side paths as we would be exiting the park that direction. The park was lovely even at night. I loved biking through Vondel Park. I had rented bikes on previous trips to cycle through the park and along the canals. Those ventures were during a warmer, sunnier time of year. September in Amsterdam … paradise.

As I cycled, I mentioned to Che I had done some research about autonomism and social anarchy. I told her they fit my values more than any other political philosophies I had ever read. Che said, “Good. Can you keep the bike steady, though?” Oh. “Yeah, sorry.” Che told me to turn right after I had biked nearly half the length of the park. I took the short path to the street, Overtoom, and Che told me to turn right. I cycled less than half a block before she told me to stop. She hopped off and I looked for a space to lock my bike. Che motioned me to follow her inside a building. She said, “OT301.” I didn’t know what that meant, but okay. Once inside, we took the first door left and walked into a restaurant. Che said, “This is De Peper. It’s a volunteer collective. All organic, all vegan.” I said, “That’s incredible. Great idea.” Che smiled. “Wait until you taste the food. Then you will really thank me.” Che paused then said, “It’s a set menu. They ask for donations, but the basic idea is that, well, those who have more pay more to help those who have less. It’s just a recommendation, but it's your choice.” I nodded and grabbed my wallet. What a wonderful practice, yet another consistent with my principles. I couldn’t believe this place even existed. I grabbed a fifty Euro bill. Che’s eyes widened. She whispered, “Damn, Michael, that’s generous. A donation like that really helps others afford to eat.” I wished I had more cash on me. This was a project I wanted to support wholeheartedly.

Che approached a person working and said hello. They clearly knew one another. Che turned to me and said, “This is Michael. He’s a sympathetic American.” The person acting as host or server—I wasn’t sure—smiled graciously and introduced himself as Andries. I handed him the bill. He looked at Che then back to me, “Thank you. That’s a real gift.” Such gratitude. I felt humbled. “I’m just learning about this movement, philosophy, practice, and I think it’s amazing. I feel fortunate to be here, to witness something I never thought could exist in this world.” Andries smiled and grabbed my arm. “That’s wonderful." He looked around, smiled, and held out his arms. "We exist. You can pick up your starters at the counter.”

Che and I walked to the kitchen counter, grabbed our plates, water, silverware, and found a table. I took a bite and just about died. I tried to keep my voice down, but I said, “Oh my god, this is incredible!” Che laughed and motioned with her hand to keep it down. The place wasn’t quite packed, but there were a lot of people present. I asked Che, “So, is everyone here a squatter?” Che looked around and shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe. It’s usually squatters, activists, and artists from around Amsterdam, but there are travelers from all over who squat, even traveling artists and activists who visit. There are a lot of squatters locally who don’t have kitchens or money for food. This project is part of a much larger community and everyone tries to do their part to support one another. That is the ethic and it’s critical for the continuation and growth of the community.”

Che continued, “This is De Peper, the restaurant, but OT301, the building we’re inside, is an artists’ live/work space. There are studios for film, dance, music, theater, and other art forms. Artists create here and there are performances, too. Workshops are offered and there’s a bookstore. Everyone living here and visiting here contributes in some way. This is far from being the only space doing things like this, believe me.” I interrupted Che—not purposefully, just out of a sense of incredulous awe. “You’re kidding? That’s amazing. So there are other spaces throughout the city doing similar things?” Che shook her head and said, “Yes, and other things besides. The group living here is diverse, not just Dutch. It’s international. They are involved in the overall Amsterdam autonomist/anarchist community. This place has more stability than most squats because the group managed to buy the building last year. It is weird, but given the current political climate it was a smart move.”

“What is the current political climate?” Che took another bite of food and I remembered I was eating, too. She wiped her mouth with a cloth napkin and said, “There is pressure to limit squatting and even to ban it. It looks like Amsterdam will pass legislation to allow owners to occupy an empty property for just a day--which is absurd--to keep it from becoming legally available to squatters.” I stopped Che. “Hold on. I’m a little confused. What do you mean, an owner occupying an empty property?” Che leaned back in her chair and shook her head, an open-mouthed smile matching her laughing eyes. She was obviously amused by my ignorance. “Wow, you really don’t know anything about what’s going on, do you?” I said, “No!” I put up my hands and whispered, “Sorry, I’ll keep it down.”

Andries walked over to us. I thought he might chide me for being loud, but he merely mentioned that the main course was ready. Che and I finished our starters then I followed Che back to the kitchen counter to pick up our entrees. I took a bite when we sat down and said, again, “Oh my god. Who are the chefs here? They’re unbelievable. And the ingredients.” I put my fingers to my lips and popped them out as I said, “Mwah.” Che grinned. “I know. Delicious.” I said, “Wow, people are stupid if they think the quality of life would diminish without capitalism. I think it’s the opposite.” Che nodded her head and took another bite. I took a drink of water and continued eating.

“Che?” She looked at me expectantly. “Earlier you were going to tell me about owners occupying their own property to keep squatters out.” She nodded her head and put down her fork. “Yes. Okay, in the early '70s squatting was legalized in The Netherlands, but in the mid-90s a new law passed making it illegal to squat in a property that was empty for less than a year. People adjusted, but now there is a threat to allow owners to have anyone occupy a property on the 364^th day after it had been empty and the government will give the owner another year to find occupants.” Che became more passionate, “The squatting movement started because owners were sitting on properties to raise the price for the buildings, whether for sale or rent. There were housing shortages so people squatted illegally. When squatting became legal that changed things—for the better. Owners stopped sitting on their properties to drive up prices that were out of reach for regular people. But then the law in the mid-90s changed that and this new law will make it even worse. But that’s not the end of it. There is a wave coming to ban squatting altogether.”

I was eating while Che was talking, engrossed by this story. I wiped my mouth and put down my fork. I was pissed. “That's bullshit. I can't believe Amsterdam would do that. On the other hand, I’m not entirely surprised. When I first visited in 1998, this place was different. It was before the European Union formed, the guilder was still the currency, and American dollars were worth twice as much. The place felt different then, not nearly as wealthy. Amsterdam seemed behind the times technologically and otherwise then. Now? Shit, it puts American cities to shame. It’s noticeable how much more money is here now and how much more 'corporate' and 'hipster' the place has become. You know, I was worried when the EU formed. I wondered if the countries would lose their autonomy, their sovereignty, if they’d get sucked much, much further into globalization and other bullshit with less of a say. I was really surprised Holland voted for the EU.”

Che plopped her fork down and finished chewing. She looked just as intense as I felt. “It was contentious. You were right to be concerned. The EU is not good for squatters, for autonomous communities. Why would it be? It’s an arm of business posing as a governmental body. All governmental institutions have that flaw. The EU is simply another layer on top of The Netherlands government. Power dynamics, robbing us of voices, destroying the environment, marginalizing us, squeezing us out of meaningful decision making.” I interjected, “So, is it the EU that’s behind these threats?” Che shrugged. “Maybe, but the momentum is here. The country is not Amsterdam. There are a lot of conservatives all over Holland, especially in smaller towns and rural areas. Racism, homophobia, hatred of immigrants.” Che looked at me a little funny. “That surprises you, doesn't it? It’s true, though. Compared to the United States? It is not as bad. But you were right when you said things have changed since the '90s. The Netherlands is more conservative now, more corporate, too. There is pressure to eliminate our culture. I am not militant. I haven't had to be. As a culture we haven’t had to be. We had decades of license for squatting and some other autonomous rights. There was some upheaval in the '80s, though, but the autonomous communities in Amsterdam and around The Netherlands? We have been 'fat and happy,' so to speak. That will likely change soon. We are waging a losing battle right now. There is a lot of activity, though, to try to garner the support we need. I don't know what will happen yet.”

I considered her words as I ate. This was certainly a way of life I didn’t want to see die; hell, I had just discovered it. I could understand being willing to fight for its survival. I didn’t like the prospects, though. If the state and business interests wanted to shut down squatters and quash autonomists, they would do it by all means necessary. Being under the umbrella of the EU didn’t help matters at all.

I looked at Che as she was eating. Her sandy blonde hair was peeking out of her orange winter hat just as it had yesterday when I first walked alongside her. That button nose of hers was delicately cute and those lips, moist from the food and drink, were vibrantly pink, naturally pink. I noticed her eye color for the first time. Hazel, but more gray-blue than green or brown. She had a tiny dimple on her chin; I hadn’t noticed that before. She had taken off her green parka and wore a long sleeve thin sweater with wide horizontal burgundy and violet stripes. It hugged tightly against her body. She had smallish breasts, but she was athletic. She was attractive, cute, pretty, and yet I hadn’t thought of her sexually even once. I didn’t know why, but I wondered if it was because I was so jazzed about autonomism, squatting, the history and details. She was smart, funny, and incredibly knowledgeable. In all ways she was wonderful.

We continued eating in relative silence for a little while. I remembered when I first met my ex. I hadn’t been immediately sexually attracted to her, either. What attracted me was her intellect, her sense of humor, and her passions for literature, art, and politics. I was physically attracted to her, but it was in balance with the fullness of her being. S.’s politics were liberal, but much more conservative than mine. By the time we split, her politics and personal views had changed so much that I was disgusted by her. I couldn’t even believe she was the same woman I had met thirteen years earlier.

Che, meanwhile, was every bit my equal when it came to her political views. She put me to shame in terms of her activism in relation to her views about autonomism. I wasn't as knowledgeable, I hadn't been exposed to such ideas, and there certainly wasn't anything in the United States that was like the communities here in Amsterdam and around Europe. But now, with Che and I eating and only lightly talking, I noticed more of her physical quirkiness and subtle sensuality. But this was a rare case where my mind overruled my heart. I wanted to know more about the local squatting situation. I broke the silence and asked Che, “What would it take for me to become a squatter in Amsterdam?” Che looked up at me, surprise on her face. She said, “Are you serious?” I shrugged my shoulders and said, “I don’t know. I’m curious, though. I mean, the more I learn the more attractive this life is to me.” I thought for a moment and expressed an anxiety. “There’s a part of me that feels like I’m not worthy of being accepted. Maybe that’s just it—I never knew about this, I never even dreamed it existed in this way. I knew squatting existed, but my perceptions didn't match the reality. I have been politically jaded for so long that I had pretty much given up hope that anything good could ever happen again. Eight years under the Bush administration, believe me. I knew things were better in Europe, but this? I had no idea.”

Che smiled. “You are so different than the person I first met yesterday. I never would have guessed. You are full of surprises—in a good way.” Che laughed, "I still can't believe you walked alongside me the way you did. You were funny. I kept wanting you to go away, but you won me over. You were so weird!" Che laughed again then took the last bite of her entrée before saying, “If you wanted to become a squatter, you would meet with more experienced squatters to help you out. You could squat on your own without being part of the community, but, well, good luck with that. There are planning meetings and you could go to get advice and assistance. There is a huge network of autonomists, anarchists, and squatters. It is difficult to get choice squats. There's not exactly a waiting list, but ... it's like a de facto waiting list. Not really. I don't know how to describe it, but there are limited properties available. Eyes and ears are always open for properties about to become available. It will get worse if new restrictions are passed. I don’t know what’s going to happen. The point is that you would go to a kraakspreekuur—” I interrupted, “A what?” Che closed her eyes, shook her head, and said, “A consultation meeting. You would go and find out more, make connections, start getting involved in the community. The more you contribute, the more help and guidance you’ll get in return. This is an open community. We want to welcome people and help them become more involved in our communities, our way of life.”

I shook my head, smiling. “Wow, that’s awesome.” I had finished my meal as well. The restaurant had filled up and it looked like people were waiting to sit and eat. I motioned to Che and she noticed as well. We cleaned off our table and returned our dishes to the sink. I thanked the cooks for making such a delicious meal. They looked at Che then back at me and smiled. We left the restaurant and I asked Che about the rest of the building. She asked me what time it was. I looked at my watch. “It’s about 8:30.” She said, “Another time. Let’s go.”

We walked outside. The cold was bitter. Fortunately, there wasn’t much wind. We were both shivering. I said to Che, “What now?” Che said, “Well, I’m going to Berlin tomorrow so I am going home to pack and rest.” I was surprised. “Berlin?” She nodded. “Yeah, I have friends there that I am visiting. Part pleasure, part work.” Work? “What do you mean ‘work’?’” Che laughed. “Michael, this is an international community. It's not just Amsterdam, not just Holland. We have relationships with communities all over Europe, the world. So, yeah, I have work to do in Berlin, work that will help our cause in The Netherlands.” Wow. Of all the people I could have chosen to walk alongside, I chose this magnificent woman without a clue that she was as remarkable as she was. I said, “Che, I am so glad you dress so colorfully and that I woke up on the bridge yesterday. It’s strange. I feel like I’ve known you a long time and yet we met completely by chance—well, I took the leap to meet you. Still, I didn’t know who I was meeting. Thanks for not telling me to fuck off.”

Che smiled and nodded. She looked down at her feet then back up at me. “I am glad I didn’t I didn't tell you to fuck off--and that you’re attracted to bright colors!” I laughed as she continued, “Next time, though, you’re going to do the talking. I want to know how you ended up on the bridge in the first place and … more.” I said, “Deal.” I paused then said, “How long are you going to be in Berlin?” Che shrugged her shoulders. "It’s open-ended. A week, a week and a half." Hmmm … “Well, how will I, you know, get in touch with you again?” Che said, “Good question. I tell you what. Meet me here at seven o'clock, two weeks to the day. Go inside De Peper and if you don't see me ask for Che. If I something comes up and I can't make it I will leave a note for you. Okay?”

I nodded. "Sounds good. I suppose a phone number is out of the question, though." Che said, “I don’t have a phone." Che pursed her lips with a twinkle in her eye. "Don't fret. I will see you again." I felt myself blushing. “Would you like a ride home?” Che shook her head no. “That's kind of you, but I can walk.” She paused and seemed to be searching for the words. "I want to keep my address private for now. Just ... let's see what happens over time." I understood. We just met. I asked Che if she had a bike. “Yeah, I do, but I loaned it to a friend this week.” Oh. I stood there awkwardly, wondering what the hell to do. Do I kiss her, hug her, or just say bye and take off? Che resolved the issue by kissing me softly on the lips. “Thank you for a wonderful dinner.” She turned to walk away, but looked back. “And thanks for being a great guy. It is just as weird and cool to me that I met you as it is to you, you know?” A totally different smile from Che and my heart kicked my mind completely out of the way. I looked at her dreamily, possibly smiling like a drunken idiot. She giggled and waved goodbye. I waved back, watching as she turned to walk away. After several steps she turned back. I was watching her. She yelled. “Go, silly!” She turned away, laughing, as I unlocked my bike.