I indexed most of the day. The book was on early childhood development. One thing that struck me in all of the books I had indexed on early childhood development was the importance of play. Every time I came across play in similar books, I was convinced that play was essential for adult development as well. Adult play is usually interpreted as creativity. Creativity without a sense of play, though, is work. Much of my writing and sketching was play and often enough I wrote about play as a form of play. For me, the “play within the play” had an entirely different than it within pop culture references to Shakepeare.
Sometimes, though, my play spilled over into everyday adult life. When I went to Albert Heyn to shop in the afternoon, I brought my sense of play with me, creating histories for each of the products on the shelves as I shopped. I had a world culture in my cart as I stepped to the checkout line. The grocery store on the corner Vijzelstraat and Kerkstraat was usually busy and it was no different that afternoon. There were only two checkout lines open and each was about a dozen deep with customers. Knowing it was going to take some time to get to the front of the line and feeling as playful as I was, I turned to the well-dressed man behind me, probably in his thirties, handsome and tall with wavy Dutch-blonde hair, and asked him to tell me about the best practical joke he had ever played on anyone. He stared at me blankly without answering.
Not satisfied to let the topic go, I said, “You look intelligent and well-educated so I’m going to assume that you speak English. The best practical joke I have ever encountered was performed by a good friend of mine in college named Tim. He and his roommate had been at war with the guys in the dorm room next to them throughout the first semester of their sophomore year. Their neighbors had pennied their door one night and they couldn’t get out the next day to go to their classes. They were stuck in their rooming begging for someone in the hallway to open the door. They only responses they received were laughter until security came to save them in the afternoon.
“So Tim and his roommate vowed to get even. One night in the following week, Tim came home drunk, took a shit in an empty pizza box in his room, and put it into the freezer of their fridge. The next day, his roommate had the brilliant idea of collecting their shits, putting them in a paper sack, and saving them before heating up the frozen turds in their neighbor’s microwave.
“Over the next week, they collected shit after shit and put them in a paper bag that they kept in the freezer. They continued to wait for the right moment and one evening when a bunch of people were hanging out in the hallway bullshitting, including their neighbors, Tim asked one of the neighbors who had performed the prank on them the previous week if he could heat up some egg rolls using their microwave. The guy said ‘Sure, no problem,’ so Tim took the bag of frozen shit and put it into the neighbors’ microwave while his roommate made sure the neighbors stayed occupied.
“Now, Tim had no idea how long to cook the shit so he insanely set the timer for four minutes. You stick a couple slices of frozen pizza in a microwave to heat them up and you set the timer for maybe a minute or a minute and half. So four minutes was ridiculous. Tim was clueless, though. After he started the microwave, he went out into the hallway and pretended to join the conversation. Every thirty seconds or so he’d go back to the microwave to check on it.”
By this point in the story, the blonde guy was smiling, listening intently. I noticed that there were people in the other line smiling and listening as well, even an elderly man and woman with a young boy. I noticed whenever I turned to check to see if I needed to move forward that the guy in line in front of me was listening, too. I was having as much fun telling the story as they seemed to be having while listening.
I continued. “After about two and a half minutes, the room was starting to stink. Tim inconspicuously closed the door when he went back out to the conversation in the hallway. His roommate was looking at him like, ‘how much longer do I have to keep this going?’ Tim gave him a wink and after another fifteen seconds or more he went back into the room. The smell was overwhelming and Tim started gagging so he left the room again.
“By this time, the stench was spilling into the hallway even with the door closed. After another thirty seconds, the hallway reeked and people were coming out of their rooms holding their noses. Tim went back into the room. It wasn’t quite four minutes, but Tim’s eyes were watering and he was close to puking so he stopped the microwave, opened it up, and took out the bag—the stench so foul he became dizzy. He ran out of the room holding his nose with one hand and the bag with the other, bolting down the hallway to a public restrooms and tossing it in the garbage.
“By this time, not only was the entire hallway flooded with toxic fumes, but so were all of the rooms on the fourth floor, even those with doors closed. The hallways in the second through fifth floors of the building also smelled putrid. Tim ran from the bathroom to my dorm room, which was in a section of the fourth floor that was shut off from the main hallway by a door. My roommate, Keith, and I had been chilling out watching the David Letterman Show when he flung open our door and stumbled inside, collapsing to the floor. His face was completely red, he was sweaty, tears were streaming down his cheeks, he was choking, and he smelled so bad that Keith and I jumped out of our seats wondering what the hell had happened. I quickly shut the door because the stench was bad even in our closed off hallway.
“Keith, a clean freak if ever there was one, put a towel at the base of the door to try to keep any more of the smell from wafting into the room. Tim had recovered somewhat by this point and was laughing his ass off, but he managed to tell us the story. Besides his roommate, we were the only guys who knew what he and his roommate had done. We ventured out of the room an hour later and our hallway was a little better, but when we walked out into the main hallway, the smell was still horrifying even though his room was at the opposite end. There was no one in the hallway so we walked downstairs. There was no one in the hallway on the third floor and only a couple people on the second floor who were holding their noses with perplexed looks on their faces.
“We walked downstairs to the first floor and then outside the front entrance. There were at least a hundred guys on the sidewalk and lawn out front, all of them confused, a lot of them laughing, but some bitching because they had tests or papers due the next day. This was truly a masterful practical joke unintentionally played on an entire building of guys—an all-boys' dorm where some very weird and wild shit occurred. This, though, was entirely original. If anyone found out that Tim and his roommate had done it, they probably would have been beaten so bad they would have wound up in the hospital.
As I was nearing the checkout counter, I sped up the story. “Tim’s neighbor’s though, paid the ultimate price. They had to throw away their sheets, blankets, mattresses, and all of their clothing. Anything that could absorb scents was ruined. They knew it was Tim and his roommate, but they didn’t know how they did it until each side called a truce and Tim told them. The building security and administrators tried to find out what happened, but the few who knew never said anything so it went down as possibly the greatest mystery in Keane Hall’s 100-year history.”
By that time I was nearly at the head of the line. The blonde guy who had been listening and laughing finally spoke, saying that he had never been involved with any practical jokes like that. I told him that as far as I knew there were no better practical jokes than that one. He said he had a hard time believing the neighbors didn’t fight them or turn them in to school authorities. I told him that all of them had been good friends and they were already on thin ice with school administrators for other problems so even though their entire room had been destroyed they weren’t about to rat. Besides, they couldn’t have proven anything.
After checkout, I bid the fellow adieu and happily wandered back home to index while wondering how such play furthered my development. I figured a single incident wasn’t enough to make much of a difference one way or the other, but the ongoing practice and spirit of play likely contributed to my mental and physical health. I hadn’t played at all when I was severely depressed the previous year whereas I was playing often in Amsterdam and growing increasingly happy. I liked breaking the rules of social norms in playful ways. It seemed to lift me up. If done well, it helped others smile and laugh, too
One concept I had encountered in relation to play and development was neuroplasticity. I thought of plasticity, in this sense, as the physiological correlate of creativity and spontaneity. While routines are useful in many ways, they also have the potential of calcifying thought and action. As I read education-related research between the mid-1990s and mid-2000s I became appalled at the education system in the United States. I needed only to think back about the stultifying “education” I had received during puberty and as an adolescent to know the U.S. education system was broken.
One book I indexed gave an example of a school in Scandinavia that was entirely play-based. Children were provided a variety of resources and they could choose to use any of the objects they liked for any play purposes, many of which involved concepts and applications of math, science, and language development. The teachers functioned as facilitators, only becoming involved when children asked them for assistance or if the children’s activities got out of hand in some way. Otherwise, they observed, took notes, and charted the activities of the children. As I read that case study I wished that I had been fortunate enough to have been born in northern Europe.
Some of the research I had read had been applied in U.S. schools, but mostly in private schools or in school districts with high property taxes. The system of using property taxes to fund schools definitively put the poor and even much of the middle class at a distinct disadvantage. Rural schools were also hindered. It never surprised me, having read so much of the research on education while indexing, that the United States lagged behind most “developed” countries in math, science, and reading.
The Dutch had a strange educational system, and by strange I mean surprisingly innovative. Some aspects of it were familiar to me, but their high school system was foreign. There were only elementary schools and high schools, with elementary schools having eight grades. Different educational philosophies were used at different elementary schools: Montessori Method, Pestalozzi Plan, Dalton Plan, and so on. English was taught beginning in fourth grade most often.
There were three types of high schools in Holland: VMBO, HAVO, and VMO. The elementary school teachers and administrators as well as the Cito test were used to advise pupils and parents about which high school was likely the best fit for each student. The VMBO combined vocational training with theoretical education in languages, sciences, mathematics, history, and arts. The two high schools designed (and required) for admittance to higher education were HAVO and VMO. HAVO schools prepared students for entry into universities of applied science (HBO) while VMO schools prepared students for research universities (WO).
Dutch students with a VMBO diploma were eligible to enter vocational training schools (MBOs). Students with an HAVO diploma could enter HBOs but not WOs, whereas students with VMO diplomas were qualified to enter both HBOs and WOs. In both the HAVO and VMO schools, students could choose particular subjects in a free curriculum space. In other words, personal responsibility for one’s education began in high school rather than at the higher education level. Having to demonstrate academic maturity at a younger age within compulsory education was bizarre but extremely attractive to me. In the United States, submitting students to a forced curriculum in high school was the norm.
By the time I finished indexing for the day it was six o’clock. Nina’s DJ competition started at nine. Daniel had mentioned it during conversation the previous night at van Kerkwijk. The place wasn’t far from my apartment so I had a few hours to kill. I checked my email, hoping to see a message from Sterre, but instead saw a message from Auriana: “What are you doing Saturday night? We’re having a party.” I wrote back, “No plans. What time?” I decided to send an email to Sterre, too: “Are you still in Berlin? Love to see you if you’re back in Amsterdam.”
I shut down the computer and made dinner. I had plenty of goodies from shopping earlier. I took out a cutting board, chopped up white onions, mushrooms, green peppers, jalapenos, and a garlic clove. I took out three eggs from a carton in the refrigerator and cracked them into a mixing bowl while stirring and adding the chopped vegetables. I poured a bit of milk into the mix, put the carton back in the fridge, and grated cheese from a block of cheddar. Susan’s spice rack was loaded so I grabbed oregano, basil, sea salt, ginger, and rosemary. A little of each, but I worried I had put in too much oregano. I mixed the mess together and took a few deep breaths. I wasn’t sure how it would taste—I was fucking around—but I took out the frying pan, grabbed butter from the fridge, and spread it all over the pan. I turned the heat on low.
As I stirred, there were mild signs that the mix was cooking. I turned the heat up, gave it an occasional stir before pouring just a bit of orange juice and white wine, and then squeezed a lime. The smell was strong, but didn’t seem quite right. I found a hot pepper sauce, sprinkled it liberally throughout the pan, and continued stirring. The smells were beginning to fill the kitchen and I opened a window to bring some fresh air into the room. I turned the heat up a bit more and grated more cheese into the pan. A good sizzle started and the eggs coagulated. The smell was powerful even with the window open. The mix was still slightly moist, but it was cooked to my satisfaction so I dumped the scrambled omelet into a large, low-curved bowl. I sprinkled Parmesan over it, grabbed a fork and my drink, and went to the dining table to eat.
Ignoring the rising steam, I stabbed a forkful. The cheese worked nicely holding the ingredients together. I took a bite. The mix of flavors was almost too much. I waited a few seconds after I swallowed. Yes. Yes, it was good. I ate the rest, washing it down with glass of an OJ wine spritzer. The hot pepper sauce opened my pours, bringing a refreshing sweat to my brow and cheeks, and opening up my sinuses. When I was finished I was thoroughly satisfied. I had an after-dinner cig and then then cleaned up.
Afterward, I cleaned my pipe. When I finished, I loaded a bowl, took a couple puffs, chilled out, and sketched. At one point, I went to the couch to open the window and smoke a cigarette. I looked out on the street and admired a group of four attractive young women walking toward me. They were smiling and laughing. A long-haired blonde looked up at me as I leaned out the window as I said, “Your coat is purplicious.” She was wearing a long bright purple coat and a lavender scarf. Even her boots existed in the same sector of the color wheel, a color struggling to become violet. She smiled up at me and pulled the sides of her coat open revealing a bright purple satin blouse. I braced my thighs against the couch and began clapping and whistling. The other three were now looking up and smiling, too. They were dressed fashionably and together they made a rainbow: lime green, chartreuse, vermillion, royal blue, crimson, and more. They had all colors covered with one article of clothing or another, a rainbow on parade. “I would toss flowers to you if I had any.” They laughed as they passed by my window below. They may have been higher than I was, possibly flying on E. I blew kisses and two of them reached out their hands to grab them before turning away. I loved Kerkstraat.
I turned on the stereo to an electronica station and cranked it. I felt like moving, dancing. In no time I broke a sweat. After fifteen minutes, I turned down the stereo and changed the channel to what sounded to me like “action jazz.” It was aggressive, eclectic, probably experimental or avant garde European jazz. There were nontraditional instruments and even what sounded like garbage can lids slamming together. I went to the kitchen and pulled out a container of apple juice. I popped the lid and guzzled about a quarter of it. I grabbed a bottle of water and took it into the living room. I went to the coffee table, dumped the spent bowl into the ashtray, loaded another bud, and had a puff.
I started reading Murder in Amsterdam then got ready to go, putting on a light jacket for the cool evening air. I remembered Susan’s mail so I ran it back upstairs before finally leaving the apartment, walking toward the small club where Nina’s competition was taking place. It wasn't far, north and west of my apartment, so I arrived early. I had a hit from my dugout outside then smoked a cigarette, standing near a group of male and female twenty-somethings who were also puffing away.
I went inside and saw a smallish club with a DJ table against the back wall as well as large speakers. Along the right side near the entrance was a long bar. There were only a few folks sitting or standing next to it with a bunch of lounge-like couches and chairs next to small tables in the sunken area of the bar toward the back as well ample space to dance. They were mostly filled with young men and women--mostly women. In a corner with a couch and chairs on the left-hand side of the bar, just after the step-down at the end of the bar, were a group of seemingly college-aged women, probably between eighteen and twenty-four. They were loudly chattering away in Dutch. I understood none of what they were saying but thought, “Damn, that’s a lot of hot women in a ten-foot-square area.” I saw Nina sitting among them. I tried to get her attention, but she was caught up in conversation with two other women who were almost as gorgeous as she was. Almost.
I turned to the bar and ordered a beer on tap. As I did I felt a poke. Daniel was standing at the end of the bar right next to me. I said, “Hey, man, I didn’t even see you.” He nodded at the women in the corner and said, “Yeah, you were preoccupied.” I shrugged sheepishly. He asked me if I wanted a smoke as the bartender brought me my beer. I gave the woman my card to run a tab, placed a coaster over my beer, and joined Daniel outside for a smoke even though I had just had one. He lit up in his “I’m-cooler-than-anyone-you-know” manner. It was like watching James Dean light a cigarette. I puffed and puffed and puffed and blew a gigantic smoke ring into the air. Daniel took a puff and blew a jet of smoke through its center which caused the ring to wiggle then break. I said, “Hey, man!” He barely cracked a smile. He was quietly competitive.
We went back inside. Daniel grabbed his beer at end of the bar. I picked up mine and stood next to him. Nina came over and put one hand on Daniel’s shoulder while clasping my elbow with the other. She said, “You’re going to cheer loudly when I get up there, right?” We nodded yes. She said, “I’m nervous.” She looked hyped up, but anxious. I pointed to the group of women in the corner, presumably her friends. She looked over and said, “Oh, yeah.” She motioned for us to follow her over. Daniel looked exasperated, not wanting to be on parade. Nina introduced us in Dutch. Some of them knew Daniel and reacted warmly to him. In English, Nina mentioned that I was American. Only half the young ones were looking up. Those who were nodded disinterestedly.
Nina turned and said, “I have to go backstage and get ready,” leaving Daniel and I in the lurch to converse with her friends who were resuming their conversations. I wondered how many were lesbians, bisexual, or transgender. Probably all of them. Fine by me, but from the looks of the women I was just an older guy that belonged in the background. They were a clique, a band of women warriors who hunted and gathered together, and I was from an unknown and unwanted tribe.
My inability to speak Dutch was a serious detriment. I wondered how many were turned off that I was American. Most of the Dutch were accepting, but there were definitely currents of resentment over America’s megalomania and fiercely confrontational and militaristic aggressiveness toward the world. I spoke briefly with one woman who spoke a little English, but the conversation was awkward at best. She looked around as if for help, anything to save her from having to converse with an ancient American who couldn’t speak Dutch. She was stretched to the limit in terms of being respectful and looked like she might shriek at any moment. Her eyes said, “Why are you here? Why are you bothering us, interrupting our fun, you pathetic white American male with your boring heterosexuality and your monolingual stupidity.
One of her friends grabbed her and they went outside, presumably to smoke, but essentially, I think, just to escape from me. I was relieved, too. It had been torture standing there on display in front of young women of indeterminate sexual orientation who seemed to view me as a symbol of whatever it was that they despised most in the world. There was no way to dispel their misperceptions—if that was even what they were thinking—because I didn’t have the language to communicate. My heart wasn’t in it, either. I just wanted to hang with Daniel, drink some beer, and listen to Nina’s music. I fought off the urge to think of the women as snotty little bitches, but I couldn’t help fast-forwarding into the distant future when they were older and peering in from the outside at a new flock of young women who might look at them with disdain. Sad, insecure, and resentful wishing.
I went back to the bar, shook off the sentiments, and took a drink. I was surprised to see Daniel already there. Somehow he had slipped away without my noticing. He was talking with a good-sized guy wearing a plain white T-shirt with wavy black hair and a wide smile on his face. Daniel introduced me to him. His name was Chris and Daniel mentioned he was Nina’s roommate. I remembered Nina telling me she didn’t like this fellow because he was "such a guy." That was definitely true. He had a thick Australian accent and he mentioned he was half Aussie and half Belgian, his mother having been born in Brussels before being swept Down Under by Chris’s old man.
Chris overflowed with machismo. His presence was larger than life, full of grandiosity but in that fun-loving way most Aussie’s possessed. He was training to compete in mixed martial arts competitions and he talked about his push-your-body-to-the-limit workouts. He also mentioned his Australian misadventures, how his old man was a hound with the ladies, and how he had gotten his dad’s genes than that regard. He “wanted to party and then party some more.” He was about as extroverted as a person could be without his muscles and bones breaking through his skin to expand even further, a tornado of talk and action. He gestured wildly at times and his voice boomed.
I could understand why this guy irked Nina. I thought he was great, though. So fucking fun. I asked him about living with Nina and he said, “Ah, mate, she’s the greatest. We watched a Western the otha’ day and I says to her, ‘That cowgirl is fucking hot.’ She's sitting like a guy, legs wide open on the couch, and after she takes a swig of beer she says, ‘Yeah, I want to fuck her brains out.’ All I could say was, ‘No shit, right?’ She looked my way and said ‘Fuck yeah.’ Then she pounded the rest of her beer. It’s like hanging out with a guy, she just says whatever the fuck is on her mind. She doesn't give a shit. She’s the coolest, mate. She's got bigger balls than most of the guys I know.”
Chris also had a more refined side. He spoke Belgian, English, French, and was taking classes to learn Dutch. He suggested I join his class, they'd had only two and he said it was “only intermediate Dutch” which nevertheless seemed a degree beyond my learning curve. He said they met after classes at the Huyschkaemer. I told him I lived just around the corner on Kerkstraat. “Aye, then you have to come over, mate. Tuesday nights at eight. A good group, an American in the bunch, too. Some fine pussy, too, but I gotta focus on the class for work. You could hook up, though.” I changed the subject and asked him where he worked. He mentioned a design company located in a building on the Dam. He said his office overlooked the Square. “It’s a good company, great contacts, but it’s a bit stodgy. It’s the older generation and they don’t understand how the culture is changing, you know? They can’t fathom how fast everything changes now, how global culture is. It’s not a big company, but big enough that it’s hard to pass ideas up the chain. I’m working up a business model to create a startup with a mate of mine. I got a good contact at Columbia Sportswear, too. Just need to hammer down the particulars so we can get started. Starting with a client like that, create momentum, and branch out. I got all the ideas, mate, plenty of fucking ideas.” I had no doubt he did.
Daniel, meanwhile, was chilling out, laughing now and then. When Chris headed to the WC, Daniel mentioned that Chris had stopped by Bloem a few times with Nina. He got along well with Chris, he liked him. It was hard not to like him, although boisterousness might be an acquired taste for some. When Chris came back, the three of us started talking about art and Chris mentioned he painted. Splatter paintings. He said, “I never use black.” He asked me if I did. I said I sketched but had been thinking of transitioning to painting. I realized I kept forgetting about it. I needed to get to an art supplies store and get going. I wanted to start while shrooming and my time in Amsterdam was getting shorter.
Chris mentioned he also played on a rugby team locally. I mentioned I had played rugby in college. “What position?” I said, “seven, eight, nine mostly.” He said, “Ah, you’re one of those, a quick fucker, you see the field. You should come out, mate, give it a whirl.” I shook my head, “I don’t know. I’ve had too many injuries over the years and I’m guessing your group is mid-to-late twenties, maybe early thirties. I think I'd get fucked up pretty quick.” He nodded and mentioned he was twenty-seven. Young and active. A mover and shaker, athlete and aggressive entrepreneur, adventurer and playboy. The city was loaded with guys like Chris: international, young, professional, adventurous, partying insanely, a hat in every ring, willing to do anything and everything, motoring twenty-four hours a day, bursting with energy, with life. If he ever returned to Australia he would likely fuck his way through Europe, fight through Afghanistan, climb Mount Everest, snowboard down the other side, walk through India as a holy man, surf into the Indian Ocean, lasso a dolphin, ride it to Perth, and then do a walkabout across the country to New South Wales.
As we were drinking beers and bullshitting, Chris mentioned the bevy of women in the corner. I said “Good luck.” He scoffed and walked over to them. He started chatting up one of them and soon they were laughing. The man had an energy about him and crackling charisma. It didn’t hurt that he was ten years younger than me, much closer to the age range of the women in the corner. When he returned and we went outside for a smoke, he said he knew a few of them through Nina, that they’d come over to their house quite a bit. He also mentioned that they were all lesbians or bisexual. I figured as much, but I asked, “Are there any women in this city who are exclusively straight?” Daniel shook his head. “I think those days are over. In another generation every guy will be bisexual or gay.” Maybe in Europe. Chris said it would never fly in Australia. I added, “Not in English-speaking countries, not in a generation, that's for sure.” Europe, though, maybe.
When we went back inside and ordered more beers, the MC announced the beginning of the competition. He introduced the three DJs and said they would each play for about twenty minutes. The cheers of the crowd would determine the winner. This was an amateur competition, a way for new and up-and-coming DJs to get some experience and exposure—and a way for the club to draw in a crowd to make more money.
The MC announced the lineup. Nina would be going last. The first DJ was so-so, nothing special and Daniel, Chris, and I wound up talking halfway through his set. The second DJ put together an excellent mix; he was clearly talented, incredibly good. I was mesmerized at one point. People got up to groove once he got going, really getting into it. Nina ran a minimalist set, heavy bass, thumping beats, hypnotic loops. The crowd kept dancing throughout her mix, even more enthusiastically than through the second set. Overall, though, I thought the second guy had the best mix, though not by much over Nina. The crowd probably got more into Nina's mix because the second guy warmed them up and at least half the crowd was there to support Nina. Daniel, Chris, and I roared for Nina when the sound votes were cast. She won in a landslide. Still, the second guy got great applause. He deserved it and I thought he would do well if he could get more exposure and develop a following. Nina’s style was solid and more polished than the other three, but I thought the second guy had greater upside. Then again, she was still young and developing as a DJ. Plus, she was undeniably sexy. The music, though, was the bottom line.
Daniel, Chris, and I went out for a smoke afterward. Nina came out shortly thereafter. She was exhilarated. We hugged and congratulated her. Nina introduced me to her little sister, sparkplug of cuteness. I was stunned when she said she was only fifteen. She had the same thick, lush, long, and curly hair as Nina, a body that defied her age, the cutest button nose, and lively eyes. She didn’t have the sex appeal that Nina had, but, fuck, she was only fifteen. Jesus fucking fuck. I talked with her for a good ten minutes. She seemed much more mature than her years which seemed typical of young Dutch men and women. Meanwhile, Daniel and Chris were talking with Nina and her friends who had come outside to smoke. They were speaking Dutch so I was glad Nina's younger sister was there. She was also on the outside a bit since she was so much younger than the rest of Nina's friends.
When things settled down, Nina and her friends said goodbye and started walking away. They were headed for a party to celebrate and Nina’s sister left with them. Daniel, Chris, and I went back inside, finished out beers, and paid our tabs. As we walked back out, Chris said he had to get going, a big meeting the next day at his work. Daniel was headed over to see Sophia so we said our goodbyes and I started walking home.
I felt like going out with friends deep into the night, but everyone was busy doing something else. Nina’s crew was too young and they would be speaking Dutch all night anyway. I wished I had purchased shrooms. It was almost midnight, though, and all the smart shops were closed. I went back to my apartment and once I settled down I loaded a bud of Kush into my pipe and took a few puffs. I opened the window, but decided against a cigarette. The fresh air felt good even though the temperature had dropped. I turned on some music, light jazz. I’d had my fill of electronica, trance, and house. I lied down on the couch and dozed awhile. I woke up around 3:00 AM, closed the window, and went to bed.
