May

1st

May started off with a bang, a literally one when I turned my back on Milo to retrieve a blanket and he tumbled from our bed onto our floor. It likely scared him more than anything, but there was perhaps 120 seconds when I thought my negligence had shattered his skull and his brain was haemorrhaging. Thankfully after a few minutes he seemed to be back to his normal self, though we were cautious throughout the remainder of the day, and a terrible feeling of guilt has stuck with me all day.

So I couldn’t celebrate Labour Day.

Labour – I’m still trying to figure out my relationship with this thing. I’ve done my fair share of menial jobs, I feel I’ve paid my dues. There was that one summer after year one of university. If you’re bankrolled by mom and pops your’e out travelling the world during those four months. If you’re not, but have had parents who grew up in Canada and knew the system, you would have secured an internship somewhere, to gain some valuable (lol) work experience. My friend and I, we had no clue. Come May 1st we realised that we needed to work, to pay for tuition the following year. Luckily, his dad was the VP of a foundry, and managed to get us a job there on the fly. What it entailed was standing in front of a giant wheel that was spinning a belt of sandpaper at a high velocity. A guy on a forklift would deliver a crate of freshly moulded steel, and what we were supposed to do was sand down the steel to remove any imperfections and make it nice and smooth. It was loud, hot, and dangerous. At the end of the day, we’d use a high power air compressor to blow off any shreds of steel that may have landed on us. I’m pretty sure there are still some shards embedded in my neck. Lunch was a twenty minute break whose start and end was indicated with a loud buzzer. Somehow I managed to with the goodwill of some other workers, and one day one of them told me to follow him, which I did through some secret labyrinth that the workers made. The reason he brought me there was to show me the collection of playboy centerfold pin ups they had made in this sanctuary. Away from the heat, away from the bosses, away from the hell. Back to the wheel – my friend and I each had our own and were grinding the steel a few meters apart. That was cool. Every so often we would grind our fingers by accident, and when that happend we’d display our wounds, the other usually responding with a thumbs up. Other notable memories from that time were when I experimented by putting salt in my wound – my curiousity about the old adage got the better of me, and sleeping in the parking lot on the pavement out of exhaustion.

This whole fiasco lasted about three weeks, until my friend ground his arm so hard that he needed a skin graft. When he got back from the hospital, we decided that it wasn’t worth it. Our labour would go elsewhere.

2nd

Give me a few days, let me ease myself back into this.  Although, yesterday’s post was made rather late, on an Ipad – normally I would have dreaded doing something like that, yet yesterday it felt quite alright.  It’s a good sign, but I think I’ll need a few posts to stretch the fingers and get those neurons firing in that part of the brain.  It would be fitting to reflect a little on April, but it is kind of a blur.  There was the week in the UK, but after that?  What can I say I did?  Truthfully I’m struggling to tell you.  Most of the days went something like this.  Wake up at 7 a.m. if we’re lucky, and if I’m lucky Fatima changes the diaper and occupies herself with the little man.  In that time there’s some understanding that I’m to take my first coffee of the day, and my first three cookies.  After that, it’s a handoff and Fatima eats breakfast and gets ready.  He’s then passed around like a hot potato as we do one household chore or another.  Sometimes I’ll head out for a run.  If there are no appointments, I leave the house for three or four hours, rarely it can be stretched beyond that.  What am I doing then?  It’s some combination of reading, studying Spanish, and random administrative things.  There’s also the bare minimum of ‘job search’.  Then I’ll go home and go out with Milo for some time.  We take turns eating dinner, and then by 7 pm it’s time to start making him drowsy.  If everything goes smoothly, he’s asleep by 8 pm, and as much as we love to be with him, it is then that we can breathe a sigh of relief.  Since our flat is so small, chores are out of the question for fear of waking Milo.  It is our time, the golden hours.  With the last of my energy reserves, I head to the basement for thirty minutes to one hour of trumpeting, and maybe I make a few calls with family to check in.  Even though I’m depleted, if I haven’t run, I may go out and get in some kms..  At this point, in an energy deficit, I’ll read for as long as I can.   There’s a few disturbances in the night, though when the stars align, I can wake at dawn to do it all again. Multiply by thirty. That was April. 

3rd

I suppose like with all things, there are bad days, and todays it was the trumpets turn. It’s an exercise of pure frustration when it doesn’t feel right, so of course instead of relaxing I get more frustrated and more tense and things go from shitty to shittier. Eventually, you have to imagine this, taking as deep of a breath as possible, and blowing with all your might into a tiny hole, since you’re doing it all wrong the air gets blocked and so you strain your neck muscles to try to push it through but that just blocks it more, until you’re on the verge of passing out. So I take a ‘breather’ and watch Seria A highlights for 3 minutes. Hmm, yes that’s better, only now, the first valve appears to be disengaging a fraction of a second too late, but enough to drive you up the wall and in a fury reach for the valve oil – whereas you’re only supposed to add a drop or two you douse the entire valve until it’s dripping with the stuff all over, reassembling it and pumping it rigorously for ten seconds. So now that problem is solved, but then it’s the breath again. It all leads to a breakdown, I’m not even sure which notes are being played, was that a G or an E. Fuck. Since I like to torture myself, I say I’ll do one more exercise from the book, but I hardly make it to the end of the first bar when I reach my limit. It takes all my willpower not to throw the trumpet against the wall, burning the books, taking a hammer to the index, middle and ring finger of my right hand so as to permanently disfigure them, rendering me semi-crippled, but free, free from the frustration, free of even entertaining the thought of making an Elvis style comeback to the horn. The truth is, I had no desire to trumpet tonight, I had left it too late, but to appease some diety; the god of habit, discipline, the American dream, I went down to the basement anyways. Lesson learned.

*getting back to you about your post tomorrow, I had to let off some steam on this one.

4th

Tomorrow you will re-read what you wrote in your tipsy tired state, and you should give yourself a pat on the back, cause its still all very coherent, you certainly didn’t make a fool of yourself, and if the hangover wasn’t sufficiently curbed by the preventative measures, get yourself an extra doner kebab or whatever greasy equivalent you find there as a reward for even making it online to write, so late and in that state. There would have been no harm If you had left it blank and texted me that you were drunk, but glad to see we are of the same faith and worship the same gods.

23:05 over here, I also left it late. Aside from getting back about your guide, I don’t have a topic in mind, actually it’s been a hectic day and I feel I’m still processing it. I had the idea to go to a bar after my Spanish class to write this post, with hopes to get some inspiration there while sipping a bourbon (nil point nil) however due to the liberation day festivities, and combined with the nice weather, it was only patios, and I wasn’t about to whip out the IPad to get down to business. I’m on my last legs now, Napoli has just won the Scudetto, there first since Maradona in 1990.

I guess the only interesting thing that occurred today was that when I left my house to cycle to my school, on the square not far from us, they were commemorating liberation day with some speeches and songs. A crowd of perhaps 200 gathered and at eight pm the two minutes of silence was held. It was a nice moment, somehow a silence far different from being alone out in nature. Of course it was the same silence, an absence of noise, but among so many people it was somehow unique to experience. We should do more of it, ten minutes daily, for a start. Everyone be quiet. So I can think, so I can write.

The idea you have for the customized pocket guide is great, without a doubt I’d make use of it – I like that you’ll include activities and people (who though?!). Am I wrong in thinking you’ll include some photos? If it hasn’t already made your list, I saw someone made a post on my Instagram feed from Seoul, in what looked like a mall or bookstore, with 50 meter (?) walls covered with books. Do you know it?

Hope the headache is manageable.

5th

The weather here today, could also suit your hangover, and also writing.  Too bad, that’s the only thing, the weather.  I have managed to pick up a sore throat, as is often the case with a change of weather, yesterday in the morning I wore my winter coat comfortably, but in the afternoon some fervent cycling into the city made me sweat, and sitting on a patio with an ice cold spa rood is where I suspect I did the damage.  But I also have another hypothesis.  Milo has a fascination with my mouth, and every day he is digging around in there, feeling my teeth, yanking my lips, grasping my tongue, and while doing his dental work he deposited some germs.  Anyways, it makes for a headache, and knowing me, approximately seven days of feeling ill – not deathly ill and debilitated in bed, but feeling just bad enough to stop the daily course of things.  I think I described this to you before (see above, about the weather).  Every day I feel I do so much, yet at the same time if you asked me what I did last week I’d struggle to tell you. Heck, even this morning felt like it was balls to the wall, and the only box I can tick is ‘maintained some semblance of order around the house’.  Not enough to say it’s clean and we can put our feet up – that’s mathematically impossible – but liveable and just below the point of embarrassment should a visitor arrive.  Is this what makes a life?  James Salter:  ‘Life is weather, life is meals’.  To this, I wish to add:  Life is taking out the garbage every day.  Life is hanging and folding laundry.  Life is sweeping the floor.  Life is assembling some furniture.  Life is tending to the garden.  Life is emptying the dishwasher.  Life is buying some carrots and milk.  Life is life. 

6th

Perilously close to a DNP (did not post) today. I had already fallen asleep at about 8 pm, a sweet deep sleep, I was gone, in another dimension, only to wake up, knowing I had one or two things to do , this being one of them. The streak lives!!

Today we met my friend Juri. He was my neighbour below, a decade ago and we hung out occasionally then, but oddly when he moved back down south to Maastricht, we became better friends. I hope you don’t take any offence, and maybe you’ll agree – the American term Southern Hospitality holds true over here. What I mean is that Juri would invite me to his village’s annual Hemelvaart football tournament, to play on a team with all his childhood friends. Every year he’d invite me to the carnival festivities with his mates. Coming from Canada that was one of the things that struck me odd about living here at first (could very well be me), this lack of intimacy — not sure if that is the right word for it, maybe openness to strangers? That’s not right either, the Dutch obviously are very open in that sense, but I think you know what I mean. I was used to a scenario where for example, if I was having a BBQ and I just met you, and we clicked, I’d invite you to join. It took me a little while to get used to that, and accept it. Of course I have made some friends here up North, but it took a hell of a lot longer to get access to a more pure form of friendship.

Unfortunately since COVID, the already mammoth-for-Dutch-standards distance between Utrecht and Maastricht became real and we only saw each other once back in 2020 when I met his wife and son. And today, true to form, Juri suggested I join him and his brother for a bike tour down south in July when he visits.

What’s that like in SK? Are two meters of foreign meat going to BBQs of strangers? Sounds like a match made in heaven.

7th

Coming to you live and direct from the floor of my basement. Notes from Underground, the long awaited sequel, if you will. Though in this edition I draw the line at finding joy in suffering, I’ll leave that sermon to you, I do not subscribe to that school of thought. Pure, unadulterated pleasure, all day, that’s what I’m about. In fact today, on day three or four of being sick, I noticed a complete lack of hunger, likely caused by my incapacitated state. This lack of desire, struck me as odd. With no craving to sate, I found a dullness. Those few moments of pleasure – be it a cheesecake at home, an apple after a marathon, the first few bites of a steak done to perfection at a restaurant – who am I if I cannot experience that? I’d happily forego the hunger that precipitates that satisfaction. You’ll tell me I’ll need to build up the anticipation, the lack of food, to appreciate the food. Perhaps, but what I’m saying is that if I could have those feelings of the first bites all the time, somehow, I would take it. I would literally eat all the time and be happy (?). Maximise pleasure, reduce pain! Yeah, you can tell I haven’t picked up freedom from the known since we lasted shared some thoughts.

Anyways, I’ve set up shop in the basement. It’s dangerously comfortable here because I can play the music out loud, have the lights on, and move around in peace without having to concern myself with the thought of waking another. Would I prefer to be above? Probably, yes. A second floor in a house would be welcome and I’d feel less like a recluse.

I don’t feel like I’ve written anything of interest so far in May – it’s been mostly an exercise of journaling, and a lacklustre one at that, done far too late in the evening. I’m hoping to change that up this week.

I appreciate the honesty with regards to the building friendships, the part about the lack of energy to develop long lasting ones. Though I find it a pity, a real pity, for what are we doing if we’re not being and having good friends (aside from throwing food down our throats). I have to admit that in recent years I have also felt this creep up. Back in 2009 I lived in one of the famous Dutch student houses, there were twelve of us. It was possibly one of my favourite experiences here, and I’m still friends with a few of the fellow housemates. There was a guy named Ruud living with us, we had some fun nights out back then, and I thought he was a good down to earth guy. After I left the house, we lost contact, but then just a few years ago I ran into him again. He’d changed careers after having a burnout, but recovered well and living with his wife and daughter. We exchanged numbers and thought it would cool to hang out again. Eventually we did get in touch again, but after two attempts to arrange a coffee failed, we’re back to being strangers. And I just remember thinking that having Ruud as my friend wasn’t really a priority for me, I would have gladly had that coffee if it could have worked out, but to build the foundation of a friendship we’d have to have several coffees and experiences together. There were other friendships that were already established, so there was no need to go through that labour with Ruud, even if some foundation for a friendship was set back years ago.

Tomorrow, from the underground, some book talk.

8th

Let me continue with some ramblings along the same theme.  I’ve often lamented about a life way back, one where you’d probably die at age fifty.  Some rare toothless sages might make it beyond that, but let’s say for the most part life expectancy is that low.  You would have bred shortly after it was physically possible, thus at fifty you’ve already grandfathered your progeny, possibly great-grand fathered.  What’s the saying?  It’s not the length, it’s the depth.  I can’t say for certain, but after fifty I imagine the aches and pains start becoming insurmountable, even in this day of age.  The other saying?  This one particularly for us “For writers it is always said that the first twenty years of life contain the whole of experience – the rest is observation”.  Thus we would have had a long period of reflection before signing off.  I concede though, that going that far back would have meant reading and writing would not have been accessible for much of the population.  Instead, we would have been storytellers, around a fire.  We would still experience the thrill of having mastery over our bodies, in battle or the hunt for food.  Love?  Perhaps, but that’s overrated anyways.  To hell with science and medicine, the shaman would have cured us from whatever ailed us.  I’d imagine the concept of loneliness would have been inconceivable.  Save for some solitary moments, by virtue of the need to survive we’d always be in a tribe.  Since these days I’m frequently viewing the world through the lens of work, I’d imagine that back then you’d directly see the contribution to your tribe.  These fucked up notions of shareholders or national pride that were prevalent in the 20th century would not apply, nor the loneliness of working on brand ME that we see today.  Out for dinner last week with an Indian friend, he spoke of something like this, where families numbering a hundred all live in the same house.  Decisions are made based on what benefits the whole group.  I thought that was great.  My family right now are spread across the globe, likely at times alone, likely at times over-analysing the decisions they made.  I know which way of life sounds more wholesome to me.

Which brings me to the next thing to read.  Since you’re planning on going there, would you be interested in The Passenger:  India?  I’m on my third edition, and every one has been a fountain of information and pleasure.  Mind you, it’s not a mammoth read – if you digest one or two works per day we’d be done in a fortnight, max.  If yes, I’d recommend an actual physical copy since the photos are also pleasing .  If that’s not what you had in mind, I’m happy to brainstorm other options.  Right now I have a Roth, Yates and book by Elizabeth Strouth on my shelf waiting to be read.  None of which I’m particularly excited about, but at least for the first two, I know they’re stalwarts that will make for decent reads.

9th

Earlier in the afternoon, after finishing up some Spanish homework, I had perhaps forty minutes spare, yet I chose not to write then. Then later on during a run, or light jog to loosen up, I paused mid way through and thought about why I do hard things, such as learn a new language, live in a country abroad, run, learn an instrument. Surely, it would be better to live back home where everyone speaks my language, to get a car, to spend my free time watching Hollywood, Netflix, endless sports at a bar, eating fast food while scrolling memes. I guess I was thinking about capitulation. Yet millions and millions of people do just that. Who’s to say one is better than the other? I don’t even know what I’m trying to achieve, with these difficult things. The thought of going back to do that, kind of fading into the anonymity of mass consumption of entertainment, food, cars, working at a bogus job to allow me to do that – it could be that I’m rather tired, but I think there is some contentment in that. Every emotion would already be dictated, life would just be going through the motions.

After entertaining that thought for a minute or two, I restarted my watch and finished. When I got home I allowed myself a rare luxury of watching an hours worth of Champions League, and tomorrow I intend to do the same.

10th

The stream could have been slightly better as I had to refresh it perhaps a dozen times. The quality was superb and the commentary, English. For the first time since the World Cup, I’ve watched a football game from start to finish, an entertaining match from the San Siro. So it’s another late night edition, but I have to say, I feel quite relaxed. I’m telling you, I think I’m on to something.

I was planning to take you on a tour of my neighbourhood, but I think I’ll leave it until tomorrow as the eyes are getting heavy. I’m getting used to the IPad, that’s a good sign I suppose, and even leaving this exercise to the final hour doesn’t seem as daunting anymore. We are making progress, perhaps not in content (definitely for me), but something else intangible, that I think could help down the line. I don’t think confidence is the right word, something less strong than that. Kind of rolling up the sleeves and doing the dirty work. A perseverance of sorts. I’d like to think that, you do that long enough, and the writing will become good. Or am I crazy and that’s wishful thinking?

It feels like I’ve only written post like this one in May, that is, late entries that are mostly small notes about my day. On Sunday Milo is travelling to see his great grandmother for a few weeks. With a rested mind and more time, I hope to deliver some quality.

Until then, bear with me.

11th

What I was looking for never materialised.  I was looking for a dimly lit bar, sparsely occupied, the noise kept to a minimum, a cute waitress wasn’t necessary but always welcomed.  Once there, with a snifter of bourbon as my sole companion, in a setting conducive to writing, I’d do just that, the scene would inspire me so much so that tomorrow when you read what I wrote, you’d immediately print several copies, running wildly down the streets of Seoul, urging passerbys to read these magnificent words.  

Instead, where we at?  Broodje Bambi.  Neon flashing lights.  A massive donor kebab photo adorns the entryway, and inside, Bambi (?) is tending to the real one, to be served to the drunken students, as this is Thursday evening.  The only reason that I’m not being vomited on right now is that it’s still early at a quarter after ten.  The delinquents don’t come until far later.  That bourbon became a patat ketchup and Coca-Cola.  As I already mentioned, the cute waitress became Bambi.  The man can make a mean patat, using some secret spice, I’ll give him that.  All in all, not a bad consolation.  The front doors are wide open, and I can glance at the passer-by’s on the busy street, and there’s a fresh breeze.

Since we started this project, it has now occurred to me that I’ve only written in the public library or at home.  I’ve got some more license now that I’m getting more comfortable with the IPad, but so far I haven’t taken advantage of that, and I’ll be without it for the next month.  I’m a firm believer in ambiance, the environment, the mood.  I’m certain I’d run a horrible marathon in a place like Dubai.  I’d like to think the same applies to writing.  Now, you’ll accuse me of making excuses, but don’t you think there’s some truth to that?  What kind of work would we produce writing in a lakeside cabin?   Or a cozy cafe in Scandinavia?  (The actual truth is that socio-economic status makes all the difference, but I’m not going there in this piece).

In a couple of weeks my Dad will visit me for a few days before heading back to Canada.  Since he’s doing that, I won’t be able to go on a longer hike or another trip that I had in mind.  So instead today I looked at some options to go to Paris for a couple of days.  The train prices deterred me, and the bus travel times aren’t ideal – years ago we did that journey and the problem is that you arrive in a Paris neighbourhood a little far out at five in the morning.  What I was able to find was a journey with a random person who is driving there on a site called Bla bla car.  I’m not sure yet, but it’s possible that I will take that little adventure, and once there, sit at the dimly lit bar with a pasti, and to do it right, a cigarette.  All the cliches, Amelie will be there too. Ca va?  Qui.  Then, I will write beautifully.  

For now, we’ve got this.  The first of the night cats are trickling in, frikandels are noisily being submerged in oil, Bambi doing his magic, signalling my time to go.  

12th

Buckle up, we’re going to stroll through Oog in Al. It starts off, well, from the back entrance of my apartment building, since I’m heading out with the pram. I’m immediately confronted with something I despise – the long row of hedges that starts from the back, loops around my backyard, carries on for 20 meters, then loops again onto my front yard. I’ll need to consult the Dutch law – is it still considered arson if you set fire to your own property? Boy, I’d love to raze those things to the ground. And just putting out some feelers – how likely would it be that you contribute to a GoFundMe campaign: “New Fence for Jack’? One of these days, if we’re still here, I’ll erect one. Until then, we have to pass through the alleyway where they’ve already grown long enough to soak me on the way out, which means next week I get to trim them. Yay. Anyways, once we’re out of the jungle, we’re on Joseph Haydnlaan, of the main conduits into the city, to my detriment since I get to hear thousands of cars drive by everyday. One of the first things I did when I moved in was to email the gemeente to ask if they’d instal some speed bumps to decrease the noise pollution. Someone actually responded, nothing has changed in five years, but I still appreciated hearing back from someone. Luckily all we have to do is cross the street and inbetween the row of houses on the other side is an alleyway that brings some refuge from the noisy street, and a few meters after that we’re already approaching what was probably the focal point of the neighbourhood way back – the church. I’ve never actually gone to a sermon, but we did go to a Christmas concert there and on Kings Day they had an art show with local artists selling some of there work. We walk alongside the church whose grounds cover a small block, and then we enter the circuit that I walk on average of four times a day. It starts with Commit fitness, a gym that has a row of treadmills lined up at the front windows, and everytime I see someone on one of those things, I can’t help but think, WHY!? Adjacent to that is good old AH, I’m heading in there so frequently these days that I’m pretty sure the employees are talking shit about me. I’ll spare you the details of shopping there, it’s still etched in your mind I imagine. Once our business is done, we’ll walk by a salon – never been and never will – nothing can’t beat Mahmud’s razor at Freschuts – where on the corner we find, you guessed it, Etos. Crossing a small street, we’ve got a flower and plant store where I make an annual donation to take away some plants to have them rot in our house or front yard. Next to that there’s a store that I can’t for the life of me tell you what they sell, or maybe it’s not even a store. Note to self: investigate this further on one of tomorrows strolls. Then you’ve got your mobile phone and repair store, that doubles as a UPS pickup point – likely the only reason anyone goes in there. After that, you’ve got TAART – mediocre at best. The biggest draw there is the large yellow awning, since it fascinates Milo. I think it’s a good place to order a customized birthday cake, but the pastries at AH win out over theirs, if that gives you an indication. We’re reaching the end of the street, and I don’t mean to inflict some homesickness two days in a row, but we’ve got ourselves a snack bar , which I believe is a chain: Kwaleteria. Actually I’m tempted to go there and write, since I enjoyed myself so much, but I have to finish already. The journey isn’t finished, I’ll resume the post where I’ll cross the street and head back in the direction of home.

13th

Thank you for the entertaining wishes, and I need to re-read how you got there – the hommage to the table knife. It was nearly a self-fulfilling prophecy (I’m not sure if that is the right term, since I didn’t conjure the prophecy, rather you did, but you know what I mean, and I’ll play the birthday card and say that its.a technicality that can be overlooked, much like the fact that I have started to write this shortly after midnight, a consequence partially related to the prophecy, which I am about to tell, if I can get out of this long and already unnecessary bracket), because I did in fact stumble upon a bakery patisserie that has me seriously second guessing the necessity for a trip to Paris. Unfortunately, I narrowly missed out on your suggestion, instead of apple pie it was a baguette, cinnamon bun, and a custard filled croissant, the consumption of which left me feeling rather lethargic throughout the day, and when presented with the opportunity, shortly before ten pm, for a small ten minute nap, I could not resist, this being my birthday after all. Waking past midnight, feeling refreshed, buttering the last remnants of the baguette, with a table knife no less, I read your post, and find myself writing on the floor. I shall continue the neighbourhood tour tomorrow, for today, as already mentioned, I ventured further afield while jogging with Milo to sample this new bakery that I came across a few weeks ago, while jogging by myself, committing the grave error of leaving my bankpas at home, which prevented me from turning the run into a net-gain of calories. Thus today I returned early in the morning, and when I saw two of the flour dusted bakers sitting in front, sampling their own wares, I knew immediately I had arrived somewhere special. Their offering was generous, I cannot recollect if an apple tart formed a part of it, hence, for the purpose of this blog, I shall have to hastily return as soon as it is possible, that is, tomorrow, to make this assessment. Nevertheless, even with or without apple pie, you’re right, I may be as ‘Damn tourist’ as they come when I order fries with ketchup, however when it comes to the sensation of cutting through an appeltaartje met slagroom with a table knife, I know this all too well, particularly towards the end of the stroke, that soft part where the moisture from the apple has softened the bottom crust, that glorious split second before cutting through and the metal hits the bottom, signalling the brain to make an upward notion at a small angle, to continue making the same incision, until the end is reached. Thanks again for the well wishes. Tomorrow is someone else’s birthday, that I do not know who exactly is irrelevant. There shall be appletart.

14th

There are so many questions that come to mind, so much confusion, and I won’t let Wikipedia spoil the fun, rather I’ll speculate here first. I’m talking about the Enter Sandman Live in Moscow 1991 video. First of all, what the hell was Metallica doing in Moscow in 1991? Secondly, the place is teeming – how big was the underground market for Metallica when the USSR was in tact? Did they all come out of the woodwork to attend this concert? Within the first ten seconds we catch a glimpse of a helicopter flying perilously close to the crowds. Why was there a helicopter, was it American or a relic of the Cold War? Is it even real or is it state of the art 90’s editing? Also in the first ten seconds, what song are we hearing? There’s a conspicuously massive American flag, was this all part of the capitalist propoganda, and this a giant welcome fest for capitalism – the one that paved the way for oligarchs, Russian mail order brides, Levi’s jeans and adidas track suits? Are the soldiers there to maintain order, or did they just come out of the barracks when they heard the crowd, convinced Operation Barbossa part two was underway? At certain points, they join in the pandamoniom.

That’s the only conclusion I can draw, and whichever genius of the federal reserve or world bank that thought of this, deserves a handshake from Abe Lincoln himself. The crowd is in a complete fervour – imagine the ecstasy after years of the communist regime – and then seeing the gods of freedom, rock and roll, jeans, in all their glory. You have to admit, the lead singer with his handlebar mustache, all black outfit and guitar, in the prime of his life, strikes an imposing figure, and if you were a young Muscovite, you must have been thinking if the music from over there was this good, then god only knows how euphoria inducing the food, women and beer will be once unfettered capitalism comes to this great land of ours.

I got here by watching AC/DC in Buenos Aires where one of the commentators mentioned this video, and though I’m hardly a fan of Metallica, there is something about the way they rush onto the stage and start headbanging, that if I were among crowd, I’d also be intoxicated with an unbridled excitement about the American dream, filled with so much potential and energy.

But still, why? How?

15th

A strange day that started off with karma, in that I spent more time than I care to admit watching MJ in Romania, stopping short of the whole two hours, but after seeing the security administer several slaps to the face of one partygoer, I feel no regrets. After that, nothing went to plan, as I fell victim to African time – are you familiar with that concept? My friend was supposed to pick me up at eleven, but that turned into one. Our destination was one of the most soulless, empty, and sad places I know of in the Netherlands. My friend picked me up in a garish big red Jeep, and inside we entered into the navigation tool SugarCity, once on the car’s system and another time on my friends phone. As we rode on the A2, I couldn’t help but think how much the Netherlands is in fact like North America, at least when viewed from the highway. We drove past some futuristic mall called the Wall, where you can buy a Range Rover – a must for the rugged terrain here, all sorts of furniture and other appliances for your home. There was a big KFC, and just like near the suburbs of my parents, something called SkyCity, where you can experience the sensation of skydiving while looking out over a highway. As we travelled on the vast expanse of highway we encountered traffic due to an accident, prolonging our trip by a half hour or so. Finally we arrived to SugarCity, somewhere in betweeen Amsterdam and Haarlem. This magical place is just off the highway and situated in an industrial concept, but right next to it they built a shiny new five story parking garage, which brings you directly to no less than twenty outlets of your favourite brands. You travel all this way and you’re rewarded with 20-30% off the recommended retail price. I was surprised that on this gray Monday we weren’t the only shoppers, there were even some patrons at some of the cafe chains available which are there to rest your feet should you tire of walking down the strip of mall. All the brand names that you would imagine are there, the Nikes, the stripes, every jean manufacturer. It’s hard to imagine that people come from Amsterdam to experience something like this, let alone Utrecht. I had only agreed to go out of an act of comradeship, yet I found myself drawn to the clearance racks, because I didn’t really need anything, but if they were going to do something obscene as to offer me 50% off RRP, well who wouldn’t take advantage of that?

The whole trip was rather sickening and alienating, I wondered if I felt like this because I’m currently out of the game, the one where you do something you don’t like to buy the things you don’t need, to please the people you don’t care about. Pretty sure I got that from a meme.

On a day like this, you end up hoping that there would be some kind of reverse of the Metallica incident, an ode to simplicity, rationality, something void of the excesses, something meaningful.

16th

I’m very familiar with both, I’ve seen Lost in Translation once, I’d really love to know where and with who, but that was some twenty years ago. If I had to guess, in Toronto on a DVD player, in a flat that I lived with my girlfriend at the time. There’s a small chance I went to the theatre. Those details are lost in the annals of history. But since then, I’ve watched several clips on YouTube, the karaoke scenes being among my favourite. I’ve only watched Her once as well, the details are also vague, but I think my old flatmate, who illegally downloaded a lot of films may have given it to me on a USB. I don’t recall going back to re-watch any scenes, but that doesn’t mean I didn’t enjoy it. I enjoyed both immensely, escpecially the soundtracks. I found my old IPod shuffle in the basement, and I’m fairly certain the Her soundtrack is still stored there, while the Lost in Translation score features on my Spotify every so often.

The underlying moods, if you’re interested, I think could be found in books by Vivian Gornick or Olivia Liang. Richard Yates does a version of it, but taken to the extreme, whereas in LiT and Her, it’s rather melancholic.

That’s an interesting proposition, to watch both. If ever there would be a time to do that, it would be now. In the end, rationality won me over, so I’m still in Utrecht, and had dedicated the last day and a half to deep cleaning and a shifting of wardrobes from winter to summer. I intend to go to the movies, and also toying with the idea of this Italian movie you recommended, the one that’s six hours. Credits – I don’t make it a point to watch them, if the song is good I might stay, or if it’s one of those movies that leave you in a sense of awe, I may take those moments to process it.

Somewhat unrelated, but to leave on a movie note, your post made me think about Cold War from 2018. If you can, watch the trailer and listen to the song. I don’t think you need to know Polish to appreciate it. Oy yoy yoy. Dobranoc.

17th

I have heard roaring laughter from down the hall, the moment everyone recieved the guide to ethically receive gifts and when to declare them for tax purposes. I imagine poor Heindrich, who handn’t been around long enough, replying to the mail inquiring which was the correct tax classification to be levied for gifted services of two prostitues simultaneously – which box does he tick? I have seen the cogs spinning in a colleagues mind, when his superior made a disparaging comment about the drink I was consuming, the colour, or the umbrella, about who to side with. For a split second an awkward silence as he calculated, friendship vs brownnosing for business, no need to say which one won out. I have sat for a three hour lunch with colleagues bemoaning how overworked they were, and the need to hire one or two more headcounts. These were veterans of the game. I’ve been to no less five offsite meetings, ones where the organizers are so starved for content that they would always make us take the same personality test, then group us together so we could discuss how we work and with who we work best – Type A over here, it’s been proven, five times, meaning Analytical, but more suitable would be Asshole – I don’t like to work and I hate working with others. I have seen two middle aged men up on a stage to an audience of thousands discussing their favourite shoe. I have had to sit opposite someone spewing heaps of bullshit about their job, causing me to awkwardkly break into a sweat, barely concealing my astonishment. I’ve been in a group of like minded people like myself, grasping at any meaning in the world, discussing minting, gassing, the coming of NFT’s in that world’s own particular language. My work has been subject to audits – and by this I mean, so the general public believes I haven’t cooked the books, a young twenty something asks me about the make belief numbers I recieve. I have had to examine something called a profit margin with a serious face, as if this could ever be reasonalby calculated or meaningful. I have heard the phrase “Never let a good crisis go to waste’ nearly daily for two years. I have heard people claim they are passionate for something called e-comm, electronic commerce. I have witnessed a woman in the throes of a divorce fall prey to the seductions of a married honourable man. I have been sent back a power point presentation that I prepared, marked up with any changes made, with the comment ‘Added apostrophe’. In the fast dynamic world of business, I have seen nothing change for over a decade.

***part of an ongoing series about work. Inspiration drawn from David Foster Wallace’s essay “A supposedly fun thing I’ll never do again”.

18th

I have seen Parma ham hanging from a barn. I have seen a man manually grinding fresh tomatoes into a pulp, likely to be jarred and then in the near future made into a delicious pasta dish. I have seen, no, wait, I did that yesterday. I’m 43 minutes into La Meglio Gioventu, having to pry myself away from it, so that I could write this entry. How it ever failed to register on my radar, after countlessly googling for Italian films is one of the great mysteries of life. So far I am loving it, when you said it’s all things Italy, you could not have described it more perfectly. There was a Bialetti coffee pot, some football, a Vespa, Rome, beautiful women, and I expect much more to come. After spending a great deal of time trying to rent the movie online I had to give up because all the sites only had Dutch subtitles. How I managed to find a stream with good quality and English subtitles is the second great mystery, my only fear is that it’s one of those sites that after a certain period of time they hit you with a pop up that demands you join, subscribe and pay if you want to continue watching. What the hell am I going to do then?

Since I rather unexpectedly stumbled upon it, I could not take it to the next level, that is, surrounded with Italian food. I had to make due with the poor Dutch student version of pizza, the kaas tosti with bread from Albert Heijn. There’s no way I’ll make it through the whole thing tonight, so tomorrow there’ll be an opportunity to do it right. Plus, there’s part two anyways.

Here’s a ludicrous thought, arising from a scene early on, when one of the brothers passes his exam, the examiner advises him to leave Italy, since it’s going to shit. The idea is, that the entire population of the Netherlands moves to Italy, to clean it up, so to say. Instal a properly run government, rebuild what’s necessary, keep corruption to a minimum, fix the migration problem. At the same time you keep what’s beautiful over there. A win win. Did I just insinuate that the Netherlands occupies Italy? And where do the Italian people go? Yeah, you can see why I’m not a politician and why I’ve spent the better part of my career hiding in spreadsheets. Alas, back to the show.

19th

It’s a bizarre, weird, odd place to be.  I’m again referring to my professional life.  One of the essays from the Japan collection examined the salaryman, and how among the younger generation, there is a shift in mentality in the way work is viewed, meaning it’s less and less the epicenter of one’s life and other things are becoming more important and vital to shaping one’s life.  Me, I’m still mired in old school North American thought, the remnants of a strain far worse than you can imagine still seared somewhere on my brain, that of a so-called business student.  The kind that would have ambitions to land at a big consultancy; Capgemini, Deloitte, EY, where I could prove my worth and genius to the world by toiling over spreadsheets and maybe making it to partner after years of working 80 hour weeks.  Though that’s been behind me for a decade, and now wiser to know that management consultancy is the biggest crock of shit (several books about it, the latest from Mariana Mazzucato:  The Big Con.  Basically the concept is to consult a company to reduce their workforce by 30%), at times I am stricken with a thought of why that didn’t pan out, and why I no longer have the ambition to end up in such a place of prestige.  I’m possibly influenced by some friends who have made it or on their way of ‘making it’, whatever that may mean – I guess some form of the above.  I wonder if it’s they that are crazy for not seeing through all that bullshit, or if it’s me that one would regard as unambitious.  At this point, I sometimes walk by an office tower, God, what a horrible and outdated concept, and see one or two lonely workers sat there doing God knows what, and yet I think, that’s where I should be.  Could it be all that bad?  Send a spreadsheet or two, drink rancid coffee from the machine, get paid and live on the weekends.  On other occasions, I may think that the perfect job for me is something that would allow me to read and write a little, one would think at a university, or as a journalist, yet somehow I think that kind of thing is beyond me, that I’m too late in realizing this is where I feel comfortable and valuable, rather what I have in mind is working the night shift in a highway toll booth, collecting change from drivers and allowing them passage through the gate to continue their journey.  At night so the traffic is at a minimum, maybe one or two passerbys every thirty minutes, but certainly not totally deserted, because I would like to have that brief human encounter, to stay sane.  In the meantime I could read, drink coffee, write articles and maybe even novels.  I told, you I’m in a weird place.

Right about now, I feel I should be at some point entering senior management, where basically my job would be to keep the status quo of the system:  slave labor from the east polluting the earth to make useless shit for the west,  making sure that the new hirees drink enough kool-aid and do all the dirty work, dangling a dream in front of them; sustainability, a healthy P&L, ,a change the world for the better, meanwhile going to offsites to discuss the best brothels you can find in Hanoi “you need to get Kiki, she does this thing with her hips”, and the hallmark of leadership, handing out likes and congratulations on LinkedIn.  

Look, the money isn’t going to run out any time soon, but don’t be surprised if in a few years while en route to Italy you get back 50 cents in change from a disheveled looking man with yellow teeth who seems occupied with reading American Psycho in a booth covered with post-it notes scribbled with what look like anti-capitalist sentiments.  At the same time, if you log in to LinkedIn and there’s a comment from a white veneered tooth jerk-off in a gray business suit, one reading “Congratulations on this well deserved promotion! Your hard work, dedication, and perseverance has paid off”, do me a favor.  Like the comment, and keep your thoughts and judgments to yourself.

20th

An Italian Knausgaard, you say? It’s asking too much. Next you will say what of a Polish Zidane. No, if we had that, literature would be complete, the world could happily cease to write more books. For me, anyways, I could stop reading after that.

No, I haven’t been won over by magical realism. I did toy with The House of the Spirits earlier this year, on the back of its popularity and to read more of Latin America, but in the end, rationality won (see previous post, why I’m sitting here writing in Utrecht instead of on the banks of the Seine with Amelie). I don’t understand, no, that’s not right, I do understand, I suppose I prefer real fictional (paradox?) characters to express themselves and deliver the wisdom of the world. Why do you need to resort to the mechanism of say, a talking cat —referring to Murakami’s Kafka (the German one) on the Shore, which I believe also features in The Master and Margarita, when surely the same effect could be achieved by another human character. Check, for example, my previous post: I have real life problems that I’m trying to solve. Reading about an encounter with a headless horseman doesn’t help me to navigate the world, my social relationships, or how to save for my retirement, for that matter.

That’s not to say I would never ever read magical realism again. The fact that you’re reading it for a second time, perhaps doesn’t make me rush out of the house to buy a copy, but could one day persuade me to take another stab at it. In fact, what I’m about to say could be perceived a crack of irrationality coming from a self-perceived rational man. From the same collection of Japanese essays, I learned about Shintoism, and this appealed to me, the idea of death simply being another variation of life. When an ancestor or friend passes into that phase, they continue to live and its common to set up a small shrine in your house, to continue talking with them, eating with them, being with them. That’s something I could get behind. My parents still visit the grave of their parents, and that’s something I suppose I’ll also do, though it feels a little more distant than having their spirit in your home (in the case of my grandparents, they’re an ocean away).

On the other hand, you’ve got Ayn Rand with I suppose the opposite; objective realism, and if we ever get to the day of burning books, those’ll be the first ones I throw on the pile. I just hope by that point I’ve already read Knausgaardiologi’s complete oeuvre.

21st

I should have warned you, that my Dad will be here in the next days. Hell yes, I’m playing this card. We cycled a good 35 km today, I estimate. Nice and slow as my dad is unaccustomed to the mayhem on the Dutch pathways, and mostly when I could manage it, next to canals. Of all places, my dad seems to have an obsession with Lombok – the Turkish and Moroccan quarters here in Utrecht. Truthfully I could never picture him taking an actual trip to those countries, but for some reason here he was giddy with excitement at the fruit stalls, kebab shops and halal butchers. Even better was the fact that there was a small festival being held there today, in the square they erected a tent which housed various food stalls, baklava being the only thing I recognised. Under another tent there was a place to buy coffee, prepared in the real Turkish way, at least for these two tourists. It’s done by mixing the grounds and water in a special pot, which is set on some sand that is warmed from below – I didn’t see the origin, but I imagine centuries ago the coffee was prepared this way next to a fire. My father wasn’t too keen on it, but I was a fan. It was a grittier, weaker and cooler, tepid almost, espresso. We sat under the tent for a long while, offering our reviews, and the call for prayer sounded at the mosque close by. We didn’t eat anything, and now my dad wants to go back tomorrow. I wonder if his fascination comes from the fact that the Turkish/Moroccan community, as you know, are not fully integrated into Dutch society, and he identifies himself with that a little. As a Polish man in Canada, who goes to Polish church and eats Polish food as much as he can, I wonder if there is some common ground he feels. We’ll never know, we are not privy to such intimate thoughts from my Dad. I can only speculate, but at least I know he’s not a fan of the Turkish coffee.

22nd

“He doesn’t make you love the game”, a reader commented on a Guardian article, back in September or October, when Haaland first began tearing up the EPL.  I remember that I wholeheartedly agreed.  The goals will come, they have come, the trophy case already decked out with an EPL championship in his first season with a Ballon D’Or in the offing.  At least for this romantic, and seemingly others, it hardly stirs you.  

As you probably know, Haaland comes from a footballing family, with his father playing for City way back when.  Yet I can’t help but imagine his path being entirely different than that of Maldini’s.  If it is really true, what was written about Cesare- that his house was not adorned with a trophy case, and he raised his son as an ordinary man, not letting on that he was among football royalty in Italy, then it is a level of humility nearly beyond my comprehension.  Contrast with what I’ve seen with the senior Haaland, who seems brash and about as charming as a businessman.  You can’t imagine a crowd in Bergen watching a game, shit floating into the ether.  Rather you could probably easy tell it was Erling, and if you didn’t know, his dad would make sure you did.  

This is all conjecture, and maybe in the future some football journalists will spin a tale of strife, struggle and redemption for us, the legend will grow, and in a generation a couple of friends will retell the tale in admiration.  To be fair, there are some qualities in watching him play that I like, for example he will rush to defend his teammates from any shithousery at the drop of a hat.  At least in ice hockey, this is a sign of great honor.  Of course there’s the goals, yet you can’t see him leaving pundits bereft of adjectives, the most common description you’ll find is something as thrilling as clinical, or a machine.

Then of course you have the fact that he plays for City.  Maybe I’ve read too much of the Guardian, who tend to deride these things ad nauseam, but you can’t tell me that the addition of Haaland to a team with unlimited petro-dollar signings at every other position is conducive in producing a heroic narrative akin to Odysseus’s journey.  If the boy does something with the Norwegian team, then we talk, maybe.

On June 10th, barring some Italian miracles, he’ll add some UCL silverware to the trophy case, with a close range goal, or two, or three.  Paulo Maldini will maybe take some pleasure in seeing his rivals thrashed,  but more so you can imagine him looking to the sky, thanking Cesare for doing it the way he did, instead of like this.

23rd

It’s fresh on my brain as we’ve just done the exercise, and a somewhat intriguing topic, that of which book to read next.  I’m going to be quite frank when saying this, the Dutchie in you won’t mind I’m sure, in that I was rather bewildered in the three books you put forth to read, and I genuinely am interested in how you scrutinize what book to read next, that is if you even have some kind of system in place.  They were longlisted for the Booker award, which already says something, yet in my experience it can be quite hit and miss with the prize winners (I suspect some bribing, blackmail, and graft factors in the equation – check previous posts for view of the corporate world, same shit, different pile).

Myself, I’m a slave to Goodreads when weighing the options,and probably 99 times out of 100 that begins with a quick scan of the book description at the top, followed by more importantly a lengthy, but not too lengthy so as to give too much away, perusal of the reviews.  I should note, one bad review has the weight of ten glowing reviews, and the top three most liked reviews are naturally more valuable than the ones below.   With the three you chose, it went roughly something like this:

• While we were Dreaming:  I think first the premise, while it didn’t put me off so much, but a book about  youths drinking and loitering in Berlin shortly after the fall of the wall, it was more of a feeling that it reminded me very much of the Belgian book I had read as part of the World Cup reading list.  That’s not to say it was bad, I actually enjoyed that one, but having already recently ‘been there’, this was one fell in the rankings, and then somewhere in the first top ten most liked reviews, a reviewer in capital letters exclaimed at the end of his rant that he hated this book, always a red flag.

• A System so Magnificent it is Blinding:    This one was easy.  First off you have an average of  3.58, immediately signifying something fishy.  Then you are hit with a 1-2-1 combo, that is, the first star ratings in order of likes.  Rarely do I go below 3.8, that’s a safe threshold for me.

• With the last choice, it meets the star rating and top review requirements, and I came close to electing his one, however I think it simply came down to my mood, and at the risk of making you ‘woke’, I may have been guilty of some Bulgarian literary racism, in that I’ve never read a Bulgarian, as far as I know, and felt it was a little too exotic for my tastes, at least in my current mood in the last few days.

I’m happy you also suggested Jon Fosse’s book, yet even then there was some hesitation on my part.  How’d it get on the TBR pile?  I can’t remember, but likely a raving review from a reviewer whom I deem to have good taste.  Then when I read some more about it, it appears we may encounter some confusion – one character blending into another, sharing a name – and as you may have already gleaned, I prefer my reading easy (much like the rest of my life).  The fact that I’ll be reading this on my hike also weighed on my mind, thinking about how much fuel would be in the tank after a day of walking.  However, it seems to bode well – we can expect long hypnotic sequences, best read in bigger chunks at a time.  I’m imagining myself in an albergue along the camino, feet tired and swollen, in a bit of a haze, reading for several hours before falling asleep to the sound of snoring pilgrims.  Now it’s grown on me, and I have some eagerness to get into it.  Apparently Fosse is a genius, and there’s another Norwegian writer I’m rather fond of, if that says anything.

So, enlighten me, how do you go about it?  You said you preferred something to combat the sweltering heat.  Did you merely glance at the titles of the Booker longlist, and go by instinct?  What other criteria do you go by?  Mind you, I have been known occasionally to roll the dice and omit a GR religious study.  I’ve also been known to be, um, influenced by Instagram, and if I come across a well framed photo of the book next to a coffee with a catchy quote, I can be subconsciously persuaded.

Here’s to a good time with Septology I-II.  According to the internets:  Noun. septology (plural septologies) A series of seven works, especially books.  For the record, III-V is coming in with a scintillating 4.54 rating, followed by a red-hot 4.5 for VI-VII .  

Will we get there?  Sometimes Jitse you gotta say to hell with everything and read the damn thing to find out.

24th

The life that I thought I would live, a life formulated in my head from the ages of maybe fifteen, when one already starts to have these thoughts, when society has imparted a construction of how it should go, when your family already defines an obscure structure, the books you’ve read, movies you’ve watched, music you’ve listened to convey a loosely defined path, that life for me has entirely vanished.  

The way I’m living now feels entirely undefined and without expectations.  I’ve no idea where I will be let’s say at the end of the year, and worse (?) I don’t even have an idea of where I want to go.  There is some safety net to fall back on, meaning that I could take a job, any job behind a computer and do that to fill my time, and again, if one lacks a goal there’s always ‘climbing the corporate ladder’ to aspire to.  

But I don’t feel lost in any way.  I’m approaching each day with a clear head, especially with seven to eight hours of uninterrupted sleep, and with a level of contentment.  I’ve a few tasks that I hope to accomplish during the day, tasks which I think give my life an impression of ‘meaning’, and first and foremost I’m healthy.  Yet all this doesn’t feel enough, it feels like I’m cheating somehow.  I said before, the money will run out (not boasting in any way but if I had to empty the coffers completely I could live comfortably the way I am now for another two years), yet approaching life that way seems contrary to nearly everything and everyone.  I’d happily continue to live the way I am right now – really who wouldn’t?  Eventually there will come a time when I have to make a sacrifice and like most make an honest living with hard work, likely entirely meaningless, and then somehow mold that meaningless into a life of meaning.

Blah – this is a confusing post.  I think it comes off a bit sad and dejected, but that’s not what I was going for.  Nor was I wanting to make it something about feeling happy and satisfied, which some sentences feel like.  I think the main point I sat down with is not having any expectations or plans, and I guess I’m trying to figure out if this is a good, feasible way to live, or if I need to hunker down and set some targets to aim for and define a way that I want to live.

Possibly slightly related to this and the last days, we should consider reading the book Life: A User’s Manual by Perec. If all criteria, whims, and moods are in accordance.

25th

Perhaps I am over reliant and analytical with Goodreads because my closest circle of friends and family aren’t overly bookish, if at all.  The North American friends absolutely aren’t. Why read when you can make money?  I’m being harsh, but truthfully I could hardly call myself a reader until I arrived in the Netherlands.  As a child I read a lot with plenty of library visits, then girls became interesting, and naturally as a North American, most leisure time was dedicated to watching manly sports.  Throughout high school I probably only read what was assigned to us in English class, which if I’m remembering correctly felt like a chore.  Well maybe not the reading, that was ok, but then you had to write an essay and interpret everything.  University was a gaping hole of any intellectual activity where I spent thousands of dollars on textbooks to learn about formulas, formulas intended to make you money.  We did have several elective courses, for the most part that also felt like a chore and largely the reading assigned was academic articles.  After that I worked on the 56th floor of a skyscraper, boy let me tell you there was money being made there, certainly not by me.  I was a bottom feeding keyboard monkey extraordinaire, and the books that may have been present during that time were from the business management section of Oprah’s book club; Jack Welsh’s ‘Winning’ or the showstopper; The 7 Habits of Highly Effective People.   I mean, I read some books throughout that period, but only here and there, regretfully.  I wouldn’t say my parents have a deep love for literature.  My dad bought me some books on a trip to Europe, and he may read the occasional book in Polish, but he’s not and has never introduced me to any books that I had to read.  A few years ago, I don’t know how the discussion came about but I mentioned to him that I was reading a book from a famous Polish journalist, and right away he interjected that it must be Kapuzhinski.  My first thought was, man, why didn’t you tell me about this guy twenty five years ago?  Who knows, my life may have followed an entirely different route, I wouldn’t be some unemployed chump.  With my mom, the last few years the flow of books goes from me to her.  I’m happy we can share that at least, she loved Ferrante and American Pastoral from Roth.  The friends I’ve made here, I also wouldn’t call them bookish.  There’s the writing club, who naturally are, but we only meet once a month lately, and though we go there sometimes, it’s not a reading club, so the discussion can quickly move away from that to the main objective of writing.

About your aversion to American literature, believe me for a long time I also had these sentiments, that their chauvinism was already everywhere, and  why would I want to read about that if would creep into their books.  For me it was eye opening to start reading American authors seriously where in fact what they do is the opposite, dispelling the myth of the American dream (Yates, Roth, Salter) and write about the horrors of consumerism (David Foster Wallace, Don DeLillo – haven’t read him yet but White Noise is high on my TBR list).  I understand you may not want to read there – for me it’s also a rather boring setting and ‘culture’, since I grew up in that milieu it’s wonderful to have these concepts dismissed.

For me, the distance between liking and loving is an ocean apart.   There are several books that I like and enjoy reading.  Then there are the books and authors that challenge my worldview, or who just write so damn beautiful, and it is those that I will happily revisit over and over again, wanting to get my hands on nearly anything they publish.

Lastly, yes I concede that I occasionally dip my toes into the tepid waters of 3.5 – 3.6 rated books – in fact I’m reading one right now.  Under normal circumstances I wouldn’t but sometimes if I’m hooked on an author I’m left with little choice.  For instance there are some Knausgaards and Ferrantes that I had to accommodate to, and with Besmozgis I just had to make an exception as an immigrant in Toronto.  If there’s a 1 star rated book about Oakville, the suburb I grew up in, I’m buying five copies with no questions asked.  The rest, are likely whims, or read on the basis of the cover, as with Barcelona Dreaming.  Walking by a bookstore yesterday I happened upon Time Shelter, and I decided to stop to read the first pages.  I made one of those faces, rather difficult to describe with words but I’ll try.  My eyebrows were raised, mouth slightly frowned, and head tilted to the side, nodding a few times.  Meaning, I was impressed and could see myself reading it one day, especially if you give your seal of approval.

However, speaking of Goodreads, I’m close to shutting it down and switching over to IMDB.  Dear God, do you have any other hidden gems up your sleeve?  The Best of Youth was perfection.  I could only find the first part to watch, but that’s fine, I will savor it for a while and get to part two eventually.  I couldn’t detect a plot, and that was just fine. There’s a lot of conflict, but it never really spills over into something serious.  And of course, there is a lot of Italy.  Did you ever read Ferante’s Neapolitan novels?  They’re rated 4.02, 4.43, 4,34, 4.43, which is an average of 4.305, but it’s more correct to apply a weighted average with the number of reviews, which would bring you to……

26th

Even if he hadn’t saved my life, I’d have regarded Charles as a hero and a person that I’ll never forget.  

In Cusco they boarded the bus with matching fisherman hats.  There were three of them, one of them donning the biggest fanny pack I had ever seen in my life.  Who the hell were these clowns and what kind of circus is this going to be?  I never wanted to do a group hike.  Hiking is something I can organize and do by myself.  With a bit of rain proof gear, some water, blister pads, a GPX file and you’re good to go, just put one foot in front of the other.  Easy.  After several warnings of “I don’t know what I’m getting myself into” and “This isn’t Europe, cowboy’, I reluctantly agreed to pay for the services of a guide, and let myself be at the mercy of a group, which would inevitably contain some weakling that would slow everyone down, and then instead of peacefully admiring the mountain peaks I’d be subject to everyone carping about their troubles back home, how their back aches, when the next stop will be.  I gritted my teeth after all the passengers boarded, then to add to the misery of the hats, our guides introduced themselves and assigned our group a name; the Waiki’s.  

After climbing endlessly and dangerously for nearly three hours, the bus arrived near the starting point of the hike.  With the hats and the group name having already shot my mood, I more than once complained that I came here to hike, not ride a bus.  In Europe you don’t have to ride a bus to hike, let alone have a group name.  Get me out of here and to the Matterhorn.  Nevertheless, after purchasing some final provisions and extra water, we could begin the Salkantay trek, where after two days of ascending, we’d gradually descend for three days and end up at Machu Picchu.

They say after arriving in Cusco you should acclimatize to the altitude for two or three days, but since I was chained to a corporate job, even with a generous six week holiday allowance, I wasn’t about to burn extra days idling around.  Anyways, back then I was a reasonable amateur athlete who was in decent shape, meaning a little increase in the heart rate wasn’t going to phase me.  More than one person in Lima had warned me to be careful with it, how extremely dangerous it could be, to which I rolled my eyes and thought that these people sure do like to exaggerate.  One day would be sufficient and we could be off to the races.

By approximately kilometer five I felt an excessive thirst, but since the group had porters and mules, some that carried water reserves, I could drink liberally.  Satisfied, we carried on, getting acquainted a little with each other’s rhythms, the group dynamics, the scenery.  Not long after, the thirst returned, this time accompanied with a faint ringing in my ears.  How much did I drink last night?  The onset of a delayed hangover was not something I experienced before, but perhaps the body functions a little differently in the southern hemisphere.  Catching up to my girlfriend, who upon seeing me said I looked a little pale, I quickly remarked that something was not right.  I immediately sat down to regain some composure, but within an instant the ringing in my ears turned into a piercing tone.  Before having time to think about the ear barotrauma I began vomiting.  Spinning and blacking out, I couldn’t even react to the cries of my girlfriend filtering in as I flitted in and out of consciousness.  Helpless, I lay down to close my eyes.

When I opened them again, hovering above me was a fisherman’s hat.  Oh god, not now.  Opening the fanny pack, filled with bandages and medical instruments, the man fashioned a device to the tip of my finger.  As he read the measurements, he assured me that while my oxygen levels were low, I should still have enough to make it through, and no need for the emergency helicopter that my girlfriend was frantically pleading for.   He was going to help me, he promised.  Tenderly and expertly he laid me down on the path, with my head sloping down to allow the blood to flow back into my brain.  Next out of the pack a small bottle, of what I later learned was Agua Florida, an Andean herbal remedy that the man, who introduced himself as Charles (pronounced Char and then an emphasis on Les) applied to to his hands, which he then rubbed vigorously, and cupping them around my nose and mouth, instructed me to inhale deeply.  A bit of life came back.  Washing down some anti-altitude pills drawn from the magic pack, I lay there again for a while before attempting to sit up.  Handing me a handful of coco leaves and instructing me to chew them slowly, Charles looked straight into my eyes and told me he was going to stay with me and bring me to our next campground, where if I needed to I could be brought down from the mountain.  I was in no state to respond yet, I could only look back at him with a mixture of fear and bewilderment.  

Measuring my oxygen levels again, and only after repeatedly asking me if I was ready and up for the task, Charles pointed to a rock some three meters away.  “You see that lovely rock there?”  I nod.  “You and I are going to walk there, and when we get there, you’re going to sit down and rest”.  My arm draped around Charles shoulders, at an agonizingly slow rate, together, we walked those three meters.  Sitting down again, I look at Charles who is now beaming with pride, much the same way a father would after witnessing their son take their first steps.  We repeat this same procedure for the next hour.  Still in a haze, I am trying to calculate in my head how long it will take to reach the camp, when the first tears start wetting my eyes, a bit out of self pity, but more so out of admiration for the kindness of this generous human and what he was doing.  Thankfully, I’m was not yet able to speak, to tell him how grateful I am for him, otherwise my voice would undoubtedly have cracked, betraying my emotion.  

The hours pass, and Charles is still with me.  Essentially I’ve ruined his day of hiking, instead of admiring the peak of Salkantay he’s stuck with this, for lack of better words, patient.  Still convinced that I am not in any perilous danger, we start imperceptibly increasing the distances between the stops, and finally Charles delivers me to the camp, alive, and a quarter of an hour before the heavy rains begin, which the rest of the group agrees is an act of grace from Pacha Mama, but I already know to which god I’m indebted to.

Charles visits me throughout the night to check on my condition.  In the morning, I feel like I have a hangover from hell, but I’m able to stomach some food and think somewhat clearly.  I’m alive, and I have options.  They can arrange for a bus to take me down to Cusco, or they have mules at the camp, which can carry me up on this final day of ascent, and then after that we’d begin to descend.  I contemplate, I look to Charles for some guidance.  He tells me that the worst is over, we’ve survived the storm so to speak.  With this blessing, I opt for the mules, and to my surprise Charles does as well, saying that he’s also starting to feel the onset of some altitude sickness, and it’s better for him to take the mule too.  We mount, and I slump over the beast, who miraculously is sure footed and can easily navigate the tricky terrain while Salkantay rises above us with an elevation of 6,271 meters.  Charles is having his way with the mule, who seems to have taken to him, while he elicits shouts of joy.  I’m happy he’s here with me, and even though we’re still gaining elevation I begin to feel better.

On day three, we disregard the mules, and start to go down towards Machu Picchu.  I’m slowly coming to my senses and with each step a few more precious molecules of oxygen are available for my lungs to inhale.  I’m now able to function autonomously, and whenever I can I try to throw praise on Charles, but he always deflects it, and scanters off to be with the group.  “I helped you?  You helped me!  I had an amazing walk on that day”.  I’m trying to contemplate this, to process how this is supposed to work, because I’ve never encountered something like it, when Charles is called into action again.  On one of the plateaus that we stopped at, a football game kicked off, when one of the members of our group inadvertently snapped the ankle of an Andean mountain porter with a mistimed tackle. The sight of that would leave me queasy, so I stay behind, then later I see that Charles is with the man and he’s made a makeshift splint to support the wounded limb.  Our departure is delayed, as Charles wants to stay with the man until the medical services can arrive to transfer him to the hospital.  No one complains.

By day four, everyone’s spirits are lifted and our campground on that evening has set up a bonfire surrounded by loud speakers.  A fiesta. As night begins to fall, the fire begins to burn, drinks are consumed and I glance over at Charles.  He’s seated at a table with a lady from our group and her young daughter, teaching her a game of cards.  He continues that for the better part of an hour when the young girl starts yelling loudly that she’s won.  By now, I think I am starting to get to know Charles a little better and suspect what has transpired there.

The drinks flow, and the group, the Waiki’s, have bonded.  We’re dancing by the fire, some intoxicated by alcohol, myself a mixture of that and the remantans of altitude sickness.  A member of our group has overdone it and begins to vomit.  By now you already know who tends to the poor chap and puts him to bed, and when Charles returns he has just a few more songs left to dance with a girl who could not find a suitable partner that could keep up with her moves and rhythm.  Repairing to bed, I am drunk with happiness and fascination.

Day five and at this point the Machu Picchu ruins are on the agenda, though I had already witnessed a wonder of the world.  I know all this may sound over the top, embellished, a fairy tale, but I promise you every word is true.  If it comes off sounding like a teenage crush, I admit that could well be the case, but what I wish to convey with these words is a deep, deep admiration for another human being.  After our expedition, my girlfriend went hiking with Charles’ friend since they lived closeby.  When she told him about my ‘obsession’ with Charles, the friend apparently did not act surprised, responding with “Yeah, he’s like that, I have it too.  Also other people”.

Six years later and I’m still trying to intepret those events in the Andean mountains.  If it’s not already clear, what kind of person he is, a few months after returning home we sent the Waiki’s a photo of us, and I’m quoting Charles response verbatim, from the group chat:

“It’s good to see you smiling.  Jack, you were the most brave guy on the trail.  For sure I’d give up if I felt half of what you felt.”

He didn’t have to let the girl win the card game, it was to make her happy, just like he didn’t dance with the girl to show off, it was so she could enjoy herself.  I’m convinced he didn’t need a mule on the second day of the hike, he did it to make sure I was okay. Heck, I’m quite certain he didn’t really want to hike to Machu Picchu in the first place.  Later we learned that the other friend he was with was recovering from a deep depression and Charles was helping him.

Since then, while working with his medical practice back in Brasil, I see that Charles wrote a book, and I don’t for a second doubt it’s not a book about himself, it’s something to help other people.  Which makes me question why I write, because it’s always about myself and for myself, and how I’m living, which isn’t much different.

Living today, thanks to Charles, who won’t accept my exaltations no matter how hard I try.

27th

A short one today as the sun is beautifully shining, and Cafe Carel is opening in precisely 16 minutes.  Also because tomorrow at 9:15 am I’m taking off to Bilbao, where I’ll meet my friend Pasi and we’ll immediately set off to continue Camino del Norte, a wee 12.5 km walk as an appetizer to get into the mood before the longer heavier days.  That means today I have to pack, tidy the house, mow the lawn, throw out all the garbage, water the plants, put my bike in the basement and lock it.  Yeah, I just put my checklist in here.  There’s a trumpet lesson on the agenda as well.  I think I told you before that not trumpeting for a day or two is like stopping for a week, especially with my lack of proper technique.  That means I’ll be set back for months when I return.  Normally they advise you to take the trumpet mouthpiece with you so you can at least buzz into that and maintain the muscles in your lips, but I’m not about to do that.  A little bit out of consideration for the weight, but also I don’t want to be that guy on the trail.  Needless to say, I’m very much looking forward to walking, even though it’s not the most beautiful walk.  I had a bit of a case of bad timing, because there are other hikes that I wanted to do, to take full advantage of this free time, but they didn’t open up til June and others in July.  The GR20 in Corsica will have to wait, supposedly the hardest trail in Europe.   But I’d be a fool to complain, doing this is already a blessing, and as a bonus I can try out my broken Spanish and try to improve those skills.  As I mentioned, I will try to write some notes daily, even if it’s just a few sentences, and if you’re posting of course I’ll be reading those.  Fosse will be cracked open on the early morning train to Schipol, and I’m sneaking in a slim Roth as backup in case I get through Septology ahead of schedule.  Always hard to gauge these things, I suppose I’ll weigh my pack when it’s ready and decide then if indeed the Roth is worth the risk, because we will be in a couple of ‘bigger’ cities, where I hope I could find an English language bookstore in case of an emergency.  Often at the hostels you can find books left behind from other travelers, though I’m not sure I have the gumption to do something like that.  Alright, I’m out, for one hour of reading and people watching on the terrace.  

PS –  I distinctly remember writing to you literally a few minutes before I started the camino last year, from Cafe con Leche in San Sebastian.  Can’t remember if it was a mail or whatsapp, but perhaps I’ll do the same tomorrow as I have some time to kill as Pasi lands a little later than me.  Adios!