An Untitled Life in Bullets: Part V

Part V: The Europe days.

“The loneliness of the expatriate is of an odd and complicated kind, for it is inseparable from the feeling of being free of having escaped.” –Adam Gopnik.

“Living in a foreign country is one of those things that everyone should try at least once. My understanding was that it completed a person, sanding down the rough provincial edges and transforming you into a citizen of the world.” -David Sedaris.

“You're an expatriate. You've lost touch with the soil. You get precious. Fake European standards have ruined you. You drink yourself to death. You become obsessed with sex. You spend all your time talking, not working. You are an expatriate, see? You hang around cafes.” -Ernest Hemingway.

The driver arrived at my house in the afternoon. I was flying out of LAX and was concerned about getting there because Uber and Lyft don’t service the mountain. I tried Uber. There was nothing available. I downloaded Lyft, and there was a driver close by. “Whew.” She parked on the lower driveway. I hauled my luggage down the stairs to the car. The driver was an older, heavy-set woman. She was eating something and put it away as I approached. “Hold on,” she said, “let me get my stuff out of the front seat for you.” She carried out a pile of trash and junk from the front seat. I put my luggage in the back seat. The trunk was too full of crap. I sat down in the passenger seat. She dug through the box for a long time, looking for something. I sat there in pained patience. She finally came back and put a transponder on her dash. “LAX requires this.”

The ride down the mountain was harrowing. She crossed the double yellow center line at least a dozen times. “I learned to drive up here,” she said. I gripped the door handle harder. The voice on her GPS was an irritating, whiny man’s voice. “Honey, take the turn to your leeeft.” She offered me a bottle of water. “I need a whiskey.” I thought. I reached back, opened a short bottle of water, and took a drink. It tasted sweet. I looked at the bottle and melted caramel on the lid and mouth. Fucking nasty. “Thanks for the water,” I said, gagging.

She pulled onto the highway, and as we took the 210 to LA, she drove out 15 mph below the speed limit. “I’m never going to make my plane.” I thought. “Where are you flying?”

“Amsterdam,” I said.

“Oh, that must be nice. I’ve never been outside the US except for Mexico and Hawaii.”

I didn’t even go there. The drive should take about an hour and—a half to LAX. I tried to take a nap, but her erratic driving had me on edge. When we approached the 605 exits, the GPS said, “Honey, take the next exit to your right.” She was in the far-left lane as the exit loomed. “Honey, take the exit to your riiiight,” the irritating GPS said. She turned on her signal and cut off a car. Two more lanes to go, but the exit was right there. She came to a complete stop. On the highway. In Los Angeles. During rush hour. I’m not making my plane. I’m going to die. Right. Here. Right now.

Somehow, I made it to the airport. My nerves were fucking shot. I checked in and found a bar. It was a Cole’s. I ordered a beer. A man approached the bar and asked the server if they had food. “It’s a Cole’s. An off-site of the LA restaurant that invented the French Dip sandwich.” Or was it Phillipe’s? The debate continues. Writers like Charles Bukowski frequented both delis. Bukowski wrote about Phillipe in his book Ham on Rye. A bathroom stall at Cole’s in LA has a copper plaque above the urinal with the words “Charles Bukowski pissed here.”

On a side note, Cole has a speakeasy in the back called the Varnish. But the airport version was much like every other airport bar that serves food. It was a Cole’s in name only. A plastic knock-off, a kiosk for beer and sandwiches served to jet-lagged travelers between flights.

Another supposed LA hangout of Charles Bukowski was King Eddie. I’ve spent some time at that dive bar in Skid Row. It’s a no-nonsense place that serves canned PBR tall boys and whiskey. The patrons are friendly. I once played darts there with a medical student from Grenada.

I finally boarded my plane. My organization only pays for a coach, which sucks for international flights. I will say I’ve never paid for drinks on a plane. I’ve tried. I’ve held up my credit card. But they always refuse. On this flight, I ordered a Cabernet and got two at no charge. My plane landed at Schiphol airport in Amsterdam in the afternoon the next day after a 3-hour layover in London. I slept the entire flight. I navigated the airport and found my way to the train booth to buy my OV Chipkaart, the card the Dutch use for mass transit. They have a lovely system.

I got lucky and found an Intercity train to The Hague. Den Haag in Dutch. I have no idea why there must be two names for every city and place. For example, Cologne is Köln in Germany. Finland is Suomi, Norway is Norge, Munich is München, etc.; it drives me nuts.

I was near exhaustion when the train pulled into Centraal Station in Den Haag. My apartment was supposed to be close, and I was meeting a housing representative there. I got lost and ended up walking in the wrong direction. I finally found it, and the man showed me to my place. It was a quaint little place at the end of a courtyard with a fountain. From the street and the gracht (canal), double doors led down a cobblestone corridor into the courtyard surrounded by ancient buildings. I was lucky to have a view of the central courtyard.

I was restless. I put down my luggage and went for a walk. It was as still daylight. I walked to Lange Voorhoot Park by the hotel Des Indes and the Escher Museum. I took Denniweg past white linen sidewalk cafes crowded with people drinking wine and eating fine food. Seagulls were heavy in the air as I walked down the Mauritskade toward the Royal Palace. I could smell the sea even though I was near the city center. I had to report for work at 9 am the following day after flying for 14 hours, and I knew I wouldn’t be able to sleep. I kept walking

Van De Garre is my favorite beer. I first had it at Granville Moore’s in DC. I’ve been searching ever since. I found a Garre pub on Yelp and walked to it. They didn’t have that Belgian beer, but they had plenty of other choices. I ordered one, and they didn’t accept credit cards. I found out that US credit cards are touch and go at many establishments in the Netherlands. It’s better to keep cash in hand, which I never do in the US. For Americans, only drug dealers and landscapers carry money. I walked to find an ATM and returned to enjoy my Affligem outside.

I wandered back near Centraal Station and found a Philippines restaurant. I enjoyed a delicious beer and rice dinner on the sidewalk as I watched the setting sun. Sunset was at 11:30 pm (23:30 European time). It took me a little to get used to being so far north. I didn’t sleep at all. Instead, I tossed and turned all night. It was hot. I had the window to my room open. The curtains swayed in the warm breeze. I managed to doze but woke up before my 6:30 alarm. I showered, put on my suit and tie, and walked to Centraal Sta. and the 16 tram.

The recorded voice of a dour woman speaking Dutch announced the stops over the speaker on the red and white tram. After every visit was announced in Dutch, she would exuberantly announce the visit in English. It was the weirdest thing. Every passenger was so orderly. Proper even. As the train passed through the city, I saw medieval churches, squares, sidewalk cafes, and gardens go by the windows. People on bikes. Men in suits, women in sun dresses, mothers with children in tow, all riding bicycles in the sun and with purpose. There were more bikes than cars.

My stop was the Statenplein. I hopped off and tried to get my bearings. My office was somewhere near. I called my contact, Mike G., and told him I was close. “I’m stuck in traffic which like never happens here.” He told me. I decided to get Cappuccino at a café near the office. The blonde woman brought the cappuccino to my table on the sidewalk. It came with a small Dutch cookie and a little napkin. As I sipped, I watched the bicyclists navigating the busy intersection. Few riders stopped or yielded for cars as they aggressively weaved into traffic.

Mike G. Arrived at 9:05, making me late. The organization I was working with didn’t appreciate tardiness, and we still had to get my building badge. Inside the lobby, a man in a leather jacket was waiting. Mike G. “This is Kareem.” Mike said, “He’ll be working with you offsite.”

Kareem had a dark complexion with brown eyes that stood out in a golden hue. He was tall, thin, and muscular. He spoke with a hint of a New York accent but seemed to have picked up other influences in his life. He had a very relaxed demeanor. “I’m waiting for my badge.” he smiled. So, Kareem and I walked into the training we were to attend 30 minutes late. About 30 people were sitting at a table that formed a square along the walls of the large room. Computers were at each seat. Nameplates in front of each station had a name and a country printed.

Germany, Sweden, France, Finland, Slovenia, Belgium, Italy, Hungary, Austria, Switzerland, Spain, Greece, Czech Republic, Bulgaria, and Latvia was represented. Two seats labeled the US had Kareem and my name on them. The class hadn’t started yet. We took our seats and waited. The training lasted all week. I was dying of exhaustion. Kareem said he had been in the country for three weeks and still hadn’t adjusted to the time zone. I looked over at him on the third day and said, “Do you drink?” I was assuming much, which is always not a good idea.

Kareem laughed. “I’m named after Kareem Abdul Jabber.” I laughed too. “I was born in the Bronx.” He told me he joined the Navy at 17. All his friends were going down the wrong path in his neighborhood. Many of them are dead or imprisoned. He was stationed in Guam for two years.

The next day was July 4th. The President of our organization was throwing a mandatory party. We were supposed to wear suits. What kind of Independence Day party have you worn suits? Fortunately for me, Mike G. Said I wasn’t on the access list yet. “You should visit Leiden.” Mike G. was also from New York. He was the head of my division and had some pull. “Leiden is my favorite city in the Netherlands.” “How far is it?” “It’s 15 minutes by train. There are 14^th-century buildings and churches. Not many know that the Pilgrims started from there.”

So, Leiden, it is. I spent Independence Day wandering a beautiful traditional Dutch city with windmills, ancient churches, and busy canals, and each bridge was adorned in pink, red, and white flower baskets. Church bells, seagulls, cobblestone streets. I ate at an outdoor café before making the journey bag to Den Haag. When I returned, I texted Kareem. He said he was with a bunch of people at a bar. When I got there, I met my French boss Théo, my Finnish colleague Samu, and other US colleagues, Roger and James. There was also a French woman next to Théo, but I don’t recall her name. I ordered a drink.

We drank at that place for some time before heading to a place called the Grote Markt. The French woman was trashed. “I need to retire,” she said. “But if I lived up to the French stereotype, I would have champagne and a threesome waiting for me at home.” she laughed. Roger was from Houston, Texas. He had a black beard and was tall and rugged looking. James was a short man with a bad dye job on his thinning hair. Samu was tall and fair-complected with perfectly slicked back brown hair and well dressed. He spoke with a thick Finnish accent.

The five of us meandered through Den Haag to an outdoor square, or Plein in Dutch called the Grote Markt. It was a younger crowd of college-aged people. Surrounding the square were bars and restaurants. We went to a place called September’s. James already ordered a tall Grolsch. When we ordered our beers and found an outdoor table, Samu was already hitting on a Canadian woman who worked with us. She was holding her own. He seemed a little aggressive, but he stayed on his side of the table. It was 2300 and still daylight. We drank until 3 am.

I had no idea where my apartment was. I had only been in Den Haag for three days. They pointed me in the right direction, and I walked through a dead shopping district shuttered for the night. There was nobody on the street except for a homeless man on a bike who hit me up.

I was awakened at 9 am by a phone call from my ex-wife. “What are you doing? Don’t you have to go to work?” “I have a late day today.” I lied. I was going to our offsite location, and they weren’t expecting me. I had some leeway. I rode to work on a bike rental. The way to the offsite office was through The Haagse Bos. A forested park in the middle of Den Haag. It was genuinely magical riding through there. The grants were as green as the trees with the tiny plants that grew on the surface. The Nazi V2 rocket launch pads were in that forest.

My first week in The Hague was a whirlwind of parties, exhaustion, and work. A colleague, Dan, invited Kareem and me to Ghent for the weekend with another US coworker Isabella. We agreed. Then Roger asked us to see the World cup in Antwerp a day before Ghent. I wanted to decline. “The World Cup, Brazil vs. Belgium. In Belgium!” Roger exclaimed. “We’ll take the train, and you and Kareem can meet Dan and Isabella in Ghent. James has an Airbnb lined up in Antwerp, and we can split it four ways. It’ll be a blast!” How could I turn that down? “Okay, I’ll go.”

After work Roger, James, Kareem, and I hopped onto the train to Antwerp. We bright beers along to get us started for the weekend. The train station at Antwerp was magnificent. Old world architecture. Our flat was nice and spacious. We set our stuff down and hailed a cab to the fan park.

There must have been 20,000 people at Hyundai Park for the game. Beer was served up by 12-year old’s who accepted little pink tickets—two per glass. I tried to talk a kid into giving me another one with just one access, but his work ethic was too strong as he held up two fingers. After the game, we wandered the city. Thousands of people were everywhere in football jerseys, reveling, waving flags, and singing. Roger and I got separated and ended up at a frite joint. We ordered fritesfries with garlic. “Groot,” what came back was fries drenched in mayonnaise.

After we found Kareem and James, someone had the bright idea of going to a strip club. We found a dive bar with a rather large bouncer accepting the €10 cover. We were asked into the small and dark place and took seats by the stage where a beautiful woman was dancing. We ordered drinks. That beautiful woman who was dancing came and sat next to me. “Hi, I’m Dominique.” We chatted for a while. She was from the Dominican Republic. I offered to buy her a drink. She ordered some sort of champagne. She called another girl over. We all talked for a while.

My companions looked bored. I laughed as I noticed them staring blankly at the stage. Dominique whispered into my ear. “This is how it works,” explained how to purchase her “services.” I respectfully declined. I rounded up the others, paid for her €28 drink, and left the place. Kareem stayed despite us trying to convince him to leave. Prostitution is legal in Belgium. I support its legalization, but I am not into that sort of thing personally. Human trafficking, on the other hand, is a serious matter. In Belgium, the maximum penalty is 30 years in prison.

When we returned to the apartment, the downstairs door to the lobby wouldn’t open. The glass door had come off its guide rails. Roger pushed on it, and we were able to lift the door from the bottom and get in. “I love the cameras watching us break into our place.” I laughed. We were hurting the following day g. The four of us sat in the living room, not saying much. Kareem came back sometime around 6 am. We woke up at 10 am. I watched the people from the window walk on the street six stories below us. It was warm, but the breeze felt nice.

“Did you get laid?” James asked, looking at Kareem. “Naw, I just drank with those girls until the morning.” He said sleepily. “What happened to the door downstairs?” Kareem and I were catching a train to meet Dan and Isabella in Ghent. Roger and James were headed back to Den Haag.

Isabella forgot her passport. They wouldn’t let her board the bus at Den Haag. They allowed her to take a later bus. Dan boarded anyway by himself instead of riding with her. Everyone thought that was weird. Dan is an odd person. He’s a sociopath like Joe from the show “You.” When Kareem and I got off the train in Ghent, Dan had already been walking around for hours. We waited for Isabella to arrive, and then the four explored this fantastic medieval city. We explored Gravensteen Castle and had lunch at a street café. It was so hot there.

“I’m sweating balls,” Isabella said. “My crotch is a soupy sweaty mess,” she kept saying. She was of Spanish descent but didn’t speak any Spanish. She was also a New Yorker. She had a sinewy muscular firm from all the yoga she does. Her wavy black hair was pulled back. She was a comedian in a former life.

We boarded our bus in the evening. It wasn’t running, and it was hot as shit. The driver argued with a passenger who insisted we wait for his friends. After 20 minutes, Kareem freaked out and went outside. He was rapidly lifting his shirt in a fanning motion looking pissed. That’s when I noticed an untended backpack in the seat in front of me. “What the fuck?” I thought. I called the attention of the bus driver. “Whose bag is this?” I asked him. “I don’t know.” “Get it off this bus.” He took the bag and put it by his seat. “Holy shit!” I got up.

As I walked down the aisle briskly, I yelled at the driver, “Don’t put that there!” At that time, a man boarded the bus and told the driver it was his. Isabella made fun of me about how pissed Kareem and I were about that experience. The ride back to Den Haag was long and hot.

Den Haag is a city by the North Sea. The Scheveningen neighborhood is a thriving beach community. It has a double-decker pier with a giant Ferris wheel. Bars and restaurants line the boardwalk for a kilometer. There are dunes with World War II bunkers surrounding the town.

I went to the beach that next week. I stared out across the sea, reflecting on my boyhood home of Great Yarmouth just over the horizon of the English Channel. I imagined what the Atlantic Wall must have looked like in World War II as the Nazis prepared for an allied invasion.

In 1940 German forces invaded the Netherlands, Luxembourg, and Belgium before moving into France, bypassing the Ardennes Forest. The Dutch were overwhelmed on most fronts by the better-equipped German Army. The German airborne attack on The Hague was a disaster for the Germans. Expecting the Dutch to capitulate, the Germans were surprised at how fiercely the Dutch defended the city, inflicting heavy casualties on the German paratroopers and driving them into the dunes of Westin. The Dutch commander was forced to surrender due to defeats on other fronts.

The Dutch Queen Wilhelmina was evacuated to Britain before the wave of the German invasion took The Hague. With the help of British and Dutch commandos sent to rescue her, she refused to leave. The joke from historians is that she was kidnapped. Nazi occupation was brutal. They built hundreds of square kilometers of bunkers and tank grants in the Netherlands. Due to Dutch partisan attacks and sabotage, the Nazis starved the Dutch toward the war’s end. The Netherlands was liberated by Canadian forces augmented by British and US Divisions.

The bloodiest battle of the liberation was at Overloon. The US 7th Armored Division “Lucky 7th” was wiped out by German tanks. British Armored forces relieved the Americans and continued the fight against elite panzer tank divisions. There is a fantastic World War II Museum there. There is a great deal of animosity toward Germans among older Dutch people today. It’s considered a great insult to the Dutch to highlight similarities between certain Dutch words and German. As someone who barely speaks German, I admittedly noticed those similarities.

I settled into my new assignment. It took getting used to the party culture at work. There was an actual bar inside our offices. There was always some going away party or celebration which would always end up at the city’s vibrant nightlife. Champagne, wine, beer, Hor d’oeuvres. The following weekend I took the train to Amsterdam. I wanted to be alone. I like being alone. I got off the train at Amsterdam Centraal and walked along the grants. I found my way to Vondel Park after a beer and bitterballen at Café de prins. Afterward, I visited Bar Bukowski.

I had had a few drinks by this point. I saw a beautiful woman on a bike in a red dress with her man stopped at a red light outside the window I was sitting at. Instinctively I snapped a quick photo. When I looked at it, she was looking right at me. I deleted it out of shame. I’m not one to take pictures of random people, but I thought they were aesthetically pleasing. I needed to charge my phone, and the cord spilled my beer. Chagrined, I sat at a table, and the server brought me another free of charge. I thanked her, ordered nachos, and regrouped.

You are probably thinking about why I went to Amsterdam to order nachos. Because they are the best, I have eaten. They season the chips with Paprika and are delicious. After eating, I took the tram to a James Bond-themed cocktail bar called Vesper in the Jordaan neighborhood. I sat at the bar and ordered a Vesper, shaken, not stirred. “What are these?” I asked the bartender, pointing to long brown tubes in a glass on the bar. “That’s tube pasta we use for straws,” he said. I was enjoying my martini when the woman in red sat down beside me.

What are the odds? How did I beat her? If only I could become invisible. That’s what I fucking get. She looked at me and smiled, and we left it at that. Another woman sat on the other side of me with—a California accent. I had one more delicious cocktail before taking my leave.

The next day my ex-wife called. I was bringing her and the kids out. I had hoped to reconcile with her. While on the phone, I heard my oldest cry, “Our passports are expired!” I panicked. Hey, we were flying the next day. Children’s passports are only good for five years. Fuck my life! I called the airlines, changed the flight, and made an appointment for new passports. They would be delayed a couple of weeks. It only cost about $1000 more. Later that day, I was cooking pasta and scalded the shit out of my hand. The towel caught on the burner, tipping the pot.

“That’s a nasty burn,” Isabella remarked as she, Dan, and I walked through the streets of Haarlem. We had beers under the shadow of the St. Bavo church. I ordered a Duvel. We explored the city just outside of Amsterdam. I had an excellent duck and some wine at a French restaurant there.

That weekend Dan, Isabella, James, and I went to Amsterdam. Roger went back to the US. Kareem was in Rome. James was meeting a friend there who flew from Abu Dhabi. I got a room at the Moxie hotel overlooking the harbor. I met Isabella, Dan, and his friend in the red-light district. They were already sitting at a table at the Grasshopper when I arrived. “This is Gary,” Dan said, introducing his friend. “I’m going to try and get a beer at the bar.” I never got one. They were too busy. “I’m going to check out the Excalibur. Catch up with me later?”

I set out alone and found the Excalibur café. It’s billed as a biker/heavy metal bar. It’s rumored to be owned by the Hell’s Angels. I found it to be a nice place to drink. I sat next to some college girls, drank, and talked. I went to the Black Tiger café next, across the canal. I walked among thick crowds of men and women, watching the girls work in their red-lighted doorways. All manner of women worked in booths lining the streets. They wore lingerie, themed outfits. Some beckoned potential customers, while others looked bored and on their phones.

I met Gary, James, and his friend Jason from Abu Dhabi at an Irish bar. Dan went to his hotel. We sat at a table overlooking the street below and a red booth with a beautiful dark-haired woman wearing glasses working for the crowds, enticing men while shaking her wares. “Do you think these women are trafficked?” I asked no one in particular as I sipped my beer. “No, most are contractors,” Gary said. “It’s €50 for the first 10 minutes and then €50 more. We sat there for an hour and counted about six men who went in for about 20 minutes each.

“If she works 40 hours per week, she makes €700k per year.” Jason from Abu Dhabi said. Hugh Grant. Jason looked just like High Grant. He owned a mineral water company in Abu Dhabi that was supplied by Spanish Springs. He was a salesman, and I’m not sure I met a more charming man. “Come on,” Jason said. “I know this great whiskey bar in the LeidsepleinLeidseplein.” The Whiskey L&B was packed, but Jason, James, and I found a spot at the bar. Gary went back to his room. I later found out that Gary purchased the services of the black-haired woman. He said she was Spanish. She rents the room for €300 per night and charges €50 for the first ten minutes. There’s a time. She sucked his cock with a condom and then let him fuck her doggy style. “That’s it. It was very clinical.” Gary said. Most of her clientele were dorky-looking college kids.

“This has got to be the best Whiskey bar I’ve ever been to,” Jason said. They had dusty bottles and casks lining the bar’s walls everywhere. The three of us ordered something. Then another. Then another. “This is going to be expensive,” James said. But it wasn’t. James is from Phoenix. I have never seen a more desperate man when it comes to women. He talks like he’s some great player and ends up borderline harassing women when he’s been drinking. It’s embarrassing that he doesn’t pick up on hints to get lost.

I went for drinks with him once and talked with two Dutch teachers. James was drinking out of his mind. I would speak with them, and he would disappear. I caught a glimpse of him at the bar, then crawled through the large window opening when it started to rain. The teachers and I were intensely involved in some intellectual conversation I don’t remember. I was once credentialed in history and social studies. James returned with a deck of cards he bought from the market across the street.

“We don’t want to play.” the women said. I was like, what the fuck? James eventually went home, and I walked the teachers to their bus stop. One of them had a bike. “This bike has been in my family since 1917.” She said. “That’s so cool,” I said. I still have those packs of cards.

The next day I met the Twitter user @lesighlepurr

at the Café Molenpad on the Prinsengracht. We drank beer and talked for an hour or two. Or was it three? I don’t remember. Those were strong beers. She is such a charming woman. I thoroughly enjoy her company. It’s not many who can keep up with me.

I was at my desk when Theo, my French boss, called James and me into his office. “A bunch of us are going to Pride in Amsterdam on Friday. The girls from Sweden dress up and lead the activities. We take over a train car and party there.” he explained. “We’re in.” That night James and I hung out with Jason from Abu Dhabi at the Grote Markt in Den Haag. Jason is from West Virginia but has lived in Abu Dhabi for 11 years. “Tomorrow is pride in Amsterdam. Are you going?” I asked. “I’m flying out tomorrow,” Jason said. “Let’s party!”

“It’s always big with you guys.” a woman mused. Everybody laughed. “This has been a bar since 1865,” Jude said. She was about 50 with blonde hair. She wore a paisley dress. She always seemed to be hustling about everywhere, refilling snacks and lighting candles on each clothed table. “We need to drink more water,” Jason said. “I started my company a few years ago and have the Abu Dhabi market. There’s a small village in Spain that sources my product. Their well is full of minerals. Their life expectancy is long, and I think it’s the water.”

“Water companies take out all the good stuff.” he continued. “Osmosis water is crap. We need the minerals that come from the earth. We also don’t drink enough water. Water is life. If we are well hydrated, we feel better, think better, fuck better.” Jude handed us glasses of water. We drank our water, finished our beer (I had La Chouffe) walked down the street to the Huppel Pub. A trendier place run by hipsters and with an excellent draft selection. The place was empty except for two women playing Jenga. By this time, Kareem had joined us, having returned from Rome.

There was a blonde and a brunette, both very pretty. Of course, Jason stuck up a conversation with them, and I played Jenga with them and Kareem over beer. “We are childhood friends.” The blonde one said. “We get together once a year for a holiday. We are students.” The blonde woman said she is working on her Ph.D. “I study shit,” she said, laughing. “What?” I exclaimed. “I study animal feces to isolate disease or nutritional needs.” “Interesting,” Jason said, his Hugh Grant grin grinning from ear to ear. They started talking about minerals.

“I’m a novelist.” James blurted. “I write erotica. Crotch novels.” He had two novels published and was writing a third. He uses this fact to try and woo women, but the stink of desperation drives most of them off. Jason followed the two girls when we parted ways like a lost puppy. James spent the time I knew him trying to get laid. “I hate these Dutch women.” he would say. I’ve never seen a man get shot down as much as he did. “Try talking to them like they’re human.” I offered. “Don’t be so pushy,” I added. “Perhaps getting laid shouldn’t be the goal.”

“I don’t even like him,” I told the teachers days before when he came back with playing cards. I said it in front of him. I was joking, but not really. I grew tired of his shit, but at some point, I grew to understand him. The last days when everyone left, it was just him and me.

I’m still friends with James. When his time was up, he went to Nairobi, where he used to work. He sent a photo of two beautiful women. “I had a threesome! I love Nairobi. One was sucking my cock while the other was licking my ass!” he texted. He finally got laid in Kenya.

During my second week in The Hague, my housing company moved me into a palatial two-story flat above an Argentine restaurant on Korte Houtstraat. I was next to the Plein, the Mauritshuis museum “Girl with the Pearl Earring,” the Binnenhof, where the Prime Minister’s office is. It was a three-bedroom flat. The downstairs was a great hall lined with six windows that opened with a view of the street below. The deck on the back offered a picture of the city’s rooftops. I could see the spire of the Peace Palace from there as well as Sint Jacobskerk.

I needed a more prominent place for my family when they arrived. They would be coming soon. They planned on touring Iceland before flying on Sunday morning. On Saturday, I went to Pride in Amsterdam with James, our boss Theo, and other co-workers from Sweden, France, and Brazil. I hung out with Dan and Isabella often. We explored the cities of the Netherlands together. We saw Kid Rock eating and drinking at a rooftop restaurant in Amsterdam across the harbor. We rode our bikes to Delft and had dinner and wine. Dan was big into biking and running.

Dan is from New York City. Remember when I said he was a sociopath? If a restaurant didn’t serve tap water as some are wont to do, he would write a bad Yelp review. Isabella called him the king of the petty island. We went for ice cream, and a kid was working. The kid was nervous. You could tell this was his first day. Isabella and I ordered, and Dan asked to pay separately. The kid was confused, and Dan got agitated. “I want to lay separately if that’s okay,” he repeated. “I’m sorry, sir, I don’t understand. What can I get you?” “Nothing. Never mind.”

Dan liked me because I was nice to him. He would invite me to the movies and buy me Grolsch’s even though I insisted on paying. He was a Ph.D. student in New York, but I forgot his concentration. He was a World War II buff like me. We went to the Overloon WWII museum.

The museum was on the battlefield. It had a rare German Panther tank. The museum was mostly stocked with tanks and vehicles retrieved from the battlefield in 1945, just after the battle was over. After a day there, Dan said, “Let’s get German food...in Germany.”

At an office lunch the next day, Dan told everyone at our table, “I got to hear S. speak German. We went to dinner in a rural village, and nobody spoke English, but he whipped out some language skills.” I struggled.” I insisted. “Seemed good to me. You conversed and ordered.”

Dan would tell me about online political arguments he would have. He bragged about being a troll. He’s very conservative and loved Trump. Meanwhile, I found myself explaining statements and US policies to European coworkers, such as the EU being our foe, pulling out of NATO, etc. Explaining is a mild way of putting it. Dodging the questions is more accurate. I don’t get into political debates. I keep abreast of the issues, but I don’t see the point. It’s a trap. Nobody with opposing views is willing to change them except me. In the face of evidence, I do.

“Are you going to Pride with us?” I asked him. “No, I’m not interested in going to something like that.” he said, “I don’t like crowds.” he brushed out, trying not to sound too homophobic. “I’m going to ride my bike to Amsterdam and meet my sister and her husband at Schiphol.”

The night before Pride was the Huppel Pub when we played Jenga with those two women. I didn’t get home until 3 am. James and I met Theo and the Swedes at Centraal at 11 am. We were hurting. The women wore flamboyant costumes, dyed rainbow hair, glitter, and tiaras. Ellie was the event coordinator. She was a tall woman from Sweden. She flew her girlfriend Elsa and friend Lela out from Sweden for the event. There were about 20 of us. We took over a train car and busted out drinks, and Jell-O shots, while the girls painted hearts on all the guys.

When they exited the train at Amsterdam Centraal, Ellie led the group up Spuistraat. I was hanging out with a Brazilian couple. We stopped to get gin and soda for more drinks. I don’t remember which gracht we ended up watching the boat parade from. I was starting to get intoxicated. After a few hours, I got hungry and needed to find a restroom. I asked James where he went. He skirted something about a portable “across that bridge over there.” I struck out alone. I ended up at an Italian place. I started to go downstairs to the WC. The owner said, “Hey!”

Most places charge .50 to use the restroom unless you order something. “I would like a Peroni,” I said and went down the stairs. When I got back, I sat at the counter and ordered Carbonara. It tasted so good. I was pretty drunk at this point. I took my plate and got a table. I finished my beer and food and got sleepy. I held my head up with my hands and passed right out. My table was just below the counter, and the waitstaff let me sleep when I woke up 20 minutes later. “Are you okay?” a woman who looked like a tourist asked. “I smiled.”

“Where are you?” James texted. I sent him my location. He sat down and ordered the same thing I did. “I fell asleep in here, Dude.” I laughed. “The owner is so cool; they didn’t even care.” After James ate, he said, “The group moved. We should call Theo and find them.” Theo was from the Alsace region of France. He was thin, had a short haircut, a receding hairline, and had a chill personality. He was wearing round sunglasses and got off easy on the face paint. We would take blackmail photos of each other throughout the day. I pulled up his number.

James was too drunk to call. I was almost entirely sober by this point. The reception was terrible. We went to where we thought the group was, but nothing. We wandered into some outdoor BDSM show cops pointed us to and got beers at a tent. “I’m not sure they’re here,” I said. The streets were too crowded. I seriously thought I was going to suffocate. “I’ve got to get the fuck out of here.” I thought. We never found our group again. We decided to catch a train back and ended up on a Sprinter. It made regular stops. A couple sat next to us.

The man and his girlfriend talked to us for a while. They were horticulturists. James started with his novelist bullshit again. He was hurting and passed out, streaked pink glitter on his face and red dye in his hair. The man began making fun of him to another couple in Dutch. I’m pretty sure he took a photo of James, but I wasn’t sure. The man got a kick out of James for some reason. When we got off the train, I told James about it. The couple walked in front of us. The man was ironically wearing the shortest black shorts.

We both laughed.

To be continued...