Slept off another sleepless night upon arrival, eventually staggering out of my room around 5. I walked the streets, smoke, smoke pouring from every window, from every car, off every passing bike. And though I paint it as such, the one thing that initially swooned me about this city is that although everyone gets high...and almost all the time, not EVERYONE does.
Uninspired and groggy, I stopped the first day at a skate park on Marnixstraat. It was about 10 blocks from the room I was staying. Around 5 when I first sat down, the scene was fairly unimpressive. Each skater took their unspoken turn dropping into the hollow pool. Some would take screeching dives, others would emerge unscathed. A bike would pass, stop. Tourists would stop, take pictures...watch a few rounds and move on. The initial skater who stole my stare was a youngin...probably in the vicinity of 11 or 12. It's not that he stood out or had any especially blinding talents. Actually, he did the same fucking thing every time he dropped in. Not to mention, he was the only one there toting a full suit of armor. It was probably part of the deal his parents gave in on...to hang out with the "burn-outs" and "drifters," a compromise would have to be met. So, he skated with the big boys on Saturday afternoons...and fearlessly. Or, ignorantly. Though his actions likely fall to the latter side of the fence, you could certainly argue that each is bliss. Since I watched him for a good while, I am. You should.
I sat on the steps for a little over an hour, looked up, noticed that the sun was beginning to grow weak. That beautiful painting, catching my stare for an uncertain amount of time. When I looked back down to the pool, the dynamics had spun face. As a glow set over the city, this city of vampires came to life...and the big boys rolled onto the scene. With them, hundreds lined the pool, filled its emptiness with their adrenaline. They had speed, skills and style that buried earlier comrades. The grinds slid farther, the jumps soared higher, the crowd cracked louder.
I put "Moonlight Sonata" on repeat in my head, got up...stood beside the pool. It was right about the time a miniature Shawn White arrived. When I say miniature, I'm speaking for all 5'1 of him. He was the cream. And as skaters dropped into the pool, as some flew off the perches from which this stage was set, he would shadow their moves...this beautiful and poetic dance. They would flash around the base of the pool, like watching a bull fighter with minority hope he'll get mauled. And as they emerged, to the roar of the crowd, I cut my music and path...walked away.
...
The place I found to lay my head was a last resort. Because again, it was impossible coming in on a Saturday...finding a room. But this mistake, "My Home Hotel" will undoubtedly go down as the most memorable. The lobby was outstretched on the second floor with a window and balcony looking down on the streets below. There was a TV that usually ran Dutch gameshows or K1 fights...but one night, a Rolling Stones concert...
How is it possible they are in their prime, now?
The stereo played through a constant attack of classic American rock pulled from a towering stack of CD's. How retro? Every morning, Mark, the owner would cook breakfast and announce my entrance, "Ryan, savior of the free world."
I corrected him on neither...
