ON the train to the Pays-Bas I met with a lovely company of French men in the middle of making L'enterrement de la vie d'un garçon, the infamous bachelor party to which I've curiously referred thrice now, not a funeral, as it would sound. It was between 4 hours of reading a French book called "La Lutte Initial" which is a quite turgid essay on the making of pop culture, or playing games with "Rocco" and his friends. (For the rest of you puritans who like me, had not the slightest idea of the meaning of Rocco, I am generously enlightened that he is a well-known pornstar and the nickname of the groom). But do not be deceived, they were a very intelligent bunch, from the top drawer really, all doctors in fact. They gave me a t-shirt that says I <3 Rocco, and we played dice games which were aimed at making Rocco to perform innocuous dares and become causelessly wasted by the time the train would arrive. They asked me to meet them to go out the next night in Amsterdam and bring 11 Dutch girls. (They were 12 lovely French men!)
In Amsterdam my dear friend Madelief took me to see the national ballet, in part of the Holland festival. The first piece used elastic cords dropped from the ceiling to change the space in which the dancers interacted, and it intended to show the ways in which people can work together. I found the orchestration really beautiful as well. The second piece drew on Greek tragedies for subjects and had a recorded electronic music, mixing the very old with the very new. Before the concert, hundreds of people stood on stage dressed in street clothes with a white X taped on somewhere. I am beholden to Madelief as translator for telling me that it was for the recognition of the economic crisis and the cuts that will be made in the arts. A very somber way to start an evening.
After the ballet we went to the kooper for a drink, and then to the kleine for another. I am far from being an authority on night clubs but never have I been somewhere so crowded, or with such loud music, and to what end I wonder? Everyone just standing around with a drink, no space to dance, and no chance of talking. What a bore. We left there to go to an Australian pub which was a lot less boring. Somehow we managed to stay out until the sun came shining. I found at first meeting that Dutch people come across as very mature. I think it goes beyond just their exceptional height, but I felt not only miniature but very much sopped in my salad days as well. There is more to it that that however, something really very basically different about Dutch people, but one weekend was unfortunately not sufficient for making judgements as to what exactly.
The next evening we went to the Concertgebouw to hear Aldo Ciccolini perform a recital of Liszt with the complete Harmonies poétiques et religieuses. I never imagined that I could enjoy Liszt so much. Eighty and something years old, there were moments when he had the look of being in incredible pain, and at times I thought he would plant himself right into the keyboard. But from god-knows-where he managed to keep up a magnificent strength through almost 2 steady hours of playing, and with enough energy to spare 2 encores. He is a true idol.
The next day I traveled to Paris, and I had nothing on the agenda. I believed I would be damned by the heat, and die there, in a puddling heap in the metro. I decided to see Notre Dame first, but the line discouraged me from seeing the interior. I walked around the Marais, and ate more pastries then I'd like to admit. 4 hours later, I decided I ought to see Montmartre. I puttered around there, until it was time to meet my friend Andrew coming from work. Just when I was feeling really down about the city, I was leaving the Saint-Paul stop and I passed a really beautiful man, way too beautiful for me. Then sweet as cake, under the glorious flourescents in the metro he approached me and said "Je t'ai vu et je voulais parler avec toi". I saluted his courage, and we parted ways. Alexandre, the life we could have made together! Ha. What a lovely mystery I'll treasure forever.
My day in Paris was stressful to the max, so with mal aux pieds, I fixed my sights on the relief I had to be returning to Annecy. I surprised my seatmate on the train when saying I was not in fact french, and I burned up the afternoon at the plage d'Albigny.
