Whenever I'm watching TV and I come across a movie, flashback or documentary about 9/11, I always feel uneasy. Not (just) because it's hard to watch - even though I always tear up, without fail - but because part of me feels like a peeping Tom, looking in on someone else's pain. I feel like an intruder. Although the events on September 11, 2001 and the years after that have had an impact on the entire world and not just America, no-one attacked my family, my home or my country that day. In a way, it's none of my business.
When Sarah and I were at Ground Zero last year, there were some people trying to sell photo books and other memorabilia of the attacks. Our reaction to them were opposite and illustrating to the difference in nationality: Sarah just basically told them "No", when they came up to us with a particularly horrific photo held out and they tried to start a conversation on it. I stopped walking and engaged in the conversation initially (until Sarah helped me out). Sarah was absolutely right to politely keep them at distance; they were trying to make a profit on something that shouldn't be capitalized. But me? I felt such a disaster tourist already, like it wasn't my place to be on the corner of that black day in history anyway, I couldn't ignore them. Like it would be rude to immediately tell them "No", like that would be equal to ignoring the entire thing. When in fact, looking back... Saying 'No' would have been the most respectful thing.
So it's with humility and that same sense of embarrassment that I write down my own September 11, 2001. A day that was pretty ordinary until 3.15 PM (9.15 EST) and didn't get anywhere past "things that make you go hm" until 5 PM (11 EST), and that had no effect whatsoever on my life compared to millions of others on the other side of that great big pond. But still, here it goes:
Half a year earlier I had finally made my first trip to the country I had always been so curious about. I was supposed to go to South Carolina to visit my American crush, but after he had ended things by telling me to download Say Goodbye by some band I had never heard of ("It'll tell you how I feel about you"), I had just told him where he could put it and booked a flight to Miami instead. As soon as I got off the plane, I fell in love and knew I had found a second home. Yes, even in Miami.
Following the Say Goodbye download, I had purchased Live @ Luther College in Utrecht, raided the music store in Miami and subsequently had subscribed to the nancies e-mail list, in search of people I could talk to about this band that apparently had created the song to end all songs, among an incredible catalogue of other cool stuff.
So my life was this: get up early in my old dorm-room in Utrecht, check e-mail on my monster of a laptop hooked up to an ISDN connection, supposedly for work but mostly to goof around with the late night nancies, get to work, worked very hard while dreaming of boys, an apartment and the States, get home late and either watch TV while keeping an eye on nancies and dl-ing new music or hang out with friends. My rent was laughable, and I was saving up quickly for all the other trips I was dying to make - the plan to visit all the states had already been born.
It was just another Tuesday morning in that routine when I drove down to the south of the Netherlands, to the city Maastricht to be exact. I had a long meeting about things that I can't remember for the life of me now. I had a job as Business Development Executive at an international ICT company, which had come with a new best friend: Black Betty. Black Betty was a black 2000 Alfa Romeo 2.0 Twin Spark and I loved driving long distances, just because of her.
It must have been about 2.30 PM when I got out of the meeting, into my car and started the drive back. And immediately got stuck in the traffic jam from hell. We were in a complete stand still. So I pulled my CD case from under the passenger seat and popped in a "new" find (probably Before These Crowded Streets) and effectively turned off the radio. Shortly after 3.15 PM, people started to get out of their cars and talked to each other. Me? I honestly thought that they must know each other and had only just noticed the other. But when more people abandoned their vehicles, I gathered people in the south must be used to these infamous traffic jams and this was their way to pass the time. Only for a short minute I figured something must have happened, and I turned on the radio. Coincidently, they were playing a song just then and I turned back to the CD I was playing. As soon as the traffic jam started to thin out and we were driving again, I forgot the whole thing. Sometimes, I wonder how dense I really am. Seriously.
When I came home, it was nearly 5 PM. I was exhausted and cranky and quickly made something to eat. Turned on the old laptop and worked through my e-mail, starting with nancies of course. This is how I finally found out something was terribly wrong:
--------------------
Date: Tue, 11 Sep 2001 09:36:47
who else thought:
a man
drives a plane
into the
chrysler building
when they heard about what went on this morning?
yeah, it's sad, but that's the first thing that popped into my head.
----------------------
Next there was an off list message asking me "Where the hell are you? I need you to check your local news and tell me about the reaction in the rest of the world". And finally, I turned on the TV.
You know how different it is when a disaster, no matter how horrible, takes place far away instead of 'right here', right? So, I wasn't immediately scared and the one person I knew in New York had already posted so I didn't worry about him. I just sat there, slack jawed. Until they showed the collapse of the towers. Then, I started to cry. Maybe because I had already fallen in love with the country. Maybe because I was interacting with many cool Americans daily, and had befriended a few already. Maybe because the image of 110 floors filled with people crashing down was just overwhelming in general. Maybe because I kept thinking how my boss was always telling me it was impossible to get lost in New York because there were always these two huge landmarks to guide you and now they were gone. Probably all of the above.
When they showed the jumpers, I got pissed. When they started giving details on the attack and the word Jihad got thrown into the mix, I got a faint feeling. Meanwhile, I kept e-mailing back and forth with my off-list American friend and contributed minimally to the list; after all - this wasn't my terror, it was theirs.
I guess that urge to keep a respectful distance stayed with me over the weeks, no matter how absolutely horrified I was myself. I saw the list turn into a religious debate (including a girl who was convinced that 'this is America's punishment for doing wrong by the Palestinians'), posers turn into scared children, goofs turn absolutely quiet back to painfully 'funny'. My former American crush suddenly contacted me to let me know I could forget all about his past passionate rants about how he could never understand how that idiot Bush got elected; now, he was standing firmly behind the man, behind his country. Me? I just figured that I didn't and hoped that I would never need to know what my reaction would be like.
On 9/12, I had an early weekly meeting at the office. My co-workers wanted to have a discussion on what would be the right way to pay our respect to one of our clients that used to have an office in the WTC. Not because they wanted to do right by their fellow human beings, but because they wanted to close a new sale. It was then and there that I suddenly knew I had to get out of sales. I was beyond disgusted.
So where I was silent towards my American friends and 'online acquaintances', I got pretty loud whenever some ignorant bastard would dare to start a debate on the whole thing over here. Because trust me, it got bad. Up to the point where people claimed it was a good thing 'those trigger happy retards finally got their asses kicked'. I know there was a lot of rhetoric bullshit to be heard in the States in that time (anyone remember Rev. Falwell?), but I have never heard so many seemingly intelligent Europeans crap out the most profound stupidities in my life.
In the year following 9/11, I went back to the States three times. The first time, the thing I noticed most were the flags. They were everywhere. It made me feel like the outsider I was. I kept my mouth shut whenever 'the topic' was graced and stayed shy about it. The second time, I met some Freaks (another DMB mailing list) for the first time - both liberals and conservatives, jammed into one camp site. Their debates were interesting and polite. I just kept quiet. Even when the only other non-Freak started yelling at me that he was proud of his country after I uneasily tried to answer his question if 'Europe' was 'against' the USA. Everyone else that was present apologized for his behavior (except for that one twit who will not be named, for other reasons). Again, I didn't say anything. Not my place
The third time, I went to the Gorge '02 run for my first DMB experience. After, I flew down to San Francisco. Where I still was on 9/11/02. And I witnessed again why I love Americans so much. There was no hoorah, no bombastic display of righteousness, no false sentiment. Sure, the TV was covering the memorial at Ground Zero, rightfully so. But on the streets, the overabundance of American pride 'Europe' had warned me I would encounter on that day, was missing. I went down to Golden Gate Park and sat in the grass and watched people throw frisbees, walk their dogs, read, play guitar and throw footballs. A preppy college guy came up to me and talked to me for a bit. I hesitantly asked how he felt on and about this day. He casually lifted his shoulders and told me that for him, this was his best way to remember those who had died the year prior: by living life.
My preppy stranger had just summed up why I love the United States.
It was there and then that I followed his example and became my big mouthed, opinionated self again, on both sides of the pond.
Just ask Coluzzi ;).
Saturday, September 10, 2011
Wednesday, September 7, 2011
Wednesday, August 31, 2011
Come and see
My new travel gear arrived today. It's a huge Eastpak duffel bag on wheels. Huge to my drives-a-tiny-car standards anyway.
I ordered said bag under the influence of the siren call Chicago has become. After too many cigarettes on the curb of O'Hare, waiting for my transfer, after not going to Wrigley - which I shouldn't have missed, after not going to the DMB Caravan - which a phone call this week told me I should be glad I missed and after reading three interesting articles on the city, which mysteriously had found my desk in the last couple of weeks, I'm feeling this pull to make Chicago my next destination in the US. And bring enough clothes to survive this (so I've been told) unpredictable city. Hence duffel bag.
So I planned to fly out in October, the same weekend miss Sarah will be running her marathon there (a round of applause for her, please). See Sarah, see Chicago - successful trip guaranteed. But like with Wrigley, the Ex decided to put a stop to this much fun. You see, the Ex is down the drain. The Ex is unemployed. The Ex is drinking. The Ex is broke. The Ex refuses to sell his (MY) car, but will gladly take my money instead. The Ex basically still has a huge hold over my life. Isn't it wonderful?
So the Ex will be going to Scotland for six months, in rehab. Apparently, Scotch country is where you should find sobriety. But enough of my sarcasm. It's great that the Ex is doing this. That he will willingly flee all his responsibilities under the pretense of sacrifice, to the benefit of his son. Wait, I was quitting the sarcasm. Of course, he graciously gives me two weeks notice that I will be a full time working full time single mom for half a year. Quit. Sarcasm. Oh - and did I mention Y will have to transfer schools during this time? He'll be in special ed for a year so we (ME) and "them" can figure out what kind of education will be best for him (he's "too smart for special ed but too hypersensitive to cope in a class with 30+ kids" - just love that "they" always label him with the pretty negative adjective "too". End sarcasm Esther). In short, I can't leave Y right now. Not even for an extended weekend (sorry, Sarah). Security is key. Or so I think, anyway.
Okay, enough.
I've brought this on myself. I know. I should have seen the signs before I got pregnant. Not that I would have had an abortion after I got pregnant and he started drinking and showing (or me finally seeing) full blown borderline. And no, I can't even regret it, because it brought me Y. So yeah, it's all on me. But before you judge me - sometimes, no matter my own responsibility in this mess, it's kinda hard, you know? I want my kid to have a father. Even if his father is an expletive deleted. Even if this is mostly my fault. I'm so mature...
The thing with love is, you can rationalize it all you want - you still can hardly help who you fall in love with. I fall for mannish boys. Or boyish men. Whatever. Basically men who will stay young at heart. Or who are just plain young. Not that young, you perve. But certainly young-er. Peter Pans, is my latest theory (Y is obsessed with the Pan). I don't think it's very smart, but it's what I'm attracted to. I like silly, I like clean shaves or bristle out of not caring. I like boisterous, but not in a serious way. I like blue and green eyes and mischievous grins and laughter and just a pinch of arrogance. Zest. God Esther, go get some, will you?
There's one thing I've left behind me though. I don't want complicated anymore. I've done that too many times. Please, no more brooding and hardships and tough tough tough relationships. I think I finally feel I deserve more than that. I want to fly and keep my own at the same time. Which basically leaves me with longing for the completely unattainable. Or backing away from the not so unattainable. Because I'm scared shitless. SHIT-LESS. Conquer me, will you? Because I don't have the guts anymore to do it myself. I might tentatively feel like I deserve you, but it's such an unknown territory, I need someone to guide me through it. So yeah, high standards anyone?
Right.
Anyway.
Where was I?
Single mom, working full time, energy of a 90-year old (let's hear it for arthritis). Still, mother of the Best Kid Ever, a nice career, brave, persevering, nice sense of humor, great eyes (behind the glasses). I can't run on the outside anymore, but I still do in my head. I'm smart, I'm educated (to an extent), I have an enormous curiosity and I'm awesome on my good days.
I've got great stuff ahead of me the coming six months. Y and I will be going to Barcelona in November to visit his aunt. The Ex's family is completely in my corner and helps me out wherever they can. I can count on my mom, even if she drives me insane half of the time. My friends are the bestest a girl could ask for. I will have a week vacation after Christmas and Y will spend most of that time with his grandparents (and trust me, I'll probably need to reload by then). I'm planning to ring in the third and final year of partner alimony with a bang and a huge bottle of champagne.
In March, the Ex will come back. And I'll be prepared. I'm not going for full custody - being a child of a broken marriage myself, things would even have to get worse for it to come to that. But logs are kept updated, witnesses are standing in the wings. This is the NL and stuff is not that cut and dry over here. But enough's enough. This co-parenting thing is not working anymore. The Best Kid Ever deserves much better, too.
Love you all. And yes, I know I should get it over with and go get some. Not that I will tell the interwebs when I do. I just might get overly chipper. Grins.
I ordered said bag under the influence of the siren call Chicago has become. After too many cigarettes on the curb of O'Hare, waiting for my transfer, after not going to Wrigley - which I shouldn't have missed, after not going to the DMB Caravan - which a phone call this week told me I should be glad I missed and after reading three interesting articles on the city, which mysteriously had found my desk in the last couple of weeks, I'm feeling this pull to make Chicago my next destination in the US. And bring enough clothes to survive this (so I've been told) unpredictable city. Hence duffel bag.
So I planned to fly out in October, the same weekend miss Sarah will be running her marathon there (a round of applause for her, please). See Sarah, see Chicago - successful trip guaranteed. But like with Wrigley, the Ex decided to put a stop to this much fun. You see, the Ex is down the drain. The Ex is unemployed. The Ex is drinking. The Ex is broke. The Ex refuses to sell his (MY) car, but will gladly take my money instead. The Ex basically still has a huge hold over my life. Isn't it wonderful?
So the Ex will be going to Scotland for six months, in rehab. Apparently, Scotch country is where you should find sobriety. But enough of my sarcasm. It's great that the Ex is doing this. That he will willingly flee all his responsibilities under the pretense of sacrifice, to the benefit of his son. Wait, I was quitting the sarcasm. Of course, he graciously gives me two weeks notice that I will be a full time working full time single mom for half a year. Quit. Sarcasm. Oh - and did I mention Y will have to transfer schools during this time? He'll be in special ed for a year so we (ME) and "them" can figure out what kind of education will be best for him (he's "too smart for special ed but too hypersensitive to cope in a class with 30+ kids" - just love that "they" always label him with the pretty negative adjective "too". End sarcasm Esther). In short, I can't leave Y right now. Not even for an extended weekend (sorry, Sarah). Security is key. Or so I think, anyway.
Okay, enough.
I've brought this on myself. I know. I should have seen the signs before I got pregnant. Not that I would have had an abortion after I got pregnant and he started drinking and showing (or me finally seeing) full blown borderline. And no, I can't even regret it, because it brought me Y. So yeah, it's all on me. But before you judge me - sometimes, no matter my own responsibility in this mess, it's kinda hard, you know? I want my kid to have a father. Even if his father is an expletive deleted. Even if this is mostly my fault. I'm so mature...
The thing with love is, you can rationalize it all you want - you still can hardly help who you fall in love with. I fall for mannish boys. Or boyish men. Whatever. Basically men who will stay young at heart. Or who are just plain young. Not that young, you perve. But certainly young-er. Peter Pans, is my latest theory (Y is obsessed with the Pan). I don't think it's very smart, but it's what I'm attracted to. I like silly, I like clean shaves or bristle out of not caring. I like boisterous, but not in a serious way. I like blue and green eyes and mischievous grins and laughter and just a pinch of arrogance. Zest. God Esther, go get some, will you?
There's one thing I've left behind me though. I don't want complicated anymore. I've done that too many times. Please, no more brooding and hardships and tough tough tough relationships. I think I finally feel I deserve more than that. I want to fly and keep my own at the same time. Which basically leaves me with longing for the completely unattainable. Or backing away from the not so unattainable. Because I'm scared shitless. SHIT-LESS. Conquer me, will you? Because I don't have the guts anymore to do it myself. I might tentatively feel like I deserve you, but it's such an unknown territory, I need someone to guide me through it. So yeah, high standards anyone?
Right.
Anyway.
Where was I?
Single mom, working full time, energy of a 90-year old (let's hear it for arthritis). Still, mother of the Best Kid Ever, a nice career, brave, persevering, nice sense of humor, great eyes (behind the glasses). I can't run on the outside anymore, but I still do in my head. I'm smart, I'm educated (to an extent), I have an enormous curiosity and I'm awesome on my good days.
I've got great stuff ahead of me the coming six months. Y and I will be going to Barcelona in November to visit his aunt. The Ex's family is completely in my corner and helps me out wherever they can. I can count on my mom, even if she drives me insane half of the time. My friends are the bestest a girl could ask for. I will have a week vacation after Christmas and Y will spend most of that time with his grandparents (and trust me, I'll probably need to reload by then). I'm planning to ring in the third and final year of partner alimony with a bang and a huge bottle of champagne.
In March, the Ex will come back. And I'll be prepared. I'm not going for full custody - being a child of a broken marriage myself, things would even have to get worse for it to come to that. But logs are kept updated, witnesses are standing in the wings. This is the NL and stuff is not that cut and dry over here. But enough's enough. This co-parenting thing is not working anymore. The Best Kid Ever deserves much better, too.
Love you all. And yes, I know I should get it over with and go get some. Not that I will tell the interwebs when I do. I just might get overly chipper. Grins.
Friday, July 1, 2011
Wish you were here: Ryan Adams - June 28, 2011
When An Accoustic Evening with Ryan Adams at the main hall of the Amsterdam Concertgebouw went on sale, I was lucky enough to get my hands on the best seats in the house: not front row, but eleven rows in. The acoustics in that part of the hall are outstanding. To say I was excited, is a gross understatement. Not ony would I finally get to see Ryan Adams live - he was here in 2008 but ironically, I was in the States at the time - but it would also be at one of the best classical music halls in Europe, if not the best. The fact that the building not only produces otherworldly sound but also breathes history and teeters on posh, is a nice bonus.
I've seen a bunch of classical concerts at the Concertgebouw (Thanks, Mom) but this is the first time I would get to experience something post-Elvis there. The hairs on my arm standing up will be pretty much a given I suspect, but how much will it alter the Adams as I know it; only through CD's and just a few live recordings?
The Concertgebouw interior, with it's baroque balconies, colossal organ, sharply dressed ushers and red pluche seats, simply demands the crowd to keep their cool. Which I'm very grateful for, since this will spare us from the death of any accoustic show: random requests shouted at inappropriate moments and most importantly the worst loser move you can make at any Amsterdam show and my personal pet peeve: cackle and yell out hysterically whenever there's even the slightest reference to drug use in a song. But to my delight, everybody keeps their yap shut during To Be Young.
The respectfully quiet crowd also enables Adams to lace a good part of his songs with a heartbreaking fragility.
Especially Oh My Sweet Carolina, My Winding Wheel and the piano New York New York make the crowd hold their collective breath. With Why Do They Leave and a very slow Blue Hotel, the intensity borders on painful. In that very good way, mind you. I might even have whimpered.
And the sound? The sound is amazing. No, it's mind blowing. No, it's baffling. No, it's phenomenal. No, it's... you get the point.
The only bad thing I can say about the acoustics is that in order to keep them as stellar as they are, air conditioning is hardly possible and with the 100 degree weather, my neighbor starts to reek. But other than that? It's perfection.
The sound is crystal clear and shoots straight through your eardrum and settles into your stomach to radiate throughout the rest of your body, without the hint of an echo left in your ear. Adams' voice is in very good condition and his deliberate change in timing on his instrument (guitar, harmonica and piano) leave you just uncomfortable enough to not feel like the evening flattens out under the mellowness of it all.
This being my only Ryan Adams show to date, I wasn't expecting the evening not only to bring great music, but also comedic entertainment. Mr. Adams accuses his guitar of sounding off due to it hanging out at the bar all night long (he tunes the thing end-less-ly throughout the show), dedicates random songs to his man Patrick Swayze in his Roadhouse up in the sky, changes his hairstyle to Ghostbusters' Terror Dog Zuul for Bartering lines and puts people in their place who dare to attempt to tape (parts of) the show in an eery "I see dead people" voice. My favorite 'Ryan Speak' is when he wonders what it would be like if Kiss played at this venue.
I'm sensing that the majority of the audience consists of, let's say, hardcore fans and as the evening progresses and the number of Heartbreaker songs wins out over his better known repertoire, they make themselves better heard. I could have done without the clapping three notes into each song (so you immediately recognize the song - you're so awesome!) and the laughter which gets more exaggerated with each anecdote. A shy Ryan Adams keeps everybody in check with a simple shake of his mostly downturned head when necessary, though.
Come Pick Me Up closes the set and segues into an immediate standing ovation, which I suspect has a lot to do with I See Monsters which he played two songs earlier - the only time during the evening people really lost the struggle to contain their excitement.
Adams takes his time getting back on stage for the encore, and tells us that due to the Concertgebouw curfew, he will only play two more songs. The encore still takes up well over 20 minutes, because "(...) I will play the two longest songs I have and I will play them very, very slow." Which is the only thing I could have done without this evening. In this case, I'd rather be gripped by the throat with a two minute song than lulled into a mind drift with 10 minutes of Strawberry Wine. In defense, it's not exactly my favorite song. Which is probably a faux-pas. My apologies.
However, the night as a whole keeps me floating. Adams' charisma and more importantly music, intensity and skill leave me happy and content. The Concertgebouw is a fierce contributor to the night's success. Accoustic shows in muffling 'pop' venues won't ever do again.
Setlist:
1. Oh My Sweet Carolina
2. Blue Hotel
3. Winding Wheel
4. Why Do They Leave
5. Everybody Knows
6. If I Am A Stranger
7. To Be Young
8. Sweet Lil Gal
9. Carolina Rain
10. The Rescue Blues
11. Firecracker
12. Let It Ride
13. PLease Do Not Let Me Go
14. Bartering Lines
15. New York New York
16. I See Monsters
17. Two
18. Come Pick Me Up
Encore
19. Stop
20. Strawberry Wine
I've seen a bunch of classical concerts at the Concertgebouw (Thanks, Mom) but this is the first time I would get to experience something post-Elvis there. The hairs on my arm standing up will be pretty much a given I suspect, but how much will it alter the Adams as I know it; only through CD's and just a few live recordings?
The Concertgebouw interior, with it's baroque balconies, colossal organ, sharply dressed ushers and red pluche seats, simply demands the crowd to keep their cool. Which I'm very grateful for, since this will spare us from the death of any accoustic show: random requests shouted at inappropriate moments and most importantly the worst loser move you can make at any Amsterdam show and my personal pet peeve: cackle and yell out hysterically whenever there's even the slightest reference to drug use in a song. But to my delight, everybody keeps their yap shut during To Be Young.
The respectfully quiet crowd also enables Adams to lace a good part of his songs with a heartbreaking fragility.
Especially Oh My Sweet Carolina, My Winding Wheel and the piano New York New York make the crowd hold their collective breath. With Why Do They Leave and a very slow Blue Hotel, the intensity borders on painful. In that very good way, mind you. I might even have whimpered.
And the sound? The sound is amazing. No, it's mind blowing. No, it's baffling. No, it's phenomenal. No, it's... you get the point.
The only bad thing I can say about the acoustics is that in order to keep them as stellar as they are, air conditioning is hardly possible and with the 100 degree weather, my neighbor starts to reek. But other than that? It's perfection.
The sound is crystal clear and shoots straight through your eardrum and settles into your stomach to radiate throughout the rest of your body, without the hint of an echo left in your ear. Adams' voice is in very good condition and his deliberate change in timing on his instrument (guitar, harmonica and piano) leave you just uncomfortable enough to not feel like the evening flattens out under the mellowness of it all.
This being my only Ryan Adams show to date, I wasn't expecting the evening not only to bring great music, but also comedic entertainment. Mr. Adams accuses his guitar of sounding off due to it hanging out at the bar all night long (he tunes the thing end-less-ly throughout the show), dedicates random songs to his man Patrick Swayze in his Roadhouse up in the sky, changes his hairstyle to Ghostbusters' Terror Dog Zuul for Bartering lines and puts people in their place who dare to attempt to tape (parts of) the show in an eery "I see dead people" voice. My favorite 'Ryan Speak' is when he wonders what it would be like if Kiss played at this venue.
I'm sensing that the majority of the audience consists of, let's say, hardcore fans and as the evening progresses and the number of Heartbreaker songs wins out over his better known repertoire, they make themselves better heard. I could have done without the clapping three notes into each song (so you immediately recognize the song - you're so awesome!) and the laughter which gets more exaggerated with each anecdote. A shy Ryan Adams keeps everybody in check with a simple shake of his mostly downturned head when necessary, though.
Come Pick Me Up closes the set and segues into an immediate standing ovation, which I suspect has a lot to do with I See Monsters which he played two songs earlier - the only time during the evening people really lost the struggle to contain their excitement.
Adams takes his time getting back on stage for the encore, and tells us that due to the Concertgebouw curfew, he will only play two more songs. The encore still takes up well over 20 minutes, because "(...) I will play the two longest songs I have and I will play them very, very slow." Which is the only thing I could have done without this evening. In this case, I'd rather be gripped by the throat with a two minute song than lulled into a mind drift with 10 minutes of Strawberry Wine. In defense, it's not exactly my favorite song. Which is probably a faux-pas. My apologies.
However, the night as a whole keeps me floating. Adams' charisma and more importantly music, intensity and skill leave me happy and content. The Concertgebouw is a fierce contributor to the night's success. Accoustic shows in muffling 'pop' venues won't ever do again.
Setlist:
1. Oh My Sweet Carolina
2. Blue Hotel
3. Winding Wheel
4. Why Do They Leave
5. Everybody Knows
6. If I Am A Stranger
7. To Be Young
8. Sweet Lil Gal
9. Carolina Rain
10. The Rescue Blues
11. Firecracker
12. Let It Ride
13. PLease Do Not Let Me Go
14. Bartering Lines
15. New York New York
16. I See Monsters
17. Two
18. Come Pick Me Up
Encore
19. Stop
20. Strawberry Wine
Saturday, May 14, 2011
First there was Franck
When I was fifteen, my dad took me with his wife and my little brother and sister to go on vacation to France. Which in itself, was pretty amazing - I'd never been on vacation with them. We spent two weeks in the south of France, on a small camping near Bordeaux, at the border of the river Gironde. The camping was run by a Dutch guy and over half the guests were from the Netherlands. Including two moms with their teenage daughters, who were a year younger than me; Lisa and Jane. As it goes, the three of us were inseperable from day one.
And then we met the local youth. It was a fairly large group of French 15 to 18 year olds, who came to the town's only pool at the camping site daily. Maybe being young and stuck in a small town that only came to live under the pressure of the summer heat had something to do with it, but all of them were crazy about the fifties. The girls were wearing pretty polka dot dresses (without the petticoats though, it was way too hot for that) and the boys sported Levi's 501-2 and James Dean hair.
To our delight, three boys were just a year older than we were and were - as we thought - absolutely dreamy. Richard, Guillaume and Franck. Like they were Ken dolls, the three dreamboats were immediately split up between us three girls. Not that they had any knowledge or say in this, we just decided who would get whom. Even though chances were no one would end up with anyone. But that is and was besides the point.
Richard was for Lisa. They were both short and Jane and I were both tall, so that was easy. Lisa asked me and Jane which of the guys we liked. I didn't dare to tell them. What if we both liked the same guy? So I let Jane go first. And she blatantly stated she thought they were both cute and didn't really care whom she'd get 'assigned'. And still, I didn't say anything. Because what if she wasn't telling the truth? What if she did like the guy I liked? So I just lied and told her I felt the same way - they were both cute and I couldn't decide. I was also convinced that the guy I had crushed on from the minute I laid eyes on him, would never pick me over Jane - but I kept that to myself as well.
Mind you, we didn't even know if they thought any of us were worth their time, yet.
Long story short, Jane ended up flipping a coin over it and Fate handed her Franck. As you are probably guessing, Franck was the guy I silently adored. But this was Fate's decision, so I guess I got stuck with Guillaume.
Two weeks of hunting ensued. If I went into the water, Franck would follow immediately. Would I refuse to join my new friends in the pool, he would end up picking me up and throw me in the water. Whenever I was reading a book under the trees, he would sometimes show up and lay beside me, humming tunes, occasionally staring at me. In the evenings the entire group would hang out on the indoor terrace of the camping's restaurant, and Franck would start asking me questions. What kind of music do you like? Why are your brother and sister so much younger than you are? How come you speak French so well? Are you planning on coming back next year? And in return he would tell me about music and took me outside to look at the stars. He was actually the first person to tell me how to spot the Big Dipper.
I kept reading my books, gossip with Jane and Lisa, taking pictures of everyone but him and try and act unbothered by Franck's attention because God forbid anyone would notice that I liked him. Surely he was only talking to me so often because my French was better than the others'. First of all, he couldn't possibly be into me, second, he was Jane's as decided by a coin toss and third, he couldn't possibly be into me. And then there was the fact that there was absolutely no way he was into me. I couldn't help but stare and feel like jello though, that day the locals and camping guests had a volleyball tournament which left Franck running around shirtless, fresh sweat forming on his very, very nice chest...
Two days before my vacation would end and I'd go back home, he was lying next to me under the trees. Me reading, him humming. At one point, he complimented me on my shirt. And then my eyes. And then he asked me to take a walk with him. And then Jane showed up, asking if I wanted to play ping pong with her. Needless to say, I didn't really want to play ping pong with her. But of course I did leave Franck and his question hanging and play f-ing ping pong with Jane. Who asked what Franck and I were talking about. And before I could stop myself, I told her he'd asked me to go for a walk. "Probably to inquire about you", I rushed to add. That sounds mean and deceitful, but this is actually what suddenly appeared to me to be the explanation for his request. Because he couldn't be possibly into me and the coin had told us he was Jane's. So, air tight logic - right?
My last night on the camping, Franck and a couple of his friends had to leave early. He stopped me on his way out and pulled me into a hug. Bear in mind that hugs are considered way more intimate on this side of the pond than a kiss goodbye on the cheeck - especially in France. He held on to my waist with one hand and pushed my hair back with the other. He asked if we could talk the next day - he had something to tell me. I told him I was leaving the next morning. He muttered "C'est dommage" under his breath and just stared. My heartbeat was thundering in my ears. Surely he wasn't going to kiss me. Surely we just and only had become friends during our time underneath the trees. I was pissed off at my racing pulse, afraid that he would notice. That's when his friends came around the corner, telling him they really should be going. I took the interuption to ease my way out of his embrace and just give him four kisses on the cheeck - the way we all had been doing the last two weeks, whenever someone was leaving.
My last morning there, I wrote a note to Guillaume, saying I liked him and I hoped to meet him again the next year. I left it with Jane to give to him. This way, if I had acted strange when Franck had hugged me, it would be clear that it wasn't because I liked him. Because God forbid...
Back home, I stared at a map of France for an entire year. I looked at the Big Dipper every night. And I cried my eyes out when at Christmas, my dad asked me what the name was of that guy in France, who was so obviously crazy about me. Because only then, I realized that I had been completely blind. Too worried about hurting Jane (even to the point of pushing her into liking Franck - twisted, I say). Too worried about him finding out I thought he was just drrrreamy. Because the rejection was inevitable and would be devastating. I cried because I was relieved my crush hadn't been unrequited. I cried because I missed a chance because I was considering Jane's non-existing feelings for Franck but moreso, I was apparently a complete chicken shit. And I cried because I wrote Guillaume that note, and Franck would now think I had been after his friend. Or just that I was completely crazy. I didn't know which one was worse.
I hope the above was a cute story.
The thing is that it's still me. And it's really not cute anymore. It's just f-ing annoying. I hurt someone recently and it's kind of too late to take it back. 'I'm just too blind' - is not much of and excuse anymore at 38. That doesn't mean I'm not sorry.
Sunday, April 3, 2011
Your silence (it's killing me)
Hey there - just popping in to say I'm still alive.
Life is far too busy for blogging. Instead I just postpone doing my taxes and jump on Facebook every now and again. Makes sense, right? Right.
Did you ever notice that unrequited crushes suck the worst? Yeah, me too.
Big time.
That is all.
Monday, January 31, 2011
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