Two weeks before Christmas and here I am in Amsterdam with a young man named Liam, crashing in a room above a coffee shop called Fortuna. I must have lost five pounds. I don’t sleep, I don’t eat.
Randy has finally written me an e-mail. He wants to know where I am. I told him he could read all about it when it comes out in paperback. I’m not answering any questions. Let him explain to the family where I am and why I’m gone.
I could love this city if it wasn’t for the bitter cold coming in of the IJ bay. Or the lake. Whatever it is. I am exhausted-- jetlagged, I think--but still? After a week? In spite of that my senses are sharp, I am processing every detail of my surroundings: the drip, drip, drip of a faucet I can’t see. Shouts that I hear from the street below. The red and green paisley print scarf hanging in front of a book case. One flame dancing in an unseen draft. A spicy scent with a hint of cigarettes and orange that can only be coming from the young man that just sat down next to me.