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May 4th to 6th, 2000 The weather's been brilliant for the past few days. Sunny and close to 30 C. The 4th is Dutch Remembrance Day (WW2). So, habitually, I attended the ceremony at the resistance monument on the Dreef (a large allee right next to the center of town). It was kinda special this year, as it is every five years. They call them lustrum years, because, after giving everybody the fifth of may (Liberation Day) off for like two decades, they decided it'd been enough and changed it to once every five years. Because of that, there were Canadian veterans present (the Canadians were the ones to liberate Holland). This I found to be a gripping experience, especially when at the end of the two minutes silence they hoisted the Dutch flag and we all sang the national hymn. It's heavy to know you can only sing it in freedom because of the people standing tall in front of you, at attention out of respect for you and your people. But there was also a dissonant note. We have this guy, Nico, running around Haarlem every day, in his late fifties, dressed in a black leather onepiece suit, cursing every passerby. Of course people think he's just crazy. But I once had to interview the guy for a little book I wrote, called 'Haarlemmers'. It contained photographs of what an old schoolfriend of mine (Fjodor Buis), turned professional photographer, thought were colourful citizens. He asked me to write an interview with every person next to his or her photo. I turned them all into monologues, leaving my questions out. I was very proud of the book, it sold close to 2000 copies. Well anyway, the remembrance ceremony in Haarlem always starts with a church service at which the mayor speaks. I'm never there, because it's too early to get there from work. After that, the mayor and attendees follow a phalanx of two military police and twenty or thirty boyscouts, carrying wreaths, three drummers in front of them doing a slow rhythm. This year, Nico paraded in front of the phalanx, in his black leather suit. Russian-style, legs raised high. He stood next to the flame by the monument in silence and saluted the Canadian vets throughout the ceremony. At the end of it, everyone walks a slow circle that passes by the monument on the return leg. People lay flowers and wreaths and I always just kneel in front of the statue (it's of a resistance fighter, standing at calm attention just before being executed, as many of them were on that particular spot), and look up to thank it before moving on. But at the start of my circle there were two ladies and two gents in their late fifties, openly complaining about Nico. 'Can't they remove the crazy in the leather suit? It's an affront!'. It made me very angry. By the time I finished my walk by the statue I didn't discern them anymore but would have chastised them otherwise. After all, Nico is a triple decorated resistance fighter and war veteran. And the fact that he stood by that flame in silence when he normally runs through the main street cursing shoulda told them something. Moreover, we're all there to celebrate the fact that thanks to people like him we can live in a multicultural, tolerant society where people like him can be crazy at will. In fact, it is my opinion that even if a crazy Scotsman decided to blow the pipes throughout the ceremony, we should all tolerate it. Only then would we be tolerant, don't you think? Well anyway. After that me and my brother went to our regular bar. So, bed after that. On friday we all had the day off because it was Liberation day. Which always features a large, multiple thousand audience popfestival in our municipal forest glade, in front of Louis Napoleon's palace. I usually attend it. This year though, I didn't much care for the bands that played. And so, when on reaching the entrance to the festival (which, by the way, is right by that same monument) I ran into a very old (secondary school)friend, Paul Vos, who was just leaving and wanted to go drink and talk with me, I concurred and we spent two hours in his windowsill in the sun, drinking heavy Belgian beer and looking at the girls passing below in little boats on the canal. Pleasant. After that I went home to entertain my parents. And then I slept some more, because I'd been subject to a cold that was getting worse. Mucho sneezing and stuff. I woke to the humongous fireworks that end the festival, and had a splendid view of them from my window, before drifting off to sleep again. On saturday my old colleagues from Lelystad arrived to enjoy a splendid barbecue on my roof (splendid view of both Amsterdam, Haarlem and the dunes from it), in a blistering sun and a hot wind to boot. Barbecue evolved into a pleasant, rocking party when... ...all of a sudden, I died. Well, it felt that way. The cold had gotten worse and I'd been heavily blowing my nose the whole day. Around 12 am, a few bloodvessels burst and I had the worst nosebleed I've had in years. Because of the booze inside me, my blood was very thin and it just wouldn't congeal. It looked like a VERY cheap horrormovie, and I actually got really scared. You'd think I'd badly overdone it on coke, but I haven't used that but once, years ago, and never done other nosedrugs. I lost at least three liters of blood, and my clothes and the kitchen sink were dripping with it. I bent down, clutching the bridge of my nose and pouring cold water down on it, but had to let go every twenty seconds because the pressure of the gathering blood behind my eyes made me scared the veins would pop there too. Each time I did, a fountain of blood spouted down, and I kept swallowing gulps of my own blood. Not a pretty picture. But eventually the method worked. I spent the rest of the party sitting dazed and trying to carefully converse with them all. They were great to me, but it did ruin my evening. At three am the last one left and I went to bed again. Now, the nose feels okay (but the cold is still there, so I have to be careful to not put pressure on it sneezing and stuff), but the throat feels inflammated by zillions of virus particles damn. I'll live mind you. Previous episodes:
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