18 march 18:27
the black and white airplanes were unsettling. Very unaesthetic. US airways reminds me of Blackwater’s image, only more federal government, stinking of homogenized protocols. At least the F terminal had fresh air. Ahsley’s secret treasure chest made of green fabric, once unpacked revealed a trove of poetry circulating the beat generation. Snodgrass, Karouac, Bukowski, even bob Dylan represented. Her favorite Robert Creely, whom I have never heard of, is now on the list of future reads. I read some of her poems in typewriter font from her dented powerbook, and it rested easy on my eyes, and very chewy. Excellent work. I had no idea as I volunteered to haul her green cloth satchel full of treasures that it would be this much fun to just have someone to hang out with during the tedious layover times between flights. My eyes widened as she pulled more and more books out of the bag, and the passion she has for poetry spilled from her mouth. Boredom easily alleviated by lively and intelligent companionship. We traded a bird’s nest of pu er tea for a pair of sunglasses, so that I could fit in better on Ibiza, and she could have a good hot cup of basement dirt. If you know teas, then you know the realm of aged oolongs, and understand.
Now its 18:30 and I must head to the complete other end of the airport, and seek my place in the boredom of waiting, lulled by the disparate voice of the anonymity of the loudspeaker’s requests.
19 march 10:06 AM
Aside from the fresh breeze of the Netherlands air, the first thing that hits me is the cologne. I step from the somewhat quiet, and empty customs no declarations area, and through an opaque spray painted sliding door, and into a sea fo well dress people who smell really good. I take just a few steps and the scents swirl around, a melange of good grooming expressed by essences. Dutch is a Nordic based language, so I am pretty much at a loss as to how to figure it out, I can’t really paste mental post its to the words like I can with the romance languages, so the train station and getting out of the airport is not that difficult, as long as I follow my nose.
Wet snow was hitting the window as I glided into the central station. Omigod, the number of bicycles! Seems like europe has the whole ‘bike to train to work ‘ thing figured out. Lots of apartments everywhere, and they are pretty well designed. So is the graffiti on the walls by the light rail. Be mindful your luggage isn’t too heavy or cumbersome if you plan to ride the light rail. The aisles are narrow, and there are always steps up and down; whether it be on to the actual train or up down into first or second class, as it were.
rue de Main
20 March 11:38am
Two for two. They lost my luggage, again. Just like last year. I approached the belt to seek my luggage, and just as I did, so did he. This old man, must’ve been an Ibithanke(local of the island) zipped right in front of me, to wait almost on top of the belt. He seemed rather satisfied with himself and pretty much stood there with a gloating energy of a child who just won in dodgeball. His wife brought about the pushcart, too far away, and he eased himself over towards her, as though he just drifted there, still somehow victorious over this young man who he had beaten to the belt. A pushy and scraggly German and his magazine model girlfriend was freaking out and rushed his way around all the carousels(there are only three) looking for his baggage. After a fairly unsuccessful conversation with an Italian worker, the mild mannered Spanish fellow understood that I understood that there was nothing to do but fill out the forms. And wait. No one else had this notion at all. We both smile quietly and looked at the screen. My luggage was still in Barcelona, apparently it wanted some tappas, and had neglected to get on the plane.
Jagruti was behind the barrier as I went out to meet her. a quick kiss through the barrier, then back into the baggage claim to fill out the forms and point to my luggage on the ‘have you seen me?’ lost luggage chart.
I didn’t have an address or a phone number for pick up. I slid down the well waxed Ibiza terminal floor, to Mal. It was a moment like when lovers meet. Nothing ned be said, we just embraced, and held each other as thought it had been lifetimes. Just a year, but that was entirely too long. He is my power and I am his guide. Instantly, both of us were at peace. I was back on the island.
Dinner at Hostel Central, Marcus’s place, pork medallions, and a flirting waitress. A decaf coffee and two Belvenie’s later, we toddered off to the hostel at the end of the main street. My room was a monk’s cell. And also the last one available in the hostel. Dark carved wood end table and luggage rack, burgundy bedspread on a single bed. Window out to a small chimney like courtyard. The view was like a abstract painting form the late 70’s; shapes and lines from the walls and sparse pipes that line the courtyard, seeking their destination somewhere out of view. Anything that didn’t move and I didn’t have to sit in along with several thousand other people’s static was fine by me. If it were a board, or as Mal said, ‘A trash can would do you fine right about now.’ as long as I could sleep.
I was awoken for no apparent reason somewhere around 3-4am, got up for a moment, wandered about my 6-8ft room, or changed something about a plug, then back to bed. So much for an alarm. I wokeon my own accord round 11am. Splashed water on my face. Donned my clothes from the past three days, and downstairs for no internet, esspresso, and peach jam on a toasted roll. Oh my god, the butcher just walked into the hostel. CLASSIC! With two bags of meat and a flat of eggs.
I am back on ibiza. I have returned to Fenecia.