Dressed for the occasion

Summer 1976, somewhere in Tunisia. I was dying for a beer but coca cola was the only thing available at the small roadside cafe where we stopped on our way to the Salt Lakes. Probably the last stop before we went into the desert. At a certain point we would have to continue by camel. I already dressed for the occasion. Fortunately the drink was served in it's original bottle. I wanted to wash my hands. I discovered what was probably the most filthy toilet in the eastern hemisphere. It made me skip lunch. I was one of the few that didn't go down with the trots next day. A few hours down the road, on the edge of the desert, we slept in the Sahara Hotel. A circle of bedouin tents inside a low wall with a gateway. In a small wooden cabin in the middle was a toilet, only one and French style but compared to the previous one more or less usable. Next to it a shower without water. It was around forty degrees Celsius that afternoon, but in the cooling evening the place was peaceful and quiet. It was a relieve to be away from the bustle of Sousse where it was impossible to navigate the souk without constantly being pulled into shops and having to face impossibly impudent shopkeepers insisting you buy or else. We had to stay another night to enable the sick to recover. The Salt Lakes were amazing. If it was only for the desert I would have revisited the country, but unorthodox ideas about hygienics and the mercantile spirit of the people kept me at the opposite shore of the Mediterranean.

Lost passions

Lupius and Stella in front of bookshop 't Ramschat in Dordrecht, a place where slightly damaged books are sold cheaply. One of the things the three of us shared was a passion for books and a passion for reading. Stella and I also shared a passion for poetry. The photo must have been taken shortly before Lupius would retire from his job in Utrecht to start writing the book he'd been talking about for years. Spring 2007, I guess. Stella had already written most of the poems that would be published in her book Eindeloze nachten/ατελείωτες νύχτες (Unending nights) that was published by Liverse in Dutch and by University Studio Press in Greek in 2008, shortly after she died. Lupius died early 2010 without finishing his book. 

Costa d' Oro

Saturday, September 8, 2007. The three of us went for a drink at Visser's, as we usually do on Saturdays. My good friend Thijs, my cousin Brian, over from England for a short holiday, and me. At around half past seven Stella came round to pick us up for a meal at Costa d' Oro the Italian restaurant in Dordrecht. The photo is one of the many taken over the years from the very first days of the restaurant. During the seventies and well into the eighties the founder, Giovanni Balistreri, was running the business. He died much too young. His portrait is on the wall, a man in his forties though at the time we used to call him 'good old Balistreri.' We were all secretly in love with his eldest daughter Rosa, who runs the business now. Poet Jan Eijkelboom was a regular with his wife and children. Poet Peter M. v.d. Linden worked as a chef for a while. He published a poem about it in the liber amicorum presented to Jan Eijkelboom on his eightieth birthday. The photo was taken at the last evening ever Stella was in Costa d' Oro. Two weeks later the cancer of which she would die on Boxing Day that year manifested itself.

Kate Hunt

I'm having my ouzaki at an outdoor cafe on Aristotle Street. It's early evening and Thessaloniki is brimming over with life. I watch a continuous parade of people, most of them young men and girls, going about their business. I enjoy watching people going by and imagining their lives. A long time ago, in 1978, I published a short story called Centre Ville. Centre Ville is the pub in the centre of Dordrecht above which my maternal grandfather was born. It's about watching people going by and imagining their lives, it's about enjoying the beauty of young and graceful girls, it's about the melancholy that touches you when you see elderly people plodding on. It's about what you can't imagine to happen to you when you are gradually ageing yourself, though you will never admit you're anything older than twenty three. I was twenty seven when I wrote that story, beginning to feel old. At thirty I thought life was more or less over, until just before turning thirty six I met Stella which meant the beginning of the best part of my life. People in their sixties were still unimaginably old then, but years later, when Stella died of cancer at sixty one, I found that much and much too young. Time puts things in perspective. The younger you are, the heavier you feel the pressure of time.

I think of Kate Hunt, a girl in Florida that faces prison and who is in danger of having her whole life ruined for the crime of falling in love with another girl. A girl three years younger. Kate eighteen, her love fifteen. What on God's earth is wrong with two teens falling in love with each other, never mind whether they are of the same or different sex? What on God's earth can be wrong with an eighteen year old loving a fifteen year old and vice versa. It's all consensual I read about the case, but the parents of the fifteen year old have filed charges for sexual abuse and the raving idiots that run the high school Kate visited have even expelled her just before the final exams. It must be a frightful experience to fall in love in Florida and particularly when your love has such bigoted and vindictive parents. People ready for a good witch burning. The friend from whom I learned about Kate Hunt wrote on Facebook that the arrest was outrageous and indeed it is. Which law enforcement officer in his or her right mind could have Kate arrested for just following her heart? It is not as if a thirty year old starts an affair with a twelve year old, is it? The life of a young girl is purposely being destroyed because some parents hate gays. That is a most serious crime.

I think of the days in which I wrote Centre Ville. I was in a happy relationship with a girl of seventeen at the time. The first girl I had a serious relationship with was fifteen while I had just turned nineteen. Those were happy summer days on the Wirral, but we weren't gay and that was England, not the USA, home of that Lord who punishes down to the seventh generation, where carrying a gun on the streets is more acceptable than carrying a six-pack of beer, the blessed country that spreads more pornography on the internet than any other. I do hope they come to their senses in Florida. No more witch burnings!

Gulls

I'm sitting at an outdoor cafe overlooking the platia (the central square) of Skyros-town. The square is bathing in sunshine, there's a mild breeze and the temperatures have not risen to their summer extremes yet. Good weather for walking. The square is about empty but the main street is brimming over with life. There are still many Athenians who stayed on for a little while after Greek Easter. Who prefer the tranquility of an island not overrun my mass tourism to the frenzy of the metropolis. Skyros is close to Athens or far off, depending on the way you travel. By plane it's half an hour, not counting the time you have to wait at the airport. If you travel by boat you need to go down by car or bus to Kimi on Evia. The boat trip to Linaria takes approximately one hour and a half. I love sailing, I dislike driving and bussing. One of these days I may walk to Linaria, about seventy five minutes from my hotel, to find out if I can sail to Kimi and return straight away. Just to taste the salt of the Aegean Sea.

A few days ago I tasted some salt as well. On the road to Aspous, where I am staying, which runs parallel to the sea. A strong wind sent waves pounding the rocks. It made me think of that summer day in 1980 when I stood at the end of the Dingle Peninsula on the west coast of Ireland with my love of those days. The waves had flung a dolphin on the rocks. It must have been dead for days as it was heavily gnawed at. By sea-gulls, I believe. It's amazing to see gulls following the ship you're sailing in. When I hear gulls above the town, with their sad cries, I get romantic memories of Conwy in Wales where I stayed with other loves. First with a red haired elve from Cheshire and later with the dark haired love of my life, from the land of the nymphs. On Skyros lived more nymphs than anywhere else, but that's chance. Sometimes gulls cause me to become somewhat melancholic, but they happen to be cruel beasts, eager to pick out the eyes of people drowning, I have been told.

On the opposite side of the square is the town hall. The flags in front of it, the Greek and that of the European Union, make a contrast with the white-washed walls. It's a neo-classical building of moderate size. Built at the end of the nineteenth or the beginning of the twentieth century I guess. This morning Nikos gave me a lift to town. He thinks of becoming a candidate in next year's elections for mayor. I hope he succeeds. In that case he gets the key and will be able to show me around in the centre of local power. Whether it's enviable to be placed at the head of a small community in which you often find the usual human qualities of hatred, malice and jealousy, behind a facade of cordiality and hospitality, is another matter.

©C.A. Klok

Travelling England (end)

Monday, July 26, 2010:

Eastbourne

Stella's birthday. A day of farewells. Just said goodbye to the other participants at the conference. I wonder whom I will see back one day and whom never. I'm glad I went this year, as I met so many different but interesting people. The programme was good, I learned quite a bit and enjoyed the outings as they took place in a part of England I very seldom visit. I didn't write about the trip to Brighton where I was impressed by the Royal Pavilion and the scarcely dressed female students pattering around it. It was exceptionally sunny that afternoon and it had an atmosphere of eastern frivolity, though we knew better. The experience needs to sink in a bit, but at least I already wrote a poem on my visit to Chester. Glad too to have seen cousin Brian and to have had a taste of England again after such a long time. Last night a man from Manchester who migrated to Canada said: 'You're from Liverpool I guess.' I remember Wendy enjoying me talking Liverpudlian and playing angry when I spoke the English we learned at school in Holland.

Harwich:

Despite staying in London for most of the day I'm almost two hours early. They won't let us embark before the official time which is half past eight. From Eastbourne to London Victoria I travelled together with the lady from California who treated me to some of the stories she told us once or twice before. I didn't mind as it killed time and I do tend to repeat my own stories myself once in a while. Annoyingly when that happens one of my friends who does the same but doesn't realize it, is in the habit waving two or three fingers in front of my face, thinking he's awfully funny. For old time's sake I usually ignore him and never raise any of my fingers when he repeats his stories, though some of the other friends present, usually at Visser's in Dordrecht, give me a knowing smile. I kept my fingers down while the old lady chattered on.

At Victoria's we took leave after which I went to Liverpool Street station by taxi to drop off my luggage. I had a drink at the station and then set off for Tower Hill. It was too busy at the Tower to enter, so I just walked around for a while and took photographs. I sat down at Liberty Bounds on Trinity Square for a cheese bun and a few pints of Guinness, after which it was already half past three. I took the quarter to four train to Harwich, thinking I could have a drink at the port if they wouldn't let us embark straight away, but the Stena-line cafeteria is locked and I am too lazy and a little too tired to go into the town. Close by a Dutchman in shorts is continually grinning at the screen of his laptop which makes the poor man decidedly look like an imbecile. The television is on: in South London two teenagers beat a granddad to death. Just for the fun of it they told the police. There's also a family tragedy in Hampshire, where a supposedly quiet and friendly family man killed his wife and two daughters with a knife after which he hanged himself. It will be cloudy and rain is expected overnight. I want to get on that ship, have a shower and then go for a few glasses of red wine.

Tuesday, July 27, 2010:

Stena Hollandica

I've got a very luxurious cabin again, right under the bridge, looking forward to the bow of the ship. We're drawing close to Hoek van Holland. On starboard the first signs of the Maasvlakte: wisps of smoke and a long row of tiny looking windmills that spoil the view. The nice cabin and the friendly staff at dinner make up for the delay of half an hour when embarking. I therefore had a late dinner, around eleven, but plentiful and sprinkled with good wine. No need for breakfast. The crossing was very calm, water like oil as the Greeks say. The weather looks fine, at least it's dry. Now I only have to brave the Dutch railways to get home by ten this morning.

Travelling England (9)

Saturday, July 24, 2010:

Eastbourne

After dinner last night we went to see a 19th century magic lantern show at the Albany Hotel (all the Lion-hotels used for the conference are owned by the same Arab sheikh, I've been told). Fun to see and to realize that no one in it's days of origin could have imagined we would be living in a world with movies, television and the internet. Maybe Dickens himself did see some of the pictures. The man working the lantern was assisted by an incredibly sexy girl of about eighteen, maybe his granddaughter, wearing a miniskirt and a shirt with a very low neckline, which quite distracted me and some of the other gentlemen. At dinner I happened to sit next to another sexy lady, a young assistant professor of English at the University of Kraków in Poland. Friendly, good looking, excellent English, quite my type, but married. We ended the evening in a small company (Pieter, Ann and one or two others) with a beer on the Edwardian pier right in front of my hotel, being reminded this is England because just before eleven it was 'last orders, please!'

With one or two exceptions the staff in all the Lion-hotels is foreign, most of them from Eastern Europe I believe, judging from the accents. Almost all of them good looking and very friendly girls, but I wonder if they make the same money as English workers and if they are members of any British trade union. Capitalism is more and more showing it's nasty side again, the side Dickens already fulminated against.

Sunday, July 25, 2010:

Eastbourne

Had Stella lived she would greatly have enjoyed last night's banquet. The beautiful dresses, some straight from the days of Dickens, the Irish music, very well played by Udita Everett and Magdalena Reising, the well worded 'Immortal Memory' by professor Michael Slater. It was like going back to the 19th century. 'The 19th century is my favorite era', Stella would say from time to time, 'I would like to live in those days.' I usually answered that it would be all very well providing you were healthy and rich. I'm more in favour of the 18th or the early 19th century, as I can't stand the hypocritical moralism of the Victorian Age very well.

Yesterday morning we did business at the General Meeting. I was moved by hearing Stella's name included in the list of deceased members who were commemorated. It almost brought tears to my eyes. I had quite forgotten Pieter de Groot told me last year he had given notice to headquarters of her passing away

This morning we had three excellent lectures again. One on the illnesses in the books of Dickens, connected with the unspeakable filthiness of London in the first half of the 19th century, the second on the managers who organized Dickens's reading tours and the third on what happened to the girls who lived in Urania Cottage. Afterwards a generous lunch. I only took some vegetarian lasagna and a bowl of fruit otherwise I would hardly be eating at dinner. No wonder there are so many very fat people in Britain.

After lunch I had three quarter's of an hour before the coach ride to Beachy Head. I smoked a pipe on the porch of the Chatsworth and watched the people strolling by. Not all of them old age pensioners. The beach does attract a number of young people as well, taking a day trip like we used to do going to Southport, Llandudno or New Brighton in uncle Harold's car or, in the case of Llandudno sometimes by boat from Liverpool. The ride to Beachy Head was on an open top double decker, which was most uncomfortable because of the cold wind. It was chilly too because of the sea mist on the cliffs. I meant to walk back to Eastbourne but in the end I thought it was too cold to enjoy it. On the ride back I took one of the few seats inside, but there was a draft which made it almost as unpleasant as on top. Fortunately it was only a short ride. Back in town I had a stroll with Yasuko along the water front after which she went to evensong. I don't think she's a christian, though I'm not sure, but I imagine she went for the experience. I went to my room to pick up a book and do some reading in the bar of the Chatsworth, waiting for dinner. I had no wish to enter a church and particularly not on the day before Stella's birthday. I'm growing allergic to hallelujah and praise the Lord.