Amsterdam, Netherlands~2013

Gravity is Not Your Friend
 Amsterdam, Netherlands 2013

I woke to the sound of my own snoring being echoed back to me. Seems I passed right the fuck out in the middle of Vondelpark after a light lunch, some wine and eh-hum some Northern California competition. Behind us, my echo party laughed as I tried to sit up, fast as a sloth struggling to save face. Alisa’s smile immediately calmed me. We had walked to the park to “relax” and enjoy the sunshine. Sunshine in Amsterdam was to be enjoyed, two years later we understood just how rare it was. But too much sun or whatever that nice man with John Lennon glasses sold me was not.

Prepaid tram tickets in hand, we slowly drifted across the park, photo bombing Chinese wedding parties, unknowingly demanding their patience until we strolled out of frame. Choosing the hilly grass shortcut seemed only reasonable after concluding everyone on a bicycle was out to kill me. Or maybe just make me mess my pants. Either way the “Move Idiot”  bells always rang too late for any chance of a graceful reaction. Far safer to walk too uncomfortably close to picnicking lovers embracing each other than risk another encounter with the flying Dutchmen -safety in numbers and all. Given that there are more bicycles then people in Amsterdam, this avoidance tactic proved futile, but for a short time we were safe.

Feeling somewhat proud of the gauntlet of a road we just crossed, Alisa and I walked up the steps inside the tram headed for Centraal Station which then was a short walk to our hotel. Mr. Jelly Legs and Mrs. Cushy Feet had to face the fact there were no open seats, except the floor, which was briefly considered. Having experienced benign vertigo years prior left me with the inability not to look like a surfer on every train, bus or tram in which I had to stand. It works but is very tiring. The air was hot, still and abundant in post lunch digestion. Mrs. Cushy Feet gave me the LOOK! The unmistakable look of fear. The same look she gave me years prior on our hotel balcony in Surfside, Texas. The look that told me she forgot about gravity and was going to inspect the floor with her forehead. I went into husband mode, searching frantically for anyone under seven feet tall I could intimidate out of their seat. She was out of luck. My eyes yelled “Not Here!” Hers sung a repetitive Bruce Springsteen song. Fanning herself with her insufficient hand-fan only brought more post lunch aroma emitting from our giant foreign friends. A squat! Perfect answer. Not quite a sit-down but it’ll have to do. I’m so proud of Mrs. Cushy Feet. Two minutes later we arrive at Centraal Station. We had made it! What started out as a dangerous journey across the park, through a gauntlet and on the faint tram was nearly over. Enjoying our position at the front of the tram, I exited down the steps and breathed in air which hanging flowers had just kissed. I turned to share this moment with Cushy.

At first I thought it was an extended blink, the kind you do when there is something in your eye. But her eyes never opened. She took one step off the top step and was gone. Like Muhammad Ali was dancing above her....GONE.... DANG! 

She fell into my inadequate safety net and we both tumbled to the concrete below. Mr. Jelly Legs was also known as Mr. Broken Back. I got up and unsuccessfully tried to lift 4,000 lbs of dead weight off the tracks of a adjacent tram which surely was on its’ way. A mountain of a man, assisted. me at her torso and he at her feet. I almost protested but decided against it. One Jelly at a time, I side-stepped with my new friend, dancing all the way to the curb.

Some nice people became flying Dutchmen deflectors providing shelter from any oncoming threats. I collapsed on the sidewalk, safe from the trams, safe from the bikes and safe from the – wait, who are you calling? A concerned citizen graciously was reaching out to Amsterdam’s finest for medical assistance via their cell phone. Medical assistance meant lights and sirens and that meant police. Police meant, well I’m not sure, but neither of us were in a position where we wanted to find out. I successfully prevented an elderly gentleman from dowsing my wife with what appeared to be warm water containing floating remains of a sandwich. It wasn’t until a Fanta was offered by one of God’s own angels that Alisa finally woke up. 

She murmured questions about locations and events. I slowly helped her up and assisted with the consumption of that lifesaving orange elixir. In between public advisements of, “She does this all the time” and “She’ll be fine, she just needs some air” I whispered, “We have to go, the cops are coming!”  I propped up a sleepy Mrs. Cushy Feet and began walking away from the crowd. As we walked, she rested less and less on her wobbly crutch of a husband. We were able to put about 100 yards between us and the crash site before lights and sirens were calling our name. Across the canal, we watched as the police and medical personnel were being relieved of boring paperwork caused by two American tourists.  Alisa made it out with only a scratched elbow and skinned knees, the blackness in her memory left her pride intact. We really needed to stop all this passing out business, or at least find safer landing sites.