Two-Beer Enlightenment

I’ve been sober for a while.

            The thought struck me whilst I stared at the shelf of wines. It wasn’t intentional; my feet had subconsciously led me there during the usual bought of evening errands. But it was true; I hadn’t smoked or drunken anything since my return to the Netherlands.  In the end, leaving is difficult, no matter how many times you do it. Coming back with a cold, I’d passed on free airline alcohol as well as the welcome-home glass of wine. Two weeks passed without my acknowledging my sober lifestyle.

            I walked on, leaving the bottles behind.

           

            The next morning I woke to the sound of heavy rain on my windows. Not lazy autumn rain; unseasonably dense. The type of rain that hopes to exert the sort of power that makes you stay in bed. I gave in, a bit. I decided to not run at 5:30am, like I had planned. Besides, I’m sure I would need the energy. Today there’s supposed to be a class trip, travelling from Amsterdam to Ghent. Although the cities rested in entirely different countries, it was only about a three hour bus trip. Shorter than the trip from Bend to Portland. All in a day’s work, nonetheless.

            I rolled out of bed an hour later. Cold water, tangled hair, Birkenstocks. The morning continued in slow motion blur of rain and coffee and a trivial breakfast.  Bikes, trains, walk. It wasn’t until two cups of dark coffee and the promise of a third that I became aware of the world outside my haze of sleepiness.  My school is one of the few places in Amsterdam that serves drip coffee. It’s very dark and left to sit too long, but artists tend to binge and so I binge just as I should. As my classmates arrived and we sauntered towards the bus with the particular pace known only to artists, I was aware of how aggressively fresh the air smelt—exactly how autumn should. Wet, with the threat of another downpour and slightly moldy from leaves layered between storms.

           

            Plus the cloud of tobacco which acts like a holy shroud that follows packs of Rietveld students wherever they wander. If I ever got lost, I could probably follow whichever smokestack was burning nearest.

           

            “You have papers?”

            “Got a light?”

            “Can I have a cigarette?”

            I’m sure it would only take a week for them to catch on that I’m never any help in that department.

            The day passed quickly, and more smoothly than I expected. I’m always nervous to start a journey like this: on a bus full of strangers who all share a common identity as artists. Artists are always a weird group: overly-confident but at the same time overtly self-conscious. It’s hard being an individual prized for being individualistic within a crowd of extremely individual individuals.

            My decision to go the TXT department was calculated. I knew it was a group of mostly hard-working women. It’s known for being a strong yet soft-spoken department among the colorful variety of artists who make up the Rietveld Academie. A bit introverted, perfectly situated next to the library. Not afraid to wear brown.

           

            Travel was easy.

            As we stacked ourselves back into the bus for the return journey in the evening, I dove into a grocery store and bought three Belgian beers. Making it just in time to greet the question, “but where’s Jessica?” with a shout, I collapsed into my seat.

            My seat-mate was a Dutch girl who’d recently returned from an Australian expedition. I opened a beer and we began to pass it back and forth. The magic fell fast and the miles spun by unnoticed and before I knew it I was being swept along by this girl’s most recent saga—dripping with love, mystic, adventure,; everything that should be expected from adventurous 20-somethings hailing from the western side of the planet.

            One of my classmates lounged in the last seat of the bus. Her seven-month-old baby cooed and cawed and intervened just enough for interval comedic relief.  The bus had the hush of a library- a sort of thick silence usually layered with books. I could almost smell that almondy-vanilla of those dry, yellowed pages.  

           

            Why do libraries even exist anymore?

            “… but I don’t want to steal the conversation,” the Dutch girl looked at me, tucking our second split beer in the seat pocket. The momentum of her story had tapered off.

           

            I passed on picking it up, I like how she left it. It was rich as chocolate cake-- layered and maybe too much for my grandmother. She hated chocolate anyway.

In the afterglow she shared a poem. I’m not at the liberty (or memory) to be able to share it with you, but it was just as beautiful and sweeping as her story. Adam and Eve and apples and such. The buzz I felt, deep in my stomach, wasn’t the sort you get from one too many beers. Two halves don't equal a whole.