March 7, 2016
Began the day at the Rijks, which Sam had not seen. We got the guided electronic tour and went from painting to painting until we could have taken an exam. Brunched long in the museum café, then hauled ourselves to the Heineken Brewery for an amusing and sodden tour, where we met a lovely couple from County Wicklow, the woman of which was on her way to Dubai to referee women’s football. Nap, and the night on the town. Sam had gotten us another space cake, which we devoured in the Bull Dog café. Loved the Bull Dog, rough and sweet. From there to a jazz bar, which I did not hate, and from which a couple was tossed for we wondered what reason. The combo looked like something out of Hogarth. We were both out of our minds, but made it back to the Momo bar and, for me anyway, home. My fears of keeping up with a 19 year old are allayed either by my stamina or his graciousness.
I remarked that the inflammation in my shoulders, which has plagued me for several years now, is gone, and I can move the joints with almost pristine freedom. I was trying to credit his good influence, but Sam said, “One word: marijuana.” If this is the case, then it is a miracle drug, and I see certain minor changes in my life as it goes forward.
Sam is the best of companions.
The city is ornamented by, surprisingly, parrots.