I’m not sure how to take stock of my ‘Crossing Border experience’.
Do we have to take stock of everything we experience?
It was surprising, it was funny, it was nice. It was cold outside. My hotel room looked out onto a street with a tram line in the middle. There was an Englishman, an Argentinean woman and a Dutchman, and lots of other people. A theatre halfway between rococo and modern. Underground rock bands.
In the daytime I wandered through the streets and watched MTV. One day I went into a shopping centre. I bought a hat and a t-shirt. I also bought a cool jumper. Grey, very soft, with a violet and blue beach on it. Since I’ve been back I’ve worn nothing else…This information is crucial for the conclusion of my epilogue.
I went into a book shop. It struck me that writers in the Netherlands often appear in a photo on the cover of their book. I found that funny. I found that my face was on the Dutch edition of my book. That made me laugh too. On the advice of a mother standing next to me in the queue, I drank my first Fristi. It wasn’t great, but I told her I liked it.
In the evening I gave readings in French, to people who couldn’t understand. I did that twice. It felt quite awkward. The second time I was supposed to be subtitled, but for some reason that didn’t happen. I drank beer from a plastic cup. I was interviewed in English.
I said goodbye to everyone. There was mist, mist and yet more mist.
I’m not sure what else to say. So I’ll stop here. Unlucky for those waiting for the end of the cool grey jumper story.