Encounters in Amsterdam - Tall Girl

The city of Amsterdam once had a milk processing plant in its center, just as New York had its meat district. Right next to the tourist trap that is Leidseplein, a square of outdoor cafes, and a stone's throw from Paradiso, the rock palace, this old milk factory sat in an unassuming little street with an almost medieval moat in front of its brick facade. A bridge, not the kind that can be drawn, led to its double front doors.

This building achieved notoriety as the "Milky Way" once it had been converted into a performance hall in the 1970s. Prince, U2, Run DMC, and Nick Cave gave surprise concerts there for small audiences that had a choice between dancing or lying on a massive pillow - there were no seats. The live concerts were interspersed with DJ nights, usually until 2:00 AM, and every night hundreds of bicycles parked in front of the moat provided evidence of its popularity.

Tall girl was there often, always alone, never in conversation. She danced with herself, absorbed in some physical introspection that was clear from her faint smile and closed eyes. She radiated liberation from a upper class upbringing, unrestrained carelessness, and yet she seemed to be in full control. Tall girl never opened her eyes to see who was around her. She never spoke. She never seemed to arrive or leave.

I had seen her many times and the room always changed when she was there. She was unencumbered, unearthly, and her immense solitude made me want to be with her, or more precise, it made me want to BE her. She had achieved the detachment from everything that I yearned for, but also dreaded.

Tall girl and I did meet one night and on that night she screamed at me, "Do not go. Come with me. I don't want to be alone. Stay with me. Please. Please." She was hunched over, clutching her body as in pain from a barrage of fist blows. She howled and pulled at me, her despair echoing against the tall dark buildings.

I had found her outside the Milky Way at closing time, looking for her bicycle with some distress. I was already seated on my own bicycle and asked her whether she needed a ride home on the back, a fairly common offer in the Netherlands. She said "yes," and I saw her eyes and heard her voice for the first time. And I was aware that she saw me for the first time.

She got on the back of the bike and I rode us deep into the old city feeling her hand on my hip to keep her balance. We didn't speak. Two strangers on a bicycle in the heart of an Amsterdam night. I knew how to take her home without directions and felt her intense presence in the form of weight, air flow, her breath, and that one hand seeking support.

She lived on the Oudezijds Achterburgwal, and ancient canal street that at this time was dark and quiet, with intimidating university buildings casting shadows across the water. There was a door in this wall of unmovable history that she indicated as hers, and we stopped. She got off the back of the bike and looked at me.

I looked back at her and saw the inevitable in her eyes, the thing I wanted and feared - the burning desire for, without a doubt, self destruction, the one that shimmered in my own mind. She was quietly inviting me to share this fate with her and her alone, to let go and let complete detachment and unrestrained passion overtake us. It would be violent somehow and glorious, and it wouldn't last long because we would probably end up dead in each others' arms.

She saw the longing in my eyes to take that path. I was 20 years old and this was my moment to choose - to burn up fast with this girl, or to live a long life with never-ending compromises. She saw my unbearable desire to stay with her. And she saw my unspoken, furious battle not to. We looked at each other and told books' worth of stories in minutes without a sound.

And then I decided. Without a word. And she knew. She bent forward, clutched her belly with her arms, and started to cry. I started to cry and forced myself to put my feet on the pedals. "Goodbye," I said. "I love you".