Ailsa
The British tax system got really hostile to free-lance computer dudes, like myself, so I went contracting in Amsterdam doing disaster recovery. We made sure that people's computer systems didn't go down, or if they did, it didn't lose too much information or money, and sink the company. There's a bit more to it than than but suffice to say, in crossing the North Sea, I also crossed the line between very well paid, and stupidly well paid. After about a month my Manager decided that I'd made the apparently impossible happen a couple of times, and my shit didn't stink. He offered me a 12 month contract and I, metaphorically speaking, bit his hand off at the shoulder.
There were four of us contractors who had the knowledge and experience to do the job; one Australian; one Yank; another Brit; and me. We were travelling about Europe doing the annual visits to ensure as far as we could that nothing would go wrong for one week in four. We were on call for one week in four. This required the bags be packed and waiting at the door, and as nominated recipient of the midnight phone call, one would catch the taxi waiting outside the flat, pick up the ticket at Schipol Airport, and supervisor the recovery from disaster. This was usually in a very nice city somewhere in Western Europe (flights, acomodation, and living expenses all covered). It was expected that we hang around and make outselves seen for a couple of days when bedding in a newly recovered system. It's a tough job,but someone has to do it.
People get tired and emotional when their business looks like its going to go “Tits Up”, so you are the man they call 24 hours a day for status reports until its all running smoothly again. Like a lot of technical support jobs, it's mostly emotional support. I'd get double-time 24 hours a day, and then time off to recover after a job. The better we got, the fewer of these system crashes we had to deal with. It was probably the best job I'd ever had. I was treated with great respect at work, and the technical part was easy once you knew how. We spent the other two weeks on light duties, training ourselves, training other staff, and doing as much advanced work and contingency planning as possible. They even got us a couple of interrns each year, who were newly graduated Dutch Computer Scientists. We would generally get the brightest kids we could, and show them the ways of the Force – there were a lot of Star Wars reference in the department, including naming servers Obi-Wan, Obi-Two, and Obi-Three.
I was accused of being a waste of space by my friends from home because I didn't take advantage of the local facilities in Amsterdam. I have only ever paid for sex emotionally, and I have never smoked anything. I made very good money from having reasonably stable brain chemistry, a quick mind, and high motivation. I've never taken anything I couldn't buy over a bar or Pharmacist's counter, and at 33, I didn't think it was worth torpedoing a record I'm quite proud of. Besides, it was theoretically possible that I be used as backup if a second site crashed and the on call dude went to the first. One's rates would be astronomical, but one's contract would be terminated if one were stoned.
I notice that my mates didn't heckle too loudly, became they all started coming out to visit for long weekends, or in a few cases a whole week on a cheap flights. They would all get the standard “Here's the spare keys. Here's the fridge. Me Casa, you Jane” speech, the spare “pay as you go” guest's mobile phone on the Dutch mobil phone network, be asked not to make too much noise coming in late on a school night, and if bringing whores back to the flat, please launder their own bed-linen. I had a small covered balcony overlooking the canal, and guests were asked to smoke outside on it. I take my air quality seriously.
Time spent in reconnaisance is never wasted, so one finds one's way around the Oudekirk Red Light district because it's the sort of tourist attraction my friends would express an interested in seeing, and knowing the various attractions like the Banana Bar (use your imagination), etc. allowed one to save one's visitors valuable time, and just show them the edited highlights.
I got a little two bedroom flat on one of the smaller cross canals close to one of the faster tram routes to Schipol Airport, and a very pleasant three quarters of a mile walk to work. It was bijou, or as the Dutch say, hezelig, but it was very tastefully decorated, and just what I needed. For the Dutch, living on a canal in Amsterdam is as good as it gets, because it's a very nice place to live. Unfortunately for the Dutch, everyone else wants to live on a canal in Amsterdam, especially all of the well paid foreigners, for the same reasons. The prices have gone up out of their price range, causing resentment from the locals. This meant that it was very cosmopolitan, and everyone in the area is quite prosperous. There was an Albert Heijn supermarket round the corner, and the KLM stewardesses had their hotel and watering hole about 300 yards from my front door. I was blindingly lucky to find a garage for my Vintage maroon 1960s MGA through my boss. One of his mates was living away from the 'Dam for a year, and had a parking space in a private multi-storey car park which was guarded 24-hours a day. It was cheaper than paying for a parking meter – just - but it was close by, and it's only worth trying to go round the Amsterdam one way system in a car if it's a nice day, you have lots of time, and plenty of spare coins for parking meters.
I had gone through the “eyes out on stalks” phase - if you like tall, elegant, classically beautiful women, with a sense of humour, an animated face, a warm friendly sociable disposition, and a potty mouth, then Amsterdam has a lot to offer over, say for instance, London. I'm not saying British women are short, undignified, plain, humourless, fail to make eye contact, have a shitty attitude, and prudish. I'm just saying that when I went back for a weekend in Britain after about two months, and asked when all the girls had gotten so short, fat, and ugly I was greeted with blank stares of incomprehension. I suppose it's all just what you're used to.
I'd done partner dancing when I was working in London, and had enjoyed taking Tango classes. Some say it's “the vertical expression of horizontal desire”. Some say it's “date-rape set to music by a Latin American dictator”. In my opinion, it's a little from collum A, and a little from collum B. I found a dance school teaching Tango classes. My Dutch was fairly primitive, and I only caught a small part of what was probably a very funny class, but I progressed fairly well. One Friday night, I decided to go to one of the social dances having nothing else on.
I am 5'6”, broad, fair, a little over-weight, quite a kinetic personality, but a little intense. After the class, came the social dance. I asked myself who I would look most ridiculous dancing with. There was a tall slim girl with freckles, and ginger hair pinned up and back. She was in her early 20s, about 5'10” or so, standing in a corner hiding behind what were evidently rather unfashionable, very strong prescription glasses. She was really pretty in an understated “I'm trying to blend into the background” sort of way.
The worst she could do was to tell me to fuck off, and besides, I had seen some fairly mismatched couples - frankly marginal looking men walking down the streets of Amsterdam with a Goddesses on their arm. I went up to her and said in my best Amsterdamse-accented Dutch “Guud me t'dag”.
She turned to me, shyly, smiled, and came back with a flow of chatty Dutch, ending, by the sound of it and the timing, in a joke. I chuckled, nodded my head sagely, made as if to reply, paused, shook my head sorrowfully, and said “I'm sorry. I didn't get a word of that. I'm afraid I've only been in Amsterdam three months. All I know is 'Guud met'dag'. Would you care to dance?”
She started at me in surprise, then laughed, and said “Sure”. We started dancing, which was completely painless from my point of view. I needed to look round her to steer, but her nipples were at eye-level, and she looked straight over my head. She was goofing around and laughing for the first track, when I stopped her, and lead her to the side of the room.
“Look, Ginge, you've probably noticed that there is a fairly entertaining difference in our heights. I make you look like a Giraffe, and you make me look like an Orangutan. Now you evidently have a sense of humour, or you wouldn't be dancing with me in the first place, but I think we want to look smart memorable and ironic, not absurd and ridiculous. The only way I know to make this a world class sight-gag is to play it totally straight. No goofing around. Make it look almost like you're taking it seriously, and think Latin American intensity. Groucho Marx and Margaret Dumont. What do you say?”
She looked at me as if for the first time, considered for a moment, and said in an imperious voice “This is a Gala Day for you.”
“Well a gal a day is enough for me. I don't think I could handle any more.” Her face lit up with delight, and we spent the next hour and a half swapping Groucho Marx one liners, and basically making love with our clothes on. Tango is one of the most intellectually demanding forms of dance I've come across. You have to completely tune into the other person, and the sort of attention and energy flowing between two people is very flattering. The man is in control, and makes the woman move to his will. She was a really good dancer, did exactly what I wanted, and was an absolute pleasure to dance with. There were not enough men to go around, and the women around the edge of the class were not sure what to make of us. Any time a man is with a woman, other women automatically assume that he is acceptable company, and that they are together. When you are in your own little world of just the two of you, it is very intimate, and people looking in on it feel like voyeurs. They are usually far less ready to make jokes at your expense, and from sniggering about the mismatched couple, they began to want to dance with me, and envied my partner.
I found her aroma just incredible. It made me simultaneously horny, interested, light-headed, protective, and feel like taking risks. When the dance finished at 12:30am, and the dancers began filing out. I couldn't let the night to end there, so I turned to my partner and said, “We haven't been introduced. My name is Richard. You are a delight to dance with.”
“Thank you very much. You are a good dancer as well. My name is Ailsa. I am please to meet you.”
“Ailsa, I'm hungry, and I was going to go and get something to eat. Would you care to join me?”
“Oh. I'm a student, and I haven't got the money for eating out.”
“Ah. Sorry. Cultural misunderstanding. Allow me put it a different way; I'm hungry; I prefer not to eat alone; I enjoy your company; and in Britain if I ask you to come and eat with me, it means I'm buying. Easy misunderstanding to make. I know a nice little spot round the corner that's quite good.”
“Oh. Err... thank you. Yes, I will.”
