He never knew how much this meant to me

I waited, but when the Friday evening paper was hours overdue, I finally called the customer service desk. Promises were made about passing on the information to the local distribution point in Amsterdam. Monday came, and the paper fell through the mail slot early, folded around a hand-written note on scrap-paper which read (in French, rather than in Dutch or English, the de facto second language in Holland): I apologize for not having delivered the paper on Friday, The message ended with a comma. Time probably ran out before inclination. I was astounded by the courtesy displayed, and curious about his choice of language, assuming that he was from a former French colony in (North) Africa.

Soon afterwards I saw the delivery man at work as he approached my house on a bicycle with protective carrier baskets over the rear wheel. He lowered the kick-stand, pulled out one newspaper and stepped up to my front door with a serious limp. One hip was higher, one leg twisted in what appeared to be a polio survivor’s stance. I opened the door and thanked him for the note. He beamed, repeated his apology and explained that he had been educated in his homeland Morocco in French.

My subscription ran out, I didn’t renew and I never saw him again until our paths crossed much later at a post office in another neighbourhood. We smiled in recognition and had a chat. He reported having been promoted to delivery supervisor and moving house with his wife and new baby. The limp has not improved, so he'll be easy to spot from a distance as time goes on.

Tom Hanks and Charlie Sheen: True Crime Pt.2

Pt.1 - please see September 27, 2008.

No pen and paper was at hand, so the young man suggested that I use my cell phone to write down the information he was about to share. We met by chance, two customers in overcoats standing in the True Crime section of a bookstore in Glasgow. I scanned all the shelves; he noticed, smiled and asked if he could help. Typical, I thought to myself, of local people extending themselves in a friendly way. I explained that I was looking for two books related to the notorious Glasgow Ice Cream Wars in the 1980’s. The name covers turf-wars in rougher neighbourhoods over routes followed by ice cream trucks, whose owners stood to rake in attractive profits from the sale of stolen cigarettes, candies and according to some sources, drugs. Whatever the products, violence shaped the culture, and the Wars peaked with the deaths of six members of one family, including a baby, in a house fire. People were convicted and jailed, their sentencing and imprisonment later declared a miscarriage of justice. Two books have appeared on this saga, but the books are hard to find.

Still smiling, the source tilted his head and minced no words: You probably won’t find them in shops, they’re, uh, not usually available. Try the internet. He spelled out the full titles and authors’ names and watched me tap the data into my phone. I told him that I had looked in branch libraries, where a librarian had confided that True Crime titles tend to go missing in Glasgow. Protecting these books from theft has become a matter of library policy. My search of their catalogue reported the titles as On Loan or In Transit, catalogue code for Missing or Stolen, facts revealed when the librarian smirked as she scrutinized her more detailed in-house screen: The books have been missing from all of those libraries for several years. We used to fill the shelves with empty boxes bearing the cover, just like they do with DVD’s and videotapes. My interest was piqued, and she quickly shut down her search.

The entry on my phone was complete. Why are you so interested in finding these books, if I may ask? I paused in surprise, but my hesitation was misunderstood: Never mind, you don’t have to explain. I had been wondering why he knew so much about it, and I was happy to reply: I’ve been struck by Glasgow’s combination of such a forthcoming and humorous population with its legacy of hard crime. I had been reminded of Colombians, whose graciousness, hospitality and good manners are unsurpassed, in a country suffering from decades of violent civil conflict which, according to the UN, generated the largest humanitarian crisis in the Western Hemisphere just a few years ago. I didn’t say all of that, of course, but paused again, hoping he would show his cards. My book friend just beamed as he backed away: You’re rrrright. Kind of a contradiction. Oh well, must go, catch ya later.

An internet search soon afterwards did turn up second-hand copies of both books. Before purchasing, I wanted to see these tomes, and made my way to the main library where they were both stocked in the reference section. Correction: held in compound. As in libraries everywhere, certain books are produced for viewing under supervision only, and so I was guided past a turnstile to the special area where another librarian produced the titles, after acknowledging, with a twinkle in her eye, that our readers do tend to love to hold onto their True Crime titles.

My reading experience in Glasgow coincided with and was enhanced by the Crime Thriller Awards Season on television, a full seven weeks devoted to the work of crime writers. The series has featured profiles of the nominees, one of whom explained that English crime writing tends to be lighter and less bloody, while Scottish crime and thriller stories are darker and grimmer. Scotland’s crime series par excellence is Taggart, a program which branded the pronunciation of the word murder. The series does well abroad, and in the French version, the lead Detective has been given a Marseille accent. No other regional sound would convey the toughness required by the job. My reading experience has also been deepened by the airing of a TV special celebrating 25 years of Taggart. Its enduring popularity, say the makers, is due to both its ingenious stories and gruesome deaths. Actors are admired, but the city of Glasgow itself is one of the main characters – not its contemporary cosmopolitan side, but the traditional grit and humor.

The Taggart special was Sponsored by the Barra’s – Scotland’s local market. When I visited this street market maze, I was told by a local woman that it was still nice five years ago, but that now drug-related crime was making her nervous. I rode a city bus far into Glasgow’s East End, where many of the most difficult neighborhoods lie. Massive urban regeneration efforts are underway across the zone in the run-up to the Commonwealth Games in 2014, but there’s a lot of terrain to cover. When I reached the last area shown on the generous map in my hands, I got off at a local shopping center, a tiny, economically-challenged precursor to other giant malls closer to town. Community facilities are hard to find out here. When gang violence took over in the 1970’s, outsiders arrived to stage a production of Romeo and Juliet. Professionals filled the main roles, and kids brought in off the streets as extras understood the spirit of the play, with little explanation required.

An elderly woman was seated on a low brick wall outside the back entrance, with a view of the dingy apartment buildings dotting the hills beyond like forgotten bales of hay. Have a seat, Dearie, plenty of room here. She clutched shopping bags and smoked a cigarette, before I take a taxi back home, she volunteered. I live in a village nearby. This place is going to close down soon, there’s too many shops closing because of the recession. You having a nice visit here, are you? That’s lovely. Yes, Tom Hanks and Charlie Sheen like Glasgow, too – well, they didn’t come out here, they were in hotels in the center, but I heard they liked it.

I’m not sure what brought Tom Hanks to Glasgow, but about 10 years ago Charlie Sheen played an alcoholic detective from the USA chasing a serial murderer in Scotland. The good and the bad have broad appeal. Even Barack Obama pays homage, as we found out thanks to Katie Couric from CBS, who asked the presidential candidates to name their favourite movies.

Obama: My favorite has to be the opening scene of the first Godfather – where the caretaker comes in and Marlon Brando is sitting there and he is saying ‘you disrespected me, and now you want a favour’ …the combination of old world gentility and ritual with this savagery underneath it, and it’s all about families, it’s a great movie.

True Crime Pt.1

As a newcomer to the streets of Glasgow, I’ve been charmed by the one the friendliest urban populations I’ve encountered anywhere. If tribal registration standards were applied in Scotland, I would qualify in terms of bloodlines, reinforcing my perception that the willingness of Glaswegians to engage with a stranger is not a mere courtesy extended to an obvious foreigner. A quip on a street corner, chit-chat in shops or a wee bit of banter when caught in the rain – that’s all par for the course. If I do ask for help, the experience generally highlights endearing individuals, from the bus driver who bellowed out the name of my stop in beautifully baroque Glaswegian tones, prompting surrounding passengers to whisk me to the door with smiles, to the young lad who thanked me after he pointed the way to a destination I was seeking.

Another charming soul replied Yes, the handcuffs sell well. Children love them. She was proud, and rightly so, of working in the gift shop at the People’s Palace in Glasgow, a social history museum with powerful displays, ranging from reconstruction of the humblest of dwellings to a lady’s elegant shoes and gloves. Tobacco Lords fuelled Glasgow’s growth in the 1700’s; ship-building followed. Living conditions for working class people were never good, and industrial decline in the 20th-century led to unemployment, urban decay and organized crime. The People’s Palace is surrounded by gentle green slopes bordering the River Clyde, but the city’s most deprived neighbourhoods are not far away.

Glasgow is rich in cutting-edge culture and world-famous architecture. A smattering of reports, however, have cast a shadow: the most unhealthy people in the UK live here, where there’s little sun; life expectancy is the lowest in Western Europe; the majority of Scotland’s poorest areas, with their criminal gangs, are in this city; and the fires of sectarianism are fanned all too frequently at local sporting events. This reference to endemic problems is offensive to inhabitants who believe that local heritage deserves more attention. Regeneration efforts are everywhere, as in the tour organized by one local official who decided it was time to let people see the brighter side of life in the much maligned Easterhouse area: http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/uk_news/scotland/7626004.stm

Preview: Pt.2 (October 4, 2008) takes me to the True Crime section of a large bookstore in the center of town, where I set about searching for two books on a case that first rocked Glasgow in the 1980’s. You might be surprised, as I was, to find out why it's hard to get copies of the books today.

‘Metadata…Wild Type and Poorly Transformable Strains…’

Name-tags, handsewn onto clothing and other household items, are not something I see every day. Here’s one I have read and reread. The excellent quality of both bed sheet and label, the color and strength of their material permit me now, presumably a good long while after manufacture, to speak of their endurance.

Recently an acquaintance of many years placed a suitcase (that briefly belonged to me and then went into storage in her whereabouts) out on the street – common practice in Amsterdam. The story of what happened next, as a result of the fact that she did not remove the name-tag with my name, address and phone number on it, is for another day, but the fortuitous development of that story after its reckless launch has prompted me to display the text found on this sheet. Which, by the way, I did not pick up off the street. But I do not know how it entered my home.

Mr/Mrs/Ms J. Kooistra: I have your sheet. I have no idea how it ended up in my linen closet, but I would be happy to return the white bed sheet with your name on it if you would tell me where to send it.

You might be the author of this thesis from 1974: Fate of donor deoxyribonucleic acid in wild type and poorly transformable strains of haemophilus influenzaeas well as subsequent related articles in medical journals. J. Kooistra is apparently still a Senior Researcher at the Faculty of Social Sciences at Utrecht University, and is the co-author of Metadata as a means for correspondence on digital media (…Metadata derive their action from their association to data and from the relationship they maintain with this data…)

Or are you an Attorney in Wyoming, Michigan? Perhaps Dr. Kooistra, a Pediatric Pulmonary Disease Specialist in Wisconsin in the USA, who also helps children with asthma at a summer camp?

J. Kooistra the poet writes in Frisian, the language of the northern Dutch province of Friesland (and an official EU minority language!): Ik ha dy nedich, dû bist myn lêste treen, ik bin as deze himpen, rûch en rimpen, mar dû bist sêft as simmerreen, simmerreen. J. Kooistra also co-authored A Shorter Introduction to English Literature, a reference work which went through 18 editions but which was originally published in 1937, so I don’t think this sheet belongs to him. (Another Frisian J. Kooistra is locally known as the ‘Frisian Wiesenthal’ for his work on thousands of World War II casualties related to the province) Evidently a good number of Kooistra’s are literary figures in Friesland. And they get around: several years ago, J. Kooistra taught a course in Creative Writing: PROSE FICTION at Nipissing University in North Bay, Canada, where in September 2008 they just held a one-day welcome back powwow – there are hundreds of First Nation, Inuit and Métis students studying at Nipissing!

J. Kooistra is at the same time a veteran fire-fighter in the city of Portland, Maine, in the USA, where he became involved in a defamation suit around a colleague known for looking at women with “elevator eyes” – the court case, I should report, involved more grievous claims. And J. Kooistra is at work as a carpenter in Leeuwarden in Friesland back in the Netherlands, where the surname has its origins. You might want to visit his website if you are fond of sound effects: http://www.timmerbedrijf-jkooistra.nl/index.htm

If you want your sheet back, send me your address.

Wallace is a Good Speaker - Pt. 1

My neighbour thinks that basically I’m a good person, easy to get along with, probably affectionate with friends. He has never said as much, and he wouldn’t; that would be ungentlemanly, and Wallace is very well-mannered. But I can see the expectation in his eyes. I know how to read drunks, and he knows that I know. So I'm safe: he'll keep trying to bamboozle me; I'll glide through like a fairy. He'll never know I'm real.

From the very first indication of physical violence between Wallace and his friend, or boyfriend, roommate or protégé, whoever he is (I’ve never seen him), our communications have resembled communications between trusted acquaintances - the constructive, hopeful words that fall between pitched battles, the words spoken by the strong, who, however stressed and strained, know about the promise of serenity, know that they should want it. He knows that I want peace and quiet, and somehow I think that part of him (the part that does understand conflict) wants that for me, too. I suppose he uses our brief conversations to regroup. I use them as a security measure, knowing that a well executed sentence can provide protection in more ways than one.

But we are not friends. We rarely speak, and when we do, we are in the hallway of the apartment building. I am on my way in or out and the noise of my keys has drawn him to his door. Wallace is always impeccably groomed. Elegant silk shirts fall gracefully on his slender frame and his shoes gleam. Even the smoke of his thin cigarettes has a certain dash to it as it spirals off towards the staircase. His appearances are almost always for the purpose of apologizing for the most recent eruption. There’s no rhythm to the schedule. I’m out a lot, and I’m sure I miss some of the sparring, but when at home I’m no longer surprised by the shouts and thuds, the crack of a body slamming against a wall. So yes, I would really like to see this come to an end. But another part of Wallace enjoys the spectacle, of course, not the actual fighting, not even witnessing my discomfort, but his role as the eloquent narrator, as though it’s the best tale he can tell, and it will go on and on. Part of the plot is that he is apparently trying to help this other person. This story line has emerged in the notes he has started slipping under my door.

Always great to be back in Catalunya

From: The Acoustic Properties of Clay (fins quan?)

El Masnou is a municipality rising to the west from the sea: a maze of alleys, staircases and undulating north-south roads has grafted the town onto the hilly terrain...the old steps are too wide to take one at a time, so you must hobble down. A gutter slashes a central drain for late-summer rains which flood the main road below, blocking traffic between Barcelona to the south and France to the north.
You reach that road: hectic and flat, parallel to the beach, but separated from this and the train station by the road. You walk on: one hour north along the boardwalk to a beach café, placed a few metres to the right of the boardwalk on the beach, next to a site of marina construction. A sand dike sustained by rocks is topped with an idle machine, whose cabin and shovel are rusty. The side panel bears graffiti: fins quan? When will it end? Inside the café, cyclists de-helmet and sip coffee, as do walkers who have just fed the wild cats living inside the rock piles. The men perched high on the jetties to catch fish for the cats tend to keep to themselves. (Sit on a bench to take a longer look. ) A frail but impeccably groomed elderly couple is out for a stroll. They cannot travel far and take in every detail on their abbreviated route. A hand-written notice (…when will it end?) has been fastened to the fence separating the boardwalk from road-works. They pause to read the sign, the woman’s hand gripping the man’s forearm...

...to re-enter town from the beach, you brave the tunnels linking the boardwalk and railway lines with the sidewalk. In your mind there are several, one opening to town and the beach and the northbound trains, another with an exit to the train heading south. Each line has its own ticket booth. If you need a ticket for the opposite direction, you must run back into the tunnel and rush (if you can, the tunnels are wide enough for only two people) to the other end, ascend to street level and find the entrance to the alternate tunnel which will take you back to the other platform. This tunnel could also take you back to the beach, so avoid missing the exit, because if you arrive at the beach and think that you were in the wrong tunnel and search for the entrance to the other tunnel and enter there, you will find an exit to the railway line along which you do not want to travel. [fins quan?]

Thanks Everybody