Last night was my last night in Lisbon. For this vacation anyway. Like so many nights when I did live there, I took myself to dinner, chose a little table in the corner at my favorite Indian restaurant, and ate very slowly while listening to the cornocopia of conversations going on in the room.
Lisbon is such a strange town for me, on so many levels. I’ve never fit in because I’m a Luso-American, born into a Portuguese family in New Jersey. Though I tried for years to act the part, saying good morning, good afternoon, and good evening to every old person in my neighborhood. I guess I hoped they’d start to see me as one of them. But they never did and now more then ever, they still don’t.
But one thing has changed. My desire to gain their approval. I stopped giving a shit and realized who I am as a Portuguese person, does not depend on their judgement. Beyond that, I’ve come to realize, regardless of the little money and property I actually own, class and education seperate me from these people. They look at me, they hear my accent, they observe my strangely polite mannerisms, and they decide that I’m somehow wealthy. Or maybe, I look at them and I realize that somehow I exist in some completely seperate privledged class.
Maybe its none of these. Rather- it goes back to my own insecurities. Whatever the cause, I still love the old neighborhood in Lisbon. Lots of things have changed of course, since my days working there. I do so miss the group of friends from those days, I miss the little restaurants and pubs that have since changed name and ownership. But still, there are things that never change in wonderous Lisbon, and people who I love that are still there. Those are the people and things I will forever come back to visit.
But the buzz here in Amsterdam is: you thought the French were rough, the Dutch are going to spit all over the dam thing. Oh yeah, they’re voting (we?) in a referendum wednesday and the No camp is everywhere and everyone is climbing aboard. 
Sometimes, when I realize it has been awhile since I spent quality time with my love, I ride around town and take random pictures of her. Amsterdam doesn’t change all that much over time, canals, 15th century houses, bicycles, boats… repeat. Randomly insert ugly and occasionally interestingly designed buildings. But for me, 3 years into it, she never gets old. I could take that same picture of the keizersgracht, with its bridges lit up at night, over and over. And that’s exactly what I was doing after drinks and mexican with RocknRoll Amy, the bicycle repairess, and friends…. riding home.. stopping every few meters to “make 
And as usual, something happened. I noticed in the darkening sky that the night had not completely fallen, but I was indeed witnessing and smelling a huge fire. It was the nightclubby area known as Rembrantplein, and the nosey journalist in me decided to ride over the bridge and get a closer look. And sure enough, this is Amsterdam, there were tons of bikes stopped and onlookers were taking part in the international tradition known as rubbernecking. For those who don’t know the term, it’s when you just HAVE TO stare at an accident and wait as if something it going to happen which you need to see. 
And indeed things happened. I was enjoying the lady next to me who decided I would know everything about that building and why it was on fire. I played along, trying not to say too much to give away my accent. Told her it was the ABN building and the fire seemed concentrated on the ground floor. She trusted in me as a local, I could feel it! Then came the other middle aged male experts in business suits, yapping about what the firefighters will have to do. Just in front of the police baricade, an angry local wants to get by to get into his house or his favorite nightclub I guess. As he’s getting angrier, one of the horsey cops charges his horse into the poor guy. I was paralyzed… wanted to say “HEY WHAT THE HELL IS THAT?” but then I pictured the horse charging into me, and I didn’t want to smell like horse, or be trampled, so I just shut up and watched with frustration.
Me and local dutch woman hung out a bit more, she with her camera phone, I with my digi, we snapped shots as if we both had photoblogs in need of material. Hmm.. maybe we both did? Anywho, just as the orange flames began bursting towards the emergency crews a cop told us in both Dutch and English, in case we’re tourists, that the air quality was unsafe and that we stayed there at our own risk. I love this city… 
-Go home and smother my wife and kids in hugs and kisses. Cry when I see how much my 4 year old daughter has grown since I’ve been trapped in a cage all this time. 
So here I sit on top of the world, in my apartment that has always been affectionately called ?the Nest?.. because it?s made of twigs, is almost destroyed by heavy winds, and sits above the Tagus river.. where I can watch the sun set. Lisbon is just as I left it? full of classic urban ironies. My neighbors barely recognize me, probably because they?re all pushing 90. The only person my age, cutey working-student girl downstairs, seemed shocked to see me? almost as if I had ruined her secret plan to marry me by moving to the ‘dam. That would have been nice, we?d then have a two floor apartment and a building full of geriatrics, on the verge of collapse. 
But let’s move on to chess. To be upfront about it, I’m a chess player, though a bit rusty. Shirtsleaves and I used to spend hours on weekends sitting in Lisbon parks and pubs with our chess board. Here in Amsterdam, I slow down on my bike whenever I pass the chesscaf?, just to take a long look at all the matches. So I appreciate those who love the game – including