Bicycles

Centraal Station, and blue and yellow trains lined up, electric skis, in a massive dome-tunnel with a hundred thousand eyes floating across the jutted steelwork. Boots echo louder than the trainers do, but high heels reverberate (clack-clack clack-clack) against the platform. A gang of suits fall out in single file and march, tipping their caps, and unsheathing their umbrellas, ready for an onslaught, though the pitter-patter of distant gunfire trickles down my neck as I reach the exit. It is beautiful at a glance; the water is careless and walks quietly through the scene, the buildings askew, auburn and elegant against the grey, and Spanish guitars play across the wind like a whisper from another place. What marvelous people! Though busy and concise, a nod of acknowledgment is not uncommon, and I feel should be duly received.

‘Welkom!’ Say the shiny white teeth. ‘Welkom!’  

I close my eyes and listen to the city- I hear trams crash in the distance and a drug dealer’s song, I hear, a lighter crack and the ‘ding-ding’ of a hundred thousand bells and then a voice, familiar.

“Ben!”