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Tuesday, September 13, 2005
SEVENTEEN YEARS
Ratatat
Ratatat
XL : 2004
[Buy It]
HIGHER
The Game
The Documentary
Aftermath : 2005
[Buy It]
ROCK AND ROLL
Edan
Beauty & the Beat
Lewis: 2005
[Buy It]
GET THE SIGNAL
Lab Waste
Zwarte Achtegrond
Temporary Whatever : 2005
[Buy It]
However distasteful it may be, we all have to run from time to time. These days I'm running for my health, of my own volition, and these songs are some of my favorite to run to. But that's boring, so here's a story about a time when I was forced to run without a song to mark off my steps, just the beat of my own pulse in my ears and feet slapping cobblestones, the terse melody of my clipped breath.
It's 2002, I'm in Amsterdam. I've returned to my hostel, not far from Central Station (a sketchy, sketchy place, where the local hoods prey on tourists, by mugging and by soft, muttered promises of cheap (fake) drugs) after going to see Godspeed You Black Emperor perform at the Paradiso, a cavernous hall that I remember as a floating mezzanine and majestic stone pillars (one of the best shows I've seen to this day). I'm traveling alone, but I've befriended a vacationing Austrian named Veronika. After the Godspeed show, we're sitting on a bench in front of the hostel, watching the streetlights play upon the soft ripples of the canal, one of many delicately gridding the city like a spider's web. Suddenly, a man looms up in the periphery of my vision: "Give me a Euro. A Euro, please." This isn't an uncommon occurance, I've already been threatened with small knives twice since I've been here, and have gotten used to it. We pay the man no mind. In our post-Godspeed languor, under the spell of the exotic foreign night, we're not really thinking clearly, certainly not about Veronika's purse and camera bag, which are sitting on the bench beside her. So we're both caught off guard when the man, thus far polite and unobtrusive, grabs the purse (which contains all of Veronika's money and her passport) and takes off running down one of the many dark, winding alleys perpendicular to Amsterdam's main thoroughfares.
"Shit," I'm thinking, "this sucks - the beggars here are mean and desperate and all have tiny knives. Not much we can do about it. I should have brought a small gun, or even a big knife. I could have been the king of this place-" But in the split second this defeatism is running through my head, Veronika's already up and running into the incredibly menacing alley, all 110 pounds of her, the blue streak in her hair swinging in a way that, even in these tense circumstances, I notice is adorable. I can't believe it. She's chasing the motherfucker, this big burly desperate man who probably has a tiny knife. What's she going to do if she catches him? Of course, I'm running myself by now, not far from Veronika's heels but not quite able to catch up - she's really booking - wondering how the hell this is going to play out. I'm concerned for her safety - our safety, now - more than her purse, wondering if we'll catch the man, wondering if I'll have to fight him, really just jamming on instinct and adrenaline. Everything's really sharp and lucid - the crispness of the air, the syncopated cadence of six feet, the sharp reports of our breathing.
We're wending deeper and deeper into the network of alleys, further from the populated canalside street, twisting and turning through a bleak warren of criminal activity, penetrating a place we are not meant to be. Veronika's about twenty feet behind the thief, I'm trailing her by about ten, we're all at full speed and unable to close the gaps. Weirdly, I find myself thinking about Zeno's paradox - how you can never close the infinite number of half-distances between two points. "Stop, motherfucker," I yell pointlessly - what, do I think he's going to be like, "Oh, you're chasing me? Sorry, didn't realize. Here you go." But something incredible happens.
The motherfucker drops the purse.
He's been fumbling with it throughout the chase, unable to get through its maze of straps and buckles at this high velocity, and maybe he just decided it wasn't worth it - we're making a lot of noise with the running, and my shout is still echoing through the alleys. As he drops the purse, he wheels around to face us and plants his feet, brandishing the tiny knife I knew was there. Veronika skids to stop just a few feet in front of him, and I come up quick and stop beside her. "What, what" he says, jabbing the knife in our direction, snarling. We're just staring at him, we've been transported beyond rationality and both seem to regard our situation with a sort of detached wonder. The moment is distended from the normal flow of time, floating, then our would-be assailant slinks into the shadows and vanishes. We pick up the purse. We're both panting, wide-eyed, and I'm torn between scolding her for her for endangering our lives and complimenting her bravery (leaning toward the latter). But before I have time to do either, she yells, "Camera!" and we're sprinting back the way we came.
posted by Brian
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