I awaken at six, feeling quite rested. First things first, I write up a draft yesterday's adventures and burn the file onto a CD with the idea that I can upload it at EasyEverything and send it to everyone. It's a dank day as I shuffle over to EE and discover that the place has become a sleazy pit with only a small fraction of the former terminal space, most of it now devoted to tables of cheap and dreadful junk for sale. Since there are no attendants, there is no possibility of uploading the contents of my CD.

Nevertheless, I figure out the ticket machine and get an €2 ticket. Then I discover that the machines are so poorly maintained that I can barely get them to work well enough to access email. So much for EE.

The day grows danker as I notice on my return to Spuistraat that it sure was a lot easier to make this walk last time I was here. I check with Hans and Rina to see whether Air France has called with news of my Segway. No word. I call the number on my certificat. Alas, they don't where it is, much less when I might see it.

Rafaël and Rina are standing at either shoulder urging horrific threats and insisting that I make Air France aware that I am going to be taking a taxi for distances over ten meters and will be saving the receipts for them, but my calmness over L'Affaire du Segway Perdu astonishes me. Yes me, moi-même, who in my protease inhibitor phase could go crazy over imagined issues or totally wig out over a parking space, now utterly calm in the face of an actual problem. I merely convey to them my hope that they are aware that without the Segway my mobility is seriously impaired. They reassure me that considerable resources of Air France are now dedicated to surveillance for my device.

Alley Art:

Rafaël and I head out for de Bijenkorf to get maps since I have forgot to bring mine, and besides, a gentleman cannot have too many maps. What a fine department store the Bijenkorf is! The closest equivalent in San Francisco would be Macy's, I suppose, but this thing is Macy's with a bit more panache...more toward the KaDeWe in Berlin. The selection of maps is enormous, so large that going through them to find the best ones is tedious.

I have been trying for years to let go of some of my obsessive thrift. However, friends have tartly observed that, considering what's left, I certainly must have had a lot to let go of. Well, depression-era parents and all, I did. Or I do, whichever. Perhaps that's why I am so comfortable here. One little example: After I settle on only four maps, we are headed for the kasse when I spot a display of a book titled The UnDutchables. A senseless pun, actually, but the subtitle is "an observation of the netherlands: its culture and its inhabitants," written by a couple from Lafayette, Colorado. I snap it up. Rafaël is aghast that I am about to buy a €20.50 book, "Too much!" but when I am adamant, he snatches the book out of my hand and selects one from the middle of the stack so that I don't get one that's been all pawed over.

My amusement over this evaporates when it strikes me that I do exactly the same thing when I pick up free newspapers like SF Weekly in San Francisco. I try to convince myself that I am justified in this because in San Francisco the first couple of papers at the top have been downright violated while the books in the Bijenkorf have merely been politely touched by hands with clean fingernails, but no, it's the same thing.

On the way out, we tie each other to the mast to get through the strait between Men's Underwear and the Bakery. Actually, he's not into underwear, and I'm over it now and am devoting all that energy, and money, into baked goods....as the most casual glance at me, even fully draped with loose clothing, reveals. We let our guard down too soon, though, and are seduced into that lekker little snack shop on the left just before you escape out the north door. Well, OK, in the spirit of full disclosure I'll rephrase that and state that although there was no kicking and screaming, I did drag Rafaël in. But then I must add that once I got him in, like Patty in the bank, he was an enthusiastic participant.

We do restrain ourselves, though, because Hans and Rina have invited us to go for a drive in the country... out to IJmuiden to eat supper at a little fish shack. IJmuiden is one of those Dutch words that cause a brain crash upon first sight. Actually, like many of them, it's not quite as bad as it looks. Roughly speaking, the first syllable is about like "A," as in the first letter of the American alphabet, the third is "dun," as in to request the repayment of a debt except that the "n" is inaudibly soft, but the middle syllable is "m" with a ui phoneme. I have to brag: my pronunciation of that nasty little phoneme is improving, and now when I utter a word containing it, I am often understood. I took more pride in this before I realized that the folks who have been doing most of the understanding tended to be those who had had previous exposure to my pronunciations, but I comfort myself in that at least some learning is taking place.

IJmuiden is only about 25 km west of Amsterdam, and Rina takes a scenic route that often gives the feeling that we are "out in the country" rather than being on the edge of a major metroplex in a densely populated country. The drive is entertaining also because of sights like a wind farm and a collection of huge oil tanks with odd things painted on them. Like "Oiltanking," which makes only partial sense to me in either language. Can anybody explain this to me? I just love Dutch humor, but it is sometimes a bit too subtle for me.

The high point of the drive, though, is when Rafaël's cell phone rings. I stifle annoyance because I so despise the things. I expect to be issued a couple of cell phones when I arrive in Hell. But I digress. I think Rafaël is joking when he says, "Air France? Just a moment," and hands me the phone. He's not. They've found my missing box and can deliver it between ten and midnight, an offer I accept. Jubilation prevails. Appetites are stimulated.

The fish shack is just like those on American coasts: you are encouraged to believe that the fisherman brother (sometimes a cousin) of the restaurateur delivers his catch right off his boat every afternoon, and it is cooked immediately after the flopping ceases. Umm, yes...local halibut, squid, salmon, and shrimp.

I notice that the young waitress is really coming down hard on her "r's" and ask Rina about this. She's not sure, maybe it's a coastal accent, but she does mention that today's urban youth are using as one vehicle to demonstrate their rottenness the willful and obstinate refusal to trill their "r's" properly. Ah, the eternal ability of youth to find ways to get under the skin of their parents, who, in this case, look forward with horror to the prospect of non-trilling grandchildren spewing ugly little flat English "r's".

Afterwards, Rina takes us a few kilometers away to a restaurant/bar overlooking the sea. A bit gusty on the terrace, so we stay inside for coffee and take in the view. It's lovely, but frankly, not a bit nicer than the Pacific. What it does have, though, is amazing parabolic kites that seem to have the wingspan of a condor, much larger than the men flying them, and you can see that the men are having to work to keep from being pulled off their feet, as they are bracing themselves at 45 degree angles while the kites hold them up. YOW! MUST HAVE ONE! Rina says there's a bit of a scandal going on because some smaller persons (men and boys only, of course) have been injured owing to being too stupid to let go soon enough at a critical moment. [Editorial qualifier mine.] On the way back in, she points out a place that she thinks would sell them, but it's really at the outer limits of the range of the Segway. I could carry the recharging cord and NL adapter, but I do hate being dependent on the electricity of strangers.

Back home, Rina and Rafaël argue almost convincingly that I really must not ride the Segway tonight owing to my having neither a warning bell nor a light, and I reassure them that of course I never ride the thing at night in San Francisco and that all that will be necessary will be just the briefest little test run a few meters back and forth in front of the house. They don't seem all that reassured, particularly since Rafaël is spreading horribly exaggerated tales of my recklessness that he supposedly witnessed during his last visit to San Francisco.

There is no bell for my apartment, and Rina volunteers that she will not be going to bed before midnight and will let me know when the delivery arrives. Rafaël and I chat until about 10:15 and then I can stand it no more and decide to escort him down to the door and just hang out down there with a pocket full of battery bolts and a hex wrench set in my hand. Rafaël continues to hang around, and then Rina drops down, and then Hans, and finally I realize that they are just as excited about this delivery as I am. I tell Rina we'll let her know when it arrives, and she goes back up.

Finally, at 11:30 an appropriate-looking vehicle arrives, and a woman with a clipboard in hand jumps out the passenger door. The driver wrestles the box out as I'm signing, and as they get back in the van, it occurs to me that a more prudent move would have been to have just taken a glance inside the box before I signed. Oh well.

I tear at the box with my bare hands as Hans and Rina arrive with a little knife. Yes! All three pieces are present. I tip the platform over on its side and start threading bolts through the first battery as they huddle around. Once the other battery is bolted on, I attach the wires, slide the control bar back into its sleeve, and, holding my breath, touch the key to the keypad. The light comes on, and I relax.

I mount and glide a few meters down the bicycle lane...and the few meters back, carefully watching for the bicyclists zipping back and forth even though it is midnight. I do it a few more times at increasing speeds. In the open space off both bicycle path and sidewalk, I do a bit figure-eighting and some free-form flourishes, terminating with a fairly brief spin since I haven't taught myself to do that head thing to keep from getting dizzy. They lap it up.

As do the cops who have just come out the door of the station across the street. I sense that their healthy curiosity is mixed with calculated assessment as to whether I might be committing something actionable. I'm sure it was just an unconscious tic, but one of them was definitely drumming his fingers on his ticket book. So much for the midnight show.