I'm planning my day when Rafaël arrives bearing a couple of Bolletjes. Nasty-looking things, actually, that I've seen in various little fast food places and can just tell are something like Twinkies and will make me want to assassinate the mayor or at least can be used in my defense after I've done so.

Speaking of which, I was interested to read last month that Senator Feinstein got up at the funeral for the SF police officer recently slain in the line of duty and called for the death penalty for his assailant. I wrote letters to the San Francisco Chronicle (ignored) and the Bay Area Reporter (printed) pointing out that she had not called for the death penalty for Dan White at the funerals for George Moscone and Dan White. Is it somehow worse to kill a cop when you're running from justice than it is to assassinate two city officials in cold blood in their offices? What disgusting politics!

Biting into one of Rafaël's Bolletjes and finding it tasty was somehow depressing. All these delicious things to eat and every one either filled with fat or served with a large glob of it on the side. Sigh.

Rafaël helps Rina with cleaning, and while he is occupied I segway over to Frank's Smoke House. What luck, there is no other customer. As I admire today's items, Frank comes out from the back. I announce, "Goede dag, Mijnheer, ik ben terug!" I add in English, "I was here three years ago." although I could have said that much in Dutch.

There is a brief beat and he says, "San Francisco?" And we're off. He mentions that he has read some of the things I wrote about him on my last visit. He is such a delightful guy. I tell him about the Segway and show it to him. He's interested, and we schedule a demo for next Tuesday afternoon. I just love giving test rides on this thing, especially to folks I already like.

I get 200 g. of tuna and both warm- and cold-smoked salmon. On the return, half a block from Frank's, I take pics of the Pelikaan Brug. I do love the bridges here, and this one is a favorite.

I drop off the fish and then head out for the Cyberlounge. It's a gorgeous day, the first really pretty day we've had, and rolling over to Elandsgracht is a great pleasure. And since I am taking the same or similar routes to, from, or both every day at similar times, it finally happens: a bicyclist who has seen me before chases me down, wanting to talk.

I give him the standard spiel, graciously allowing him to wrest the conversation into English after I've stumbled through a couple of sentences. Every day I'm picking up a bit more Dutch, but my rate of acquisition is pathetic.

After I return from the Cyberlounge, I admit to myself that I simply don't have the energy to go, as planned, to the regular Friday afternoon meeting of a group of Edward's friends even though they will doubtless be fascinating folks. Rina, bless her heart, calls Edward to let him know I can't make it.

But since I'm downstairs, and since the afternoon is warm and sunny, I'll make the quick little trip over to that bicycle shop on Haarlemmerstraat and get that bicycle pump with the built-in air gauge that I've been eyeing. That much I can do, and I do.

The pump is beyond sleek, compatible with both types of valve stem, and radiates fine workmanship and serious overkill capability. I could blow up the Goodyear Blimp with this thing, not, of course, that it would do any good to pump the Goodyear Blimp full of air.

I am distracted from my pleasure with my purchase on the return trip when a black Mercedes SUV, which in principle radiates really nasty vibes in narrow Amsterdam streets, turns its entitled ass onto Haarlemmerstraat only to discover that a small delivery van is partially blocking the way, leaving enough room for a normal automobile to squeeze past but problematic for this shiny obscenity. It seems even more out of proportion here than they do in San Francisco.

What traps the SUV hopelessly is that the Dutch pedestrians refuse to give up a single centimeter of the sidewalk upon which it might wish to encroach, even for a second. And the bicyclists, the bicycle lane blocked by the delivery van, completely fill what's left of the street. No way they're going to let this voracious pig have any of their asphalt. So he's stuck. So am I, of course, because there's no way I'm going to run the Segway out into the raging current swirling around this swine.

But hey, I'm in no hurry. I've got all afternoon. I don't use any electricity to speak of when I'm standing still, and I'm enjoying the show too much to leave before its over, which, all too soon, it is as the van moves on. My prayer that the van has another delivery in the block is not answered, and the Mercedes escapes to block traffic another day, the driver's soul perhaps a little crisp around the edges but probably not, considering the sort of mentality that would be required to buy one of those things. All the arrogance of the SUV plus ostentation!!!

When I get home and pull the Segway into the privacy of Rina's garage, I can't resist using the pump immediately to check the air pressure, since I'm nearly certain the tires are significantly over-inflated.

I can't figure out how to use the damn pump. I fiddle with it for some time but cannot get an airtight attachment to the stem. There is no instruction manual other than a card telling me what a fine instrument I have and that its compatibility is complete. I guess they figure that anyone smart enough to tie his shoes and thus get to the store is smart enough to know how to use this thing.

Now what do I do? Hans' and Rina's bicycles both have the Schrader stem, so they wouldn't know. I don't know a single person here who I'd expect to know how to fit a hand pump onto a Presta stem. If I were a woman, I could simply go back to the place I bought it and ask either the nice young man or the totally sweet and charming young woman how to do this. Well, I could do that if I were being pursued by Apaches.

Or I could simply ask the friendly tekkie at Segway who responded with humor when I wrote last week asking for information, but alas I later made the mistake of telling him a little too much. His businesslike reply when I admitted that I had been running around on the Segway for several days after having blasted a bunch of air in with an unregulated air hose does not leave me feeling totally free to get down deeper into confessions of cavalier incompetence.

So I'm stuck. I apply logic. I see threads in various things that obviously must somehow be screwed into other threaded things. And then there's this lever thingy that seems to thrust something in the middle out, clearly intended to depress that thing inside the valve stem that we used to have a name for.....hmmmmm..... the valve, maybe?

I give up, crawl upstairs, sleep for a few hours, get up, happen to look at the tekkie's email, and realize that I have misread it and that the Segway uses the Schrader rather than the Presta valve stem.

The pump is compatible with both systems. The reason I can't get it to connect is that I am trying to connect the wrong side of the hose to the Segway. Horribly embarrassed but much relieved, I go back to bed.

Now you perhaps understand why, when I was setting up the trust and it came to the part about the conditions that would be required to declare me incompetent and put me away, I made it necessary to get the agreement of two doctors, a chiropractor, a Unitarian minister, and a Scientology Clear.