Out of the house unwashed and unshaven at 1030 in order to hit EasyEverything (the best local Internet access facility) during their off-peak rates.  Stopped at the mailbox conveniently situated right next door and was immediately faced with a language problem:  There were two slots, both plainly labeled in Dutch but alas, neither label cognated well to either English or German.  So I stood there clutching my postcards in frustration, not wishing to start my day by climbing back up two flights of stairs to consult my dictionary.

But I am nothing if not resourceful, so I accosted the first passer-by, a bewhiskered gentleman of approximately my own age, and demanded, brandishing the postcards address side up and pointing at the two slots, "Mijnheer, dit of dat?" (Sir, this or that?)  Naturally, we fell into conversation.  Alas, in English, but it turned out that he shared my interest in languages, and when he mentioned Quechua, I was able to counter with Aymara, but he trumped with a moribund if not totally dead Andean language I'd never heard of.  Of course, with my current sieve of a memory, I haven't the foggiest recollection of what it was.

At any rate, he was fascinating, and we both kept making polite gestures to conclude the conversation but kept thinking of other issues to discuss as we stood there talking for over an hour.  He had a wealth of information on Frisian, and I am already thinking that if I can get my meds cranked around well enough, I really must spend a few weeks in Friesland, the Dutch part of Friesland since, according to my informant neither the Danes nor the Germans are anywhere near as accommodating to the Frisian language in their portions of Greater Friesland.

I finally tore myself away and strode off toward EasyEverything, only to be brought up short after about ten meters by the realization that no, my leg problem had not vanished in the night.  So I reverted to my shamble for the remainder of the journey.  I may be an old man, but God, do I hate having to walk like one!  I must practice in the privacy of my apartment turning the shamble into an insolent, slow swagger.

Returned home after EE and was invited for tea by Rina.  Stimulating conversation in her rooftop garden on this beautifully sunny day.  She described the butcher I went to yesterday around the corner as outrageously expensive and dwelt lovingly on his father’s business practices in those difficult years immediately after WWII.   She gave me a couple of alternatives, both unfortunately up Singel and all the way across the Prinsengracht.  Regarding other culinary matters, she’s my age, so she can remember her father’s disappearing overnight a few times in the winter of ’44 and returning with smaller and smaller bags of tulip bulbs.  Not the tastiest variety, alas, but by that time the citizens were not finicky. 

I also suffered during the war: chewing gum and chocolate were unavailable, and sugar was rationed.

After tea with Rina, I went out to the Albert Hein, the local Safeway equivalent, and picked up another smoked mackerel, of which I devoured three quarters before it even got into the refrigerator.  Oh, and before I forget it, I also picked up mustard.  Albert Hein had Grey Poupon and Maille and a couple of other French brands I didn't know, and I had one of those in my hand before I spotted De Echte Zaanse Mosterd.  I'd never had a Dutch mustard before, but the stuff is just wonderful, perhaps the best I ever ate.  I had it smeared on a brotje (soft roll) with some Westphalian ham and some cherry tomatoes. Yum.

I just now went to my window and was struck by an observation:  This city really does not sleep.... at least not as much as San Francisco.  There is constant foot and bicycle traffic all night long.