I cross the park closer to my house, after dinner time. The park is full with summer revenants, even if at that time, the whole scene is more apollonian than dionysian. People let their picnics and barbecues slowly settle with yet another beer and a lazy conversation. The smoke of few grills, not quite put out yet, curls slowly upwards. There is almost no music, since the time of noise and dance is past. Yet Apollo has not won totally over. This is just a prelude for the next session of Dyionisian celebrations, which might, or should, happen beyond our eyes. This is the time for the conversations that slowly will turn in open ends, in provocations, perhaps and if successful, in seductions.
If successful.
I see a group of young people, just ahead of me, more or less standing up. A young man detaches himself from them, with the carelessness of long practice inserts earphones in his ears, and starts walking. I like his poise, and he knows how to dress. Clear colored chinos, a white linen shirt, low shoes. I don’t see his face, but I imagine it stilized. He is not hurried, but he doesn’t stop neither, and I am a slow stroller, so in few moments he is gone from my sight and attention, making headway towards a closer by bus stop. I forget him.
This park is part of my life ever since I arrived to Utrecht, 20 plus years ago. His trees shadow the garden of the house where I live. I believe that it was created for the workers of the Demka fabric, a long gone steel parts maker. Its old trees grow in grounds that belonged to the fabric owner. I would like to believe that it responds to the same currents that made The Netherlands one of the most capitalists places on earth, and also one of the most supportive of the working class, to use the ideas of Deidre McCloskey, the Chicago economist. This park, the Juliana Park, is around the corner of my house, and I know it well. Walked in it carrying my son, up to the moment that he would fall sleep on my chest. My mother walked together with him here as well, when both enjoyed giving fresh leaves to the enclosed deers. I have had hard conversations and loving conversations with beloved friends, and with persons that are my friends no more. It has a beautiful building that once hosted a collection of caged birds, and now is used by an asiatic restaurant. Couple of times a week I enjoy the company of O and we both practice kendo kata at the top of the only hill it has. One time we were surrounded by parrots, exotic invaders in this template country, whom loudly commented each swing of our wooden swords.
A young woman passes me, jogging with the grace of somebody that has done it for a long time already, confortable in her body and wise in the use of her muscles. In itself is a normal occurrence in this park, frequented by runners. But she is dressed in a white flowing skirt, and matching shirt. I can’t but follow her with my eyes. Dutch people seems to be accustomed to all sorts of cloths and actions, paying attention to no one. But I keep on being interested in the unusual and in the beautiful people that surrounds me. So I see that she calls to that young man, who does not hear her. Already at the bus stop she faces him. One earphone is taken out, and a conversation that I can’t hear ensues. Heads wave, hands move. His shoulder raise, her eyebrows too.
The bus arrives.