Piers and Fran Lebowitz

I left for Amsterdam yesterday, at 7 am, only to be back a day later. 

At 4 pm, I took the last train from "Amsterdam Central.” The train arrived only forty minutes late, and in the case of Deutsche Bahn, it should be concluded that the train arrived on time. Sadly, the delay was under one hour, and I couldn’t file a complaint, my usual outlet for anger. 

As I lit a cigarette outside “Haupt Banhof”, a homeless man with dusty hair and a dusty jacket came from behind, asking for money. For a moment, I was surprised by his appearance. I saw no homeless people in Amsterdam, and I forgot that homelessness exists, as well as drug addiction. I become forgetful. 

At the bus station, two homeless men were sleeping on the pavement, covered with rugs and pieces of clothes. It was the end of October – the temperatures were steadily dropping, the air was getting crispy cold. I felt sorry for them. Two drunk guys had crushed the wrong taxi and were blowing up black balloons on the sidewalk. There was no doubt, I was back in Berlin. 

My backpack, heavy with books from the second-hand bookstore in Amsterdam that “boasts forty thousand English book titles”, weighed on my shoulders. I wish I could get all the titles, but I started small: T.S. Elliot, books about Venice, Ishiguro, Miller. Among books, tulips for my mother and her friends mingled in the backpack. I battled pros and cons in my mind, but at the end – gave up and decided to take a taxi, a move of luxury for me. A white SUV “XL” taxi cab arrived on time. Why would I need an XL car if it’s just me and my backpack? The reason is that I am slowly growing to a sociopath and prefer as little human interaction as possible.

The driver was singing along to the radio when we passed by the Brandenburg Gate, an unusual route. When Whitney Houston popped up, I quietly mumbled, “Give me your higher love...” We were almost there. Suddenly the driver stopped. The street where I lived was under construction. 

“No worries, I will walk from here”, I confidently told the driver.

“You sure?”, he asked. 

I took the backpack from the backseat and walked up the dark street.

Amsterdam was just six Deutsche Bahn hours away but felt so much further. Was it because of the river canals that wrap around the city, sparking with occasional sun rays, making you walk longer if you missed your bridge? Was it because of the seagulls circling above parked boats and houses on the water? Or was it because of the Dutch houses standing along the canals all dressed up, cats peeking through the windows of the spacious apartments, yellowed leaves scattered on the steep staircases between vases with chrysanthemums? 

It was a mix of reasons. I came to see Fran Lebowitz. She was from New York. New York used to be a Dutch settlement. There could be a connection. 

“Sadly, Berlin was sold out, so I had to go to Amsterdam”, I told my supervisor at work when requesting a two-day leave, and I would say to Fran Lebowitz’s manager when standing in line for the book signing. The truth is, I was glad to have an excuse to leave Berlin, even for a day and a half. It gave me the confidence to believe that I had control over my life and was still capable of making my own choices. 

Everything seemed different in Amsterdam, seasons changed in the blink of an eye: I was showered by a warm drizzle, blinded by sharp sunlight, soaked in heavy rain, caressed by the Sun – all in a matter of an hour. 

But there was also a moment of danger. “An evening with Fran Lebowitz” was scheduled at 7 pm. My tiny hotel room was situated on the top floor. I had heard about dangerous Amsterdam staircases but considered it to be an exaggeration by the fainthearted. As it turned out, people are not warned enough. The steps were so narrow and curved that I could, at best, place my tiptoes one foot at a time. Imagine if I were intoxicated and had to walk up at night, or even worse – down? This image threw shills down my spine. Reaching the last floor, felt as if I had made it to Everest, clinging to wooden banisters with all my might, bent in an unnatural posture. City officials should address Amsterdam staircases with public ads, warning newcomers about risks and hazards. 

The danger, however, lay not only inside Amsterdam buildings but on the outside as well. Danger on the outside was disguised in something tourists often see on colorful postcards or souvenir magnets – the bikers. My neck had to stay in perpetual motion, watching out for the dozens, furiously approaching bikers, moving in packs, never solo. They looked like an angry pack of wolves, approaching from the right, from behind the tram, from the left, from above the hill, in both directions at once. For a day and a half spent in Amsterdam, I stayed constantly alert. If I heard the bike bell ring, it would mark the last sound I heard on Earth, before being smashed. I would prefer to make it to the Fran Lebowitz night alive, if I could choose. After all, I made it this far.

What else was different about Amsterdam – the women: blond, strong, dignified, but not arrogant, pleasantly flirtatious; the coffee: dull, sour, lifelessly brown; the tobacco: three times more expensive and very moist; the streets: clean, garbage-free – these are the main criteria I draw conclusions of a city. 

The night was burgundy. Burgundy was the carpet in the DeLaMar theater, burgundy were the plush seats, burgundy were my leather loafers, burgundy was the Sicilian wine, sparkling in a glass. Needless to say, the show was sold out and the theater hall – fully packed.

Fran Lebowitz was wearing her “uniform”: leather cowboy boots, blue jeans, a white shirt, and a tailored man’s jacket. The audience was informed that the show was divided into two forty-five-minute sections: interview and Q&A. The interview was unexciting, as for most people gathered here, Fran Lebowitz came on the radar after the Netflix documentary series, “Pretend it’s a city”, filmed by Scorsese, and aired during Covid lockdown, the interviewer’s questions provided no new insights to Fran Lebowitz’s mind.

The Netflix series was a bittersweet moment, having admired Lebowitz and her witty stories about New York’s art world of the 1970s-1980s, I've been a fan for years. Netflix series meant that underground Fran went mainstream. “The woman made a career out of being mean”, somebody commented in the audience.

Fran Lebowitz made a career of being a sharp observer of human nature and society, “always right but never fair”, as her friend, Toni Morrison, said. There was very little optimism for the future, so we laughed. Fran gave us plenty of opportunities for release, implications-free: Trump, the British Empire, her childhood in the 1950s, New York back then, New York now. I tried to remember the last time I laughed so much. Three years ago? Never? 

The show ended abruptly. Many questions and raised hands remained hanging in the air. Fran Lebowitz thanked the audience and slowly walked off the stage. 

The third act followed. In the “Red Foyer”, a long line of people stretched in the intimately lit hall, a bar was tucked in the corner. As we waited in the downstairs foyer, people holding wine and cocktail glasses, chatting, laughing, I thought that I was always opposed to taking autographs; what was the point? But I was willing to wait for this one.

A woman asked us to make room. Fran was making her way through the crowd of people holding books with her picture on the cover, in a long coat and dark glasses, clinching a cigarette. Heads instantly turned her way. An immediate thought ran through my mind,  “She is a small lady”, as the whisper in the hall lingered in various languages, “petite”, “piccola.”

At the small table where Fran Lebowitz was sitting, people would kneel, hand her the book, have a quick chat, or whisper words of devotion, while she was meticulously writing out a fan’s name on the page. It was reminiscent of a communion: one kneels, one is blessed, one leaves inspired. I wish there was a Lebowitz Sunday service, where we could confide our sorrows in a dark confession booth, being gratified by an immediate, harsh, but truthful response.

My turn came up. When I approached the table, I was announced by the manager: “Ukrainian, came from Berlin”. Fran looked at me, puzzled as I kneeled, 

“We were just in Berlin two days ago”, she looked at me through horn-frame glasses, with what seemed like a judgment. 

“You were sold out”, I said in my defense. 

“Do you still live in Ukraine?”

“I live in Berlin for now.”

“Good, good. Stay there.”, she bent over the book and started writing out the first letter of my name.

“And your family? Are they alright?”, she looked at me attentively. 

“They are in Ukraine. They are alright”, I answered. “They don’t want to leave.”

We spoke about the upcoming USA elections the North Koreans sent to war in Ukraine. I was amazed at how well-informed Fran Lebowitz was, considering that the soldiers from North Korea were sent to war just a couple of days ago. 

As it often happens with my mind, instead of working with the highest intensity to memorize every detail of a special event, it tends to fall into a state of trance and blackout. I took the signed book and like a somnambulist wandered off to the cloak’s room. Fran Lebowitz was inquiring about my family, this fact needed time to settle in. When I came outside, a cold night breeze blew in my face. Walking down the empty streets, I called my mother. 

“Fran Lebowitz just asked me where you are!”, I said with excitement. 

“Who?”, my mother replied, yawning. “I am already sleeping. You always call so late.” 

“The writer from New York”

“New York”, my mother said vaguely. “I remember when your father and I stayed there in the 90s. It was nice in the fall.”

I wished my mother goodnight, knowing that tomorrow she wouldn’t have a faint recollection of our conversation. Air raids and sleepless nights were the cause of a bad memory. 

  Warm rain started falling, leaving blurry drops of water on my cigarette and the book cover. Yellow and red lights glided in the dark water of the canals. 

While conquering the arduous staircase in my hotel, bits of the evening floated in memory, “Undecided voter is like not knowing what to choose in a restaurant: salmon or cyanide”, “The adult I was becoming”, I smiled to myself, I knew exactly what she meant, “Polyamory? We used to call that “fun”. But it doesn’t last forever. Remember that”. I wanted to remember every detail of this day. 

Holding “The Fran Lebowitz Reader” in my hand, I flipped the second page open. My name was there, and in curvy small letters Fran Lebowitz wrote, “from your pal”, and signed under. 

This happened.

    The ferry was breaking through still waters of the river IJ in the direction of a former shipyard. A dockyard was now well inhabited with new residential buildings, cafés, flea market, and bars. It was quiet here, mid-week, and I had the place to myself for two more hours before the train.

Every time I see a dock, or a pier with dark, abandoned industrial buildings, I think of Peter Hujar’s black-and-white photographs, depicting piers along the East River in New York from the 1980s. Those were wild times. I could imagine living next to the shipyard, abandoned or not. I could even imagine living in Amsterdam.

The ferry passing by made a squeaking longing sound. If I weren’t from Ukraine, if there had been no war, would Fran Lebowitz care to chat with me? If there was no war, would I end up living in Berlin? In high probability, the answer would be negative, and I would trade it in with no hesitation. 

A seagull drew a wide circle in the air; it had a black mark on the white feathers on its cheek and landed on a rusty boat. The seagull and the boat were swaying together in a gentle motion. Life was flowing in an uninterrupted stream. It was tempting to lean over, to remain still, to enjoy the stillness and the green grass growing on the water’s edge, outlines of tall glass buildings on the other side of the river, covered in mist.

Life went on. Here, life was danger-free, with no threats from the sky, from the east, or from the north. For a moment, I let myself forget and stay present. Forgetfulness could be a blessing, selective memory – a survival instinct, and choices – a hard-earned luxury.  

“Amsterdam Central” station stood on the edge of the water. Gray sky reflected gray water, tied with serene melancholy. The last affectionate glance thrown across the sea, into the mist, to the seagull looking with detachment under the drizzling rain, on the NDSM, hidden from the view. 

We are the sum of our choices, but only with time passing will we understand the destination they brought us to. My choice to come to Amsterdam was perhaps the best one I’ve made in a long time.