Janga jenga

As I finish my pastry and type on this addictive little pocketPC, some people at my table are trying to figure out who I am .. Or who I look like. One told their theory to another, who kept trying to surreptitiously look over. The first finally decides, "yeah, that's who it is."

I sort of hope they ask me, because I'm curious. Really, who wouldn't want to know who they are? This mystery is more engaging than the Rembrandt House, at least.

Wondering how wise it is to blog right now. But maybe it's good to document what I may have forgotten by tomorrow morning. I just hope I can find the bus.

(I'm greatly exaggerating here ... The cake has had virtually no effect.)

"The thought of the guy jiggling his cornpipe out the window...," the person who knows me says in response to someone else in her group.

I hope that ain't who they think I am.

I ordered a vanilla shake here. But they had run out. I said I thought it would be a good combo. The guy here at The Bulldog agreed.

"That's why we're sold out," he said.

Indeed.

They now are playing jenga. I was watching. They invited me to play. I guess whoever I am doesn't come with much on an intimidation factor.

Holy crap -- maybe I am Campbell Scott after all! Or a Ukrainian.

I left without ever finding out.

There are an inordinate number of Kentucky Fried Chickens here (it's not KFC in Holland yet). I've seen two thus far (including on this walk to the bus; no, that wasn't a space cake-induced random thought), which seems inordinate enough.

And on that note... My Amsteradventure essentially comes to an end -- assuming the bus doesn't take me back through Haarlem (or Harlem) and leave me there. It's kinda like Vegas here -- OK in moderation and probably much, much more fun in a group, but no desire to go back anytime soon.

On to Pa-ree.

P.S.: "First generation turbo lighters (something something)," some guy just mumbled to nobody in particular as he ambled on by.

Just seemed like something that should be shared.

So there.