Part II: The land of gouda and startlingly throaty g's

Well, unfortunately, it has been much longer than expected since I posted the last entry. Ozzie's new apartment was supposed to have internet access long before this point in time (and still does not), which has completely thwarted my sincere commitment to writing regularly. As such, I am currently writing this blog entry while hanging over the ledge of the apartment balcony, connecting rather tenuously to the university's wireless signal off in the distance. Hopefully, I won't be cut off mid-sentence.

So, where was I? The last episode ended with a cryptic reference to a homeless woman and an "attack." Much has happened since this point, but to avoid anachronistic references, I think I will rewind a bit to one of the more memorable events of my time here. Ozzie and I were walking in the center of the city, when we were approached by a woman in the red-light district (obviously, we were walking through rather than to this part of town). She first spoke in Dutch and then, realizing I do not speak Dutch, switched over to English. She was small woman, rather thin, about 35 or so, and quite disheveled, really. I knew what was coming, of course, so I continued to walk, but slowed down enough to look at her. I answered that I did speak English (mistake numero uno), and she proceded to tell us that she had missed her train (what she was doing this far from the train-station in a touristy section of town, who knows...oh wait, well yes, it was clear). When I continued to walk, perhaps surmising that I was really not taking her seriously, she asked me, rather nicely in fact, if I could just speak to her for two minutes. I nicely, but matter of factly, said, "I'm sorry, but I'm afraid I can't." At this point, the sweet puppy-dog face she had previously been sporting contorted into a surprisingly vicious grimace and before I could blink, she was raising her arms, emitting a frustrated growl, and moving toward me at what seemed like lightning speed. At this point, my innate biological programming (that's funny if you know me) must have kicked in, because all I can remember is reflexively turning my shoulder to her and covering my face with my hands, not knowing what to expect. While extremely brief, moments like these have a way of extending their lives by a hundred-fold. The impact of her arm(?), fist(?), body(?) was not painful, but it was jarring, and in the moment, I was reduced to that single emotion of fear that is both debilitating and motivating at once. The blow caught me in the shoulder I had turned toward her. I could feel the force and frustration behind it, but there really was no pain--perhaps it ordinarily would have been but was suppressed by the adrenaline, or maybe she was really just too slight to do much damage, even to my own "frail" frame. Before I even knew what had happened, the woman turned, scowl intact, and made her way towards her next target. I was left there, thankful I hadn't been pushed over the side of the canal (or stabbed for that matter--the way she had raised her fist, in retrospect, seemed like she may have had a knife) but sort of sauteeing in the mix of adrenaline that was now coursing through my body. I was not hurt at all, but shaken to the core. In a way, it was just a minor event, no harm done physically, no insulting words exchanged, but the look in the woman's eyes and face, her Smeagol (Gollum)-like features, remained with me for the rest of the evening. I sure hope she was able to catch the next train.