Y is for Yellow

The Yellow Lamps of Europe

It might have had a little to do with the 5 or 6 bottles of beer I had, but it mostly had to do with the fact that I was just wicked in love.

I remember the night as clearly as if it was last night. Well, if I had 5 or 6 bottles of beer last night, I might not have remembered it as well now. In fact, maybe I remember what I want to remember. I’m getting sidetracked. I stumbled out of the door of a party in Brussels, Belgium and found the hand of my girlfriend … partly to help me balance, partly because I thought if I hold on, I’ll never let go.

School in Rotterdam was just about over and that whole “real life” bother was about to start again. I wasn’t ready. Well, I was ready, but I didn’t want to go. I wanted to go to parties in Belgium and stumble out in the middle of the night and hold hands with my girlfriend and walk through the streets under the glow of the street lamps. I wanted to be able to walk home, to live in a city that had yellow lamps and where it was freezing at night, where you needed a scarf and where you drank hot wine concoctions at winter festivals. I wanted to be the one who lived somewhere nearby, even in a neighboring country would do. I couldn’t wait to see what the future would bring with this Dutch girl and at the same time, I was terrified that the future wouldn’t include her.

We held hands and walked under the trees and under the warm glow and I’m not sure I had known such bliss. I’m also not sure I knew where we were going. Where were we staying anyway? Ach, details. We had drink, scarves, and warm interlocked hands. It was the beginning of something, it was getting more clear, and it was the beginning of something bigger than I had ever known. It was scary, but I wasn’t scared, I was eager.

She probably knew where we were staying. I wondered if she was dazzled by the lights as I was. I told her what I thought about them, how their glow kept us warm, maybe not temperature-wise, but our hearts. It was a glorious night. She probably knew how to get home. She knows these things. She held my hand. She kept on holding it.

The scene fades away under the leafy avenues of late-night Brussels as we walk away, two lovers out of a painting. Maybe an oil painting. A really old one. In a museum. But we’re in there, it’s us. But it was real.

It doesn’t get more “gemütlich” than winter in Wiesbaden with friends and Glühwein.