Travelogue 1251 – 30 June
After the Heat

You brace for the heat, but you don’t prepare for its departure, for the fatigue afterward, for the nervous conditions.

Today, I’m making a stop reluctantly at the Albert Heijn for groceries, and I’m stopping reluctantly because I’m tired, stopping reluctantly because the most convenient Albert Heijn is closed while the city administers one of its mysterious excavations under the pavements in front.

During the heat wave, visits to the Albert Heijn were highlights of the long days because of the airco. Now it feels like being cast as a victim in a zombie movie or, more terrifying, being stranded at Donald Trump’s great fair in Washington DC.

I’m already suffering a spell of jitters, sweating under the green lighting and casting nervous glances down the airless aisles that suggest in their weird abundance the end of the world, when a muffled siren is sounded through the store’s broadcast system, and then an announcement that is indecipherable, but delivered in that cadence in which all emergency messages are enunciated. Not one of the sparse selection of customers or employees takes notice. I pause with dread. What is happening? Is this a rare symptom of tinnitus in times of disorientation, when delicate nerves are most sensitive to the uncanny?

The message stops, and I tentatively pick up with my shopping again. The siren returns, haunting me, and only me, as I stop and start, gingerly threading my way among the aisles, feeling like a fugitive. I can make out bits of the message now, asking us all to exit the building in an orderly fashion. No one responds, and I think I understand why, as the unsettling recording begins again. It’s a malfunction of the system. But how is it that everyone knows? I conclude my shopping, and I rush toward the exit, never able to quiet the dread. I’m out the first door, but the building could still dissolve around me in the mall foyer, right where the bins outside the drugstore are stacked with maxi-pads being sold at discount. I carry on, I cover the final distance, and I am outside by the bike racks.

Last night, Little Ren was in tears. Brazil and Japan were battling each other to a standstill on the pitch in Houston. Menna told the girls about her family’s long love affair with the Brazilian team. Ren responded, not entirely in a contrarian spirit, since for a few years already she has cultivated a fascination with Far Eastern cultures, that she was rooting for Japan. Josie quickly reassured her mother that she was for Brazil. I said I was for Japan, as I think I would have been anyway. So the family playfully cheered in even division for their teams. We would have been better served going to bed on time. In the 96th minute, Martinelli sent that beautiful strike into the net, and the game was suddenly decided. We were stunned, and then Ren was lost in grief. Eventually, we were all mourning, not only because Ren’s tears were so unrestrained but because the Japanese players and fans both were so quietly, endearingly, nobly sad, so much the picture of those who should have won, and because the heat had made us all debile and vulnerable. We consoled each other as we made our way upstairs to bed, being sure to open the balcony door a crack to allow in the fresh night air.

Travelogue 1250 – 27 June
The Heat

I awake with a headache, as though with a hangover, even though I didn’t drink. My skin is sticky. My arms and legs are spotted with red marks of irritation. My arms are fairly glowing with accumulated UV. 

The little fan nearby emits a persistent hum. It has done so all night. Over all else is a blanket of summer torpor.

When I rise, I move slowly. The muscles engage only reluctantly. The first thing I do is open the front door. The morning air rushes in, a fresh breeze. It feels like I can breathe. The next thing to do is attend to the ants. Once or twice every summer, they mount a concerted campaign to overrun us. They sense an opening in these temperatures, when the human will is weakened. I sweep them out to the pavement outside, where they scramble in circles, stunned by the reversal.

The world outside would be as silent as the rooms inside, abandoned by consciousness, if it weren’t for the neighbours across the compound who have been celebrating something all night. When they talk, they shout. They seem unaware of the peace and stillness gathered about them, sealing them into a dream-like globe of fever.

The flag of Curaçao has been draped here and there around the neighbourhood. This is debris from celebrations, hung over balconies, waving from cars, a kind of signature, though the team never did win a game in the World Cup. This was their first appearance.

My eyes ache as I recall the game last night – not Curaçao ‘s, – as though the TV’s light were too bright after a day of burning sun. The game had been a disappointment. I had hoped to watch Haaland, and he was kept on the bench, like a treasure, like a talisman.