I segway over to Rafaël's on the Oudezijds Voorburgwal to join him for our first excursion on wheels, and we begin by heading for Frank's Smoke House. My nagging little doubt is realized when we get there and see that it's closed Sunday and Monday, but as we're lingering in front discussing our next move one of Frank's employees opens the door. Afterwards, the idea occurs to me that his coming to the door might have been prompted by more than pure generosity even though the Dutch routinely display a heart-warming level of kindness and solicitude for visitors. But still, I somehow doubt that he had too often seen lingering outside his door a dwarf on a kid's bicycle accompanied by a grey-haired man balanced on a strange contraption.

When I tell him how delightful I found Frank on my previous visit, he responds that Frank is on vacation but will be back in nine days. I look forward to this reunion. Meanwhile, undaunted by our failure to shop at Frank's, Rafaël and I set out for the Albert Cuyp Markt.

En route, I discover that Rafaël's concern for my safety on the Segway is a form of projection. His recklessness in traffic and his blithe disregard of traffic regulations are horrific, and I take my first Amsterdam spill when I realize too late that he is leading us into the maw of a forbidden zone full of onrushing cars, swerve a trifle too abruptly into a legal (and safe) area, and end up falling just as I am about to regain control. I berate him vigorously and articulate my resolve not to follow him when the signage and/or signals and/or common sense forbid entrance.

Which brings up the question of the anarchist streak the contemporary Dutch exhibit. Best I can tell, it's not a streak but rather a broad swath. This trait seems to be exaggerated in the young, but they came by it naturally. One evening in November of 1998, I learned from a gentleman a bit older than I that a law had recently been passed forbidding pissing in the canals. He felt this was an outrage and that it was the duty of every man to exercise this God-given right whenever he felt the urge, which he was demonstrating as he spoke.

And wonderful Rina, my kindly landlady, my age and a grandmother, has already more than once observed that they don't really follow a particular rule/restriction having to do with where one can ride his bicycle. "It's just there for the tourists."

We eventually get to the Albert Cuyp Markt, where we have belegte brotjes (little sandwiches made by filling a soft roll with something tasty) at a shop Rafaël likes and then hit De Volendammer Vishandel, which I remember fondly from my last visit and where I now buy some paling (eel) to take to Rina's as an appetizer tonight...and since I am in the shop, 200 gr.. of the sprat fillets. Yes, that's what I said: sprat fillets. I mean, sprats themselves are small luxury items, but sprat fillets are serious decadence one step removed from nightingale's tongues. Oh, the shame. I can just see it now: "...aged 63 years, of a surfeit of sprat fillets...".

To avoid this infamy, I shall divide them into 50g. portions and limit myself to one per day. Now I'm wondering how long they'll be detectable in my blood. After this blowout I should probably stay clean until it's determined in November whether the citizens, as part of the War on Terrorism, will be subject to Mandatory Random Testing for smoked fish consumption.

After the shopping Rafaël and I are passing through Gravenstraat, and he's kidding me with that wonderful mock outrage of his about my taking pics of stuff that's sure not in the guidebooks when he spots the window of De Twentsche Club and wants a pic of it. I get the window with him in front of it.

Twentsche is the adjectival form of Twents, the dialect that Rafaël speaks (he's from Enschede), and these folks take the same pride in it that people from, say, Houston do in theirs. And get much the same reaction from speakers of the standard dialect in their respective countries. I wouldn't be a bit surprised to find a Houston dialect club in New York. You gotta stick together when you're surrounded by others.

Which makes me recall somehow getting an invitation the autumn after Allen died to a huge gay party for Texas expatriates in a spectacular Victorian on McAllister Street between Scott and Divisadero. It was so strange and wonderful to be at a party in San Francisco where everyone spoke with a Texas accent.

More than one person has warned me that whatever I do, I must not learn any Dutch pronunciation from Rafaël. Ummm yes, I try to imagine what it would be like to listen to a Nederlander speak Houston English. Aieeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!

I should mention that all through this excursion, Rafaël has been marveling over and over that for the first time in his life, everyone is staring at his companion and barely even noticing him. Always happy to provide little services for my friends, but this may be the first time in my life I've acted as a decoy...and if it isn't, I don't want to hear about it.

The dinner is a multi-level delight. The food is delicious: Spanish cherry peppers cored, marinated, and stuffed with a marscapone-like cheese. Smoked eel on toast. Buttered white asparagus with copa. Little new potatoes boiled in their skins. And sugared strawberries with an astonishing vanilla-ice-cream-like substance that Rina tells me is the almost the only item for sale in a little shop across from Hema on Nieuwendijk.

Better yet, I keep discovering additional levels in Rina. Like her knowledge of architecture. On the way back from our excursion to IJmuiden, she took a small detour out at the western edge of town to run us through a housing project called "Eigen Haard" designed by H. P. Berlage and a classic example of Amsterdam School architecture. Fascinating buildings with, dare I say this, almost Escherian whimsy. Tonight she lends me a book with brief descriptions and small pictures designed to lead you through the top 100 modern buildings in greater Amsterdam. As I leaf through this book, and as I see more and more of the Amsterdam School, it occurs to me that, well, there are probably a good many living architects who think of this school as architectural wanking.

I just love that word. I heard it first in London in May, 1998. Liam was driving us somewhere and, in a red-faced, bulging-neck-veined 'roid rage at a fellow motorist, issued a torrent of abuse ending with "you wanker!" My inquiry as to the meaning of this word only partially defused the situation, but the knowledge that he was, in fact, dead wrong coupled with a closer look at Liam - clearly both enraged and very, very strong - helped the other motorist to take the tongue-lashing with reasonable grace.

And finally, I seem to have made a breakthrough in communication with Hans. He does not speak English, but he understands me fairly well when I substitute English words. Better yet, now I'm starting to understand him. The sad part is that now that our communication is better, the signs of his Alzheimer's are clearer.

Since we're talking about medical conditions, and to end on a brighter note, I must announce that I have taken up drinking again. My doctor will be pleased. Normal people drown their sorrows, but as my interest in life declined, I gradually found it just too much trouble to have the daily drink for her. Now I'm getting back into it. Am I weird or what?