Holiday in Paris
It's the 1960s. My parents are still alive and live in the sleepy village where I grew up, not far from Rotterdam. Nevertheless, I'm not a kid; I'm the adult I am today. Which means I’m older than my parents while still being their son. I feel I'm here in the past to make certain observations, though I have no idea what or who to observe.
My parents have decided to use their tiny VW Beetle to go on a short holiday to Paris, and they wanted me to go with them. My mother invited several neighbors and friends, while my father invited his cousins from Rotterdam. Everyone is allowed to bring their spouses.
When departure time arrives, it's quite the crowd that gathers around the VW. Even though the car is small on the outside, it is huge on the inside. Everyone fits in easily, and there's ample room for the luggage that everyone brought along. But people brought more than just luggage. It was feared that the French would have peculiar culinary tastes, so everyone brought Dutch food. Not to forget alcoholic beverages; who wants to drink French wine when you can drink Dutch gin?
When the journey starts, the sun is shining. The mood is excellent, and it becomes even better during the hours of travel. Gin is consumed, peanut butter sandwiches are devoured. People laugh and sing, and a few women start to dance. The men clap their hands and shout encouragements. The noise level inside the car increases. I notice that the physical appearance of my companions is changing. The more alcohol they consume, the longer and thinner their bodies grow. Arms and legs become like snakes, mouths become wide, contorted grins, and people slither rather than walk inside the giant interior of the car.
My father is driving. His sense of direction is flawless as always, and within a few hours we have reached the Arc de Triomphe in the heart of Paris. When we enter the famous road circling the monument my father, encouraged by the mood in the car, decides to stay on the roundabout and 'teach the French a few lessons'. This consists of zigzagging across the road, opening the windows to shout Dutch insults at other drivers, and singing obscene Dutch songs. The noise inside the car becomes almost unbearable, and the bodies of my companions shape-shift from one grotesque form into another.
We reach our hotel in one piece and start unloading the luggage. The hotel clerk remains unfazed when we - a bunch of drunk, shape-shifting Dutchmen - arrive at the counter, and guides everyone to their respective rooms.
The next morning starts with commotion. On the floor where our rooms are situated, water is gushing down the walls. People in pajamas gather in the corridor. The hotel clerk is summoned, and he in turn summons the owner of the hotel. All of us climb the stairs to the next floor to try and locate the source of the leakage.
The floor is hijacked by an armed man in his underwear, who holds a rifle in one hand and a bottle of beer in the other. Behind him a broken piece of pipe protrudes from the ceiling, releasing large quantities of water. Scared hotel guests in pajamas huddle together in the background. "No need to come up here!" the man shouts, "everything is under control!" The hotel owner points to the broken pipe. "You are mistaken. Just look behind you." The armed man becomes very afraid. "I can't do that," he whispers, "once I look over my shoulder the Devil will get me, and all will be lost."
The next moment I wake up; I have to pee urgently.
My parents have decided to use their tiny VW Beetle to go on a short holiday to Paris, and they wanted me to go with them. My mother invited several neighbors and friends, while my father invited his cousins from Rotterdam. Everyone is allowed to bring their spouses.
When departure time arrives, it's quite the crowd that gathers around the VW. Even though the car is small on the outside, it is huge on the inside. Everyone fits in easily, and there's ample room for the luggage that everyone brought along. But people brought more than just luggage. It was feared that the French would have peculiar culinary tastes, so everyone brought Dutch food. Not to forget alcoholic beverages; who wants to drink French wine when you can drink Dutch gin?
When the journey starts, the sun is shining. The mood is excellent, and it becomes even better during the hours of travel. Gin is consumed, peanut butter sandwiches are devoured. People laugh and sing, and a few women start to dance. The men clap their hands and shout encouragements. The noise level inside the car increases. I notice that the physical appearance of my companions is changing. The more alcohol they consume, the longer and thinner their bodies grow. Arms and legs become like snakes, mouths become wide, contorted grins, and people slither rather than walk inside the giant interior of the car.
My father is driving. His sense of direction is flawless as always, and within a few hours we have reached the Arc de Triomphe in the heart of Paris. When we enter the famous road circling the monument my father, encouraged by the mood in the car, decides to stay on the roundabout and 'teach the French a few lessons'. This consists of zigzagging across the road, opening the windows to shout Dutch insults at other drivers, and singing obscene Dutch songs. The noise inside the car becomes almost unbearable, and the bodies of my companions shape-shift from one grotesque form into another.
We reach our hotel in one piece and start unloading the luggage. The hotel clerk remains unfazed when we - a bunch of drunk, shape-shifting Dutchmen - arrive at the counter, and guides everyone to their respective rooms.
The next morning starts with commotion. On the floor where our rooms are situated, water is gushing down the walls. People in pajamas gather in the corridor. The hotel clerk is summoned, and he in turn summons the owner of the hotel. All of us climb the stairs to the next floor to try and locate the source of the leakage.
The floor is hijacked by an armed man in his underwear, who holds a rifle in one hand and a bottle of beer in the other. Behind him a broken piece of pipe protrudes from the ceiling, releasing large quantities of water. Scared hotel guests in pajamas huddle together in the background. "No need to come up here!" the man shouts, "everything is under control!" The hotel owner points to the broken pipe. "You are mistaken. Just look behind you." The armed man becomes very afraid. "I can't do that," he whispers, "once I look over my shoulder the Devil will get me, and all will be lost."
The next moment I wake up; I have to pee urgently.