The Fountains of The Hippodromo

           A weekend at rest can transform rapidly into a weekend of homesickly melancholic self-pity for a newly-arrived solo traveler. If you do not have an intinierary to follow, you can slip ever so quickly and ever so subtly into the Doldrums. Luckily Amsterdam is a prime space to wander. Sunday morning I visited Starbucks again and took my Grande Green Tea Latte on a walk around the Hippodromo, intent on sketching at a very cosmopolitan fountain I recalled from my last visit. As anticipated, at this time in the mid-morning, the fountain was in direct sunlight. After near brushes with two dogs chasing each other through the bushes (and through the fountain) I spent sometime sketching a vividly green, ferny tree. Presently, a man deposited himself on a seat near by mine, and, with a moment of grave appraisle of the fountain before us, took off his jacket and his shoes. With some happy ceremony, as if he was the only one enjoying the fountain on this earth, the man dangled his feet in the water, dipped his shoes in the piscina, and proceeded to pour water from one loafer into the other like they were gravy boats. Then he removed his shirt and dried them out with grave attention. Once his shoes were dried to his satisfaction, he set them in the sun and waded out into the water, his pant legs rolled to his knees.
              I had a hard time deigning who this man must be. He was taking a bath in a fountain, but this didn't look like a thing he would be doing on a normal day. His clothes were decidedly expensive looking, albeit slightly dirty. Contradicting his attire: while he enjoyed the fountain, he talked to a nonexistent person, supposedly right next to him.
             All of us at the fountain were worried about where this was going: the vaguely anxious couple with the baby, that worried looking gentleman with the backpack, the skate-boarding-dog-walker. It looked like the man in the fountain had every intention of removing his pants and taking a full bodied bath. I could see everyone physically brace themselves when he put his hands to his waistline.
But he did not remove his pants. He only hiked them up higher and waded further into the fountain and closer to the spray of water at its center. Once there he lifted his arms in exhultation, letting the spray land on his shoulders.
            In the bright sunlight, the fountain sparkled with irresistable clarity and all the colors in the little cloche of restaurants surrounding it became absolutely brilliant. The shirtless man in the fountain, with his arms spread wide in simple happiness seemed like a perfect slice of life.
I left while the picture was still beautiful and no other articles of clothing were removed.