L'un de mes endroits préférés pour sortir était le Dancers, un club situé à l'intersection des rues Harrison et Second. C'était un espace sombre où des lumières colorées clignotaient au rythme d'un battement industriel constant, créant une atmosphère de sensualité incontournable, avec des gens qui dansaient sur le comptoir du bar. J'avais maladroitement demandé à plusieurs jeunes femmes de danser avec moi, mais à chaque fois, elles avaient refusé. Juste au moment où le découragement s'installait, j'ai repéré une femme séduisante près de la piste de danse, appuyée contre un pilier, de longs cheveux bouclés cascadant sur ses épaules nues, et ses grands yeux marron encadrés par des sourcils épais et parfaitement soignés. En m'approchant d'elle, je me préparais à un autre refus, car elle aussi risquait de décliner ma demande. Je lui ai donc posé la question cliché : « Tu viens souvent ici ? » À ma grande surprise, cela a engagé la conversation. Et il s...
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In the early 1980s in my late teenage years I had an insecurity: my "Prince Charles ears." They stuck out like a pair of spinnaker sails. Whenever I conversed with a female my age at a Dutch disco, I strategically kept her on my left side, convinced my right ear stuck out even more. All my life I had worn my hair long to conceal them. And at the time, the fashionable trend in Holland was a haircut long in the front but short on the sides, completely exposing the ears.
My solution as a tennis player, was to wear a headband like John McEnroe and Björn Borg and tuck my ears underneath it. On and off the court, it was a fashion that my friend Eric Hoogendoorn and I participated in, along with wearing our Lacoste or Sergio Tacchini tennis shirts with our jeans tucked into our white tennis socks. It was fashionable back then, and also practical for preventing our pants from getting caught in the bicycle chain as we rode our bicycles to the disco.
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But for me back then, behind the trendy sportswear and the Amstel glass of beer on tap at my favorite disco, Vat 69, in Leeuwarden, I was hiding a double life of pretense. Despite this culture of effortless freedom, I was seventeen years old and still a virgin. Eric, by contrast, had lost his virginity a couple of years ago to Bettie, a girl we had competed over at the tennis club in Franeker. Bettie had a spectacular figure but happened to share my last name—perhaps making a romance with me awkward. Or maybe that was my excuse. Either way, Eric, as usual, won her over. Eric was an incredible tennis player and had a very stylish backhand slice.
In 1983, when I moved to San Francisco, I was in a state of culture shock and my loneliness only amplified my homesickness. The Dutch have a word for this: heimwee: a deep ache for one's home country. To cope with the feeling, I would buy Gouda cheese and French baguettes every afternoon, take it to my apartment and have it with a cup of black tea and some sugar — this was a routine that Eric and I had at his house as we would spin Roxy Music albums.
I regularly mailed Eric postcards about how beautiful the American girls were, but in reality, I was not dating anyone. I was still a virgin at the age of 18 and 19. I was working as a busboy at the Bankers Club on the 52nd floor of the Bank of America building, and saving every penny to cure my heimwee and find a permanent solution for my insecurities.
The solution would cost me $1,300 in cash. A few blocks from my apartment on 1830 Pine Street was the Saint Mary's Hospital, where a cosmetic surgeon agreed to pin back my ears. I lied and told my parents they were entirely unreachable in Holland to avoid the embarrassment of asking for parental consent, even though I was 18 at the time.
After some hesitation by the medical providers, the surgery was performed and when I woke up, my curiosity got the better of me; I started unraveling the bandages from my head, only for the surgeon to walk in and snap at me. I said: "They are still sticking out" and he said "because they are still swollen" and immediately started to re-wrap the bandages back over my head.
After being dismissed from the hospital, I walked back home and a lot of people stared at me in a bizarre way. I must have looked like a tall white teenager with a Punjabi turban. Later I discovered that the surgery wasn't a total masterpiece. One day a doctor was checking my ear for wax buildup and said: "That is one of the crookedest ear canal I've ever seen." Nevertheless the surgery had cured me from my "Prince Charles" ear syndrome.
The second solution to my insecurities came on a whim at the Oakland Airport. Armed with a small suitcase, a passport I had forgotten to sign, and a few hundred-dollar bills, I plunked down cash for a standby seat to Amsterdam on Martinair. Back then, Martinair ran popular passenger charter flights out of Oakland, California.
Martinair was a charter airline from Holland, owned and named after a man by the name of Martin Schröder. Before there was Richard Branson of Virgin Atlantic Airways, there was Martin Schröder of Martinair. And like Sir Richard, Mr. Schröder was an aviation pioneer and a very good businessman, but without the chauvinism and pretentious knighthood.
Decades later, that passenger service would vanish entirely when the airline was sold to KLM, leaving Martinair to operate strictly as a cargo carrier today—but in the 1980s, it was a very popular airline.
While waiting in line, I noticed an attractive Dutch girl in a black leather jacket with many zippers. I assumed she would be just another beauty passing by, but fortune favored the standby passenger. An hour into the flight, the plane made a scheduled stop in Seattle and was grounded by mechanical failure. Martinair put us up for the night at the Red Lion Hotel.
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| Before there was Richard Branson of Virgin Atlantic Airways, there was Martin Schröder of Martinair. |
As we waited for the airport shuttle, the girl in the zippered leather jacket stepped into line right next to me. We smiled, and engaged in some Dutch small talk, and ended up at the hotel check-in counter together. The clerk in the suit and tie looked at us and casually asked, “Two twin beds or a king-size bed?” The Dutch girl smiled in amusement. Speechless, I managed a quick, “Uh, yes,” and nodded toward the king-size bed.
When we reached the room, my hands were shaking so badly I could barely unlock the door. Anticipating my next move proved useless; but luckily, the moment the door opened, she smoothly began shedding her clothes and helped me out of mine, as it was expected. In that uninhibited Dutch way I had missed so much, everything flowed naturally, and within minutes my dream came true.
In the morning, after breakfast and an encore of love, we boarded the plane to Amsterdam, sharing a single blanket in the sky. I was in love with her, but the closer the plane moved towards Schiphol Airport, the more distant she became. I asked her for her phone number, but she politely declined. Then I knew that we would never again see each other. And after disembarking together, she suddenly left me behind.
As I walked through the customs doors, I spotted Eric waiting for me. I flashed him a triumphant smile—not just because I was happy to see him (which I was also) but because I could finally face him as an equal. Turning back, I saw the girl in the zippered leather jacket enthusiastically kissing a guy whose face was red with excitement as he lifted her off the ground. He was also wearing a black leather jacket with many zippers. But I didn't mind. She had done for my ego what the surgeon had done for my ears. And as Eric and I walked towards the train, I noticed I was walking taller.
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| A younger Prince Charles |