Already a full month at work in Amsterdam and our destiny is not yet in sight. The line we drew to Tjoba's docking station slowly guides us through the city. The first locations we mapped stood out against the ragged edges of urban reclusion. Past monuments to those who died too young in traffic or through senseless violence at abandoned playgrounds. Herons, ducks, gulls compete for the little food during this barbaric season. An increasingly frequent rhythm of abandoned condoms and syringes foreshadows the cruising zone where hungry souls seek a quick fix. Among this scene graze bulls who do not look up as another insatiable desire for emptiness passes them. We move on, strolling further underneath the highway before suddenly finding ourselves among gleaming high-rises of mostly self-reflecting glass facades. Co-working spaces for the freelance work cult with signs promoting to connect, create, learn, and grow or greetings like “Hey there superstar welcome to your new home.” We pass groups of young women with middle-aged men or young men addressing each other in office slang. We do not fit their dress code and go unnoticed. At the back of these offices, cracks and crevices in the foundation betray the decay of the gleaming architecture that wanted us to think we were dealing with success. We look for an exit where straight canals and transition-less train tracks surround the uninspiring area, and soon find one amid a garbage dump. We enter tunnels and cross bridges to find ourselves in a strange, confusing world where monotonous new matrix-like constructions alternates with poorly maintained social housing. The area feels deadly, and we watch our backs while searching directions without using our map. Homeless nothing-seekers enhance the depressing vibe amongst survival of the fittest circumstances. More tunnels and more bridges, but we notice the graffiti is slowly improving. We arrive at the post-WW2 gateway where expressive forms and fantastic twists and turns expose the architectural style of the Amsterdam school. Here all becomes whiter, and to change perspectives we get stoned. A very punk thing to do while making the overall experience a bit weird and exiting. Finally, we reach a location where in 2005 one of fifty-six questions originated.
What is he to Hecuba, or Hecuba to him, that he should weep for her?
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