Matthew and I watched the final in the window of The Queen’s Head, a gay bar. The crowd swelled and ebbed -- with each approach to the Spanish strike zone, the energy rose, and after each deflected goal, everyone deflated. I’ve heard that the Dutch are the tallest people in
Today, both the BBC and CNN replay the Spanish goal on an endless loop -- the football equivalent to looking at your ex-‘s pictures after a bad break-up. Plastic signs declaring Bertje! and Oranje! lie in the streets. Outside of the numerous coffeeshops, the smell of people smoking their sadness away wafts out.
So, in the spirit of
I’m pretty mellow by nature, so I can’t tell how much more mellow I was supposed to feel. No wooziness, no paranoia, no thrill of the forbidden. (Another contributing factor: my table partner kept taking forkfuls of my cake.) In any case, I simply feel asleep, dreaming of the same goal over and over again.