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Amsterdam Red Indian

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Amsterdam – Centraal to Schipol

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Amsterdam Departure

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Amsterdam Agent Orange

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Amsterdam Electrician

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Amsterdam Red Indian

Turns out the American is a sixteen year veteran of the male stripper industry in the US with graphic stories of debauchery to match. He fell pout with one of the big producers in the industry ‘worth 700 million’ and that basically ended his career in the US. Couldn’t even open a club.
AT age 30 he enrolled in college and spent 7 years studying psychology but due to com-lex issues that he has, that I have as yet not been able to what manner of issues they are, he has not worked in the field.
Two years ago he tried going pro golf – played two PGA rounds but his bulk was hindering him. He bulked up for his dance career.
I take a ride around the forest again and take some pictures.
I come across a small pub in the road, see pics. It’s here there’s a beautiful soul. Young and old, strong and fragile. I leave a big tip. I turn and nod straight at her in thanks as I leave. There’s that smile. The one that hasn’t been used before. She’s old enough to have serve me Jack.
I find myself in a room with lovely things hanging from the ceiling and a group in Sunday casuals playing cards in the corner. I still look like I just stepped off a beach in Cyprus.
A lunch of raw beef and old cheese ensues. A chefly (like looks like chef) looking guy appears behind the bar. I ask him if he’s going to be cooking my raw meat.
All three jumped in at pains to explain that in fact I’d ordered raw beef, that it’s raw, uncooked – onnerworst, get it?
I said yes, it was a joke.
Agent Orange takes on a new dimension, night at camp. Departure tomorrow, standard route.
The two other German groups that joined us last night had never heard f the place where Mountain Man comes from. I’ve taken to calling him that on account of his clothes and the fact that he does things at one point six hundred meters up in the Alps.
Dimensions. Light translation.
Here’s a waffle from earlier, help me with wordcount.
I got a feel of the translation of visible light and wavelength readings that sensors in digital cameras do.
I suspect sensors have nothing to do with colors. They are numbers and computations being made by the different wavelengths of light arriving to it.
It doesn’t see red, it reads the wavelength, a number.
There’s something about the translation of light that I’m not getting.
I start the day on the sharp edge, It’s my last day in Amsterdam and I’m going to enjoy.