The surfer, she tells me she met a woman at a 40s singles mixer. The type of woman who reschedules her flight home to Colorado so that they can have sushi in California. There’s a sweetness to tales of the dating world when I’m in a monogamous relationship. I feel only a little bad about appropriating them to satisfy something which I can’t put into words.

Imagine the world in which I hadn’t spotted the surfer in the queer Catholic Slack space of Vine & Fig when I did, that one day she was there. I have no right to define the surfer’s hardship. The day her parents kicked her out because she’s queer. The way she seeks to remain a parishioner in a space that can’t hold both her and the woman she loves.

There’s a weekend-long dance workshop in town. While she’s certainly not our first house guest, the situation feels brand new. It must be the Japanese mattress we just bought, which turns our one-bedroom shoebox of an apartment into a temporary bed and breakfast (and lunch and dinner) for Anneli, the journalist from Sweden.

I haven’t seen her in years. The most vibrant memory I have of her is ending a three-day stay at her welcoming, warm house, and saying to Anja: “I think I’m going to quit drinking”.

• First of all: not a great week. I continue to struggle to notice when I feel stresed or overwhelmed, and it never fails to result in my body giving me a clear sign. On Monday evening, in the midst of a busy work month, my body said “SIT. DOWN.” I needed undtil well into the weekend to feel myself again.
• One of the signs my body knows to give it a very mild version of conversion disorder: I lose the ability to listen to a conversation while I walk without feeling very dizzy. Isn’t the body a beautiful, very annoying, but magnificent thing?
• I start back up at work on Thursday, working the mornings until the weekend. It’s good to acknowledge things aren’t great., It brings clarity and rest.
• On Friday evening I attend the first edition of a new local film club I joined. It confirms what I already know: I love the horror genre, and I love discussing cinema with people who didn’t finish film school Anja I’m looking at you.
• Ever since we visited Hija de Sanchez in Copenhagen Anja and I have gotten really into Mexican food. By now, I’m so well-versed in the art of a simple-but-sublime taco, that I whip up a delicious meal. Who knew tacos required so little filling?
• On Saturday, I visit Micropia, a zoo-adjacent museum about microbes. I expect to be queasy throughout the entire visit, terrified by the unfortunate-looking mini animals that live in and on every part of my body. Instead, I’m amazed by the beauty of nature. During the mini class I ask a question about algae: if their bodies move towards light and they’re under a microscope for a while, where light comes from all sides, what happens to their health? The laboratory assistant tells me the museum swaps petri dishes regularly so that the algea don’t die. What happens before death, though, I wonder.
• On Sunday, Chenelva comes over for afternoon drinks. She’s one of those rare people: an instant connection and plenty of common ground to grow out friendship on. We marvel at how little we know about queer BIPOC Amsterdam.
• We’ve completed the first season of the Dutch reality show “B&B vol liefde”, in which B&B owners invite four dates into their home. Hate-watching reality television with Anja is one of my favorite pastimes.