LOSING MYSELF FINDING MY SELF
It is September 1996, and I am wandering Amsterdam’s cobbled streets along the canals, marvelling at the cleanliness of the public spaces and the carefully crafted, arty clutter in the small shops. I’ve been walking for hours, lost but not lost, my bus number and apartment address in De Pijp safe in my back pocket.
It is my first time in the city. I’ve just completed my Master’s dissertation in England and stopped over before making my way back to Cape Town after a year’s absence. My sons are 15 and 11 years old, and I have not seen them for eight months. I am staying in the bohemian apartment of the luscious Sophie, who I met at a conference in Spain a year ago. I have just said my final farewell to
