The naked eyes

Yesterday, after a stay of a couple of months, we checked-out an alternative circus troop who pitch up in Amsterdam once a year or so. They jiggle, they juggle, one of the guys has a red nose and big shoes. The really cool thing though is, is that people are paying Euro 65 per seat (dinner thrown in) and making a night of it. On talking to the show’s management, their stay in Amsterdam has been a success. It would be pedantic to point out that they’ll not be making use of their option to extend their stay based on insufficient ticket sales to sustain another month.

The politics of housing these guys is a tale of bitter rivalry, hierarchy, and power. Obviously the show's management doesn't doss down with the performers. Can you imagine an acrobat sharing a room with the food and beverages manager? How about the clown and the fat man rooming together - don't make me laugh. Star performers - that is, named on the bill, performing a solo, or pictured on posters - have first dibs on apartments and personal relationships with the accommodation coordinator can give a Polish tight-rope walker considerable pull over, say, one of the midgets. Marlo - a fearsome magician - has very specific requirements that include an international DVD player and a ground floor entrance. No one wants to live next to the bendy boy.

We move on from quirky circus performers to large sweaty horses. Vince has the client in his eager grip and is looking to rent not to the 60 Canadian horses that form the core of the show but to as many of the 120 staff and performers that ride these mighty beasts. I have the feeling that these horses – galloping full belt, prancing on three legs, jogging sideways, and rearing upwards – feel themselves to warrant star status but, alas, top billing goes to the jockeys. The steeds get carrots. The accommodation manager, a Canadian woman with a pronounced French accent she claims is natural but which must surely be the result of hours of cruel practice, felt compelled to provide background. The horses are highly strung, highly strong, only eat grass imported from Canada, and trot on a special type of sand that is kind to hooves and reflects the finale’s light-show lasers just right.

She’s worried though, this Canadian woman. Bugs are on her mind. As we’re checking-out the circus people and wishing them luck with the next tour venue, the horse people are viewing. They exchange glances in the lobby. The horse people represented by the worried Canadian stomp behind Vince to the first apartment in the complex. Her fingers knowingly prod the mattress and gingerly lift the sheets. “Bugs”, she says. Vince studies the square centimeter of laundered sheet that her index finger is pointing to. There are no bugs. He says, “There are no bugs” to which she says, “They are microscopique, you cannot see them with the naked eyes.”

Despite the critters… no. Despite the concerns about possible critters invisible to the naked eyes but not her naked eyes, it seems as though we have genuine interest. The trouble, though, is that there is a weekend’s worth of thinking that often spoils what otherwise would be a beautiful story. Nearly five o’clock. Pub looms. We’ll get back to it Monday.