Lyn – column

"Llwellyn—pronounced 'Lyn'—Fflint." It sounds like the name of a warrior from a Welsh heroic saga. Llwellyn isn't a warrior. He's a poet. He has the air of a mildly surprised, flaxen-haired gnome.

He's one of those vague acquaintances who occasionally pop up in someone's life. A while ago, he emailed that he was coming to the Netherlands. To conduct field research for his latest collection. The provisional working title was “Druids, Motorcycles and Caribbean Girls”The 'druids' were merely bait or an excuse for intellectuals.

His own BMW R69S, with over half a million miles on the odometer at the time, was his only worldly possession and connection to the motorcycle world. But Caribbean girls of the more pleasantly sculpted variety were the main characters in his life and in his poems. Poems so fiercely realistic that in England, Wales, and Ireland, they are only allowed to be read by those over 50, accompanied by both parents.

Lyn called. He said he was in the Netherlands, near a town with the unlikely name of "Vlardinnen" and had run out of luck. "The dynamo, the regulator, or the battery." A call to Gerrit, a call to Toon, and a quick visit to Theo. Just to be safe, he picked up a set of extra points and a capacitor. And then off to Vlaardingen.

There, in the gas station parking lot, Lyn had already dismantled the potential culprits. He was waiting with his first smokable Continental purchase already tapped to his lower lip. "A satisfied smoker is not a troublemaker."

Within half an hour, everything was settled. And it was dinnertime. At the Chinese restaurant. Of course, at their own expense. Artists don't do things like inviting someone over. Paying for themselves was shocking enough for Lyn. But he was still genuinely happy to be back.

Because norms and values ​​are increasingly blurring, we weren't surprised to see a softly padded Antillean woman serving at the local Chinese restaurant. Lyn barely glanced at his babi pangang. He had a radiant, yet somewhat misty, look in his eyes. He was on edge. He went on the attack. He was completely poetic. You don't need broad shoulders or a Gold Card to be successful.

It's all about the charm.

The soul.

The most recent woman of his dreams had seen it all. She was cynical. Distant. She smiled, laughed, giggled, and fell for the artist. She made a teasing kissing gesture and impressively swayed her hips to another client.

And came back quickly. We were still there at closing time. Lyn was going to escort Carmelita home. Because it was far too dangerous at night for a girl alone, wasn't it?

His newest dream woman looked at him with tenderness.

Because one thing must be said: Lyn has charm.