When travelling there’s usually a lot of variables at play. You know you’ll see places, have experiences and meet people. Some people you’ll like, some not so much, some you’ll befriend and others you’ll write off as a learning experience. What you don’t expect(or maybe just me), is to have a connection to them.
So the story goes that there was this Dutchman, who happened to be in the same place as us for a day or two. One evening over dinner, he tells a tale of meeting a fellow who happened to be South African, like me. And like me, he was also of the colourful variety (read, not white). This fellow however, had the fortune of playing rugby against a young Dutch team in Amsterdam forty something years ago, where they met.
Anyway, despite the fact that young Amsterdam got their arses kicked, they went on to show the fellow and his team mates a jolly good time. Now I’ll leave the details out, because what happens in Amsterdam stays in Amsterdam, but I couldn’t help but feel the young fellow in this tale was somehow known to me.
So, I did the only thing I could and sent my mum a quick cryptic message. “Ma, do you know so and so and did he play rugby?”; “Yes, he’s my cousin. What happened to him.”; “Nothing, just a funny story. Love you, bye.”
And there it was, feeling confirmed. We had a good laugh about this obscure connection and I promised I would pass on a message to this family member of mine.
True story, you just can’t make this shit up!!