I used to laugh at my mother; on Sundays her favorite sport was taking her mother of pearl antique opera glasses and go to the window. She’d step between the drape and look across at the apartments across from our Amsterdam flat. She knew what everyone was up to, it was really shamelessly shocking of her. But she told me, anyway, about the man and his lover and how they drank coffee naked together. Then there was the woman who dragged out the entire contents of her flat onto the balcony. And all day she would beat out rugs over the railing.
If you look out from her opera glassses there were more than a hundred or so stories there.
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