Dear Bas,

This morning I walked past a line of people in front of the sneaker store on Sunset Blvd. They were waiting for the store to open; presumably a new sneaker had come out. I thought of you.

It has been ten days since we buried you back in windy Amsterdam, but is seems a different world now we are back in LA. Your heart stopped while you were jogging, only 34 years old. You left behind Sara and your beautiful son of 18 months, Elliot. Nothing good can be said about it.

We didn't know each other that long. Just a bit over 3 years. But there are not many people you really make a concious decision to befriend. And that was the case with you and Sara and me and A.

We were all going to New York. A was running the marathon and you had planned to, but had an injury. You and Sara came along anyway. I noticed on the plane that you and A hit it off immediately. I was not convinced, you looked a bit too hip for your own good, but I thought Sara loooked georgous, so I was giving you the benefit of the doubt. We had a wild night that ended in a bar with a name that reminded me of Last Stop but probably wasn't because I tried to find it on internet, but it certainly was the last stop for a varied collection of New Yorkers; a manicured, white suited black pimp with a poodle, Jewish law students with unruly hair, so stoned they felt the need to undress on the dancefloor (that lit up), a few experimental dj's and us. We spent two more nights together after that, when the rest of the runners went home, and that was the basis.

Back in Amsterdam, despite good intentions, everyday life sucked us in and contact was no more than a few text messages between you and A. Until you saw A in a restaurant and made a scene. "Why didn't you call.., you said you were going to call". That was it then. We were going to be friends. We didn't really go out together anymore, not like in New York. You were still on the wild side. We had Jip and had calmed down somewhat. We generally saw each other for the hangover programme: lunch, movie, dinner at our house..Elliot was born shortly after Rosie.

You and A saw each other more often,but I always enjoyed seeing you and Sara too. I related to you, which really doesn't happen a lot. Your love for collecting (in your case sneakers), your impressive and carfeully categorised soul collection, which A. naively asked if he could copy onto his i pod - you were not amused - your polaroids in the toilet, your love of beautiful things. I liked the way you talked to Jip, you made him laugh. You were basically cool to your toes and I am so sad we won't be having more of you.

A small consolation is that we saw each other only a week before you died. A small consolation because it was a parent's lunch from hell with Jip and Rosie (not Elliot) making so much noise and trying to escape, squeezed into the corner of a crowded and smoky cafe, that we merely made an attempt at conversation, eyes glazing over every so often, when another wail came out from under the table. We were going to do it again at a better time, better place.

Bas, we will miss you.