Slice Of Life

Amsterdam. Jordaan Quarters. A perfect guy, checking his iPhone, waiting, a single rose, dying for me on the table next to him.

Me, hiding, cowardly walking away.

* * *

A wake-up phone call makes me jump off a narrow single bed. I pick it up and hang it back down right away. It’s pitch black and I knock down a water bottle and an empty glass. Blindly, I find a lamp and turn the light on. 5.30 am. Those guys at the reception desk did a good job waking me up. Thirty minutes too early.

I go back to bed. I hope to fall back a sleep. No way. Wake up and shine whether you want it or not.

Fifteen minutes later, still yeaning, I walk out of the hotel.

My first morning in Amsterdam. Empty Damrak, seagulls having their feast at the piles of trash along the road, street lights, still on. I shiver and wrap myself tighter in s bright orange shawl I bought a day before. Heavy clouds and wind, sending chills down to my bones. Nothing to do with a perfect pink and blue dawn I imagined in my head. I start walking. Some guys comment on something to me. No, I don’t speak Dutch, English or any other language. At all.

A police motorcycle slowly drives by. It stops by a group of youngsters, I am leaving behind and turn into a labyrinth of narrow cobble stone streets, into the whole different world of solitude and silence. I walk a few blocks before I see a black and white motorcycle driving by, again. I wonder if it’s the same one I saw earlier. There is a lot of police for a city, I was told, is one of the safest in Europe. I will probably be better off if I keep my eyes open and stop day-dreaming about my impossible possible “happily ever after” back home in California.

I hear a familiar roar of the engine. It is getting closer. I slow down. A man, a black uniform and a white helmet, stops right in front of me.

“Are you OK?”

I make a step back. I do not like police.

“Thank you. I am fine.” A default guilty feeling written all over my face.

“What are you doing up so early?” Interrogation begins.

“I want to take pictures on the canals at sunrise.”

The man looks around, confused. Silhouettes of the building are barely seen against dark gray sky.

“OK-I-know-it’s-too-dark-but-a-guy-at-the-reception-told-me-that-sunrise-is-going-to-be-at-5-am,-so-I- got-up-early-and…what-am-I-to-do-but-to-go-and-take-pictures-of-the-canals?” I fire out

“Sunrise is going to be at about 7 am, as far as I know. And I am not sure if you can get good light today.” The rain starts to drizzle. “At all.” He finishes.

No, I am not going to put this guy into sleep blathering about my vacation and Amsterdam, a dream come true, and that I do not care if light is good or not, for I am here, in that city, for God’s sake.

“Right. You are probably right.” I say instead. “But I am up, anyway, so I am going to go to see the canals. Thought, I agree that it’s a pretty bizarre idea, especially at this hour.”

The man lets me pass by.

“I would prefer you not to walk around all alone.” I hear him saying from behind.

I stop and turn around. He is looking down at his hands.

“I was told that Amsterdam is a pretty safe city, isn’t that so?”

“It is, but still… Do you mind?”

I take a good look at him: he is handsome, in good shape, tight uniform, light brown eyes, cute smile.

“No, not at all.”

We walk for a while side by side, I mean, I walk and he rolls his motorcycle. His name is Ron and he works at the police for a few years by now.

“Who are you traveling with?” He suddenly asks.

“Nobody.”

“You mean, you are traveling alone?” He sounds truly surprised.

“Yes.” Some sadness in my voice, hopefully, he doesn’t hear it. “I like to travel alone.” A lie. “I don’t like to depend on anybody.” Quite true. “You know, when I travel I turn into a selfish bitch and I do whatever comes to mind. So, I am better off by myself”

I sound bitter, but it doesn’t seem to bother him.

“How do you like Amsterdam, so far?”

My voice jumps a tone higher. I am scared, I am curious, and I am excited, all at the same time. I fall into a sleep at night because I get worn out of the daily events. I feel lost, lonely, but just sometimes, but I am absolutely in love with this city.

“I see.” He stops. “Do you have a boyfriend?”

“Here? No. Why?”

“You are very pretty and I would think you got one.”

I ignore the comment. Actually, I don’t ignore it, I just don’t know what to say. I am afraid to face it but I don’t know myself if I got one or not.

In silence, we get to the canals.

“So, what are you going to do?”

“Walk around here a bit and then, back to my hotel, probably.”

His shift is almost over. Would I still be here in fifteen minutes?

“There is a place called “NEMO”. It’s the highest point of Amsterdam. You might be able to take nice shots there.”

What a teaser! I am frustrated and angry for being reminded that I am alone in here, so, who cares, in the end, who I spend my time here with, anyway? No one.

“OK, I will wait for you.”

“See you in a bit.” His is gone.

I am left along with my non-existing sunrise.

* * *

Fifteen minutes later, he is back in his black Nissan “Murano”, too big for the narrow streets of the medieval city. He drives past deserted coffee shops and closed stores, to “NEMO”, where we claim to the very top of the observation platform, a good half of Amsterdam on the palm of my hand. Here, I play a photographer. Cold wind, clouds, running across the rainy sky, silly jokes, and posing. An hour flies by. Then, another. We chat about anything that comes to mind. There is not a subject we didn’t touch upon, from my observation about living in the US, sometimes bitter, sometimes funny, to coffee and sex shops of Red Light District, to the book I finished reading before leaving for Europe. It’s so easy to be around this guy and, Gosh, I like him so much for he is so cute, so smart, so funny, so, so, so… perfect. This is who he is.

I am flattered when he asks me if I would like to get together with him later today.

“Yes, I don’t think I got anything planned for tonight.” I barely keep that serious face on, for my insides hurraying and bouncing all over like crazy.

“Great! Do you remember that place in Jordaan we saw earlier? Do you still have the map?” He circles that place. I do remember it. One of those places, small, casual but classy, round tables on the streets, flowerpots next to them. “I will wait for you there at 10 pm.”

“10?” Sounds a bit late for the first date to me.

“What? You cannot make it at 10?” Ron senses the hesitation in my voice.

“Oh, no, no. 10 is fine.”

Chicken you, I tell to myself. You are in Europe, for God’s sake; people don’t go to sleep at 9.30 at night over here.

“You see, I got a second job. There is no way I can make it before 10.”

“Ron, 10 is just fine.” My face melts away into a smile. “Really.”

We take a few more pictures before getting back into the car.

“I will drop you off at your hotel, if you don’t mind.”

Mind that? Another five minutes around him. What a day!

Back to the hotel, I make it to the breakfast. I am the last one at the restaurant. I sit down at a table next to a window, overlooking Damrak, loud and crowded, now. I sip on a diluted coffee, still smiling to myself; pictures of “happily ever after” emerge in my head, one after another. I am on our second child when a cold blooded waitress, the one who seemed so nice just some thirty minutes ago, grabs me out of my perfect life and brings me back into reality.

“Would you like some more coffee?”

No, thank you, but I do appreciate your reminding me of where I am.

I shook my head and smile. She walks away.

I go over my day. I got about five hours in between visit to a coffee shop for lunch and my ten o’clock date. Five hours! What am I going to do? It’s my second days here, and I have seen almost everything I wanted to, already. I even went on Red Light District walking tour, which I never planned, by the way… An idea strikes me.

“Ha!”

A waitress takes her eyes off the magazine she is reading at the bar and looks at me.

“Sorry. Never mind.” Barely an explanation.

She looks back down.

Of course. Five hours must be plenty of time for what I have in mind.

I smile to myself. I always wanted to do something crazy, something, nobody would ever expect of me. I look at my hands; a happily bare engagement ring finger.

I am going to do something Mrs. Old Me would never dare to think of. Something Miss Real Me, finally free from somebody else’s understanding of righteousness, is going to do. Tonight.

I look at the last drop of the cold brownish substance on the bottom of my cup, take my purse and go up into my room.

* * *

I walk by the place, pretending not to see the big red "Erotic Show" light in the windows. My heart beats against the rib cage, Gosh, so loud; my head is heavy, my breathing is shallow, not enough, not enough air in this freaking city for me! As I turn the corner, I slow down.

“This is exactly what is expected from you.” Thunders in my head. “Coward! You will never dare to do anything like that.”

I hate this sarcastic voice of mine!

“But, if I don't do it now, I won't do it at all.” Echoes another one.

People walk around me, standing dead still in the middle of the narrow cobble stone street, reds of the nearby windows reflecting on my skin. I turn around and march back. The only thing I am concerned about is my blushing.

“God, please, don't blush, please.” I am pleading to myself as I walk past two guards, heavy build and tall, standing at the entrance.

"One ticket, please." My voice is calm and steady. "When does the next show starts?" I am starring at the white print on a piece of black and red glossy paper. It starts in about five minutes and if I can a seat, I can stay. I follow a thread of tiny floor lights taking me through a dark and narrow corridor into a small room, a stage in the middle, a bar along a wall. It's packed. I am relieved. I manage to find a spot in a corner and get myself a drink. I look around. Americans, college students, mostly. They chat to each other. They are excited, loud and a bit drunk. Woo-ho! Here we go, God bless your parents for an educational trip to the good old Europe.

Light goes off and back on, announcing beginning of the show.

For a few seconds, nothing but the sound of heart beating and heavy breathing, smell of sweat and cheap perfume, free flowing in a complete darkness. Finally, a heavy beat of rock breaks the sticky silence. Lights turn back on. Next thirty minutes, I am mute and numb, hypnotized by the couple on the stage, performing the ancient act. Half an hour of sucking and slurping, stroking and kissing, motion of the bare bodies, a waterfall of the long light brown hair, waving back and forth, arching of a back, sparkling with tiny bits of sweat, born on its delicate curve.

Thirty minutes it was, that I spent in some other world, a taste of rum and coke in my mouth, the only remains of the reality; my eyes glued to that man, to that woman, paid to perform live sex, a today special for an adventurous tourist.

A fake come cry of a woman announces that the time it up.

The lights goes off.

The show is over.

In the dim light, I see the couple getting up, picking their clothes from the floor, heading off the stage, passing through the narrow aisle in between the seats.

The man turns.

Ron!

The lights are back on. The show is over.

* * *

I slowly walk along a canal. My legs are stiff. I stare right in front of me, bumping into people, feeling no concern about bikers, almost hitting me. My head is as empty as it can possibly be.

Did I see what I really saw? Was it really Ron? Was it somebody else? Questions are popping up in my head, bouncing off into nothingness, so loud like metal balls against empty barrel.

Duality. A sin city. A place, there sin, whatever it is considered to be, is so common, so exposed, that it is not seen as one, any more. Amsterdam, that innocent sin city of mine.

What’s next? Oh, let me introduce you Ron. Kind, generous, caring, and funny. A trust worthy perfect guy. Have you ever met Ron? That guy, exposing and frigging himself on a stage for the sake of bored spectaculars? To me, it doesn’t make sense. I am lost.

Who am I, in the end? A cowardly little girl, living her life eyes shut, not accepting something true and natural? Just another ignorant product of my society? Am I? I don’t know.

I keep on walking. I must not stop. Stopping means thinking, observing, I don’t want to think, I don’t’ want to be back into that little room, stage in the middle.

The crowd changes. There are less loudly chatting tourists, no more red windows, fewer coffee shops, more restaurants, small tables, salt and pepper in the middle. Less traffic, more flowerpots by entry doors. It’s getting quieter. I lost count to the numerous turns I made. I am lost. I am lost in that city, too.

I glance above a canal, trees on each side of it, bikes, locked to the iron railing of a bridge, mirrored in the water. It’s going to be a beautiful sunset. I stop in the middle of a hunchbacked bridge. My heart slows its race and I finally look around. There is some vague familiarity about this place. As if I have already seen it. In my dream. Then, it hits me. Jordaan Quarter.

I hear a church bell announcing eleventh hour of the day.

I know what I am about to see if I turn my head just a bit to the right. That restaurant.

No! Don’t look, don’t look, just go!

I look.

There he is, my perfect guy, checking his iPhone, a single rose, dying for me on the table next to him.

I turn around.

I walk away.