The first time I mused to myself that I could comfortably live in Amsterdam was directly after leaving the Schiphol airport when I realized that their public transportation has wifi. The second time was the morning I woke up in a 5th floor walk-up studio apartment, belonging to a charming, scampish Dutch lad named Levi. He and I met at a hipster bar that he tends called Cafe Weber on my first night in town. He was rakishly handsome in the way that he would be perfectly cast in a period drama as a rough-and-tumble young buck in an Irish fight club. He was Peaky Blinders hot.
Moritzâs girlfriend, Sabina, had decided to try to set us up, which was going to be distinctly difficult considering he had shown no interest in my existence, whatsoever. It was a bit comical, as the four of us gathered around a table chatting about his plan to become an English teacher, and every time I tried to interject, he somehow managed to speak over my head despite me having a few inches on him. Having been quite fresh off the boat, I was still confused by the fact that the Dutch widely assumed I was mentally challenged because I smiled at people for no reason and sported a mop of aquamarine hair. Of course, they might not have been far off. I did manage to lock myself in a broken bathroom stall in a basement with a sign on it I didnât even glance at. Panicked as claustrophobia set in, I activated roaming on my phone so I could alert Moritz to my entrapment. He laughed as he strong-armed the door open and asked why I hadnât noticed the âout of orderâ warning before effectively trapping myself in a subterranean poop coffin.
âIt was in Dutch!â I reasoned.
âChristina, what do you think âdefectâ means?â
After my liberation from the shitter, Levi was back behind the bar, and Sabina continued to petition for our perfectness together over a trio of whiskerales. I was unconvinced, and a little wounded that my apparent future husband had not immediately noticed how amazing I was. And also dubious of his Morrissey tattoo.
My second day in my new favorite city was lovely, as I roamed De Negen Straatjes district and took several obligatory canal selfies, dodging daredevil cyclists each time. I was awestruck by the range of cargo items that people on bikes in this city managed to transport. In quick succession, I saw a pregnant woman with a baby in her basket, and a man cruising down the street after her with a 10-foot ladder under his arm. Not to mention, in a place where the cyclists plague the streets like locusts on wheels, there is nary a helmet to be seen. When inquiring about this apparent safety blunder of an entire society, I was informed helmets âare for dorks.â I spent the rest of my two weeks trying to spot that peerless nerd in North Holland sporting headgear, and I thought I saw one in the distance on Marnixstraat. Upon closer inspection, it turned out to be a bald dude with a large and incredibly shiny head.
After purchasing a German Day-Glo fanny pack from a thrift store, and having dinner with my hosts, they took their leave because they still had jobs even though I was on vacation. Going to bars by myself isnât generally something that I have trouble with, as Iâm about as extroverted and verbose as they come. However, going to a bar in a strange land where most of the inhabitants speak English but prefer that you try to speak their language (however terribly), made me a little nervous. I opted to return to Weberâs sister bar, Lux, and before I made it to the door, I heard someone shout, âHey! Christina? Christina?!â. Assuming it had to be the only other person in the country that I knew, I turned slowly, expecting to see Levi. It wasnât. It was a beardo Iâd matched with on Tinder a few days before when I was still in San Francisco, who Iâd spoken to briefly, but stopped communicating with because Iâd decided I wasnât interested. Naturally.
âChristina, right? I canât believe it. Come here!â He beckoned enthusiastically. Walking towards him, I noticed he was with an ethereally gorgeous girl, with porcelain skin and jet black hair.
âUm, hi, Robbie. Yes, itâs me!â Awkwardness ensued as we made our introductions.
âIncredible! Youâre here, thatâs so awesome. I canât believe I recognized you! What are the chances?â
âI mean, the hair is a bit of a giveaway. But believe me, I know! The world is infinitely smaller than I could ever have anticipated.â
Priscilla inquired, âWait, how do you two know each other?â
Robbie and I both answered at the same time, âWe donât.â and âTinder!â
She had a wry look, âThatâs funny, weâve just met from Tinder, as well.â She gave a winsome crooked smile and lit a cigarette.
âWow. That isâŠâ Vaguely frazzled, I searched for the words and came up dry. âIâm sorry, youâll have to excuse me, Iâm going in to grab a drink. Iâll be back.â
Inside, I spotted Levi, who was at the bar, but off duty, wearing a flag as a cape and animatedly hollering something about sports. I made my way over to say hi, and he was much friendlier (and decidedly drunker) than he had been the night before. He enveloped me in a flag cocoon with a robust hug, and I broke free to order some whiskey. Detailing the socially maladroit tornado Iâd just been sucked into out front, I asked if I could hang with him and his friends to avoid hijacking Robbie and Priscillaâs date. At that moment, Robbie walked up, punched Levi in mock-machismo fashion, and then the two men embraced. My jaw dropped.
Robbie noticed me and asked Levi, âWait, you know Christina?â
Levi looked at me and said jauntily, âYouâre kidding me. This is the guy?â, while pointing at Robbie. I sighed and put my head in my hands. âThatâs hilarious!â Robbie seemed genuinely confused. I took my drink and fled to the bathroom where I encountered Priscillaâs raven-haired beauty, once again, as she was touching up her lipstick.
âHey,â I started, âIâm sorry about that, up there. I was in no way trying to move in on or interrupt your date! That was so awkward.â
âOh, thatâs sweet of you. Donât worry at all, Iâm not a jealous girl.â I raised an eyebrow. âBesides, I donât think Iâm into him like that.â
âItâs funny you should mention as much, because the reason I didnât make plans to meet up with him was he seemed like he might be lame.â
Her laugh was melodic. âWell, you seem cool, I donât see why you and I shouldnât hang out! Iâll give you my number. Weâll do coffee this week.â I handed her my phone and she programmed herself into it.
Back upstairs, the four of us shared some conversation at the bar, which soured between Robbie and I when he went on an anti-feminist rant about being a victim of misandry because he could not âcall in sick to work for having a periodâ. He continued, âWomen have it so easy. Donât you think?â
Priscilla and I glowered at him. He apologized for being âracistâ, and as I was passionately womansplaining to him the difference between racism and misogyny, he was saved from my wrath by last call.
Robbie got on his bike and rode into the night towards Leidseplein, and Priscilla bid me adieu. Right as I was about to take my leave, the sky cracked open and unleashed a savage summer monsoon. The tempestuous sheets of rain were crashing against the asphalt and splashing back up in a storm of biblical proportions that seemed to come out of nowhere. I had no jacket or umbrella, a dead phone, and only a vague notion of how to get home.
Levi approached me, âAre you okay?â
âYeah, Iâm fine, just trying to figure out how to get back to Moritzâs apartment without a canoe. I donât remember seeing a natural disaster on the forecast todayâŠâ
âThe weather report here is notoriously wrong at any given time. This kind of freak rain is super common. Donât you have a Frommerâs Guide to Holland book or something?â
âPreparedness isnât exactly my strong suit.â I peered out from under the awning to see a lightning bolt zip across the black sky, and brackish water swirling into the gutters.
âActually, I live right upstairs,â Levi offered, âyou could come and wait out the storm?â
âHa. Of course you do. They always âlive right upstairsâ. Clever.â I winked.
âLetâs have a drink and watch the storm from my window. But, full disclosure, I will be stripping down to my underwear the second weâre in the door. Itâs hot as fuck in my apartment.â
âItâs your apartment! Just so you know, Iâm not going to stay.â I lied.
We trudged up a treacherously steep, winding staircase for what felt like an eternity, finally reaching his flat on the top floor. He poured some Bulleit over ice, and I curled up on the couch next to a window that overlooked the canal on Lijnbaansgracht. The window on the opposite side of the room was streaked with midnight blue rivulets.
Levi (as promised) stripped down and approached his vinyl collection. âDo you like The National?â He asked.
âLove. Do you have âHigh Violetâ?â
He pulled it out of its spot on the shelf and unsheathed a purple record and carefully placed the needle on it, as the chords for âTerrible Loveâ began. At first, I kept my distance and observed him chain smoking in his boxers with the storm still raging on in the background. The rumbles and crashes of thunder blended perfectly with the music and softened my demeanor. We stayed up just shy of dawn, alternately cracking jokes and waxing philosophical. We compared notes on the sacred art of getting obliterated on chardonnay with oneâs mother. I was struck by his mercurial wit and loyal, empathetic nature. None of those virtues had been apparent to me as Sabina tried to sell me on him not 24 hours before. When it was time to turn in, he offered me his toothbrush, which I inexplicably found to be a huge turn on. I guess it implies that a person is capable of intimacy, which is not exactly what I had expected to be excited by on a pell-mell, solo tour of Europe. Afterward, we engaged in some drunken, minty fresh light petting under a heavy down comforter, and fell asleep spooning.
When we awoke, he had overslept for work and had at some point during our nap removed his boxers, as was evident by the bare boner digging into my hip. He groaned about having to leave, and I protested his departure as well, citing that he had promised me a Dutch lesson.
âOh, you want your first Dutch lesson? Here.â He grabbed his erection and gently swatted me on the leg with it a few times. âSwaffelen.â
He laughed, getting out of bed and stretching languidly. âItâs totally a real thing. Google it. It was named âword of the yearâ in the Netherlands in 2008, or something like that.â
âGreat. Very useful. My conversational Dutch has just become 1000% more offensive.â
He kissed me goodbye and invited me to stay as long as I liked, and to make myself comfortable. I put the record on again, and wrote in my journal, stopping every so often to moon over the beautiful view and watch the neighbors perform mundane tasks through their windows across the canal. I had his last slice of American cheese with Tabasco on it for breakfast, borrowed his toothbrush one last time, and then set out to explore the Jordaan.
âLeave your home
Change your name
Live alone
Eat your cake
Vanderlyle, crybaby, cry
Though the waters are risinâ
Still no surprisinâ you
Vanderlyle, crybaby, cry
Man itâs all been forgiven
Swans are a swimminâ
Iâll explain everything to the geeks
All the very best of us
String ourselves up for loveâ
snowghoul
origamiaround
yousharknotpass
kianamaiart
blakekathryn
titsay
areudirty
