I join the queue off the flight, listen to the murmur of people planning their adventures, and, to pass the time, wonder which of the passengers are there for the cultural side of Amsterdam and which are there for its underbelly. I turn around. Julian smiles at me, those unnatural teeth again.
I feel self-conscious, aware of being looked at. I take out my headphones and plug them into my phone, put on one of my dance playlists. Maybe I should exchange numbers with him? How do people do this? How do they be single and maintain their dignity? I flick a glance back to where he is, for a second, and he catches me. A flush crashes on my face and neck. I turn away quickly.
Inside the terminal, I join the European passport holders’ queue, which moves at a steady pace. The Non-EU one crawls. I wonder what the passport I hold represents. Irish. Christian. Rich. Though I’m not religious or wealthy.
I look around for Julian.
A heavily pregnant Muslim woman is agitated. It’s hot, and their queue is stationary. She checks her watch, glares at the security guard, rubbing her engorged belly. I try to imagine what it would feel like to hold another life inside mine, all the extra weight of it pressing down on my body.
The pregnant woman asks the security guard in English why the queue hasn’t moved in over forty minutes.
‘We must be thorough,’ he says, his English sounding so competent and clear, I assume he’s Dutch.
‘But I will have to pee soon. I don’t want to lose my place. Why is that other queue moving quickly?’
‘Well,’ he says and raises his shoulders, ‘you should know these security checks by now. It’s hardly a new phenomenon.’
‘Excuse me?’
‘We must be thorough. In these times,’ he says. ‘If you want to go to the bathroom, I’ll hold your spot.’
She sighs a thank you and he clicks the security rope for her. She waddles out, her hands on her back; her bump bulks in front of her.
My queue moves ahead. More arguing comes from behind but I don’t look to see what’s happening this time. I go through to the baggage reclaim area, Julian queues at the luggage belt. He’s polite with people. I think about his smile, his grace, and then reprimand myself.
I want to say hi or something but stop myself. I go on to the main airport, pass boutiques, florists, a jeweller’s and a seafood restaurant. Two police officers cycle by, my first experience of Dutch cyclists. I wander around and look for a way out but end up in a train station.
Groups of young excited male tourists try to figure out the machines, itch for a smoke. I don’t want to get caught up with them so I follow signs to the tourist information office and ask for directions.
I look for the bus stop and pass by stag parties, groups of young men and pairs of older men. I’m a bit jagged from the flight. I’ll nap, shower, eat, relax soon. I ask about buses outside and a friendly man in a luminous orange vest explains everything. I buy a ticket and wait. I hear something musical, something familiar and turn around. Julian is laughing and joking with a cab driver as he lugs his large case to the boot. His satchel is strapped crossbody. He has such an easy way about him. I want to wave and call to him as he climbs into the car, but I know he’s out of my league. Someone like that. Proper wealthy. I wonder what colour my aura is now, grey probably. Dutch sky grey. The bus chugs and I board.
The stops are announced in English as the bus travels through the city. I still manage to miss mine.
I ask the driver, ‘Excuse me, am I near the Van Gogh museum?’
She has a quizzical expression.
‘The Van Go museum? The Van Goff museum?’ How the hell did you say it?
‘Museumplein, one stop ago.’ She gestures with her thumb.
‘Great,’ I mumble and press the button to get off at the next stop.
I tow my bag and wish I’d stayed at home, the usual lonely, ratty, hangry feeling of being lost and new and fatigued in a foreign place.
I source some free Wi-Fi from the street and check maps, only to discover I’ve walked past my hostel already.
The receptionist is a handsome Dutch guy, with a neat haircut and designer sideburns. I wonder about my mascara. I check in and ask if there’s a café or restaurant nearby.
He gives me my key, tells me where the lift is and then informs me that food is pretty expensive in the surrounding streets but if I don’t mind that, there are many places to eat. I wonder if there’s a hint of condescension in his tone or if I’m tired and hypersensitive.
The lift has a marble finish and spotlights around the mirror. The hostel is pleasant for the money I’m paying. It’s more like a hotel. When I enter the dorm, I realize it must have been a hotel room before but now it’s packed with bunk beds. Nobody is around but two beds have bags, books, PJs and other clues. A black patent suitcase dominates the corner. Man or woman?
I have bed and safe number two. I go to the safe and read the instructions on how to work it. When I open it, I find a bottle of Heineken and a quarter bottle of gin inside. A welcome gift from departing backpackers. I smile for the first time since the flight and twist off the screw top on the Heineken.
I peel back the blind and open the window to a tiny balcony outside. ‘Cheers, Amsterdam,’ I say and raise my bottle.
I lie in the bunk and fall into a much deeper sleep than I expect. After, I shower and change clothes and normalize. I go out for food. The streets are vaguely familiar after being lost on them earlier. I look at restaurant menus but it’s not the price that puts me off; I don’t want to eat alone.
I keep wandering, hoping I’ll come across a supermarket, but it takes a long time. I try to locate where I am on the paper map I got in the hostel.
‘Fuck it,’ I say and put the map away; instinct can guide me.
After more canals and narrow houses, many cyclists and fashionable people, I find a supermarket. There’s an abundance of healthy fast food in the fridge. I stock up on fruit and veg snacks, and a chicken pesto pasta salad for dinner.
As I walk back, I open it and see there’s no spoon. I wonder if the hostel has a kitchen. I never investigated. I’m starving, and fish a piece of pasta out. I eat it with my fingers. Then another. It reminds me of years ago, of a different trip to New Zealand when my eating was much more disordered.
I walk by police officers, who are tall and strong. They shout at men on scaffolding. All laugh.
The sky is a vast, hot, grey cloud punctured with blue. In a square, old men play chess with human sized pieces. I don’t know if I hate Amsterdam, as I walk, eating my food like a barbarian, all alone.
The patent suitcase is open and a young man unpacks his stuff onto a shelf. He’s athletic and has Mediterranean hair and eyes.
‘I’m Leon.’
I wonder if he’s Dutch.
‘German,’ he says, ‘but my father is a Spaniard.’
Very nice.
He’s begun a Masters in Sociology in the University of Amsterdam and is looking for accommodation in the city.
‘I’ll stay in the hostel for three nights until I find something.’
‘I’m here for three nights too,’ I say and open my plastic bag, pull out a tub of strawberries. I offer him one. ‘It took me hours to find a supermarket.’
He declines. ‘Really? There’s one behind that building there.’ He points at the window. ‘Maybe two hundred metres from here.’
I sigh. ‘Well, I suppose getting lost is how you figure a city out.’
‘Exactly. I am going for a smoke. Do you want to join?’
‘A smoke smoke?’
‘It could be. If you want,’ he says and grins.
‘I don’t smoke, thanks.’
The room door opens and an Asian man hurls his backpack on the floor.