Amsterdam Eight: The Day After

I woke in the morning feeling refreshed. French toast breakfast; an orange devoured. Body and mind sparkling clean. I felt a tug to shower, though. It’s what I typically did first thing in the morning. No more being a slave to routine; time to live. Movement, a brisk walk. I didn’t know where I was going and that was the point. Movement. I looked to the left, the direction I usually went to go to Eik en Linde. I turned right and walked to streets I didn’t know.

The neighborhood was lovely, older buildings, row houses older than those in the Plantage. The tree-lined streets were quiet; few were walking or biking. Soundlessness except for the low whistle of wind. Movement slowed to a stroll. Sights freshly presented themselves. Walk and looking, that was all there was except for a quiet feeling of ease.

A tiny café on a corner marked the edge of the neighborhood. The interior was small, space for three tables packed close together. Windows on either side of the door looked at different streets. The doorway was on the corner of the building, diagonal from the sidewalk. A counter with an inverted angle that mimicked the back corner. The walls were brown, but it wasn’t a brown café. A woman read a book, a cup of coffee on the table. Long, straight, light brown hair, high cheek bones, Dutch eyes. She was fashionably dressed in designer clothing. Tall with long legs crossed at the knee. Indifferent to anything that was not her book.

A barista behind the counter busily cleaned and organized. I waited patiently until she finished her tasks. She turned and smiled, asking in Dutch what I wanted. I didn’t understand her but replied, “un espresso.” Her head nodded and then her body turned to the espresso machine. I stepped to a chair at a table next to the window opposite the reading woman.

Through the window the cobblestones of the street hinted at the Oude Zijde. Pedestrians ambled slowly nowhere with facial expressions suggesting appreciation. A cyclist who appeared to be singing rang his bell to notify a pedestrian crossing the street. The corner breathed easily, relaxed in its harmonious rhythm. I wept softly, relieved.

I was in no hurry to receive my drink and found myself surprised when the barista brought it to me. I’d forgotten I’d ordered. “Dank u wel.” I sipped the espresso. The flavor was thick and delicious. It came with a jolt. The café had a gentle gravity and the invigorating aromas beckoned me to stay. The reading woman remained as well. An hour passed with another espresso and pastry. After my last swallow I rose and stepped to the counter. I saw the prices on the chalkboard and handed the barista a bill. She made change, handing me a bill and a few coins with a friendly smile. I sang “tchϋss” as I walked out the door.

Movement. Where? Anywhere. I wandered along quaint streets and canals, a pleasant romp through the Classical Age. I crossed the Amstel and stumbled onto Rembrandtplein. The square was hopping, midday with throngs of cyclers and walkers coming and going, stopping to fill up the numerous bars and cafés. The square pulsed with movement. I felt no anxiety. It was as if I crossed off a particular limitation from a long list of enervations. I had loved crowds and happenings most of my life, but the moment S. told me she wanted a separation the joys I’d found in public celebrations diminished severely.

I wandered around the square but nothing struck my fancy. I turned back toward my apartment. I followed a different route, crossing a different bridge spanning the Amstel River to the Plantage. I made lunch when I arrived home. It struck me that I thought of this rented apartment as home. It felt like home. I worked through the afternoon, prepared a meal in the evening, and drank wine while listening to classical music and reading Alain de Botton’s The Architecture of Happiness.