Amsterdam Two: Why Amsterdam?

How had I arrived in Amsterdam? What caused me to unseat myself from my American ennui?

One night in October, 2007, I finished an index. It was midnight and I attached the document to an email and sent it to the publisher. My deadline was the following day but I worked until midnight to finish it so I wouldn’t have to bother with it any more. I had two indexes scheduled but each of their respective due dates were more than a month away. After working like a dog for six months, day after day, week after week, I finally had a rest in front of me.

But as I sat watching my screen saver—waves crashing on a beach—my mind was a blank. I didn’t have a thought in my head except for a vague wondering “What do I do now?” All I knew in my post-divorce life of six months was a constant stream of work. My social outings consisted of going to the grocery store and a gas station. I passed what little free time I had in front of the television watching HBO on Demand. I was particularly drawn to a show called In Treatment mostly because it was a quality drama that dealt with individuals with depressing psychological issues. In other words, I could relate and somehow watching fictional characters struggle to deal with their lives made me feel less alienated and lonely.

But I’d watched all of those episodes and all episodes of every other series I liked. In this new workless state there was nothing appealing to me at all. I did not want to go out to a bar—I’d done that in Chicago for nearly a year post-separation before I decided I needed to escape from that lifestyle; that was why I had moved to Madison in May of 2007. I didn’t want to check my email and I didn’t care about surfing the Internet for music, news, or anything else. Nothing appealed to me. Nothing.

I sat in front of my computer watching wave after wave rush the sand. It was hypnotic, soothing. I felt empty but also calm. I didn’t feel the gnawing ache that accompanied my depression. This was, perhaps, the first time I’d just sat and stared mindlessly, almost meditatively, since before my then-wife had told me she wanted to separate on Thanksgiving Day in November of 2005. Even in the mornings when I’d wake memories came crashing into focus, memories of S., memories of our life together, an almost eerie sense that I’d never feel anything but sorrow or numbness ever again.

As I watched my computer screen without really seeing it a thought arose. It came into focus quietly. It seemed to float downward like a leaf from a tree on a windless day. The thought was from my teenage years lived in Arizona, a bleak time twenty years earlier in my life. I remembered the thought vividly after a few moments. I had promised myself that if I ever felt even remotely close to committing suicide that I would allow myself at least one day to do anything I wanted to do no matter what the cost or consequences.

The thought brought a smile to my lips. When had I last smiled? I couldn’t remember. The smile was sincere, the genuine article, and the thought was the first inkling of hopefulness I’d had perhaps in years. But what did I want to do? I had five figures in my bank account, over $30,000 available through credit card limits, and no debts so money wasn’t an issue.

For a time, I just enjoyed the sensation of knowing I could do whatever I wanted. It felt like a weight had been lifted from my shoulders, that I’d been let out of a cage and allowed to roam free again. As I sat there basking in my newfound freedom I knew what I wanted to do. S. and I had gone to Europe for our honeymoon in 1998. We booked a flight into Amsterdam because it was the cheapest we could find online. Kuwaiti Airways: great food, tiny seats with no leg room. Our itinerary took us from Amsterdam through Germany into Austria south through Switzerland into Italy and then northbound to Paris and finally back to Amsterdam to fly back to the States.

Amsterdam had been included in the itinerary only because of the flight but once we arrived and found our way to the center I fell in love with the city. By the end of the trip when we returned I found myself thinking that Paris had nothing on Amsterdam when it came to romance. The canals in particular are postcard perfect and, frankly, postcards do the canals a grave injustice. They just continue endlessly and have a life of their own. The city veritably breathes through them.

S. and I returned to Europe in 2000 and 2004 on other trips, both of them flying into and out of Amsterdam. I took a 10-day trip of my own to Amsterdam in 2001 while S. made her painstaking decision about where to attend law school. Each time I returned to the city I loved it more. I tried to talk S. into renting an apartment there so we could taste what it was like to live like locals, to really immerse ourselves in the culture, but S. always wanted to travel from place to place, to take in as many sights as possible. In my heart of hearts, I longed to live there.

As I reminisced while staring at the computer screen which had long since gone black I knew without a doubt that the answer to my question was Amsterdam. If I could do anything I wanted I would rent an apartment in Amsterdam. I was so sure of this that there was no competing interest vying for attention.

I snapped out of my haze and opened my browser. I googled “Amsterdam apartments.” I slowly discovered that this was not going to be easy. There were few apartments available to residents outside the European Union. The only apartment listings I found were through rental agencies and they charged an arm and a leg per month. It was cheaper to rent a hotel room for a month than to rent an apartment! But then I remembered my ultimatum: If I ever felt so low that I didn’t think I could go on living then I’d allow myself to do whatever I wanted for at least a day. I decided, “Forget a day. That might have been enough in high school but I need a real fix!”

I booked an apartment for a month through a rental agency. I entered my credit card number on a rental website and, voila, I was booked for five-plus weeks starting in early November of 2007. The cost was 2900 Euros, about 4200 U.S. dollars. I didn’t even check for flights before I committed to the apartment and it was mid-October. I had a small panic attack when I realized the flight might cost a bundle but then I realized I didn’t care. I was going to Amsterdam to save my life! As long as there was a flight available it didn’t matter the cost. Fortunately, there were flights with reasonable rates because it was the off-season for travel to Amsterdam.

By 3:00 AM I had made all of the necessary arrangements. I had booked a one-bedroom apartment in the Plantage neighborhood just east of the city center near the zoo. The apartment was located on Entrepotdok in an old warehouse building that had originally been used by the Dutch East India Company. I saw the photos of the apartment. It was decked out with contemporary furniture, appliances, stereo system, wireless Internet service, satellite TV, and all manner of George Jetson gizmos to make living easy. I’d be able to work on my indexing projects from the apartment and at nearby cafés.

By searching a little more online I discovered the jam band moe would be playing at the Melkweg in late November. I booked tickets for both nights. My Amsterdam trip was developing into an exciting adventure. As I sat back with my work done, my apartment rented, and my flight booked I shook my head in disbelief. I’d done something proactive to jumpstart my life.