I sent an SMS to Vanessa Friday morning. I asked her when she was returning from Romania. I didn’t expect to hear from her until later in the day and I didn’t. When she finally replied she wrote, simply, “Tomorrow, baby.” I spent the morning and early afternoon working on an index. By two I needed to get out of the apartment. It was cold and rainy so I took my hat and umbrella with me. I went to my favorite Oude Zijde neighborhood.
I walked in that direction, being attentive to street signs and other landmarks. I passed the little Rapenburgerplein and walked down Rapenburg to Nieuwe Uilenburgerstraat, cut down a narrow side street one block, and crossed a bridge spanning the OudeSchans leading to the neighborhood time forgot. I walked streets named Recht Boomssloot, Montelbaanstraat, and Jankerstraat.
In all my trips to Amsterdam I had never been to Nieuwmarkt. I had heard of this mythical place from many and had seen it marked on maps. Did it exist? I didn’t know. It had eluded me every time I tried to find it and I never stumbled upon it by accident. It seemed simple enough to find when looking at a map, but the streets never seemed to match the maps. Still in the hollows of time forgotten, I asked a pedestrian for directions. I was told to go this way then that then hook around another way before backtracking that way before turning right at the canal then turning left at such-and-such a building and—no, wait, turn left at the canal then … I tuned out. Never mind. Wandering the city for discovery is best.
There existed the possibility that I could move to Amsterdam, wander every day, and never find Nieuwmarkt. Was it possible Nieuwmarkt was a fictional place, a joke everyone in Amsterdam played on visitors? Was the mayor in on it? The lowest paid janitor? “Oh, it’s the most remarkable place. If you see nothing else in Amsterdam you must see Nieuwmarkt!” The guidebooks were surely in on the ruse. They placed a landmark in the Oude Zijde and in bright red letters appeared the word “Nieuwmarkt.” Maybe “Nieuwmarkt” had been written on a singular cobblestone on some rarely traversed street named Kerderkerkenerdelstraat. Maybe.
My amusement became agitation. “How the fuck can I not find this place?!” Surrounded by peaceful canals, lazy streets, welcoming homes, and a soft gray sky that had stopped raining, I could think of nothing but how city planners fucked me over by playing a practical joke. Why was I playing their game? There were undoubtedly secret cameras following my movements, a reality TV show broadcast all over Holland, and I was the latest star, a gullible fool who believed in the myth of Nieumarkt. Viewers in homes and cafes turned to one another saying, “He probably believes in dragons, too!” Laughter rang out from houses everywhere. I peaked in windows to see if anyone was watching me on television, if residents were laughing hysterically as I walked the neighborhood in circles.
“Motherfucking shit!” Outbursts like that caused raucous laughter amongst viewers of all ages. Mothers told their daughters, “That’s how Americans speak, darling. They are crass, impatient, and belligerent. We treat them kindly because they don’t know any better. We don’t whip dogs for being dogs now, do we?” Fucking Dutch mothers and daughters, condescending wenches. They should be burned at the damn stake!
“What the fuck am I saying?” Dear lord, it’s just a place. “If it is a place, you twit!” Okay, time to calm down. My mind pulled apart and each side yelled at the other. “Searching for Nieuwmarkt has made me insane.” Maybe the Dutch intended visitors to go insane while looking for Nieuwmarkt. I fell right into their trap. Cunning bastards. I vowed to get even and plotted my revenge.
As I foamed at the mouth muttering gibberish about burning witches, a ridiculously spry elderly fellow skipped by me while whistling. He was wearing knee socks and britches on the outside of his pants, a vest turned inside out worn over his tweed jacket, and a derby upside down on his head held in place by a ribbon tied around his chin. His eyes danced as he pranced by me and sang, “Toodle-oo!” I turned and watched him. Every thought I had disappeared. As he danced out of sight I realized my chin was dangling against my chest. “Holy fuck. I am going insane.”
Now I really wondered if I was on a Dutch reality television show. “What the hell was that?” I would have been fascinated to see such a thing in Leidseplein, but not shocked. But here? Deep in the Oude Zijde away from almost everyone? Along canals so quiet thoughts were audible? By houses so empty it was a wonder squatters hadn’t yet invaded? Had he escaped from a psychiatric ward? Or, more likely, was he in charge of the psychiatric ward? The latter seemed most likely. The host of the reality TV show is the head psychiatrist at The Netherlands most respected psychiatric hospital. In order to make those diagnosed feel more at home, the staff dresses and acts like absurdist twaddlers spitting on themselves while hopping on one foot juggling stuffed bunnies.
Or maybe Holland decided to do everything the other way around. Psychiatrists and psychologists are thrown in lockdown wards and the diagnosed run the hospitals—nay, the country. No wonder the damn place is so fun and free-spirited! Of course Nieuwmarkt doesn’t exist! I wondered who else was in on the joke. Certainly not me yet I felt proud of myself for figuring out the game on my own. The insane ran the world and the sane were locked up in psychiatric prisons. Made perfect sense.
The cold ramped up and I had no idea where I was. Everything looked familiar, though. I probably walked down this same street five times looking for Nieuwmarkt while getting lost in rage only to be stunned by the dancing inside-out man. December is not a weather-friendly month in Amsterdam, but nowhere in the northern hemisphere is. Too cold for walking. I sighed, dejected, and turned back in what I thought was the direction of my apartment. I managed to find my way out of the paper bag and lumbered home.
Back in my apartment, I loaded a bud of Hawaiian Snow into my pipe. I lit and felt the cold seep from my bones. Clarity of thought returned and I showered, luxuriating under the warmth of the angel’s head. I had a thought to go to Bloem, but I wasn’t in the mood for a Friday night out. I made dinner, preferring to chill at home. Vanessa would be back on Saturday and I wanted to be fresh. I reminded myself: no more cocaine. Appreciate her as she is for who she is.
After I ate, I lied down on the couch and listened to music while reading Kesey’s novel. Occasionally, I laid the book on my chest and let thoughts roam. It occurred to me how often I had beat myself down over the past two years. I owed myself an apology for thinking so little of myself. A voice in my head that seemed to come from someone else said, “Hasn’t this trip served as an apology?” If that was so then what did that make the next trip I had booked? A celebration? Perhaps it doesn’t matter one fucking bit if it has a label. I shook my head. “Damn, even when I let myself off the hook I put myself on the hook. I need to start wearing my clothes inside out.”
...
I indexed Saturday morning, but didn’t get much work done. The very idea of Nieuwmarkt distracted me again and again. I resisted every impulse to march out the door to search for it. That fucking place drove me nuts. I made a sandwich for lunch, ate some chips, drank juice. I needed to get high if I wanted to get any work done. I loaded a bud of Northern Lights No. 5 and smoked. I was loopy, the best condition for thinking about how to organize the thoughts of an author writing about early childhood development.
The early afternoon proved much more productive. Cannabis has had a reputation for diminishing motivation and the ability to think well; I suppose it does for some. With my brain chemistry, though, pot slowed down my thought just enough so I could think like a “normal” person or, rather, a person who thinks comparably slowly or predictably. Not that I wanted to be a condescending ass about it, but I typically had several strains of thought spiraling parallel to one another, crossing streams to provide greater context, and then spinning outward again to expand thought into the deadness of mind to give life. Not a practical way to live in a world designed primarily by linear thinkers. Some have wanted pills to make them smarter; I needed drugs to make my thought simpler. Granted, depression works quite well in that regard, but absent depression—which I was—my thought was beginning to ramp up to speed.
I received an SMS from Vanessa in the afternoon. She had returned from Romania and asked what I was doing. "I'm free. Why?" She asked if I could meet her in an hour. Sure. She gave me the address—her address—and told me to meet her there. She lived on Marnixstraat on the west side of the city center. I googled the address. There was no easy tram route; in fact, I would have to switch trams at least three times and still have quite a bit of walking to do. I needed to change as well so I decided to call a taxi so I would be on time.
When the taxi arrived I told him the address and he drove to Prins Hendrikkade. If I had walked this would have been the route to go. We passed by Amsterdam Centraal and I realized the busy street we were on was the one I had walked when I first arrived in Amsterdam. I hadn’t known the names of streets then, but that was changing. I hoped I wouldn’t lose my sense of wonder by getting to know the city by name, street by street, canal by canal. I doubted it. Then I wondered if it might not open up some other doors of perception for me.
I arrived at Vanessa’s address. The reputation for this part of the city was that it was on the edge of rough but to my eyes it looked splendid. “Rough” in Amsterdam doesn’t exactly equate to “rough” in Chicago or Oakland. I wasn’t sure of the statistics but I knew there were very few homicides for a city this size. A far cry from major metropolitan U.S. cities.
When I rang Vanessa’s apartment I heard what sounded like a Russian voice from the speaker. I said “Vanessa?” The buzzer went dead and then that voice again: “No, is not Vanessa. Who you?” I said, “Michael.” Again, no sound for a bit then, “Oh, you are boy toy. I get Vanessa.” Boy toy? What the hell did that mean? I waited nearly ten minutes and Vanessa came down. She was dressed casually with a light jacket, jeans, and tennis shoes. She gave me a hug and a kiss. She apologized and told me the woman who answered the buzzer was her roommate. “Bitch,” said Vanessa. We started walking north in the direction of Haarlemmerweg.
Vanessa turned to me as we were walking and said, “You know my name not Vanessa, yes?” I turned to her and gave her a faint smile, “I guessed as much.” She looked at me quizzically and said, “You guess what?” I shook my head and spoke more succinctly, “I did not think your name was Vanessa.” She nodded and said, “Oh.” She paused then said, “Georgiana. You like?” I gave her a big smile and put my arm around her shoulders. “I like very much.” Now I was speaking broken English.
Vanessa looked around suspiciously and scuttled out from under my arm. She held my left hand with her right as we walked north. I was curious about this. Vanessa said, “It feel better, okay?” She appeared tentative. I said okay. I wondered what her concern was and flashed back to her stories about being abducted by her cousin, being bought by a pimp. Did she worry for her safety? For mine? This was her neighborhood and, perhaps, she was concerned about anyone thinking she had a boyfriend or client or … I didn’t know. After we turned the corner onto a busy shopping street she took her hand out of mine and blew on it. The wind was cold so I tried not to make any more of it than that.
As we walked I saw a convenience store with a basket of roses out front. I grabbed one, turned quickly inside, paid for it, and handed it to Vanessa—Georgiana. She smiled and said “You are sweet” but there wasn’t much emotion in her voice. She looked at it as if I had given her an old rag. Did she expect a dozen? Would she have preferred none? I wasn’t sure. We walked lazily along and I finally asked her why she wanted me to come over. She said, “I work tonight and maybe tomorrow. I want see you, you know?” On one hand, I thought that was sweet but I was also perplexed—and a little upset. “You’re working tonight and maybe tomorrow night? I leave on Tuesday, you know?” She looked at me sadly, pleadingly, “I know, but I gone long time and I no work I lose agency. Is bad, you know?”
“Vanessa—I mean, Georgiana—” She stopped me by putting a hand to my lips. “Vanessa. Is easy. You know real name, but say Vanessa. Is easy.” She was right. It was laborious trying to remember “Georgiana” after calling her and thinking about her as “Vanessa.” I started again. “Vanessa. I wanted to see you tonight. I thought … I thought you could come over. I know you have to keep up to date with your contacts, but—” Again she cut me off. “Now is treat, okay? Is best I do today. I invite you! I no do this, but you help me. You special so I call.” We kept walking in silence. I didn’t know what to think so I didn’t. Vanessa turned to me and said, “I get groceries and you help me carry!” She laughed. “I joke. I no call for groceries. Is nice, no?”
I nodded. I changed the subject. “Vanessa, do you know where Nieuwmarkt is?” She looked at me curiously. “Why you want know?” I laughed. “Because I want to see it. I’ve never been there.” She looked even more dumbfounded. “It is square. Why you want see?” I laughed even harder. “I want to see it because, you know, it’s one of the things you see when you’re in Amsterdam.” She gave me a funny look. “Like Red Light?” I couldn’t help laughing at that point. When I finally slowed down I said, “Yes, like the Red Light District. It’s a special place, right?” Vanessa shook her head. “A place, yes, but not so special. Is nice, many café, but is just square. Many other square in city.” I paused and asked, jokingly, “So, it does actually exist.” Vanessa stopped walking and turned to me. “What you say? You are crazy man. Yes, is place.” I asked her if she had been there and she rolled her eyes while bending her knees, the fingers of her hands stretching out to lengthen themselves. “Yes, I see place! Why you are so strange? I joke you are strange, but I think, yes, you are strange.” I chuckled as we turned to keep walking. I wanted to keep going because I loved pestering her, but I also didn’t want to be punched in the stomach—or worse.
As I saw the grocery store, I mentioned to Vanessa that I was returning to Amsterdam mid-January. She grabbed my arm with both hands and hopped. She smiled up at me and said, “Is good, baby! Oh, I happy.” On a whim, I asked her if she wanted to come to the United States with me for a visit. “What?! No, I no can do this. I must work!” I figured as much, but I kept going. “Come on, it will be fun. When will you have a chance to go to the United States again, huh?” Vanessa shook her head as we entered the grocery store. “Is not possible.”
She was being absolutely no fun at all. I said, “Vanessa, what if … we got married?” She stopped in her tracks and looked up at me with her eyes so wide I could see her liver through her retinas. She stammered, but couldn’t get a word out. I was playing at being deadly serious. “You said many times that I wanted to marry you, that I loved you. Why wait? We should get married now!” I gulped while thinking maybe this was the wrong way to play. Far too serious an issue for jokes.
Vanessa said, “No. I no have boyfriend, no husband. Is no good. My life complicate.” She paused and looked down at her feet before looking back up at me. “I joke about marry you. You know I joke, yes?” I sighed, put my hands on her cheeks, and smiled. “Yes, I know you were joking. I know you don’t want to marry me. I know you don’t love me.” Vanessa interrupted. “Hey! I love you! Yes, I love you. You no love me?” I had no idea how to answer that. “What do you mean you ‘love me’?” Vanessa sighed and said, “We talk after grocery.”
We wandered around the store and Vanessa picked out vegetables, canned goods, pastas, chips, snacks, and more while I pushed the cart. She turned to me a few times and smiled. She whispered in my ear once, “Is like being marry, no?” She giggled and I laughed. She shrugged her shoulders with a sly grin. “Is best I can do.” I nodded and said, “This is what friends do, too.” She bent her knees and raised her arms while yelping, “Is what ‘I love you’ mean!” She slapped her forehead, turned to me with a look of relief, and said, “Yes, you understand. Good.” She kissed me on the cheek and we continued shopping.
Vanessa bought the groceries and put them in bags. I carried most of them. As we were walking back, I said, “So, we are friends.” Vanessa nodded her head. “But you are client, too.” I asked her what would happen if I didn’t see her as a client any more. “Could we still be friends then?” Vanessa tilted her head up and to the side as she walked. “I no know. You no want see me as escort?” Oh, well, hmmm. I hadn’t thought about that seriously. “I don’t know. Right now I do, but not forever.” Vanessa nodded her head and we walked in silence until we turned onto Marnixstraat. “I no know, baby. Is easy I see you as client. I want be friend, yes, but you be client, too.” I asked her, “What about in the future?” Vanessa let out a laugh. “I no know. Maybe. How I know? Maybe I no escort in year.” She looked up at me dreamily and batted her eyes while smiling, “And then you marry me!” Squealing laughter squirted from her as she started running down the street. I was too loaded down to run so she stopped and turned back. “Hey, baby, I joke, you know? Why you no run after me?” I laughed and yelled, “Because I didn’t want to drop your groceries!” She put a hand to her mouth and crouched a little—one of her many giggle positions.
I shook my head and thought about how weird it was to be with Vanessa in an everyday context. Engaging the mundane with an escort feels surprisingly intimate. Just two people fucking around while grocery shopping. She walked back to me as I was thinking. When she got close she said, “What? You stand there all day? I live this way, silly.” She laughed and I followed. When we got to the steps of her apartment she asked me to wait outside while she took a load of groceries inside. “I no invite you inside. My roommate no like and … is weird.” I nodded. When she came back down for the last load she said, “You know why I escort?” I shook my head no. “I like money! Friend good, but client better.” Ouch. “I no mean that. How I say? I no can escort forever. I have friend forever, but escort only now. I young, pretty, is what men want, you know?” I nodded.
“You gift ..." Vanessa raised her eyes to me, a look of ecstatic gratitude, and continued, "My papa so happy. Here, I have picture.” She removed photos from her purse. One was with her and her father next to a black car that looked like a Mercedes. They were standing apart, Vanessa at the front of the car and her father near the back. He was wearing an overcoat, bald, with a mustache. Vanessa was wearing her black leather jacket, jeans, and boots. They were both holding out their hands to show off the car. Each of them was smiling widely. I smiled, too.
She showed the other photos to me, one with her and her father smiling while holding fans of fifty-Euro bills, another of her older sister with her, one with a younger, another with her mother (who looked a lot like her, but much heavier), and one with a younger brother. She said, “They all proud I helping papa.” Vanessa’s eyes were watery. She was smiling, proud. She wiped her eyes and looked up at me. “You do this. You are hero.” She put her arms around my neck and kissed me on the lips. She pulled away and I smiled at her, pushing her nose with a finger. She made a noise, “Eep,” and giggled. Once again she opened up to me and exposed herself as a person. She put the photos away, picked up the grocery bags, and went up the stairs saying, “SMS tomorrow. Maybe I no work, okay? Kiss!”
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