I thought about Vanessa’s situation as I laid in bed. How much money did she need? I had done the calculations and realized I could contribute over 10,000 Euros without destroying my financial situation. Was I going to give her that kind of money? No! I did want to help, though. It wasn’t because I knew with certainty that she needed the money to help her family, though I didn’t believe she was lying about it. I cared deeply for her, but I didn’t love her and didn’t believe we would ever have a serious relationship; perhaps a deeper friendship eventually.
I had known Vanessa a little over a week. A week! I laughed at myself; it was hard to believe it had only been a week. The desire to help her was bubbling up from somewhere deep within me, a source just as complex and mysterious as that which caused my anxiety. Was it worthwhile to be a person in the way she needed me to be, in a way that made me less invisible or inconsequential as a human being? It could have been anyone who needed help, but no one I knew needed anything like this; if they did they certainly hadn’t said anything or given me any signs. That was just it: No one in my past life needed me. If I disappeared they would go on with their lives as if nothing much had happened. It was painful to be aware of how inconsequential my existence was. It wasn’t that I had nothing to offer; hell, I wanted to offer more of myself, especially in ways that enriched the lives of others. I lived to do that.
I was beginning to realize that the mysterious “somewhere” within me that caused my anxiety was related to this desire—no, need—to be needed. I did not belong, certainly not in the United States. No one cared. My family? Sure, in their own way. They needed to know I was okay, but did they need my presence, my input, my analysis, my decision making, my affection, my love? To some degree, but more as a notion than in some everyday way. My closest friends? Yes and no. I added something to their lives because I cared about them and they noticed that. But did they need me in a way that affected the deeper decisions of their lives, how they lived their daily lives, or who they were as persons, as beings? I didn’t think so.
The truth was, I needed my family and friends much more than they needed me, but I was too aware of the imbalance in those relationships to fully receive what they were willing to give and, often enough, what they were offering was not what I needed. I had nothing equal to give them in return that they actually wanted or needed, either. This may have been a subconscious motivation in my choice to Amsterdam. Absent community, I wanted greater autonomy in an environment that provided more daily affection through its architecture and the flow of public life than anything I received in the states. I was in a place with enough distance from my everyday miserable life to see myself as I was more clearly and it was Alain de Botton who made an impression through his statement that we often find our essential selves while traveling rather than in the routines of our daily lives and the stasis of everyday domestic settings.
Amsterdam also provided an environment conducive to the type of spatial exploration I craved; it was an environment I trusted that filled my heart with warmth and my mind with possibilities. I cared about the city in return and felt genuine affection for it. It is possible to love “inanimate objects,” but in this case it wasn’t merely the architecture or urban design, though they were designed in a way that made it easy to love them. It was also the ambiance of the various neighborhoods throughout the city, specific cafés, pedestrians and cyclists, trams, canals, and more.
I have not been able to pinpoint what it means to me to walk upon a Prinsengracht café on a sunny morning seeing a woman sitting at a table next to a railing reading a newspaper while dressed casually but stylishly with shades and perhaps a sunhat while a slight breeze wafts through and around the curve of the canal rustling the leaves of trees lining the narrow streets as a server smilingly brings a capuccino with ginger snaps to her before returning inside the café then seeing the woman fold the paper, pick up the cup with both hands, and take a sip while turning to the canal, prompting me to as well, to watch a wooden boat with a galley below deck slowly puttering along with a young or middle-aged couple on board wearing sweaters, the man with a captain’s hat, drinking white wine or bellinis with lazy smiles on their faces, evidence of their relaxed freedom while being precisely where they want to be, and, while looking across the canal, noticing the beauty and grandness of stately houses and apartments five stories high peeking through and above the trees, each with different gabled facades on the roof, each building with different color bricks or stones, some with balconies, one adorned by a black iron railing occupied by a man in a robe wearing shades in the shade while sitting in a cushioned chair drinking coffee or perhaps wine while taking in the view which includes the puttering boat, the bridges to either side of him, one on the straightaway and one on the bend of the canal, all of the houses and apartments across the canal from him that are so similar to those on his side of the canal and yet in different combinations of brick and stone colors as well as heights--four or five stories--gabled facades on the roofs, different sized windows, interiors seen and unseen depending on curtains open or shut as well as pedestrians, cyclists, scooters, and cars, all different colors, shapes, sizes, and styles, going this way and that along the street across the way and on the bridges, the bright green leaves, each with a different sheen depending on the breeze and the angles of the leaves in relation to the sun’s position, and, finally, the woman sitting at a canalside table and me standing looking up at him; I smile and wave and he nods his head, smiles, and waves back.
I would shout “beautiful day,” but it’s so powerfully evident not a word needs be spoken. I am intimate with each of them without ever saying a word and even without eye contact. I can feel their spirit and I am filled with my own, but because everyone has sensory sensibilities of some sort there is nothing within me or them that is “mine” or “theirs.” The environment is ours and each person, whether sitting, standing, cycling, boating, or walking, is creating it in collaboration with the trees, the canal, the buildings, and other mostly stationary objects. The sun—or clouds—collaborate as well given that they change, over the course of minutes and hours. The stillness of the air, the breezes and winds, and the temperature all play a role as well. There are so few cars that they scarcely disturb the cultures of the minutes and hours. The persons within are not present, bunkered as they are in their noisy, moving tombs. Even those cars, though, however infrequent, help to create reminders of just how special it is to be in a living space that is primarily changed in tenor by humans exposed to the elements.
My breathing in such environments, in such minutes and hours, takes on a different rhythm. My heart beats in an entirely different way. My skin feels like it extends beyond itself to drink the air, to feel the sights and sounds just as much as the breeze or a cup of coffee in my hands. I transcend any sense of being alone or lonely; I am an integral presence in the space, noticed or not by each and every person. I contribute to the environment by being present, but more importantly I contribute to the quality of the environment through the way I am within it. My spirit is as much a part of a passing pedestrian’s sense of the place as his or her facial expressions and body language are for me. I want to contribute everything I have within me to the environment, the totality of all of the beauty, good will, and appreciation I am capable of generating because the city has given me so much of the same in return, so much more than I will ever be able to give back. With humility, I give in those ways all that I can whenever I can because I want Amsterdam to continue to be an environment that offers the very best of life.
I came to Amsterdam to find my capacity to be that person again, to be the person who can contribute fully to the quality of life around me. My desire to overcome my anxieties, to find out the source and heal the wounds, funneled me to the city. Amsterdam is therapeutic and living in the environment, moving through the spaces of it, provides the medicine I need to become well. The blocks within me had become so deep, though, that added measures needed to be taken. I hadn’t yet been able to be that way in the city. Glimpses, maybe, but the city still needed to work its magic and I was blocking, not consciously but confusedly, what was abundant all around me. Hence, the cannabis, shrooms, and Vanessa.
What can I contribute to shrooms or cannabis, though? Vanessa, however, a woman who had given me so much in merely a week’s time, could benefit from a contribution I was in a unique position to make. There was no one else in her life capable of giving her a financial gift that could help her family in the way that I could. I had contributed to her as well and not just through payment. I gave of myself as I was, I never asked her to do anything she did not want to do, and I let her choose the music she liked and gave her the opportunity to chat with friends. I liked her and I wanted her to be happy, to feel at ease, and to have fun while working. I wasn’t sure how often that happened for her, but from her few words about the subject it did not seem often. Given how much affection I had for her, I was impressed that I hadn’t become possessive. Occasionally, I felt a pang of hurt that she was with other men, but I addressed those feelings immediately and acknowledged them as attachment, possessiveness, and jealousy. She was not property; she was a person who had every right to make her own choices and live life in her own way. She owed me nothing … and yet she continued to give to me in ways that went beyond her role as an escort.
Could I trust her, though? Was she telling the truth about her father needing money? Had her father even been in accident or need a car? She could have been playing me, not charging Thursday and Friday night as part of a “long play” to take me for much more money by lowering my defenses and pulling at my heartstrings. I had offered 800 Euros and she didn’t take it. Was she looking for a bigger payday in the future? I didn’t even know her real name. I knew so little about her. It had been a deeply intimate and rewarding week, but it was one week! She seemed to open her heart easily and openly. The naïveté of youth, the recognition of a caring heart, or the wiles of a well-schooled escort with extraordinary gifts of manipulation?
These thoughts were familiar. I recognized them even as I let them continue. I wanted to pay attention to this inner voice and the emotions that accompanied it. I observed how my thoughts unfolded and how my emotions fed the unraveling of those thoughts. They were remnants rooted in past manipulations and betrayals. Giving them power would mean allowing them to continue ruling me. I realized that Vanessa had given me yet another gift. Without her sharing of her crisis—real or not—thoughts I had needed to address would not have risen to the surface of my consciousness. Not only was I working through emotional and psychological issues, I was remembering, reinforcing, and forming ethical principles that could guide me into a new life, one consciously chosen. I had been given an opportunity to create authenticity and autonomy in ways I never had so deliberately. This was a way out of foundering, a means to become rather than result.
The issue wasn’t whether I could trust Vanessa. No, the issue was whether I trusted myself to put into practice the spirit I identified as healthy and the principles by which I wanted to live my life. Vanessa had given me an opportunity to do something I hadn’t been able to do for anyone in a very long time; give something that another needed. Taking her at her word was not an act of foolishness, but an act of courage and an incredibly important step in transforming my thinking and emotions based on principles that, if continually practiced, could lead me to authenticity and autonomy. Each of those factors had the potential to radically change my life, give it meaning and purpose, and open me to being able not just to appreciate once again the scene I described on Prinsengracht, but to continuously contribute to the environment around me as well, including persons such as Vanessa.
I made a decision: I would ask Vanessa how much money her father needed and I would contribute as much as I could without putting myself in long-term financial jeopardy. There was risk involved in doing this, but I had never changed anything significant in my life without taking risks. I did not want to continue being the shell I had become in the wake of my separation and divorce. I wanted to direct my own becoming and live life based on my own terms.
Hours had passed. It was nearly 4:00 AM. I felt a deep peace and I drifted off to sleep
…
I woke around noon. I had a bowl of cereal for breakfast—or lunch—and groggily went to the window to open the blinds. I pushed the button and a beautiful sunny day opened before me. It was dazzling. I felt like I was in a different life. There was a boat passing on the canal. I hadn’t seen that once this month. The people on board were dressed warmly, but they all had broad smiles on their faces. It felt more like early fall than the dusk of November. I smiled, took a deep breath, and let out a satisfying sigh.
I took a shower and figured I would get a cash advance to begin building my gift to Vanessa. I was no longer plagued by doubts. I trusted myself. I had eliminated any possible nefarious motivations Vanessa may have had by making this decision about my life. I would give generously without expecting anything in return.
I went out to withdraw Euros from an ATM. I discovered I was only allowed to withdraw 2000 Euros per day. I sent Vanessa an SMS saying I wanted to see her, but she replied that she had to work Saturday night. She wrote that she needed to keep working with agencies to remain in good standing. I asked if I could see her Sunday night. Vanessa replied, “Okay, baby. Miss you. Kiss.”
I went to Greenhouse for three grams of Super Silver Haze and Albert Heijn for food and beer. I returned home and smoked the Haze (incredible high), listened to a reggae station, and read Sailor Song the rest of the afternoon. I made chicken parmesan for dinner and put the leftovers in the fridge. I smoked more Haze, listened to more music, wrote on my laptop, and then read in bed before falling asleep.
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