Amsterdam Four: Apartment

Once in my new apartment the landlady gave me a tour. The space was even more breathtaking than the photos I’d seen. Everything was brand new. It wasn’t a huge place by any means but the twelve foot ceilings made the apartment seem spacious. Despite its modern interior it was downright cozy. I thought to myself, “I could live here.” I felt a tinge of nostalgia in less than an hour in this new place because I knew I’d only be here five weeks. When I was in Madison five weeks seemed like five years, but here in Amsterdam I could already feel time ticking away.

I pushed the thought out of my mind and allowed myself to soak up the moment. I loved this place, the apartment and the city. The landlady, Mrs. X, was welcoming and I felt at home. She gave me her cell phone number and told me to call if I needed anything. She informed me that she and her husband lived directly below in a two bedroom apartment. I realized I had the queen of the two places. She had ignored no detail and had gone to great lengths and expense to make the space spectacular and inviting. I understood why the price tag was high.

In the living room was a couch, a love seat, and a chair, each an eclectically different style that complimented one another both in design and spatial arrangement. The entertainment console was like a featured Bose floor model. The coffee table was contemporary and glass topped. There were elegant and perfectly placed end tables. Shelves provided a wide array of fascinating books, some in Dutch but many in English. An array of magazines and guides to Amsterdam were spread out on the coffee table. The centerpiece of the room, though, was a floor-to-ceiling window that looked out on the canal and the condos across the waterway. The window had automatic blinds operated by the push of a button. This was a space to chill in style.

Mrs. X showed me the kitchen. It was all chrome and light-varnished wood cabinetry. I imagined her leafing through an interior design book and choosing the most chic layout. The refrigerator was enormous with all manner of gizmos to make six types of ice cubes, a water dispenser, and, oddly, a juice dispenser. The fridge was stocked with food and beverages. The oven was also huge and matched the refrigerator: chrome with black trim. Designer pots and pans hung above the kitchen island which had a brownish-grey granite top. There was storage galore with long, tall, and deep cabinetry. I opened a couple and they were stocked with food from gourmet pastas to an array of cereals, crackers, and cookies; a cornucopia. There was a small dining table on the wall opposite the cupboards on the other side of the island. The chairs were contemporary, possibly chosen from a Swedish design catalog.

As she walked me into the bedroom she mentioned that a cleaning woman would come in once a week to change the bedding, deep clean the bathroom, and tidy up the kitchen and living room. There was no desk in the bedroom, but I figured I could use the dining table to work on my laptop. There was a small closet and dresser. I had few belongings with me so I wasn’t concerned. In the bedroom and throughout the apartment there were lightly-stained hardwood floors that brightened the interior of the apartment.

The bed was small, a double. I had a slight twinge of disappointment as I imagined myself hooking up with a Dutch beauty longing for a queen or a king. On the other hand, if I could manage to hook up we wouldn’t need a damn king or queen. That was a question for me, though. I’d had a number of hookups in Chicago after separating, almost all of them from bars and clubs. I saw a couple women for four or five weeks each at different times throughout that year, but all of it was while I was on the rebound. One “relationship” (what do you call a five-week hookup?) could have turned out great if it hadn’t been for the fact that she was the first person I met after getting separated. She was the only woman out of everyone I saw who made my heart pound when I was with her. She was also the only woman I hooked up with while being sober. She was great … and I was fucked up. She saw that soon enough and, sadly for me, moved onward with her life.

Since moving to Madison to get away from partying and empty sex, I hadn’t seen anyone. I didn’t go to bars or clubs or drink or join a rec league. I worked and watched television. I didn’t have any friends in the area. I moved there because I had spent happy years in Madison during the late 1990s. I thought getting out of Chicago and moving there would bring some semblance of stability and happiness. The only thing that developed was the soul-sucking routine of work, eat, sleep, television. Depression and anxiety were constant companions.

I may have been uplifted since the moments I made the reservations to visit Amsterdam, but it was veneer, an adrenaline bump in an otherwise lifeless body, mind, and heart. Hook up with a woman? How? I lacked confidence in myself and, beneath the excitement of being in Amsterdam, still felt worthless as a being. There was no greater purpose to my existence, no meaning to be derived from contemplation or relationships. Relationships were about manipulations and lies and I was in no shape to fend for myself in any form of emotional environment, even one that was welcoming and kind. My thoughts of those who had been friendly to me were, down deep, “What sort of scam are you running?” I was fucked up and it was going to be a challenge to break out of a long slump of distrust, toward myself as much as others.

I escaped from my thoughts as Mrs. X showed me the bathroom. I gaped in awe. The shower was all glass, perhaps reaching eight feet high, and it was huge! I guessed it must have been eight by eight. I thought I could probably get lost in there. I noticed the shower head was at least a foot in diameter. The tile was Delft blue and its contrast to the chrome and glass shower, the white porcelain toilet and sink, and the decorative wallpaper somehow made the bathroom traditional and contemporary. In the bathroom as in all the other rooms there were prints and paintings of various subjects, from flowers to cityscapes to abstract expressionism. That shower, though … wow.

The apartment was wonderful and seeing it on the heels of such kindness in the neighborhood I felt fortunate. I felt a very slight turning of the tide within me, a sniff of a scent that perhaps good things can happen after all. The landlady left with a smile and the casual but friendly Dutch goodbye, tschüss. I stood in the living room and thought, “Life is strange.” I sensed that I’d earned these gifts after so much sorrow, suffering, and slaving work.

I looked at the clock in the kitchen and saw it was only noon. My body was screaming for sleep, but I was filled with the rush of being in another country. I was also famished. I went to the fridge, counter, and cupboards and found fresh eggs, green peppers, red onions, gourmet cheese, and spices galore. I collected them all, pulled down a titanium skillet and proceeded to make myself an omelet. It had been a long time since I’d cooked. I had been surviving on frozen pizzas and microwavable packages of semi-edible food-like substances. As I took the first bite I thought, “Fuck, I forgot how good real food tastes.”

I decided to go for a walk after eating. I wanted to stay awake as long as possible to avoid jet lag. I also didn’t want to waste a moment and I felt fresher after eating. My backpack was in the living room. I rummaged through it and found the Euros I’d exchanged in the U.S., pulling out five 20s from a thick wad of cash. I made sure I had my key before heading out the door.

I walked toward the train station. My priority at that moment was a coffeeshop, any coffeeshop. I wanted to make sure I had some weed and a pipe, both for relaxation and to make sure I could sleep in case I caught a second wind come nightfall. I found a little shop on a side street about two-thirds of the way back to the train station. It was a dive, there was no room for seating, and a rather unpleasant Moroccan was working the small glass counter. There was a paltry display of a few varieties of cannabis. I wasn’t terribly concerned about quality. I just needed something for the day and then I’d find a finer establishment to purchase some quality buds.

The variety I purchased was so dry I guessed that it had probably been sitting in its container for a month. I bought a gram, just enough to get by until I had my feet under me. I bought a small wooden pipe for 10 Euros. It was a rip-off, but I was too tired to worry about it. I figured I’d purchase a quality glass pipe another day. The man running the counter was impatient and seemingly disgusted by me. He spoke a little English, but not much. His tone of voice, eyes, and crossed arms told me he did not like me one bit. I thought, “No wonder you have such dried out weed. No one with any sense would ever purchase anything from you.” The only explanation of how he stayed in business was the proximity to the train station. The place likely attracted the occasional disoriented and desperate traveler who needed to make a purchase in a hurry or tourists who simply did not know that the city was filled with more than three hundred coffeeshops, all of them with better cannabis, pipes, edibles, drinks, environs, and customer service. The guy was so nasty I almost expected him to spit on the ground as I left.

I now knew not every person in Amsterdam was friendly. Of course, he was clearly Moroccan as the flag on the wall behind the counter suggested. I could let the city off the hook since he was an immigrant--an apparently ungrateful immigrant. It would be during a future visit to Amsterdam that I would discover there were tensions between Moroccan immigrants and Dutch culture. On that day, though, I knew nothing more than that I’d just bought pot from an asshole. I felt my stomach turn knowing I’d done my part to keep him in business.

I thought about walking the streets to soak up the city, but I was too tired. Instead, I went back to my apartment. I set up my laptop in the kitchen and typed in the password given to me by Mrs. X. I checked my email and then contacted a few friends and family members to let them know where I was. I didn’t told a soul that I was going to Amsterdam. I wanted something that was just for me. So many people had helped me deal with the sorrow of loss and the dull ache of depression over the previous two years. This trip was my way of reclaiming my life, a way of saying, “I can do this; I can make my own way.” Keeping the trip to myself was a declaration of autonomy. Now that I was where I wanted to be and there could be no “But Michael…” messages creating doubt, I decided to share my whereabouts.

I downloaded several PDFs for a couple of indexing projects that were due around the end of the month. I opened one of the PDFs just to make sure there were no problems and once satisfied shut down the computer. It was only mid-afternoon so I unpacked my things. That took no time at all so I turned on the television and found an English speaking channel. A rerun of Seinfeld was playing. Weird. I thought of smoking a bowl but knew I’d crash so I waited.

I dozed off halfway through the episode, anyway. I woke about 6:00 PM Dutch time and changed the time on my watch. I got up, went to the kitchen, and made myself a sandwich. I was groggy and out of sorts so I decided to smoke a bowl. I hadn't smoked for some time so I figured even dried out weed would do the trick. The high was heavy, foggy. It may have been due to jet lag but probably owed more to the poor quality of the grass. I stayed up another hour before puffing a little more and going to bed.