LOVE AFFAIR WITH AMSTERDAM

 

I remember the window on the side of the street. Inside it there were small little dolls, with bulging eyes. They smiled and stared at passersby. They had cracks in their skin; they were aged. They’d watched people for years. They were eccentric and I loved them. When I first saw them, I ran up to the window giggling. I whipped my phone out to snap a photo. The baby doll window display was a bit creepy to some, but as I would soon learn, so classically Dutch.

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We were taught in class why people decorate their windowsills often in Amsterdam. Hundreds of years ago, men went to work and women stayed back to take care of the home. The lack of curtains prevented affairs while husbands were away at work, as oftentimes homeowner’s windows are visible to people walking on the street. So classically not Dutch.

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In the city windowsills, cats often frequented. They sat and slept, pressed up against the glass, their fur dispersed in marbled patterns. One orange and white cat always slept by the window I passed on Tweede Oosterparkstraat. I liked to think his name was Hermann.

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I loved Tweede Oosterparkstraat. The door to each home was more unique than the last, covered in rainbow tile, painted wood, and stained glass. Many times I dashed down this street in pursuit of Oosterpark, its namesake. I went there to run, I went there to walk. I went there to sit and hangout in the park, like the Dutch, and most everyone, love to do. I went there when I felt sad about leaving. I went there to write about my experience. To unpack what about this place, and my time in it, was so perfect. What about it was so irreplicable.

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Much like the route from my apartment to Oosterpark, the map of Amsterdam’s roads lives in my mind. I became a part of Amsterdam. Home isn’t so much tangible, but rather a feeling of belonging. Biking through the streets tickled a new part of my brain. When I think about them, I still see the routes that I often took.

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To get to GlouGlou, a natural wine bar I frequented, my bike and I took the Ceintuurbaan. We crossed the Amstel river using the Nieuwe Amstelbrug bridge. As we crossed, I’d glance to the right and see the glistening lights illuminating other bridges. The river flowed into the city center. A few miles to the left of the bridge began the countryside. We followed this street and passed several makelaars: realtor offices. Several bars sprawled across the street, students smoking cigarettes, business men sipping beer, and always packed to the brim with smiling people. Almost there, we passed Sarphatipark. At the entrance of the park sat a fountain with an inscription that read They may have crossed oceans, but Amsterdam will always be home. Past the park, we finally turned left onto Tweede Van Der Helststraat, where GlouGlou lived. We biked two blocks past Massimo, a gelato shop that always had a line. We then approached the cozy wine shop.

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GlouGlou sat on a corner. Inside there were small tables smashed together. People sat and sipped, wearing circular wire eyeglass frames, loose fitting jeans, and sexy but casual button up shirts. One wall was entirely covered with chalkboard illustrations of goofy wine drinking cartoons. I can’t recall what they said, a reflection of both how I spent my nights there and how often I attended the Dutch class the following morning. A drawing of Italy and France sprawled the other section of the wall, with grapevines dangling off the borders.

 

The menu was the same every time. I knew my favorite glass: Hobo L’Acino, a tart orange wine from Bordeaux. As a pairing, I’d usually bring a sheet of paper and a pen, to participate in a highly sophisticated activity–the scribble game. Several times I’d play the scribble game with my friend Catherine at GlouGlou. One particular time, I’d brought only one sheet of paper, but we had many hours to fill. We decided it would be best to fold the sheet into eight quadrants, leaving room for sixteen different scribbles. We sat for two hours. The drawings became sillier and more outlandish as the wine did us in. We laughed, screamed, cried, and tooted accidentally. When we filled the paper, we knew it was time to go. Out the door we went, and onto our bikes. There were two speed humps on Tweede Van Der Helststraat that were especially fun to go over when biking back from GlouGlou. We turned onto the Ceintuurbaan, and flew. The wind ran its fingers through my hair as it flowed behind me. Its hands pulled at my mouth, keeping me smiling. The corners of my eyes wrinkled as I beamed with joy.

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The day before I left Amsterdam to return to the U.S., I went for a long bike ride. My bike was silver and had a blue front wheel, a signature feature of a Dutch Swapfiets bike. It was June 2nd and the sun shone so bright. Green ivy hugged the houses along the canals. This was my last ride. It couldn’t last forever, even if I biked all day until the sun went down. My face scrunched up– I began to grieve this place, this part of me that was ending. I biked further until I reached the city center. I grabbed onto the brick of a building, hoping it would budge. I wanted to bring it with me. It didn’t move. The ivy waved goodbye. The windows waved goodbye. Those baby dolls waved goodbye. The city hugged me, and let go.