Amsterdam
November 30, 2002
Her name was Ester and I met her on the last day of my first trip to Amsterdam when I was out looking for a memorable last night. I had been to half a dozen bars before I finally wandered into the crappy dive at the northern edge of the Red Light District.
It was the middle of February, so it wasn't overrun with the thick stench of tourists the way it was when I returned the following Summer. It was pretty quiet, actually. Inside were a couple of Americans, a French guy, and a group of Scottish blokes who got insulted because I thought they were Irish. They sang "New York, New York" to me over and over in sporadic bursts with varying degrees of enthusiasm. One of the Americans was from Nevada and the other from Arizona. The guy from Arizona owned a supermarket, and the Nevada guy a gun shop. They both wanted to ask me about the World Trade Center. I didn't want to talk about it, but they bought me drinks, so I told stories about what I saw and what I knew.
I’m not sure what I said, because I was busy looking at Ester, and that put me somewhere else. Ester was, as pretty girls often are, behind the bar. She caught me staring, and she stared right back. I was drunk enough not to look away. She said "Hi," and then we talked a little. It was her first day, she said. She didn't want to start drinking on her first day, but she snuck a few vodka and cokes here and there until her cheeks got flushed and her English improved. I ignored the rest of the bar—I ignored the Americans as much as possible, paying them only enough attention to keep the drinks flowing. I ignored the Scottish guys as they tried to make trouble between the French Muslim dude and me. I ignored the Muslim dude, which was easy because he was ignoring me right back. I was alone with Ester. She said she got off at 1 AM, and I asked if we could hang out when she got off. Yes, of course. Where can we go? She knew a place that stayed open till 3 AM. I didn't have a bike, so I walked and she walked her bike beside me. I had an early afternoon flight, and it was already 3 AM, but I suggested we hang out back in my hotel room. I still had some beers, and they were probably warm, but what do you say?. Sure.
It was raining and we got cold and wet as we rode double on her orange bike over the cobblestones down along the canal. We giggled and laughed as the tires whooshed and the bike wobbled. She held me tight around the waist, and the moonlight lit the raindrops as they fell. I was happy. I wasn't thinking about tomorrow. I wasn't thinking about getting her up to my room. I wasn't thinking about what we might do once we got there, anything. I was happy, floating and weightless, timeless and free. Why I didn't call the next day to change my flight, I'll never know. I could've stayed there forever.
Let's stay in touch. What's your email address? Let's write. She said she didn't have an email address anymore since she left her last job. I gave her mine. She took it, promised to write, but never did. Of course not.
I returned a few months later, found a sublet, and spent the entire Summer there. My friends teased me that I was chasing after Ester. They wrote to ask if I had arrived and if I had found her yet. I honestly don't know if I wanted to. Our brief moment together was so perfect that I knew it could never be more than that. The world will only let time stand still for so long. I had been in Amsterdam for about a month before I finally went to the bar where I met her. Of course, I went back! I mean, I'm not that smart. She didn't work there anymore. No one even remembered her. The bartender was new. The stoned-out hash-smoking owner vaguely remembered me, but didn't remember her at all. His eyes rolled off to the past, trying to conjure a memory, but it never came. "A lot of girls come and go here," he said. Yes, I understand.
