Brown Eyed Girls

April 28, 2004

I'd like to write about having dinner on Monday night with the girl with the big brown eyes, but all we did was talk about super secret personal stuff, so there's not much I can write. But I will say this: Her eyes are big. And they are brown.

I've been too preoccupied to write much lately. My head is too muddled. Although I don't suppose that's much of an excuse, considering my head is always muddled. But for whatever reason, I haven't been on the ball.

I passed off a copy of my book to Signe last night. She'd already read a draft of the first half and had asked about the second.

"You wanna read it?"

"Of course."

"Okay."

She'd only read up to the beginning of the Amsterdam section, which coincidentally is where I'll be going tomorrow. I'll be arriving without much of a plan. Nothing new.

I'll try to catch Dave Fontaine and friends, who are currently renting a houseboat over there. Dave assures me that his high-tech supercharged cell phone works in Europe, so I'll give him a call when I arrive.

“But make it short," he said. Although the phone will work, it'll cost him a zillion dollars a minute to use it.

Speaking of girls with big, brown eyes, I wonder if I'll run into Hilde. I used to find her hanging out at Cafe Sound Garden, my favorite bar during the "lost summer” of 2002.

[Cue flashback music.]

Summer, 2002

At the table next to me were two girls softly talking. I watched them for a moment before realizing that one of them was the waitress from the vegetarian restaurant I'd eaten at earlier in the night. I tried to catch her eye to see if she’d remember me, but she and her friend were deep in conversation. I debated for a few minutes before finally going over to say hi.

“Hello,” she said back.

I couldn’t tell if she recognized me or not, but she didn’t seem to, so I explained that I’d seen her earlier in the night.

“You waited on me.”

“Oh yes,” she said, with only the faintest glimmer of recognition.

It was awkward, and I couldn’t think of anything else to say, and she didn’t seem too interested in talking, so I apologized for interrupting and went back to my seat. I stayed for one more drink and then headed home.

I liked sitting on the back deck at Cafe Sound Garden, though, and since the bar lay between the city center and my flat, it had become a regular stop.

A few nights later, I went there for a nightcap and saw the waitress again. She hadn’t been interested in talking the previous time, so I didn’t bother trying again. But she recognized me and surprised me with a warm hello.

“Hello again,” I said.

And suddenly she became very talkative.

“Are you here on holiday?” she asked.

“Sort of.”

“Where are you from?”

“New York.”

“What do you do there?”

I tried out some of the Dutch I’d learned in a book: “Ik ben Kunstenar.”

Her dark eyes widened, and she laughed at my accent.

“Is it that bad?” I asked.

“No. It’s good.”

“Well, that’s pretty much all I know how to say.”

“So you’re an artist. What kind?”

“The out-of-work kind.” I joked.

“I see,” she laughed. “What are you doing in Amsterdam?”

How could I explain? I told the story of how I missed my flight and found the sublet. I said that I’d been in New York for a long time and needed a break. I told her that I loved Amsterdam. “I don’t ever want to leave,” I said.

She thought it was funny that I was a New York Artist and wanted to stay in Amsterdam.

“Why would you want to live in this tiny little town?” she asked. “New York is the big city. It’s where everyone wants to go.”

“I guess so. But it’s beautiful here,” I said.

“It’s dirty.”

“Well, so is New York.”

“I guess.”

“Have you been?”

“No. But I’d love to go someday.”

I bought her a drink and we carried them out to the patio where we sat near the water and continued our talk.

“My name’s Hilde, by the way. What’s yours?”

“Jamie.” We shook hands. “Are you here alone?” I asked.

She gestured toward two young guys drunkenly playing darts inside and told me she’d come with them. They worked with her at the restaurant.

“What are you going to do here for three months?” she asked.

“I don’t know. Just wander around. Get to know the city."

She asked if I’d been to the Rijksmuseum, and I admitted that I hadn’t. She scolded me. I’d just told her I was an artist, and yet I hadn’t been to Amsterdam’s premier art museum? I suggested perhaps she’d like to take me.

She thought for a moment. “Maybe,” she said. “But, well,” and she began to fiddle with a coaster. “I don’t know what you’re thinking, but I should probably tell you that I sort of have a boyfriend.”

Don’t they always?

“What do you mean, sort of?”

“Yes, well, we’re trying to work some things out.”

“I see.”

“But…”

“But what?”

Her eyes seemed to sink deeper, and she looked embarrassed. “He’s crazy,” she finally said.

“Dangerous?”

“No,” she said. “I mean, he hears voices in his head.”

I certainly wasn’t expecting her to say that. “What do they say?”

“I don’t know exactly. They whisper things.”

She took out a bag of loose tobacco and began rolling herself a cigarette, preparing to either get into a heavy conversation or to clam up. I’ll let you decide which.