Missionary Position(2)

Lesson learned.

Sticking to the sidewalks, I meandered across the heart of the city, past food trucks selling pickled-herring sandwiches and falafel restaurants. I didn’t mean to make a beeline straight to the infamous Red Light district, but somehow my feet carried me there. Maybe from memory. Along with Lizzie and Maggie, my two best friends from college, I spent a hazy week wandering around, looking at art, drinking beer, eating stroopwafels, and visiting local cafés for brownies. Special brownies.

A café sign on my left announced they had followed the trends in baked goods and now offered “special” cupcakes. I wonder if the medicinal properties of marijuana helped with jet lag. It couldn’t hurt, I convinced myself, buying a chocolate cupcake with rich chocolate buttercream frosting.

Special or not, the cupcake tasted delicious. Brilliant marketing—the thing you ate gave you munchies for more of the same.

Further wandering through narrow streets brought me face to face with Amsterdam’s notorious women in the windows. I watched them watch me watch them. Who was the true voyeur? Several curtains were closed, indicating the occupants were busy or napping. To my left, a door opened and a man walked out, closing his fly and adjusting his shirt. I stopped and observed him greet his friends with fist-bumps at the end of the block. I licked a smudge of buttercream from my hand while they stumbled off into the fading light of evening. My mind spun with hypotheticals.

What if men stood and sat in windows offering anonymous, safe, consensual sex for women? Would we take them up on it? Would our girlfriends wait for us to do the deed and then high five us?

Movement from the window in front of me returned my attention to the little street. Apparently, safe, consensual sex with one of these women could be offered by a series of hand-gestures. Not wanting to appear ungrateful, I shook my head and smiled at her offer.

I needed and wanted to get laid, but paying for it? Not my thing. Plus, despite a brief exploration in college, I knew I was straight—not narrow, but straight.

I wouldn’t meet Mr. Right Now in Amsterdam’s Red Light district, but I could find a new BOB.

I crossed an arched bridge over the canal to a row of shops. The first two stores I visited were clearly for tourists and women who didn’t love their clitorises. Definitely not the right place for me. Third time was the charm when a Betty Page inspired woman in a pin-up girl outfit greeted me from behind the counter. Not only was she adorable, but informative and more than helpful. She lovingly wrapped my newly purchased battery-operated-boyfriend in tissue and put the box into a discreet, elegant purple shopping bag. Success.

Pleased with my purchase, I decided to celebrate with a drink, fried balls for dinner, and people watching in Leidseplein, the site of many late nights during my first visit. The busy square promised lots of eye candy and the potential for flirting.

With the exception of a heroin addict sleeping in a corner, the tram ride across the city could have been Disney World’s version of Amsterdam, crossing charming boat-lined canals and gliding past colorful pastel buildings. From my window seat, I even spied shops offering wooden shoes. Amsterdam knew how to play to its clichés and still be chic.

Sitting at a table for two outside one of the bars on the square, I ordered a beer, and yes, deliciously gooey, fried bitterballen.

Neon lights from the square’s famous bars and clubs bounced off puddles from an earlier rain I’d missed during my epic nap. I needed to make a plan for my week or else I’d spend my days eating cupcakes and napping. Not a bad week, but I wasn’t here for pleasure only. I had some prep work to do for Ghana. Tomorrow’s plans included a cocktail reception to celebrate the African Art auction the day after. The financial sponsors of a huge touring African sculpture exhibit planned for the end of next year would also be hosting the reception. My research in Ghana might earn a contributing essay in the catalogue, so I needed to play nice. Taking out my moleskine notebook, I made notes about my schedule for the next couple of days.

“Is this seat taken?” a man’s voice asked.

I blinked up at the vaguely familiar face.

“Oh, you don’t speak English? Shit, I don’t know how to say it in Dutch.” He ran his hand through a mop of brown hair worthy of a member of a boy band.

Ah, that’s him. Backpack Romeo stood in front of me.

“Um, no. I mean, yes, I speak English. No, the chair’s not taken.” I fumbled to emphasize my words with random hand gestures.

“Hey, you’re the woman from the airport!” Backpacker sat in the chair opposite me and stuck out his hand, introducing himself as Rob.

“I’m Selah. Nice to meet you.”

“What are the odds we’d run into each other again?”

“What are the odds?” I echoed.

He missed my lack of enthusiasm and continued with his awe over the universe crossing our paths not once, but twice.

“I mean, I’m in Amsterdam, not knowing a soul, and here you are again. Maybe it means something?” he asked, lowering his eyes to my chest.

“I know. Gin joints etcetera.”

When he lifted his eyes to my face, his blank, but eager stare told me he had no idea what I meant.

“This place is a gin joint? Like they only serve gin?” He flipped open his guidebook and scanned the page.

“No, it’s a line from Casablanca. Something about out of all the bars in the world, you walked into this one. You know, the inevitability of universe?”

He blinked at me for a few beats.

“Casablanca? The movie?” I asked, hoping to clarify it for my moppet-headed friend.

“Never heard of it.” He had a lopsided smile. “Your eyes are really pretty. Like the color of limes in a gin and tonic.”

I wanted to bang my head on the table. Instead, I asked him the obvious question about what had brought him to Amsterdam.

“I’m backpacking for a month on my own before starting my study abroad in Munich.”

“I studied abroad. Eons ago. Before cell phones and laptops.”

He openly gaped, his forehead wrinkled in thought. “Shit. You’re like my mom’s age.”

Bingo.

In his eyes I could see myself shriveling into an old crone like the queen in Snow White. I rubbed an invisible wart on my forehead. When I didn’t respond, he fumbled to apologize.

“I thought you were a lot younger. At the airport, you looked hot. I mean, like young hot, not like mom hot. Not that my mom is hot. Well, my dad thinks she’s hot. And Brad from high school totally had a crush on her.”

Someone needed to stop his rambling. My cupcake and beer buzz were dissipating fast.

“I get it. I hide my old age well.”

“Are you backpacking through Europe, too?” he asked.

“Um, no. Hostels and sleeping on trains is for you young people. I’m here for work and a little play.”

“Play?” His voice sounded hopeful and intrigued. “What kind of play?”

“Oh, you know, visiting the Rijks and Van Gogh Museum.” I didn’t mention my cupcake and being slightly stoned. Or my accidental visit to the infamous window women. And certainly not what was tucked inside of the purple bag at my feet.

“That’s play? What about dance clubs and cafés? Aren’t those why people come to Amsterdam?” He pointed at the famous Bulldog bar across the square.

“Ah, therein lies the difference. Museums are play for me. Spending a few hours looking at amazing art is good for the soul.”

He grimaced. “Sounds like homework.”

“A lot of those old master paintings are of naked women.”

Sweet boy’s cheeks pinked at the mention of naked women.

“Or do you prefer the ladies in the windows?” I enjoyed toying with him.

The pink deepened. “I haven’t been to that part of the city … yet. Are they really naked?”

“Sadly, no. Most wear lingerie.”

“Wow. They don’t have that kind of thing in Iowa.”

“No? No naked women in the Midwest?”

His shaky laugh revealed his embarrassment, his bravado gone. “We have naked women, but not out there in public.”

Backpack Boy was a puppy. Although I was flattered, in a way, by his fumbling attentions, hooking up with him would be a mistake. Puppies were cute, but too much work. If I were to have an affair, I didn’t want to waste energy training him. For the first time in hours, my mind drifted to the card in my purse.

I faked a yawn and blamed jet lag as an excuse to say good-bye to young Rob. Wishing him well on his adventure, I left him and the noisy square behind. Visiting the past had been fun, but it reminded me how different I was now. I touched Anita’s card inside of my bag, deciding to text her brother in the morning.





KEEPING MY PROMISE, I texted Gerhard shortly after waking. I left out the part about superior genes and affairs between grown-ups, and stuck to basics—his sister told me to do it.

I had finished walking through half the Rijksmuseum when my phone pinged with a text in response. Gerhardt replied if Anita said we should meet, then we should. He explained he had something immediately after work tonight, but suggested we have a drink at a hotel bar. I recognized the name of the hotel immediately as one of Amsterdam’s nicest. Point one in Gerhard’s favor—he was a grown-up. We agreed upon a time and gave descriptions of ourselves so we could find each other. His description wouldn’t help much: tall, blond, and probably in a suit. I would be easier to spot in the sea of Dutch supermodels.