In Amsterdam, it’s easy to get lost. Under the usual circumstances, Luke and I found ourselves separated in a foreign country, trying to reach an outskirts bus station before our ticket back to London burned up like so much hash in the hands of a tourist.
Through the execution of such extraordinary skills as following street signs and asking strangers for directions (“I’m sorry, I’m American, and…”), I managed to tram my way to the bus stop in Zuiderzeeweg. By bus stop, I mean sketchy parking lot on the side of the highway.
Luke wasn’t there.
My phone doesn’t do overseas calls, and there was no wifi to be found. In fact, there wasn’t much of anything to be found. Steady flow of headlights ahead of me, murky stream and dark apartment compound behind. It looked like the meetup point for ax murderer dating services.
The tram burped out its passengers, and one by one the denizens of Zuiderzeeweg (the Zuiderzeewegians) went off into the darkness, back to their ax-murdery homes.
“I’m alone. In the night. On the side of a highway. Which may be a bus stop. Waiting for a bus. For which I have no ticket.” When I’m puzzling, I pace and think out loud.
“Now then. I can stand outside the shuttered homes of deranged sociopaths searching for a wireless signal. Or I can knock on some Dutch family’s front door and ask – in American English – to use their phone. In which case they’ll think I’m the ax murderer.”
Running the possibilities through my mind, gesticulating to myself like a lunatic, and strutting like an emu, I came to the far end of the parking lot, where two young ladies stood beside a suitcase. One was shorter than the suitcase. The other was tall, blonde, and typing something on her phone.
Typing something on her phone!
“Excuse me, are you Dutch?” I asked in my least ax-murdery voice.
“No, we’re Brazilian,” said the tall one.
“But your phone works?”
“Well, yes. Mostly.”
“My friend was supposed to meet me here, but we got split up in a grocery store.”
“That happens a lot in Amsterdam.” She laughed. Her friend laughed too, though she didn’t speak a word of English. “Would you like to use my phone to call him?”
“Thank you!” I hadn’t even had to ask.
She gave me her mobile; I dialed Luke’s number.
“Zack! I’m at Centraal Station.”
“I’m at the bus stop. Can you get on the tram and meet me here?”
“I can’t! I don’t have any money!” The day we missed our flight, an airport ATM ate Luke’s debit card.
“Shit. Take a cab; I’ll pay when you get here.”
“First I’m gonna see if they’ll let me on the tram.”
“Alright. See you soon. I hope.”
I hung up, handed the Brazilian her phone. “Thank you,” I said. “May we meet again before the bus comes.” I doffed my octopus hat, and walked back across the parking lot to the tram stop.
One tram came and went. No Luke.
Another tram. Couple Dutch folks, lots of tourists, no Luke.
When you travel with friends, no matter how close they are, you’ll eventually find all that time together frustrating. We’re human, which means sometimes we need to be alone. Over the course of this trip, I’ve often felt relieved to go off on my own, taking a run around Islington or stopping to write in an Amsterdam coffeeshop. In those instances, I’ve been glad for some time away from Luke. But nothing this trip made me happier than the moment he stepped off that tram.
“Nice of you to show up, asshole.”
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