lie no. 34 | 02.23.20
I lifted my eye mask somewhere over the North Sea just as the sun was coming up.
I knew absolutely nothing about Amsterdam aside from my grandmother’s advice to avoid the Red Light District—but even that tip had come with a wink.
(OK, that’s a lie. I did watch season 5 of the Real Housewives of Beverly Hills, but I digress. I was there for work anyway, not to find places reality TV stars had thrown wine glasses.)
((OK, fine. I did look. It closed down.))
I checked into my hotel and was promptly handed a letter from management apologizing for the construction.
For the first time in a long time, life finally starting to feel a little lighter again, I found humor in my selecting yet another hotel under construction. If nothing else, it was kind of relatable to how I often felt. Hotels: They’re just like us!
I dropped my bags, took a quick shower and headed out to explore. The conference didn’t start until the next day and I was hellbent on making the most of my free day.
I found a coffee shop—an actual one that sells coffee, not Amsterdam’s version of a coffeeshop—ordered a latte to go and handed the cashier my credit card. I decided not to take out any cash on this trip after realizing how many waiters in Mexico I had accidentally tipped in Hong Kong dollars.
The barista called my name and handed me two lattes.
“Oh, I only ordered one,” I said, kicking myself for not saying something when I thought the total seemed high for a latte.
She apologized, said she thought I’d ordered two, then asked if I minded a cash refund for the spare. I did but I said of course not, stashed the change in my coat pocket and left. So much for that plan.
I wandered for hours, losing all track of time. Still lying even to myself about the purpose of my trip, I tried to cram in as much sightseeing as possible before the conference started.
I fell fast and hard for Amsterdam. It’s concentric canals form this maze-like system of sidewalks, the only difference being I didn’t want to find where the end. I wanted it to go on forever, each corner presenting me with new choices, new options. I noticed I no longer felt paralyzed at each turn. I didn’t second guess myself at every last one. I stopped looking back, or down at the map on my phone, and just went in whatever direction I felt like going.
I never knew exactly where I was in Amsterdam, yet I never felt lost. Or could it be that getting lost had a good side? I had a sneaking suspicion I was always exactly where I was supposed to be. Around each turn I’d see a familiar face or place or space. It was comforting, even if I knew I’d never seen it before. It was magical, because I knew I hadn’t.
As always, I’d come armed with a long list of recommendations from friends. Instead of mapping out my day against them, I decided to just walk around, pop in wherever caught my eye, and, whenever a pang of hunger hit, see if any of the recs were nearby. If not, I reminded myself, I was perfectly capable of finding something and starting my own damn list. I’d become this collector of others’ travel tips, weaving together these fantastic quilts of recommendations from trusted friends and sharing them with others. I hadn’t noticed when, but at some point I stopped adding my own mustn’t misses to the lists.
By mid-afternoon I felt a pang of hunger somewhere in the trendy De Pijp neighborhood. I consulted my list of restaurant recommendations. I found one right around the corner from me so I walked that way. I got closer then kept walking right on by it for some reason. It was as if my legs had stopped listening to my brain telling them to stop here.
I was getting hungrier with each step but my legs kept going, as if they knew the way. I felt something funny in the back of my throat that seemed to grow every time I swallowed. I kept walking.
Don’t panic—there’s nothing to be afraid of, I told myself as I sensed an unwelcome panic attack, or worse, maybe the world’s fastest growing tumor lurking in the back of my throat. You are actually in control of your legs, I reminded myself.
I kept swallowing. I downed all the water I had on me. The lump kept growing. My legs kept walking, eventually straight into a little cafe, much to the relief of the rest of my body.
The guy behind the bar looked at me but said nothing. Neither of us said a word for what felt like an eternity. I didn’t know what his excuse was, mine was the fear whatever the hell was building in the back of my throat would come out the second I opened my mouth.
A couple of Brits walked in and announced their order, breaking our staring competition. I figured I’d observe their order and then mimic it. They ordered, he still said nothing. OK, maybe it’s not me. I pushed the menu back across the bar—universal sign for “I know what I want,” yes? Then I looked at my phone and let out a heavy sigh—universal sign for “Come on, dude, I’m ready and growing more irritated by the minute,” yes? He finally looked over at me, then down at my phone and then he walked off! Unbelievably, he proceeded to pick up his own and started dialing. I quickly learned he wasn’t mute as his seemingly casual, not-at-all-urgent-sounding conversation—in English, nonetheless—picked up. He never got the chance to learn I wasn’t mute either. I turned around and walked out. This was clearly not my place.
I sat down at a table outside a neighboring cafe, grateful my legs gave in so easy. I tried to catch my breath. The harder I tried to swallow, the harder it got to do so and the more I could feel my heart picking up it’s pace. I started to imagine different parts of my body gossiping about me behind my back (I guess in front of it), conspiring against the boss.
I watched a waiter serve the tables to my right and left. “Do you have a menu?” I finally spoke up to ask. “Yes, of course,” he said as he tucked two under his arm and walked off without handing me one, as if I’d asked the most ridiculous question of all time.
“OK, that’s obviously not what I was asking,” I said under my breath, or so I thought, as I stood up from the table.
“Then why did you ask it?” a woman a little older than me at the table to my left said without looking up. I froze. The smirk on her face was probably the only thing preventing me from firing back as I walked off. Well, that and the fact that she did have a point.
My legs carried me around another corner and right into a bustling area, like a plaza but surrounding a busy intersection. Dozens and dozens of cafe tables, all taken. My eyes landed on a small spot just off to the side that seemed to be opening up for the day—at least that’s what I told myself, not usually one to put much faith in an empty cafe among a sea of packed ones.
I beelined across the road, darting between bicycles as if my life depended on it (eight months later in Vietnam I’d realize what a walk in the park it was in comparison). As soon as I walked in I knew—it was perfect. It was exactly where I was supposed to be.
“Hey, you!” the man behind the bar said as soon as I sat down and tucked myself into it. “The usual?”
“Uh,” I said, suddenly noticing the lump in my throat was no longer there.
“You’ve been here before, no?” he asked, giving me this double take as he started to question himself. “I know I’ve seen you before...”
“Don’t think so,” I said. “First time in Amsterdam, just landed this morning.”
“OK then, total stranger, what can I get you?”
I ordered some croquettes and a glass of rosé. Thrilled to have found this place and my voice again. I texted Matt a picture of the raw bar knowing he’d absolutely love this spot while I waited. I looked up just as the waiter sat two glasses of rosé on the counter in front of me.
“I’ll get you some waters, too,” he said as he turned away.
“NO! No,” I said. “I only ordered one. It’s just me.”
“Oh,” he said turning back to me and looking around the otherwise empty place. “I thought you said two. Well then, I guess you’re getting a free glass on me!”
“No, I don’t want it,” I said more harshly than intended. Now I was the one starting to question myself. “Sorry. I mean, thank you. I appreciate it, but I’m just here for a quick bite. I’m in town for a conference. Today’s my only free day and there’s still so much I want to see.”
Clearly unimpressed by the very important business I was in town for—maybe he too was on that marketing email distribution list—he took the extra glass and walked it back into the kitchen, returning with my food.
A group of young Brits on a stag do had recently come in so he took their order then stopped by to ask how everything was. “Perfect,” I said. I asked him what I needed to see and do in while in town.
“I already know you like good food.”
“Do you like to bike?” No.
“Do you like museums?” No.
“OK, hold on,” he said as he laughed. “I’m going to write this down for you.”
He came back a few minutes later with a piece of paper held up to his chest. “You just have to trust me, OK?” I’d barely trusted myself to find a place to eat lunch, there was next to no chance I’d be trusting a total stranger with my plans in Amsterdam. I got the sense he wasn’t going to hand it over until I agreed, so I did.
He left the folded up piece of paper along with my check then ducked back into the kitchen. I paid, thanked him and headed back out onto the street where I laughed as I read through his list. It consisted solely of three museums, a park to bike through and a place, no, the place to get Flemish fries. At the bottom he scribbled something in quotes: “If there were no change, there’d be no magic.”
Without a map, plan or the slightest clue what my new nameless Dutch friend meant by that, I once again wandered aimlessly. As I walked, I thought about a trip my family made to Scotland when I was a kid. Specifically, my mind wandered to one memory in particular when my brother and I were complaining about being lost on our way to find whichever castle or church our tired legs were expected to carry us to next.
My grandfather, sick of our whining, turned to us and sternly said, “We. Will. Be. There. When. We. Get. There!”
My brother and I thought it was the most absurd thing we’d ever heard. Well, yeah... therein lies the problem, Gramps. It’s been a family joke ever since.
But on that day, the one in Amsterdam, without any semblance of where I was going or where I was, I finally got it. I knew I’d be there, wherever there is, when I got there.
We waste so much time, or at least I always have, on where I’m supposed to be going. What’s next? What’s the end goal? What’s the fastest way there? At one point on my walk that day I sensed myself growing frustrated by people lazily walking about. Didn’t they have somewhere they needed to be? Didn’t they notice they were slowing traffic down behind them?
“If the people in front of you aren’t going fast enough,” I wrote in my notes that day, “maybe you’re the one who needs to slow down.”
This had just happened again. I got stuck behind a crowd of people walking toward what appeared to be a big park. As I got closer I realized I was in the Museumplein, a grassy area surrounded by food trucks, at least that night, and several of the city’s famous museums. I sat on the grass for a bit and watched the sun set. Some sat on benches with books, others on blankets with picnics. A boy tossed a ball back and forth with his father.
I put my AirPods in and went to Spotify, wanting to give the moment a soundtrack. I loved that all my recent adventures had them, these Easter eggs full of memories. For the past couple months I’d been playing my 2018 year in review playlist the app created. The same app, mind you, that had been serving up playlists “Just for me” with names like Broken Hearted, Down in the Dumps and Life Sucks. Get off my jock, Spotify.
The rather obvious thought occurred to me in that moment that if I kept listening to the same playlist on repeat, my 2019 year in review would sound exactly the same. I wasn’t broken hearted. I wasn’t down in the dumps, at least most of the time (maybe only when listening to that playlist now that I think about it). And my life certainly didn’t suck.
I pulled out the note from my new friend and changed the playlist. Fully committed to changing the reflection staring back at me from the mirror of this music app, I looked up and realized I could see all three of the museums he’d recommended from where I sat. I gave in and decided I’d try the one museum on his list I hadn’t heard of before, the Moco.
From Banksy and Hirst to Warhol and Lichtenstein, I stuffed my eyes with contemporary art for far longer than intended.
“The future is easy to predict if you are the one making it,” a wall in the Daniel Arsham exhibit read. Suck it, Spotify! I’d never heard of Arsham but proceeded to read about how Hurricane Andrew played a pivotal role in the American artist’s life and work: “the quick and violent moment suddenly shifting the landscape and perceived reality.” Well now that was relatable.
I had to hand it to my boy: for the first time in a long time, I felt like I’d stumbled on some magic. I should change the playlist more often!
It was dark by the time I finally floated back outside. It had also been long enough to work up an appetite again. I wandered in the general direction of a food hall I wanted to check out. Part of me figured if I ran into the same issues as earlier, if I struggled to find my place, a food hall at least ups my chances of finding it. I was starting to like this new game of mine. By this point, I’d gotten used to my quirks and oddities while traveling alone and even started to enjoy them. It was like exercise for my gut—the figurative one, although I guess in some respects the literal one as well. A food hall, it turns out, makes for a perfect practice facility in finding one’s place, in listening and trusting myself.
After a thorough walkthrough of the place, my senses and my stomach landed on a Japanese spot. I took my buzzer to the bar and ordered a glass of wine while I waited for my food. It was incredibly loud in there and provided some next-level people watching. My grandmother and I used to play this game where we’d sit on a bench in the mall and make up the life stories of the people passing by. It had become second nature to me in crowded places.
I wasn’t paying attention as the bartender made his way back to where I was sitting so I didn’t have a chance to say anything before he set the two wine glasses down in front of me.
It wasn’t the duplicate glass that freaked me out—that was almost predictable by this point! It was the clean, nearly soundless break the glass in his right hand made as it separated from its stem when it hit the counter.