The Language of Our Dreams
January 8, 2015
The wind whistled through the doorway of the bookstore as the creaking old oak door slowly swung into place. I can always tell when a foreigner comes into the shop because all of the shop doors in Amsterdam open by being pulled toward you, not away from you like in most other cities. You see, It confuses the hell out of people. I had just heard the familiar struggle to open the front entrance followed by the slow laborious groan that accompanies its closing when a gust of cold January wind swept right through my hair as I was rising from below the counter. That’s when I caught my first glimpse of her.
She was obviously not from around here judging by the way she moved through the stacks of Dutch books slowly, as if unsure why she had even decided to enter a Dutch book shop to begin with, but her hair had be tousled by the wind and her cheeks were flushed with the effort of walking around a new city. Now I wouldn’t call myself a detective or anything, but there were other giveaways that she wasn’t Dutch. For instance, she stood only around 1.6 meters in height and had dark brown hair and eyes. These things alone were very uncharacteristic of the tall, blonde haired and blue-eyed people of the Netherlands. All of this aside, she was captivating, and luckily for me she looked to be just about my age.
She wasn’t stupid either. It took her less time than most to find out English book section. She came over to my counter only moments later, book in hand and ready to buy. She placed a copy of “The Catcher In The Rye” by J.D. Salinger by my register. Perfect, I thought, I was saved. My father went to university in America and used to say that “The Catcher In The Rye” was one of his favorite fictions from his time there.
I combed an obnoxious lock of blonde hair from in front of my glasses and stared down at her from what seemed like a great length because of my height and simply said,
“That novel was a favorite of my father’s, you will have to tell me if you enjoy it.”
“Sure thing. Do you take credit cards? I can never tell who does around here…”
“Yes, we do. There is a card reader, there.”
Her name popped up on the computer screen with her card information. Sophia Pencey. American I think? She certainly had an American causality to her. Her mouth remained half open in a friendly sort of smile that displayed a row of perfectly straight white teeth. Yup, this girl was an American. And before I knew it, she was gone and all I was left with was the same January wind that had accompanied her upon her arrival signaling her departure whistling through the door as it shut her out into the busy street.
January 15, 2015
“The Catcher In The Rye” was good, I guess. More than anything, Holden Caulfield made good company. When you are picked up and dropped into a new country it can be pretty lonely. And that’s how I felt, lonely. I spent the weekend reading because my Netflix account didn’t work in the Netherlands because of licensing privileges. Damn distribution firms. Anyway, I had burned through the book rather quickly. It was kind of depressing because I was in this brand new city and I was supposed to be experiencing young adult life by exploring the general posh-ness that Europe had to offer, and here I was, sitting alone and reading a book that was written for a high school reading level. The fact was that making time to read The Catcher In The Rye was something of an indulgence for me. I had told myself every summer for about seven years that I would read it because it seemed like a “summer book”. Studying in Europe was “my summer”. It was my time to relax, just pass (not necessarily excel in) all of my courses, and pretend to be a new person. I had no regrets about staying in and reading my first weekend in Amsterdam. I had gone out on Thursday and picked up the book from a little store off of Dam Square. It was all very overwhelming, but the store was intimate and the shop guy was nice, and very tall. I was ready to go back to the book nook to pick up something new.
Exactly one week had passed when I entered the shop again. I even got the door to swing right this time and I was pleased to see the same kid at the counter. He seemed young, but my age kind of young not high school young. He was wearing a crooked nametag that read “Daan”. What is up with the Dutch and double vowels? Seriously. I managed to avoid Daan’s gaze while I crept to the English literature section. I finally picked out the book High Fidelity by Nick Hornby and plucked up the courage to talk to the cute Dutch giant again. Maybe this time I could actually have a conversation with him. Everyone here speaks English. The store was empty besides me, and he did say he wanted to know if I liked the last book. So I took a breath and walked up to the counter.
He seemed surprised to see me, and he had a piece of hair wedged between the lens of his glasses and his eye that he pushed behind his hear in one swift motion as to indicate that he was finally composed enough to talk.
“I’m back!” I said.
“That was fast. So, did you enjoy it?”
“Yeah it was aggressively okay.”
He laughed when I said that. We made small talk for a bit and then I put “High Fidelity” on the counter. He wasn’t familiar with it, so I expected there would be no more conversation. Daan surprised me. Just as I was turning to leave he said,
“Where are you from? Are you in town long?”
“I’m from America and I’ll be studying here until June.”
“Good. By now you must have realized that the Dutch are very forward. Would you like to go out with me sometime?”
No, I did not realize the Dutch are very forward. I spent my weekend locked in my room reading because I was afraid to venture out into big scary Europe alone, but this guy seemed pretty harmless with his floppy blonde hair and glasses, so I just stared right at Daan and replied,
“Sure. That sounds nice.”
February 1, 2015
Rain was splattering my glasses so it was nearly impossible to see. It always rains for just a few minutes in Amsterdam, just enough time to completely obstruct my vision. I’ll never know if she is here or not until she is right under my nose that is if she even comes at all. I was standing by the big white Dam Square Monument. It’s one of the easiest sites to find in the whole city and I was milling about in the open holding a bundle of three yellow tulips. I thought the tulips would be a nice gesture, and I see guys get girls flowers in American movies all the time so I thought she was probably expecting them anyway. I was wrong, because just then she arrived in the square.
“I can’t believe you got me flowers.” She said nervously
“Oh, um…should I not have? I’m sorry…”
“No! They’re perfect! I’m just surprised is all. Thank you.”
She took the flowers from me and we ducked into a little café to get out of the rain. Once I had wiped all of the rain off of my glasses, I realized that she looked absolutely beautiful.
February 2, 2015
Three yellow tulips sat in a vase of water on my bedside table. My clothes were scattered on the floor, and Daan was in my bed. I was finally content for the first time since stepping foot in the Netherlands. I let him sleep while I stared up at the ceiling and let the loneliness melt off of me like ice off of my windshield back in New York.
April 25, 2015
Our first date went really well so I kept seeing Sophie. She had that crazy energy Americans are known for. She was always overly polite and had a lot to say. She didn’t punctuate her thoughts with silences like I do, but with laughter. She was truly adorable. We spent every other weekend at each other’s places. When she slept she was an entirely different person. It seemed like the only time she was really at peace. When she was dozing in my arms and I smoothed her hair again and again I knew she had finally had come to consider me a home, and she fit me perfectly. Then I drifted off to sleep with her still wrapped in my embrace.
June 6, 2015
Daan talks in his sleep. We have been going to out for almost five months now but my time in Amsterdam is coming to a close. I don’t think he knows it, but he talks in his sleep. I never know what he’s saying because he murmurs everything in Dutch. He is such a wonderful guy and when I am with him I feel like I am less of an outsider here. He took me by the hand and led me through a city that was entirely unlike my own, but I was lingering in his world. It felt right for me to be there at the time, but when he was asleep I could see the real him. He did not dream in the same language as me. He could not hide his true thoughts in his sleep, and I would never be able to fully understand him, not matter how much I wanted to.
The next morning I tiptoed out of bed, I gave him a kiss on the forehead, and I took my bags and I left. I was finished with my studies in Amsterdam and I had booked a flight to JFK that left in five hours from Schipol Airport. Before I even had time to think about it, I was gone and alone. I had left Daan behind, but he belonged there. He belonged in a world where tulips are sold on every street, the cold winter wind carries people through the doorway, and people dreamt in Dutch.
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