People walking with determination. A purpose. Somewhere to be.
I’ve reached my destination. My only purpose to be where I
am.
A brindle short-haired terrier, undeterred by a thousand enticing smells, trots next to a painfully slim man wearing oversized headphones that draw attention to a rune tattoo on his neck.
A gentleman with tousled white hair stands out in an
old-fashioned plaid sports coat that hangs from his stooped shoulders. In his
hand a plastic bag imprinted: Amsterdam International Book Fair. Through the
frosted plastic you can just make out a small book and a receipt. This image
will undoubtably return for me to guess the gook he ventured out to get. Right
now, I’m thinking a first edition of Hemingway’s “A Moveable Feast.” With dust
jacket.
A server stops, pulls the order pad from her apron, and
gives me the universal raised eyebrow head tilt. “Espresso, please.” She nods
and is gone before I have a chance to ask her how to say “please” in Dutch.
When she returns with the comically small cup, I ask her how to say, “thank you.” Even though she has brought me an americano.
Every half hour the bells in the square chime the first dozen
notes of a song I recognize but can’t name.
The server who had brought my coffee offers to open the
umbrella next to my table. It gives me a chance to use my new Dutch work: “dankuvell.”
It means “thank you.” At lease I hope it does. She smiles. Either at my
expression of appreciation or at the inside joke that people from Amsterdam
tell out-of-towners that “dankuvell” means “thank you” when it actually means “bite
my toenail.”
A mighty leap takes her high enough to brush the edge of the
café umbrella with her fingertips. She looks to her father for approval. He didn’t
notice her accomplishment, much less how her pigtails flew with her and
bounced on landing like they were trying to escape and start a life of their
own. Maybe in Honolulu.
A fresh Nazi SS insignia tattoo screams from a beefy upper
arm. I’m visiting Anne Frank’s house tomorrow.
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