RANDOM AMSTERDAM
Ten years on, he has seen people come and go. Somehow this place has become his home, but it doesn’t always feel the way.
Sometimes he wonders if he’s even meant to be here. The COVID years saved him from burning out but it rearranged an invisible trajectory that seems gone forever. Friends he had made through work before the pandemic suddenly disappeared, never to return. A city still small enough to feel like a village but big enough to stay off the radar, barely running into familiar faces at random. Some connections were made though fleeting. He made acquaintances with a May/December couple, two men who were in the process of surrogacy. Once the baby was born they left Amsterdam. Back to the States? He can’t remember. There was another gay man from he UK who moved to Amsterdam to be with his Dutch boyfriend just before the pandemic hit. Weeks into quarantine and they were already planning their escape to a kleiner dorpje. Sometimes he catches himself thinking about them, wondering if they are still happy leaving Amsterdam.
The city is too expensive to enjoy. Instead of going out partying, he bikes passed bars filled with locals that spill out onto the sidewalk, exchanging small talk. What could they all be talking about for hours on end? The sun begins to set earlier in September and he can feel the tickle in his throat and the slight chill in his bones as he continues to peddle home. He’s never been good at small talk. There’s a familiar warmth of envy that sits in his stomach as he glances at the group of Dutch bros with their princely, wavy hair and in their crips white T-shirts, huddled together in a circle, beers in hand. The city is itself a kind of peer pressure. How will you ever make friends if you don’t drink or spend money on things?
A few months after he moved to Amsterdam, he was at some International’s house warming party, an Expat working in the Netherlands, hoping to build a home here. “You have to meet my friends Carlos and Dominic. You’ll love them, they’re gay too!” As if we’re a monolith because we have the same sexual preferences. Still, he was hopeful and introduced himself. “Where are you from?” they asked. “Canada.” They laughed out loud at his accent. “Oh you’re from Cane-Nada?” Inner eye-roll, he walked away, never to speak to them again.
Are you even an Expat if you didn't come here because of a job? His partner might be but he certainly isn’t. When his parents came to Canada from the Philippines they were immigrants. Self-identifying as a child of immigrants has always been a part of who he is. But here, an immigrant connotes a certain class. He had never even heard the term Expat before moving here.
It’s hard for him to hold on to the idea that it is still summer for a few more days. The rain comes down in unpredictable torrents. The drops of water that drizzle down his window pane are a dark omen of a potentially long winter. And yet you’ll never notice it on the socials. Somehow everyone manages to capture Amsterdam as though it is a shining jewel; green foliage abound with people dancing like wood nymphs and fairies in an enchanted forest-rave. No one knows how wickedly wet it all is until you actually come for a visit. The many moods of mother nature match his inner turmoil. The rain weighs heavy on his soul. He refuses to be beaten down but he longs for a nap.
She left early this morning. The uber was set to pick her up at 5am. Her visit felt like how many of them do, both long and short, tiring with moments of exhilaration. She came with no preconceived notions of Amsterdam and no research, which made him anxious, always wanting to please, to make sure the guest was seeing the best of what Amsterdam had to offer. The weather limited their options but they made do. They hit the thrift stores and found her a coat at Waterlooplein; the queue outside Jazz Cafe Alto was deceivingly long but ended up moving fairly quickly, the vibe inside nice and cozy for an early night cap. He bristled slightly when she mentioned, over dinner, that though she was enjoying her stay she could never live in Amsterdam. He wanted her to elaborate but she didn’t care to. She let the comment roll off her tongue and somehow the conversation swerved into another direction. It kept him awake at night and made him think of his life choices that led him there. Ten years on, he has seen people come and go. Somehow this place has become his home, but it doesn’t always feel the way. Soon he will take up Dutch lessons again. He knows it’s the right thing and respectable thing to do. But the tricky balance between integration and assimilation make him feel frustrated and angry at times. He’s tired of never feeling like he’s enough.
25 years apart, the chasm is wide and yet their paths share some similarities. She’s at the cusp of her journey of creative self-expression, wondering where her art will take her. She longs to strike out on her own, hoping her life choices will finally bring her independence and financial freedom to live on her own and out of her childhood home. His life has taken him so far from Canada. He feels stalled but holds out hope that this momentary space of limbo is a brief encounter before something new emerges. The rain continues outside, no sign of abating, but he’s dry in his own apartment and that comforts him. They hugged briefly before she got in the uber heading to central station. He bought her a book as a present, thanking her for her visit (even though the weather was shit). Paris will be better. It’s still summer there.