A Stroll Through Amsterdam

A Stroll Through Amsterdam

My surname links me to England. Wright is an occupational surname that derives from the old English word wryhta, meaning worker or shaper of wood. Later, the definition broadened to include any occupational worker. When Europeans were immigrating to America, they often chose to take on new surnames. Some did not, such as Budweiser, Coors, and most famous- the brothers that started the GB brewery in Milwaukee. The most famous probably should have changed their name. My family on my Father’s side came from the northern regions of Great Britain, on my Mother’s side, they came from Demark and Sweden. Since I was so close, I thought it would be interesting to see the country in which my surname originated.

I have left many loose ends in my narratives. You may ask, in the two years you were in Germany, did you ever go anywhere without Juliana? The answer, for all practical purposes, is no. You may ask, were you lovers? No, we were better than that. We were friends. Friendship is the highest form of human relationships. To be lovers may imply only a physical attraction, and to some people that is all there is. Our relationship was more than that. We enjoyed each other's companionship; we laughed a lot. We simply enjoyed each other’s company. One may ask why you did not marry.  To ask that question is to miss the point of our relationship. This thing could last 24 months. It could not last forever. I say that with a little sadness. It was hard to say but true. We knew it from the first date to the last. Getting on that airplane was the hardest thing I ever had to do. You have to understand that the memories are very precious to me because it was 24 months I did not deserve. The Memories are more than I could ever expect.

What does that have to do with England? Guess what- I am going with Juliana. This is another of those five-day passes. I thought that London would be a cool place to visit. At this time, the tunnel under the English Channel has not even started. The usual way to England is to fly across or taking the ferry across the channel. Our choice was the ferry. At that time, the price is less than $2 to make the trip, if you did not take your car. We left the car in Amsterdam. In Europe, the best place to get breakfast is in Amsterdam. They have wonderful breakfasts in the hotels. Across most of Europe, you get a hard roll and jelly for breakfast. However, in Amsterdam, it is bacon, ham, eggs, cheese, coffee, tea, and milk. At the hotel where we stayed, all this was in a buffet and free to guests. I know it was included in the price of the room, but it was damn well worth it. No problems with the water in the bathroom, all items are familiar, with no great pressure differential. The hotel itself was the strangest building I ever saw. Juliana had stayed there before and she wanted to show it to me. The room was a normal European hotel room, except for the breakfast as I mentioned.

It is good to be young in Amsterdam. I am not sure how I would take it at sixty-six. If you spend any time in Amsterdam, you will need to redefine your idea of pornography. If you cannot do that then you will end up spending your whole time there curled up in a fetal position in a corner of your room. The Dutch take the bill of rights to heart. If provocative clothes were the cause of rape, then Amsterdam would have the highest rape incidents of any place on the planet. No, the Netherlands has one of the lowest violent crime rates in the world and the lowest rate of sex crimes in the world. Based on what we hear, you would think that it would be unsafe to walk the streets of Amsterdam. I felt safer in Amsterdam than I did in Rogers, Arkansas. The Netherlands has universal health care. I went to the doctor with a swelling on my neck. The swelling was causing me some pain and anxiety. I went in to see the doctor and told the receptionist what the problem was and she sent me to a room. In a few minutes, a beautiful PA type person enters the room. She looked at my neck and said that she could handle it, but if I wanted to wait a few minutes, the doctor would check on me. I told her to go ahead. She lanced the swelling and told me what caused it and how to avoid getting another infection. The doctor came in looked at it said, “good.” He told me to come back if I had any problems. I offered to pay but he said, “This is the Netherlands and here, as a human, you are you are entitled to health care.” I told them that I was not Dutch, as though he did not know. He said that does not matter. No, they do not have a high rate of gall bladder problems either.

With my neck in a bandage and enjoying the sites of Amsterdam, we decide to remain. London will be there for another day. My favorite part of visiting a new place is finding a great place to eat. I believe anyone who knows me knows that is true. During the day, we take the canal tour of the city and visit the art galleries. At night, I had a few lessons to learn. Juliana had no problems, always managing to fit in nicely, but for a poor backwoods Arkansas boy such as me, nightlife in Amsterdam is something else. I embarrass easily. I must have been beet red the whole time we walked in the city at night. If nudity is a problem for you, do not go to Amsterdam. Even better than the scenery on the streets are the great restaurants.

On Dam Square, (that is right, remember we are not in Arkansas), is great place for food, especially seafood. I apologize, but I have simply forgotten the name of the restaurant. The menu had an item that rang that magic bell in my stomach, The Dutch Boil. It consisted of all you can eat Shrimp, oysters, clams, and king crab. The dish arrives in a large pot containing all the ingredients, along with potatoes, corn, and barley. This is a European style restaurant. The atmosphere is very relaxed with large tables where you sit with several people you may have never met. Sometimes that is good, other times, maybe not so good.

While we were enjoying our meal, a very attractive young lady sat down at our table. Now, allow me to do the fashion thing. Neither one of these girls would stick out in an Amsterdam night. As I remember, Juliana had on a black leather mini-skirt with knee-high boots, a black leather vest and a red scarf around her neck. The woman that joined us at our table wore a red micro-mini, red knee-high boots and a scarf wrapped around to form a top. Me? I wore faded jeans, a white long sleeve shirt with the sleeves rolled a couple of turns and a pair of cowboy boots. I guess that is about all I ever wore throughout my twenties. Enough for the fashion show. This is the way everyone is dressed - very casual, and sometime a little too revealing. I do not remember the lady’s name, and I think you will agree after considering the trauma, no one would expect me to. Mostly, she talks to Juliana, I have the feeling she is trying to put the make on Juliana. At some point, a rather attractive man walks up to her and they kiss. It is a rather long lingering kiss. Even as naive as I was, I recognize this “man” is not a man. They excuse themselves and start walking out. This whole scenario really does not bother me because I just assume that a lesbian has tried to put the make on my date and her girlfriend caught her. I ask Juliana about what they talked about and she laughs. She tells me I am not very observant. She tells me to watch the lady for a little while. I watch, but I was thinking it rather strange for a woman to ask her male date to watch an attractive woman. As they walk out, I realize that the skirt is too short. Something is definitely wrong. OMG! I wish I had never thought about this again. I thought I had gotten it completely out of my mind. The skirt is EXTREMELY short. She is not wearing underwear. She is not a she. We leave and go to a bar. Juliana buys me a $35 shot of brandy to help settle my nerves. I swear I will never be the same. My trauma persisted throughout the rest of the trip. I diverted my eyes every time I saw woman in a miniskirt, fearing irreparable flashbacks. Juliana sympathizes with me and wears ankle length dresses or pants for the rest of the stay.

©2012 Michael L. Wright

Moral:

The best part of a trip is getting there.

The second best part of a trip is getting home.

The lady talking to you may not be the lady to whom you are talking.

Sometimes, you do not have to unwrap the present to see what is inside.