Day #11: Burger guy

If you know Amsterdam well, you know where to get a damn good burger. Burger Bar. It's the best. One day I was feeling really hung-over and just had to grab a burger. I'm waiting in line, impatiently, behind a guy dressed head to toe in black (and it's winter so we're sporting many layers).

Me and guy in black start chatting it up, and he's actually really funny. And also, I'm a solo chick in line for my burger fix...I'm feeling a little out of place. He was nice and we were laughing. Then, my burger was ready. I swear there was this one second reaction from both of us, like we knew that was it. Goodbye stranger. I grabbed my burger, smiled and took off.

Then a day later I get an email forwarded to me from the info department at my work. This guy, M., remembered where I work and explained “To Whom It May Concern” that he needed to get in touch with me. It was cute. A little effort always is.

So I emailed M. back and before you know it we'd made a date. At Burger Bar. I mean, it seems fitting. We both like burgers, its where we met. Okay.

So we arrive, and settle into the indoor part of the take-away restaurant. We sit down and M. says, “I got you a present.”

Okayyyy, I'm thinking. And he gives me a fancy, paisley box with a pen inside. A pen with my name written on it. “You said you're a writer, right?”

I did, and I say something like yea this is great. I'm thinking the gesture is sweet, if random. He takes off his coat, and reveals he's actually quite a small guy. I'm a tall girl, but he was a few inches shorter, and even skinnier. But sweet eyes and definitely a sexy smile.

We get food, chat between bites, and soon we get to talking. He's telling me about his work in Amsterdam, in the weed industry. Then he starts wooing me with his “hook-up” and carrying case of full-on joint rolling equipment. I'm a little surprised at all of this, he definitely didn't come off as such a hippie.

And then M. starts telling me about his new meditation obsession. Which is interesting, because at the moment, I'm also through a meditation kick.

He explains that just yesterday, he was at a meditation session. “It was really surreal,” he says, “I was sitting in lotus position, in space and looking down on the world.”

I'm like, Okay.

“And then I shot down from space back into my body and I was knocked out,” he says.

Wow. Seriously. He's actually so serious about this, it's rather funny. And I'm laughing, which I think he thinks is a good sign. I don't think it is.

Anyway, we leave Burger Bar, and I'm sort of ready to head home. But maybe its worth getting a drink somewhere? He looks at me and says, “I don't drink, I only smoke weed.”

I don't know. I don't mind a man that smokes pot, but something about this guy is telling me he smokes A LOT of pot. I'm just not interested in that vibe.

So we say our goodbyes, the typical Dutch three-kisses, and I'm off. So glad my bike is nearby.

Day 4: Bike boy

I went to the sleepy Dutch town of Gouda for a story this week. As my luck would have it, there is only one bus going in my direction and arriving at the train station, I miss it by one minute. The interview is important, and in the Netherlands, being on time is essential. So I foot the bill for a cabbie that ends up costing me all my cash. An hour and a half later, I’m leaving the interview and watching the number 189 bus speed past.

Gouda is a gorgeous town, and the day equally beautiful so I decide to walk the distance to the train station. After a good 20 minutes, and a growing sense of being lost, I encounter a young man on a bike, waiting at the corner for the lights to change.

“Which way is the station?” I ask him. He looks confused, not because I’m speaking English to a boy of no more than 15 but, apparently because of the distance. “But I’m going that way,” he says. “I’ll give you a ride.”

So, I hop on the back of his sturdy oma fiets and we take off toward the station. When he asks where I’m from, I admit to being American. “You don’t see many American girls in Gouda,” he says.

This boy is sweet, but obviously not used to giving bike lifts, evident by the struggle he has steering and maintaining speed. Through his laboured breathing, he tries to keep up some light conversation.

“Where are you headed?” I ask him. “To volleyball practice,” he replies. “Well, you can tell all your friends you gave an American girl a ride to the station,” I say. “Yea right!” he exclaims, “Like they’d believe me!”

I can’t help but smile at the fact I may have just made this boy's day – and after fully realizing the walk I had ahead of me before I met him, he’s made my day too.

At the station, he drives me literally to the platform steps. “That was the best bike ride ever,” I tell him as I hop off. “You’re welcome,” he says, then we kiss three times, and part ways.

Day 1: Friend of a friend

Friends know you best, right? Well, that’s easy to believe until they set you up on a date.

So, I was nervous about letting my friend set me up with S. But, from her description - Charming, funny, sarcastic – I thought he couldn’t be too far from my ‘type.’ So, I gave her the okay to set things in motion and before I knew it I had a dinner date for 20.00 on Saturday night at Nam Kee, the famous little Chinese restaurant in the Nieuwmarkt.

A gentleman from the start, S. offers to pick me up (on bike), but I decide instead to meet him at the restaurant. He was a bit put off by this, and it made me wonder - was it wrong for me to prefer a rendez vou at the restaurant rather than have a date pick me up at home? Have I lost touch with the romantic days of past where a date greets you at your door, flowers in hand? Maybe….I haven’t even gone on the date yet and already I’m learning something!

At 20.00, we arrive nearly simultaneously at the restaurant, and I take in S.’s classic grey hair, well tailored suit as we head inside to our reserved table (maybe I shouldn’t have gone with the ‘casual’ look…)

S. is Dutch and although his English is near perfect, he apologises continuously. I can’t imagine how hard it is to date in your second language, but he is doing a fine job. I wonder if it’s less his language skills than his nerves doing the apologising.

We begin with the usual Chinese tea and a few shared words about our day. Though I know the restaurant, and what I’d like to eat, S. surprises me by objecting to my order of Shanghai shrimp and noodles (“I don’t like to order noodles out,” he says). So, he takes the lead and orders our dinner himself.

We share a dish of baked salmon (his) and beef with veggies (mine) as S. talks about himself. He is an incredibly interesting man who has done a number of fascinating things in his life ranging from antics as an anti-fascist youth squatter to teaching ceramics to psychiatric patients. As I listen to his tales but can’t help my mind drifting - Do I like this guy? Do I like this food? Will we get married? There is nothing wrong with S. but I’m feeling a certain lack of spark, if you know what I mean.

When dinner wraps up, we’re discussing his mother’s aggressive attitude (“My mother is mean,” he tells me) and I’m still waiting my turn to share.

Then, S. suggests a round of warm sake. Good choice as we have a few mugs and launch into a deeper discussion of life and mediation – finally, a conversation I can add to! But due perhaps to the depth of the topic, or the cosiness of warm sake my eyes start to feel heavy and I realize its 23.00.

Three hours seems a good mark to end dinner, and we get the bill. He kindly pays, which was agreed on before dinner (“I’ll pay,” he told me, “and I don’t expect anything from you.” A relief, I guess). He offers to accompany me home and we set of biking side-by-side to my house. At the door, I expect to encounter an awkward-goodbye but it was nothing like that. I thank him for dinner and we exchange an affectionate three kisses before he rides off.

A lovely finish to a lovely evening, if perhaps an evening without chemistry.