It was a beautiful Sunday morning in October as I stood outside my boutique hotel in Amsterdam, contemplating the building. Boutique might have been generous – the place was incredibly narrow and had to have been tiny inside. I looked back, but my cab driver was already gone. I took a deep breath and walked through the front door.
There was no lobby, just a long desk by a narrow staircase. A sign over the desk read RECEPTION, and underneath, in smaller print, No joints before lunch. I rolled my eyes. Gotta love Amsterdam. I rang the bell on the desk and a short, curly-haired woman in what can only be described as a frock emerged from a door I hadn’t even noticed. She looked at me and gave me a funny smile.
“Ms. Styles,” she said with a thick Dutch accent.
“Yes.”
I proceeded to check in, grabbed my bag, and climbed the stairs. I’d never been to Amsterdam before, but I was beginning to suspect there would be a lot of stairs involved. On the third floor, I put my key in the lock of the only door and turned the knob, but was met with resistance when I tried to push it open.
Looking in, I saw the bed blocking my way. The room was tiny. I squeezed in, dropped my bags on the one chair, and looked around. White walls, one small painting of a tree, a single bed, a chair, and a door. Please let that lead to a bathroom. I walked over and slid the door open. Sure enough, it was a minuscule bathroom with a sink, a toilet, a showerhead over the toilet, and a drain in the floor.
“Oh, good Lord.”
I walked into the bathroom and looked in the mirror. At 31, I still looked like I was in my mid-twenties. I never knew if that was a good thing or not. Brown curly hair, a small smattering of freckles across my nose, and my too-big mouth, or at least I had always thought so. One guy had once referred to my mouth as generous. It left me with the weirdest feeling.
I washed my face quickly and changed into a fresh t-shirt and cardigan. I fixed my hair as best I could and walked out the door. I was jetlagged as hell, but if I slept then, I’d be ruined for days. Best if I stayed awake until at least dinner.
I grabbed a walking map of the city off the front desk as I headed out the door. I had no intention of doing any real sight-seeing—I was way too tired for that. But I had to walk around the city or I’d spend the entire day rehashing the morning’s events.
I’d flown across the ocean to surprise Matt with a week of wild sex, only to have him surprise me by having another woman answer the door. In her underwear. He had just been sexting with me. The shock, combined with the jet lag, was too much and I just passed out. Right at the front door, right in front of them.
When I came to, I was on a couch, with both Matt and the leggy blond standing over me, peering anxiously into my eyes. I jumped up.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “This was a mistake.”
I rushed to the door where I saw my bags sitting and grabbed them. Matt raced over to me but stopped about five feet away. He looked at me, tilting his head to the side, impossible to read.
“Allie, let me explain.”
“No, it’s fine. There’s nothing to explain. I’ve got to run. I, uh, have a meeting.”
I stumbled trying to open the door.
“Allie! Are you okay? You just fainted. Maybe have some water…”
“I’m fine, Matt. Low blood pressure. Happens all the time. I’ll get in touch, or, uh…I gotta go.”
And I went. Fast. I raced down the same stairs that moments earlier had been terrifying to me. But now nothing was more terrifying than hearing Matt’s explanation for whatever was going on in there.
“Allie,” he called from the landing. “Just listen to me…”
I reached the street and walked as fast as I could to the corner, not stopping until I was two blocks away. Then I collapsed onto a bench and cried. What an idiot I’d been.
Coming here had been such an impulsive decision. Matt and I weren’t dating. Hell, we’d only really gotten to know each other days before he left. This was a cross-Atlantic voyage based on lust. Ridiculous. Maybe I’d gotten what I deserved. He must have freaked out when I showed up on his door like that. Could I be more of a stalker?
I pulled the map out of my pocket and took a quick look. I didn’t want to study it too long. I’d traveled enough to know that tourists are taken for easy targets. And if I was honest with myself, I didn’t care where I was going. I was happy just getting lost in the city. I wandered along the canals and through the side streets, and watched as four people moved a couch into a house through a third-floor window using a rope and pulley system, which I imagined was easier than trying to get it up those narrow flights of stairs.
The city was beautiful, and I loved it instantly. I was looking forward to going to the museums—especially the Rijksmuseum, the Van Gogh Museum, and Anne Frank’s house. And of course, I’d check out the coffee shops, maybe wander around the red-light district… After all, I had research to do now.
I still couldn’t believe it. Days before leaving on this trip, I’d submitted a piece of erotica I’d written to a new editor, and she’d hired me to produce 2000 words a week for an up-and-coming website. I was writing under a pen name, Temple Fraser, and it was the best job I’d ever had.
Writing erotica was a far cry from the restaurant reviews I’d been doing for the past five years, and I’d based my first two stories on encounters with Matt. We’d only had three. I was rapidly running out of material and had been hoping to replenish the stores this week.
I was walking down a pedestrian street, contemplating between visiting the sex shop or the waffle and crepe place when I noticed the 420 Café. Smiling to myself, I crossed the street and walked in the front door. The place was amazing, the smell of pot wafting through the air, with wood paneling, stickers adorning the walls, and low couches lining the perimeter. I picked up a menu as I took my seat, almost giddy at the possibilities.
I spent the next hour or so relaxing in the café, and then spent the next several hours people-watching along the streets of Amsterdam. I was pleasantly high and carrying a nice little stash of supplies in my purse. I figured after a good night’s sleep, a combination of space cake and Van Gogh might be just what the doctor ordered to get my mind off this mess I’d gotten into.
And that’s what it was. A mess. Something I’d tried so hard to avoid since breaking up with Josh, my ex. After years of “it’s complicated,” I just wanted something simple and reliable. Yet here I was. Why had I even come?
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