Missionary Position (2 page)

“Say hi to Gerhard for me.” With a sparkling white smile and a wave, she disappeared into the crowd of travelers.

What an odd, yet friendly, woman.

I spun her card on the bar. Anita Hendriks, management consultant. She had the same last name; the brother part could be legit. Gerhard, though. Get harder. I giggled and finished the last of my saketini. Scrolling through my mental file of lovers, aka The United Nations of Peen, I realized I’d never slept with a Dutchman. Maybe Gerhard could check off an item on my fuck-it list.

BEING A PROFESSOR might sound glamorous and interesting to some, but for me it meant having to fly coach on international flights. A window seat earned me a place in a slightly higher level of hell than a middle seat or the row right next to the bathrooms where the seats didn’t recline. Still, it was hell nonetheless.

The crush of summer tourists filled the flight to capacity. College backpackers, stoners, and shifty-eyed men populated the plane. I doubted they would be seeing any Van Goghs or Rembrandts.

I wanted a cigarette. Damn quitting. Stupid aging and health. I reached into my bag for a piece of nicotine gum. Over the past three months, I’d managed to wean myself off cigarettes, deliciously comforting, soothing, invigorating, cancer-causing cigarettes. After smoking for decades, I missed the habit of it. At least flights were smoke-free these days. Otherwise, I might have been tempted to stand in the smoking section and acquire a contact nicotine hit.

Groggy after a sleep-aid induced nap, a gray sky greeted me when the plane landed at Schiphol Airport. Even in summer, Amsterdam had more rain than my beloved Portland. And cooler temperatures, I realized as I wrapped my scarf tighter around my neck. The variation in climates meant I had packed for three seasons for two countries. Ghana promised to be hot, humid, rainy, and dry, but never cool.

At immigration, Anita’s business card fell to the floor when I reached for my passport. The man who picked it up and handed it to me looked half my age, which meant he was young enough to be one of my students. This reality didn’t stop him from brushing against my side and flirting with me while we waited in line. With his guidebook opened to “cafés” I knew the type of adventure he wanted. Been there, smoked that. Before he could continue his attempt to flirt or ask to share a cab into the city, I brusquely thanked him and moved forward to the immigration agent.

Sitting in the back of a cab slowly making its way through morning rush hour into the heart of Amsterdam, I pulled out Anita’s card with Gerhard’s name on it. I admitted I was more than curious. After the attentions of the much younger man in line, I wondered how old Anita’s brother was. It would be crazy to call him. Anita was gorgeous, and if her brother swam in the same gene pool, chances were he was just as tall, blond, and athletic. Everything I didn’t typically find attractive. Although I shut down Backpack Romeo in the airport, these days my type meant anyone with a pulse, single, and not looking for a housekeeper. Viagra optional. I took pills to sleep and had a wee nicotine addiction. Who was I to judge the need for a little blue pill?

My fingers flicked the card to the beat of a techno song on the radio.

Anita wasn’t a friend or even a friend of a friend. What would I say?
Hi, I thought your sister tried to pick me up at a sushi bar at JFK, but turns out she wanted to set me up with you.

No, that wouldn’t work.

Hi, your sister gave me your number. I’ve never had sex with a Dutchman, so I’m calling you. Are you up for some Flying Dutchman action?

No. Wasn’t the Flying Dutchman some haunted ship doomed to roam the oceans forever? Maybe I could ask Gerhard.

Jet lag forced a yawn from me. After stretching my arms and rolling my neck, I tucked the card back into my purse. No need to rush things.

First things first. Coffee and something made of ninety-percent butter. Maybe some cheese. Followed by chocolate.

Maybe some
bitterballen
.

I snorted. I might have been too old for college backpackers, but my sense of humor still lingered around that of a fourteen-year-old boy.

Amsterdam, I’m coming for you.

You too, Gerhard.

JET LAG SUCKED. I left home yesterday at five-thirty in the morning and landed at about the same local time. My brain was too tired to calculate actual travel hours, and my eyes burned like I’d pulled an all-nighter. My little hotel sat on a narrow street along a canal. Each room had been designed as a mini studio-apartment and the manager left me petite, freshly baked apple pies for breakfast. It was a nap trap. Coffee and breakfast only made me sleepier. I broke the rule about no naps on the first day of jet lag and took an epic nap—I fell asleep after breakfast and woke at dinner. First day in Amsterdam blown. Art and culture would have to wait until tomorrow.

Luckily for me, the sun didn’t set until after ten during summer. Despite being past five, I had a few hours of daylight left to wander around the center. Once outside my little oasis, the sounds and smells of the city greeted me. No less than three bicycles almost ran me over while I stood on the street gathering my bearings. Mind you, I stood in the middle of the street, but ringing the bike bell and shouting at me wasn’t the warmest welcome to Amsterdam.

Lesson learned.

Sticking to the sidewalks, I meandered across the heart of the city, past food trucks selling pickled-herring sandwiches and falafel restaurants. I didn’t mean to make a beeline straight to the infamous Red Light district, but somehow my feet carried me there. Maybe from memory. Along with Lizzie and Maggie, my two best friends from college, I spent a hazy week wandering around, looking at art, drinking beer, eating
stroopwafels
, and visiting local cafés for brownies. Special brownies.

A café sign on my left announced they had followed the trends in baked goods and now offered “special” cupcakes. I wonder if the medicinal properties of marijuana helped with jet lag. It couldn’t hurt, I convinced myself, buying a chocolate cupcake with rich chocolate buttercream frosting.

Special or not, the cupcake tasted delicious. Brilliant marketing—the thing you ate gave you munchies for more of the same.

Further wandering through narrow streets brought me face to face with Amsterdam’s notorious women in the windows. I watched them watch me watch them. Who was the true voyeur? Several curtains were closed, indicating the occupants were busy or napping. To my left, a door opened and a man walked out, closing his fly and adjusting his shirt. I stopped and observed him greet his friends with fist-bumps at the end of the block. I licked a smudge of buttercream from my hand while they stumbled off into the fading light of evening. My mind spun with hypotheticals.

What if men stood and sat in windows offering anonymous, safe, consensual sex for women? Would we take them up on it? Would our girlfriends wait for us to do the deed and then high five us?

Movement from the window in front of me returned my attention to the little street. Apparently, safe, consensual sex with one of these women could be offered by a series of hand-gestures. Not wanting to appear ungrateful, I shook my head and smiled at her offer.

I needed and wanted to get laid, but paying for it? Not my thing. Plus, despite a brief exploration in college, I knew I was straight—not narrow, but straight.

I wouldn’t meet Mr. Right Now in Amsterdam’s Red Light district, but I could find a new BOB.

I crossed an arched bridge over the canal to a row of shops. The first two stores I visited were clearly for tourists and women who didn’t love their clitorises. Definitely not the right place for me. Third time was the charm when a Betty Page inspired woman in a pin-up girl outfit greeted me from behind the counter. Not only was she adorable, but informative and more than helpful. She lovingly wrapped my newly purchased battery-operated-boyfriend in tissue and put the box into a discreet, elegant purple shopping bag. Success.

Pleased with my purchase, I decided to celebrate with a drink, fried balls for dinner, and people watching in
Leidseplein
, the site of many late nights during my first visit. The busy square promised lots of eye candy and the potential for flirting.

With the exception of a heroin addict sleeping in a corner, the tram ride across the city could have been Disney World’s version of Amsterdam, crossing charming boat-lined canals and gliding past colorful pastel buildings. From my window seat, I even spied shops offering wooden shoes. Amsterdam knew how to play to its clichés and still be chic.

Sitting at a table for two outside one of the bars on the square, I ordered a beer, and yes, deliciously gooey, fried
bitterballen
.

Neon lights from the square’s famous bars and clubs bounced off puddles from an earlier rain I’d missed during my epic nap. I needed to make a plan for my week or else I’d spend my days eating cupcakes and napping. Not a bad week, but I wasn’t here for pleasure only. I had some prep work to do for Ghana. Tomorrow’s plans included a cocktail reception to celebrate the African Art auction the day after. The financial sponsors of a huge touring African sculpture exhibit planned for the end of next year would also be hosting the reception. My research in Ghana might earn a contributing essay in the catalogue, so I needed to play nice. Taking out my moleskine notebook, I made notes about my schedule for the next couple of days.

“Is this seat taken?” a man’s voice asked.

I blinked up at the vaguely familiar face.

“Oh, you don’t speak English? Shit, I don’t know how to say it in Dutch.” He ran his hand through a mop of brown hair worthy of a member of a boy band.

Ah, that’s him. Backpack Romeo stood in front of me.

“Um, no. I mean, yes, I speak English. No, the chair’s not taken.” I fumbled to emphasize my words with random hand gestures.

“Hey, you’re the woman from the airport!” Backpacker sat in the chair opposite me and stuck out his hand, introducing himself as Rob.

“I’m Selah. Nice to meet you.”

“What are the odds we’d run into each other again?”

“What are the odds?” I echoed.

He missed my lack of enthusiasm and continued with his awe over the universe crossing our paths not once, but twice.

“I mean, I’m in Amsterdam, not knowing a soul, and here you are again. Maybe it means something?” he asked, lowering his eyes to my chest.

“I know. Gin joints etcetera.”

When he lifted his eyes to my face, his blank, but eager stare told me he had no idea what I meant.

“This place is a gin joint? Like they only serve gin?” He flipped open his guidebook and scanned the page.

“No, it’s a line from
Casablanca
. Something about out of all the bars in the world, you walked into this one. You know, the inevitability of universe?”

He blinked at me for a few beats.

“
Casablanca
? The movie?” I asked, hoping to clarify it for my moppet-headed friend.

“Never heard of it.” He had a lopsided smile. “Your eyes are really pretty. Like the color of limes in a gin and tonic.”

I wanted to bang my head on the table. Instead, I asked him the obvious question about what had brought him to Amsterdam.

“I’m backpacking for a month on my own before starting my study abroad in Munich.”

“I studied abroad. Eons ago. Before cell phones and laptops.”

He openly gaped, his forehead wrinkled in thought. “Shit. You’re like my mom’s age.”

Bingo.

In his eyes I could see myself shriveling into an old crone like the queen in Snow White. I rubbed an invisible wart on my forehead. When I didn’t respond, he fumbled to apologize.

“I thought you were a lot younger. At the airport, you looked hot. I mean, like young hot, not like mom hot. Not that my mom is hot. Well, my dad thinks she’s hot. And Brad from high school totally had a crush on her.”

Someone needed to stop his rambling. My cupcake and beer buzz were dissipating fast.

“I get it. I hide my old age well.”

“Are you backpacking through Europe, too?” he asked.

“Um, no. Hostels and sleeping on trains is for you young people. I’m here for work and a little play.”