sins of Amsterdam

I arrived at half past 11 in the morning, on three hours of sleep, owing to my jetlag — courtesy of the nine hours time difference between the States and the Netherlands. The city was Amsterdam, and the first stop, Dam Square. I normally don't indulge in street performances, but here I was embarking on a three week trip, alone. So I wanted to give in to everything touristy, and local, alike. And so I signed up to watch a Londoner, or so he claimed, dance by fitting into a hula hoop. 

I'm going to tell you what followed, on the basis of memory alone, for I don't have any pictures, not anymore at least. 

The romance with her began immediately. It's almost impossible for it to happen any other way. If you're in Amsterdam, keeping your eyes closed is the only way to stay clear of the canals; and your heart closed, to avoid falling in love with them. And I'm no different, not in this regard at least.

I started walking along the canals, and turned directions when another one came calling. I had to be careful not to come in the way of the cyclists. The car-owners, on the other hand, had to be careful not to cross my path, a pedestrian that I was. This haphazard strolling led me to a local book exhibition, the Red Light district, and a cafe that I had heard about. As for her, the canals — our eyes met on each street, around every corner, as the wheels of the bicycles and the ripples of the waves merged into one, and me with them. 

I had a hostel reservation, and after a two hour nap to offset the sleep I was lacking, I was back and about in the evening. I walked a little, and a bit more, this time through the stronghold of the locals, even more beautiful, untouched by the tourists, that it was. She was there again, as families of three, ten, and even one, gradually made their way across her, in boats that were enamored to look like houses; homes even.

A fulfilling day so far, for the mind, and heart. But when it comes to matters of food, I know no better than Indian. Soon, I was standing inside Saravanaa Bhawan, asking for a table for me, for one. There was another table that was serving host to a person traveling alone, and after consultation with her, and me, the manager seated us both at the same table. A chance encounter, and beautiful it was. She was a Bangalorean, currently living in Stockholm, and we immediately bonded over MTR, and Brahmin's Coffee, alike.

We paid our dues, thanked the manager for playing Cupid (of friends), and were on our way to see what Amsterdam had to offer at night. It was 930PM, and after surviving a bout of heavy downpour, we found ourselves sitting by the canal. It had turned dark about ten minutes ago, and the lights shone from the lamps around us. The roads were still wet, and only a few people were to be seen around. She made a call to a friend of hers to ask for recommendations, and so did I. It's all a bit too hazy now, and perhaps then too. She finished her call, and asked if we should leave. I was still talking on the phone when I got up, or rather attempted to get up. The road was wet, and I slipped. The phone fell from my hand, and in she went. Into the canal. I saw the water splash, and for a split-second I wondered if I should jump in. All those dreams and fantasies I had had all these years about saving the world if I was called upon, were washed down the drain, or well, the canal. I couldn't jump, and perhaps in hindsight, I'm glad I didn't. 

I stood there motionless, hands on knees. A couple that was passing by, must have noticed my visible agony, and stopped. A rod with a magnet, a local who can jump-in, contacting the police, a diver even? All these options were suggested, and almost all of them were not feasible at this time of the day. It was dark, it had turned so ten minutes ago. We called the police, well my friend did. I couldn't, I didn't have a phone. There was an initial language barrier, and the couple helped us. The call led to nothing; the local authorities had shut shop and would open at eight the following day. The possibilities to recover the phone were dwindling as the night got darker.

I thanked the couple, as they parted after offering me their sympathies. My friend from Saravanaa Bhawan was still with me, and thankfully so. A chance encounter, what are the odds? As we made our way to the police station, I knew I had to inform my family in Eindhoven, a city an hour away. I didn't know their contact details, but destiny have it, I did remember the number of my friend I was talking to when the phone fell into the canal. A childhood friend, currently studying in the Netherlands. And the only reason I remember her contact details? I dialed her number every other day, a decade ago when landlines were still prevalent. Ironic how a landline connection was helping me get through a mobile crisis!

We reached the police station, and told them my predicament. At first they vehemently refused to offer any solution. They couldn't, this was not solvable in their eyes; experience even. But after exchanging some notes in the local language, they suggested that I come back the next morning and consider the possibility of hiring a professional diver. That was it, it seemed a lost cause at this point. 

That night I could barely sleep. As for other nights when I've had difficulty sleeping, I've always turned to my phone, and scrolled aimlessly. But that day, I couldn't. For a minute I even wondered if I should start going through my wallet as an alternative. That's how attached we are, or well I am to that device. Perhaps addicted is a better word. This all really made me think. Can I can say this day really existed if there is no trace of it on my phone..or well there's no trace of my phone?

When my friend and I were getting up from near the canal, the intent was to explore what Amsterdam had to offer at night. It all changed after I slipped. 

Everyone has a past buried in Amsterdam, I on the other hand, have a buried phone..