Page 18 of What Happens in Amsterdam

“Excuse me?” A family of tourists is standing in front of me. An older grandmother, parents, two kids. The mother is holding out her phone. “Will you take our picture?”

Right. We’re in front of the palace.

“Oh—sure. Of course.”

They pose with broad grins, wind whipping their hair as theypress close together, and the sad reality hits me: almost a month, and I have barely taken any of these photos.

I force myself to breathe as I pass back the phone. That ham sandwich isn’t sitting well, so I buy a hot dog from the cart in front of the palace and proceed to spill mustard on my jacket. When I lost my last job, at least I knew I was the one responsible. I wallowed, but then I pulled myself together. I figured it out, even ifitmeant moving an ocean away from everything I knew.

Escaping.

Is that what I was doing?

In front of me, a pigeon snatches a fry out of a little girl’s cone. She starts crying, and I feel this moment of kinship with her when we make eye contact—because yes, this city is brutal for all of us.

But it’s beautiful, too.

Of all the ways I imagined this going wrong, I never thought being sent back to the US was a real possibility. And there it is. If I don’t find another company to sponsor my visa, then I am fucked.

I allow myself to picture it: packing my bags, crawling to my childhood home because of course my parents would let me stay there while I got back on my feet. No—they’d insist on it.You can come home anytime. They’d fold their arms around me and assure me it’s okay that I wasn’t ready for something this big.

That nameless beast I thought I’d dodged by coming here, the heavy clouds that moved into my brain on my worst days—that would be back, too. Every good thing I imagined for myself when I arrived in Amsterdam would just be…gone. “I lived there for a few months,” I’d tell people with a shrug when they asked about it. “It was cool.”

Because what else could I say, even now? I’ve barely explored beyond the city center. I haven’t been to a single museum, haven’t tried stroopwafel, haven’ttraveled.

This can’t be ending when it’s barely begun.

I take a determined bite of my hot dog. If this really was an escape, then there’s only one option.

I have ninety days to find a new job and to experience this city the way someone long ago told me I should, convincing me that once I did, I’d agree it was the loveliest place in the world.

Six

I spend the next fewdays in a frenzied state of job hunting, scrolling through so many listings I start seeing them in my sleep.

We’re sorry, but we just filled the position—

Recently had a round of layoffs—

Looking for someone with a little more experience—

I didn’t expect the rejections to pour in so quickly, but there they are, glaring back at me from my inbox. Each one of them a ticking clock.

Late one evening, a message from Wouter drags me out of a self-pity-induced stupor, but only briefly. I haven’t showered, and there’s a pile of delivery boxes on the kitchen counter I swore I’d deal with before the end of the day.

Not trying to overstep, but if you haven’t been yet, I have a freeticket for the Van Gogh Museum this weekend, his text says, along with an attachment.Best to go right when it opens to avoid crowds.

It’s enough to make me jolt upright in bed, wondering if he’s also in bed in the apartment above mine. If the bedroom is even in the same place, or if he’s on top of my refrigerator or shower instead.

I just got off the phone with Phoebe, who knows everything, and my parents, who know nothing. Yesterday I even talked to someone at immigration, who confirmed that I have ninety days—eighty-five, now—to secure new employment. Even if someone offers me an interview tomorrow, most tech companies have at least three rounds of interviews. That could take as long as a month, maybe more. Opportunities are slim, and though I vow I’ll do anything, the jobs that aren’t at international companies require at least a conversational level of Dutch.

There’s little holding me back when I reply to Wouter.

Perfect timing, thanks. My company…collapsed? Laid me off? I’m not sure, but it seems as though I am no longer employed, so I would love a museum day. This is me as a tenant letting you as my landlord know that I already have a few leads on new jobs.

If I’m stretching the truth, it’s only because my bruised ego needs it.

Regardless, he doesn’t respond.

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