Page 36 of What Happens in Amsterdam

After I lost my job, even after the breakup with Jace, I was so terrified of another breakdown that I did everything I could to distract myself. There was the haircut, attempts at self-care disguised as expensive beauty products, spending as much time with my family as I could before I left. And then, of course, the international move. The great escape. If I could just run fast enough, then maybe the darkness in my brain wouldn’t be able to catch up with me.

I’m aware that plenty of people no longer work in the fields they majored in. I just don’t know what else I’m qualified for or what might make me happy, which makes me feel a bit like I’m having a quarter-life crisis.

A single dinner isn’t enough to repay Wouter for this gift of time to figure myself out—it’s a tremendous privilege, I realizethat. But for now, all I need to figure out is how to pronounce theeusound in Dutch.

I’ve always liked languages; I took three years of French in high school and had a brief Italian phase in college, because I had a brief everything phase. One semester and an application to a study abroad program in Florence, which my parents didn’t think was a good idea. “It’s just so far away,” they said, and so I didn’t go.

Here’s my chance to start fresh with a new vocabulary.

Before class, the room is filled with chatter in a half dozen different languages, only some of which I recognize, and I trade smiles with my new classmates as I sit down and take out my textbook. Despite feeling very out of practice when it comes to school, I’m relaxed for the first time all day. We’re all here because we want to be, because we’re trying to soak up every bit of our new lives.

“Welkom in de Nederlandse les,” says the teacher, a friendly middle-aged Dutch woman named Femke. “Laten we beginnen. Let’s begin.”

Eleven

As I’m leaving class, mymind swimming with basic grammar and verb conjugations, I spot someone familiar exiting the room just across the hall.

“Iulia?” I call out, and she turns around.

“Dani!” she says, sounding delighted, an emotion I’m not sure I’ve earned. We stand off to the side to avoid disrupting the flow of students. “How are you? Are you taking a class here?”

“Just finished my first one. Slightly overwhelmed, but in a good way.”

“I know the feeling. I’m in an advanced conversation class where we mostly talk about current events all in Dutch, because apparently I love pain.” She slides her bag to her other shoulder. She’s dressed casually, the way I’ve always seen her: joggers, boots, oversized sweatshirt, her long hair loose and wavy. I can admire someone who prioritizes comfort. “Good to see you’re still in one piece.”

Immediately I’m struck with embarrassment. “I should have reached out—after I moved. You were so nice to let me keep my stuff at your place.” Then I chew the inside of my cheek, unsure howto navigate this. It’s been years since I went from acquaintances to friends with someone, and I’ve never gotten the hang of doing it as an adult. In the end, I decide to go with honesty. “I thought maybe it would be annoying to hear from someone still stumbling their way along when you’ve been here for a while. I…didn’t want to overstay my welcome.”

Iulia’s dark eyes grow wide. “Are you serious?I’msorry. I was worried about overstepping if you had a million other things to stress about.”

I have to bite back a smile, because maybe our anxieties are kindred spirits. “Do you want to grab coffee?”

We find a spot on the next block, where I learn that she has the coolest job I’ve heard of in quite some time.

“I’m a boat tour captain,” she says after we sit down with our mugs. “Not for those giant boats down by the train station. We’re sort of alternative—we take a max of ten people, and they can even bring alcohol if they want. And I’m allowed to swear.” A sip of her coffee. “What about you?”

“I’m still trying to figure that out, actually.” I fiddle with the wrapper of the biscuit that came with my latte—it’s rare to be served coffee without one. “My company sort of fell apart, so I’m looking for something new.”

She gives a somber nod. “Not easy sometimes, I’m sorry. And where are you living? Hopefully somewhere with better plumbing?”

“Oh—I found a place in the city center.” And since that feels too Wouter-adjacent to discuss with someone I barely know, I change the subject.

Iulia Bojescu, I learn, came over here in her early twenties from Bucharest. She’d visited with a few friends and fell in love with the city, vowing to do whatever she could to make it work. She waited tables, bartended, and then took a boat tour that changed her life.

“I get to talk about what makes Amsterdam amazing all day,”she says. “Even when it’s pouring rain and I’m out on the water, I still can’t believe someone’s paying me for it.”

It’s impossible to miss the way her eyes light up, and there it is: another person who’s found exactly what they’re meant to be doing.

This time, though, it doesn’t inspire any jealousy.

“Come on the boat sometime soon,” she says when it’s time to part ways, and I promise I will.

I break into a grin the moment she leaves, like my parents dropped me off at kindergarten and I just made my very first friend.

—

My confidence peaks on myway to Wouter’s office, when an older couple approaches me and offers up a shy wave.

“Excuse me,” a woman with short gray hair asks in a heavy accent I can’t place. Her husband is frowning at a paper map. “Do you speak English?”

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