The wind struck in an instant, just as the forecast said it would. Rain lashed the white washed walls of the houses by the sides of the canals and the water from the canals splashed over the barriers, splashed across the paving, and flowed under the doors of any canal-side cottages not already protected by sandbags.
The bicycles that were chained to the iron railings grumbled and groaned against their chain linked locks as the wind pulled their frames.
I could have been in Camden on the Regent’s waterways, but this was Amsterdam. Already wet I pushed open the door to an antique shop by the lock side bridge. I jammed the door shut against the wind.
‘That came faster than I thought,’ I said to no one in particular.
I walked up to the shop counter. A French woman wearing a black and white hooped roll necked sweater stood next to me. She was cute, flat nosed, with her short mousey hair arranged in a very Frenchy bob. As I took off my red oilskin hat my elbow accidentally grazed her sweater. Her breast yielded to the slightest touch. I was a little embarrassed. But my touch was not enough to notice, I hoped, given the extremes of the rain and wind outside.
‘They were right about how fast that came,’ I repeated, then I dusted myself down as if drying off like a dog.
‘I saw what you did there,’ hinted the French woman.
A man stood next to her. He looked at me with an irritated and jealous eye.
’You touched my breast,’ she added bluntly, ‘But that’s okay. Now we might as well hug.’
I hadn’t meant anything by grazing her breast but now it occurred to me that we were destined to meet up.
The French woman gave me a warm hug with her head angled briefly against my shoulder, and her breasts felt gentle and warm against my chest. Instantly I felt better about my actions, but also nervous because I had never chatted up a French woman before.
Then the shopkeeper led us into the back of her shop to a large dining room where all of us would be served.
There were three tables in the room. One large traditional dark wood claw foot dining table to the left where most of the people had been seated, another empty table in the middle of the room, and one more blue table on the far side of the room which seated another group but which lacked the formality of the others given its lack of white table cloth.
I walked up to the claw foot table. Diners were already seated on the side closest to the wall. Another man sat at the far end. And I could have sat opposite the diners against the wall but I wanted to leave space for the French woman to join me, so I opted for the seat at the head of the table nearest me. I waved her over to come join us.
The French woman sat down but she took the seat over one so that another guest might sit between us. I smoothed down the table cloth in front of me and looked at the array of cutlery in front of me.
The hors d’oeuvres came first. A simple asparagus salad on a small glass plate. I was conscious of using the outside fork and knife first.
I chatted to the table. When the waiter delivered my salad I realized he was the man who had been irritated with me at the front of the shop. I was afraid he’d give me a smaller portion but when he plonked the plate down between the cutlery, I could see no discernible difference between mine and the other diners’ servings.
I was the chatty Cathy at the table.
The diners talked about a French man I did not know, and the French woman gave me a knowing smile. I was nervous. How could I get close to her once more? How could I feel and sense the smell and warmth of her hug again.
There was a lull in the conversation. I did not want to dominate the table with speeches. Silence bloated the guests. The French woman gave me an encouraging smile.
‘And then there was the story about Paris,’ I began.
‘No, no. Paris was a man,’ I added. I grew concerned that the story about Paris would be inappropriate. I wondered whether the French woman would appreciate my funny story about Paris.
But it was too late.
Because I had begun.
Photo by Jorge Láscar via Flickr.
