Here I am, sitting in front of baggage claim number six in Schiphol Airport at least an hour after our arrival in Amsterdam, waiting for Michael to check on our missing luggage.  Texting Alexander that we will be held up awhile, I let him know that we will arrive at our rented apartment — eventually.

Yes, I like the middle part — the middle is always best. Endings and beginnings are the pits.

Leaving Oviedo

With nothing to do but wait, I remember the beginning. 

Arriving at the small, sleepy Oviedo Asturias Airport this morning, unable to find the Hertz location to turn in our rental, I wait while Michael goes inside and tries to find out where in the world Hertz is located. And while I wait I find the rental agreement and the phone number for Hertz at the airport. I call. Luckily they understand (and speak) English — if I speak slowly — if I speak very slowly — they can understand. My middle name is slow.

When Michael returns, he tells me Eurocar says, “Just drive around, someone will be in the parking lot holding a sign that says, Hertz.”

I relay the directions given to me from Hertz. 

Turning left we leave the airport, we turn right and turn right again. The Hertz representative says to stay in the car and she will drive us back to the airport.

We are three hours early for our flight and we do not care.  Snacking on a Tortilla Espanola, a Nutella-filled croissant, and sipping coffee solo occupies our time for a little while, then we settle deeper into the comfortable faux brown leather chairs. I read.  Michael naps.  Eventually, we board.  I paid extra for emergency exit seats and Michael stretches out his legs forever and beyond. Changing planes in Madrid, we find the airport extremely clean and well organized.  We barely have time to catch our breath when it is time to board the flight for Amsterdam.  We are happy with our progress until…

Arriving in Amsterdam

We walk what seems to be 10,000 steps through the enormous airport and discover at the end of the road that we have no luggage. We are not alone. Everyone whose journey originated in Oviedo is in the same boat.

Michael appears at my elbow and says, “I need you.”

“And what is the luggage brand?” the airport personnel asks. I stare; I haven’t a clue.

“One piece is brown with white trim.  The other piece is dark green with black trim,” I say, hoping that will be enough information; they do have baggage tags and our ID I remind them.

“Your luggage is in Madrid we will deliver it tomorrow.  Here is a letter from Iberia Airlines apologizing for your trouble.” And we’re done.

I try to remember what I packed in my carry-on, knowing I don’t have shampoo — it was more than 3.4 ounces. There is no hairspray and no mousse — I’m in trouble.  I think I’ll just hide tomorrow till the luggage arrives.

The taxi ride from the airport, through the city, could be anywhere.  We could be in Dallas.  For flatness — Houston. Darkness is descending and all I can see are endless lines of three-story row houses. The canals are hidden from my view. I remind myself I am here for Van Gogh and Rembrandt and the Girl with the Pearl Earring — Vermeer.

Our Amsterdam Apartment

While the taxi driver gives Michael his card and retrieves our luggage, Alexander descends the steps of the apartment building, shakes our hands, and leads us to our new home.  He is a nice man — Dutch — speaking perfect English, wanting to make sure we know everything we need to know about our new home. When he shows us the bedroom, I walk to the window that overlooks the apartment across the way and see a mound of white sheets moving in an undulating fashion.  Lights are on everywhere.  It is a public existence.  I am reminded of Jimmy Stewart in Rear Window.  I make a mental note to keep the lights off — or the curtains closed.

The apartment is charming and I am enamored with all of the art on every wall — so diverse — I am sure there has to be a story behind each piece, and of course, I want to know, and of course, I never will. There is an abundance of books and CDs, and soft squishy furniture and a bed with lots of pillows and a down comforter and windowed soft gray walls, and a long industrial stainless steel table for dining with seating for eight and a gas stove I would kill for. And it is cozy and has a view of the canal. It is perfect.

In Search of Dinner

We haven’t eaten for twelve hours and to say that I am hungry says it all.  We are on foot walking in sync with Alexander as he pushes his bicycle beside us, parting ways at the bridge across the canal that fronts our apartment.  The recommended restaurant is full, so we move on.  I am nervous walking in the dark in an unknown city, not knowing if we will be able to find our way back to the apartment and not being able to remember what it looks like from the street, other than looking like everything else, and hoping Michael brought the piece of paper with the house number written on it.  We have turned one corner and crossed three streets. I see a restaurant that is open with empty tables.

“Let’s eat here,” I suggest.

“It’s Spanish,”

Michael says, sounding like he thinks it isn’t a good idea—we just left Spain and we’re in Amsterdam and we are going to eat Spanish food — again?

“Well, that is appropriate,” and I really don’t care.  I think we can find our way back from here. I care little about what I eat, as long as it is something and we don’t lose ourselves in the night.

As we wait to order I glance out the window and see four young men in business suits flying down the street on bicycles; one balanced crosswise on the back fender, legs flung out straight in front of him.  It almost looks like a circus act, it seems so incongruous. Yin and yang — suits and bikes — on the streets of Amsterdam.

The restaurant isn’t Spanish, but Argentinean.  A big difference.  We are starved and everything tastes beyond wonderful. Our waiter asks if we want bread.  Of course, we want bread.  It is the most delicious garlic bread I have ever tasted — tomato-colored, soft, crisp, and savory with a side of stuffed olives unlike any I have ever tasted. Grilled marinated rack of lamb — tender, perfectly cooked, perfectly seasoned.  Creamed spinach with flavor not dulled by an overabundance of cream but rather creamless with wonderful seasonings and a scoop of sour cream in the middle of the dish. Potatoes with crispy edges and tender centers; a house Cabernet from Argentina that is delicious and only 4,50€ a glass.  We want to return.

We find our way home in the dark, debating which steps lead to our apartment. Decision made, key working, we take the elevator to the third floor, crawl to the bedroom, and crash.