Stupid Tourist
Chapter XII
Allen was originally from England but had been living in Amsterdam for longer than he hadn't. He was the manager of St. Christopher's, spoke fluent Dutch and lived in a flat next door. He was of medium height and very thin, with long, greying brown hair and a beard to match. Usually dressed in the unsuspecting attire of jeans and a T-shirt, Allen was witty and well-spoken, with a sharp tongue, and could quickly diffuse dramatic situations. I lost count during my time there how many whiny, entitled backpackers I'd witnessed him verbally annihilate when they tried to give him and his staff a hard time.
That side of him only came out when necessary, of course. Most of the time, Allen was happy, friendly, and incredibly caring. He immediately liked us and set Jimmy and me up in a dorm room for a reduced rate. He looked after us, and whenever we passed through the bar—which had become our lounge room—we were always greeted with a hug and a shot of Jagermeister.
Throughout my time in Amsterdam, Allen became a friend to us all. We'd tell him about our nights on the pub crawl, and he, in turn, would tell us about his latest exploits. As a proud, gay older man, Allen would relish in romantic encounters with younger men travelling through, drawn to his kindness and enchanted by his knowledge of the city.
He'd hit on us occasionally as well, mainly in jest. "So, when are you going to let me suck your cock?" he once asked while pouring me a drink behind the bar. We both cracked up, Allen peering over with a cheeky grin just in case there was a chance. It was all in good fun; his flirting and random sexual comments were part of his charisma.
In fact, I felt completely comfortable around Allen from the beginning, and I miss him a great deal to this day. I returned to Amsterdam here and there over the years to follow and would drop in to visit him - once with a former partner whom he'd welcomed with open arms before joining us for a night out. He was a great person and, during those years, a big part of why Amsterdam felt like home.
And that was the final piece of the puzzle - a home. I had a place. My own place. Sure, it was in a dorm room in a backpacker's, but it was something. Within a week of searching, I'd found a job, began making good money, made friends and found a place to live. A solid start, to say the least.
Also, things with the pub crawl were going well. I seemed to have a knack for talking to travellers on the street, and more often than not, enough people would turn up with my cards, landing me a shift for the evening.
My love life was a little trickier. Nights off happened randomly and unexpectedly, so I could never plan ahead. Anna, on the other hand, was an organised person with a healthy social life. This meant our schedules didn't gel most of the time. I'd find out I had a night off at the last minute, and she'd usually have plans already. So, instead of hanging out in the dorm room, work became my social life, and I would go out on the pub crawl anyway.
We still saw each other, of course. I'd go to her place a couple of nights each week when she had nowhere to be the following morning and stand outside waiting to be let in, usually very late and drunk as a skunk. Things were still incredible, but change was in the air, mainly with me.
I'd arrived in Amsterdam a morning person, relatively healthy and fit, keeping reasonable hours and looking after myself as much as a traveller could. My new lifestyle, however, began to work against me. I'd become a pub crawl rat, drinking ridiculous amounts of alcohol inside tacky bars until the wee hours of the morning, eating out daily due to the absence of a kitchen, waking up in time to go straight to work, and feeling too shitty from a constant hangover to exercise. To be fair, I did clock up plenty of kilometres walking around the city each day, but that wasn't enough to counter my poor diet and heavy alcohol intake, and it was starting to show.
I'd also begun to develop a chip on my shoulder like everyone else living in Limbo, which, mixed with insecurity around my health, was increasingly becoming a recipe for disaster. Anytime Anna and I managed to get out together, which wasn't often, I found myself watching how other guys would look at and interact with her. A beautiful, outgoing person like Anna was bound to attract attention, and despite us being together, I'd become jealous.
"Mike, why are you so upset with them? They're just talking to us." We were on our way to Anna's from a night out and ended up in a conversation with two guys on the street. Walking to get her bike, they struck up a chat somehow, but as was a nightly custom during that time in my life, I was pissed, so the details are fuzzy. What I do remember is how those guys were looking at Anna. Immersed in the conversation and tipsy herself, she was oblivious, but I saw it. The three of them spoke in Dutch, so I stood there watching, reading their body language and growing increasingly angrier by the minute.
This common scenario is one I'm all too familiar with. I've been in those two guys' shoes more times than I can count, so it was easy to see what was going on. I'd be talking to a beautiful lass and her boyfriend, ignorant of tact or manners, falling in love while her boyfriend observed.
If you're in this situation, watching someone else passively flirting with your partner without any class, there are two ways to handle it: get angry or play it cool.
The first is a sign of insecurity and is a surefire way to get into an argument with your unsuspecting girl, who is happy enough to chat with friendly people. This will make you look like a dick and ruin the night for everyone.
The second displays confidence, not only in yourself but also in her and your relationship. Being sure of yourself and maintaining friendliness will undoubtedly have an effect on the flirtations chancers falling for your girl.
When in this situation myself, I've walked away after thinking, "that guy's a dick. Why's she with him?" of the angry, insecure fellas, and "what a good dude! That's a cool couple right there," of the confident, friendly ones. The latter becomes charming, receiving admiration from the jackals with heart-shaped eyes. That admiration earns respect, and the flirting usually fizzles out quickly.
But hindsight's a bitch, and on that grizzly, hazy Amsterdam evening, I chose the route of the insecure, angry fella. "These guys have no respect. Can't you see how they're looking at you?" All eyes were on me as I made a complete ass out of myself.
"Mike, you don't even know what we're saying. We're just talking. Relax." Anna seemed surprised and annoyed at my childish reaction. I glared at the two guys, hoping they'd feel intimidated and walk away. The problem was I'm not an intimidating guy. Friendliness suits me more than fury. Also, I'm not very big.
"Ah! You're English," the chattier of the two said to me. My blood boiled as I turned to face him. "I'm not fucking English, I'm Canadian." My correction came with grinding teeth and flared nostrils.
The two guys, clearly enjoying their little game as much as they did my unravelling, now began to laugh. Mr. Chatty, with a cocky, perfectly smackable smile on his face, replied, "Yes, English. It's the same thing."
I didn't know then, but it was common in Amsterdam for all English-speaking foreigners to be called English because of language, not nationality. It wasn't an insult, but a fact - I speak English as my first language. However, on the pub crawl, I'd learned that the bouncers and bar staff loathed guys from England because of how they'd carry themselves when visiting Amsterdam, especially football fans. This fella calling me English registered in my drunken, irrational mind as him insulting me and saying he didn't like me.
"It's not the same fucking thing! I'm Canadian you Dutch fuck." So much for charm and respect. The chip on my shoulder grew four sizes that night, as did the increasing space between Anna and me, unbeknownst to either of us.
We walked away from the situation without further escalation, but I was seething. It turns out so was Anna, only she'd done a great job hiding it. Until we got on her bike, that is and crashed. "You stupid fucking tourist!" I'd never heard her talk like that. Dutch people around the city would regularly refer to us in a similar way, angry at us for leading mobs of wasted, disrespectful foreigners through their streets. But Anna? I was shocked.
She picked up her bike and rode away. Standing alone in the street, only a block from her flat, I contemplated returning to the hostel.
Why did we crash? The bikes in Amsterdam have racks on the back. When doubling, the second person either straddles the rack or sits sidesaddle, holding onto the rider for stability. Anna rode between some concrete posts, and, it being my first experience doubling through the city like that, I panicked, wobbling off the back and causing us to crash. It wasn't a big crash, and neither of us were hurt. In fact, we both landed on our feet. But it was a crash, nevertheless, and the perfect accompaniment to my ridiculous display of jealousy and aggression a few moments earlier to piss Anna off.
She called me not long after, and I spent the night at hers as initially intended, so things worked out. But it was our first real blow-out and quite a doozy at that.
In the morning, we made light of the previous evening's drama. "Mike, did I really call you a stupid tourist?" she seemed horrified at the thought. "No, no. You called me a stupid fucking tourist." I smiled, then we had a good laugh, and all was okay. We didn't say much about the encounter with the jackals, but I did apologise.
Suddenly, things got serious. It seems I wasn't the only one worried about other people coming in between us: "Mike, when you go on the pub crawl, there must be a lot of girls." Anna's face bore a mix of calm and concern. I nodded in confirmation. "Everyone is drunk, and you're their guide. I don't want you to kiss other girls if you're kissing me." She always found the sweetest ways of saying things.
"Oh, don't worry. We aren't allowed to kiss anyone until we finish work, and by then, everyone's gone home with someone else." My cheeky smile didn't ease her worry much, so I got serious, "Look, there are plenty of drunk girls on the pub crawl, and we do get attention from them. I haven't kissed anyone else, though, and I won't. If we're together, we're together. Don't sweat it, okay?" Her worry changed to a smile. Then her eyes lit up, "Mike, does this mean that you have... a girlfriend?" Again, the sweetest delivery. And she made a good point.
It was well-known that I was opposed to relationships and commitments of any kind in those days. However, a promise to stay true to one person, despite having women flirt with me regularly at work, was just that—a commitment.
I grinned and looked into Anna's eyes. "I guess it does." We stared at each other in silence for a long time, then Anna spoke first, "How does that make you feel?" Without hesitation or a shred of doubt, I pulled her close so she knew I meant it. "I like it." We kissed as if signing a contract, then pressed our heads together to enjoy the moment. "As long as you don't mind having a stupid fucking tourist for a boyfriend." We laughed and laughed and had a wonderful morning together.
And just like that, after years of single life, I was in a relationship... for the moment, anyway.