Station in Life
“Nah, man, let’s just get the hell out of here,” Rafi said.
He opened the window of our hostel room, then leaned his elbows against the sill and stared into the street. An oversized storefront lined in red neon dominated the second-story view. Three lingerie-clad women spent their days caged behind glass flinging carnal seductions at the passing foot traffic. To the left was a coffee shop with the best-priced dope in the city. A gay bar two doors down with a giant penis on the marquee – no words, just a big dick – advertised lunchtime happy hours in the blacked-out front window. “I’ve had enough of this city.”
Amsterdam was an incredible place, with its museums and flashpoints of reclining culture, picturesque canals snaking through streets lined with shops and eateries. But a week of hanging out in coffee shops and pubs in the Red Light district had saturated my inner hedonist. It was time to go.
I sat on the edge of the bunk bed thumbing through a guidebook of Holland while pulling on my beard. The fresh air flowing through the window barely permeated the fetor of stale morning breath, cigarette-stained clothes, and urine in the dank, gray room.
“Okay. What about Gouda?” I said. “It says it’s the most visited city in the Netherlands besides here.”
Rafi removed his rimless glasses. He huffed a few breaths on each lens and wiped them on his blue jeans. Then he hooked his glasses in the front of his tee shirt and leaned against the wall, running his delicate fingers over the bump on the bridge of his nose.
“Sure,” he said. “Let’s go.”
We grabbed our backpacks and strode into the hallway toward the stairs. Yellowed, peeling wallpaper lined the corridor. The matted lime green carpet was torn or missing in the places not covered with burn marks. The stench of piss – so ubiquitous in this hovel – obviously originated out here.
We winded down the creaky, wooden spiraling stairs. The manager, a Slav with a thick, syrupy accent and thinning strips of hair combed over a balding pate, grunted “good mornink” as we walked toward the door.
“You vill be leavink now?” he asked.
I turned and nodded.
“You enjoy my place, no?”
“Fabulous,” I said. For twelve guilders a night, it was.
We stepped out into the crisp, midday air. The sun had not yet subdued the chill, but the cloudless, azure sky set the backdrop for another perfect day. Our path through the district to the central train station teemed with traffic. Tiny European cars whizzed through the streets, horns bleating. Cross-legged musicians leaned against storefronts, guitar cases opened, strumming rock tunes for spare change. Stoned-out travelers devoured long, golden, glistening french fries drowned in mayonnaise.
Once inside, we snaked through the crowd to the ticket counter. A full-figured lady with blonde hair streaked gray and a bludgeoned face sat behind the window fingering her desk to the ambient hum of passing foot traffic.
“Two tickets to Gouda,” I said smiling.
“It’s pronounced Howda,” she sniffed, like the “H” was caught in the back of her throat.
“Well… I don’t care Howda fuck you pronounce it, just give me two tickets for the next train.”
She looked up at me then returned to her computer licking her lips disdainfully.
“Thirty-nine guilders each. That’s seventy-eight guilders total,” she monotoned. “The next train is in four minutes.”
Rafi handled the transaction, muttering a “danka,” and we hustled for the platform. We found an empty car toward the rear and took two seats facing each other next to the window.
“Danka?” I asked. “Why danka?”
“She’s old enough to remember the occupation,” he said, leaning in and lowering his voice. “You saw, man, she had the eyes of a sympathizer.”
“Jesus, man. Besides, a ‘sympathizer’ doesn’t necessarily speak German.”
“True. But they’re not turned off by it either.” He picked at a faded acne scar on his cheek, his upper lip lifting in a slight sneer. “Call it my own little Litmus test.”
Sympathizer was Rafi’s euphemism for Nazi complicity. Never mind history or logic, he seemed forever suspicious of English spoken with an accent. Everywhere we went in Europe the “fucking Nazis” were there. Amsterdam – with its “blonde, blue-eyed social dictates and cosmopolitical stench of neutrality” – had proven particularly cruel.
I reached into my backpack for the guidebook.
“So, I guess Germany and Poland are still out of the question?” I asked.
Rafi didn’t answer. He just sucked on the tiny Star of David attached to a gold chain around his neck. Whenever he was pensive or emotional, he’d suckle that piece of jewelry like a nipple.
Our silence continued as the train pulled away from the station. Within fifteen minutes, we were out of the city. Green fields dotted with tulips flashed across the window in a hypnotic blur of colors. Rafi stared out into the openness, bits of scenery reflecting in his vacant, brown eyes.
“You know, man,” he said, returning from his reverie. “I just couldn’t get comfortable.”
I scratched my head and nodded.
“Maybe,” he said, “the next place will be better.”
“Yeah, maybe.”
