The Old Hack

Ina Schroders Zeeders is a romantic novelist from the Netherlands, whose books are published in Dutch, French and Hungarian.  I encountered her writing quite by chance at Helium.com, where you can find more of her efforts and read a little about her.  Here she tells a charming story about not going to France.... I'm not going to explain -  read it for yourself!

A Trip To Amsterdam

Two weeks ago my husband, our youngest son and I went to Amsterdam for a short visit. We took the fast ferry to Harlingen at 7.30.  For our teenager that was a bit early but he took it as a man.  

The train journey we took through  the provinces of Friesland, Overijssel,Gelderland, Utrecht and Noord-Holland was slack and smooth and we arrived before noon in the capital city.

Our hotel was on the Oude Zijds Kolk, a small gracht between the Schreierstoren at the Prins Hendrikkade and the back of the Nicolaaskerk.

It was called Hotel France, and as we originally wanted to go to France, I found a sort of comfort in that name.

We left the luggage there and splitted. So before we even checked in, we had already seen the inside of the Royal Palace on the Dam. A real nice building.

 We did a lot. That night we went to a stand up comedy café and it was great. Next day we took a tour around the canals.

We also visited the Historisch Museum and the antiquemarket near the Nieuwe Markt. But 3 nights is not enough to see all that Amsterdam has to offer. It was Hartjesdagen for instance, a mostly transvestite festival, and it took place right before our noses.

Every morning we had our breakfast outside on the terras of the Irish pub Molly Malone next door to the hotel, where it was served. Sunday we could hear singers do psalms from the church while the first hashfumes tickeld our nostrils on the quay and transvestites passed us on  their way to the fest.

Everyone was relaxed and the violence the guidebooks had warned us about, was nowhere to be seen.  And then I saw him.  I was standing outside on the Zeedijk, in the middle of the Red Light district, waiting for the others, and he came towards me. A man in light coloured summerclothes, he had white hair and beard, he was nice looking and slim. Ok, I looked a bit too long perhaps.  I am a peasant, remember. I thought he wanted to ask for money of hash, directions perhaps. So I smiled. He look me up and down.  And then he said: “How much?” He was British.

I had no idea what he meant. I am not difficult about my age. I am it, I look it, so what. I almost said  "Fifty one," good thing I didn't  perhaps. It would have added to the confusion.

“How much what?” I asked in stead.

“What ever you want,” he said with a horse voice.  Still I had no idea. I am thick. I thought MILF was someone worked in the navy (MILVA in Dutch) till some idiot called me that and thought he was cute.

“Do you want sex?” I said and I suppose I said it rather loud.

“Yes, thanks.” He was a bit nervous I think.

“Oh. I see. But I am married. So no.”

He was confused. I was too. I wasn’t proposing, just asking!

“You walk here up and down the street but you are not a hooker?”

“Not at all! I am waiting for my husband.”

He got out his spectacles  (sic!) and took another look.

“Sorry,” he said. He smiled. “I have never done this, you see.”

“I will take it as a compliment then,” I said willingly.  Hey, it was such a nice day.

He nodded.

“Goodbye then.”

He went, but turned around at the corner of the Zeedijk and the Oude Zijds Kolk.

He waved!

My husband appeared.

“Who was that?” he asked.

“Someone with eyesight problems, “ I answered instantly. “Big eyesightproblems.”

He laid his hand around my waist and we headed into the town.