Chapter Two
Two
Whoever coined the phrase just like riding a bike had clearly never ridden one in Amsterdam. During rush hour. In the pouring rain.
The Netherlands is the tallest country in the world and I am only four-eleven, which I’ve just learned is 150 centimeters and enough to make most bike shop owners recoil, as though outfitting someone this short with a bike is a challenge they never received the right training for.
“This is an omafiets,” said the guy at the third shop I tried, a rental subscription place with a monthly fee. “A granny bicycle.”
Then it was my turn to recoil. Maybe this was a comment on my biking ability or the dark circles under my eyes. Which, fair on both counts. But the guy reassured me that this is simply the style of bike here in the Netherlands. An omafiets has a taller curved frame that lets you sit upright, which is more comfortable and easier to ride longer distances.
In theory, this sounded great. I imagined myself gliding through the city on a charming pastel-pink bike, tulips I’d purchased from the flower stand around the corner sticking out of my basket. I’d blend right in with the locals. Quintessential Dutch.
In practice, climbing on the thing feels a little like getting on a roller coaster with a busted track—I can see the way I die, and I’ve surrendered to my fate. The bike I rented isn’t quite the right size, even after the guy lowered the seat as far down as it would go. My toes don’t even skim the ground, and while this might be second nature for people who’ve grown up biking here, for me it feels completely out of control, like I have to trust my body to catch me every time I backpedal to a stop. My body has rarely proven itself trustworthy—not when I lived at the hospital for the first six months of my life, not when an asthma attack kept me from playing the lead in my third grade production of our teacher’s original musical Geology Rocks! , not when I was so eager for my first kiss that I wound up biting poor Levi Moskowitz’s tongue at Jewish summer camp in middle school.
The next few days are a blur of registration appointments. I get a residence permit, the Netherlands equivalent of a social security number, a bank account. I stumble my way through buying groceries, spending a full hour browsing the narrow aisles of Albert Heijn and translating everything with my phone. I learn that coffeeshops are not, in fact, coffeeshops when I try to order a latte before recognizing that earthy scent and realizing the menu is all joints and edibles with names like Lemon Skunk and Amnesia Haze.
Still, none of it feels real.
By my first day of work, I’ve mostly recovered from jet lag, having mapped the route to my office a few times by bike. I’ve been desperate for human interaction, and phone calls with Phoebe and my parents can only go so far.
“Oh, Dani,” my mother said last night when I made the mistake of mentioning that I was not a natural on a Dutch bicycle. “Don’t push your lungs too hard.”
“You know there’s no judgment if this ends up not working out,” my father put in. “You can come home anytime.”
And then I bit the inside of my cheek and changed the subject.
I try not to take the morning’s steady rain as some kind of omen. Just like Iulia promised, it’s still dark outside at eight thirty, and as a result of spending my whole life in a place without seasons, I don’t have the right clothing for it.
“Water-resistant,” I mutter as I shove at my bike pedals, rain dripping down my lashes and my joke of a jacket clinging to my shoulders, “is a fucking lie.”
I yank the handlebars hard to the right when someone passes me on a bike with what looks like a wheelbarrow attached to the front. Inside are three kids in brightly colored raincoats, and there’s even an infant strapped to the bike’s smaller front seat. This, I gather, is an Amsterdam carpool.
“Sorry!” I yell out when the rider throws me an angry look, wondering if there’s a limit to how many times I can apologize.
When I make it to the parking garage beneath the building that’s just for bikes, I’m drenched and out of breath. I scrape my hair into a stubby ponytail and hit the buzzer for the third floor, squaring my shoulders and trying my best to project confidence.
The office is around the corner from Dam Square, the very center of the city, on a street parallel to international shops and tourist money grabs like Ripley’s Believe It or Not! I’ve been so focused on settling in, I haven’t had a chance to explore it much, but I vow to make some time this weekend. Everything is a clash of old and new: a KFC across from a World War II monument, an H you know how it goes. But not to worry! I’m here to orient you, and I think you’ll get on with everyone just beautifully. It’s a very international team.”
“I’m glad to hear that. It’s great to finally be here at, uh—CommerX.” My mouth trips over the name.
“Lovely.” Another broad smile, a flash of her teeth. Charlotte leads me deeper into the office, gesturing toward the rows of desks. Most are unoccupied. “We’re big fans of hot-desking here. Modern office and all of that. You can take a seat anywhere that’s free.”
I follow her as she points out the conference room, the tiny kitchen, the bathroom we share with the other startup on the floor. Apparently—and thankfully—I showed up a bit early, and once others start to arrive, Charlotte introduces me around. I meet Natalia from Turin. Mehmet from Istanbul. Beatriz from a small town just north of Lisbon.
“The C-suite are out of town trying to secure more funding,” Charlotte explains when we conclude the tour back at the row of desks. “You’ll adore them. They’re all brilliant, just brilliant—it’s no wonder people are throwing money at them!” There’s a slight strain in her voice, one I can almost convince myself I don’t notice. “We’re a small company, as you can see. Everyone pitches in. We actually thought we might start you doing something a little more administrative.”
“Sure.” I force my smile not to falter. “What did you have in mind?”
Being the receptionist, it turns out. Answering the phone that only rings once (a wrong number), working through some digital new-hire orientations, and making multiple coffee runs.
Midday, when there’s a rush to the conference room, I close my laptop and start to get up.
“No need,” Charlotte says breezily. “This is just a quick Zoom with the CEO.”
My mind drifts between rudimentary PowerPoint trainings about payroll and core principles. There’s a teeny window at the end of the hall allowing me a view of a Uniqlo. Clusters of tourists wait out the weather in line for Madame Tussauds. A tram glides by, but—as Charlotte took great joy in telling me—these windows are double-paned, nearly soundproof, so I don’t hear any of it. A pang of something I can’t name settles low in my stomach, and I try my best to force it away.
This is only day one. I couldn’t have expected to be thrown into meetings right away, and even if I’m not really longing to be in that conference room down the hall, I’m not sure what it is that I’d rather be doing. Given how my previous job ended, I’m half convinced I’m the problem. I could call it a mistake, falling for a coworker who was cheating on me, but my hand didn’t exactly slip when I forwarded all those emails he’d sent me before I caught him. The subtle ones. The over-the-top flowery ones I couldn’t read without cringing. The downright explicit ones, though there were only a couple of those. Spite may be petty, but it sure felt fantastic, and in those rage-warped moments, it seemed like the only way to regain some sense of control.
Until all he got was a slap on the wrist and I was the one kindly escorted from the building and asked, in the plainest of language, to turn in my badge and never set foot on the premises again.
“I don’t get it,” my friend Nora said when we met up for brunch a week before I left. Her toddler was screaming that he wanted more syrup while she rocked her newborn in a sling. “I thought you and Jace were talking about moving in together. And now you’re moving to the literal weed capital of the world instead?”
“Also windmills,” I said as her toddler flung a piece of waffle at my face. “And cheese.”
This did not help her understand. Maybe even I didn’t understand it, not really. I only knew that I felt behind , like everyone’s lives were moving in these exciting new directions and I was trapped in amber.
But so far I haven’t seen any windmills, and the only cheese I’ve had is the packaged kind, shredded and zipped in plastic.
Charlotte drops a stack of paperwork on my desk with an ominous thud. “If you have a moment, would you be able to organize these chronologically?” And because I know I should be grateful to be here, I tell her yes.
—
On Friday morning, I get out of bed and step right into a puddle of cold liquid. I grab for the switch next to my bed, the pale beam of light offering just enough visibility to shock me fully awake.
The entire apartment is flooded, and there’s really only one culprit.
“ Shit .” I yank my phone charger from where it hangs lifelessly from a power outlet. “Shit, shit, shit!”
Last night I ventured into the bedroom bathtub because it had been a long week and I wanted to unwind. I’d almost made peace with the dungeon—I bought a couple new lamps and a cheap blanket to drape over the couch, where I eat all my meals because I don’t trust the dining table. The water didn’t drain very fast, to the point where I wondered if it was even draining at all, but I figured I could just leave it and it would drain overnight.
In a way, I guess it did. Onto the floor.
I snatch up yesterday’s pair of soaked jeans, tossing them to safety before I beeline to the hall closet for some towels. The tub, still a quarter full, emits a defeated gurgle.
As quickly as I can, I stuff every article of clothing that isn’t wet into my suitcase and urge myself to breathe. Inhale for four seconds. Hold it for seven. Exhale for eight. Just like that therapist taught me years ago during those few weeks I completely disconnected from the rest of the world. Then I fire off a message to the rental agency Yesenia connected me with before she left CommerX for her exciting new opportunity.
Or maybe she realized she was on a sinking ship , whispers a tiny voice at the back of my mind.
Preparing to grovel, I throw on a hoodie and knock on my neighbor’s door.
“Hi—sorry—I know it’s early,” I manage when Iulia answers. “I hope I didn’t wake you up. My apartment flooded, and I’m guessing this isn’t what you imagined when you asked me if I needed help, but…I’m not sure what to do.”
She clutches a robe around her pajamas, sleepy eyes growing wide. “You poor thing! Of course, of course, whatever you need.” She opens the door, offers to hold on to my suitcase while I figure out my next steps. “I promise Amsterdam usually isn’t this hostile to newcomers.”
“Thank you so much. I owe you.” I say it about a million more times for good measure as we exchange numbers.
I jam everything I need for the day into my backpack, getting dressed in Iulia’s bathroom but unable to bring myself to ask if I can use her shower. The rental agency doesn’t open until nine, so I grab a latte and croissant from the café—not coffeeshop—across the street and browse apartment listings. Just in case.
They are not cheap.
In fact, after ten minutes, I’m convinced that basement apartment was a hidden gem of the Amsterdam real estate market.
I send a panicky text to Phoebe, waiting for a response before remembering she won’t be up for at least six more hours. I’m still not used to sharing only half the waking day with my sister, and I kind of hate it.
Bright side: after two weeks, the sky is no longer dark right when I wake up, even if today is another gray, rainy day. Like someone dipped a paintbrush in water and blotted out all the city’s charm—because I’m struggling to see any of it right now.
My rental agency doesn’t get back to me until after lunch.
“All our other properties are full at the moment,” the guy tells me on the phone. “We can send a plumber tomorrow morning, but it’s a very old building. You probably shouldn’t use the water until next week.”
“What do you recommend I use instead?” I ask, and maybe it’s the language barrier, but he just repeats his previous sentence, slower this time.
Toward the end of the day, after another meeting I’m not invited to, I approach Charlotte’s desk. I’ve had some shitty jobs—the time I dressed up as a Saint Bernard and passed out flyers for a mobile dog groomer for a summer during high school, the company that wouldn’t let any two team members take PTO at the same time—but surely there’s more to CommerX than this.
“I’m wondering if there’s any product work I could be doing,” I say. “Or if I could talk to the other designers on the team?”
They work remotely, Charlotte told me on Monday, and suddenly I’m not sure if that’s the only reason I haven’t met them yet.
Now I’m starting to wonder whether they exist at all.
“Next week,” she says with a tight smile. “I promise.”
As I’m leaving the office, Phoebe messages me with a few choice words and emojis for my landlord, asks if I’m free to talk during her lunch break. Ten p.m. in Amsterdam, and while that typically wouldn’t be my Friday night bedtime, this move might as well have aged me forty years.
It’s dark and damp, the resignation a heavy weight in my chest as I head out to my bike, where some asshole dumped a few empty beer bottles in the basket. Nope, I discover as I pick one up and liquid splashes across my sleeve—not empty.
Now Amsterdam’s architecture seems to mock me. The buildings are all the same height, and there’s nothing on the horizon. I’d gotten so used to the sight of the San Gabriel Mountains that I’m only just now realizing how much I took them for granted. Here the landscape feels sullen. Desolate. My fingers are frozen on the handlebars, cold biting at my face. If I were in LA, I’d be sitting in traffic right now, maybe on my way to dinner with Phoebe, or maybe I’d be back on the apps and waiting at a cocktail bar to meet a disappointing date. Even that sounds more appealing than biking home to a flooded apartment. I might be able to afford a night or two in a hotel—I just wish I could explain why that feels like giving up.
All I want right now is a sense of peace. Warmth and comfort and a garbage disposal, the things I left back in California because apparently the only solution to my problems was moving across the globe.
And it must be because I’m so deep in self-pity that I don’t notice the light has turned red.
Because this time, I smash right into an oncoming biker, sending both of us toppling to the ground.
Something hard juts into my hip and I scrape my knee on the way down, rain-slick clothes on damp pavement. The other guy shouts in rapid-fire Dutch that I don’t need to understand to know he’s pissed, but I do catch a word that sounds like tourist .
“I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry,” I say, squinting through wet hair the crash plastered to my face, trying to ignore the searing pain in my hip.
More Dutch, some swearing in English, and then: “Danika?”