1: The People in the City
Nieuwe Doelenstraat, Amsterdam, The Netherlands
22, December 2014. 10:22 AM
Aspen Klaremonte is a busy woman or a business woman; whichever you prefer.
She marches quickly in the thin Dutch street. Her heels click against the asphalt but the sharp sounds are inaudible in comparison to chaotic noise that sounds all around her.
It is nearly Christmas and everyone is bustling about, trying to get the items on their checklist ticked off before Christmas Eve. Meanwhile, Aspen struggles against the tide of people, trying to hail a cab to get to Amsterdam Airport Schipol
As she walks, she bumps into something. It is shorter than her. She looks down and sees a boy who looks no older than twelve. He has his arms wrapped around his body, which is only clothed by a sweater.
The boy takes one look at Aspen’s professional demeanor before he starts muttering repeated apologies. Aspen cocks her head thoughtfully and studies him. His skin is pale and bloodless; he almost looks like an ice statue. His lips have a bluish tinge which doesn’t help differentiate him from the aforementioned statues.
Aspen Klaremonte is tough and serious but she is not heartless. She unbuttons her coat and shrugs it off her shoulders, trying to ignore the cold blast of air that attacks her skin.
The boy had halts in his speech and his brows knit in confusion. She smiles kindly at him [his frown is adorable and makes her feel quite nostalgic about her brother] and places her coat on his shoulders instead. The perplexed frown hasn’t disappeared but a grateful smile graces his face.
“Dank je,” he tells her hesitantly, almost as if he is terrified by her.
She recognizes the fragment of foreign language and laughs good-naturedly then waves his thanks away. “It’s fine,” she says.
Well, this could my good deed for the holidays, she thinks as she wraps her scarf tighter around herself and walks further up the street.
She raises her hand up to signal for a cab. Finally after a few more minutes and an authentic New York City whistle, she manages to catch a small yellow car.
Aspen slides in the backseat after she puts her bag in the back, thankful for the heating inside the car. The air outside is cold and stings her tanned skin through her jacket.
“Airport, please,” she politely tells the man in the driver’s seat. “And be quick, will you?” She is in no particular hurry. She still has a couple hours until her flight takes off. Nevertheless, no matter what it is, she loves being assured by the fact that she is there early. There is no way she would be left behind.
The man grunts a heavily accented “Okay,” before he steps on the pedal and resumes driving.
As the man maneuvers through the thin streets, Aspen stares through the window, taking her last glances of Amsterdam. She likes it here. She likes the small building with the antique architecture that differs so much to New York. She likes the people and bikes and the bridges, all somewhat peacefully co-existing. They all seem peaceful enough to her, save for the few squabbles that formed between angry little men who had unintentionally caused each other unnecessary trouble while they both rushed to work in the dimly lit mornings. She likes the little adorable boy she just met with his repetitive whispering tones.
Unfortunately for Aspen, her schedule is booked up for the next few months.
The man had speeds up as the road gets wider and the fairly distinguishable structures turn into unrecognizable blurs. The cold fog on her window creates an old photograph effect which she squints through. The edifices eventually fade into mesmerizing greens which she had probably slept through when she had gone into the city. [It was a 2 A.M. flight and her large coffee hadn’t given her enough caffeine to keep her awake.]
At one point, the green that surrounded her abruptly disintegrates into a cleared space, except for the large planes that stand there. The man slows down as they neared the gates.
She takes a glance at little numbers that kept accumulating throughout the ride. Aspen hands him the bills and refuses the change.
“Dank je,” she tells the man as she closes the door. She gets her bag and runs in, eager for the warmth inside.
Dank je = Thank you
Yes yes yes, this is being done, I'm putting this up and I'm scared and freaking out but here it is! I hope you guys enjoy this!
Also, dedicated to PandaGuts for being a total sweetheart! Thank you!
- Tasneem
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