I Amsterdam (Completed)

Chapter 7.4 - Emma

A heavy shower of rain bombarded us the moment we exited the museum, but I didn't allow any time to be wasted. While the world cried, Brandon and I sat together inside the museum, by a window that provided a clear view for me to add two new sketches of Amsterdam. One was of the Van Gogh museum itself, and the other was the "I Amsterdam" sign. Soon enough, just as I finished up the last of my second sketch, the shower lightened to a soft sprinkle that wasn't heavy enough to keep us inside, so it was then Brandon and I decided to leave.

Bubbles of water settled in our hair as we made our way down the streets of Amsterdam, at first following the canal, but after a few corners, we lost sight of the water, and walked down a street that looked more New Yorkan in the 1800's than anything else. If it traveled back in time just a couple hundred years, I could easily imagine it with the old black cars and loud engines, the roads lined with railroad tracks, and the bearded men with top hats and canes even when they didn't need them. And it wasn't the kind of large street crowded with tourists - it was like a secluded New York neighborhood with homes that decorated their entrances with flower pots.

Another corner later, and we arrived at a market lining the sides of a long road, brimming with people as they bustled up and down with food and products in their hands and mouths. Booths were either there in a truck, or were set up under a variety of colorful neon coverings, selling items from food to flowers. Behind them were shops engraved into the buildings.

"Take your pick. There should be plenty of choices," spoke Brandon.

I glanced around to get an observation of what there was to choose from. "I don't recognize a lot of these foods," I said. "What do you recommend?"

He blew a whistle. "Ooh, that's a tough one," he admitted. He wrapped his arm around my shoulders and guided me down the street. "Let's try them all."

Brandon first led us to a booth quite larger than the others. It had a dark red tone to it, and seemed to sell something that looked like a cross between a pancake and a biscuit. Whatever it was, its sweet aroma appealed to me, and my mouth began watering.

"What are those?" I asked.

"Stroopwafels," he answered. "They're a Dutch delicacy. If you've ever been to Amsterdam and never tried a stroopwafel, then it's like you've never been to Amsterdam at all." He called over the seller. "One stroopwafel please."

"Large or small?" the seller asked in a friendly voice. She was young, with sandy brown hair and a small, skinny face that ended with a defined chin.

"Uh, large. And could you warm it up too, please?" He turned to me. "Warmed stroopwafels are the best."

The seller nodded. "Of course." After a minute, she handed Brandon a white paper bag with the stroopwafel inside, and in return, Brandon gave her a few euros. "Enjoy," she smiled.

Brandon gave me the bag, and I took out the stroopwafel, ravenously digging in. The waffle warmed my hands within my grip, and I was struck by the sweet taste of caramel.

"Like it?" Brandon asked.

I nodded vigorously. "Dang, it's so good." I took another bite.

"When is it not?" he replied. "But wait till you try the poffertjes." He led me down the road to another stand.

"Do you come here often?" I asked, noticing how Brandon led the way to each booth confidently and without hesitation.

"Yeah. This place has everything I need when I'm hungry. I used to come here to hang out with my friends too." He tried to hide his faded smile.

"Used to?" I questioned.

"Yeah," he said, not turning to look at me. "Before, you know, my parents got so protective."

I decided to not push him for more.

We arrived at another stand, with a bright red tone of its covering highlighting the background. Another lady, slightly chubby with curly blond hair netted in a bun, was pouring creamy liquid into a baking tray filled with about twenty miniature holes. The flames under it made the liquid sizzle, and the lady would occasionally flip the little pancakes she seemed to be making.

"Those are poffertjes," Brandon gestured. "My favorite dish in the whole world."

"They're even better than the stroopwafels?" I challenged.

"Even better than the stroopwafels," he assured. He approached the lady as she flipped the poffertjes, and she looked up. The moment she saw Brandon, all her focus was put on him, and her product faded into the background.

"Hallo, Brandon!" was all I understood, and the lady continued her words in Dutch. Brandon replied in the same language.

It was then I realized that I had never heard him speak Dutch before - only English. But even though his words in English flowed so well, him speaking Dutch was like a waterfall. It was smooth to start with, but rocky when it hits the bottom, droplets sprinkling gently into the air before gravity pulls it back down.

Their conversation was short - a few sentences between the two - but its lack in length was made up for in genuinity. I took a few steps back to give them some space, but before long, Brandon flicked his attention to me, his smile lighting up the street. He gestured for me to come forward. I did. "Two servings of poffertjes please, Luce," he told the lady.

Luce gave me a studying look, as if I was some specimen under a microscope. "Got it," she replied, getting to work on another tray by pouring the liquid once more. I stood in my place to watch the process.

As Luce began flipping the poffertjes, she stole a few seconds to look up at me, her eyes thinking. She then spoke in Dutch.

Brandon dived into the conversation. "Oh, she speaks English. We just met a few days ago."

"Oh," Luce said, nodding her head. "Are you showing her around?"

"Yeah," Brandon replied. "She just moved in next door with her family."

I winced at the lies.

Luce nodded her head curtly, vibrating a mother type feeling that told me that she was looking out for Brandon.

"It's nice to meet you. I'm Emma," I decided to pipe in.

Luce smiled, but I could tell it was fake. "It's nice to meet you too, Emma."

We got our poffertjes soon enough. They came on a little paper bowl that fit perfectly within my palm. The poffertjes themselves were sprinkled with a white powder, and stabbed with a toothpick, upon which had the Netherlands flag on.

I could tell Brandon was eager to dig into his dish, but first looked to me expectantly. "Try it," he urged.

I took the toothpick and stabbed a poffertje, carefully placing it into my wide open mouth. My taste buds exploded in flavor, and before I even finished chewing, I grabbed another and stuffed it into my mouth. "Oh my God," I said through a full mouth. I looked up and saw Brandon already helping himself to his own poffertjes.

"I know, right?" he agreed. "Best in the world."

A minute hadn't even passed before we were both done.

"Do you want to get more?" I asked Brandon.

He laughed. "Look, I know they're good, but you need to save your stomach for everything else this market has to offer. Maybe after we're done."

I grinned. "All right. What's next?"

He took my hand in his. "Bitterballen."