Max + Martha

Amsterdam

A bus and train ride away from Vienna (seriously, this country hopping thing was just blowing my mind), Max and I were in Amsterdam. We felt like an old hand at his already, him hauling around all of our luggage as I navigated to the mid-range hotel that I found online. After accidentally staying in an old convent in Vienna (we found the catacombs while looking for the laundry, oh my god), I was much more confident in my booking skills.

Amsterdam was another completely different city from the last. Canals criscrossed the streets, trees boats lining the sides like it was cars parked on the street. I didn't expect the houses to be exactly as we saw them in photographs—tall and flat, with different shapes on top, and a hook to loop a rope around in case furniture needed to be brought up.

"How are we supposed to get tickets to the tram?" Max wondered, his eyebrows furrowed in legitimate concern as we stood on a station that was akin to a bus stop back home. I opened my mouth before I realized that I didn't actually have the answer to this question. I looked around with him, finding nothing resembling a ticket booth in the vicinity.

"We can't not pay for a tram again," I warned him. We'd done that enough in Vienna, mostly due to our own ignorance. The tram pulled up in front of us, and we started to board with the other passengers.

"Okay, but how—"

"Have your purchased your ticket?" The lovely lady behind the driver's seat asked us. "You can buy unlimited passes for the length of your stay here."

Efficient public transportation. God, I could get used to this.

We walked around Bloemenmarkt while munching on stroopwafels, thin circles of brown sugar waffles with hot caramel syrup in the middle. It was still warm as we ate, alternating between 'ow, shit' and 'mmm yes.' We passed stalls selling wooden shoes like in fairytales, packets of tulip seeds and much to our amusement, cannabis lollipops. The market was supposed to be popular because the stalls floated on the canal, but I hardly noticed as we walked.

"Oooh, cheese," I said, as we passed a basement staircase that proudly advertised the best cheese in Holland. "We have to remember to go back, for pasalubong."

"Oh god, pasalubong," Max repeated. "I almost forgot."

But the market was most famous for its flowers, and we were treated to them in abundance. Buckets of sunflowers lazily looked up at the sun, light blue hydrangeas puffed up as tourists passed. It was off-season for tulips, but I didn't mind so much when dried flowers were hanging from the ceiling as decor. Max and I made a game of pronouncing flower names, asking shop ladies in Max's limited German to see who got it right.

"Pioenroos," Max pronounced, near a bucket of bright magenta peonies, looking at a shop lady for confirmation, and she nodded. "That's so fucking adorable. Can I use that as a pet name for you? Mijn kleine pioenroos?"

I jumped back. The sound of the foreign language on his tongue made him sexy beyond words, and of course he and I were walking around a flower market again. It was a lot less noisy and much more colorful, but I recognized Max among the flowers. Our relationship had changed in a place like this.

"No, no," the shop lady disagreed. "Schatje. She is schatje."

"Schatje," Max let the name roll off his lips before he grinned at me.

***

I didn't really plan on doing anything after the floating flower market, so when we reached a busy pedestrian walk that bisected the canal, I didn't really know where to go next. I was too distracted trying to count the number of bicycles on the street (conclusion, there were too many to count) and admiring the way people zipped past in them like they were better than cars to notice that Max was actually waiting for something.