Page 90 of The Hundred Loves of Juliet
Soon after we drive out of the airport, the landscape turns vibrant, brightly hued fields of tulips as far as I can see. This is the Netherlands as I envisioned, and it’s hard to believe I’m finally here.
“You are here at a very exciting time,” Lars says. “Koningsdag begins soon. The streets fill with revelers, and all of Amsterdam celebrates day and night. Do you have some orange clothes? It is the color of the Netherlands, and we have a bit oforanjegekte—orange madness—during Koningsdag.”
I’ve read up on how everyone spills into the streets and canals, wearing orange. “No, but I thought Sebastien and I could do some shopping for Koningsdag wear.”
“A brilliant idea,” Lars says. “I will write down the address of my wife’s favorite boutique for you.”
As we drive, I gawk at the city. It’s even more beautiful than I’ve seen in pictures. Tall, narrow houses press against one another, blue skies overhead, serene canals at their doorsteps. Houseboats float in the water, and young couples stroll hand in hand over old stone bridges.
Bicycles zip by in orderly fashion, some with large, open-air wooden boxes in front of them containing smiling children who wave to us. Being in a car, we’re far outnumbered by the bicycles; it’s a fascinating thing to watch. After all, I’m from Los Angeles, where you can’t even run errands without a car.
Too soon, our driving tour ends. Lars parks, opens our doors,and begins to unload our baggage from the trunk. I step onto the sidewalk but turn around confused. There’s no hotel anywhere.
Sebastien points me toward the canal instead.
It takes a moment for me to understand.
“You mean…”
“Yes.”
In front of us is a gorgeous, modern houseboat with matte aluminum sides, large windows overlooking the water, and a deck that wraps all along the outside.
I squeal, even though it sounds ridiculous. “In college, my friend Monica and I talked about running away to Amsterdam and living on a houseboat for a while.”
But instead of mirroring my delight, Sebastien looks pained for a moment, looking through me and through the boat, as if there’s a window into something in the past. He does this sometimes; I know our history haunts him, even though he tries not to let it show. But sometimes when we’re sleeping, he wakes up in a panic, and it’s only when he realizes I’m still there beside him that he calms down, falling back asleep wrapped in my arms.
He never cries, though. In all the time we’ve spent talking about past Romeos and Juliets, and all the time I’ve cried over the journals, Sebastien has never shed a single tear. I wonder if he’s lived through so much loss that he has no tears left.
“Hey.” I touch his shoulder so as not to startle him. “You okay? Come back to me.”
Sebastien blinks. “Oh. Sorry.”
“Past Me wanted to live on a houseboat, didn’t she?” I say gently. “What was my name then?”
“It was Kitri,” he whispers. “She loved sketching the ships in the quay and dreamed of a boat of her own someday.”
“We’ll do it for her, then,” I say, taking Sebastien’s hand and leading him slowly down the dock.
But he shakes his head. “Kitri had her time,” he says. “Now you’re Helene, and we’ll make new memories.” He kisses me, then smiles, only a tint of sadness lingering.
I love this man and the gargantuan effort he makes, despite his own suffering, to make me happy.
—
It’s impossible not to becheerful among the tree-lined streets and tranquil waterways, and all traces of Sebastien’s earlier melancholy vanish like clouds in the clear blue sky as we spend the afternoon exploring. Colorful awnings and wooden signs grace many of the narrow lanes, and tulips seem to bloom off every balcony. Everywhere we go, bicycle bells ping merrily as people pedal by, and little birds chirp as if providing a quaint European soundtrack for our adventure.
Sebastien and I buypoffertjes—little puffy pancakes sprinkled in powdered sugar—from a street vendor, and stroll along the canals and bridges. At the boutique Lars recommended, we pick out orange shirts for Koningsdag, and I also get a beautiful handwoven basket that will be useful for the springtime farmers markets. While Katy and I had originally planned to spend only two weeks in Europe, Sebastien and I don’t have any reason to rush back to the States. I can revise my manuscript from anywhere, and crab season is over. So I can already imagine myself spending mornings meandering through stalls full of freshly cut flowers, displays of bright red cherries and blushing apricots, and green mountains of asparagus and artichokes, piling whatever I want into my new basket. Everything about being here feels lighter and brighter than Old Helene’s life before.
“How about we have a picnic on the deck of our boat tonight?” Sebastien asks.
“Oooh, Gouda and bread and wine? Yes, please.”
The sun is moving lower in the sky, and as the workday ends, the streets around us again fill with bicycles, commuters heading home after work.
We take our time returning to the houseboat. Unlike at home, specialty shops are still common here, and I’m captivated by it. Buying Gouda is a conversation with the cheesemonger, not a chilly grab-and-go in a sterile megamarket refrigerator case. Wine is a long discussion about the terroir of different vineyards. While Sebastien talks to each purveyor, I take pictures to send to Momand Katy—giant wheels of cheese, racks of artisan bread displayed in baskets, walls of wine lovingly curated by sommeliers.
Back outside, we walk past a coffee shop. Suddenly a wave of nausea roils through me. Oh god, what is that smell? I clutch my stomach and sprint past the storefront, not stopping until the next street corner, where I double over, dry heaving.
