It was one of my final days in Amsterdam and I was out and about, taking a last chance to soak in the scene and maybe do a bit of shopping. It’s been almost 15 years ago now, but I remember the little sweater shop like it was yesterday. I found it near the City Center, not far from the Dam, and I say it was a “little sweater shop” because that’s exactly what it was; a little bitty, one room wooden building, charmingly quaint and perfectly Dutch. And they sold sweaters. Lots and lots of sweaters. Every single wall had shelving, from the floor to the ceiling, which seemed to be bursting with sweaters. In a corner sat a small wooden folding ladder used to reach the higher shelves. Most of the little free space in the rooms center was taken up by a brace of large wooden tables, covered with stacks of neatly folded sweaters, that made it somewhat difficult to move about. The place had the feel of a book dealers shop or maybe an old haberdashery and I knew that I liked it straight away. Then I saw the girl. She had curly blond hair, a rosy complexion, and a face as friendly as it was beautiful. And I’ve seen few more beautiful. When she smiled at me I was afraid that I wouldn’t be able to speak. But that crisis was adverted because, before I had a chance, she began to talk. In Dutch. I was sure she was saying hello and welcoming me to her lovely little sweater shop so I listened with a smile and, in English, answered, “I’m sorry, but I don’t speak Dutch.” With genuine surprise and in that perfect Dutch accented English she said, “You are not Dutch? I thought for sure you were Dutch…” And I remember thinking, ‘Oh yes, I am definitely buying a sweater today.’ And I did. But not until she had shown me dozens, grabbing them off the tables and from the shelves. She even used the ladder. Several times. She seemed to know every sweater in the shop and exactly where they were, “No, I have a better one for you” she said, after holding a cardigan up to my chest. We chatted while we shopped, her asking me about Kansas City, about my trip, and what I thought of Holland. Me, answering her questions and wondering if she could hear my heart beat as she brushed by me, off to find a more perfect sweater. And she found it, too. An ideal, cable nit creation that, despite obvious signs of much wear, I still cherish today. I thanked her for her help and she smiled her perfect smile as we said goodbye and, as I left that perfect little sweater shop, I remember thinking about what American WWII paratroopers had always said about why they loved the Dutch, “Everybody’s nice, they all speak English, and the girls are all pretty...” Holland beat Mexico this afternoon, in a thrilling World Cup match, and during the game I thought about that little sweater shop with the pretty girl, and how she once sold me a sweater and wrapped it in a memory.
Posted on: Sun, 29 Jun 2014 20:02:55 +0000
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