Dutch Treat

People are naked in Amsterdam. They actually take off their clothes and walk around naked.

I discovered this when I met up with my Israeli friend, Etai, for lunch. He promised to make a special meal from his home, one that used pine nuts and lemon zests and cabbage, and to tell the truth, I was a little nervous. My taste buds grew up on pot roast, grits, romaine lettuce and fat-free Ranch dressing. I arrived at Etai's red-carpeted apartment and took off my shoes for a tour of his anti-squat.

"It's legal for people to take over a building here if it's been empty for a year," he explained. "Once that happens, you just have to enter, put a bed, desk and table in there, and tell the police you're squatting the place. It's just too much money to actually rent a place in this city."

I knew from experience how expensive the leaning houses of Amsterdam could be: I had been living in a fifth-floor attic space the size of my Nashville bathroom, although my Amsterdam home had no toilet, shower, sink or electricity. All those coveted household items were located a mere four floors down and through a friend's front door.

"Then there are the anti-squats, apartments rented out for cheap by the owner because the building has reached the year's term for being empty," he said. "They rent it to students or illegals because the owner doesn't want squatters to move in and take it over."

I struggled to get my mind around this as Etai began to serve the meal. The plates were typical Dutch plates of little blue children dancing around a windmill. The food, an old family recipe, was explosive with taste. Nothing against my parents, but where did they hide the balsamic vinegar for all those years? Did they deliberately forget to include tahini in their salads? Etai brought out clementines, pushed them toward my nose with excited eyes and told me to smell, smell. In Israel, his family's house has orchards of these tiny orange fruits just outside their windows. He closed his eyes with memory, and I tried to recall what my own home smells like. The Burger King is not far, and we have cats.

The air is usually cold along the Amsterdam canals. I made this comment to Etai, and he suggested we go to a sauna to warm our bones. I'd been to the steam rooms in Holiday Inns, tiny rooms with hot stones and wooden ceilings, bathing suits hanging off people as the elastic expanded from the heat. When we arrived at this locker room, though, things looked a bit different: everyone was naked. And these people weren't babies, tribal members, lingerie models or some other form of human that's allowed to be naked. I looked at Etai, who was disrobing alongside a middle-aged woman with a beer gut. I told him I would meet him inside. He shrugged and walked off, backside completely exposed and in direct light.

I stalled, opened and closed my locker several times, and thought of all the surprising things in Amsterdam. There are people who smoke marijuana in restaurants, on the train, during lectures. Take a deep breath on certain streets, and American police would have enough ammunition to arrest you for being under the influence. In the red light district, which I pass on my home from gay cafes and punk rock karaoke contests, women stand with tiny metallic pinwheels covering their privates, wink at Japanese tourists who gawk in the street.

I opened and closed the locker one more time, wrapped the towel a little tighter and headed off.

Inside the sauna, the light was less harsh, and there were fountains flowing in the background. The paintings were of Greek gods, and palm fronds covered the corners. People's heads were bowed, almost in prayer, except the Dutch aren't known for their religion. I skimmed the crowd, squinted across the room to make sure people were honestly without clothes, but then realized I might be seen gawking at the chests and below-stomach areas. Timidly, I took off my towel and held my breath for the laughter, but not one head raised.

Three hours later, I was splayed out on a bench, breathing deeply and imagining myself as a statue. There were children playing in the footbath and a group of women sitting to my left, talking loudly in Dutch about American politics. I have grown used to people discussing my country like a piece of meat. Everyone has an opinion and all of them are well informed, albeit from the British journalists who make fun of the "Yanks" and our accents. I half listened to the women's dialogue of harsh throat sounds and clucking tongues, and tried to remember what it was my old police buddies always used to say whenever they heard me criticizing our country.

The bathhouse was closing, so Etai and I found each other, paid our Euros to the woman at the front and began to unlock our bikes. Outside, we met a British and a Spanish friend, both already drunk and starting the night off with a comment about the latest Bush-related antic. I groaned but accepted their invitation to join them for dinner at a nearby Ethiopian restaurant. Once seated, we all ordered different meals, though each of the dishes came together on one large pancake. I tried them all, dipping my piece of pancake into the varied herbs and spices, scooping up pork marinated in yogurt sauce. Amid all this culture, the smell of the roasted meat reminded me of my home in winter—so much so that the discussion about the pros and cons of my country became a distant hum, and I had to blame my watering eyes on the spicy food.