Bridget Jones Lives on (in Amsterdam)...

I will blog more about my experiences in Amsterdam, from the heart-wrenching and anxious moments of being miles and miles away from Amelia, to the sweet "just you and me" moments with Joe, to the euphoric experience of riding a bike, solo, along the beautiful canals...

For now, though, let me introduce Bridget Jones. First, let me begin by a short story. This past spring, I was waiting in line for Barbara Walters' to sign her autobiography. Being the first in line (yes, I admit it), I had lots of time to kill. A young woman was behind me and she began telling me about herself. "I am kind of like Bridget Jones", she said, "I can't help it." I laughed, and shared that I, too, find myself in these embarrassing predictaments often. Moments later, Barbara signed my book, and hers, and I turned around to say goodbye to her. That's when I saw her flat out, on the floor, with her belongings surrounding her. She had fallen. On her face. And her cheeks were pink with embarrassment. "Goodbye, Bridget Jones." I said. And we both laughed.

And now to my moment. Joe left Amsterdam on Sunday morning to travel to Germany for business. I had 30 hours left in a foreign country. Alone. When was the last time I was truly alone? What would I do with myself? So, I determined to make it a wonderfully hedonistic experience (no, not as in the red light district, thank you.) Instead, I rented an old-fashioned bicycle and road along the canal way with the locals. I shopped a little. I caught part of a mass in an old church. I went to the grocery store and bought cheese, pastry and apples. I went to a chocolate store and bought a few chocolates. I went back to my room and filled the tub with bubbles, filled myself a glass of wine, and put some chocolates, apples and cheese on a plate. I then took the flowers that my mother-in-law had awaiting us (our anniversary) and added them to the tub. Indulgence. I laid in the tub, sipped my wine, nibbled a chocolate, ate some cheese, and dipped my toes in and out of this huge tub. I mused about my experience, reminding myself to enjoy this moment. Take it in. Savor it. I decided that I would spend the rest of my euros on a special dinner. Heck, I will treat myself!

As I stepped out of the tub, I went to reach for my towel. And that's when I saw it. My hands were stained a deep, bright yellow. I rubbed and rubbed, but it did not lessen. I then looked down at my chest, and arms. Bright yellow. I turned to the mirror. My face, my nose, bright yellow. Oh my. The flowers. The pollen. I turned to the tub, and, to my horror, it, too, appeared to be stained that dark yellow color. I quickly grabbed a towel and started to scrub. To no avail. I took a deep breath, sat down, and tried to think of my options. I could go to the grocery store and buy cleaner and sponge. Sh*t. It was nearly 5pm. It might be closed.

So, I quickly dressed myself, wiped as much of the yellow off of my face as possible, and stepped out of the room. I approached the concierge, lowered my voice, and confessed, "excuse me, but I have something embarrassing to share. I put flowers in the tub, and, you see, they seemed to stain it. Do you have cleaning supplies that I can use?" She looked at me, confused, and said, "we have a cleaning service, you know..." "Yes, I said, but it's.... bad." "I'll send someone right over."

I went back to my room and waited. A woman showed up and I warned her. We went to the tub, and she began to scrub. I offered to help. She shooed me out of the bathroom. I came back in, and she told me that it was not coming off. She was sweating. I asked again if I could help. She refused. I reached into my pocked, took out the euros that I had saved for dinner, and handed them to her. Take-out pizza would have to do.

She did, eventually, get the pollen off the tub. And my skin did, eventually, return to its pinker pigment. And, as I left the hotel the next morning, I passed her in the hall. And we exchanged a glance, and a smirk. We both seemed to think it was funny.