The Screen Between
A memoir essay on isolation, invisibility, and finding unexpected connection in a city that wasn't mine
In the summer of 2018, I lived in an illegal apartment in Amsterdam.
It was a social housing unit that the government designated for low-income families and immigrants, including refugees.
The official tenant of the apartment was Samir, a soft-spoken man from Syria. Said he’d gambled a bit too much. Owed some people some money. He took over the living room and offered us the tiny bedroom for 400 euros a month.
That price was unheard of for a 20-minute cycle ride from the city center. But of course, it came with one stipulation.
We couldn’t exist.
If someone caught Samir renting out social housing, he’d be in trouble. And by extension, we’d all be kicked out.
Sure, it was living “in black” but, I was ok with it as long as Samir wasn’t a creep. And he wasn’t. He worked from sun-up to sundown, and kept to himself.
So we followed the rules and made ourselves disappear inside that home.
It was 3 months of looking both ways before entering the building, tiptoeing to avoid loud footsteps, speaking in hushed voices, and never having guests over.
Yet, it became the place where I felt most seen. Too seen – as cramped as it was. Every morning, we’d squeeze past each other in the kitchen, three sleepy bodies trying to fill up on coffee, pour milk into cereal, or get into the spoon drawer. There was one wobbly stool at the table. We’d let Samir take it as we stood munching around him.
The shower was a bare room with nothing but a water spout and floor drain. The only way to access it was via our bedroom, so each morning, Samir would lightly knock and ask if he could come through to shower. I’d go into the kitchen as he’d mosey past in nothing but a towel wrapped around his waist. That was the extent of the privacy we could give each other.
Despite being “hidden”, I knew I existed in that flat. Because, rather ironically, the outside came to be where I felt completely erased.
⋆｡°✩
My boyfriend had decided to go to Amsterdam for work. He spoke Brazilian Portuguese, and his best friend, Damien, spoke Portuguese Portuguese.
Originally, Damien was from Moldova. He had a cousin with his same name, Little Damien, who had “connections” in Amsterdam. Both came from an affluent Moldovan family. They were always sweethearts to me. Said if I ever had a problem, they’d handle it. But what I really took away from that was how it’d be a bad idea to cross them.
Indeed, they were the masterminds behind our stint in Amsterdam. Somehow, they knew of Samir’s situation and got us the place. They also hooked up my boyfriend with a serving job at a Brazilian steakhouse near the Red Light District.
Later, he admitted the job was “in black.”
I was confused. He had a European passport. He could work anywhere in the EU. How could it be considered “in black?”
He explained, in broken English, that labor laws in the Netherlands restrict hours and salary based on work experience. The job was “in black” because he was paid more than the legal amount.
So apparently, his boss was just a super generous guy. So generous, he was willing to break the law to help his employees!
Yeah…
Should I have asked more questions? Eh, probably. But I didn’t care. I was way too busy romanticizing this whole ordeal in my mind. I had the chance to spend the summer in Amsterdam with my hot Brazilian boyfriend! It felt too good to be true!
Yeah. It felt too good to be true.
Because it was.
The thing is, I barely saw my boyfriend that summer.
His boss was so generous to give him zero time off. He was paid extra under the table because he constantly worked double shifts and overtime, well beyond the legal limit. And my boyfriend was ecstatic! Coming from Brazil, he’d never earned that much money before ever.
So when I’d ask him, “Meu amor, please can you take off an afternoon to go to the Van Gogh Museum with me?”
He’d always say, “No, linda, I can’t.”
Poof!
I didn't exist, he didn't exist, and we didn't exist.
It became my summer of existential loneliness.
⋆｡°✩
I spent most my days teaching English through a screen.
I’d sit cross-legged on the carpet, with my laptop resting on a stack of books—my makeshift workstation in the corner of our bedroom.
One time, I entered the virtual classroom to see an infant, buckled into a car seat.
Very well, then.
I proceeded to talk to myself about colors for 30 minutes, stuffing overinflated smiles through the screen. Meanwhile, the baby goo-goo’d, gah-gah’d, and grabbed at her toes.
That summed up the extent of my social life.
During every lesson, I felt like a living cartoon. Overanimated facial expressions, overpronounced syllables, hands gesturing wildly. All to receive the hollow echo of students parroting my words without understanding.
I’d watch for the clock to count down the final 10 seconds of class.
“Time to say bye-bye!” I’d gesture to my wrist for “time,” point to my mouth for “say,” and wave my hand for “bye-bye.”
The student would mimic me back exactly.
“Bye-bye, Teacher Sydney!”
My plastery smile would stay set until the screen turned black. Then I’d instantly let my face slacken. Exhale with a huff. Five minutes until the next.
But at least that screen was tangible.
⋆｡°✩
There was a screen between me and the people in Amsterdam, too.
In my free time, I’d ride my bicycle around the city. My favorite place was Vondelpark. It was my cinema. I’d lock up the bike, stroll the gardens, and people-watch for hours.
There they were, freckled and lanky, sprawled everywhere under the fleeting sun. Lying stomach-down on picnic blankets, shuffling playing cards, squinting at newspapers, passing around warm stroopwafels and champagne.
Long-legged couples, skipping arm in arm. Babies in strollers with sun veils pulled down. Endless groups of friends who looked my age, flirting, cackling, racing on their bikes, and ringing their bells to claim it all.
Amsterdam belonged to them.
I watched the cinematic display with a tight, sad smile, trying to imagine a world where Amsterdam belonged to me, too.
⋆｡°✩
One day in particular, I finished teaching early and decided to surprise my boyfriend at work. I stuffed some grapes and a cheap blanket into my bag, hoping he could take his lunch break to go for a quick picnic with me.
It was a Vondelpark fantasy I’d had for a while. Both of us sitting in the shade under my favorite willow tree, feeding each other grapes and finally feeding into that strangely untouchable Dutch summer ecosystem.
It’s all I could think about as I rode into the city toward the Red Light District. When the crowd got too thick, I hopped off my bike to walk the narrow passageways. On both sides of the street, lingerie-clad women stood behind locked glass doors, posing and motioning to both nobody and anybody who stopped to look just a millisecond longer.
I kept my eyes to the ground.
Maybe that’s what all of Amsterdam was for me, too. One big glass window I kept dancing behind, hoping someone would knock.
When I finally arrived, my boyfriend was happy to see me. There were several tables open, and I figured it would be the perfect time for a short picnic break. But, his boss said absolutely not.
“Why don’t you have some food here?” he suggested. “Damien and Little Damien are on their way. You can all eat together.”
“Sure.” I smiled, while groaning on the inside.
The Damien’s spoke English, but Portuguese was their preferred language. Whenever all of us got together, we’d start talking in English but before long, they’d switch over to Portuguese, surrendering me to silence. Sometimes they’d burst out laughing, and I’d grin and ask, “What?” Then they’d try to explain the joke in English. But it was never as funny in English. Never.
His boss sat me at the very front table, next to the wide open window. He placed a miniature smoking grill of steak in front of me.
“Sorry, but please don’t eat this. I want to entice rich tourists walking by with our picanha and you sitting here – such a beautiful lady! I’m happy to bring you some french fries though.”
So I sat there, on full display, inhaling meat smoke. Meanwhile my boyfriend stood outside the front door, menus in hand, heckling tourists to come in, and motioning toward me as bait.
I sat alone chomping on undercooked french fries, quietly enraged. After an hour, the Damiens still hadn’t showed up.
Screw this.
I jammed a massive bite of steak into my mouth, grabbed my picnic bag, and stood up.
My boyfriend rushed over, “Are you going? I’m sorry, I don’t know where they are. And listen, I’ll be home late again tonight.”
I couldn’t answer with my mouthful of steak – God, it was disgustingly chewy. I nodded, curtly.
“Linda – please don’t be like that. I really am sorry!”
I shrugged at him, still gnawing, then stomped out onto the busy street, nearly colliding with a cyclist.
“Hé! Kijk uit! Domme toerist!” He yelled over his shoulder at me.
I glared after him. I guess I am only visible when I’m in harms way. Or when my boyfriend’s boss wants to use me to get customers.
I walked my bike back through the Red Light District, and again, I saw the women behind glass – silent and smiling on display. These were women who chose the screen, relied on it, maybe even loved it.
What did they see when they looked at me? Another girl walking by like she belonged somewhere? Did it feel good to see the world stop and stare at them?
They had their glass and I had my window seat.
Either way, we were kept as part of the scenery, not the story.
⋆｡°✩
I huffed and puffed as I pedaled out of there, aggressively ringing my bike bell to part the crowd, to little avail. I finally reached Vondelpark. And of course, what awaited me was disgustingly sweet. Strangers everywhere were having the most jolly time together, per usual.
I slid into my front row seat, my favorite park bench, my eyes scavenging, circling.
I couldn’t stand it anymore. I had to know. Was it real? Was I real amidst it all? If I whistled into the screen, would anyone cock their ear?
From my perch, I noticed a group about my age. They were each holding the same novel. Squinting, I made out the title. Wait, it was in English! A book club?
I seized my chance and marched over toward them. Then I realized I was quite literally marching, so I slowed my stride. Brushed one hand through my hair, gave the back of my head a casual scratch. Glanced around at the trees, the sky, anywhere but these main protagonists ahead. A quick fake stretch. Then I was right in front of them.
“Excuse me? H-hi there! I couldn’t help but notice you’re reading a book together. Are you all in a book club?”
One girl met my eyes and nodded. Was that a smile, or was she pursing her lips? Or some signature Dutch expression of bemusement?
I rummaged through my bag for my Tupperware container as I continued.
“Well, I’m Sydney. I love reading! I’m here visiting for the summer, actually. Do you all meet here regularly?”
Side glances. Head nod girl — their Spokesperson, it seemed — said yes, we do.
Emergency protocol code F-O-O-D, engage. Offer food, Sydney. NOW.
My right hand finally gripped the Tupperware, and I nearly flung it out of my bag.
“Would you all like some grapes? They’re full of seeds — which, I’ll be honest, I’m not used to. Where I’m from, the grapes don’t have seeds. Or maybe we genetically modify them? Still, these are pretty “lekker”! Heh, that’s the only word I know in Dutch so far…”
They exchanged some words that sounded like goo-goo’s and gah-gah’s, and looked me over one last time before standing up, all at once, brushing the grass off their knees. Spokesperson muttered that it’s getting late, and they were just wrapping up for dinnertime.
I glanced at my watch. 4 o’clock.
I smiled like it didn’t matter.
She wished me a great summer, then sharply turned on her heels to follow the group sauntering away into the sunshine.
“Oh! Well, thanks. Nice to meet you anyway!” I called after them. But they couldn’t hear me beyond the screen, which had slammed back down with a crushing force.
As they walk away, one guy gives Spokesperson a micro-punch on the arm. They giggle and prance back through the veil that I could somehow never cross.
⋆｡°✩
When I returned to the apartment that night, I heard Samir’s voice coming from the back balcony. He was a quiet man, except when he spoke with his family in Syria. He was out there smoking hashish, and chattering away in Arabic.
I treaded lightly toward the balcony, and yanked on the glass door. It was always jammed, and only Samir knew the trick to open it.
He heard the racket, and gave me a quick, friendly nod. Then he hiked the phone between his shoulder and ear, and came over to heave open the door.
As he returned to his chair, he burst into a fit of laughter. I smiled, secondhand.
A neglected flower bush had grown up and over the balcony edge, keeping me hidden as long as I stayed low to the floor. I eased down next to him, tupperware in tow.
Silently, I offered it up to him and mouthed the words — please take some grapes. He raised his eyebrows, and popped one into his mouth while still jabbering away in his native tongue.
From the other side of the chair, he pulled over a tall glass bottle with no label. He motioned for me to take a swig, and I did. Sweet figs and bitter licorice with an afterburn. Not my favorite, but I smiled gratefully and held onto the bottle.
I tuned out Samir’s voice as my eyes glazed over. I was exhausted.
How could Amsterdam get away with this? Its beauty had seduced me, then it tortured me over and over again.
To be in such a pretty place, and feel so utterly alone. How could anyone else possibly understand that paradox of gratitude and bitterness? This loneliness was unique and unshared – I was convinced.
But as Samir said his final goodbye and hung up the phone, I noticed his face droop and slacken, just like mine.
I opened my mouth to speak, to ask if everything was okay, but I let out a sigh instead. I already knew. So I slid the tupperware across the floor toward him and took another sip from the bottle.
And for a moment, my belly felt warm. Around us, the evening cicadas hummed and whirred, while we sank into our own, different worlds.
Both Samir and I shared the grapes and the bitter seeds.
⋆｡°✩⋆｡°✩⋆｡°✩⋆｡°✩⋆｡°✩⋆｡°✩
NOTES
Thanks for reading!
This piece started as a silly examination of how I find eavesdropping to be an essential social function. While abroad, I used to believe that not being able to eavesdrop was a massive barrier to feeling truly a part of the world around me.
This phenomenon has been top of mind for me lately. Because now that I’m freshly back to the United States, being able to eavesdrop again has indeed reignited neural networks in my brain. I suppose that on some primal level, I feel back with my tribe. Yet, despite understanding people around me based on language, can we ever understand each other based on life experiences?
Feeling like an outsider is a universal experience.
My trusted writer friend read my first draft and urged me to elaborate more on the story. So I did. He read draft two, which I thought was perfect. But alas, he told me to add more. So I did. Until it became what it is now. Imperfect but true.
Don’t you love the creative process and all its loop de loops and snake pits and hidden trap doors and hedge mazes? I pledge allegiance to navigating it all.
Thanks again for being here chickos and chicklettes,
