Ode to Amsterdamse meisjes | Girl from the syrup waffle store

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Ha girl from the syrup waffle store,

I don't know you, and I don't know your name, but I heard that the store where you work puts only young women behind the counter. The reason: no one can get mad at girls. If there was a man behind the counter, or a young boy in a polo shirt, the customer might get cranky: thirteen euros for a syrup waffle? But with girls like you that doesn't happen. Your innocence, your smile, everyone understands that you can't help it. That you didn't think it up either.

I'm going to be honest, I too don't think the product you sell is worth the money. Too big, too sweet, topped with white chocolate: that's not how stroopwafels are meant to be. But I heard that standing in the store is not a punishment for you. That you earn sixteen euros an hour, plus bonuses when you have to step in unexpectedly. The latter is necessary when a line suddenly forms at the door. They are unpredictable - customers, queues - nice weather is a parameter, but too hot means people prefer ice cream. 

Vacation time is a condition, vacation time in England, vacation time in Italy, furthermore it's algorithms that determine the length of the queue, the number of videos that have been made about your product in the past few days. Once there is such a queue, I heard, the syrup waffle store has a turnover of three thousand euros, and your raid bonus can sometimes amount to a hundred euros. Because you, young Amsterdam girls, are needed. 

Now I run the risk of sounding very old. But at your age, I too had my first side job. I was pouring wine on the roof terrace of Nemo. In retrospect, I wonder if I too was hired because I was a young girl. Our patatas bravas were on the expensive side and the portions were meager, but, suspiciously, I never heard anyone complain. What would that girl on the roof of Nemo tell you, girl in the syrup waffle store, about our city?

Tips. If you want to be alone, go to the fly forest on Tuesday mornings. Soapy water in the fountain on the Weteringscircuit: small effort, big effect. Scariest station: Muiderpoort station. Scariest tunnels: the one at Rembrandpark and the one at Transformatorweg (draw). At the City cinema, they only check your ticket at the entrance, which means you can go to the movie all day with one ticket; if you want to get in for free at Artis, say you're coming for a job interview in the buffet restaurant.  

Those things haven't changed, I believe, only that fountain isn't there anymore. And yet everything was different, no TikTok queues, no algorithms, syrup waffles we bought at the market. I was young and therefore unhappy alone, while I had hardly experienced anything: what was it like for you, Amsterdam girl behind the counter, when the city suddenly shut down four years ago? 

You must have been in the first class of high school, at most in second, followed your classes from bed. No school, no new girlfriends, no parties. The years after that you saw them passing by, maybe you joined them yourself: women's march, Black Lives Matter, genocide, Greta Thunberg, big crowds, across town, you were supposed to think about the world, have something to say about everything - I heard that a lot of girls like you prefer to swallow ecstasy over drinking alcohol on weekends. After all, a pill costs only six euros, as much as one can of Seltzer.  

Girl from the syrup waffle store, they want you in the higher hospitality industry. Who knows, maybe I'll run into you there in two years, a downtown restaurant, where customers mistake your arrogance for fatigue. Or vice versa, attributing your arrogance to your busy days, that, when you have every reason to be arrogant. Because there you are, full of bravado, just as I too weighed a pin machine in my hand twenty-four years ago. But, unlike then, now there is little reason to assume that it will all get better from now on. Or prettier, or richer, or fairer. The city is at your feet but the world weighs on your shoulders, so no, I do not envy you. I do, however, have endless admiration for you.  
Because you do it anyway.  

Every day you dip thin wafers in pink chocolate, sprinkle cookies with Smarties and sprinkles, sweet baking smell in your loosely tucked hair, hardened caramel under your nails - sometimes, when you think no one is looking, you sneak a mini marshmallow into your mouth. 
No, I don't know you, and I don't know your name, but I believe the people who hired you weren't far off. Thirteen euros for a treacle waffle is madness. Still, I get excited every time I see you busy, Amsterdam girl of sixteen.  
Amsterdam of later.  

All my love, 
Hanna