One of my college roommates had studied abroad in England, Italy, India, and Thailand. He’d traveled much of Europe and had no shortage of suggestions for me. Among them, he insisted I attend a “show” while in Amsterdam.
I felt hesitant. This sort of thing wasn’t “me,” but this whole trip was about me trying “something new.”
So, on his urging, I bought a ticket and stepped inside.
The theater was all velvet, shadows, and crimson lights. Beyond the entrance and through curtains lay a dark theater with a modest crowd and a stage already mid-performance.
I skipped the bar and found a seat near the back.
What followed was part cabaret, part circus, and part something else entirely. A surreal blend of acrobatics, nudity, risqué comedy, and provocative performances played out before me. The vibe felt more bizarre than enticing. I watched with the kind of strange detachment one feels at a museum exhibit that confused more than it informed.
Near the end of the show, a performer invited me onstage to dance with her.
She looked confident, otherworldly even, from a distance under the spotlights. Up close, though, she seemed smaller, almost fragile.
When the music started, she leaned in with a whisper that left no room for misunderstanding.
“Don’t you dare touch me!”
Then she guided my hands to her shoulders and began a simple routine. I froze. My awkwardness showed, and she gave up, sending me back to my seat with what I hoped spared me too much visible pity.
Then I slinked offstage, sitting again in the same seat as I had before, among the hundred empty chairs—its fleeting familiarity a small cure my embarrassment.
~
I noticed it then—the show had looped, jokes cycled, movements repeated.
I’d stayed too long, and I knew it.