It is nine years ago. I have only been in the Netherlands for two months. I am standing at the bar waiting to order drinks as the club’s music rings in my ears and my foot taps to its beat. My friends are somewhere on the dance floor.
I wait for the barman.
Suddenly the attractive young girl waiting next to me turns her attention in my direction. She smiles and flicks her hair. I smile back but don’t flick my hair since that would look silly (short hair plus being a man). She says something to me in Dutch which I do not understand. Never the less it sounds evocative. Using my English charm I reply with the kind of smooth romantic line that would make any girls heart melt.
“Sorry. I don’t speak Dutch. What did you say?”
Amazingly this line does not work. The smile fades to be replaced with a puzzled look which in itself only lasts about half a second before she picks up her drinks and leaves without another word.
I will never know if she was saying, “Your place or mine, handsome,” or, “Excuse me. You’re standing on my foot.”