A Seattleite in Amsterdam

Empty table, two chairs, Cafe Sarphaat terrace, reasonably sunny autumn Amsterdam day. Score! I stake my claim, text Devon to meet me downstairs and enjoy the Sunday afternoon with me and a couple of Leffes.

Two dudes sit at the next table over and the one closest to me tosses his jacket on the chair-that-would-be-Devon’s. Invasion of the code! Did he ask if someone was sitting there? No. Did he flippantly assume I was there alone without bothering to ask? Yes.

I stew on this for ten minutes all the while thinking up increasingly implausible scenarios of the extent of the infiltrator’s sins. I quickly down my first Leffe. I’m still side eyeing the jacket. Who the hell does this asshole think he is?

Devon emerges from our doorway and is crossing the street to Sarphaat. My head swivels back to the Philistine and his jacket. Devon is a few steps away. My hand reaches for the jacket, ready to shove it at the asshole in contempt.

“Oh, let me grab that,” says the gauche Dutch dude, flashing my wife and I a sincere smile without a hint of malice. “Cheers!”