We rode the tram for three stops, me leaning over Gus so we could look out the window together.
Augustus pointed up at the trees and asked, “Do you see that?” I did.
There were elm trees everywhere along the canals, and these seeds were blowing out of them.
But they didn’t look like seeds. They looked for all the world like miniaturized rose petals drained of their color.
These pale petals were gathering in the wind like flocking birds—thousands of them, like a spring snowstorm.
The old man who’d given up his seat saw us noticing and said, in English, “Amsterdam’s spring snow. The iepen throw confetti to greet the spring.”
We switched trams, and after four more stops we arrived at a street split by a beautiful canal,
the reflections of the ancient bridge and picturesque canal houses rippling in water.
Oranjee was just steps from the tram. The restaurant was on one side of the street;
the outdoor seating on the other, on a concrete outcropping right at the edge of the canal.
The hostess’s eyes lit up as Augustus and I walked toward her.
“Mr. and Mrs. Waters?” “I guess?” I said. “Your table,” she said, gesturing across the street to a narrow table inches from the canal.
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