Day 1 in (and out of) Amsterdam − 25 June, 2006
We landed in Amsterdam at 8:45am and eventually reached Centraal station, pronounced "central station" by ignorant Americans such as Jake who had already received scorn from Dutchmen on flight for singing pre-meal Dutch phrase "eet smakelik" to tune of Petey Pablo's "Freek-a-leek".
The station was centraally located, and we walked straight through the touristy pickpocket-rich streets, unsuspectingly toward the seedy underbelly of the Red Light District.
Kevin dodged trams and took in the scene on this peaceful Sunday morning in Dam Square.
Already experiencing some footwear discomfort, Jake stopped at the local equivalent of Foot Locker but the closest shoe to his size was a 9,316 (see pic). We left the Dam Square in search of the hostel and experienced a calm Amsterdam Sunday morning, as people awoke from the alleys they passed out in the night before and bar owners hosed off the streets. After many futile attempts to get a sense of direction in the maze of canals and bridges, we stopped to actually look at our map and learned we were miraculously 100 feet from the hostel, StayOkay.
The only thing standing between us and a room of 20 loud German guys was our complete lack of Euros. Who would have known that in a land so similar to our American home, they'd have different currency and everything?! Trekking back out to find an ATM, we soon obtained some Euro cash near the flower market and avoided the urge to immediately spend it on tulip bulbs.
Back at the StayOkay, we cheaply crammed our two backpacks into one microwave-sized locker, bought two bike rental vouchers, and set out to an underground bike rental cave to pick up two red metal monstrosities, that could have served well as anchors on the Titanic and quite possibly did.
Kevin led the way as we head west towards the Jordaan neighborhood and the Anne Frank house, but, a better triathelete than a navigator, he had soon led us OUT of Amsterdam and we arrived in a suburban immigrant neighborhood with a park where people played soccer and frisbee. Looking to meet some cool Hollanders by kicking their asses at ultimate frisbee, we ask a guy setting up a frisbee merchandise tent next to the field if we can join the pickup game. He explains they are actually about to start the world freestyle frisbee championship, not a pickup game. We are heartened to see that even halfway across the world, frisbee players show up late to their events.
We secured the bikes in front of a local shawarma shop and went in for some authentic cuisine. After eating our full plates of sliced lamb and mystery sauces along with a children's Tylenol-flavored beverage, we resumed the bike ride, soon reaching a street under construction requiring maneuvering along plywood, sand, narrow planks and gravel before reaching the paved road again where Kevin ran an old lady out of the lane into a mailbox as she attempted to pass us. Not actually into the mailbox part where the letters go, I just mean she almost hit it.
Jake's navigation skills proved worthless as Kevin got us to the Anne Frank house to see the 100 people lined up outside to get in, so we promptly left to find Vondelpark. This took an hour of serious riding, mapping and people asking, despite the park being enormous and right in the middle of the city. We pedaled around the full loop, seeing countless informal soccer games, before Jake takes over navigation for a while and promptly leads us the wrong way down a busy one-way street to get honked at by a bus.
In search of the rural Dutch experience of seeing windmills, tulips and certain herbal remedies, we took a ferry north across the river and biked out of Amsterdam (intentionally, this time) to North Holland. We followed one girl on a bike who seemed to know where she was going. A minute down the road, we realized we had followed her down her driveway. We soon ended up lost and unwelcomed in her front yard. Trying another more public route, we progressed a mile or so the perpetual North Holland drizzle become really damn cold rain. We persisted onward to finally stop for shelter under an overpass, where the town square was hosting a party with music, dancing, cheerleaders and incomprehensible Dutch probably talking about tonight's big World Cup game against Portugal. With no sign of the rain letting up, we race back to the ferry and then the hostel, hoping to watch the big game pneumonia-free.
Arriving back at the hostel, for once without incident, we lugged the boat anchors that were our bikes through the hallways to the secure bike garage. Hoping for a much-needed power nap, we struggled to tune out the loud-ass Germans who spent the whole two hours talking and laughing.
The rain persisted until game time, as we found a back-alley Thai restaurant that cooked our food to order right in front of us, and then strolled the hip area around Rembrantplein looking for prime World Cup viewage. The area was full of bars and each one was decorated in bright orange flags, signs and soccer balls and full of TVs and decked out Hollanders. Orange-clad fans sang along to soccer chants and cheered "Hup Holland!" (Go Holland!) with the Amstel or Heineken (depending on the bar) flowing like water. We forced our way near a table of hot blonde Dutchesses but spent the game trying to avoid two old men obviously on some sort of drugs that went around awkwardly putting their arms around everyone. The game was amazing, with 2 fights, 10 yellow cards, 3 red cards and Holland having many chances to score but ending up losing 1-0, causing one upset fan to throw his full beer cup at the TV. By the time the cup reached the TV, it was empty and Kevin's shirt was covered in Amstel. It was clearly time for the crowd to drown its sorrows with a mass exodus to the Red Light District
These streets, bathed in red light from windows of the local no-collar workers, were nothing like they appeared in the daylight. We saw some interesting sights and had some disgusting drinks - the worst being a shot of Absinthe with a flaming spoon of sugar. After a long recovery, it was time for the requisite late-night falafel and walk back to the hostel.
The station was centraally located, and we walked straight through the touristy pickpocket-rich streets, unsuspectingly toward the seedy underbelly of the Red Light District.
Kevin dodged trams and took in the scene on this peaceful Sunday morning in Dam Square.
Already experiencing some footwear discomfort, Jake stopped at the local equivalent of Foot Locker but the closest shoe to his size was a 9,316 (see pic). We left the Dam Square in search of the hostel and experienced a calm Amsterdam Sunday morning, as people awoke from the alleys they passed out in the night before and bar owners hosed off the streets. After many futile attempts to get a sense of direction in the maze of canals and bridges, we stopped to actually look at our map and learned we were miraculously 100 feet from the hostel, StayOkay.
The only thing standing between us and a room of 20 loud German guys was our complete lack of Euros. Who would have known that in a land so similar to our American home, they'd have different currency and everything?! Trekking back out to find an ATM, we soon obtained some Euro cash near the flower market and avoided the urge to immediately spend it on tulip bulbs.
Back at the StayOkay, we cheaply crammed our two backpacks into one microwave-sized locker, bought two bike rental vouchers, and set out to an underground bike rental cave to pick up two red metal monstrosities, that could have served well as anchors on the Titanic and quite possibly did.
Kevin led the way as we head west towards the Jordaan neighborhood and the Anne Frank house, but, a better triathelete than a navigator, he had soon led us OUT of Amsterdam and we arrived in a suburban immigrant neighborhood with a park where people played soccer and frisbee. Looking to meet some cool Hollanders by kicking their asses at ultimate frisbee, we ask a guy setting up a frisbee merchandise tent next to the field if we can join the pickup game. He explains they are actually about to start the world freestyle frisbee championship, not a pickup game. We are heartened to see that even halfway across the world, frisbee players show up late to their events.
We secured the bikes in front of a local shawarma shop and went in for some authentic cuisine. After eating our full plates of sliced lamb and mystery sauces along with a children's Tylenol-flavored beverage, we resumed the bike ride, soon reaching a street under construction requiring maneuvering along plywood, sand, narrow planks and gravel before reaching the paved road again where Kevin ran an old lady out of the lane into a mailbox as she attempted to pass us. Not actually into the mailbox part where the letters go, I just mean she almost hit it.
Jake's navigation skills proved worthless as Kevin got us to the Anne Frank house to see the 100 people lined up outside to get in, so we promptly left to find Vondelpark. This took an hour of serious riding, mapping and people asking, despite the park being enormous and right in the middle of the city. We pedaled around the full loop, seeing countless informal soccer games, before Jake takes over navigation for a while and promptly leads us the wrong way down a busy one-way street to get honked at by a bus.
In search of the rural Dutch experience of seeing windmills, tulips and certain herbal remedies, we took a ferry north across the river and biked out of Amsterdam (intentionally, this time) to North Holland. We followed one girl on a bike who seemed to know where she was going. A minute down the road, we realized we had followed her down her driveway. We soon ended up lost and unwelcomed in her front yard. Trying another more public route, we progressed a mile or so the perpetual North Holland drizzle become really damn cold rain. We persisted onward to finally stop for shelter under an overpass, where the town square was hosting a party with music, dancing, cheerleaders and incomprehensible Dutch probably talking about tonight's big World Cup game against Portugal. With no sign of the rain letting up, we race back to the ferry and then the hostel, hoping to watch the big game pneumonia-free.
Arriving back at the hostel, for once without incident, we lugged the boat anchors that were our bikes through the hallways to the secure bike garage. Hoping for a much-needed power nap, we struggled to tune out the loud-ass Germans who spent the whole two hours talking and laughing.
The rain persisted until game time, as we found a back-alley Thai restaurant that cooked our food to order right in front of us, and then strolled the hip area around Rembrantplein looking for prime World Cup viewage. The area was full of bars and each one was decorated in bright orange flags, signs and soccer balls and full of TVs and decked out Hollanders. Orange-clad fans sang along to soccer chants and cheered "Hup Holland!" (Go Holland!) with the Amstel or Heineken (depending on the bar) flowing like water. We forced our way near a table of hot blonde Dutchesses but spent the game trying to avoid two old men obviously on some sort of drugs that went around awkwardly putting their arms around everyone. The game was amazing, with 2 fights, 10 yellow cards, 3 red cards and Holland having many chances to score but ending up losing 1-0, causing one upset fan to throw his full beer cup at the TV. By the time the cup reached the TV, it was empty and Kevin's shirt was covered in Amstel. It was clearly time for the crowd to drown its sorrows with a mass exodus to the Red Light District
These streets, bathed in red light from windows of the local no-collar workers, were nothing like they appeared in the daylight. We saw some interesting sights and had some disgusting drinks - the worst being a shot of Absinthe with a flaming spoon of sugar. After a long recovery, it was time for the requisite late-night falafel and walk back to the hostel.
amsterdam1 -...
amsterdam1 - cinderella...
amsterdam1 - bikes at...
amsterdam1 - kevin in...
amsterdam1 - canal near...
