Amsterdam(n)

ATTN ALL READERS: I’m currently writing this post from my new apartment in Amsterdam.

It’s very chic. All white walls, hard wood floors, and lots of natural lighting. Things that are very very important to my health, wealth, and happiness. It’s above a noisy coffee shop (cough cough they don’t sell coffee there) and if the wind blows in wrong direction I can smell canal sewage. That’s all trivial because from my current vantage point on the couch I can see my new Dutch boyfriend making me Dutch pancakes in the quaint kitchenette so who really wins here?

Since my last post I’ve pawned off my (by “my” I really mean my mom and brother’s) electronics, cashed in my stocks, and sold a kidney on the black market so that I can relocate to my *true* home in the Netherlands. This may come as a shock to some but what’s the point of being young if I can’t live ~wild N free~, ammirite?!

JOKES GUYS. Currently I’m wrapped up tight in my duvet and resemble something closer to a blanket burrito in the fetal position than a 20-something, born-again Dutch resident. BUT WE CAN ALL DREAM RIGHT?

All kidding aside if any loving family or friends wants to help fund, donate their retirement savings, or start a charity in my name that helps me permanently move to Amsterdam, I won’t object. In fact, if successful I will always offer you a place to sleep in my humble abode and all-you-can-eat access to Dutch cheese and pancakes.

I’ll even let you stare out the window in a dream-like trance to this:Starting to sound preeeeeeetty appealing right?

It’s THAT whole scene pictured above that stole my heart and made me momentarily forget that it was 7:45 AM, I was lost in a city where every street ended in -straat and was a minimum of fifteen letters long (85% of which where consonants), and I was standing in a bike lane with a 10 kg backpack.

BIG NO-NO IN AMSTERDAM.

And so while my travel companions furrowed their brows and tried to actually accomplish something (like find our hostel), I fell in love.

And for the first time it was with a city, and not a boy of said city. 😉

To backtrack a bit, traveling to Amsterdam was a bit of a last minute scramble for me. By my terms at least.

It involved hastily booking the same 15-hour coach ride (I just threw-up in my mouth a little typing out those words) that my friends had bought tickets for weeks prior. This should have been an easy task, but online booking an international trip with an American credit card/billing address and a British IP address never is. Sigh. Once again I found myself rushing a Eurolines operator through the ordering processes before the minutes on my crappy pay-as-you-go phone ran out while simultaneously binge-eating chocolate.

So on March 28th we set off on an overnight travel journey that entailed a:

• 3 hour coach from Nottingham to London
• 4 hour coach from London to Dover
• 1 hour ferry from Dover to Calais
• 7 hour coach from Calais to Amsterdam

Yes, I’m still nursing the bum sores that resulted in sitting for long periods of time. No, I didn’t sleep for more than 30 minutes at a time. Yes, I can tell you the life story/family history of the girl behind me because my iPod died after hour two and she continued to talk until WELL PAST HOUR 9 OF THE TRIP. And yes, I did wish her extreme ill-will until I realized that the travel gods would not look kindly upon that.

That being said, I’d do it again if that’s what it takes to get me back to Amsterdam. I LAUVE IT THAT MUCH OKAY?

So at roughly 7 AM we find ourselves standing in a coach station parking lot having no concept of where we are in relation to the city centre. Or how to get there.

My contacts were also cemented to my eyeballs causing enough tears to fill the English Channel to be produced every time I blinked.

Yes, sleeping in your contacts is bad. Yes, I have been wearing them since the 6th grade, thanks for asking. Oh. Oh yes, I see your point now.

So to recap we were clueless and I couldn’t see more than ten feet in front of me. And we had no map.

Like in every city, we found our way thanks to the help of tourist information stations, police officers, and kind individuals who pity (or at least can stand) us.

We located our hostel, checked in, and reserved a locker to stow our luggage in until we could access our room later in the day.

Then, after kindly asking if we could use a restroom to “freshen up” after our dreary traveling we proceeded to take over the. entire. lobby.

If you think I’m joking or being facetious, you are mistaken.

In one corner Amy was monopolizing an outlet to charge her phone and simultaneously straighten her hair. Dayna was using the reflection of a vending machine to reapply make-up. Saru sat on the floor to change her shoes. We each took turns changing in the the bathroom. Our various toiletry bags were strewn across the couches, chairs, and tables. I’m pretty sure Huw fell asleep standing up in a corner waiting for us. We were the actual worst.

And the poor receptionists just stood there, mouths a gasped, alternating between looking shocked and trying to mask looking shocked.

But desperate times called for desperate measures.

After our transformations from Frankenstein’s bride(s) to functioning young ladies – a process that may or may not have involved some movie magic, pixie dust, and/or selling off our first born to Rumpelstiltskin in order to erase the bags from under our eyes – we were off!

…to find Dutch pancakes.

What’s pictured above are the fruits of our labor-intensive 1.5 hour trek (it was only supposed to take 20 mintues) through the streets of Amsterdam’s nicest neighborhood. I know, I know I have it soOOooOOo rough.

I stand by that a smidge of pity should be allotted to each of us. We were, after all, running on the bare minimum of sleep. Also, for some reason my foot kept falling asleep while I was walking, causing me to 1/2 walk, 1/2 stagger as I dragged the ole’ club foot around. I think my foot was seeking revenge for my choice of transportation to Amsterdam – hater.

We forged on through all the streets ending in -straat with way too many letters, and saw a whole lot of this:

…and we kept seein’ aaaaaaaall that, until we spotted this:

The clouds then parted, heavenly angels began to sing, and a band of friendly woodland animals escorted us to our table which was conveniently waiting for us with stacks of steaming pancakes.

Not really.

BUT soon enough we were seated, our orders were placed, and various sweet or savory pancakes were en route to our table.

Which happened to be seated along a canal. In the sunshine. Under blue skies. Because dreams do really come true.

From top photo to bottom: 1) The view of our table from the second floor of The Pancake Bakery. 2) Amy and I *patiently* waiting for our food. 3) The view across the canal from our table.

 For some inexplicable reason we drenched all of our pancakes in Dutch syrup.

Did I order a savory bacon, cheese, and mushroom pancake? Yes.

Did I still take enough care to ensure that almost every bite had at least a drop of sweet syrup on it? Yep.

It was awesome. #noregrets

We finished our meal and walked waddled over to the nearby open market stalls.

It was here, in these very stalls, that I discovered Dutch cheese.

I would like to think of myself as a bit of a foodie* if you will. So it might have physically, emotionally, and literally pained me to come to terms with the indisputable fact that I’ve lived 21 years of my life never having tasted Dutch cheese. NEVER EVEN KNOWING that Dutch cheese was a “thing”.

I managed to pull myself out from under a momentary cloud of self-loathing long enough to buy a block of cheese.

My pride. My joy. My cheese (the wrapper of which I still have saved for my scrapbook – yes, I am that girl.).

The night ended with a hefty helping of perspective that came in two doses.

The first came from our visit to the Anne Frank house.

Understandably photos weren’t permitted inside, but this is Dayna’s ticket.

It was surreal to walk through the tiny rooms that she, her family, the van Pels, and Fritz Pfeffer were confined in for over two years. The rooms were left empty for the most part, per her father’s request, but pictures of what the rooms would have looked like and entries from her diary donned the walls. The windows were blacked out, just as they had been when she resided there, which left me feeling some-what claustrophobic.

I heard the floorboards that she walked across daily, groan under the weight of my steps. I stared at the pictures Anne carefully pasted onto her wall in an attempt to brighten her stark living conditions. I climbed past the infamous bookshelf-turned-secret-door and I still cannot fully comprehend not only the life that she was forced to live but really any of the events that transpired during the Holocaust and WWII. The more I try, the more nauseated I feel.

At times it feels wrong to talk about or analyze any of it. What words can I say that haven’t already been said? I can’t. There are none. Even if there were I don’t even believe I’m worthy of saying them.

Before going to Amsterdam I read that the Anne Frank House was a tourist trap. That the lines were disgustingly long. That one could visit the city and not feel as if they had missed out on an important “must-see-sight” if they chose not to partake. That may be true for some, but it wasn’t for me and it’s not true for my friends either. The visit was integral in opening our eyes to the world we live in and gaining perspective. Something we all claim is the fuel behind our semesters abroad, but is at times ignored in favor for another trip to the pub or a night out.

I said before that photos weren’t permitted – which is true unless you’re the goddess gracing us on Earth in human form as Beyonce I guess.

Our night ended with a trip to the Red Light District where our new-found-friend Perspective paid us our second visit.

If you are Rick Steves reader he claims the area is unsafe after 10PM, give or take.

He lies.

In a large group, of both guys and gals, I felt no danger as I walked through the streets, past windows illuminated in red with true “ladies of the night” standing behind them.

Only a slight feeling of disgust. Not in the women, but in the hoards of men (and women) ogling them. Their jaws essentially scraping the ground and slapping their buddy’s back, as if to congratulate them, should one of the women look their way.

I wasn’t immune to being a little disgusted in myself either. While I didn’t reap the same pleasure that the majority of the crowd seemed to be, I was still there. I was still milling in the streets, albeit attempting to not make eye contact with anyone, but still physically present nevertheless.

It was weird.

After our “tour” of the area, Amy and I spent the rest of the night in a bar with our friends, using the wifi to google the stories behind these women like the true party animals were are.

This wraps up day one of three in Amsterdam! Stay tuned!**

Muchos Besos!

*My definition of “foodie” is the following: I see food. I contemplate if I can eat/afford said food. If the answer is yes to at least one of the two requirements, I inhale said food only remembering to savor it within the last few bites. Then I rank how much I liked the food, usually in comparison to whatever I ate last and decide if I’ll ever eat it again. The answer is yes 93% of the time. Tough critic, I know. Keep your eyes peeled for my upcoming show on The Food Network, title to come.

 **I’m dragging this out so much because I loved Amsterdam (I say for the 8th time) and I would like to just relieve it all again if that’s alright with y’all. So just indulge me in my one wish? Please and thank you.