It Doesn't Get Much Better Than Amsterdam

Spotted: The Madrid Trio, Reunited in Racy Amsterdam.

To all parentals, rest easy.  If you know me at all, then you’re aware that I am as close to being an 89 year old man with a walker and rheumatism as a 24 year old girl can be.  Nothing was destined to get out of control with me anchoring the party.  There was no time anyway- Amsterdam is chock-a-block full of A+ museums, restaurants, history and endless canals to explore.  LB and I arrived in the city the night before Steven, and we started things off by veering a bit off script.  From the central station, we had directions to take a tram and then walk to our hostel.  We found the right tram and Larissa, looking something like this:





steps up, trying her best not to take out any small children or the elderly.  The second Larissa is on the tram, the doors slams shut and rolls off down the line, leaving me behind.  Problem #1: Since meeting up in Paris, Larissa and I have hardly been out of each other’s line of sight.  I immediately started suffering from separation anxiety.  Problem #2: I had the directions and wasn’t sure that Larissa had any idea where she was going.  And Problem #3: Larissa hadn’t seemed to notice that I wasn’t on the tram with her.  Solution: I go hustling after the tram with my pack swinging merrily, looking ridiculous and laughing like an idiot.  Obviously I didn’t catch up, but LB did see me and realized what was going on, and it all turned out just fine.  Unlike my own, Larissa’s memory is not a black hole where information disappears into never to be heard from again – She remembered the directions, having read them aloud to me to write down, and soon we were together again.

Before Steven arrived the next morning, LB and I laid the groundwork by discovering the greatest hidden deal in Amsterdam.  There were ads everywhere for the “I Amsterdam” card, but we ended up getting the much lesser known, but way sweeter Museumkaart.  This baby is an annual pass for all of the museums in the Netherlands and paid for itself several times over for us.  Admission costs here are steeeeep.  When Steven arrived at the hostel, he was allowed a brief rest period before we took him out to be introduced to the glories of the Christmas Market.  (Not quite as awesome outside of Germany, but better than a poke in the eye with a sharp stick.)  After an afternoon of acing the children’s treasure hunt at the Van Gogh Museum and touring the Heineken Experience, I think it’s safe to say that all three of us were smitten with the Dutch.  These people know that they’re the bombdiggity and are enthusiastic about sharing their splendour with visitors.  In my opinion, the French could use a good strong dose of Dutch.

Day 2 – The early bird got the worm.  At the Anne Frank House for opening, we waltzed right in and avoided the 1.5 hour wait that is exists during the day.  We went straight from the museum to the free walking tour, and then had a quick warm up at the hostel before seeing the Rijksmuseum.  Larissa and Steven barely survived the 3 hours of the tour out in the “dreadful cold.”  Larissa has gone soft after 9 months in the African sun, and Steven’s coat was more for fashion than warmth.  Our dinner that night was an epic quest to find stumpot.  With something like 170 different nationalities living in Amsterdam, it is easy to find any type of food you like, other than Dutch.  But we did find it, and for Larissa’s feet it was not a moment too soon.  The stumpot that I tried was called Hotchpotch.  It is a bounty of carrots, potatoes, sausages, meatballs and pickles.  Best of all, the featured ingredient in mine was not sauerkraut.

Our last day, we toured the Jewish Historical Museum and were given directions by the most helpful woman I have ever met to a good place to eat pancakes.  The only thing that I demanded happen in Amsterdam was a pancake feast.  I had the 3 greatest pancakes of my life in Amsterdam with Rachel.  Collectively, they hold 4^th place on my “Top 5 Greatest Things to Happen in 2009.”  There are no words to describe my disappointment with both the pancake I was served, and the grouchy B1 who served it to me this time.  (This hag must have a touch of French Flu- she’s the only grumpy Dutchman we came across.)  At home, my pancake would have been just fine, but in a city where everything else is spectacular, good becomes subpar.

Before we knew it, it was time for LB and me to get on the train to Berlin and for Steven to return to the UK.