AmsterDAMN

I wish I could say that Amsterdam was everything I expected it to be: strolling through the red-light district taking in the ‘views’, enjoying coffee in bohemian cafes and admiring the laid-back nature of the Dutch natives. Unfortunately this was not the case; in reality the highlight of our trip was seeing a double-decker train, which quickly lost its novelty after the realisation that pretty much every country in Europe bar Britain has them. It seems negative start to this blog with such a bitchy post, and to be fair I’m sure the negative experience is as much to do with our planning – or lack thereof – than the city itself, which leads me to tip #1: book a hostel for your first AND last night way in advance, especially if you’re flying from/to Western Europe. We made this mistake, and thought to ourselves ‘No need to book a hostel, we’ll have a wander and find one for a snatch’, this is definitely not the case, especially not in Amsterdam. 

You have to admit, pretty exciting

Determined to stick to our €35 a day budget, we traipsed the streets and canals of Amsterdam for six hours straight, not to sound dramatic but I’m pretty sure the experience was similar to that of Mary being rejected from every room in the inn. Carrying a 9 month baby, Mary? Try a 10kg backpack. Okay, so we weren’t rejected per se, but with the best rate we could get being €70/night, what were we supposed to do? Now I know what you’re thinking, ‘traipsing around the streets of Amsterdam, that hardly sounds like a bad thing’, and before this I’d have felt obliged to agree with you. We’ve all seen the postcards of Amsterdam: rows of tulips, flea markets galore and coffee shops with a freeze-frame of the jolly Dutch cyclist passing by. We’re all familiar with the saying ‘a picture says a thousand words’, what we’re not so familiar with is that sometimes these words are outright LIES. Dutch cyclists are not jolly. They are not quaint. And they are most certainly not patient. Every road crossing, every turning, every time you step out on to the street you are permanently dodging cyclists, whether man, woman or child, Amsterdam’s cyclist are unforgiving. The first few times this is quite amusing ‘oh what a tourist I’m being’ you’ll say to yourself, this wares off after an hour and nearly a dozen near-death experiences. You think I’m joking? I’m not. I’ve got more than one witness who can vouch for this. To this day the ring of a cycle bell resurfaces the same feelings of fear, anxiety and is wholly responsible for my irrational rational hatred of cyclists.

Having established that the best rate we were going to get for a hostel - apparently being located next to a brothel and a particularly stagnant stretch of canal equates prime location - we decided that a hostel for the night was out of the picture. Alternative? Train station. On hindsight, sleeping in a train station is never a good idea, especially in a foreign city you’ve never visited before, but with our budget and a tossup between €70 for a hostel or €3.45 locker fee, it wasn’t a hard decision to make - some say risky, I say economically determined. Backpacks secured (the locker wasn’t for us!), it was now time to see what Amsterdam’s nightlife had to offer, strolling through the idyllic streets of Amsterdam is definitely memorable, no one can deny its cutesy feel, and the city’s pubs and bars are nothing but delightful, it’s just a shame the a same thing cannot be said for drink prices. €8 a pint and that was a cheap one. Okay, so you’d expect to pay that or more in Britain, in London that’s cheap – but come on this is Amsterdam, Europe and we were students (Tip#2 Western and Eastern European prices vary dramatically take this into consideration when budgeting and planning your route. We did not). Instead we decided to hit the local convenience shop, buy some of the cheapest-wine that Amsterdam had to offer, telling ourselves that we were off to see the ‘real’ Amsterdam, when in reality we were aware that we were doing nothing more than reverting back to the days of being 14 and drinking in the park. Some might say uncultured, but it turns out that on the continent it isn't only topless bathing that is encouraged, al fresco drinking is a must too. After steadily getting through the two bottles of wine and pack of Marlboros (€10 the lot, bargain) we decided to head back to the centre and cash in on one of those pints. (Tip #3, when drunk you will not care about your budget, in fact you will purposefully sabotage any plans of a budget you had). 

Classy, right?

After befriending some Americans who were couchsurfing through Europe (not for me, but each to their own), we decided to hit the night scene, not before taking a quick leak in the pub. Now I don’t know if I‘m stingy, or if we Brits are just plain privileged when it comes to bathroom facilities, but to take a leak in pubs and clubs actually costs you, €1 - €2 to be precise. Okay, that’s hardly going to break the bank, but if you’re expecting some boozy nights, we all know that once those floods gates open, they won’t easily be closed. So two or three toilet stops easily costs you a shot or two, and even worse, what if you’ve run out of change? I won’t bore you with the details of the clubbing scene, I could tell you that I drank too much, horrendously embarrassed myself, and post a photo of me trying to put my legs behind my head on an authentic Dutch dance floor, however if anyone is truly interested in that they can simply look at my Facebook profile and be done with it. That isn’t to say clubbing in Amsterdam wasn’t fun, it was, however it isn’t anything worth spending more than a line on. Stumbling out at 4am with no hostel requires a significant amount of sponteneity and innovation, so when it was suggested we take a nosey at the infamous red light district, we jumped at the chance. With our two new American best friends in tow we were finally seeing the ‘real’ Amsterdam. I’d always found myself an advocate of Amsterdam’s stance on legalised prostitution, unfortunately, as is often the case, I found that in-theory and in-practice are by no means the same thing. Perhaps visiting in the daytime leaves one with a different experience, but witnessing the naked prostitutes in the windows, urging clients in whilst simultaneously shunning the previous one out, leaves you feeling like these women are still caught in a profession which is ultimately degrading, the fact that they parade themselves in shop windows homing on the hard truth that they are still being conceived as nothing more than objects to be sold. The whole experience was a world away from the previous notion I had of empowered, 21^st century prostitutes working in an environment which was both safe and under their control.  Half an hour in, and we were more than ready to head back to the station, which consider it was fast approaching 6am wasn’t too bad an idea.

Nothing like a drunk selfie outside the station

I’d like to say this was the first time I’d slept at a station, but when you live a £60 taxi ride from Manchester, sometimes you’ve got to do what you’ve got to do. It’s really not that bad, WELL depending on how drunk you are that is. After a brief stop at McDonalds, we collected our bags, headed to the right platform where we awaited the arrival of our 7am train. Come half 7, the alcohol was wearing off, the train was 30 minutes late and we were well and truly pissed off that we’ve now had to wait another hour for the 8.15 train. Sensing our anger we were approached by a passer-by who informed us that the train had in fact arrived, and that in our drunken state we had fallen asleep and missed it – cheers for that kind sir, but why not wake up when the train came in instead? Now, I’m not one for believing in fate, and God knows waiting that extra hour for the train was by no means fun, but if it hadn’t of been for us passing out at roughly 6.45 and missing our train, we wouldn’t have crossed paths with what could possibly be the greatest taste sensations of my life: Febo. Okay I lied, the double-decker train was by no means the highlight of Amsterdam, it was Febo. If you’re going to remember any word for your stay in Amsterdam, make that word Febo; say it to yourself over and over: ‘Febo. Febo. FEBO’. Whether a food connoisseur or junk food whore, Febo caters for everyone.  A potato croquette style snack which is stodgy, loaded with fat, and available in original, satay and veal. Febo makes the whole Amsterdam experience worth it, even staying up until 6 in the morning.

No photo will do these justice

Many of you probably think I’ve sold Amsterdam short here, and I’m sure I have. Given the right planning and the opportunity to spend more than one day here I’m sure the experience would have been a much better one. But still I can’t help but feel that given my aversion to smoking the green stuff (I’m anxious enough as it is), and the uneasiness I felt when wandering the streets of the red-light district, even with a bit more foresight I still maintain that Amsterdam just isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. Then again, perhaps my real issue is with cyclists, and nothing to do with Amsterdam at all. Still at least we’ll always have Febo.