On the road again with our customary wheeled backpacks, and room to spare. Our flight took us via Toronto and Dublin to Amsterdam. All comfortable and close to on time. Airports continue to be an endless source of fascinating people-watching—from recently upright babies toddling in their minute leather slippers, smiles plastered across their entire face, to the mobile phone addicted, the jewelry laden wannabe models and improbable families scarfing down untold amounts of fast food. The women in burkas—wondered about the security there, as in how do the authorities confirm the face goes with that particular ID, the turbaned Sikhs, the rainbow of skin-colors and the warehouse of culturally specific clothing. Seamlessly connecting the visual differences are the parents cooing to babies, the pouting adolescents, and those frazzled by travel in general. Laughter and tears make tangible our similarities, and once again the world of home opens wide the new horizon that broaches the rest of the world. It is nothing less than exhilarating.
Toronto lay drenched in low clouds and driving rain, while Dublin was surrounded by a patchwork of vibrantly green fields, spotted with cows and sheep, grim stone walls, and a bucolic languor enshrouded in equally low clouds, but no rain. Eye-catching from the air is the reversed flow of road traffic; it seems like a subtle joke. The airport is confusing to navigate, but after beating back our quelling tiredness, we found our way. For me the flight to Amsterdam was nothing but deepest sleep, but upon waking, the orderly nature of everything as seen from the air is welcome.
We found our way to our first B&B, which lies in the outlying communities of West Amsterdam. Lots of two and three story buildings with endless dollhouse apartments in a landscape of people my Dutch parents would not readily recognize. Turkish and African women walk in traditional garb chatting in their native tongues, chastising and reining in children who fairly dance about, loudly talking together in Dutch. Wonderful Turkish(for the most part) little grocery stores, fruit shops and smallish bakeries. All the makings of an easy stay.
Our first hosts are a Dutch guy and his Australian girlfriend and their two cats. Our room is snug but more than adequate, and we find that we are close to all transportation to the city—which is about a 20 minute tram ride to the central station in Amsterdam. However, the first night we’re rather done for and sleep almost 12 hours before heading into the city on the Wednesday—now full of energy to get the trip truly started.
The country is in full soccer frenzy mode as the European Championships have just got underway. There is a sea of orange(color of the national team and the royal family in the Netherlands) EVERYWHERE. Upon arrival in the city, we see cafés festooned with pillars of orange balloons, all manner of orange clothing, and the ubiquitous HUP HOLLAND(Go Holland!) banners and flags. On Wednesday evening the whole country is gearing up to watch the match against Germany, now complete with fluorescent orange wigs, long orange dresses, painted faces, wild orange hats and anything else that has appeared from the dregs of the oranje closet since the color was last big, on Queen’s day at the end of April.
Having walked all over town, checked into bicycles, almost been pickpocketed—yes, really!—at the tourist office, and got ourselves set up, we treat ourselves to a delicious Thai meal in the Red Light district—a minute place recommended by our hosts—and then wander the streets to find a place where we can watch the match with the revved up crowds. Sadly, it’s another(2nd) loss for the Dutch, and despite their sea of happy looking orange, they’re all feeling pretty down by the end of the evening. The sun is just setting at about 10:30pm, and we’re off home and to bed.
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