The
yawning mouth of the ferry sucked us in on a cold, clear night when the land
and sea were vying to see which could be the flattest. Then the bright lights
of the port slid gently past. Distance and darkness hiding the grim concrete
they illuminated, masking the mundane and making it seem magical. An easy
night’s sleep. The early start gave clear roads for the first day of driving on
the other side, along a meandering route that led through to coffee and
croissants in The Hague and ended at a quaint and convenient campsite on the
edge of Amsterdam.
We
took our bikes from the back of the truck and rode into town. Never go to the
Netherlands without a bike. If you don’t have one, hire one: but not a yellow
or red one. In Amsterdam they are just for the tourists who sway in the saddle
and swerve around wildly, screaming like seagulls, irking and disturbing the
locals.
At
Neiwmarket we change mode once more, walking now through the narrower streets,
across the Red Light district with its windows of women for all tastes, apart
from those that desire the subtle. Cutting diagonally through the centre we
wander to Jordaan and back: people-perusing while canal-crossing and staring up
at the grand, old homely buildings.
That
evening, out with Joris and Liz, Rosie and me, we cycled like we lived there,
weaving through the back streets, dodging drunken tourists as we rode from bar
to restaurant to bar. As we sat at one big table, fate was playful and the
pretty girl who sat next to me was Fleur, last met in Jordan. Then, we were in
a different restaurant, leaning to cook Jordanian food: ten beautiful, friendly
young Dutch girls and me. Here, now, one of those rare but childishly inspiring
moments when the world pretends to be small. Synchronicity in our first city. Inge
was texted and she joined us too, for that night and the next, smiling
constantly whilst firing barbs of sharp sardonic wit.
Saturday
evening and a locals bar that had been teased into the present from two
centuries past, wood carved and velvet draped, packed with people of all ages
who knew one another and shouted greetings. Freddy and his father propped the
bar like two benign gargoyles. Rocks of men with huge hands and open hearts,
both generations born within staggering distance of the bar’s front door.
In
just two days Amsterdam took us in, made us citizens and surrounded us with
friends. Gentle, generous Joris from our old life in Brighton, Liz his warm,
beautiful girlfriend, gorgeous gregarious Fleur, Inge my quicksilver-minded
kindred spirit, and Maurice, met for merely a few hours, but quickly a man to
trust.
South
then, to Utrecht and Antwerp, with more old friends and new.
