Lauren's Journal

“We’re in Amsterdam. Why wouldn’t I speak English?”

This is the response of the twenty-something Dutch bartender who is now rolling a thick marijuana spliff from behind his counter of tricks. He’s tanned with long sandy hair, and looks rather like he’d fit in better on a Californian beach than a darkened ‘coffee shop’ in the centre of Amsterdam.

For the bartender, my clichéd enquiry regarding his linguistic skills is a joke. Why, you might ask? I didn’t quite understand it either, not until I found myself recounting the experience to a Norwegian friend several days later. Did Holland’s national language change when I wasn’t looking? Had I inadvertently slipped across a border without noticing? It seemed unlikely...

Despite the innocent name, a ‘coffee shop’ is the name given to a drug haven in Amsterdam. It’s purely ‘soft drugs’ on offer here as a result of strict distinctions between soft and hard drugs under Dutch law, but it’s the relaxed nature of the establishment that is most striking. A decorative menu of marijuana, hash and space cakes sits on the counter and a smaller version features on every available surface. The coffee shop looks like a trendy late bar selling the latest latte or mocha, and the atmosphere and attitude are anything but sinister.

As I sit down, I catch sight of a sign – ‘Smoking Allowed – But No Tobacco’ – and can’t help but smile. You’ve got to love the legislation that insists that cigarette smoking must happen outside of restaurants, bars, venues and clubs in EU countries. Amsterdam seems to have compromised on the matter, and has done so with a smirk.

I close my eyes and lean back in my chair, letting whimsical thoughts flood my mind as the intoxication sinks in. Suddenly I understand with perfect clarity why Amsterdam coffee shops are kind enough to offer only basic teas and coffees as accompaniment to your ‘special buzz’ – this is an experience that shouldn’t be tarnished by alcohol, or, I suppose, by a double soy latte with whipped cream, marshmallows and chocolate sauce.

When I look up, the English-speaking barman is grinning at me, and he’s doing so in a way that suggests I’m not the first British young lady to make best of this particular cultural offering, nor am I the first to have naively enquired whether the English language was within his capabilities.

Several days later, I return home and recount the series of events to a friend over dinner. My friend, who is from Norway, giggles at me. She explains that in countries like Norway and Holland, learning to speak English is like learning to read, to write or to add up. She adds that she would probably laugh if she was at home and somebody asked her whether she spoke English.

For a long moment, I am truly saddened for the majority of the English speaking world, but then feel incredibly respectful towards and blessed by those who tolerate us.