Queens Day in Amsterdam

The Dutch jumped around on party gondolas among DJs spinning techno and house in Amsterdam's canals this Queen's Day. Instead, I strolled by, contemplated and laughed. I was part of the crowd, celebrating just as they were. Minus the unrestrained libertine attitude and intoxicating chemicals they seemed to have boiling in their veins. It was as if there were no cares, worries, or problems in the world. Or if there were, these things scuttled by with astounding speed away from us all on Wizard of Oz bicycles like the European bohemians that surrounded me. By any measure, they partied hard inside the bubble of Amsterdam, which seems to keep the city isolated from the moral standards and social norms of the rest of the world as I know it. I saw more expression of self-freedom that I ever knew existed, whether through public behavior, choice of clothing and hairstyle and of course, drinking and smoking. It was a rush, even for an American unable to really jump inside the exuberant, vivrant techno and house music that defined the mad atmosphere- who instead walked around it, through it, and away from it. Only after a brief, jiving foray into the eardrum-thumping drum and bass music of course.

Festivities are an important part of any culture, especially when they are in praise of leaders, nation, or government, like Queens Day. The Dutch celebrate this holiday in honor of their former queen Juliana (who died in 2004 at the age of 95!), though they now have a new monarch, Beatrix (like Beatrix Potter, whose "x" I used to pronounce as a little kid). I talked to two people who told me they may have to rename the holiday because of the likelihood of a King replacing the Queen soon. But anyways, as I was saying, they love their queen, yes they do. Julianna came from the House of Orange, viz a viz William of Orange. In accordance with this historical nugget, everyone wears orange on Queen's Day, regardless of, or despite a lack of their knowledge of why they dress like Oranges and Carrots. Maybe they do. the point is that its an excuse to look ridiculously orange and drink lots of Heineken and probably smoke a lot of drugs. I won't go into that, they seem to indulge any time they want and they like it that way. It mostly seemed odd and other-worldly to me. But you've got to love a completely open-minded culture.

So Dan and Meghan and I saw the seedy, the sketchy, the ugly, the completely wasted and burnt out in Amsterdam. The city was a magnet for probably over 500,000 visitors, just for the weekend of Queen's Day (I guess it would be for Queen's Day eve, Queen's Day day and night, and the next day somewhat). Many of them were there only to drink, to smoke, to take advantage of the city's loose views on prostitution and drugs. It was such a strange contrast because the city itself is beautiful. The landscape is lined with flats and stores leaning bravely forward toward the narrow streets, proving the legitimacy of 18th century dates inscribed below their slanted rooftops. We hopped on the metro, which you really don't have to pay for, which was nice, and slid past smooth canals, coffeeshops, artist's flats, busy streets. Internationally flavoured, Amsterdam seems to have a lot of South Americans, along with Europeans of numerous nationalities. We stopped into an Argentinian Steakhouse for ribs and steaks on the 29th, Dan's birthday. Which I must recall was one day after mine! Living in the midst of Amsterdam's casual, crawling bustle (which you must experience to understand), its bohemian vibe, its gritty inner-city folk, its displays of sex and drugs and its art somehow made me keep forgetting it was my birthday. We saw the Heineken Experience, which was an experience I could have done without. Dan got a class as a souvenir though. And we all got complimentary bottle openers. The Anne Frank Huis was closed because of holiday, but we walked past in silent solemnity and I said a prayer in remembrance of the persecution of Jews here barely more than a half-century ago. We had falafel kebabs on my birthday, a first for some of us, a delicious reminder of the Galway Saturday Market falafel I have just begun to love and will search for back home.


Bikes can hurt just as much as cars I bet. Depends on the relative velocity of both of course, but in Amsterdam you have to watch out! Look both ways for bikes before crossing the bicycle lane, then proceed to the road. Then, watch for cars and cross with care.


None of us were hit by bikes, but there were a few close calls. I arrived in Amsterdam several hours before Dan and Meghan showed up, so I had already learned the almost-hard way to yield to those Dutch up on their aging, colorful bikes. I was crossing past an alley and obviously didn't think about the invisible bicycle lane turning from the street into the alley. I had to jump back and balance myself as some Dutch lady yelled something in Dutch at me. Probably: You stupid tourist! It happened to Dan later that night, when another wispy-haired woman was biking by at a good speed. Dan tried to stop and let her go, so she braked sharply. So he started to walk but stopped because of the shock of not knowing what was going on. Then she almost screeched all the way to a halt, but the bike was still moving toward him. We all were kind of bunched together, so I should say we all made her grind her brakes to a complete stop. We walked past giggling a little as she gave us "the look". The look which means the same thing as "You stupid tourists!"

Our "guesthouse" also fits into the motif of oddness that runs through my collection of memories about Queen's Day in Amsterdam. We stayed there three nights. Luckily I was able to run into Dan randomly on the street as he exclaimed to the pastry baker in the shop that he wanted "One Pink Doughnut!" It somehow made sense that the place I was just supposed to check in (which happened to be uncomfortably close to a "Thai Massage" window) didn't know who I was, or who Dan was, or who Meghan was even though she put the reservation on her credit card TWO MONTHS AGO I explained over and over. So they put me up there for a night for 85 euros. The motion light kept going off so the nice guy had to keep waving his hand over it while we talked. He wrote my name down on the bill ticket with scrawling letters : David. He and his buddy led me down the stairs, which were too skinny for my foot to cover and too steep for me to go too fast and too close to the ceiling at the bottom, so I had to duck. The beds had roses on the bedspreads and the buddy was living there. Bed was unmade, shower stuff in the bathroom, towel thrown across the brown, unvacuumed carpet.
"I don't mean to put you out tonight. I can come back later.." They shook their heads and smiled. But anyways I was out looking for Dan and Meghan after I thought they were an hour late, then two, and about to check my email in case they were tring to get ahold of me. I wasn't even going to turn, but I saw Dan, pointing at that pink doughnut. I got one too and they were very dry and had probably been there for at least 24 hours. I don't think Dan ate his. He was laughing too much and telling me, "There's so much to tell you!" And: "I can't believe this. I'll tell you everything when we get back." So I stayed with them the rest of the time, thank God I got out of that place!!! Even though I had to wait to get the go-ahead green light from Dan every time we came back.

The neighborhood was great. Barney's famous breakfast and coffeshop right across the street; a big gathering spot out on the sidewalks during Queen's Day, with everyone selling their used household things- like a garage sale back home; a unique flooring and tiling place with a guy in a 1970's Aston Martin showing up for work with a black mod mop-top and thick black frames. He wore Adidas indoor soccer shoes and looked a little like Austin Powers and obviously his father worked there too because he looked like this Austin Powers guy in 30 years. Above the tiling place, an uncommon yet familiar place of business, large, spacious flats with plants growing in the windows. Spider plants reaching down the stucco and huge shrubs next to a bookcase within. Large white walls and probably artists living there because I saw a canvas. Next door, there were two guys about my age, maybe a little older, just hanging out. Both were petting a cat, one of them drinking tea, the other holding the cat. The window was wide open, a big bay window. Once again, no worries for either of them, as their easy-going butterfly smiles showed me.

We got down to the canal and these gondolas, boats, and huge innertube floatillas were scattered all down the waterway. They blasted techno, house, and occasionally hip-hop. We all felt the hip-hop boats were the only we could handle. All the coffeeshops played that annoying, repetitive digitcal music as well. They are laid-back, easy as a sunday morning people but they love party music that keeps the heart beating fast. Perhaps Amsterdam lacks adrenaline and the heavy, fast machine music allows them to feel the rush. Casual, cool, collected, disorganized, chaotic, morally corrupt, emotionally exploding, artistically intellectual and BUSY.

This has been Amsterdam in a Small Nutshell, Observed by a Foreigner Interested in Investigating Without Losing His Sense of Identity or Purpose Because of Partying Like These Wild, Eccentric, Vivacious People During the Holland National Alcoholically and Chemically Induced State of Celebration