Would You Like Fries With That?

Whenever I use Google Maps I step out confidently and immediately will be heading the wrong direction which upon noticing I will announce out loud my mistake, throw my hands skyward and pivot 180 degrees. In Amsterdam this is followed by jumping out of the way of about ten thousand bicycles and a handful of Smart cars the likes of which contain a seat and nought much else. These can apparently traverse the bike lanes, the tram lines and just about anywhere you might want to walk.

Surviving as a pedestrian requires eyes in the back of your head, a nonchalance about being run-over and the occasional deployment of the hand of God in the hopes of activating collision avoidance technology. Thankfully, I have not (as yet) been knocked into a canal. I am told this is merely a matter of time, with 15,000 bicycles and several cars being fished out each year. Fun fact, so many of those cars were Tesla’s that the auto parking function is permanently disabled on models sold in the Netherlands.

Surviving my day on Shanks Pony, and the number 2 and 24 trams I managed to cram a lot in and was feeling rather smug until a man informed me, ‘ah ja, ja, American tourist, hoping to see all of Europe in two days, eh?’ Gross. I am not American. ‘You should cycle, ja.’ Also, no. My arse still remembers the pain of attempting to circumnavigate Rottnest Island on a deadly-treadly, and I have no desire to revisit the bruising or attempt it in traffic. Still, I have fit a lot in.

I started with the breakfast of champions (pancakes) before walking from Centraal Station towards Jordaan and at once being distracted by the Sex Museum. I wasn’t totally sure what to expect but being flashed by an animatronic man in a trench coat, a gallery of amateur porn through the ages (starting 1885) and a rotating model of a metal sex doll didn’t utterly surprise me. I did make sure to send my friend a dick pic, which she correctly identified as one of the six-foot-tall boys in the entrance foyer.

Ducking out of the Museum I continued my journey past the Dam, the Koniklijk Paleis Amsterdam, and into the nine streets to make friends with an old dog and purchase a shirt from his mistress. After this I tracked down the Living Horse Museum and booked myself some lessons for latter in my trip. What better place to learn to ride side-saddle than Amsterdam’s oldest equestrian school?

Having traversed many bridges and watched the boats punting along the river I thought it was high time to take a load off and enjoy a putter around the canals myself. The skipper of the boat Titan, Omar, was born and bred in the city and took us past the mayor’s house, the drunk houses, the love bridge (and the Tinder bridge). He informs me that property in the city is unaffordable to locals and that many of the houses we passed were now owned by expats, predominantly artists enjoying a better tax rates, specifically Justin Bieber. Or so I am told.

The city of Amsterdam made a monumental leap from fishing to trade with the establishment of the Dutch East India Trading Company, and despite not actually using spice in any of their food, the architecture of the city was forever changed. A combination of property tax calculated on the width of your house and a desire to keep spices high and dry resulted in the tall narrow buildings complete with a winch to pulley your stores to the upper levels, and thus avoiding the almost ladder-like stairs. The buildings leaning in towards the canals protected the cargo on its ascent, the leanings left and right however are a by-product of the degradation of timber foundations in what is essentially a swamp.

With a firm recommendation from Omar I sought the Rijksmuseum and the works of both Rembrandt and Van Gogh, the only two Dutch artists you’re expected to know, and found someone with a job more stressful than mine ~ restoring the Night Watch a 363 by 437-centimetre painting from 1642. Having just been awed by this I sought to immediately trump that by viewing The Battle of Waterloo by Jan Willem Pienerman a 567 by 823 centimetre painting from 1824. Yes, when it comes to me and art, size does matter. Poor old Van Gogh’s self portrait was rather lame in comparison. Just in case you were also wondering, The Starry Night is in fact in New York at the Museum of Modern Art. I’ve no idea how big it is, don’t ruin it for me.

Reaching now the time of roughly 5pm I thought holy fuck I’m hungry and I need to pee. The loos in Europe have come a long way from my last visit in 2012 – this time I could pay pass my 1 Euro turnstile offering instead of doing a jig whilst awaiting change from a disinterested shop assistant – huzzah!

Making my way across the one true river to Amsterdam Noord I overpaid for an extravagant offering of four ravioli pillows in a sage butter, a burrata with blistered cherry tomatoes in a balsamic and strawberry salad, and a coffee with nougat, a Madeliene and a mini vanilla ricotta cannoli. This was in fact a full three courses and so long as I don’t think of the bill the food was quite nice.

My final stop of the day was the A’DAM – Amsterdam Dance And Music building to ride the highest swing in Europe. The swing itself was a touch anticlimactic, perhaps because the last time I visited an observation deck overseas I jumped off it, but it could just be me. The tower itself is an impressive landmark and venue for the Amsterdam music scene with multiple spaces to work, dine and party. The idea of an all-night rave had me feeling all three decades of my life and the awareness that I am just not cool enough for this space, so it was time to backtrack to my digs and get the achy body into the sauna.