Remember me, my love?

When the call came in a couple months ago that my sister and her husband would be traveling to Amsterdam for work we were given a choice, a choice which was no choice at all: Sheffield or Amsterdam; should they come to us or we to them? Naturally Amsterdam must win in any epic battle against Sheffield, or to be fair, in my biased mind, most cities as Amsterdam is one of my favorite in this ever shrinking world. The moment the easy  decision was made my eyes widened with excitement. We would ride bikes, wear wooden shoes, eat Dutch snacks (oh Cheese Soufflé how I’ve missed thee), see canals, and churches, and canals, and churches, and paint ourselves into the beauty that is that bohemian city.

But first we had to overcome the procrastination which runs deep within me (everything booked one week before departure) and war once again with our old enemy, the Manchester Airport. Naturally our flight was delayed, however being held up in a different terminal brought forth a different outlook on this old situation, an outlook involving the calming experience of a half-empty airport bar and wine, lots of wine, practically donated to me by an overly generous bartender, until the announcement opening our gate was almost a sad affair. After a 45 minute flight we said goodbye to Schiphol as quickly as we said hello and were train bound to the Venice of the North.

Due to our much delayed flight we arrived in this most spectacular of cities very late and thus our first night, and stay in a lovely locally owned hotel in the Vodelpark area, was quite un-noteworthy. Breakfast, however, was anything but. Breakfast was glorious. Brown breads, cold meats, cheese, tea, and juice. Perfection. Afterwards we reunited with my sister and her husband and I set off to introduce Kevin and my brother-in-law Jeremy to the wonders of Amsterdam.

Our roving through the city was more haphazard than anything; remembering a worthwhile street or shop as we came upon it and pouncing in that direction with excitement. The nine streets was our first task, namely to search out a well known vintage store and all its yet undiscovered contents. The nine streets, or “De 9 Straatjes,” is a beautiful shopping area located in the heart of the canal district (but to be honest what is not a canal district in Amsterdam?) This area boasts designer shops, fancy cafes, and wonderful hidden gems all located between the Singel and Prinsengracht canals. Before the retail excitement could begin I appeased the boys by  leading them to a Dutch snack shop, renown for its culinary goodies trapped in vending machine-like contraptions. I fell in love with Dutch snacks while on St. Eustatius but to fully appreciate these delicacies you really have to put coins into a slot and be rewarded with a steaming hot, deep fried prize.

We ventured on through the city with no immediate plans, the best way to experience Amsterdam. Thankful for the sunshine amidst the piercingly cold breeze, we admired canal houses and  their resilience after centuries. We also admired Dutch beer, also historic, and found ourselves on a perpetual pub crawl of sorts. Kudos to the warm pubs and purveyors of good beer, also the home to many a  friendly cat. After Ally joined us we searched out the oldest and most famous part of Amsterdam, the red light district. Walking the allies and crowded canal-lined streets I could not help but think, am I the only person who visits this place, aglow in a flood of hazy red lights, because of its architecture, history, and the aesthetic beauty that comes with being the oldest part of a beloved city? Most likely, as we pushed pasted stereotypical frat boys gawking at the barely dressed women behind the glass.

Our first day ended with a tram ride chock full of excitement as a fellow passenger passed out not once, not twice, but three times and Jeremy switched to nurse mode, assisting the man’s friends who, for whatever reason, were holding the poor man’s legs up in the air. The tram stopped not once but twice and we were all kicked out as an ambulance was called. Despite our concern for the young man we had previously waited what seemed hours for that tram in the cold Dutch air and were not too pleased to be sent back out in the freezing night once more.

After starting our next day at the Van Gough Museum, a must for Amsterdam visitors, we ventured into the adjoining park for some playful fun, climbing on an IAMSTERDAM structure which can be found throughout the city. A trip to the flower market was  in store, along which we discovered a print shop worth our time and eventually our money. Previously planned plans faded away as we continued to enjoy our destinationless walks eventually leading us to Rembrandt Square and some chilly sunbathing while snacking on yet another Cheese Soufflé (not an actual Soufflé but a fried dough with a cheesy center.) Of all the “Dutch Snacks” Kevin preferred the kroket, deep fried meat ragout, while the frikandel (my favorite while on Statia)  came in at a close second. We all agreed that bitterbal, the most popular for many locals, was gross in concept (minced meat with beef broth and butter) and taste (the consistency of pate with the texture and flavor of creamy vomit.)

After more aimless wandering serendipity stepped in and we happened upon De Bekeerde Suster, a brewery and restaurant near the University. Not only was the wait staff friendly and the beer brewed in-house, but they had cheese platters and more cheese platters. It felt like an old friend, a local place to us non-locals. After making it our home base, Ally met us and we ordered another round of cheese and large glasses of Blonde Ros and Wite Ros (although to mine and Ally’s dismay the stylish glasses were not for sale.)

The night was rounded out by playing on yet another large IAMSTERDAM, getting the wrong directions from a crazy man in the street, waiting in the wrong place for the wrong train, attempting to have Ally jump into my arms while a statue of Rembrandt looked on, which resulted in her sprawled out on the ground (the reasoning behind this endeavor is still lost to me) and eventually having drinks in a hotel bar  themed after Vermont (I believe we sat somewhere near Montpelier.)

After saying early morning goodbyes to Ally and Jeremy (and the devil itself, the little red suitcase of horrors), Kevin and I struck out on our own for a half day of further exploration. Although short, this bit of time allowed us to discover our now favorite piece of this favorite city, a collection of serene buildings and quiet canals (complete with picturesque bridges) between the University of Amsterdam and the Rembrandt House Museum. Hello little slice of heaven. We played some chess, ate some soup, and explored St. Nicolaaskerk.

Leaving Amsterdam is always a sad affair, made more sad if, with a false sense of confidence, you bought the wrong train ticket and accidently sat in the first class car, thus were fined twice while an elderly Dutch couple looked on. Amsterdam is a fickle love.