Warning: The following has been edited for content. But what is there is true. I’ve tried to make it amusing, I’ve tried to make it reasonably comprehensive, I’ve tried to make it at least somewhat appropriate to the interests of whoever it is that reads this blog, including strangers fishing for ’sex, drugs, and rock ‘n roll’ style details. But the fact of the matter is that I know a sizeable part of my audience personally. Some of them are friends. Some are family. Some mark my work. So don’t expect any Fear And Loathing escapades. It was largely not that kind of trip. And it is absolutely not that kind of story.
The 9th of April opens on a summery, blue-skied London – an even better omen than the snow three days before. The Tube speeds us to the conveyor belts of Heathrow in half an hour. There’s a bit of a hassle when we’re made to check in ourselves through a touch screen and our lack of computer knowledge comes into play. I guess this is how BMI, the obscure airline with which (whom? Do airlines have personalities?) we’re flying, saves on manpower and manages these cheap (well, doable) fares. Ah, the romance of travel. There’s a little more hassle at the security checks, where we’re made to take off our shoes and thoroughly felt up by the control officers. I’ve never had this happen before, and I’ve been to Singapore, where they’ve made chewing gum an illegal substance. The irony is, of course, that I have Clearasil in my bag. Which is a liquid. Which is not permitted in hand luggage. Which my bag is. But if you smile nicely, take your belt and sneakers off and just say no to all their questions I guess it’s quite easy to sneak a bomb on board.
Landing at Schiphol now, still in one piece. All is bright and warm enough, though grey compared to London. The way into Amsterdam, as traversed by train, looks very much like the way into London, down to the leafless trees by the side of the tracks. The city itself is the same way. Marks & Spencer is called Albert Heijn. Regent’s Park is Vondelpark. And the Stayokay hostel feels exactly like a university dormitory, complete with pool table and fresh-faced teens giggling at the idea of coffeeshops and sneaking into each other’s rooms after lights out. After settling in we spend the evening in a nearby Irish pub watching Manchester United win a place in the semi-finals. A transitionary period between Paul’s world and mine, if you will. After the victory celebrations we wander the surrounding area a bit, where the main thing we learn is that all canals look the same at night.
The world of the pint and the fish ‘n chips may not have been that willing to let me go so easily. Three or four times during the night (I was in too much of a delirious state to count properly) and twice more this morning, I threw up in the room’s sink. This was made even more unpleasant by the sudden, mid-heave appearance of a rather quiet Italian in our midst, an extra guest who arrived after midnight. Up until then Paul and I had had this particular dormitory to ourselves. I’m sure I made an excellent first impression on the guy. Whether it was food poisoning, overeating or something else (though not the drinking; the price of pints in that pub kept me sober), all I know is that it’s only now, with noon approaching, that I’m starting to feel human again, if not exactly ‘better’ yet. My determination to actually do something fun on this first day also has something to do with that.
It’s now evening. I’m turning in early after shivering all through our wander through Vondelpark. We popped into the Filmmuseum next door as well, but that’s not showing an exhibition at the moment, only running screenings. Which makes it a cinema, not a museum, according to my calculations. Still, cooped up as I am with a lot of time to think, I find myself relativising this whole situation. This lingering queesiness forces me to take things easier, to let go of some of my perfectionism. I’ve had this whole trip planned out. Perhaps now is a good time to step back and let things ‘just happen’ for a bit. For instance, I could despair about the fact that the display on my weathered old camera has broken and I now have no way of knowing what the pictures I take look like or whether they’re even being made. I could also see it as the universe telling me to get away from behind that lens a bit and look around more. Because I am in Amsterdam. In Holland. In the Kingdom of the Netherlands, to use the full name. Land of tulips, cheese and my forefathers. And that’s a fact worth celebrating, in sickness or in health. Although ‘health’ better get a move on.
