Seven Bridges
Dave Says:
Our apartment is situated on a piece of tourist trivia. It’s not that tourists flock to it but should they find themselves at our canal they can be heard letting out sighs of “ah” and “oh yeah” and muttering numbers under their breath. Thirty meters to the left of our front door is unofficially named the Seven Bridges, it being the only place in Amsterdam where seven bridges bridge several canals and all the spans can be seen at once. So, in homage to the tourists and the bridges, my final entry from this most agreeable city will be seven things beginning with “B” that have made our life here quite sublime.
Bicycles
I will never look at bicycles the same way again. Nothing has recaptured my lost youth as much as these everyday objects. They represent freedom. Whether you are riding for a purpose or riding just because, the world whistles by seemingly glad you took the time to pass through. You are free from work, chores, driving licenses and most forms of responsibility. Bikes are top of the transportation food chain. Pedestrians fear you and cars fear of killing you. Only trams could care less but then they have no sense of self preservation anyway.
Closely related to bicycles but not counting towards one of my seven “B”’s are bells. These are the instrument of dominance that sit upon your handlebars wielding deadly power with a gentle “triiing”. Sarah has perfected a technique I call “Splitting the tourist atom”. To split a tourist atom, pick a group of bewildered tourists who have wandered aimlessly into the bike path, shift your angle of approach slightly and gun your bike heading straight for the center of the pack. At the last moment ring your bell and watch them split apart like neutrons from a nucleus. If you’re lucky you can actually see panic in their eyes and their realization they are nothing but mere playthings for the locals.
Beer.
Of course beer would feature somewhere on my list but what I had forgotten until living here was its simplicity. In an over-reaction to years of crap beer, the US may have made it just too damn complicated with the whole micro-brew phenomenon. Sure, Amsterdam has lots of different types of beer but simply asking for a “little beer” gets one a small glass of extremely enjoyable goodness. Better than a Bud, more complex than a Coors and more amiable than Alaskan Amber, the humble Heineken (or Brand or Juliper) exists in unpretentious simplicity. At about €2.20 for 25cl, it isn’t particularly cheap but the satisfaction and consistency cannot be beat. Besides, in no other country do they immediately wash your glass before your very eyes and serve a frothy head of at least 2cm. House wine, on the other hand, is a complete crap shoot (stress on the former) and I’ve sworn off mixed drinks until the only person who decides the amount of liquor going into my gin and tonic is the bartender and that decision is based purely on how much he thinks I’m good for when it comes to a tip. Big pour = big tip – it’s simple mathematics.
Borrel
A close cousin of beer, borrel is one of my favorite Dutch words. It has no direct translation but means something akin to a “shindig”, “soiree”, “cocktails” or “happy hour”. It is usually an organized affair but not to the extent a party might be. My soon-to-be ex-employer holds one every month for its employees and I have never been so completely and consistently shit-faced so often in my entire life. It can’t be the free beer (I am no stranger to that little pleasure) and I don’t think it’s the company (although my colleagues are fine people) so I’m certain it’s the word itself that makes me drunk. I have decided to take the word back home and if I designate something in Seattle a “borrel” and then find myself completely blotto that will serve as scientific proof that a noun can get one drunk.
Bitterballen
Another family member of good times in Amsterdam is Bitterballen. These are deep fried snacks that serve to provide nutritional balance at a borrel. The process of embalming these little rascals in grease can be a little unpalatable to the uninitiated, but those in the know understand it acts as a coagulant thickening blood previously thinned by alcohol and therefore leaving you in perfect shape for the mildly exerting but majorly thrilling ride home. It is best not to ask what’s in the deep fried breaded balls. A mystery meat for sure, but also a blend of mushy potato type wallpaper paste. Delicately presented on a white plate with a token leaf of lettuce and BOTH sweet chili sauce and mustard, these little delights are always welcome and polite competition always accompanies those who manage to take the last one. The Dutch trading empire extended all the way to Indonesia so in recognition of multi-culturalism and post-imperialism, bitterballen are always accompanied by the worst deep-fried-from-frozen spring rolls. These remain carrion for the people who were not strong enough to take down and devour the last bitterballen.
Beth
Beth, dear Beth. Without Beth our stay here wouldn’t have been half as great as it was. She is our tour guide, translator, go-to girl and, most importantly, family. She is also braver than us because she moved, lock, stock and barrel to another country and another culture. We’re just elongated tourists and can go home anytime we want; she has to put skin in the game, learn the language, make friends and put down roots. She is, of course, completely looney but then the smart and daring have to be to make amends for the legions of the uninspired. We will miss her but we hope she doesn’t miss us because we’re the new worlders that represent her old world, she has a whole new-old world to conquer.
Brad and Brenda
Speaking of family, our dear Seattle friends Brad and Brenda visited in December and that all too brief encounter lifted the spirits of your homesick adventurers. Christmas here was very understated, slow to start and rife with strange racial undertones that probably need to be retired. The winter was long and dark and our mood was beginning to match it. And then my phone started to ring. Not just once but multiple times an hour. There is only one person I know who can pound the cell-phone keys like that and that’s Brad. Brad and Brenda already have friends here. Amsterdam is really their city, we were just borrowing it for a few months. To have friendly familiar faces and to catch up on old times over multiple beers was just the tonic. It recharged our batteries for both Amsterdam and Seattle and probably saved the day. I’m not sure they realize how integral they are to us still not being home but we’ll be sure to tell them over a pitcher of fussy American beer down at Linda’s.
Bookmarks
The Dutch are notoriously closed when it comes to new friends. The country is so small and nobody ever seems to leave it that friends made during childhood rarely need replacing or augmenting. It has nothing to do with friendliness it’s just pragmatism. There are only so many social hours in the week and priorities go towards the oldest and closest. Natuurlijk. However, we couldn’t spend seven months in Amsterdam and make NO Dutch friends so we pushed ourselves (in the nicest possible way) on Karen and Jaap. Fortunately, Jaap and I speak the common languages of jazz and literature and Karen and Sarah speak the common language of, well, whatever girls talk about so it wasn’t long before we were all talking the common language of mashed potatoes. Stampot is the comfort food of the Dutch. Everyone’s mother makes the best and everyone’s mother makes it differently. Karen and Jaap are now our new mothers, never have mashed potato tasted so damn good. Jaap is an artist of great imagination. His work from found materials is, like stampot, an enlightened variation on something you thought you knew. As a small gift he presented us with bookmarks made from the plastic binding tape that boxes are strapped together with. Simple, useful, thoughtful and fortunately for us, very light. We’re glad to be their friends and look forward to completely over complicating things when they come to visit us in the US.
So, there you have it. Seven reasons to love Amsterdam without venturing any further down the alphabet than “B”. The world moves and so must we. Next stop, Taiwan.