European Sojourn I: Amsterdam, Netherlands

Serving looks and beer at the Heineken Experience

Night in Amsterdam

“What brings you to Amsterdam?” A local asked me. Like many people I met in the city, she wasn’t from Amsterdam. Most had flocked their way there like birds, but instead of moving south for the winter, they had moved north for their twenties and thirties. 


“I’m on a sojourn,” I said, wisdom ebbing and flowing from me like I was the Greek goddess Athena awaiting an owl to adorn my arm.
“A what?”


I was very confident about the definition of sojourn because once I had decided my trip to Amsterdam would be a sojourn, I had fact-checked my language. The last thing I desired to be was a stupid American making up words aboard in front of Europeans who I assumed viewed us as the noisy and trashy downstairs neighbors. I wanted to prove that I had a little bit of class. 


You might think that I would have some self-confidence, but the number of times I confused words, creatively expressed words, or otherwise ignored definitions…well, I’ve made a real jester out of myself. 


“You’d belong in Amsterdam then, they’re always making up words here.” The same local joked.


After two planes across fourteen hours, I arrived in Amsterdam at the crack of 6’o o'clock. My body felt like it was midnight — but I couldn’t check into the hotel until 3 PM and I figured the best way to adjust would be to try and manually reset tomorrow.  My plan was simple and effective: instead of trying to grab sleep like a thief stealing candy from a 


“Should I bring my GoPro?” I asked the receptionist, no doubt the biggest digital media nerd in the hotel lobby. “I don’t want to look like a tourist or an American.”


I wasn’t sure what was worse in Amsterdam, being a general tourist, or being more likely scouted as an American. 


“Ah, we can tell tourists easily here.”  The attendant informed me. “They like to take excessive selfies and pictures in front of the canals.”


I took that advice to heart and only got a couple of pictures in front of the canal. Anytime I tried to take a picture with myself in the canal, I did so clandestinely as if smoking heroin in public or how I imagined 2024 Trump supporters to be. They wouldn’t deny what they were doing, but perhaps it was best to be a bit quiet about it.

Underneath a skybridge -- love the skeleton in the night look on it.

The one place in Amsterdam where you can see seven canals in a row (according to a local!)

While I became somewhat lucid during my first day, I enjoyed an omelet at a shop called Omglegg (or something like that), a walk through the Jordan district, coffee at Cafe Hummingbird, strolled by the Flower Market (a row of stalls where, shocker, they only sold flowers), and ended up south of the center district where my original plan was to check out the Van Gogh Museum.

There were two places in Amsterdam in which it is recommended you grab tickets in advance: the Anne Frank House, and the Van Gogh Museum. I was more casual about Van Gogh, I could go or not go. There had been an attempt to grab tickets to the Anne Frank House, but a couple of hours on the day tickets went live really made a difference. I’ve scored Lady Gaga, U2, Madonna, and Ariana Grande tickets, but the Anne Frank House turned out to be the most competitive ticketing I’ve ever seen in a museum. 

My backup afternoon plan was to visit the Rijksmuseum, a classic art Museum showcasing art from 1000 to 1950 in a very beautiful building serving ancient. The layout was pretty annoying though — the four floors were split in half, which caused a lot of confusion. I probably looked like one of those Scooby Doo montages where they keep running down halls and popping through different doors. 

A beautiful stained glass piece at the Rijksmuseum

The infamous steak with blue cheese and raspberry sauce.

​If I had to give non-visitors of Amsterdam a piece of context about the city (which sounds pretentious for someone who only spent three days in the city (in my defense I easily crammed five days of activities into those three days)), I would have to mention the following rule: 


If you wanted to drink coffee, you’d be looking to find a Cafe. If you’re looking to smoke weed, you’d be looking for a Coffeeshop. 


In an effort to crack down on the drug invasion of the 80s, Amsterdam legalized weed. And to trick (or, I guess act casual about it), ‘coffeeshop’ became synonymous with a place you can get weed. 


Before the trip, my mother and I met a Dutch native.


“When we visit Amsterdam, what are some coffee shops we should visit?”  My innocent mother asked in search of the best cup of coffee. The woman was lovely and gave us multiple suggestions which I scribbled into my notes feverishly. Who could turn down an excellent cup of cappuccino besides a recovering caffeine addict?


Upon my arrival, I discovered that the Dutch woman’s suggestions for Coffeeshops to visit applied directly to weed. I couldn’t help but laugh, wondering if she knew she was telling a mother-and-son duo where to get weed. 


The food was fantastic from the authentic bread and butter (American bread just feels depressing when I eat it), Thai fried rice, and tomato Basil soup where the basil smacked your tonsils around like the boxer. I enjoyed a traditional, or so I supposed, feast of fries with mayonnaise, a side salad, and a steak with blue cheese and strawberry sauce which was weirdly enchanting. It felt like you were eating a gristly fairy tale.

Untitled (Amsterdam at Night)

Untitled (Amsterdam at Day)

I did check in and grab a quick nap just before a historic tour of the Red Light District. The tour guide Marta covered all the history which included a church next to the district which became infamous for its indulgences. Sailors would arrive to sleep with women and then would confess before they left for the ocean just in case they perished. 


The facts of the Red Light District were illuminating. Most services are based on a ‘per orgasm’ rate of $50 per 15 minutes. Men were notorious for paying for a half-hour or more as if to prove they could ‘last longer.’ Female students attended school in Amsterdam to get the 200 Euro licensure just to use it as a 21% tax write-off on any product related to the work.


“As you can imagine, the license pays for itself if you’re getting work done,” Marta told the group.


You needed a European Union license to work in the Red Light District. Only one Dutch woman worked in the Red Light District, the other 500 or so were non-Dutch. The windows were owned by rich families of yesteryears who kept the windows in their name but used a property management company to handle the ‘window rent.’ 


Sex workers negotiated with customers through the door which could only be propped a certain amount so that a man could not force his way in. Rooms had emergency buttons installed into them.  And all sexual activities involved protection. 


But there were also some sad facts, the main one being that conducted research suggested that anywhere from 40-80% of the women working are feeling compelled by someone else to work in the district. 

Me on the rooftop at the Heineken Experience.

The following morning was a two-mile walk to Heineken. I had prepared for the amount of walking I expected to do this trip with hour-long treadmill walks peppered with incline. I crushed out over 70,000 steps in my three Amsterdamian days, which according to Google is roughly 30-35 miles. And when has Google been wrong??? (This is semi-sarcasm).


I’m not a beer drinker, but I enjoyed the Heineken Experience and kind of enjoyed the Heineken. It’s kind of like when your friend cooks you a homemade dinner and while you have never liked the dish, somehow your friend makes it taste better. It’s a little touristy, but between the rooftop view and the drinks, it was worth its penny.
​

Close to Heineken was a giant market filled with stands, tents, and trucks. You could smell fresh food (even seafood which made me want to throw up a little). I got a fresh off-the-griddle Stroopwaffle -- the best way to experience them. Dinner was at the Sea Palace, a floating Asian restaurant close to my hotel. The appetizers were okay, but the entree was good.


Another tip for Americans visiting Europe: European Fanta is out of this world. I don’t know why American Fanta is canned orange garbage, it almost feels intentionally run down with sugar. 


The canal ride was that night rather than during the day. I was a bit selfish in the idea that the night canal ride would make for more interesting pictures. The boat came with a VIP wine and cheese pass, and in the hour ride, I managed to down almost a whole bottle of Rosé. Frugal Matt would maybe have ordered one drink. But if I’m getting a packaged deal, I will take advantage harder than a politician during a tragedy that benefits his position. 


Amsterdam was filled with small things: like the Tulip Museum and the Cheese Museum, both in small buildings between regular shotgun-style homes (fun fact, old Amsterdam tax laws would base tax on the width of your house, the amount of windows, and the amount of stairs. Rich and wanted to brag about it? You had a wide house with beautiful front staircases and tons of small window panes stitched together to make larger windows). 


I took another history tour, this time about the effects of World War II on Amsterdam and the connection to Anne Frank. The tour guide was fine, but you could tell she was not deeply connected to the material. 


“The Allies captured the remaining Nazi high officers and placed them in that building.”  The tour guide pointed to a building to our left. The group all ricocheted our necks and stared at the location.
“The Armani Exchange?” I questioned. “Which I assume wasn’t the Armani Exchange at the time?”



Next Time: II. Kinderdijk (travel interlude)