You Never Promised Me a Rose Garden

9:35pm Amsterdam

                Today I awoke in the early hours of a stifling, summer camp-esque bunk room to the sound of whispering Spaniards spraying an ozone hole’s worth of body spray on themselves. My stomach and the suffocating smell of body spray had me writhing in agony, as I had had far too much to drink the night before. I raced to the bathroom to relieve my stomach; and as I mistakenly washed my hands with the conspicuously placed toilet cleaner I thought to myself, “So this is backpacking through Europe”. So far, this journey has been the experience of a lifetime.

                Amsterdam is like nowhere I’ve been before; it’s fascinating. The city is brimming with life and activity, yet there’s not an ounce of a sense of rush here. Locals coast their bikes at a comfortable pace, tourists scurry from alleyway to alleyway in search of the next intrigue, and electric railcars slowly pace about; stopping for the occasional oblivious tourist standing on the tracks. The entire town seems to embrace the smaller things in life.

                After a brief recovery period, we managed to pull ourselves out of bed as not to miss the free breakfast. It was a simple meal; some fruit, toast, and watery coffee. We decided perhaps we would need something a bit more substantial, so we made our way outside. To our delight, it was a gorgeous day outside; warm, sunny, and breezy –the kind of day you only see a handful of a year. We took a short stroll around the block and stopped at a diner for some European coffee and some of the Dutch’s famous pancakes. The pancakes and coffee were phenomenal –thin and soft, buttery, served with powder sugar and thick-as-molasses syrup. Still hungry, we stopped at a local hot dog vendor and, after lamenting at the lack of Portillo’s, grabbed a couple of hot dogs for the road. Revitalized, we set off for a day of exploration.

                The map that the hostel provided was full of useful suggestions for activities. We saw a marking for a botanic garden on the east side of town and decided to head that way. We wound through the alleyways and over the many canals of Amsterdam. The day was beautiful, the flowers and trees in blooms of purples and whites, and the canal boats calmly and quietly cruising about the petite waterways. The town really never seems to stop the festivities. Although it was late morning, we saw people sitting outside drinking beer, madams setting up their windows for the day, and the bars and smoke shops full of patrons.

                The garden was in a more local part of town. It was small, but beautiful. Small wooden tables and benches, well kept grass, rows of flowers dotted with a few trees. There were a few cheerful locals reading and enjoying the weather. One odd fellow, and old man, even briefly approached us about the crazy weather before leaving us with “you never promised me a rose garden” and biking off (apparently it’s a quote from a famous country song, and he was trying to be clever. I found it quite entertaining).

 Walking through the city we were approached several times by friendly locals striking up small conversations. I felt so welcomed. We went to a small market with tents selling all kinds of old wares. As Becca spotted some ancient looking skates and an old man happening to pass by stopped to show us a scar he got when he was twelve years old from a skate running over his arm. Even the beggars here are pleasant. We were approached by one passing by on his bike; he greeted us warmly and had a short chat with us before asking for spare change. When I denied him he just said “that’s okay, have a nice day!” and peddled off. I wish he were a bit ruder, then I wouldn’t so feel bad about not giving him anything.

                We sat down for some ice cream at Rembrandt Park, enjoying the locals playing music. One young man was playing the cello masterfully. I had forgotten how much I love classical music. We finally settled on the dock of a charming canal and sat barefoot in the sun, our seemingly first time to relax and do “nothing” on this trip. It was wonderful.

                Towards the end of the day we came upon a great crowd gathered in a large public square, buzzing with tourists and railcars. The crowd was congregated around an energetic, middle aged Australian man with a small portable microphone, speaker, and various props. He was making some hysterical jokes (mostly at the expense of crowd members) as he attempted to juggle and catch hats on his head. It was a long show for a street performer, with a great finale including him using crowd members to climb atop a 10 foot high unicycle to bike around while juggling scimitars. As his show ended, he paused to ask for donations, and he asked in a way I’ve never encountered before.

                He gave a short speech about what he does. He comes out every day, works hard and makes people laugh and smile, even if it’s for only 30 minutes. He said that his performance is his job and that “I’m not on welfare, I’ve never been on welfare, because I have a job, and you all pay my salary”. It struck me all of a sudden and sort of to the bone. He and some (I’m sure plenty do in fact collect welfare) of the other street performers go out and try to do something with their lives. I generally do not tip street performers unless I find them to be truly spectacular, but his speech did make me stop and think (and yes, I tipped him a few Euros, because his performance was fantastic). Regardless as to whether or not he’s telling the truth, living in the suburbs I hardly ever see homeless or street performers, but on this trip I have seen so many that the reality of poverty has been a recurring thought.

                Afterwards we returned to the hostel to the familiar sounds of loud music, young people smoking and drinking, and an overall dorm-like living situation. Many of them are constantly coughing, even in bed, perhaps they should lay off the weed a bit. Honestly though, it’s a lot of fun. Everyone is very nice and social, and it feels very safe (the back alley is even fenced in with razor wire, which I found simultaneously comforting and disconcerting). I’m very grateful that Becca found this hostel. It’s right in the thick of the action; it’s clean, safe, and a riot! She also booked a similar type of hostel in Munich and Vienna, and I can’t wait to see what those are like. We grabbed a couple of rounds of beer at the hostel’s bar and headed to bed early. Tomorrow is a new day of exploration.