Meeting Amsterdam

Fountains in Haarlemmerplein 

I had decided not long before arriving to hire a bike rather than get around by public transport. My accommodation on Spaarndammerstraat and the different milongas I was thinking about going to were not close to each other and bikes are quite the fastest way to get around here. On the half hour walk from the Airbnb to the bike hire place I saw more of the city than I had during 3-4 days spent at the Tangomagia festival in the winter of 2013/14. 

Then I had stayed on Waagdragerhof just off Piet Heinkade in an apartment right by the water.  Apart from one milonga in the Duif church the milongas then were in the Muziekgebouw aan 't IJ, the Kompaszaal on the KNSM-eiland and in Dansmakers, a dance space just across the water by the Motorkanaal in Amsterdam north.  When you dance at night the day often doesn't get going until late morning.  Cycling between these and my accommodation  during the chilly afternoons and nights I felt ashamed I had seen little of Amsterdam besides that prettily illuminated stretch of water.

The city now was warm and picture postcard. Tall, thin, well-maintained houses several hundreds of years old overlooked canal bridges designed for people and animals rather than cars.  Walking along the Brouwersgracht a few people had gathered to look at a home more house than boat listing heavily in the water.  Further on local dog walkers in jeans and t-shirts hailed each other lazily as they walked down the centre of the road. There are plenty of places you can do this in London's Zone 1 but not as near to the centre. Amsterdam's centre feels to me a lot more human and - notwithstanding the speeding bikes - less frenetic than London.  The odd scooter went by but in this city of three quarters of a million people these roads were, if you avoid the well known bike routes, not as busy and dangerous for children as they are in my town of some 45,000 people.  Do cars stop at zebra crossings? I wondered at a slightly busier street and, stepping out, found that they do. There are in fact remarkably few cars because in this sensible city the pragmatic Dutch know there isn't a lot of point taking cars into a capital, especially when everyone cycles.  But do the bikes stop?   Later, I was surprised to see a cyclist stop at a pedestrian crossing because when at speed I knew the temptation is not to.  Then I noticed the police car behind him.

A small boy rolled lazily on the tiled floor of a smart chocolate shop. A woman went by with two children in the box on the front of her bakfiet. Cafes lined the canals, where people chatted, many with English accents. The cafes became busier and livelier as I approached the centre. It did not feel like a capital city on a Friday afternoon. Why do I live in the middle of Scotland?  I thought, far from for the first time.  Some of my more tango-central friends use more colourful terms for my chosen location.  I had not yet seen the endlessly flat Dutch countryside but since now I have I appreciate anew what we have in Scotland, even if it means thermals, hats and scarves (indoors) for several months of the year.

I made a mental note of one of the quieter cafes to stop by later . Next door a sign saying Coffee Shop was written unequivocally above the door. But which kind? I thought, wondering if I was being naive. A relaxed looking black guy was sitting outside with a roll-up. On my next breath I realised what kind and inhaled wistfully.  Months later a local told me coffee shop doesn’t mean cafe and I felt inappropriately callow remembering this was also the case twenty-something years ago.

On the way back from picking up the bike I stopped in Haarlemmerplein to get salad and fruit in the Albert Heijn supermarket. I bought juice from one of the many self-service juice pressers I had seen in shops here and took it out to drink on a bench in the sunny square.  The sun was strong even at 1830. It was relaxing sitting there. Two women chatted together next to me, drinking Becks from bottles. It didn't have somehow the same of feeling of coarseness it might in the UK.  I sat peacefully for a long time while the sun sank lower, adjusting, settling, taking things in, much I realised later as I would in a new milonga.  The incomprehensible chat and the regular sound of the bell from the nearby boat crossing lulled me.  The shrieks of excited children playing in the fountains were familiar.

Returning to Spaarndammerstraat, a little later I biked across town to the De Plantage milonga (review).