Europe, Fall 2016: Amsterdam

The Royal Dutch Airlines ferried us from Vaclav Havel Airport back to Schiphol, and from there we took the airport express bus to our hotel, which was located on the city’s southern outskirts, in a hushed, leafy business park filled with stark buildings and a curious lack of people.

I think it is my Third World conditioning again; I am so used to seeing people everywhere that to suddenly land in a commercial zone, with all the properly new and shiny malls, restaurants and offices, and yet not have to fight to dodge human traffic, is slightly unsettling, and gives rise to faint dystopian suspicions.

I was to meet a good friend whom we shall call J; Mom decided to pass on the night out, and so did Clancy.

Now J, gallant Dutch gentleman that he is, is alas a bit like me in the directional department, and so it was that we got a little lost looking for dinner. But what a place to get lost in: vibrant Herengracht, the Patricians’ Canal.

Centuries ago this canal was already one of Amsterdam’s most prestigious and powerful addresses; here, in these historic brick and stone buildings with their distinctive gables, important decisions were made, such as the one to found what would later be known as New York. The mayor’s residence remains, as does the oldest merchant’s house.

So perhaps it was only apt that our conversation turned towards the Dutch West India Company (and its less palatable aspects) then.

But tonight Herengracht doesn’t loom over us with all the portentous weight of its history and importance. Tonight it is a stylish, lively neighborhood where the lights spill out from carefully preserved storefronts over the waters, redolent with the city’s confidence and adventurous spirit.

We eventually arrived at our destination, The Hoxton, a boutique hotel set in 17^th-century townhouses, and J took us inside Lotti’s. It is the kind of dimly lit, fashionable outpost buzzing with energy and attractive waitstaff that would be more likely to show up on a local’s listicle of hip urban restaurants than a tourist’s Where to Eat in Amsterdam guide.

The homemade bitter lemon (!) was only the second-best thing about it; the first was the conversation. Always so grateful for friends anywhere in the world who take the time out of their busy lives to see you, even just for a while, and even better if they’re hoteliers (and especially F&B types) because a) they certainly know where to dine and b) nobody else understands the vagaries of this industry.

The evening didn’t end there.

I was glad my cool mother had decided to sleep in, because next we found ourselves getting lost in the notorious red-light district. Not for any serious business, of course, merely to gawk and avoid the stag parties and meandering drunks and giggly tourists.

At one point, J called my attention to the scent that lay heavy in the air.

Smell that?

Yes, I said, sniffing curiously. What is it?

Weed. It’s everywhere.

Oh, I said. So that’s what weed smells like. (And took a deep breath just in case.)

*****

One last question: are the swans on the canal that runs right through this district stoners too?