I have a confession to make: I didn’t love Amsterdam right away. But I’ve actually never really loved something I didn’t hate first. After escaping the crowds of old British men who only come here to smoke stinky weed and hit up pubs, I fell completely in love with this city. I've met some kindred spirits (I see you, hipster chick in De Pijp shamelessly rocking out to her iPod while dance-biking down the street; keep the dream alive). I've even gotten used to—and loved—the techno parties ("Bla.Bla" at Studio 80 is especially endearing). It has been an especially beautiful week here in Amsterdam. For the first time since I arrived over a month ago, it actually climbed over 65 degrees—all the way to 80! This is a rare occurrence, and people take advantage of it. Every street, outdoor cafe, bike path, and park was buzzing.
This week more than ever, I’ve become completely enamored with the Dutch way of life. In fact, I now actually whole-heartedly endorse FEBO. That’s right, I said it—I love FEBO. While trying to get rid of a semi-creepy dude on a semi-date, I suggested the least romantic place I could think of, and some old Dutch guys convinced me to join them and try one of the mystery krokets. “It is Dutch; it is good for you.” Convinced by this flawless line of reasoning, I bit into one of the light-colored oblong fried things (I think it’s the Rundvleeskroket that you want, you have to be careful about this), which turned out to be little more than delicious thick gravy… deep fried. Is that genius? Maybe. As the Dutch say: “dat is lekker!”
I’m even sad to bid farewell to the tourists. After awhile I started feeling like it was my duty to protect them, and the stats I’ve accumulated are pretty impressive:
- Number of water bottles given away to passed out/vomiting tourists in Leidseplein: 2
- Number of maps given away to very old and very lost French tourists: 3
- …very old and very lost Spanish tourists: 1
- Number of directions given: 324 (estimate)
- Number of Dutch street names mispronounced: all of them (estimate)
- Number of party and sights suggestions given to American tourists: 5
- …without being asked for them: 2
Because everything beautiful has to end in heartbreak, I had to leave my new home. My neighbors were probably indifferent, except for those pubescent boys who habitually crowd around and knock on my bedroom window because I always forget to close the blinds. The bike paths got a little bit safer. Albert Heijn lost his most devoted groupie. My new Dutch boyfriend (now ex-new-Dutch-boyfriend… the turnaround rate for these things is accelerating depressingly fast) was teary-eyed. Just kidding—men don’t cry; he was stoic. My housemates were thrilled and probably made a facebook event called “Annoying American Girl Who Comes Home At 3 AM (hey, it’s research…) Is No More”! As for me, I was devastated: I had to give back mijn fiets. How I’m going to survive without biking is unclear, I’ve gotten so used to the pampered, perfect lifestyle-pairing of fietsen & feesten (cycling and partying). Sound like the 20-something dream? It is. Sound like a hipster-student paradise with just the right amount of indie bands, bad haircuts, social theory discussed at cafes named after social theorists, modern art, history, high-quality drugs, and dirty dubstep? It is. Sound like way, way more than that? Of course it’s that too.
Ah, Amsterdam, I know you’ll find new ridiculous American girls to delight with your harbor sunsets and your adorable Dutchisms. And maybe I’ll find new friends in new countries with even sillier accents (I wish!) or new culinary delights to obsess over (but stroopwafel ice-cream, you'll always have a piece of my heart).
It’s not goodbye, Amsterdam, it’s tot-ziens-ya-later… maybe I’ll be back again one day. Until then, thanks for everything. Ik hou van je, always.