Amsterdam Diary: June 2016
It began at 2 AM, when we woke up after a couple of hours of sleep and squeezed in a quick coffee before hitting the road to Gatwick. Becca drove, and had treated us both to an energy drink for the journey, but I would’ve had plenty of energy without it. I can get by without sleep if it’s for a good cause, like going to Amsterdam.
By the time that we’d parked at the airport and hopped on the shuttle bus, it was four o’clock in the morning. By five, we’d checked the suitcase in and made it through passport control, although first off I spunked £12 away on a pack of airport cigarettes, because I was too shy to turn round and say, ‘Ah, never mind,’ when the cashier told me how much I owed her.
Fear:
Of the unknown,
from the lack of sleep
and the vertigo,
from home
to across the globe,
the shaking hands
to the glint in the eyes
of the elderly gentlemen
still working themselves
into the grave.
Of failure,
or of building paper aeroplanes
overtaken by Iranians
or blameless homo sapiens
singing Nearer
My God
To Thee.
Of diffusion,
like a confused illusion
of a musical movement,
of a constant improvement
that soothes you
in and out
of the European Union.
Of flying,
of oh-my-god
-I’m-going-to
-dying,
of foreign policemen
claiming writers have
no diplomatic
immunity.
Of opportunities,
of nicotine yellow pages
in second-hand bookshops,
or of booze-stained notebooks
in the sunlight.
Of maybe leaving
the bathroom light on;
of sleeping with the lights off
and riding the night bus.
Of fear
itself.
With the final, pre-flight, expensive cigarette out of the way, and with passport control passed and under control, we stopped off for an early morning pint at Wetherspoons. Then, we boarded.
It’s only a short (1 hour) flight from Gatwick to Schiphol, and so it was over before we knew it – I only managed to read around 40 pages of my Stephen King book (The Tommyknockers) before we landed, at which point I fell asleep while waiting for the plane to taxi to a stop.
Customs was no problem on the other side, and we caught a direct train to Centraal shortly afterwards. Then, we went for a stroll down the Damrak in search of food, finally stopping for a sandwich and a drink at a place called Mr. Paprika.
Dutch Sunlight
Their sunlight
is brighter than our sunlight,
and their prime minister cycles
and rides his bike
to work and back,
and the people speak English
so the English
don’t speak Dutch,
unless they’re ordering vlaamsefrites
or stroopwafels.
Their sunlight
shines down in alleyways
and reflects and refracts
off the strawberry motifs
of cafeterias
and restaurants,
paging a message
to Mr. Paprika.
Our sunlight
reminds me of the time
I want hiking,
and we lost our maps and minds
and ended up winding our way
through the Peak District,
when I was 13-years-old
and in an awkward state
of nothingness.
Meanwhile
there’s this big debate
played out in newspaper pages
about minimum wages
and people immigrating
in search of a better;
at least,
I think that’s what newspapers
talk about.
The food was delicious and hit the spot, and from Mr. Paprika we walked south, stopping off to check out a few shops and cutting through the flower market and then making a pit stop for a latte.
We planned to go to the Rjiksmuseum after that, but they wouldn’t let us in with the suitcase and we realised it’d probably be the same everywhere else, so we used that as our cue to check out the tram system.
The journey to the hotel wasn’t too bad – it took maybe 25 minutes and two trams, but the public transportation system was pretty good – definitely better than Arriva the Shires, at any rate. We got back to the hotel two hours before we were due to check in, but they let us go in early and so we were able to drop off our cases and to chill in our room for a little bit.
The hotel was awesome, a place called The Student Hotel, and as well as having nice rooms and amenities, it had a beautiful outdoor space, a cheap bar and restaurant, pool and table tennis tables and even a gym, a launderette and a basketball court, none of which we used.
After stopping off for a quick nap, we got our stuff together and headed back out again, this time by taking The Metro and then a train back to Centraal. From there, it was down the Damrak again for some vlaamsefrites and a pit stop at Prix d’Ami.
Converting Measurements from Metric to Imperial
Help me brain
I can’t do maths today
and anyway
I don’t know the currency
or its current conversion rate,
and lately I’m amazed
at the way things change,
changing change
in a change machine
and spitting out notes
of digital
bank transfers.
I want to go
on a boat
and float
slowly home;
I want to vote
for goats
and armadillos.
Put me back down
in the lost and found
and don’t go round
tonight.
Help me liver,
I’ve got drinks to deliver,
muscles to quiver
as I float along the river,
and Amstel
damn right you
are delightful.
I want to go
on a double-decker train,
write songs with your name
and my name in ‘em,
but Becca you’d better
behave yourself,
I’m dangerous.
Pick me back up
in the early evening;
these metres are feet
you can believe in.
From there, we went looking for boat tours, because we fancied going on a little cruise. We managed to find one company that did a tour of the canals for €10. Highlights of the tour included Amsterdam’s thinnest building, an incredible assortment of houseboats and riverside apartments, and the seven bridges, which all line up if you look at them from the right angle. It only lasted for an hour or so, but it was definitely worth doing!
After the cruise, we went for a walk in search of food, and we ended up eating Italian food at Pizzeria La Piazza. It was 10 PM by the time that we’d finished up and sorted ourselves out, and so we headed back to the hotel to get some rest – it had been a long day.
Trams in the Rain
We took the tram
in the rain
to the Rjiksmuseum,
and stood in long lines
to find our way inside,
and we wandered
past cheese shops
but they didn’t have cheese
for me.
We watched TV
with subtitles,
and learned to build
crude survival shelters,
found out more
about 18th century America
where frontiersman blazed trails
like the tail on Haley’s comet,
if it is has a tail;
I tell tales of my own
but I never figured out
how comets work.
We swapped Euros
for orgones
and found Anne Frank
along the Damrak;
we were swarmed
outside restaurants,
proprieters shouting,
“Buy our food
or be damned.”
I narrowly avoided collisions
with cars, trams and bicycles,
walking down cycle paths
like a psychopath,
except I have firmly held beliefs
about eating meat
and the way we treat each other,
so I will never be
a neo-nazi.
I’m pretty sure
we queued forever,
because the weather changed
and the heavens rained
and drained away,
and now it’s just
the survivors,
surviving in some kind
of purgatory.
I put my pen down
and took a short look
at the world around me.
Thursday 23rd June 2016
My alarm went off at 8 AM, but I was exhausted and so I turned it back off. I didn’t actually get up until 11 AM, and it was noon by the time that we left the hotel. It rained overnight, and it was still raining when we woke up, so we hopped on a tram and paid a visit to the Riksmuseum.
That place was massive, with three or four floors of exhibitions from the 16th – 20th century. They even had a couple of Van Goghs, although they were somewhat disappointing; there were only three or four of them, they were small and surrounded by crowds of people, and we overheard a conversation which implied that they were reproductions.
Still, they did have lots of cool stuff, and the museum was so big that we only saw half of it. But half was enough – we were still there for a fair amount of time, and I was worn out by the time that we finished. I’d got a sore back, sore shoulders and sore feet, from all of the walking we did.
The rain had stopped and the sun was back out by the time that we left the Rijksmuseum, so we stopped off at a supermarket to get a few bits and bobs for a picnic, which we ate out in the sun on the big field at the back of the museum. It was a cheaper alternative to eating out at a restaurant, but it was also highly enjoyable, it’s sometimes nice to have a change of pace and to just relax. It was so hot that it felt more like Spain than Amsterdam.
Humans Aren’t Dogs
I won’t go to bed
with a leash around my neck,
but I will chase squirrels
and hide in women’s handbags;
I won’t mark my territory
or cower on public transportation;
I’ll cower in my territory
and mark public transportation;
I won’t be called Spot
or Fido;
I’ll change my name
and try to act my age.
I won’t guard dogs
for dangerous men with no hair;
I’m more Howard Marks
than German Shepherd.
I will bite
if you try to make me bite you,
but I won’t fight
like a knife in the night.
I won’t be muzzled;
I need to be handled
by specialist
policemen.
I won’t be trained
to be a hearing aid;
I can’t even hear
my own heartbeat.
I won’t go to bed
with a leash around my neck;
I can’t even hear
my own heartbeat.
The plan after that was to go to the Heineken Experience, but we missed last entry by maybe five minutes. Instead, we stopped off for a beer just around the corner, and then we hopped on the tram and went to the Torture Museum, which was short and sweet but worth the money.
That was followed by a quick drink and then a tram back to the hotel, where we refreshed ourselves in our room and then enjoyed a drink or two for happy hour.
Happy Hour
Happy hour
is the hour
to be in;
not quite an hour
and more like a lifetime
and more like a warning
to worry about;
happy hour,
where the drinks
go down easy,
cheap as chips
from a cheap
chip shop;
I’d like my life
to be a happy hour;
too short
and full of
laughter.
Friday 24th June 2016
Friday was a strange day, because we woke up to the news that Britain had voted to leave the EU and that David Cameron had resigned as prime minister. I voted to remain, but what I vote for never seems to happen. Weirdly, Cameron’s decision to resign is the first thing he’s done since coming into power which a) convinces me of at least a semblance of integrity, and b) I agree with. I’m not going to spend any time right now going into what it all means for me, because I’m sure I’ll cover that in my poetry, but I’m not going to lie – it’s left me unhappy and ashamed of my nationality.
Europe:
What’s the European Union
ever done for me?
Quite a lot actually
but mainly
it gave me
an identity.
I don’t like being British
or English,
because British English people
ruined being British English,
and I’m allowed to say that
because I’m British English.
I’m not one for patriotism,
because countries are just constructs
we created;
we’ve never owned this world
and we never will,
so saying, “Our country
is better than your country”
is like comparing the clothes you stole
in the London riots.
Don’t get me wrong,
I take some pride in my local area,
but only because
we tried
to make a difference.
And now my mind is reeling
and my body’s dealing
with a sinking feeling,
down at the bottom
of my stomach,
like when you know where you’re going
but the driver is following a satnav,
and you’re driving along
dirt paths and faded tracks,
and there’s one big crash
and the sky goes black.
Once again
I’m sorry, world;
I didn’t ask
to be British,
and I apologise
for the rest
of my countrymen.
We hopped on the tram to Centraal and stopped off for some vlaamsefrites – at the place which claims to have won prizes for them – but not until after Becca had opened her pug-themed birthday presents. Then we wondered over to Nieumarket, and on towards the Jewish Quarter.
Along the way, we discovered an outdoor market, where we got a couple of smoothies and a few bits and bobs – in one swoop, I found a new orange hoodie for ten Euros and three wooden tulips for my mother. You weren’t there, man – you don’t know the struggle. I got her a wooden tulip on my first visit and then got her another one, and so this year I had to find her exactly the same model again. I did it, but it took three days to find it.
After that, we stopped at a place called Frenzi for another drink, and then we hopped on the tram to go to the Heineken Experience. I’d been before, but so what? I’ve been to Cadbury World a dozen times and I’d still go back. Plus, I’d forgotten the little details, so it was fun to see how beer is made; halfway round, I also found a wristband on the floor. The wristbands entitle you to two free drinks, and so it was a tasty little bonus – even if picking it up did make me feel like a pikey.
We stopped off via a supermarket on the way back to the hotel, to stock up on Doritos and dip, as well as a few more cans of Heineken. We were planning on going downstairs to play a few games of pool, but we were both exhausted and so we just chilled in the room and watched a program about a Dutch vet who didn’t take shit from anyone.
Tommyknockers
Whatsthamatter Stephen King
you scared of a little
Armageddon?
The Tommyknockers
are comin’ to getcha,
and you betcha
bottom dollar
you’re going down
in flames.
You might be scared of nuffin’
and you might be scared
of somethin’,
but your scariest scares
don’t scare me,
‘cause I’m a child
of the revolution.
You got the Tommyknockers
a-knockin’ at your door,
with their nuclear devices
built from circuit boards
and readily available
electronic equipment,
reams of AA batteries
and green fire
spewing from your eyes,
500 angry villagers
‘becoming’ but not so comely,
battering down your door
like Jack Nicholson
in The Shining,
red rum,
red rum,
murder.
Me,
I set the Armageddon clock
to one minute to midnight;
I saw a future
where Scotland, Wales and Ireland
divorced their bully of a brother,
and He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named’s Huge New Erection
is actually a nuclear
staging site.
Putin and You-Know-Who
will kill us all,
while England crumbles
like a dying rose
in a scrapbook,
which it is.
Whatsthamatter Stephen King?
I’m not scared of you.
Your words
are just words;
we gave the real power
to the people who long
for power.
It’s kinda like
digging up
a spacecraft;
me,
I don’t want to see
what’s inside of it.
Saturday 25th June 2016
We woke up at around 10 AM and packed up our stuff, and then checked out of the room at the Student Hotel. But they were kind enough to store our bags for us, which meant we were able to take one last trip into the town centre to hunt for some final souvenirs.
We took a tram to Centraal and started to wander along the Damrak again, because that’s where most of the tourist shops are. No trip to Hollan would be complete without some cheese, and so we stopped off at The Old Cheese Shop where I picked up some smoked goats cheese with chilli, and then we went for pancakes.
With the souvenirs sorted, we wandered south of the flower market, where I got some tulip bulbs for my hanging basket, while Becca got some wooden tulips. Then it was back to the hotel, for a quick beer while Switzerland played Polo in the Euros.
From the hotel, we faced a tram and a train to get to Schiphol, where we discovered that the flight was delayed. We ended up sitting in a terrace bar with a decent view of the airfield, drinking beer and killing time until the flight.
It ended up being delayed by an hour, and then the traffic was bad on the motorway. But I was exhausted and so I fell asleep, which meant that Becca had no-one to keep her company.
It was gone one o’clock in the morning when we finally made it home and so we got straight into bed and fell asleep. An exhausted end to an exciting Amsterdam adventure.
