Four Nights in Holland

In late January, early February 1998, I had to go to Amsterdam to do some modifications on American built air cleaners. For our American readers, there were no faults with these; the modifications were to ensure the product complied with EU safety regulations. There were so many air cleaners, that I was accompanied by one of the assemblers from our own factory in the UK, to assist me. I thought that this was to be a one off visit to the warehouse, near Schipol Airport, but we had to go out a further six times. In fact we became such regular visitors, that we were invited to go on the employees’ family day out in June. On this visit we were to stay the first two nights in Hoopdorf and then the next two nights in Amsterdam.

On our first night, going back to the hotel, my friend said it was his wife’s birthday in a few days and he would like to get her a card from Holland. So we got the taxi to drop us off in the main shopping centre, where we found a card shop. There were thousands of cards, but we did find the birthday ones quite quickly, however they were all in Dutch, so we were never sure whether the card said, “Happy Birthday to my Dearest One“ or “Go and jump in the River“. At this point, a lady kindly asked if we were buying a birthday card for someone, when we explained what we were doing, she asked what birthday was it, and my friend said it was for his wife’s 40th birthday. “Ah” she said “That is a special birthday here in Holland, you have to get a card with a large cheese on it”. She then helped us select a card with a picture of a cheese on it, if anyone with a knowledge of Holland can inform me if this is the custom, I would be very grateful. I also never asked my friend whether or not his wife appreciated the card.

After going back to the hotel, getting cleaned and changed, we went to the restaurant and ordered our evening meal, after our first course, the waiter appeared with what looked like two small bowls of ice cream. We looked at each other and said simultaneously, “Did you order that”, “No”, “Neither did I.” The waiter came to our rescue by explaining that it was a sorbet, to cleanse the palate for our main course. The reader will by now have guessed that our two “heroes” were not mature, sophisticated, men of the world. A more apt description would have been two middle aged Scotsmen who should not have been allowed out on their own, without being in the care of a responsible adult.

On our second evening we discovered the reason why we were only there for two nights, the hotel was being used for a business convention. So after our meal we appeared to be the only two people, who were not part of the convention. Feeling like we were intruding in a private party, we decided to go for a walk and find a bar to have a couple of beers. Hoopdorf is a fairly large town, but it seemed to us they rolled the pavements (sidewalks) up at seven o’clock in the evening. We walked along the main street and back again and could not find a bar, so we carried on to the canal, where we spotted a windmill. Crossing over the canal we went to look at the windmill, it was obviously very well kept, painted black and white and in good condition, but not moving. On a summers day a nice place to take a photograph. But on a cold February evening, after a few moments, the thought comes to mind, I’ve seen enough of this. So we crossed back over the canal and spotted a flood light area, possibly a sports ground, this was about thirty feet above the level of the road. As we approached this we noticed a side road adjacent to the sports ground. There to our disbelief was a sign for “Amstel Beer” looking along this road we noticed a building, which we took to be a bar.

As we approached the building there were several motor bikes parked outside, and I noticed a few splashes of paint on the door and wall. We entered the bar, the splashes of paint we saw outside were nothing compared to what greeted our eyes inside the building. The floor, walls, ceiling, chairs and tables were covered in splashes of paint of every colour you can imagine. The paint work did not even qualify as graffiti. There were several occupants of the bar, male and female, all wearing biker’s boots. I have never in my life seen so much leather and zips in one room. They were a cross between Marlon Brando in “The Wild One” and the TV series “Sons of Anarchy”. Although there was no music, the scene was reminiscent of the old western movies when the stranger in town walks into the saloon, the music stops, and everyone stares at him. We felt as if every eye in the bar was looking us up and down. My friend and I looked at each other, bade a “Good Evening” to the occupants and smartly walked away, fortunately no one followed us, they were probably as dumfounded as we were, that two old guys had wandered into their bar.

Our arrival at the hotel, the next evening, in Amsterdam started badly, although for us it was pretty normal. A girl from the local office had come to the warehouse to take us to the hotel. I stepped from of the car, outside the hotel, and was immediately greeted by bells ringing and some shouts. I had stepped onto the cycle lane. The riders were obviously not amused. In Amsterdam the cycle is king, and very much part of the culture, and has priority, anyone who has been outside the Central station there will have seen the thousands of cycles, all old ones, left parked. You don’t always take home the one you arrived on. There is a saying in Amsterdam, if someone asks you “What are you doing today?” Instead of saying “Not a lot” you answer “Stealing bikes in the Dam”. Our next faux pas was to trip over the stair entrance to the hotel; the girl who drove us looked round, from the reception desk, and must have wondered what she had delivered to the hotel. There were two middle aged Scotsmen sprawling about the floor trying to pick up our suitcases and tool bags, I think she just shook her head in disbelief. Her confidence in us was even more shaken when the receptionist asked us for our passport numbers. We, obviously, went to get our passports, she said in astonishment “You do not know your passport numbers”, I would have thought by now she would have realised, we would have a problem knowing our home address.

After dinner, being our first time in Amsterdam, we decided to find the red light district. The guys at the warehouse had given us some information about this. The going rate at that time, we were informed, was 50 Gilda, pre Euro days; I don’t know what the length of time that entailed. However if we wanted a woman there is a car park somewhere in Amsterdam where the rate was 25 Gilda. Off we went to find the red light district; we walked up and down, round and round, but could not find it. We were probably the only two men ever in history to do so. After about an hour my friend suggested that we find a taxi to take us there, this we did. We found a taxi rank, asked the driver to get us to the red light district. You have guessed it; he rolled the taxi 5 yards forward and pointed to the street opposite. Our embarrassment was further highlighted by the other taxi drivers rolling about the ground laughing their heads off.

The main red light district, is a bit of a tourist attraction, at that time the girls appeared to be mainly Eastern European and around 18 to 20 years of age. The ladies just sit in the window and are not supposed to make any suggestive movement. If the curtain is drawn the lady is working. The place is crowded with groups, both male and female, walking up and down. We did not avail ourselves of the services of any of the girls. Not for any high moral reasons, I might add. But unlike the UK MP’s, I had to account for even a cup of coffee with a receipt. So, I don’t think the ladies would have given me a receipt, and I had no idea what column I would have entered it in my expense report.

Apart from the main district, there are red lights dotted around the streets, here the ladies tended to be slightly older, but still attractive. There was one about 200 yards from our hotel. As we made our way back to the hotel, we had forgotten about the lady on the street. Just as we passed her window, she stood up and did a kind of star jump; we got such a shock we both nearly back flipped off the pavement onto the road. Gathering ourselves together we straightened up and walked to the hotel, as we got there the lady came out onto the street shouting and bawling, whether it was at us or she was just trying to drum up business I do not know. However the next morning as we left the hotel to go to the train station, at about 7.30 am, there was the lady still in her bra and pants with a flimsy dressing gown on, emptying her rubbish into the bin. I suppose normal household chores have to be done no matter what you do.

On our last night, we decided to head for the red light district again, just in case we had missed anything. On our way there we passed a shop selling musical instruments. My friend informed me that he was taking guitar lessons, and pointed out a guitar which was the same as his. At this point a voice, with an American accent, was heard from behind us, saying. “I used to have a guitar like that”. Turning round there before us was a young man, around 30 years of age, long brown unkempt hair, carrying an acoustic guitar. Dressed in trainers, faded jeans, a sweatshirt and what could only be described as a paper thin army combat jacket, which was wide open. Remember we were dressed for February. Anoraks gloves and hats, it was bloody cold. “The last time I saw it I threw it into Monterey Harbour” he said. I said to my friend, in our local Scottish dialect, a sentence which would translate roughly into English as “It is a pity the mentally deficient gentleman standing before us, had not held on to the guitar when he threw it”. I don’t think he understood a word.

He then tried to sell us his guitar, it was then my friend pointed out that the guitar actually only had five strings, and no amount of persuasion would make us buy the guitar. He left us, but we did see him about an hour later, he still had his guitar, but was minus the combat jacket. He must have been a good salesman or someone took pity on him. That ended our first four nights in Holland. As you can imagine our further visits were much the same, but that is another tale.