Chapter 10: Tour Guides

September 16, 1994, Amsterdam, the Netherlands

I exited the KLM ‘Cityhopper’ flight at Schiphol Airport in Amsterdam, and after clearing customs and immigration, I left the terminal and hailed a taxi to take me to the Tulip Inn on Spuistraat. I paid the cabbie with Dutch Guilders I’d exchanged with Hans for British Pounds. He kept a collection of European currencies in his travel kit, and offered the exchange so I didn’t have to deal with it at the airport. I’d laughed when he’d explained the currency was also called, interchangeably, the Dutch Florin.

“Have you seen the movie The Princess Bride?” I’d asked.

“No; why?”

“The two countries, who are enemies, are called Guilder and Florin.”

We’d shared a laugh over that just before I’d left the Woking offices for Heathrow, and we’d also confirmed our plans for Saturday.

I walked into the hotel and went to the registration desk. My room here would be a simple hotel room, unlike if I were staying at the InterContinental. When Barney had booked the rooms, the InterContinental had been undergoing renovations and while they would have a room available, they wouldn’t have any suites available and their dining room was closed. I’d asked him to check prices, and it had turned out that the Tulip Inn was about half the price of the InterContinental and was highly rated, so I had him book me at the Tulip instead.

“«Goedenavond. Hoe kan ik u helpen?»” the clerk said.

“I’m sorry, I don’t speak Dutch,” I replied. “I have a reservation. The name is Adams. Stephen Adams.”

“Good evening, Mr. Adams,” he said clicking the keys on his terminal. “Yes, I have you staying with us six nights, departing Thursday, then returning on Friday, staying two nights, and departing Sunday, is that correct?”

“Yes.”

“Very good. May I please have your card to take an imprint?”

I handed over my American Express card and he placed it in a machine which made an imprint on the room card he’d inserted along with it. He handed the card back to me, along with a metal key to the room.

“Room 812. Do you need a porter for your bags?”

“I’ll manage, thanks.”

“You’re welcome, sir. Enjoy your stay. The lift is to your left.”

“Thank you. Before I forget, I have laundry that needs to be done.”

“There is a laundry bag in your room. If you put your things in the bag and ring the desk, we’ll send someone up to collect them. You can find an instruction slip in the desk to fill out.”

“I also have two suits which I need pressed,” I said.

“We can do that for you as well. Do they need cleaning?”

“No, just pressing, please.”

“Perfect, sir.”

I picked up my bags and headed for the elevator. I rode up to the eighth floor, found the correct room, and let myself in. It was a purely functional room, but I didn’t plan to spend all that much time in it. My first order of business was to unpack, then to call home, as I’d agreed with my wives, to say I’d arrived safely in Amsterdam. I spoke to Amanda who promised to write that on the board, along with my plan to call on Saturday evening after I returned to the hotel from Hans Oostrum’s house.

With that taken care of, I took the laundry bag from the closet, put my things in it, and found the laundry slip in the desk. I marked ‘light starch’ and ‘hangers’ for the shirts, and then called down to the front desk. Four minutes later a young man came to the door to collect the laundry and my two suits to be pressed. He promised everything would be returned no later than noon on Saturday.

It was already after 7:00pm and I needed something to eat, but I also needed to find a place to run in the mornings. I looked at a map I found in the desk drawer and saw that the best option if I didn’t want to run in the streets was Vondelpark, which was about two kilometers from the hotel. I estimated a twenty-minute walk each direction, and when I added in the time for stretching, running, and kata, I realized I’d need to leave the hotel by 5:00am to be back in time to meet Hans. I technically didn’t need to run, as I didn’t run on weekends at home, but I’d been eating more carbs than usual, and I didn’t want to create any issues, so I set my alarm for 4:45am, then left my room in search of food.

I walked along Spuistraat and spotted a café that looked promising. I went in and the hostess quickly seated me. I reviewed the menu, and as I wasn’t overly hungry, selected a salad with grilled chicken that looked similar to the ones I used to eat at the diner in Hyde Park in Chicago where Crystal had worked. I ate my dinner, which I washed down with sparkling water, paid my bill, and then pulled my small notebook from my pocket.

On the flight over I’d made some notes about things I wanted to see, including walking along the canals, and, of course, walking through the ‘red light’ district. I also wanted to check out a «coffeeshop», though I wasn’t about to partake of their stock in trade - cannabis - any more than I would the stock in trade of the ‘«kamer»’ in the ‘red light’ district.

I consulted the small map I had with me and followed Spuistraat to Prins Hendrikkade, and then made my way towards Nieuwebrugsteeg, and from there to Warmoesstraat, which took me to De Oude Kerk, a 13th century church that was on the edge of the ‘red light’ district. I walked around silently laughing at some of the things I saw, such as signs in Dutch declaring that certain girls were ‘on vacation’. The notion that a prostitute was on vacation just seemed silly, though as I thought about it, they were working just like anyone else!

The small «kamer», or rooms, were lit by red lights, and the girls displayed themselves in lingerie. It was mostly white, and mostly either ‘babydoll’ nightgowns or camisoles, with sheer panties. Most of the girls were good looking with nice bodies, and there was a mix of races, though the girls were predominately white and looked to be in the range of 19 to 25. There were some older women as well. I was surprised that I wasn’t propositioned a single time as I walked through the district twice.

When I finished my tour, I walked along the Oudezijds Voorburgwal canal, crossed the Amstel, stopped in a «coffeeshop» to see for myself that marijuana was openly on sale, then walked along Prinsengracht for quite a distance until I came to the Anne Frank House, which I planned to visit on Sunday. I checked the opening times, and then made my way across three canals to return to Spuistraat. I saw a bar and decided to have a drink before turning in, so I went in and after a quick survey of the available offerings, ordered Johnnie Walker Black, neat.

I surveyed the bar and confirmed the thought I’d had when walking around - the Dutch were tall! I was around 5’ 10”, and nearly every man in the bar was taller than I was, most being at least 6’ tall. The women weren’t quite as tall, but where at home I would have been a few inches taller than most, here the average looked to be about my height. There was a plurality of blondes, both male and female, though I saw quite a few darker-haired people and a goodly number of Asians. I leaned against a corner of the bar and people-watched while I sipped my whisky.

I had almost finished my drink when a young blonde woman came to the bar to order a drink. She was pretty, and I guessed in her early twenties. She got her drink, which was some kind of fruity concoction. She turned to leave the bar and was jostled by someone, causing her drink to spill on her blouse, and on my arm and shirt. She said something in Dutch which I took as an apology.

“It’s OK,” I said in English. “I just need a napkin.”

She turned to the bar and said something and the bartender produced a rag which she handed to me.

“Use this. I’m so sorry!”

I dried my arm and dabbed my polo shirt. I could rinse it out in the sink back at the hotel and it would be fine. I handed her the rag and she dabbed her own blouse and dried her hand, then handed the rag back to the bartender.

“Please, let me buy you a drink to apologize,” she said in a lovely Dutch accent.

“Sure,” I said.

“What are you drinking?”

“Johnnie Walker Black,” I said.

She turned to the bartender and asked for the drink, and handed over cash to pay for it.

“I’m Karla Timmer,” she said. “From Gouda.”

I knew that city, but she’d pronounced it in Dutch, where it had a very different sound, ‘howda’, much the way that ‘van Gogh’ had a very different sound, being more like ‘van hoch’.

“Steve Adams,” I said. “From Chicago.”

We shook hands.

“Have you been to the Netherlands before?”

“Only to change planes on the way to Moscow,” I said. “This is my first time outside Schiphol.”

“You arrived today?”

“Yes.”

“And the first thing that happens is a clumsy Dutch girl spills her drink on you?” she said with a laugh.

I smiled, “A pretty Dutch girl had her arm bumped by someone and some of her drink got onto my arm and shirt.”

She smiled brightly, “Are you on vacation or business?”

“Business. Do you work?”

“No, I go to school. I’m in my third year at University of Amsterdam. I’m studying art and film. What business are you in?”

“Computers,” I said.

“And you have clients in Holland?”

“Yes, though both of them are actually American companies with offices here. The American companies are the ones which hired us.”

“What do you do?”

“A bit of everything,” I said with a grin. “Programmer, CEO, and anything else that needs doing.”

“CEO? It’s your firm?”

“Yes.”

“How long are you staying?”

“Until Sunday of next week when I have to fly to Munich, and then back to the States at the end of next week.”

“Do you plan to do sightseeing?”

“Yes. A friend of mine who works for one of our clients is going to take me around tomorrow, and then on Sunday I’m going to the Van Gogh Museum, the Rijksmuseum, the Stedelijk Museum, and Anne Frank’s house.”

“You like art?”

“Very much,” I said.

“Would you like a guide?” she asked with a smile. “To make up for the spilled drink?”

Elyse was going to laugh her ass off when I told her about this incident, no matter how it turned out. I’d been in the Netherlands for less than six hours and already had a date!

“You?” I asked.

“No, the bartender!” she laughed. “Of course, me!”

“That sounds like fun,” I replied.

“Where are you staying?”

“The Tulip Inn on Spuistraat.”

“Sunday at 9:00am?” she asked.

“Sure, why not?”

“Good. I need to get back to my friends. See you Sunday morning in the lobby at 9:00am.”

“See you then,” I agreed.

I finished my drink and headed back to the hotel. I stripped off the shirt and rinsed it in the sink, and realized that my arm was sticky, so I took a quick shower, then hung the shirt to drip dry in the shower. I wasn’t tired, so I put on shorts and a t-shirt, and pulled out my PowerBook 540c and started writing in my journal.

I wrote about my time in London, and as I wrote about Pippa, my mind wandered to Michelle. I reviewed how I’d handled the situation with Pippa and compared it to how I’d acted towards Michelle, which only served to confirm that Michelle was entirely accurate in her complaint. If Elyse was correct and I had a chance to fix things with Michelle, I was going to do that and ensure I never again treated her the way I had been.

All of these lessons I was learning were going to be applied to my own children as they grew up. I’d always said I’d treat them as individuals who could make their own age-appropriate decisions. I learned the hard way from Michelle that it was much easier to think and say something than to do it. Jesse and Birgit were going to profit from my hard-won lessons, even if they never knew it.

I saved my work, closed down the computer, stripped off my shorts and t-shirt, then climbed into bed. I reached over and turned off the light, then drifted to sleep.

September 17, 1994, Amsterdam, Scheveningen, Delft, Den Haag, and Zoetermeer, the Netherlands

I rose on Saturday morning at 4:45am with my alarm, put on my running clothes and walked quickly through the streets of Amsterdam to Vondelpark where I stretched, then ran a winding circuit around the park, using various paths to get close to my usual distance, ending up in front of the Statue Of Joost Van Den Vondel, where I ran through five kata. Unlike London, I didn’t attract any attention, but then again, it was just after 6:00am on a Saturday. I finished and made my way back to the hotel, having just enough time to shower and dress before Hans arrived.

“Ready?” he asked after we shook hands.

“Let’s go,” I said.

We went out to his Audi, and headed for Scheveningen Strand. He immediately lit an unfiltered Camel, and we chatted amiably on the way, and in the process he learned about my unique living arrangements.

“Now, if I could just convince my wife,” he laughed. “I guess after that revelation, you won’t have a problem if my girlfriend joins us for lunch?”

“What you do is your business,” I said. “That’s been my policy for my entire life.”

Which was true; and though I certainly wouldn’t suggest that cheating was a good idea, it wasn’t my place to tell Hans how to live his life any more than I wanted someone to tell me how to live mine. My only possible comment to him was that he smoked WAY too much - he hadn’t spent a minute without one of his unfiltered cigarettes in his mouth. I hadn’t seen him smoke in England, but there had been plenty of time for him to duck outside and smoke.

We arrived at the Grand Hotel on Scheveningen Strand and Hans paid for breakfast, which was served buffet style. There was a huge layout of fruits, meats, eggs, breads, and pastries. I filled a plate, restricting my carbohydrates to a single slice of rye bread. I chose unsweetened grapefruit juice to drink, and we went to sit at a table that overlooked the North Sea. We ate and continued our conversation, with Hans giving me an interesting lesson in Dutch history. He did excuse himself for a few minutes at one point to call his girlfriend and arrange for her to meet us for lunch.

“I was thinking we’d also stop in Delft,” he said as we walked outside after finishing breakfast. “But first, let’s take a walk along the beach.”

We spent about thirty minutes walking along the beach, Hans with the ever-present cigarette in his mouth and me walking upwind of him, before we made our way back to his Audi. From Scheveningen we headed to Madurodam. Over my protest, Hans paid our entry fees and we began walking around the park.

“Everything here is 1:25 in scale, and if you notice, the miniature people are wearing clothing appropriate for the fall.”

“Now that’s cool!” I agreed.

We walked around checking out the miniature city, as well as important Dutch landmarks which were represented in miniature - Schiphol airport, the Rijksmuseum, tulip fields, windmills, and the port of Rotterdam. Hans told me that Disney had copied some ideas from the park for the ‘Storybook Land’ canal ride at Disneyland in California. At the end of our tour, which took just under two hours, we stopped in the gift shop and I bought some small models for the boys to use with their Brio trains. Jesse still played with them, despite being eight, and these buildings could be displayed on a shelf if they weren’t used for one of his complex train setups.

My purchases in hand, we left the park and headed to the car for the short drive to Delft.

“I thought you might like some authentic Dutch gifts, and «Delfts blauw» is world-renowned. Have you seen the blue china from here?”

I shook my head, “No; I’ve seen Chinese and Japanese pottery, but not Dutch.”

“It’s similar,” he said.

When we arrived, we parked on the street, and after Hans put coins in the parking meter, we walked to the center of town to visit shops. I found one that advertised complete shipping services to the US, and after a quick word with the clerk, selected a number of items which they set aside. I saw a display case with jewelry and instantly something jumped out at me - a necklace with a fine gold chain and a ‘Delft blue’ wooden shoe as a pendant. It was the perfect gift for Birgit. I explained to the clerk I wanted to carry that one home with me. I’d still need to find things for Ashley and Stephie, but I didn’t want them to be identical.