As our flight from Dublin approached Amsterdam, the sun was setting. In the diffused twilight under a cloudy sky, we saw the Dutch coastline dotted with windmills. There is poetry in the architecture of the traditional windmills, their enormous light blades fixed on robust structures. Shortly, as the aircraft descended further, the intricate network of semi-circular canals which makes Amsterdam such a unique city rose before our rivetted eyes.
When we had been booking a room for our stay in Amsterdam, I’d found a conveniently priced hotel with decent rooms. Most alluringly, it was located at the border of the red-light district in Amsterdam. But my wife had rejected it out of hand. I wish she hadn’t. In that case, we wouldn’t have been nearly lost in a new city. (It can be safely argued it couldn't have been difficult to find the biggest brothel in Europe.) In a moment, I am going to narrate our adventures that evening. But before that, we had to overcome a lesser problem.
As our departure from Bengaluru had been delayed, we’d missed our connecting flight at Abu Dhabi. When Etihad Airlines rerouted us through Dublin, we were happy at the prospect of getting a glimpse of the beautiful country of Ireland. However, sitting in the airport transit lounge in Dublin, we were able to see just a flat barren patch of land and a highway in the distance. It could have been anywhere.
At Schiphol airport in Amsterdam, we waited as passengers collected their luggage and left one after the other, until the last bag came out on the baggage carousel. But unfortunately, it wasn’t ours. When we informed the KLM helpdesk, they were able to locate our missing suitcases within minutes, but to our dismay, the luggage was still in Abu Dhabi. The matronly KLM personnel who were womanning the helpdesk quickly brought out two faux leather pouches with combs, toothbrushes etc., and promised to send the suitcases to our hotel within 48 hours. They also said we could buy a change of clothes, which the airlines would reimburse within a limit.
As we got through immigration, I fixed the international SIM we had been carrying in my phone. It worked perfectly: we called our son and daughter, and checked the direction to the hotel we had been booked in. A metro rail station is located within Schiphol airport. We utilised the freedom offered by the absence of baggage by boarding a train to Amsterdam Central. Our hotel was just four kilometres away from the Central station, which the Dutch spell as Centraal.
We had hoped to buy some clothes near the railway station, but the airline was destined to save a few euros. It was the Easter Thursday, the long weekend had begun, and all the stores had been shut. To complicate matters, my new SIM card went to sleep when we needed it most. So, we knew the address of our hotel (117 Saarphatistraat), but had no idea how to get there. We were in an unfamiliar city in an evening of overcast sky.
In front of the railway station, there were five or six tramlines, where empty, almost surrealistic trams were coming in and going away every minute, seemingly without a purpose. Two Indian students we met on the street checked Google Map on their phone and said we could take the metro to Weesperplein (Whisper plains?), which was just three stations away. The station was at the crossing of the streets Weesperplein and Saarphatistraat, in which was our hotel located, you might recall. (The Dutch, it seemed, are fond of double vowels and unfond of short names.) Our hotel would be a short walk from the metro station.
At Weesperplein, we were the only people to get off the train. As we climbed up the stairs, we were greeted by two absolutely empty wide streets and howling winds. Some cars went past, but there was no one on the streets, not a soul. Every shutter was down and every door, closed. Europe is far away from summer in mid April. Gusts of cold wind pierced the light jacket I was wearing. My wife didn’t have even that little protection.
We were at the crossing of two major roads, but there were no road signs; we couldn’t figure out which of the two streets was Saarphatistraat. After spending 24 sleepless hours on three aircraft and at three airports, we were not too keen to walk more than what was necessary. Which road should we take? As we were thinking of tossing a coin, a tall well-built elderly gentleman emerged from the metro station swinging a large cloth bag which looked like what we use in Indian bazaars. He was exceedingly helpful. Although he didn’t know which of the streets we should take, he volunteered to telephone our hotel and find out where exactly it was. He called up the hotel and had a long conversation in Dutch.
After disconnecting, he said, ‘Sorry, I don’t understand a word of what she says!’
Our jaws fell. He was speaking Dutch in the capital of the Netherlands! Was there actually a hotel or had we been conned? (A friend of mine had once found a warehouse at the address of a hotel he had booked in Beijing.) Either way, there was no question of detaining the good Samaritan any longer. He left.
After walking about 100 metres, he shouted something to us excitedly in Dutch. In a few moments, we understood why he was excited. He was calling out, ‘Saarphatistraat, Saarphatistraat!,’ pointing his index finger at a road sign hidden behind a tree.
Therefore, one problem was solved. We knew which street we had to take, but we still didn’t know which way to go: up or down. Somewhat strangely, there were no door numbers. We started walking in a direction and came across a few passersby. They spoke English, but every one of them was a tourist who had come to the city to spend their Easter weekend. We kept walking and asking the same question: 'Sir/Madam, could you tell us which way 117 Saarphatistraat is?'
It started raining, first drizzles, and then a proper light shower, with a concomitant steep fall in temperature. We were looking at an uncertain night in freezing cold. Finally, I buttonholed a man who was carrying a large phone and requested him to check the address of our hotel. Google showed the path in dots; we had been walking away from our destination.
It didn’t take much longer to find the building numbered 117, where there was indeed a small hotel with nobody except the receptionist in the lobby. When we—decently drenched—were checking in, the penny dropped. We understood why the Dutch gentleman couldn’t follow a word of what the receptionist had said.
She was a young Chinese student working part time in a hotel owned by a Chinese family. She spoke decent English with some effort, but she had just arrived in the Netherlands. Was she a precursor to a future Chinese Empire will stretch across the globe?
From the bowl of welcome candies kept on the reception desk, I grabbed a handful and said, ‘Please forgive me for taking so many. This is going to be our dinner.’
Krishnagiri / 28 August 2021
