Amsterdam

I’ve barely been in Amsterdam for two weeks, but I’ve already run into what will surely be one of the most transformative experiences I’ll have this semester. It wasn’t at one of the five museums I’ve visited, on my day trip to Delft, on campus during my first week of classes, or on any of the 25 euros’ worth of public transit rides I’ve taken: it was on a bike in the city center on a Thursday night. This seemingly-normal situation was my first time getting “lost” in my new home.

It’s safe to say that knowing how to ride a bike is a good skill to have in the Netherlands, which (if you don’t know) is one of the most bike-friendly places in the world. During orientation, I learned that there are some 1.6 bikes per human in Amsterdam, and it’s evident everywhere you go. There really is no way to accurately describe the bike culture here without experiencing it firsthand. But, for a short anecdote, a tram kindly stopped for me while I was waiting to cross the street the other day; a biker, though, would curse me out or even just plow right into me if I had a foot unknowingly placed in the bike lane. There is no mercy when an Amsterdammer has their feet on the pedals.

My younger sister taught me how to bike over the summer, and I slowly developed an affinity for leisurely rides through my suburban neighborhood. So when a few girls in my building asked if I wanted to bike to an orientation activity with them, I thought, why not take the plunge? I would have to have a First Amsterdam Biking Experience at some point, and being with a group of people would be best.

Here’s the thing: we were going to the city center in the midst of rush hour, and though our phones were guiding us, none of us were entirely sure where we were going. After the stressful two-mile trek, I was nearly ready to swear off biking for the rest of my life. Once I regulated my breathing and successfully locked my bike, though, I felt incredibly proud of myself. I, a novice, biked in Amsterdam!

The problem? I had to get home.

With a to-go container of Thai food under my arm, I opted for public transit while my friends biked back. The sun was setting, I was tired, and I was certain that I’d seen a bike on the tram I’d taken the previous day. After all, they’re allowed on public transit in Minneapolis, so Amsterdam must be even more prepared for that, right?

Well, after being shut down very quickly by the lady at the desk in the tram (yes, there are secretary-type people on the trams, and no, I still don’t quite understand why), I discovered that bikes are not, in fact, allowed on trams. Thus, at around 9:30 pm on a Thursday in the middle of Amsterdam, I decided to walk my bike back to my own Oost neighborhood. And I did, for around 20 minutes — in the absolute wrong direction. Amsterdam is a very rounded city, especially the Center, and there are canals everywhere you turn. As someone who grew up orienting myself on the mantra “the lake is always East” (thanks, Chicago), I still can’t tell North from West here. Half jogging and calming my nerves from my embarrassing tram experience, I wasn’t looking down at my map. Suddenly, despite having my fully-charged phone in my hand, I felt completely lost.

I did the only thing I could: turned around and walked the way I came. Now more sure of my path, it didn’t take long to realize something was missing from the atmosphere: bikers. The commuters that’d whizzed by me on my way to the Center were mostly in for the night, and the wandering tourists as well. A couple of people passed me every minute or so, but for the most part, the streets were as quiet as the canals. In the distance, even, I saw another adult actually learning to ride a bike in the lanes that four hours earlier were a raging river of two-wheeler masters.

At my walking pace, I wouldn’t be back to my building for almost an hour. It was dark, and although I felt just as safe as I do walking around Minneapolis at lunchtime, the situation was far from ideal. So, inspired by the new biker shakily pedaling a few blocks ahead of me, I hopped on my bike, gathered my bearings and my take-out, and slowly began to pedal.

Balancing myself with the new cargo took a minute or two, and I was still going slow up any sort of hill (again, thanks, Chicago), but I biked on. Thankfully, my commute only involved one turn, which was at Amstel, Amsterdam’s biggest and easiest-to-identify canal. This meant that as long as I headed down the same path, I would fly home without needing to stop and consult a map every couple minutes, like we’d done on our way to the Center millions of years (read: a couple of hours) before. Once I became comfortable with the absurd notion that I was successfully biking, I began to recognize my surroundings. I passed under the Rijksmuseum and over a few moonlit canals; soon I saw the bread bakery I’d gotten a croissant from that morning, the lights of my building shining in the distance. I was just about bursting with pride (and adrenaline) when I walked into the bike cages, returned my trusty steed, and headed to my room (Thai food entirely intact).

Was I actually lost? With my phone on hand, no. But when I collapsed into my bed exhaled, I felt found.

Since that night, I’ve made an effort to take a sizeable walk around the city every day, mostly by myself. Again, I get easily turned around if I’m not actively being directed, so I’ve gotten “lost” a fair amount of times. But I’m developing landmarks, especially closer to where I live, and feel like a member of the community. I don’t think I would have the initiative to take these walks and discover so much about my new home if I hadn’t taken the plunge and accidentally gotten lost with a 25-pound piece of metal to carry. It’s been two weeks, but I already know this city better than I knew St. Paul, where Macalester is, after an entire semester. I feel comfortable in this still-new city, and even have a running list of places to return to with my camera in hand.

So, lesson learned: walk with confidence, bike with a bell (and not during rush hour), and don’t be afraid to get lost. When the city is most unfamiliar is when it’ll start to feel most like a home.

With an hour to kill and wanting to dust off my camera, I decided to take some pictures of bikes and canals in my neighborhood of Oost. Enjoy scenes from my short walk below to glimpse Amsterdam in the daytime.

I’m standing at my apartment windows, watching Amsterdam light up all the way to the horizon. Excited Dutch chatter floats up from the courtyard; from further out comes the click-whoosh of bicycle wheels and the clang of tram bells. After dark, everything hums with energy -  the planes circling Schiphol like fireflies, the turrets and treetops claiming space from the skyscrapers. Everyone seems so alive. 

I don’t always feel so awed by my new home; it’s never the whole story. I only really processed that I’d arrived in Amsterdam after I’d heaved a suitcase larger than myself round and round Schiphol, after the coach drove off the highway and into bicycle-fringed streets, after I’d unlocked my apartment and performed my first grocery run. That was all Day 01. Since then, I’ve obtained a Dutch phone number, been tested for TBC, lost myself on the tram, and found my way home by memory. Practicalities and contradictions and unmet expectations are daily occurrences; I’ve cried six times already. But I’ve also discovered that when the dust settles, the starry-eyed, everyone-seems-so-alive moments are still there.  

It’s my second week in Amsterdam. The next four months will hold as many frustrations as they do victories. Amsterdam won’t always feel kind; I’ll miss my friends; I’ll wish I was back at my home school, wearing my coat in class like everyone else. So I’m glad I spent these first two weeks learning how to store up some of Amsterdam’s magic for the harder days. Here’s what I found out. 

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Yellow Fleece Blanket

Sometimes the freedom of getting on a plane with a single suitcase is tempered by the dimensions of that suitcase. While it’s true that Amsterdam has been smoldering, temperature-wise, I woke up shivering during my first few nights here. Finding a yellow fleece blanket for 2.99 at the Zeeman’s on Javastraat was a matter of survival but also my first move towards nest-building. As it turns out, I’m comforted by fiery hues - a carrot-coloured pillowcase, a lemony wooden tulip, a sheaf of golden-red postcards - that lend a tropical air to my room.

Grain, Green, Protein

Despite years of scorched attempts at sustenance, I’ve begun looking forward to grocery shopping and sketching out the week’s meals. There’s something undeniably satisfying about being able to cook the dishes you’ve grown up eating and having them taste the way you remember. Yes, sometimes the RA’s will replace your old fridge with a freezer-less version and you’ll scramble to consume a fortnight’s stockpile of meat in two days. Sometimes you have to present the Google Translate page to the salesperson at Albert Heijn so that when you say vinegar they know you’re asking for azijn. But if it leads to the kind of food that fortifies you for that daily eight-kilometer trek, it’s worth it.  

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The Breakfast Show

Back at my home school, I wrote daily agendas featuring entries like ‘eat lunch’ and ‘shower’. That need for rigid routine hasn’t changed just because I came to Amsterdam. In a city and a semester that feels full of possibilities, schedules help me get my bearings before I dive into exploring. And so my roommate and I begin our days at 7am, sitting side by side at our desks. She sips green smoothies and watches sciency YouTube videos; I inhale scrambled eggs and giggle along to The Big Bang Theory. It’s thirty minutes of rejuvenating peace. 

Chronicles

Most of us embarking on a semester abroad can agree that the journey here was a joint effort by a whole tribe of people - parents, friends, advisors, immigration officials - who facilitated an extensive chain of events. But it also began and ended with us. We had the determination to make real an irrational dream. Remember that overarching victory, and notice how it echoes back in your smaller, daily triumphs. 

I notice by journaling, in a throwback to the scrapbook which my mother and I assembled after a family trip to Singapore. She glued in theme park brochures; I drew stick people riding airport elevators. I suppose, for my six-year-old self, navigating airport architecture unscathed was quite the feat. Fast forward sixteen years and I’ve begun a new journal, in a maroon HEMA notebook given to me months ago by a Dutch friend. It holds shopping lists, grocery receipts, orientation name tags, boarding passes, museum tickets. Every piece is a reminder of something else that my tribe and I made come true. 

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Magic

In a corner of Technische Universiteit Delft’s quiet botanical garden, butterflies keep breaking away from a towering oak tree to alight briefly on the bag in my hand. It’s a miniature miracle. During a tile-painting session at the Royal Delft factory, I ink Tamil letters onto the ceramic; they spell out Nedunthivu, the name of an island off Sri Lanka’s northwest coast, once occupied by the Dutch and still marked on maps as Delft. In the Albert Cuypmarkt, a power-suited middle-aged couple strolls by with their arms around each other, perfectly in sync; they are followed by a tall man who talks constantly to his wife as he maneuvers her wheelchair through the crowds, their rings shining in their wake. At Pancakes Westermarkt, I order tea, and it arrives in a red-green-gold Dilmah tea bag from Peliyagoda, Sri Lanka, next to a stroopwafel. 

Seven out of ten evenings in Amsterdam, I have a direct line of sight to the setting sun; a neon sphere that couldn’t be brighter if someone took a highlighter pen to it. By nine pm the stars are out; they’re faint, but if my elective astronomy class taught me anything last spring, it was that just because you can’t see all the stars doesn’t mean they’re not there. 

There are always stars and planes. There’s the roar of a night train. There are always windows lit up after you extinguish yours. 

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