Brussels to Amsterdam

Destination Amsterdam(n)!
Armed with a phone number and a name we bid our Dutch-bred Brussels host farewell.
“Call Mika when you arrive,” Mark said.
“Thanks, we will”.
Somewhere underneath Brussel’s Coca-Cola sign we grabbed a taxi to Brussels Central, driven by a rather smelly expat. Seven euro later we strolled into the station with time to grab a pastry and a coffee. Getting on the train and finding a seat was also easy.
We passed through the Belg and Netherland country side admiring its subtle beauty. Irrigation ditches separated fields of corn and silage bales. We even had time on the three-hour trip to write about Brussels.
We arrived at Amsterdam Centraal relaxed and ready to go. We stowed our bags as planned in the security lockers with a quick swipe of the credit card and quickly found a pay phone. But it wouldn’t work. No matter what we tried. We tried everything bar a rousing ’C’mon!’. With no idea what to do we went for lunch. As ‘dumb tourists’ we sat down at a Spanish restaurant and ordered Coke Zero only to be told: “This isn’t America”. Er, thanks for that, I thought, as if there was some confusion. Despite paying too much for our paella - about 40 euro - lunch ended on a good note. With full bellies we set out again to touch base with Mika.
Back at Centraal and at the desk of the tourist info desk, I Amsterdam, the clerk kindly let me make a call, which went to voice mail. Damn. Feeling stressed at the thought of having no where to sleep we started looking for hostels on the free terminals and formulated a plan. We would call Mika back and leave him a message. We would thank him for the offer, that we would be at Centraal between 5 and 6pm and that if we didn’t see him, we would make our own arrangements. I dialled the number again and was greeted by a friendly Mika. Through his Finnish accent we agreed to meet at 9 and would follow the directions to come on our email. True to his word, 15 minutes later, the email arrived and with peace of mind we set out to explore.
We wandered past the stoner-filled coffee shops on the fringe of the red light district, across the cobble stones and into the “Dam”, the main city square. If we felt a thousand eyes were watching us; they probably were. We had just encountered the Dutch, some say European, sport of people watching. Out the front of cafés were rows of seats all facing toward the square like we were in a football stadium.
We walked our feet off searching for who knows what and we even found one of the main canals circling the city. We even saw a group of Aussies.
About 7pm we jumped on the tram to Leidesplein, the “party square”, where we would meet our host for the night. The travel pass we purchased worked a treat. We bought some Belgian beers at the Irish pub and took in the atmosphere. And couldn’t help but see a hairy, old ball sack. Of the plentiful street performers we had unwittingly born witness to one of Amsterdam’s most infamous. Pushing 60 and a heavy trolley this ordinary-looking man erected a mast, hanging from which was a rope. At this stage I thought he might be going to hang himself in a rather public setting. But no. He quickly stripped down to a G-string and hauled himself up the rope, defying age and physics seemingly - I don’t know how that rig didn’t topple over. Much to the satisfaction of the ladies he ran through his gymnast routine, contorting himself every which way while falling out of his G-string. He made enough in that one show though to call it a night while us males in the crowd lamented our lack of agility even if wishing we hadn’t seen his kit.
Standing across the way was a shortish man with blond hair and glasses, playing with his phone, searching… for us. It was Mika. We shared a drink and all felt a little unsure on this blind date of sorts. Our last host Mark had assured us both we would have a great time and only time would tell. Over a Greek dinner we opened up and shared a few laughs. We even agreed to catch a Couchsurfing meeting the next night, or was it the night after? We weren’t sure what the case was but it sounded like fun.
Finding a tram ‘home’ was easy in this very travel friendly city. Walking back to Mika’s apartment was harder carrying 20kg each - but still not difficult. As the door swung open Mika started to apologise profusely for the mess in the midst of moving into Mark’s old place. Of course the state of the place was only the first clue as to how generous our host was - the Couchsurfing concept still amazes us. That and Ikea World.
- Sam July 29