010: The Big May Solo Trip - Amsterdam

Entries from my 3-week long solo trip in May 2024.

Hello! After two years of radio silence, I bet you’re surprised to see this notification come through, just a week after the last entry.

It turns out that as much as I enjoy the corporate grind (and I do!), it does induce a certain craving — a desire for a creative outlet. And while I’ve toyed with the idea of breaking out the sketchbook, or editing some travel vlogs, what I really wanted to do was sit down and write some stories.

Well, not write exactly, as I’ll be doing the same thing I did last week: lifting entries verbatim from my journal.

Anyway, welcome back! Where did we leave off?

Amsterdam

5/2/24: It’s 8:20 AM; Thursday, May 2nd. I’m sitting in a cafe near the RAI convention center, where my bus to Keukenhof (the famous tulip festival) departs.

Oh, here comes my cappuccino. It’s got a little heart of white foam on it; just lovely.

The cafe is called De Uitsmijter, on Europaplein. I’m sitting beside the window. A woman has just sat at the table in front of me; she seems to be a tourist as well, if the tank top and sunburnt back are anything to go by.

The cafe’s other patrons, 3 parties or so, have opted to sit outside, making the most of the wonderful weather this morning.

Ah, yep, she’s definitely American; she’s just placed her order, and she has quite a strong accent — Midwestern, perhaps?

It’s 8:42 AM now, and I’ve just finished my french toast (including the bananas, which I usually avoid) and cappuccino. Now comes the all-important task of catching the waitress’s attention to ask for the bill, for I have a bus to catch.

Actually, one of the men sitting outside has just come in to pay at the till, so I might go up as well. I think I will, as I really can’t afford to miss this bus. Both the waitress and chef are quite busy — there’s only one of each, as far as I can tell.

The kitchen is fully open, visible. Even without looking, I can hear the chef frantically moving around, trying to cook three dishes at once.

Keukenhof Tulip Festival, before lunch

It’s 10:52 AM now, and I’m happy to report that I did not miss the bus. I’m sitting on a bench within the Keukenhof grounds; there’s a small pond and fountain to my right, and the ambience is just lovely. There’s no other word for it.

The sound of running water fills my right ear, and my left is being serenaded by birdsong. The flowers are beautiful; this whole garden is beautiful. Magnificent, even.

It’s done in an English style, so the park is divided into various distinct areas. It’s been fabulously designed — each area flows naturally to the next, but they still maintain a sense of separation, of singular identity. Each time you turn a corner, or walk past a hedge, a novel scene is revealed; your eyes are greeted with something new.

The sun is shining, the sky is clear, and the air is warm.

There’s a pleasant slowness to this place. Of course, it is a massive tourist attraction. But the tourists here are subdued, like lethargic, bumbling bees that have had too much nectar. They still buzz, but do so slowly, with effort.

They (or rather, we) are still tourists; they still stop at each new flower bed, bending to capture each flower on film, or (more often than not) on the expanse of their phone’s screen. I include myself in that number.

A few pictures from Keukenhof.

But the majority of them walk slowly, reverently. Their eyes linger in a way that they cannot in the streets of Amsterdam, where one hurries to the next spot, the next museum, the next restaurant.

In fact, Amsterdam seems slower than most cities (I am, however, obliged to note that I grew up a stone’s throw from New York, so perhaps that statement ought to be taken with a grain of salt).

There’s something very charming about Amsterdam, very provincial — despite it being a capital city.

I think it’s the bikes. It brings me great joy, for some reason, to see hordes of cyclists gather at crosswalks, to see them all set off together when the signal turns green.

It’s as though they’re on the world’s largest cycling tour (I’ve seen many that cater to tourists here), except I’ve never seen a cycling tour with such a diverse group of characters.

You have businessmen pedaling in their suits, their hiked-up trousers revealing some unexpected sock choices. Beside them, you have young women in bright dresses, their bow-adorned hair billowing behind them. Children cycle beside the elderly, university students beside (and sometimes doubling as) Uber Eats couriers.

Keukenhof Tulip Festival, after lunch

It’s 1:21 PM now, and it seems that I was slightly optimistic earlier, when discussing the subdued tourists. After I put my journal away, I continued walking through the park, slowly meandering its many paths.

I then passed by one of the few restaurants within Keukenhof. It was nearing lunchtime, and I was hungry enough to eat, so I figured that I might as well get it over with. I purchased a bowl of ‘Grandma’s Vegetable Soup’ and a roasted chickpea wrap, mostly because I didn’t fancy shelling out 25 euros on a mediocre pasta or fish.

Just before the restaurant, there was a popular photo spot — an aesthetically-pleasing building with the name of the park emblazoned on the front, a cartload of small, yellow pots of tulips to pose with, and a cartoonishly large pair of (what I assume must be) traditional Dutch shoes of some sort.

There was quite a queue at this spot, and the antics of the people queuing reminded me that I was, indeed, at a premier tourist destination.

You had your usual characters: the couple (where the husband is the designated photographer, but is wholly incapable at fitting the shoes, top of the building, and placing you in the center of the shot), the extremely loud, usually middle-aged Americans (recognizable by their baseball caps, sandals, backpacks/fanny packs and, well, their general fashion choices).

There were two such women at the front of the queue. Both were blonde, with frizzy hair, large sunglasses, and very loud, clearly American accents. They took a while when it was finally their turn; the louder one, when posing with the tulip pots, yelled out: “Make sure you’re getting the shoes!”

When they finished taking pictures, they moved to the side; Janine, as it turned out, “didn’t get the shoes.” This was said loudly, emphatically, with a petulant note of disappointment — like the voice of a child who had just found out they wouldn’t be getting ice cream after all.

Did the two of them just walk away, picture-less? Of course not. Nor did they rejoin the queue, which by now was over 15 people long.

Instead, they remained where they were, just beside the front of the line. The loud one — not-Janine — waved her hand at the two women next in the queue. Once she got their attention, she called “Excuse me! Excuse me. My friend here…”

She then placed her hands on Janine’s shoulders affectionately, the way a mother might caress her youngest child, her baby. Smothering and, in most cases, unwelcome.

“…she didn’t get the shoes! She didn’t get the shoes in the picture!”

She still hadn’t asked a question, though, and for a split second they all looked at each other, the four of them. Not-Janine opened her mouth again, speaking slower and louder, now apparently concerned that the two women didn’t speak English (they did).

After another moment, one of the two gestured for them to go ahead, much to the annoyance of the rest of the queue. They took their time getting their second round of pictures as well; not-Janine shouting out reminders to Janine to “make sure you get the shoes! Are you getting them?” on no less than three occasions.

I was merely observing this from the side, not attempting to join the queue myself. I had no one to take a picture of me, after all, and I knew it didn’t matter what stranger I enlisted to help take one — the photo would not turn out well.

Anyway, between this ordeal and the very chaotic, cafeteria-style lunch, Keukenhof had transformed from a tranquil, marvelous sanctuary into an experience more akin to Disney World in the summer. Still beautiful, still magical, but incredibly hectic.

As it turns out, that perfect serenity I had experienced earlier was only because it was morning; most of the tourists hadn’t arrived yet. But arrive they did, in droves of sunhat-wearing, sandal-donning, map-carrying swarms.

Still, a crazy, packed Disney is still Disney — the place where dreams come true. And the same was true of Keukenhof: I might have been tired, sweaty, and slightly sunburnt (plus very dehydrated) by the end of the day. But I left with a renewed sense of wonder; having been freshly reminded of the beauty that exists in the world, I was now keenly aware of my desire to see it.

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That’s the end of the entry. Thanks for reading, and I’ll be back in your inbox with the next issue soon! As always, a reply (even just to say how you’re doing) is always appreciated.

Hope to hear from you soon!
Kaylyn

P.S. In an effort to make my non-work life more interesting, I’ve decided to try out an NYC-based book club. We were asked to read Toni Morrison’s short story “Recitatif” for our first meeting tomorrow (which, like all of Morrison’s work, was extremely sharp) — will report back!