I was 29 when I took my first trip to Europe. I had been dreaming of going to the Netherlands ever since I could remember; I even wrote in my departing words in my high school year book that you’d find me one day living in a big Dutch windmill! There was just something about the Netherlands I seemed to be drawn to: a place where cultural traditions remained, but attitudes and ideas seemed progressive. And the vibe! Who doesn’t love the idea of casually cycling through narrow streets over canals, with a basket full of tulips and a cheese wheel?!
And, of course, (and before it was a thing here) the novelty of legally ingesting pot brownies was something I had to try! I had a whole dream in my mind, and I was determined to live it, even if for only a couple days!

It was June and my partner and I had agreed that our first trip together we would spend most of our time in the UK where she had family, as long as I could get in a few days in the capital city of the Netherlands.

After arriving in Schiphol, we took a very long and hot bus ride to the city centrum where I had booked a hotel with the title of ‘art gallery’ in it’s name, and across from the famous Rijksmuseum. After figuring out which entrance to use, we stood in the doorway of what looked like a doctor’s office with a woman sitting at a desk in an actual closet under the stairs. I asked if this was the hotel, and she responded yes and proceeded to check us in.

“Here is your key, you must return it each time you leave the building.”

This was new to me, and after asking and having her explain in a vague but rather direct manner, I accepted the policy, and we continued to our room.

We walked a whole 10 feet to a door in a narrow hallway that was in direct eyesight of the hotel entrance. I was having a hard time picturing where the courtyard could be, given that the room we booked would have a window facing it.

*The door opens*

We were presented with a small, office-sized room with two tiny single beds pushed together to make up the “queen-sized” bed I had expected to see. There was a TV the size of an iPad hanging from the wall above a square leather stool in desperate need of a wash and a stitch job. The floor was laminate tiling with several damaged and half-missing pieces. The closed curtains were stained with old cigarette holes burned through.
Did we at least get a view?.… No. I opened the drapes to find a wall about 5-feet across from our window. I looked down to see an empty bucket, a boot, and a rope on a cement floor. Above was the sky framed by a small rectangle. This was the “courtyard.” But wait! The bathroom! Was it just as terrible? Surprisingly, no, but I had some questions. Why was it almost as big as the room itself? Why did the floor sink into a drain in the centre of the room, away from the shower? Why was the mirror higher than I could see myself? Why was there only one towel!

Feeling rather disappointed, we decided to not let it get us down and go out to experience a world I had waited so long to see.

“You are in the bike lane!“
“Oh! Sorry!”

We were hungry, so we decided to find a nice restaurant nearby. We ended up settling for a moderately busy patio restaurant that had a band preparing for some live music. We ordered, we ate, the food was great, and so was the beer. We were refreshed and ready to start over. 25-minutes after finishing, there was no wait staff in sight. 45 minutes pass…

“I think we should just go up and pay?”

We approached a man behind a menu counter.

“Hi there, we would like to pay.”
“I am not your server”
“Okay, can you please find our server.”
“No, she is somewhere up there, serving other guests.” As he gestured up the stairs.
“Okay, but we need to leave and have been waiting quite some time.”
“Here.” He put the debit machine in front of us.
“Where is the tip option?”
“We don’t have one.” He said, with mild disdain.

We paid, and tried to thank him, but he seemed too frustrated to acknowledge us any further. Back to stage one. This type of interaction would not be the last of our evening, or trip.

Once again, we were feeling disappointed. But I knew of one more thing we could do to turn our perceptions around.

“Wanna go get a pot brownie?”
“Sure!”

We found a coffee shop, and knowing that we would both have a very low tolerance for THC, we purchased a single “space cake” and headed back to the room.
We were exhausted after a long day of travel and navigating a new city. We decided to stay in for the remainder of the evening with our small TV and space cake. We halved it and I nibbled on pieces while trying to find a channel to watch. I recall looking over at my partner and gasping:

“Did you eat the whole thing already?!”
“Yes?… Is that bad?”

About an hour passed, and I felt nothing, but at least the show was interesting. It was a talk show about… Then it hit me. I had been watching the entire show in Dutch. I do not speak Dutch. The instant realization that I was high out of my mind threw me into a state of panic. I needed something to soothe my pounding heart. I began stroking the cool wall beside the bed. Helen looked over at me and asked:

“Are you okay?”
I slowly turned my head.
“I’m so high right now…”
“Omg, your eyes are red!”
“I’m kinda freaking out, do you have a drink on you?”
“No, but they have cups and water in the common area.”
“You mean I gotta go out there?!”

Indeed, I had to, and as I slowly blazed my way out of the room to get a cup of water from the common area, I overheard a couple at the check-in closet, asking why they, too, needed to return their keys.

Keys… Return keys… Locked… Locked in.

All of a sudden, I had an epiphany.
Why was there a huge bathroom with a drain in the middle of the floor? To take our organs, of course!!!

As I went back to bed, I began fixating about all the blunt conversations had throughout the day, and wondering ‘why is everyone so mad at me?!‘

It wasn’t until the next morning, after the longest and most paranoid night of my life, that I decided to do some reading online about interacting with the Dutch. As many know, the Dutch are notoriously known for being very blunt and, of course, Canadians are known for their politeness and friendly demeanour in conversation (mostly). It turns out, that many Dutch folks may find over-politeness as insincere.

I also learned that tipping can be considered insulting in a country where service industry jobs are generally paid a living wage.

With this new-found knowledge, we were able to turn things around and enjoy the remainder of our time in the city.

Since this trip, I’ve been to many other countries. I’ve learned to do a bit more reading up on places instead of relying on my own romanticized ideas. And although I’ve been to some pretty wild places, Amsterdam still goes down as the biggest culture shock of my life.