Nothing (much) To Report

I’ve been away with some nuns (don’t ask) for the past few days, and thought that it was about time I wrote some more about lovely Amsterdam before it all just flies out of my  head.

OK, so Coventry Airport for a starter for 10. For people more used to Heathrow, I know exactly what you will be thinking when you turn onto an industrial estate with a couple of porta-cabins at the end of it - you’ll be thinking “where the hell is the airport”?

Putting this aside, and the fact that they don’t really have a cafe and bar (like their website says - a little old lady with some sandwiches and cans of beer doesn’t constitiute a cafe bar in my books) it really is a smashing little airport. The only people in the “departure lounge” are the people who are going on your flight…because there’s only one flight an hour or so. We also were all boarded and pushed back way on time, no queueing on the tarmac either. I could get used to this kinda thing!

The flight itself was the usual cheap and cheerful airline thing - buy your own drinks and whatnot. I opted for more wine and got chatting to a very friendly couple from Glasgow who, it turned out were also going to go back on the same flight as me. How very nice. Jabbering away, the flight passed so quickly and the next thing I knew, we had touched down at Schipol.

Now…Schipol has changed a huge amount since I was last there (about 1994 - eeeek) and you have to walk for bloody miles through the departure lounge (yeah, weird ennit?) to get your luggage. Eventually I got through and tried to buy a ticket for the train to Centraal Station from one of the machines in the luggagey bit. This would have been great if I’d had a few more Euro coins (didn’t take notes) or if it actually took UK chip and pin cards (it didn’t). So I had to go find some real person to buy a ticket off and then trundle down to catch the train. There was one waiting (lovely lovely, not like UK trains I thought) and within 15 minutes I was there! It was unfortunate that I had to spend those 15 minutes listening to pissed up Brits on the train talking shite very loudly - I tried very hard to not look at all English at this point, feeling ashamed of my nation abroad.

The first breaths of fresh air when I stepped outside the station were fantastic. I love the smells of “abroad”. It was about 10.30pm by this point and the atmosphere in the Dam was one of smashing non-threateningness that you definately wouldn’t get wandering around outside King’s Cross with a suitcase looking lost. Even I must admit now to a bit of trundling about wondering where to buy tickets from. The internet can prepare you for many things, like which bloody Tram to get on - but it can’t tell you where to trundle off to to buy tickets when everywhere’s closed (for future reference, you can just buy the damn things on the buses or trams)

I found myself trundling towards the underground, because I thought there might be more ticket machines there (there was) and a very helpful little man who told me I’d be better off getting a night bus instead of tram number 9. I duly did this, forsaking tram number 9 and queued up with some very local Dutch people for this bus. Thinking “I can do this!” I sat on the bus, hoping that one of the bus stops would match a name on my map. *cough* they didn’t. In fact it soon became clear that we were bloody miles from the centre. I plucked up the courage to ask the last passenger on the bus in my best dutch - “how to get here?” (with much pointing). She replied in English - speak to the driver. He of course laughed at my predicament and when we came to the end of the line got out of his cab, rolled a cigarrette and chatted in that very friendly Dutch way about why I’m in the middle of nowhere in the middle of the night.

He promised to tell me where to get off the bus and showed me his map my 20 minute walk to the hotel. He’d been driving for 26 years, and I couldn’t help but tell him that I’m not really used to buses as the last bus to my house is usually about 6pm on any given night - this really made him laugh and consider a driving job in England

Aaaaaaaanyway, I eventually made it to the hotel. I think it was nearing midnight at that point, and I of course discovered the next day that tram number 9 stops right outside the hotel.

 Bugger it. But I like to justify these (frequent) getting lost episodes by thinking that life is all about the journey, not the destination. And I wouldn’t have met the nicest bus driver in Amsterdam if I’d just got on the tram.

- moosh