The Day A Drunk Dutchman Grinded on Me

(Yes, I know that the past tense of "to grind" should be "ground," but I'm talking about a sexualized dance move, not mince meat, and in the former's context, "ground" or even "grounded" sounds odd to describe the latter.)

As a long-running-but-totally-serious joke here on Two Beans or Not Two Beans, those in the know are aware that I am on the Internet known as the appointed Minister of Transport for Holland. My fellow blogging pal extraordinaire from Invading Holland, King Stu, has since decreed himself as the King of Holland and thus felt the need to offer me the position of Minister of Transport.

Nota Bene: It should be mentioned that I use "Holland" here as a synonym for the Netherlands and am not solely referring the two North and South provinces, folks.

Back in April, the Dutch were going to experience a special day. A very special day, indeed. King's Day!

It being the first King's Day in since...forever...I wanted to look my Minister of Transport best. I put on a layer of red glitter on my eyebrows, painted my eyelids in white and blue, proudly sported my "I See Dutch People" t-shirt and wrapped an orange scarf (every French person wears a scarf; it's against the law not to) around my neck.

The "I See Dutch People" t-shirt is available here. 

I was ready to celebrate King Stu's first Koningsdag.

However, after I took the train to Amsterdam Centraal and prepared myself for a day of rambling about the city, (as the public transports would not run in the city for pedestrian safety), I noticed that there had been a mix up. The King in question wasn't Stu if not some guy named Willem-Alexander!

Even the M&M's were in on it! What more proof do you need? 

I huffed and, in need of a drink, headed down Prins Henrikkadestraat to try to find the Brouwerij 'T IJ bar.

On my way, I saw stalls of vendors selling cheap beer

Doors decorated for the occasion

Party goers all clad in orange

People who clearly didn't speak Dutch

"No bikes."

"Ik spreek geen nederlands, bro."

And the single most pimpin' boat I have ever seen.

'Tis most pimpin', indeed.

Sail on, good sir. 

But I soon realized after a 45 minute walk that it was probably too far to get to the bar on foot, and I still had a full day ahead of me.

My next goal was to take a relaxing stroll around Vondelpark to see the free markets. Everywhere I went, I was surrounded by the color orange, in all shades and styles. I saw children performing in the streets for money, the most clever one being a sibling team in which one banged discordant notes on a keyboard while the other younger sibling, dressed head to toe in a stifling monkey costume, danced under the hot sun. I felt simultaneously amused and sorry for the kids.

Some children, however, displayed great musical talent.

So much that it made me wonder how worthless my life as an artist actually is.

Pushing through the vast orange cowboy hat-wearing crowds,

Dam Square became a fairground

Spot the Dutch person wearing an orange cowboy hat

And occasionally catching a glimpse of Willem-Alexander,

(Sort of)

I kept envisioning Vondelpark in my head and how I would be able to take a break from the masses swarming around the city.

Once I got there, I soon realized that I wasn't the only one who had had the same idea.

Walking around the gardens, I spotted a single orange rose in bloom.

Tulips around the Vondel statue

This was the first time that I had ever seen Forget-me-nots in real life.

After a few hours, I got hungry and wanted to munch on that special treat that I could only get in the Netherlands: bitterballen. The last time I had some was back on January first. Four months is a long time to be deprived of bitterballen.

I walked out of the park. I saw more inebriated people sailing boats groaning from over-capacity,

As well as not one...

...But TWO imperial lions!

"Y'all can't handle my regalia."

I knew exactly where I wanted to go to eat my bitterballen, but the problem was that the entrance to street where the brown café was located was inconveniently near Leidseplein...right at the very corner where the flashy Bulldog Coffee Shop was bound to have an immobile mass of tourists buzzing about it and streets littered with broken glass bottles and piles of rubbish.

I wasn't wrong.

Fighting my desire to punch, elbow, bite, and claw people out of my way, I snaked through the static crowd and, after two minutes that seemed to last an eternity, reached the street.

Thankfully, the brown café in question was an oasis of tranquility from the chaotic atmosphere. I offered myself a moment's respite and nursed a Belgian beer with a half dozen of piping hot bitterballen.

In my bubble of delicious treats, I felt that all was right with the world, at least for an hour. I then set myself the goal of trying to get to the Anne Frank House down Prisengracht. In retrospect, I realize now that it was a dumb move on my part as it was bound to be impossible to get into it on King's Day.

I weaved and swerved down the long street, passing little groups of drunk Dutchies dancing, beers and cigarettes a constant presence in their hands. Despite the rowdiness of the atmosphere, it genuinely made me happy to see them having the time of their lives. I'm a people watcher, after all.

It seemed that all would be going to plan for me to get to the Anne Frank House when I bumped into one of those drunk Dutchman.

"Oh! Sorry!"

He staggered, looked down at me, blinked a couple of times, smiled and placed a free hand on my shoulder, thereby stopping me in my tracks. He then slurred something in Dutch, to which I nervously said "Ik spreek geen nederlands." In a heartbeat, he effortlessly switched to English.

Damn it! How did they know this?

"Yes, I am."

"Ahh! Where are you from?"

"Miami."

"Whoaaaaaa, Mi-a-mi!!!"

How unfortunate for me that Miami carries with it the image of being a party city when I am the complete opposite of a party girl.

That isn't to say that I don't like a good party, but being absolutely plastered while having loud music pound into your eardrums and enough flashing lights to cause epileptic seizures isn't my idea of "fun." I'd say there are two types of people in Miami: those who enjoy the party scene with its nightclubs, and those who want to get out of the city to see something else of the world.

(Guess which one I am.)

Upon hearing that I hailed from the most well-known city in South Florida, the Dutchman cheered loudly and proceeded to give me an odd Dutch greeting of pivoting his gyrating crotch towards my rear.

To further understand how odd this move must have looked to the random spectator, it is important to remember that at 5'4"/163 cm, I am indeed quite a short person in the Netherlands, and the Dutchman in question easily surpassed the Dutch height average of 6'1"/183,5 cm.

In order for his lower abdomen to have reached my rear, he essentially had to bend his knees to a level in which  crouching clearly looked strenuous and painful to him. If we had been dog breeds, it would have looked like a Great Dane were trying to hump a really stout, short-legged Chihuahua. I stood frozen on the spot, too confused to even react to what he was doing.

Let's get one thing straight: the fact that I am from Miami does NOT automatically mean that I want to be grinded on, all right?

After he realized that his grinding was in no way turning me on, he stopped his backward and forward motion, stumbled a few steps and asked if I wanted to join him and his friends to party.

"Maybe...," I diplomatically responded.

"'Maybe?' 'Maybe' is not a good answer!"

"Well, that depends. Where are you guys planning to go party?"

He spread his long arms in the air, clutching a sloshing beer in one hand, and said "the party is here, there, everywhere! It's all over the place!" I think he was referring to the entire city centre. My gut said to get out of there, but then my adventurous side said "why the heck not?" His liquid courage was infectious and I decided to tag along with his group, which consisted of another guy and one couple snogging each other.

As the group and I travelled down Prisengracht, our nucleus of party revelers increased by three other people: three Dutch ladies who never once said a word to me. One of the girls began to chat up the Grinding Don Juan and the other two began to discuss something to each other. I could tell from their body language, from the way their darting eyes looked at me up and down to the giggling that they were talking about me. All of this happened in Dutch, therefore I had no idea what they were saying about me. I did catch the word "wallflower" at one point.

After a few minutes, the Dutch nucleus made a tight circle which, in their language, made me feel excluded. I didn't even know how to assert myself in their conversations by speaking in English. How odd it was in that moment, amid literally thousands of people, to have felt quite lonely.

As I began to regret my decision of having stuck around the group, "our" nucleus increased by another couple. They approached me and began to ask me questions.

What's your name? "Barbara."

Ah, Barbara. "What are yours?" She said her name was Annette. As for the man:

"Ah, no, you wouldn't be able to pronounce it," he stated, shaking his head. I retorted that I was always up for a challenge. "It's Joost."  I repeated it perfectly and his jaw hung open. "Okay, you said it correctly."

Did I know what King's Day was? "Yes, it's King Willem-Alexander's birthday. Prior to that, it was Queen's Day to celebrate Queen Beatrix, although, technically, April 30th was Queen Juliana's birthday."

Joost's attention diverted to the two giggling girls. Did I know the two giggling girls from the group? Were they my friends? "No, I don't know them at all. I've only just met them, actually."

"Ah, well, they are saying really mean things about you in Dutch. Not nice at all. I thought you should know that."

So I had figured, but it was nice to at least have my suspicions confirmed. If anything, their behavior was a clear reflection on their poor character. Rather than getting to know me as a person, they had preferred to pass judgment whilst talking about me behind my back in a language I neither understand nor speak.

I wasn't going to let those two girls ruin my day. In those occasions, it's better to ignore the petty things and let them slide, like water off a duck's back.

Also: not that I'm spiteful, but I did make a mental note to have their bicycles' wheels be clamped and their OV-Chipkaarts revoked as soon as possible.

That'll teach 'em to mess with the Minister of Transport.

I diverted from my revenge fantasy and went back to my budding conversation with the couple.

Was I here with anyone else? "No, I came here by myself."

What? Why would you be doing here, in Amsterdam, by yourself? "Well, why not? I'm a pretty independent person."

What did I think of King's Day, their biggest holiday? I quite liked it, I said.

Really? They didn't have the impression that I was wholly enjoying myself. I insisted that I was, in my own way. (Perhaps I just wasn't overjoyed over having felt cast to the side by the others, but, oh well.)

The man said that I looked a bit "blue." I asked him to explain what he meant by "blue," because to me, it is a synonym for "sad" or "depressed."

He struggled to find the right words for the context and mentioned that it looked like I was there, enjoying the moment, but still hesitant to be present, as if I was keeping my distance.

I think he meant I was being "reserved," which fits quite well with my nature in surroundings that I don't know. However, if someone proves themselves to be friendly, I open up easily, which was certainly the case with the engaging couple.

"This isn't my first time in the Netherlands, either. It's my second time coming here."

"Ah. By the Netherlands, do you mean Amsterdam?"

"Well, yes, I have visited Amsterdam, obviously, but I have been to a couple of other places."

"Where?"

"Rotterdam and Heerenveen."

They stared at me. I might has well had just declared myself as an extraterrestrial visitor from another galaxy and sought to be taken to their leader.

"You went to Heerenveen? I'm originally from Friesland!" Joost said. "What were you doing in Heerenveen?"

"I went to see some friends there."

"Ah! That makes more sense. Nobody goes to Heerenveen for the sight-seeing."

"Well, I did do some sight-seeing there. I even the saw the windmill. I also know the city is famous for speed skating."

At which point their jaws dropped in incredulous joy. Joost, in serendipitous disbelief, said that I was the first American he had ever met who knew about the speed skating. Then he proclaimed to be a speed skater himself.

"Are you really?!" I squealed, thinking about the likes of Sven Kramer, Jan Blokhuijsen, Jorrit Bergsma and Koen Verweij.

"Yes, of course! I am Dutch! We are all speed skaters!" I bit back my words to state that I thought he was talking about professional skating.

"Do you like skating?" Annette asked.

"Well, I do like to watch the execution and the skill involved in the sport, but, regrettably, I don't know how to skate."

"Oh. Well, you can always learn how to ice skate."

I shook my head. "No, I mean, I don't know how to skate."

"If you know how to inline skate, on wheels, it's really easy!"

I chuckled and reiterated more explicitly. "I don't know how to skate. At all. Neither on blades nor on wheels. I never learned how..."

"Ah. Well, that'll be your next goal in the Netherlands! To ice skate!" she said cheerfully.

Just when I was beginning to enjoy the conversation and was getting ready to ask them some questions myself, they announced that they had to go. Before I could lament their departure, they left me with a parting gift.

"You look very oranje today, but hold on. You are missing something!"

Joost reached into his backpack and pulled out a pair of orange sunglasses. "I want you to have these!"

I declined at first but he insisted that I have them. "I want you to have these, because that is how we are!"

I was very touched by their kind gesture and thanked them for it. Annette then bequeathed the sunglasses on my head, as if they were a tiara. It was then that I truly felt welcomed by the uniting spirit of King's Day and I will never forget their kind gesture.

I walked around the city proudly wearing my oranje sunglasses tiara and watched the fleet of boats pass by on the canal.

I got distracted by some poffertjes and never made it to the Anne Frank House. I wasn't too worried, though, because King's Day had only been the first day of what would be my week in the Netherlands...

Barb the French Bean

Why You Shouldn't Eat Venison While High

(An also possible title could be "Why You Shouldn't Go Overboard with Weed.")

Throughout my week-long trip to the Netherlands, I spent my time hanging with a good friend who had flown over from Dublin.

Now, this friend of mine is a rather decent individual: he is polite, well-versed in general culture and has a fine appreciation of the arts and aesthetic beauty. These qualities meant that the two of us hit off an immediate friendship when we met in Ireland last year.

However, he is extroverted whereas I am introverted. With the exception of one day, nearly every waking moment of our trip was spent with him talking, talking, talking and inquiring if everything was all right with me in the several moments I would run out of energy for social interaction and become silent.

Another way my friend and I differ is on our views of smoking Marijuana. I literally don't care for the stuff and am sensitive to the presence of any smoke.  He constantly spent the trip with a bud of pot dangling from his lips, which meant that I had to walk three paces ahead to avoid the smoke blowing in my face.

It was odd for me, the non-smoker, to observe what effects the soft drug had on my friend. Some notable side-effects included his usual garrulous demeanor being maintained in a more subdued form, having the need to laugh and giggle for no particular reason, and frequently repeating questions. He also took to accusing me of not loving animals whilst we BOTH ate meat-based food.

My friend also reported that visiting the Van Gogh museum while high was particularly enjoyable due to the bright, swirling colors of the Impressionist paintings coming to life before his skewed vision.

"Dude."

"DUDE."

"DUUUUUUUUuuuuuuuuuude..." (Yes, that is the recently discovered painting, complete with a "TARDIS" in the background.) 

"Oh my God. Dude."

"Dude. This chair. It's like it wants to speak to me."

I had to take his word for it.

My friend also reported experiencing headaches from his smoking. On the one day we parted ways, I escaped took a train to Heerenveen to visit my employers, King Stu and the Royal Family while he went to Amsterdam to hang out at the Coffee Shops. Due to having spent a few hours on my own riding the train and roaming the calm streets of Heerenveen, by the time I returned in the early evening, my introvert need to "recharge" in solitude had been met. I was mentally and physically ready to see my friend and hang out with him once more.

I had expected that he would have remained in the city centre all day long. I was therefore surprised to discover that he had returned to the hotel at four in the afternoon. I joined him in the hotel room and found him lying in bed, in the dark, with Dutch T.V. blaring on the screen. I asked what was wrong and why he had left the bustling city so early.

"The Coffee Shops were all crowded, and I felt SO ALONE without you. I really, really missed you. I'm so glad you're back."

"Interesting that you felt lonely while surrounded by other people. Knowing you, you would have started to socialize with somebody in a heartbeat..."

"Yes, I did talk to a couple of Spanish guys, but they left. Then I got a massive headache from all the weed I smoked and needed sleep. I'm so glad you're back. I haven't had lunch. I'm really hungry now. Have you had dinner?"

"I've had some beer and bitterballen, and if you want something now, my friends gave me--"

"THAT'S NOT DINNER. I want FOOD. I want steak!"

We eventually found steak and my friend, while tucking into his medium-done chunk of Rib Eye, accused me of being a meat-loving carnivore.

*******************************************************

It was January 1st, 2014 and it being our last day in the Netherlands, we wanted to visit the Rijksmuseum. My friend disappeared for a few minutes inside a souvenir shop and presented me with a gift. I was wary that, being the first of the year, quite a number of places would be closed. Luckily, the Rijksmuseum was open and we spent a few hours of our day drooling over the works of Rembrandt and Vermeer.

The Milkmaid, currently seen in France as the symbol for selling French custard. 

Prior to dinnertime, I wanted to take a stroll in Vondelpark. We didn't stay long because it began to rain and the sun had nearly set. My friend and I decided that we would scout a quiet place to have dinner for our New Year's Day meal.

We tried finding places to eat around Max Euplein and Leidesesplein. My friend always made a detour to whatever Coffee Shop was open, simply to "see what it was all about." We kept walking and eventually settled at a nice place on Leidsedwarsstraat. The waiter welcomed us to sit wherever there was an empty table. I promptly ordered a nice Belgian beer, a plate of bitterballen and asked what the dinner special was.

"We have mashed potatoes, vegetables, and venison cooked in a red wine sauce."

Perfectly cooked venison, in a red wine sauce? My adventurous taste buds and adopted Frenchness said "YES" in a heartbeat. The waiter left our table to give us a few more minutes to decide on the meal. My friend said he would have the daily special, stood up, stated he would be back and walked out of the restaurant. The plate of bitterballen arrived and I dunked one meatball into the mustard. While eating it, I began to feel sad that I would soon no longer have easy access to such a delicious treat.

My friend soon returned with a plastic container holding a chunk of chocolate cake. His triumphant grin clued me into thinking that his purchase had not come from Albert Heijn.

"Do you want some bitterballen," I asked. "You might as well eat one as it is still hot."

"Soon enough," he replied, still grinning.

The waiter came by our table again, pen and notebook in hand. Before he asked if we were ready to order, his attention questioningly turned to the chocolate lump sitting on the table. He pointed his pen to it and observed "Ah, that's for after dinner."

Little did he know that after our order had been taken, my friend would sneak out once more and eat half of the Space Cake before he had even taken his first munch of bitterballen. I wasn't too worried about him eating the Space Cake because, according to the explanation that accompanied the container, one only began to feel the effects kick in an hour later.

What I had not known about the day was that when my friend left to purchase the cake, he had also smoked an entire joint before eating the Space Cake.

The striking effects of the weed had an immediate result. The conversation during our meal was interrupted by periods of giggling coupled with him making introspective observations and asking me questions.

"I feel sad that we're eating venison. It's just not right," he stated.

"Why? Don't you eat meat?" I asked, fearing that in his drugged state, my friend had suddenly sworn allegiance to PETA.

"Yes, but you are a right carnivore!" he accused. "You absolutely enjoy eating meat, don't you?"

"Yes, I do. And so do you."

"Yes...yes, I do," he conceded in a murmur.

He began to eat his vegetables and mashed potatoes. After a few minutes, I noticed that he made a point to avoid cutting the venison.

"Eat the venison," I said like a mother scolding a picky eater.

"No, I don't want to. I keep thinking of the poor, little deer that was slaughtered for this meal."

"Oh, come now. I know this isn't the first time you've eaten meat."

"I know, but still...the poor, little deer. What did it do to us to deserve this cruel fate?"

I restrained a groan and tried to make him reason.

"You've eaten chicken, right?"

"Yes..."

"And beef, and fish, and pork."

"Yes."

"In fact, you had steak the other day. And you liked it."

"Yes. And it was SO GOOD. You really enjoyed eating that steak, too, didn't you?"

"Yes, I did."

"I know you did, because you are a carnivore. You really enjoy eating meat, right?"

"You've already asked me that question about three times."

"Oh. Hee-hee-hee-hee-hee. You ARE a carnivore!"

"Riiiiiiight. Well, what makes the deer so different to the other animals in terms of eating their meat?"

"They're not as cute as the deer."

I made the conscious effort to not let my flat palm smack my forehead in public. My friend stared at me with his blood-shut eyes.

"You don't love animals, do you?" he inquired sadly. I wouldn't stand to have my dietary habits be vilified by someone who ate meat as much as I did.

"Well, I do like to eat 'em. But I'm not going to sit down to eat a cat or dog anytime soon," I snapped.

He looked down at his plate with guilt.

"Oh, go on," I insisted. "The food is really, really good!" He conceded and took his first bite of the venison.

"OH WOW. THIS FOOD IS SO GOOD. AND THESE MASHED POTATOES ARE DIVINE!"

I thought the mashed potatoes were slightly above average at best, but agreed with him. He had great difficulty cutting his meal and I offered to help. Offended, he struck his fork against the plate with a clatter and said "Who do you think you are, some kind of mother? Do you think that I can't even cut my own food?"

I looked at the plate streaked haphazardly with sauce and vegetables. It resembled a Van Gogh painting.

"No. I don't. That's why I'm offering to help."

He sighed and told me not to worry. He began to giggle for no reason and voiced a desire to drink warm chocolate milk. With whipped cream. And he stressed warm milk. Not too hot, not too cold. I placed Goldilock's order with the waitress, who looked inquisitively at my still-giggling friend. I explained to her that I was a bit concerned about his state, mentioning that he had eaten some Space Cake.

"Oh, well, he should be perfectly fine," she said, being a veteran at seeing drugged tourists. "Usually, you don't feel the Space Cake until after an hour of eating it."

"Yes, but he had also smoked a joint prior to eating it."

"Oh, well..." She rushed to get the warm, not too hot, not too cold, chocolate milk.

"You're in luck. It's apparently Chocomel." He began to drink the warm Chocomel with gusto. He giggled. Then frowned.

"What's wrong?" I asked, fearing that he had found the beverage unsatisfactory. He stared at me once more.

"Oh, the poor little deer...You have no compassion, you carnivore."

To this day, my friend still isn't a vegetarian.



And the gift he gave me?

I should have no trouble fitting in the Netherlands now. :P

Barb the Carnivore French Bean


Minor Update:
I just checked the number of posts (published or not) I've got saved.

Good Lord.

The Minister of Transport for Holland Finally Visited Holland

A couple of years ago, fellow blogger and current King of Holland Invader Stu offered me the post of being the Minister of Transport for Holland. Being unemployed at the time, I gladly accepted the job offer with great gusto.

The Holland 305 Project featured sweeping and controversial innovative reforms regarding the transportation systems of the Netherlands as based on those used in South Florida, namely eliminating bus and bicycle lanes and forcing people to be totally dependent on cars.

However, it seems that I had been going on the original reforms of The Holland 305 Project the wrong way. King Stu insisted that the Dutch keep their bicycle lanes. As this short video demonstrates, they went through quite a bit of protesting during the '70s regarding child safety and environmental protection.




As Minister of Transport, I decreed that the Dutch would keep their bikes.

Two years passed with my being on the job and I couldn't help but face one glaring fact: I had a high-ranking position, and I still had yet to set foot in the Netherlands. Not even my ominous cartoon of "SOON" written across the country in vibrant red letters made much sense.

 


Wanting to personally experience the good work of my fulfilling position, I booked a flight straight to Schiphol airport and stayed one week to discover the country for which I had been working. I was also accompanied by a friend who flew over from Dublin and we ended up residing in a hotel outside of Amsterdam.

After settling into the hotel room, we decided to take a train from Almost-Amsterdam to Amsterdam Centraal Station. It was at the train station at Almost-Amsterdam that I encountered the first hindrance that needed some reformation: the station was manned solely by ticket-vending/OV-chipkaart recharge machines, not actual human beings.

What's worse: these machines accepted either only specific credit cards (apparently, the top popular ones of Visa and Mastercard just didn't cut it) or cash...in the form of coins. No, not even bank notes, coins. I jotted this particular inconvenience in my Minister of Transport notebook for things that needed improvement.

Luckily, all was not at a loss. The station may not have been equipped with real personnel, but it did have a couple of SOS call boxes that allowed people to communicate with an invisible being. I dubbed these boxes as "the god box." After pressing the button, the intercom crackled, and a woman's voice with a charming Dutch accent came through.

Thus the god box had so decreed. My friend and I waited for the next train and upon its arrival, we set ourselves on a quest to seek someone who looked like they might work for Nederlandse Spoorwegen. We boarded a second-class carriage, heard the doors shut behind us and peered at who else was in the compartment. Nobody else except other passengers. A heavy sensation of guilt struck my stomach and, mildly panicked, I suggested to my friend that at the next stop (Schiphol airport), we would get off and ask someone to purchase tickets.

Luckily, at the Schiphol airport stop, I was informed by a helpful Nederlandse Spoorwegen employee that there were indeed real living, breathing human beings who worked at the ticket counters.

"You can't miss them," he said. "You'll see them, the crazy people. They are my co-workers!"

Thus far, I was very impressed by the Dutch bilingual tendency of being able to speak English well enough to have an excellent grasp of its fluency to make jokes. I found the aforementioned "crazy people," purchased tickets and eventually made it to Amsterdam Centraal. My friend and I omitted to using the public transportation for one night and opted to explore the city on foot.

Strolling down the main street lined with illuminated kiosks and bustling tourists like myself, I was blown away by the decorations of the Christmas market. Living out in the French countryside, I had almost forgotten that large cities actually made the effort to spread the cheer with lights, garlands and, in Amsterdam's case, a man dressed head to toe in a snowman costume dancing in an inflatable snow globe.

Dam Square

The Palace

I could have kept on strolling all night just looking at the decorations. My friend, on the other hand, had other priorities. Within the first five minutes of our evening promenade in the Christmas market, he voiced his desire of finding a Coffee Shop.

"I haven't seen any Coffee Shops since we've been here."

"Really?," I asked, incredulously. "We've passed at least three of them already."

"WHAT?! Why didn't you tell me?!"

"Uh...'cause I'm not actually looking for them like you are?"

Now, for those who may not be in the know, I am indeed a big fan of coffee, particularly of sweetened Cuban espresso. Prior to departing to the Netherlands, I had heard that this country is actually known for having an enthusiastically high consumption rate of coffee. Therefore, being the coffee lover, I was stoked to go out and taste Dutch coffee.

However, don't be fooled for one second that I was about to mistake a café with the Dutch "Coffee Shops," establishments which certainly do sell beverages but are more well-known for providing marijuana to the clientele.

(Just so we're clear on this: no, I didn't ingest or smoke any pot while I was in the Netherlands. I did, however, become proficient at recognizing the smell of pot simply by walking past giggling, red-eyed tourists.)

My friend eventually found a placed called the Bulldog and skipped inside to purchase some pot. I sat outside and, pinching my nose at the stank aroma emanating from the building, took pictures of the canal across the street.

My friend lit his joint on the spot and spent the rest of the evening walking around the city with bloodshot eyes.

The following day proved to be a wet one. We lingered in the hotel in the morning hoping that the day would improve. We eventually made the short trek under the rain to the train station (pre-purchased train tickets in tow) and arrived at Amsterdam Centraal. During the ride, we discussed what we wanted to do. I wanted to go to Vondelpark and see some museums. So did my friend. He also wanted to purchase a lighter, see another Coffee Shop and take a tour of the Red Light District.

With the poor weather, we didn't do much that day apart from walking around a street lined with several "massage parlors," walking in Kalverstraat and sitting at a café to have some coffee and hot chocolate.

In front of the train station

 I soon realized that Amsterdam had a rather creative vibe to it. Even if boring people like me were sober, the city simulated what it would be like to be high. Lo and behold, in the middle of a canal, I spotted...a bed.

And not just any bed: a four-poster bed floating like a boat.

I kinda want to have this bed back home...

We shopped at the supermarket chain Albert Heijn where I purchased some dairy products. I don't know what makes Dutch milk so tasty, but even I have to admit its flavor is superior to French milk.

Night time approached and my friend reiterated his desire to see the Red Light District. I sighed and thought that I might as well get it over with.

To be honest, the Red Light District didn't shock me as much as I thought it would. Living in France and seeing topless models splashed on porno magazines in the local newspaper stand have dulled me to feeling much, if any, horror. Yes, there were indeed scantily-clad ladies modestly advertising themselves and their sexual acts behind illuminated glass windows, but if anything, the whole spectacle of seeing silent, living mannequins made me feel a bit sad for them. (Besides, there wasn't anything remotely interesting for me. Shows with "Live shagging?" No, thanks.)

In fact, the feature that truly fascinated me the most about the Red Light District was seeing the canal filled with a flock of swans.

(Again, I'm a fairly boring individual.)

We returned to the hotel and being thirsty, I tore into the milk carton of something called "chocolade vla." I assumed that the container, being a milk carton, bearing a picture of a cow, had contents that were fit for a drink.

I tore the top, grabbed a white mug and tipped the carton over the mug.

Rather than having a creamy stream of fluid pour out, the unctuous "vla" dripped in a lugubrious fashion.

"But...what IS this?" I wondered, perplexed.

Hint: it's NOT milk.

The milk-like packaging also doesn't help.

But it was still good.

On Saturday, my friend and I visited the Amsterdam Museum...

Doing some more bicycle research

And fashion research. 

...the Flower Market...

...and a couple of cafés providing nice food and selling good Belgian beers. It took nearly an hour of roaming the streets to find these places and each one, to our dismay, was fully booked for dinner and featured a waiting time of an hour and a half. Still, I had my nice Belgian beer for the evening and was a considerably happier Minister of Transport.

Walking around the glowing Amsterdam neighborhoods, a stark contrast to dim French streets that cover every window with shutters past 9 p.m., my friend was shocked to discover that the Dutch had a considerable lack of curtains to cover the windows. And it really disturbed him.

"Ah! I really don't like this! I don't like this at all! You look straight into their houses and see what they are doing!"

"So, let me get this straight," I started, "you have absolutely no qualms about smoking marijuana or seeing prostitutes, but not having curtains on a house bothers you?" He chuckled sheepishly.


Not wanting to limit my travel to an Amsterdam-centric voyage, I reserved tickets to visit the port city of Rotterdam.

Waiting at the station, I was dismayed by the large typos seen on the special-edition orange train.

It's supposed to stay "Stuart," not Alexander. As Minister of Transport, I order that this discrepancy will have to be rectified.

I breathed a sigh of relief when I arrived in Rotterdam. It is much calmer than Amsterdam, is home to the impressive Boijmans Van Beuningen museum, and, with its port, had a feel of Belfast.

A well-functioning tramway.

I instantly loved Rotterdam.

The following day proved eventful. I had arranged to meet up with my employer and the Royal Family in the city of Heerenveen, right in the province of Friesland. I couldn't ask to have better bosses like King Stu, Queen Simone and Princess Sophie.

This grand masterpiece is entitled "The Totally Legit Official Royal Portrait," Barb the French Bean, 2014, Sablé-sur-Sarthe. It was made using the medium of colored pixels on MS Paint.

I finally saw some curtains in the Netherlands.

Just your friendly neighborhood windmill.

Like all good journeys, one week simply isn't enough time to discover a country. I sincerely hope that I'll have the opportunity to further review the museums (the Rijksmuseum is DEFINITELY worth a visit) and chug several liters of Chocomel and eat Frisian treats.

Courtesy of the Royal Family (Thanks, guys!)

One more thing: the annual nomination round for the Bloggies has come around again. Please, please, PLEASE vote for Invading Holland under "Best European Blog."

You do have to nominate two other blogs under this category (*cough, cough, nudge, nudge*), but all I ask is that you vote for King Stu!

And just so you get the idea about how serious the Dutch are with their bikes, get a load of this:

It's a multi-level parking garage, for bikes. This brings tears of joy to my Minister of Transport eyes.

Barb the French Bean