Travel Reference
In-Depth Information
unfortunately not.'
'A smell of petroleum prevails throughout,' I said by way of thanks and departed.
There were no rooms to be had anywhere. In the end, despondent, I trudged back to the station plaza,
to the office of the VVV, the state tourist bureau, where I assumed there would be a room-finding service. I
went inside and up some stairs and found myself in a hall that brought to mind Ellis Island. There were eight
straggly lines of weary tourists, with at least thirty people in each queue. The VVV staff were sending people
all over - to Haarlem, to Delft, to Rotterdam, to The Hague - because there was not a single hotel room left
in Amsterdam at any price. This was only April. What on earth can it be like in July? They must send people
to Iceland. A big sign on the wall said
NO TICKETS
FOR THE VAN GOGH EXHIBITION.
SOLD OUT. That was
great, too. One of the reasons I had come when I did was to see the exhibition.
I took a place in one of the lines. Progress was glacial. I was hot, I was sweaty, I was tired, I was hungry.
My feet hurt. I wanted a bath. I wanted a large dinner and several beers. There wasn't a single part of me
that was happy.
Almost every one of us in the room was an American. Upon reaching the front of the line, each new
customer had to be interviewed regarding his or her requirements in terms of toilet facilities, breakfast
arrangements, room amenities, accessibility by public transport and price. This took ages because of all
the permutations involved. Then almost invariably the customer had to turn to his or her mate - who had
been standing there all along
seeming
to take it in but evidently not - and explain all the possibilities all over
again. This would prompt a lengthy discussion and a series of supplementary questions - Can we get there
by bus instead of by train? Are there any vegetarian restaurants near the hotel? Does the hotel have no-
smoking rooms? Will there be a cab at the station when we get there or do we have to call one, and if we
have to call one can you give us the number? Is there a laundromat in Delft? What time does the last train
run? Do you think I should be taken outside and shot for having such an enormous butt and asking so many
stupid questions? It just went on and on.
Once they had arrived at a kind of agreement in principle, the VVV person would make anything up to
twenty phone calls to outlying hotels, with a look of infinite patience and low expectations - most hotels
weren't even bothering to answer their phones by now - before announcing that nothing was available in
that price range. So then they would have to discuss another more expensive or more distant set of options.
It all took so long that you felt like applauding whenever anyone left the window and the queue pushed
forward six inches.
The one lucky thing was that the VVV girl at the head of my queue was beautiful - not just
extraordinarily good-looking, with the sort of bottom that made your palms sweat when she went to the filing
cabinet, but intelligent, sweet-natured, patient, sympathetic, and with that exquisite, dusky Dutch accent that
simply melts your heart. She dealt with every customer gracefully and expertly, and switched effortlessly
between French, German, English and Dutch - all with that delectable accent. I was infatuated. I freely admit
it. Stuck in a line that was going nowhere, there was nothing I could do but just stare dumbly at her and
admire everything about her - the way she hooked her hair behind her ear, the way she wrinkled her nose
when she looked in the phone book, the way she dialled the phone with the eraser end of her pencil. By the
time I reached her window it was all I could do to keep from blurting, 'Can we have sex a few times and then
talk marriage?' But all I did was shyly ask for a hotel room somewhere in the northern hemisphere. She
found me one in Haarlem.
Haarlem was very pleasant. People ahead of me in the line had been falling into swoons when told they
would have to leave Amsterdam to get a room, but I was rather pleased. Haarlem was only twenty minutes
away by train and it was a handsome little city with a splendid cathedral and cosy cathedral square, and lots
of good restaurants that were cheaper and emptier than those in Amsterdam. I had a steak the size of a hot-
water bottle, went for a long walk around the town, stood impressed in the shadow of the cathedral, returned
to the hotel, showered steamily and went to bed a happy man.
In the morning I returned to Amsterdam. I used to love walking in cities on Sunday mornings, but it gets
more and more dispiriting. All the things left over from Saturday night - vomit slicks, litter, twisted beer cans
- are still lying around, and everywhere now there are these depressing grilles and iron shutters on all the
shop fronts. They make every street look dangerous and forbidding, which is just absurd in Europe. On an
