Pedaling in Amsterdam, Netherlands

 

            Pedaling through Amsterdam

Timothy Tang

 

The last time I had ridden a bike, YouTube hadn’t existed and people were still using pagers. It had been so long, that I had forgotten what it even felt like to speed down a hill with no brakes on, or even the resulting fall. Fast forward more than a decade and I find myself in the middle of Amsterdam, Netherlands. It’s the country of tulips, windmills, and where nearly every one of its almost 17 million citizens pedals to school and work.

 

            “I don’t think I’ll want you riding my bike,” said Else, my local Dutch friend and guide, motioning for me to hop onto the rear rack. I had met Else two years prior while on a tour in Israel. We had stayed in contact since, and in the summer of 2014 I jumped on the chance to see Amsterdam from a local’s perspective, and I was lucky to get just that.

           We met up by Amsterdam Centraal, and the two of us made our way in tandem on a single bike. She looked so cool and natural, while I fumbled around riding side saddle on the poor excuse of a second seat.  Not knowing how to ride a bike in Holland is like not knowing how to walk, and without Else, I don’t think I would’ve known where to go. Perhaps I would take an awkward stroll between the narrow lines of ethics in the Red Light District, or would I join in the orange carnival and drunken inspired escapades of the King’s birthday? Thankfully, I wasn’t alone.

            We rode alongside the city’s canals atop cobblestone and underneath clear skies, her at the pedal and me calming myself in Else’s ability and my balance. We stopped by one of the food trucks gathered by a tourist dock for the canal ferry. She got me to try Soused Herring, a sort-of Vinegary, Dutch Sashimi—preserved herring topped with onions, also raw. To me fresh, uncooked fish was less fazing and more seducing. Her eyes went wide as I wolfed down the last few bites with ease. I think she was hoping for more disgust and less enjoyment, and she seemed genuinely impressed.

            We continued onward on the bike to Museumplein, a green public space in South Amsterdam. Along this bike route, I saw a different part of Amsterdam, one without crowds of holidaymakers and partiers all painted and doused in orange for King’s Day. There were no festivities to be found at the green quad, just pockets of students and families enjoying the weather. There were children playing tag, darting in between picnics and beach towels, parked bikes and couples. In the backdrop were the Rijiks and Van Gogh museums, towering over the greenery. There was a sense that we needed to sit and enjoy it with everyone else.  The scenery looked like it had been painted on: Else—blue eyed and beautiful, the city’s houses that had stood firm in the face of disaster and occupation, even the red and white letter statue that spelt ‘Amsterdam’.  We talked about her internship at a woman’s magazine and my Non-Fiction writing classes—maybe she would visit Vancouver one day, and I’d play host.

            “Amsterdam isn’t always like this. Most of the locals escape the city on King’s Day. I’m actually going back to my parents’ town tomorrow,” Else assured me. So what is true to Amsterdam and her people, to Else and the Dutch who live in a place where foreigners can only dream of even visiting? I had only gotten a taste of herring and what it is like to balance on two wheels, and I’m looking for more. “Do you want a ride on the back again?” she asked one more time before we went our separate ways. 

             “Another time.”

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