Urse and I have just boarded the ICE high-speed train to Cologne, Germany. From Cologne, we will transfer to Mannheim (home of the Steamrollers? Now that damn song’s going through my head) and onto our next destination, Heidelberg, Germany. I’m looking forward to our departure in just one minute. The ICE is a modern technological marvel, traveling up to 187 miles per hour!
We’ve taken off. This is one smooth ride! I imagine that we will be traveling even faster once we breach the Amsterdam city limits and hit the countryside.
After our night of restless “sleep” and serious jetlag, we stumbled out of our cramped room in the Hotel Acacia on Sunday in search of a “real” breakfast. Although there is a free breakfast buffet at the hotel, it typically consists of a variety of strange lunchmeats, strong odiferous moldy European cheeses and dry toast (Ursula likes to apply a strange chocolate spread to her toast, and has pocketed several packets to satisfy her sweet tooth throughout our travels). It’s Sunday and I want something a bit more substantial and less foreign.
We stumble out into the bleak morning street and have a nice English breakfast of eggs and toast at Barney's. By now, there is a steady stream of cold, misty rain. We are in our shorts (we feel like such the tourists!). Our legs are goose bumped and freezing. We decide to trek back to the Acacia to change into our jeans. Of course, once we arrive to our warm room, we crash hard and don’t wake up until 1:30 in the afternoon.
“Come on, let’s get out and about and try to get our freakin’ schedule back on track.” I urge Ursula. We decide to head toward the Prinsengracht Canal and follow it south to the Leidseplein. We are joined on this trek by hundreds of runners participating in the Amsterdam-Leidseplein race. Most are dressed in typical nylon runner’s shorts with tank tops or tees, but many are dressed in street clothes. At first, we think these casually dressed folks are merely joining the runners in a showing of sportsman solidarity, but the numbers pinned to their shirts give away the fact that they are actual race participants.
Our train is now passing through the Dutch countryside, just outside of Utrecht. There are vast, flat, open green meadows full of cows, sheep and horses. The horizon is spotted with old windmills and farmhouses. An idyllic setting!
Back to Sunday. We ended up at an outdoor café (De Saluun) in the Leidseplein sitting under an umbrella to protect us from the drizzly skies, drinking Heinekens and snacking on chicken satay. A man approaches with a violin case and stands in the center of the café. As he opens his case and pulls out his instrument, somehow I know that he is going to play the theme from “The Godfather.” He draws his bow over the strings, and sure enough…
We head up the street to find a place to get out of the increasingly heavy rain. The Rookies Coffeeshop looks inviting enough, so we step in to warm up. The Rookies is set up more as a bar than the typical coffeeshop. Behind the bar are taps and a variety of liquid libations. There is a jukebox playing good old American rock and roll. The two pool tables are in use by several groups of locals and tourists. Most of the tables are full of drinking and smoking patrons, also escaping the rain and making the best of an otherwise dreary Sunday afternoon. The coffeeshop is large and dim, just like a good, cozy bar should be.
We order a couple of Heinekens and decide to play some chess. Unfortunately, the chess set is missing several pieces. We improvise. Ursula’s lipstick becomes a queen. My cigarette lighter becomes a rook. Half a dozen more cigarettes become pawns. We stumble through several games in this makeshift fashion. As the beer pours and the atmosphere warms, we forget which piece is which and laugh out loud at our ingenuity.
Lesson Learned: Never play chess with a stranger that challenges you to a game. The stranger will always beat you (thus the confidence in forwarding the challenge) and is inevitably a ringer. Not knowing this until now, I accept the challenge from Ringo, the ringer from Indiana. Ringo is a twenty two year old guy with thick glasses who has been quietly and patiently watching us bumble our way through chess. He takes himself Very Seriously, not cracking a single joke or laughing at one of ours during our conversation.
He does, however, whip my ass in chess in minutes flat. We play another game and he whips my ass again. Ringo then demonstrates how he can whip my ass in only 5 moves. He asks if I want him to show me how he can whip my ass in only 4 moves. I decline — I’ve become bored with the game (especially since I’m on the losing end). I tell Ringo that we’re leaving. He pleads with me to stay for another game of chess. I call him a sick little masochist and we cruise.
We have dinner at de Prijns, a very cozy restaurant overlooking the Prinsengracht Canal. We enjoy a very tasty cheese fondue and a large bottle of excellent red wine. Although the spicy meal of gooey Edam and Gouda with bread was outstanding, the wine puts me over the top. I’d had enough libation and liberation for one day and was ready to crash.
Oh yeah, earlier in the day, we told a bartender that we were going to Heidelberg. He thought that this was in East Germany and told us to watch out for “Skinhead racists.” Urse thought he was saying “Skinhead races.” Now that would be interesting.
