Kevin and I arrived in Amsterdam on May 31, 1972, and were met by cheers and celebration. We soon learned that the Dutch were jubilant because Ajax (pronounced eye-yacks), the Amsterdam futbol (soccer) team, had won the Europa Cup that day (its second consecutive win).
The celebration had been a little confusing at first to me. It seemed that the streets just suddenly filled with people running, yelling, and singing. A political protest? People were too happy for it to be that.
Kevin: “The victory of Ajax, as I remember, dominated everything that day. We took the trolley into the Dam Square, where people dressed in orange were hanging off the rooftops, drinking beer, and smoking dope. There were thousands in the square celebrating. At some point in Amsterdam, I bought a pack of cigarettes and the matches had a photo of an Ajax player on them — no name, because everyone in the Netherlands knew all the faces by sight. We were bought a few beers, and one bar had a phonograph and kept playing the Ajax song over and over again.”
We had left Boston on an Aer Lingus Boeing 747 late the evening before, delayed about an hour by weather. Movie on the flight was The Hot Rock, starring Robert Redford and George Segal. Remember nothing of it.
The flight arrived in London at 0845 (I’m going to use the European style for time) and our connecting flight in a Boeing 707 took off at 0930. We landed in Amsterdam about an hour later.
It took us quite a while to locate and walk to the Pension Weidemann. Once somewhat settled in, we took a walk around, had some rosbief broodjes (Dutch versions of sub/grinder) and Heineken, and then returned to the hotel for naps until 2030.
Here is a gallery of street scenes in Amsterdam. (Click on arrows to advance or go back. If you click on an individual photo, you’ll get a larger presentation. But you’ll need to click to see the previous page to go back to the gallery.)
She inquired if we were American and that started a chat. Wilma came over to talk with us. (Her friend did not speak English.) Born in Holland, Wilma had emigrated with her family to Australia as a young girl, returning at age 19, six years earlier. The four of us left for another bar at about 0330. That was closed, so we got into line for the Club Privé.
A few moments later, someone in line behind us yelled in English, “I can’t believe it.” Turning around, we saw our high school classmate Brendan Montano. Whaaa? Made plans to meet the following day.
Skipping the line at Club Privé, we finished the night at the Blue Note. After arranging to meet Wilma again, the girls took a taxi home and we walked back to the hotel at dawn.
Of course, with accumulated jet lag, numerous beers, and dawn bedtime, we totally blew past the time we were to meet Brendan. And there was no way to get in touch with him or him with us. (The [literally the] mobile phone was invented in 1973 and common use was decades away.)
Starting the day in early afternoon, we made train reservations for Copenhagen and tried to secure another hotel. For dinner, we tried rijstaffel (Dutch for “rice table”), the Dutch adaptation of an Indonesian meal, at a restaurant named Bali. The meal consists of as many as 40 side dishes served in small portions, e.g., egg rolls, chicken, fish, fruit, vegetables, pickles, nuts, along with rice also prepared in different ways. I recall enjoying it, though I haven’t had it since.
Kevin: “Sixteen years after this trip, Debbie and I went to the Bali for rijstaffel and it was just as good. We always send people there (just gave the name to our neighbors who are starting a river trip in Amsterdam in July).”
My journal notes that at various bars later in the evening we met a girl from Saskatchewan named Jeannette, some people from South Africa, and Tony and Fritz Klein, along with a girl who had spent two weeks in Pittsfield, Mass. We walked back to the hotel again at dawn.
We had to wake up at 1100. The hotel maid required it. It was checkout time. We moved to our new hotel — the Hotel De Ijtunnel. We deliberately looked for these pensions, more like boarding houses than chain hotels. More European and much cheaper. We readied for our visit to Volendam to see Wilma.At the hotel in Volendam at which Wilma worked, we learned she had called in sick. Kevin was able to call her home and she sent her brother and a friend of his to pick us up. On motorbikes!
At her house, we met another brother, Hank, who had just jumped bail in Australia. He had been picked up with four pounds of hash and had fled the country using a Swiss passport. He had also picked up hepatitis from a dirty needle, while shooting morphine, Wilma told us. Modern times, even then.
After a couple of hours, we exchanged addresses and bade farewell. This time, we skipped the motorbikes and took a bus, waving to Wilma and her two little sisters waving back as we left.
Spent our last full night in Amsterdam doing what and where we began — bar-hopping around Rembrandtplein. We donned coat and tie as we did often in the evening. Guess it was still the era when you “dressed up” to go out.
After a while at the Folies, we decided at about 0100 to check out the “Sailors’ District” — the Zeedijk. (Seems disparaging to use the term for us noble seafarers to describe a red-light district. Not inaccurate, just disparaging. It’s located adjacent to the harbor.)
This was during a time in that area when women prostitutes would sit in street-level windowed rooms with a red light on, “on display,” as it were. Over the years since, the area has apparently been cleaned up quite a bit and the red-light district confined to a smaller area. Prostitution in the Netherlands, nevertheless, remains legal and regulated.
After visiting a couple of bars, we got back to the hotel early . . . before 0400. Stopped in for one last one — at hotel bar — and met some US Army Airborne guys stationed in Germany. Had two beers — once again, the sky was bright when we hit the sack.
Our last day in Amsterdam was to be filled with history and culture. Finally! But, as usual, it started ahead of our preferred wakeup time. In fact, we were kinda hustled out of the hotel. Checkout time was again 11, at which time we were fast asleep. Knocks on our door. Woman looks in, “You know, it’s time for you to leave.” Okay. We checked out and checked bags in at the rail station for the overnight train to Copenhagen.
We had purchased Eurail Passes both for travel and, when possible, a place to sleep. According to a 1973 article in the New York Times, a pass for one month cost $160. There was also a “student” pass good for two months of unlimited second-class rail travel for $135. (The article said those prices were “slight” increases over 1972.) The student pass was also for “bona fide” students under the age of 26. I was technically still a student at Columbia and we were both 25, but I don’t remember which pass each of us got.
After rosbief and eggs, we took a tour of Amsterdam’s canals. Below is a gallery of scenes from that tour. They include what appears to be a canal-side “jail cell” and a “cat boat.”
We also visited the Municipal Museum, which featured contemporary art (to my mind, not worth including).
By then it was after five, so we had steak at a little German place and went to catch the train. Our companions in the compartment were all US. One had known Kevin in Army Reserves. His wife was there. And a guy from Albany. Off we go.
