I arrived Friday afternoon, train from Schiphol which took about fifteen minutes. €5.40 on contactless. Touch in at the airport and out at Centraal on the yellow validation poles. I missed the second one and had to go back.
I was staying in De Pijp, twenty minutes on the tram from Centraal. Flat on a side street off Albert Cuypstraat, forty-five euros a night, one window. I'd chosen it over a hostel because I wanted proper quiet this time. My own kitchen, nobody asking where I was going. It was exactly what I needed.
The neighbourhood felt calmer than I expected Amsterdam to be. I had a wander, caught the Albert Cuyp market still winding down in the late afternoon. Cheese stalls and flowers. A woman was selling stroopwafels off a little iron and I bought one while it was still warm and stood eating it on the pavement feeling like I'd made a good decision.
That evening I tried to get a table without a reservation and got turned away twice. One place had empty tables and still said no. Ended up at a small Italian round the corner that took walk-ins. Fine, but I booked everywhere after that.
Saturday I'd set my alarm for eight to get to the Anne Frank House for the nine o'clock slot. I'd booked it weeks in advance. Partly because it sells out, partly if I'm honest to force myself up and out and actually use the time rather than lying in reading until noon.
I don't know what I expected it to look like from outside. Something that looked more like what it was, maybe. It's a canal house like all the others on that stretch of water. There's a modern glass entrance through the building next door and I remember thinking it was a shame before I'd even gone in.
Inside the rooms are tiny. The stairs are almost vertical and I held the rail going up. What got me was the small things. Anne and Margot's heights still pencilled on the bedroom wall. Pictures Anne had stuck up herself, film stars mostly, still there, a bit faded. Otto had pinned a map up in another room with little flags tracking the Allied advance, showing how far they'd got. They were in there 761 days. Found eight months before the end of the war.
There's a spot at the top where Anne used to look out through the skylight. The floorboards creaked when I walked across them and I stood there longer than anywhere else, thinking about noise. About how careful they must have had to be the whole time.
I came out onto the street and felt okay within about ten minutes. I thought it would sit with me all day and it didn't really. I felt a bit strange about that but I don't think you can control it.
I spent most of the afternoon just drifting around. Picked up frietjes from a street stand and went for oorlog, which is mayo and satay sauce and raw onion all piled on top. It looked great. Within a few minutes the chips had gone completely soft and the sauce was everywhere. Ate the top bit and binned the rest. I think you have to eat it faster than I did.
I ended up in Jordaan and that's where I found the coffeeshop. The window was completely fogged up with condensation running down the inside, and through it I could see a dim little room with people sitting on cushions along a low window ledge. It was getting properly cold outside by then. It looked warm so I went in.
I genuinely didn't know if you could order actual coffee in there or not. You can. I sat down with one and a menu arrived. It was much more involved than I'd expected. Every strain had a name, a THC percentage, sometimes a CBD figure alongside. White Widow, Amnesia Haze, Super Silver Haze, Pineapple Express. Several had Cannabis Cup awards printed next to them with the year. The descriptions said things like euphoric, cerebral, couch-lock, creative. A few said not for beginners. I had no real idea what any of it meant in practice so I picked something at 14% that said citrusy, bought it ready-rolled.
Smoked about half of it by the window watching cyclists go past in the dark. Left the rest. And then I was quite stoned, which I hadn't fully anticipated, and it turned out to be a very good time to walk the Red Light District.
De Wallen is smaller than I thought it would be. The neon is a much deeper red than any photo I'd seen, this warm heavy pink glow that makes everyone look slightly strange. Signs everywhere say no photographs of the women in the windows and most people do the right thing.
I'd been curious how I'd feel walking through it alone as a woman, mildly stoned, at seven in the evening. Honestly I enjoyed it more than I expected to, and felt weirder about it than I expected to, at the same time. I didn't feel unsafe, there were loads of people around. But there's something uncomfortable about being part of a crowd all come to look. Some of the women look back. One was on her phone. One was eating something. I did one full loop and that was enough.
Right next to it there's a canal that was one of the nicest things I saw the whole trip. Wide, quiet, a church lit up at the far end. Strange to have it sitting right there.
Sunday I did the Heineken Experience, which is silly and touristy and I enjoyed it. You get a couple of beers at the end and there's something about seeing how it all works that I found genuinely interesting, though I couldn't tell you what specifically now. After that I got on one of the blue canal tour boats from a dock near Centraal and spent an hour just sitting there letting the city go past. After two days of walking it was exactly what I needed. Look up at the houses.