"FIETSEN!"
That's how the Dutch tell you you're about to end your brief stay on this mortal plane wrapped around the front forks of a Canondale. For our protection, this is the first word of Dutch our tour guide taught us: "Fietsen": bicycles. This word (or fiets, for singular) is generally yelled at you 1/2 second before your soul enters eternity, followed promptly by the soul of the bicyclist you inconvenienced with death. It's not just a bicyclist who can take you out, there's a plethora of non-and-semi-motorized traffic that's not qualified to drive on the streets, but may darn well use the bike lane as its operator sees fit. Thus, the "bike lane" is really a miniature motor speedway packed with bikes; mini-bikes; scooters; motorized bikes; those "Rascal" carts old people ride around on; and the unique Canta -- which looks like a Yugo buggered a roller-skate. This river-flow of vehicles must be forded carefully before one can cross the road, as the bike path lays between the sidewalk and the street. Also, there's apparently no laws dictating the behavior of bicyclists -- including those ascribed to physics -- apart from "stay off the sidewalk".
You've been warned.
The only thing more numerous than the fietsen were the people. We arrived in Amsterdam the day the local football team made the playoffs for the first time in a bazillion years. (The team's officially named 'Ajax' and unofficially (not without controversy) named the 'Super Jews'). Team spirit was high, and so were the flood of fans who showed up in the city to cheer their team on. So many, in fact, that every cellphone in Holland apparently went off with an emergency warning not to try to get into Amsterdam because there was already a 20-km backup. That didn't dampen the backers' enthusiasm in the least. As the hour of the match grew closer, the crowds grew drunker and more boisterous. They flooded streets and streetcars alike. They sang. They cheered. And they drank. OH, how they drank! I'm no stranger to epic piss-ups, but these people clearly knew they were working on a three-day hangover and didn't care. Another word our tour guide taught us was "borrel" -- it's Dutch for an excuse to drink. It's supposed to be a little drink, but from the way various Super Jew fans were muling cases of cheap beer, it's obvious the "little" part got left behind. Every store selling any species of booze was overwhelmed by hordes of fans screaming "Shut up and take my money!"
Finally, the match started and any public establishment with a TV was packed with masses of boozy spectators. The game started close -- in that at least the score was 0-0 when it began -- but soon hope slipped away as one goal was scored and in the opponent's favor. People cheered and boo'd -- mostly boo'd -- when Ajax went down to defeat 0-2. And then these defeated, drunk people picked up and went home. Not a single Canta was over-turned, nor a single recycle bin set alight. There were no fights and no chucking bottles through windows.
It was then I discovered how much I like Amsterdamers.
The next morning, Amsterdam was as empty as the tomb. Then our group got to see some of the beauty of the city: the morning light reflecting off the water and dazzling the facades of tall, canal-side Amsterdam homes; the vacant sidewalks being cleaned by the folks whose homes they fronted; the empty, closed clubs that had been the locus of so much energy and hope the night before; and the morning song of the birds, which I'm sure sounded like a 747 on full takeoff to the hungover inhabitants within chirping distance. Good luck next time, Super Jews.
Later, sitting in a coffee shop and enjoying 5 euros worth of serviceable merchandise, I thought about how Amsterdam really is the New York City of Europe. There's a crisp vibrancy of a city in action, the same restless energy, but somehow, Amsterdam did it right. A lesson for your future, Seattle.