By Bailey Hosfelt
Follow former culture editor and current abroad correspondent Bailey Hosfelt as she sets up home base in España and bops about Europe for the semester, looking to save a buck and learn a thing or two along the way.
AMSTERDAM, THE NETHERLANDS—When I was three, I contracted a serious case of the flu on a flight from New York City to Chicago. I’ll spare you the graphic details, but let’s just say I ended up naked except from my mom’s sweater turned makeshift cover-up waiting for some new clothes to slide down the luggage carousel.
This anecdote haunted me for the better part of a decade, the mortification getting worse at each Thanksgiving meal. But for better or worse it gave me a good story, regardless of how little I remember of the time I turned an airplane bathroom into a crime scene as a toddler.
Up until this point, whenever someone asked about my worst flight, I cited this instance. No amount of turbulence or cantankerous seatmate could top this. That was, of course, until two weekends ago.
After a strenuous Friday complete with three classes, two presentations and one exam (I guess study abroad really is school), I was looking forward to a mellow flight to Amsterdam to meet four friends.
I chose an aisle seat to allow for a swift exit post-flight, as I landed at a crisp five of midnight and wanted to capitalize on my brief stint in Dutch company. And since I pride myself on being able to sleep anywhere, I intended to conk out on the plane.
But just when I settled in and fastened the seatbelt, my worst nightmare boarded the plane: a massive group of teenagers. We’ll put them between the ages 13 and 16. Picture seat-switching out the wazoo and a general inability to conduct themselves sans parental guidance.
And then the environment got even more inconsiderate. Seconds before the flight attendants were set to close the cabin door, five guys (sadly not the burger and fry joint) rushed onto the plane. En route to an Amsterdam bachelor party was a groom-to-be donning some type of costumed garb I couldn’t quite place accompanied by four of his least mature friends, all already reeking of booze.
Between throwing hula-hoops down the aisles, blasting bad music from a portable speaker, scream-communicating with each other despite the 10 rows separating them and beefing with the flight attendants for not allowing their full handle of whiskey to continue being passed around, I had a nice headache going.
I spent an unnecessary four Euros on a bag of peanut M&Ms thinking that if my blood sugar was up, I could stop my regular blood from boiling. At this point, I would have happily taken a crying baby. At least they don’t know any better. But these man-children provided the passengers on my Transavia flight with a special type of communal misery.
As soon as we landed in Amsterdam, I wanted off. Thanks to back-of-plane de-boarding my 19C self had equal opportunity for a relatively abrupt adios. Despite a horrendous entrance to The Netherlands, the unruly bachelors helped me hit the ground running once I was free from the shackles of a pressurized cabin.
One of my friends landed a couple hours before me, so she, like a modern day hero, waited in the airport for me. I, bleary-eyed with a whole lot of internalized rage, came to her minutes after Saturday’s onset and we went into the city centre for peace of mind. We walked along the water and caught up until our toes couldn’t take it anymore.
At a timely three a.m., we checked into the hotel where the others were fast asleep and caught some succinct shut eye before spending the morning at the Vincent Van Gogh Museum.
I have been known to go to The Met solely to look at a Van Gogh when stressed and in need of an artistic soothe, so the opportunity to walk through numerous floors all dedicated to my favorite post-Impressionist fellow was incredible.
There was an audio portion where you could listen to the letters he sent to people – most often his brother Theo – and I now have the urge to sign off any and all conversation with the phrase “even yours.” Saturday and Sunday proved to be a brief lesson that the city where bikes outnumber people can successfully balance seedy debauchery with idyllic beauty, which is really a sight to see.
There’s no doubt that Amsterdam lures in tourists and locals alike who want to walk on the wild side – whether it be for an afternoon, weekend or otherwise – but neither sensation seemed to overpower the other. I suppose the canals keep the coffee shops in check.
Despite a dreary color palette and weather patterns that favored sporadic downpours of rain, I found the city most enjoyable.
I left my heart in Foodhallen and let the swarms of people in front of Rijksmuseum know when I couldn’t gain the confidence to jump from the “A” to the “M” that, yes, I might have a low-grade fear of falling.
My visit, though too short, was the perfect opportunity to leave the academic stress in Barcelona behind, eat some Dutch baby pancakes and experience a city I had longed to go to for quite some time. I have the clog keychain and a strong craving to return.
Thirty-six hours spent on soil where tulips will soon bloom really rewired my brain because when the same unforgiving group of five showed their faces on my return flight, I couldn’t help but laugh.
They were exhausted and so was I. And this time, we all fell asleep.
