Today I learned one should always check the arrivals board for a train from Belgium.
Yesterday there was talk of my getting on a train and going somewhere to see something as a final jolly before heading home on Wednesday. Because I have a ticket that allows me to travel for free in the Netherlands and, well, I was in a city with a station. There were a few solid suggestions but by the time I finally emerged from my pit, I thought it was probably far too late for that kind of tourism to actually take shape in a controlled way. Instead, I decided the best thing I could do instead would be to get a tram to Koningsplein and visit my favourite purveyor of coffee for post-breakfast coffee coffee and a treat before venturing out to do something.
Things were going quite well until it dawned upon me that I was in need of some kind of not necessarily sugary snacks and, emboldened by my various lounge-snack experiences in Gothenburg, it occurred to me that the NS lounge in Amsterdam Centraal might be a good place to procure snacks. I set off on foot for a very aware stroll along through varying degrees of bustle and sparkle. The first place I got distracted and lost track of time in was the American Book Center where, unsurprisingly, I bought a book. I have not had a book since the beginning of this and as this is the last leg, I thought I would look for something apt for the journey. It took what felt like an enormous amount of time to walk the shelves, and even more time to climb the stairs, but I would have to do a lot of looking because appropriate or not (heavy coffee table book of Soviet architecture) it would have to be something small and paperback that I could carry or stuff into a pocket (on indeed, a shove-it compartment).
At the top of one staircase I found an Agatha Christie section, the man on the counter said it didn’t matter where I started but that Murder On The Orient Express would be a brilliant cherry-popper – given the context of my journey (which I might have told him about at a little too much length) – and so I bought a new book. I paid 17€ for it, which, crikey – but for that I got a man with a knowledge of books who shared it with me, a nice place in which to spend an unknown duration, all the facilities I needed to make an informed purchase and, and an actual book.
I now felt I looked even more the type of person who would need free snacks in the lounge with my Guardian Weekly and a novel, so I continued my journey — not all of which I remember — to the most visited Rijksmonument of the Netherlands: Amsterdam Centraal Station. I learned yesterday from Host, and was thrilled to learn yesterday from Host, that any resemblance to the Rijskmusem is purely intentional. Both designed by Pierre Cuypers (him of the memorial passage) – this bit I hadn’t previously known but it’s pretty obvious when you look at either – they face each other across the city as almost identical siblings, the neo-gothic gates to Amsterdam. Or something. His other big thing was churches; he designed over a hundred.
I didn’t have long to process the gravity of this epiphany as I was becoming more aware of an eager need of the station facilities, so I activated a random journey in my pass to get through the barrier and let myself into the lounge.
There are no snacks in the NS Lounge at Amsterdam Centraal Station.
None. Not even a peanut. This was a surprise and, I thought, a sorry state of affairs all things considered, but I made myself comfortable, availed myself of the facilities, had a cup of coffee and a glass of sparkling water. I thumbed my book. Someone might have looked at me. And then it occurred to me that there is a lounge in Rotterdam and that there might be snacks there. And given that the train to Rotterdam was standing on the platform next the lounge, it’s almost as if the Noodly Appendages were pushing me onto it.
I got off in Leiden because Host had mentioned it and there it was, as if by magic, next to the train! This was most fortuitous and, freshly abluted, I was soon stepping out of the central station and wondering what to do. It struck me that the best option would be to start walking away from the station, so I did that, down a relatively non-descript Dutch city commerce street, over a bridge, and into some lovely.
Leiden is where the tulip was first introduced to Western Europe. It’s also quieter, cleaner, and smaller than Amsterdam, has an actual windmill and a windmill museum, and doesn’t stink of weed from the moment you step out of the station. I was quite excited by the windmill and the discovery of a couple of purveyors of coffee. I had a little wander.
The train to Rotterdam somehow terminated in Den Haag. I got onto the train to Rotterdam which correctly terminated in Rotterdam, much as I expected it would.
The man behind the counter wouldn’t let me into the lounge because it was only for people travelling internationally. I could see the snacks, but they weren’t free; I didn’t want to go in anyway. I tried arguing my point that blatantly I was travelling internationally because I had an Interrail pass, and I was clearly not Dutch.
“Where have you come from?”
“Amsterdam.”
“And where are you travelling to?
“Here, so far.”
This went without saying, I thought, but it quickly became clear that I was not talking to someone who shared my advanced reasoning – or perhaps that he was impervious to logic – so I added more detail, for clarity.
“But I am travelling internationally.”
In hindsight, this exchange would have been better facilitied by the presence of luggage or, at least, a train number for an international train I could quote. The danger with that is that they march you to the train to watch you board, probably, and I think he could see in my eyes that I’d probably had enough travel without a responsible grown-up for one day. My subterfuge was ill-prepared.
I took the next train back to Amsterdam. I had to shush someone.
