Amsterdam

An Introduction:

After my 2018 Australia trip on my sabbatical from work, I decided to try and knock Europe off my list next before starting in on Central and South America. There are only two European baseball leagues (professional or semi-professional, depending on who you talk to): The Netherlands and Italy. I decided to tackle the Dutch first, and started my normal planning, coupled with learning some Dutch on Duolingo. (Ik sprekt een bettje Nederland.)

The top-level men's baseball league in the Netherlands is called Honkbal Hoofdklasse. Depending on who you ask, it is a professional baseball league, or a semi-pro club league where one or two teams give stipends to certain players. Either way, it is one of the only two things that in any way passes for pro ball in Europe. There was even less information online about the Dutch league than there was about the Australian league, but digging around and consulting Reddit, I was able to get just enough information to be dangerous, as the saying goes. Also, I emailed the league themselves, who were helpful with giving me an early look at the league schedule. And, to a person, everyone in the Netherlands was super helpful to visitors, especially the people at the ballparks, who were mostly volunteers and therefore wanted to be there and were not just disinterested employees collecting a paycheck. They saved my thick-cut bacon several times during the trip. So, what is the top-line on Honkbal Hoofdklasse?

- The teams play a schedule of games on Thursday, Saturday, and Sunday each week during the season. The Thursday game is a night game at 7:30 PM, and the weekend games are at 2:00 PM. The same teams play each other for the three-game set, but the home stadium switches every other game. However, some teams don't have lights at their field (The Hague, Oosterhaut) and therefore play their "home" games on Thursday night at other fields. This would have been incredibly important to know when planning this all out, but I found out the hard way, as is often the case.

- The parks themselves are mostly in "sportparks," athletic complexes where baseball shares the space with fields for other sports. The very best facilities in the Netherlands approach AA US minor-league levels. Most are Rookie League type facilities. There are very few flashy amenities outside of perhaps children's play areas, and most are laid out like US Spring Training facilities, with a main field surrounded by other fields and practice fields in close proximity.

- All the clubs have a literal "clubhouse." It is a small building that houses a small bar that serves food or has a food concession inside it. They house all the trophies for the teams in the city league as well as team and general baseball memorabilia. All the food and drinks are incredibly cheap, and the beer does flow. Most clubhouses also provide free WIFI. Most also have a small merchandise store that sells general equipment (hard to get in the Netherlands elsewhere) along with a very small selection of team merchandise, if at all. They also tend to be closed a lot.

- Smoking is alive and well in the Netherlands. Even with the "scare" packaging showing diseased lungs and the like, there are still a ton of smokers in the country, and all fields have picnic tables with ash trays or other facilities for patrons to smoke while watching the game. It felt very 70s.

- With few exceptions, there are no national flags at the park, and there is no national anthem at the games. This is very much in keeping with the Dutch low-key patriotism.

- With the very close ties to club play, the players follow good sportsmanship formalities, as each batter shakes hands with the catch and umpire at their first at-bat.

- The players seem to be about Rookie League level talent in the US. Pitchers top at the mid-70s to mid-80s. There are a lot of errors, hit batsmen, and running mistakes in games. And the umpires are of a similar quality to the players, with lots of controversies and rules miscues that I witnessed.

- There is very little fanfare during the games. The biggest splashes that teams might have is playing walk-up music for batters. The 7th Inning Stretch is also pretty universal, and usually includes playing Bing Crosby's Meet Me In St. Louis, for some bizarre reason.

- Even with the lack of other activities, games run about three hours. There is a mercy rule of +10 runs after seven innings.

- The crowds tend to number steadily between 100-200 people. As games and practices finish on the surrounding fields, those folks come to watch the big game, which swells the crowds a bit. Dogs are ever-present at games, and tend to run around and play and make it a more enjoyable experience for everyone.

- Given the budget nature of things, foul balls are not coveted souvenirs, but things to be retrieved and given back to the teams, as it was in Australia.

- Some teams have connections to US teams either in name or logo design: the Pirates (Amsterdam L&D), the Phillies (Amersfoort Quick), the Twins (Oosterhaut Twins), and the Mariners (Curacao Neptunus).

- Curacao Neptunus (Rotterdam) is not only the best team in the Dutch league, they are easily the best team in Europe, regularly winning the European Championship in addition to the Dutch crown (The Holland Series). Just below them are Amsterdam L&D, and then a middle group of Hoofdoorp Pioneers, HCAW Bussum, Quick Amersfoort, Oosterhaut Twins, and Haarlem DSS. The Silicon Storks are the currently worst team in the league.

- Similar to soccer, the league works with relegation, so the Storks may not be here next year. Each city also has different mens' teams that play in different leagues, and the Honkbal Hoofdklasse team from a city one year may not be that city's entrant next year.

That's enough ado. On we go.

On Heading Back to Europe Passive-Aggressively

JFK Airport

Wednesday, May 8, 2019
Queens, NY


Outside the Game: 
So, for scheduling reasons, I had to be in The Netherlands for three straight weekends, which necessitated leaving for a flight from work on a Wednesday, something foreign to me to this point in these trips. I had to drag all my travel gear with me to work, and I was dressed in my people's traditional travel garb of cargo pants, sneakers, and a white-colored overshirt.

As expected, there were a ton of last-minute things to get done all day and then re-brief my coverage on, necessitating my calling a whole bunch of audibles and modifying my coverage sheet until I ran into the last meeting I had for the day (about a deployment that would be happening in my absence that weekend), after which I literally grabbed my bags and went down to my waiting car service to whisk me off to JFK.

Well, perhaps whisk is an overstatement. In the early Wednesday afternoon, there was a ton of traffic, and it took me an hour and a half to get to JFK.

I checked in at a kiosk to get a physical boarding pass with no problems, and even had no major difficulties getting through the security line, as they had one of the new TSA security dogs, which meant the only issue that I had was resisting the urge to pet the doggie despite all the warnings not to do that very thing.

That said, I was quickly disgorged into the secure area of the airport with nothing better to do than wander around until my flight. I did the normal process of buying some food, doing some window shopping, and staring into space. On a lark, I went back to the gate more than twenty minutes before boarding was supposed to start, and I'm glad that I did, as boarding was starting extremely early, and I was able to line up early for my "peasant" class boarding group.

I got on and secured coveted overhead space, and I was quickly seated in the isle seat of the middle row, with a seat in between myself a nice old Dutch lady with whom I exchanged nods. At this point, it was just settle in an wait for takeoff.

Except about halfway through the boarding, a woman came to my row and asked if one of us would swap seats with her because she and her boyfriend wanted to sit together. If she had come earlier, I'd be more inclined, but all the overhead space was already taken up, and I'd have to fight back ten rows of people get my bag after we landed, so I declined. The old Dutch lady didn't even answer her. A while later, her boyfriend showed up and asked if a woman had asked us to switch seats. I said she had. He started to bluster at me. He then called me inconsiderate, to which I answered that his inability to plan adequately did not put any burden onto myself. The Dutch woman ignored him as much as his girlfriend. He continued huffing in his seat, ignored by his two seatmates.

Shortly before taking off, his incessant whining to the patient cabin crew was unfortunately rewarded in an exit row seat for his girlfriend and himself. The old Dutch lady smiled at me, and we divided up the free seat between us.

I started to watch some movies. It all starts to flow together after a while, but I definitely did watch the unexpectedly good Christopher Robin, as well as re-watching some Marvel movies. We had our dinner service, and they lowered the lights. I was able to get an hour or two of sleep, but not anything substantial.

I will say this about my flights to Australia, in retrospect: After them, a six-and-a-half-hour flight to Europe seemed like literally nothing.


The Accommodations: 
I spent the remainder of this day on the plane.

On Boots on the Ground in Europe

Loek Loevendie Ballpark, 2019

Thursday, May 9, 2019

Quick Amersfoort vs. L&D Amsterdam
Loek Loevendie Ballpark
Honkbal Hoofdklasse
Amsterdam, The Netherlands
7:30 PM


Outside the Game: 
We'll call the start of this day when we rolled off the plane in Amsterdam, and that de-planing operation was quick and efficient. However, we were at one of the furthest gates of the airport, and it necessitated a long walk to get to passport control, during which I was trying to see how much Duolingo had done for me in trying to read the signs in the airport as I booked on by.

I finally arrived at passport control, and although it seemed like a chaotic mess, once everyone got into their lines, we were able to zip through relatively quickly. There was no paper form. We just scanned our passports and faces in machines, answered some quick questions at the desk, and I was off to the Netherlands.

Schilphol Airport was very nice. I've subsequently heard that it is judged one of the nicest in Europe, and I can certainly see why. It embraces the Dutch love of architecture and organization and was very much unlike any other airport I've been to. A train station is neatly integrated into the airport, and I queued up at an information stand to find out which train to take. I purchased a very cheap three-day unlimited Amsterdam rail pass, got some local funny money at an ATM, and then followed the helpful directions down to my track.

I arrived just in time to miss the train I needed, but another followed very quickly after. Unlike America, the trains were clean, quiet, and quick. After a short train trip, I was at Sloterdijk Station (which the information kiosk attendant had informed me is pronounced "slaughter-dike"). After some further help from an information clerk there, I was able to hobble into the daylight and make my way to my hotel, several blocks away.

This became my first interaction with the Dutch road system. I'll assume you've heard of the Dutch love of bicycles. Knowing a thing and experiencing a thing are two very different, uh, things. Firstly, there is the copious bicycle parking outside the train station. Impossibly large stretches and rows of bike racks cover the outside of the station with capacity for thousands of bikes.

And then the road itself. It is really three roads. There is the sidewalk, of which I'll assume familiarity. Alongside the sidewalk is a bike lane--and not a "bike lane" as you'd imagine in America. This is an actual lane, bordered with its own low curb, that sits beyond the sidewalk. Further into the road are the car lanes in each direction, and then the opposite bike lane, and then the opposite pavement. Crossing the street is a bit of an adventure. There are several traffic lights: one for pedestrians, one for bikes, and one for cars. However, the pedestrian lights are just for cars. You still have to navigate the bike lanes on your own, and while the car lanes all have traffic in one direction, bike traffic can come from either direction. Should you fail to be sufficiently careful before setting out, you will be immediately reminded of your oversight by the ring-ring ring-ring of a bike bell. I don't know how a bike bell can be condescending and passive-aggressive, yet they are. They so very are.

So after successfully crossing my first Dutch road with any sort of vehicular homicide, I made it to my hotel for the first stretch in Amsterdam, the Urban Lodge Hotel. As it was still quite early in the morning, I blurrily went in with the idea that my room would not be ready. Seeing another jetlagged tourist stumble through the door, the desk attendant fixed his most polite smile and walked me through the registration process.

A quick check confirmed by room would not be ready until at least 2 PM, so he checked my luggage, and I groggily stumbled back out into the world to head back to the train station, avoiding death a second time on the roadway. The three-day pass I purchased would turn out to be a good investment, as you have to use the Dutch rail service to get from Sloterdijk and Amsterdam Centraal. The ride is just five minutes or so, and trains run very frequently, so the decision to get a much nicer and very much cheaper hotel room than I'd get in the canal zone was a bit of a no-brainer.

I managed to suss out which train I needed to take with no assistance, and, settling into the one-beep in, two-beep out transit pass system, entered and got to my train with a minimum of fuss. A brief ride later, and I was at Centraal.

About what you'd expect

And this was my first experience with Amsterdam proper. After making a lucky guess at which way to head out of the station (which was a little chaotic in the midst of some major renovations), I was out on the landing in front of Centraal, looking across to the old city center. I'm not sure if it qualifies as "exactly what I expected," but it was close. Across a canal that radiated out more canals were old-looking buildings and narrow streets.

I navigated my way to the city from the station, and I immediately got lost in the myriad of narrow streets that made up the old center. It became immediately apparent that the area by the biggest entry point to the city was a tourist gold mine. It seemed every corner was filled with a "coffee house," the local euphemism for marijuana bar, and the whole area smelled slightly of pot. Wandering a few block further south, I was enmeshed in the famous Red Light District, or at least part of it. As I walked down the street, suddenly there were the indelible red-windowed doors recessed on the walls of the streets where Eastern European women sought to lure you in for some communicable diseases. What was truly disconcerting about it was how ingrained into the area it was. It wasn't just street upon street of red-windowed doors, but a set of four doors, a restaurant with people dining outside, another four or so doors, a string of innocuous shops, etc. To be fair, there were long, narrow alleys to be found of nothing but prostitute windows, but for the most part, they were integrated into the surrounding area quite seemlessly. One of the largest red light areas was ironically enough in the midst of Oude Kerk, the oldest church in Amsterdam.

Marching further south, I eventually exited out on "The Dam," one the main squares of the old city, holding the National Monument, the Royal Palace, the Nieuwe Kerk, and--of course--a gigantic Madame Tussauds. Feeling hungry all of sudden, I decided to get my obligation out of the way and found a nearby McDonalds, wherein I ordered my #1 meal in yet another country, all the while trying to stay conscious and functional.

The tradition lives on

With still more time to kill before I could get back to my hotel, I decided to take the tour of the Royal Palace. I paid my way in and was introduced to the latest in European museum technology: the point and talk audio tour. At establishments that employ it, you either pay for or are given an audio tour as part of your admission that consist of a small square with some headphones plugged in. Along the tour, there are usually named and/or numbered signs, and you point your little square at the other little square until it beeps, and then the relevant audio plays in your headphones. Pretty neat for what it was.

I went around the palace, which didn't start as a royal palace, but rather the governing hall of the republic. Of course, when Napoleon took over, his brother--now king of Holland--took the building over to be his palace, and thus it remains to this day. It was a rather impressive building, and the audios were quite well done, but I'm sure I don't remember half of it, nearly asleep as I was and rather impervious to new information.

The Hall of Judgement

Having spent my time on the tour, I could safely return to the hotel to check in, so I wound my way through the streets again, getting lost several times along the journey, but eventually travelling north enough to make it to the station. I took a small detour to an electronics shop to buy an adapter that I had left in America, but I was then able to quickly grab a a train back to Sloterdijk, and a short walk had me at the hotel, mostly conscious.

I retrieved my luggage and my key and went up to my very nice room. All thoughts of unpacking died upon entry, and I managed to close the shades and take off my shoes before crashing for a much-needed "nap" of three hours. I woke up at least human again and prepared the room for about a week of habitation before grabbing my game bag and heading out into the late afternoon.

A quick inquiry at the train station information desk pointed me to the back of the station where the bus depot was. Thankfully, the trip to this night's park was one of the easiest on the trip, as it left from the station by my hotel and involved one bus and no transfers. Much like the trains, the buses were also quite efficient. Digital displays informed you of what bus was going to be at what berth and when. Schedules were helpfully printed at the stops as well. I used my unlimited transit pass to beep myself on the bus, and display screens in the buses themselves tell you the next stops on the route and the estimated times you will arrive there. Even in my extremely jetlagged state, it was hard for me to get lost in this thing that does not resemble the American bus experience in any way.

I double-beeped myself off at my stop, just across the street from the canal-lined "sportpark" which held the baseball fields, in addition to a number of other sporting facilities. I walked in to find the ballpark, and then with plenty of time to spare, I walked around and looked at the other sports fields until it was about a half and hour to first pitch and headed in to watch the game, with not a cent paid for admission.

After the long game, I had a premonition and chugged it across the street to the bus stop, only to find out that I had just missed the once-per-half hour bus, and--thanks to the friendly screen at the stop--I knew I had twenty-two minutes to wait for the next one. I settled in and finished up my score card, and I was soon joined by an old man from the game who clearly needed the same bus as I. We made some small talk about missing the last bus, and then the skies--threatening for most of the evening--opened up to a torrential downpour that had us huddling in the small shelter until the bus arrived ten minutes later.

My scorecard completed, I packed up all my gear in my game bag on the short ride back to the station, and then made the brief walk back to the hotel in the rain. Thanks to my over-zealous expectations of the temperature that night, I had left the air conditioning cranked, so the room was freezing. I made climate adjustments before dumping my gear and taking an incredibly hot shower and climbing into bed around midnight, ready for a lot more sleep again.


The Stadium & Fans: 

Home plate to center field, Loek Loevendie Ballpark

Loek Loevendie Ballpark was my first foot in the water for Honkbal Hoofdklasse, the "major league" of baseball in the Netherlands. As with all the baseball parks, this one was located in a "sportpark" (an athletics complex with various field and stadiums), in this case "Sportpark Ookmeer." It was akin to a Spring Training complex, with various full and practice fields surrounding the main field, for softball and other lower-level baseball games.

Loek Loevendie Ballpark was set inside a fenced off area, with a large clubhouse building at the top of a flight of stairs. (It would turn out that this building was covered with solar panels and was thus renewable.) There was a patio in front of the clubhouse that houses a series of wooden picnic-type tables for smokers (and scorers like myself), and then there was a single row of seats descending from it, running from dugout to dugout around home plate, about half the way to first and third bases. There was no way to get around to the other parts of the field for spectators. The main scoreboard was in right-center field, showing teams and inning totals, along with the balls, strikes, outs, and batting player and team name. The outfield vista was a row of trees in front of the canal that surrounded the sports park, with buildings poking their heads over in various places.

The clubhouse complex would turn out to one of the nicer and larger in the country, with various memorabilia and trophies for all the Amsterdam teams at all levels, next to a canteen that sold cheep beer and park snacks. A door in one wall led to a small store that sold a tiny amount of merch and general baseball equipment, while the other side of the clubhouse was the offices and locker rooms. MLB banners and merchandise adorned the clubhouse walls and ceiling, including an ancient Metropolitans banner that I sussed out.

The crowd was a mix of Amsterdam boosters and fans from the nearby visiting Amersfoort. As would turn out to be typical for Honkbal Hoofdklasse games, there were about 100-200 people watching the game, boosted by players from the surrounding fields who came to watch the game when their own practices or games were over. Pet dogs were wandering around, which would turn out to be a fixture at all Dutch games. There was literally none of the fanfare of an MLB or even a MiLB game, with the staid Dutch not even playing the national anthem or flying a flag over the field. The only concession to whimsy was the Seventh Inning Stretch, celebrated even in the Netherlands, with a rendition of Meet Me in St. Louis, for some reason or other. Birthday announcements were also made.

It took some getting used to local customs. Foul balls were ignored by everyone except the dogs. They were eventually retrieved and handed back to the teams and officials, as they are not protable souvenirs here as it was in Australia. The fans chirped up at the appropriate moments, so they were knowledgeable about the game, although the product on the field was a little sloppy at best.

It was also more casual, as a pitcher who had a bad seventh inning came off the field, and shouted clearly, loudly, and audibly a word rhyming with "duck," and no one batted an eye or said a word.


At the Game with Oogie: 

Chicken sandwich and fries

I think it was probably pretty obvious to everyone that I wasn't from here. I mean, you'd think the Metropolitans hat would be a complete give-away, except there was another local in a Mets hat, so it was probably all the English-speaking, the camera, and my wandering around everywhere that gave me away. There wasn't all the much to take photos of, so by showing up a half-hour before gametime, there was more than enough time to get in all my photos.

As mentioned, the clubhouse was just that: a clubhouse. It would turn out to be solar-powered and a lot fancier than a lot of the clubhouse in the league, but it was a clubhouse nevertheless. I popped into the tiny shop in one corner of the clubhouse, and it had mostly baseball equipment (a common theme, as there are likely very few places you can buy baseball gear retail in the Netherlands), as well as some team gear (with the "Pirates" name and nearly indistinguishable from Pittsburgh Pirates wear--one of the reasons I didn't indulge).

I saddled up to the bar, I ordered what my limited Dutch was sure about: a warm chicken sandwich ("kip") and some french fries (frites). I then took them out to the smoking tables on the patio overlooking home plate. The food was super cheap and very tasty, and it is through this that I met my nemesis for the trip: a small dog.

Our first meeting

Dogs would be a common fixture at all Dutch baseball parks. Every game had at least one, and usually more, running around leashless and chasing balls and playing with kids and generally having a good time. As I was eating my dinner, a small dog came over from the table next to me, sat down, and intently watched me eat my chicken sandwich and fries. Every time I brought the food to my mouth, he intently followed my hands, clearly waiting for something. His owner tried calling him back a number of times, which sporadically worked. I asked him if I could give the dog any, and he emphatically shook his head "no" and said something disapproving about the dog in Dutch that I couldn't quite make out. After I completed my food, the dog walked away dejectedly, and I don't think he forgave my betrayal.

I stayed up on the tables for the duration of the game. It gave a good vantage point, it was convenient for scoring, and--as it would turn out for later in the game--it was an easy place to duck back into the club house between innings when the chilly night got a little too chilly.

During the later innings, an older man came up to me and started talking, prompting me to sheepishly reply that I didn't speak Dutch too well. He seamlessly transitioned to English and showed me a ball he had just fished out of the canal that ran beyond the outfield wall of the stadium. It was a home-run ball from a player who hit one out the previous half inning. He called it a "splash home run," and said he gave it to the player. He told a story of fishing out another home run for a player who hit a grand slam in his first at bat, an achievement, I agreed, that was worth some fishing in murky canal water over.


The Game: 

First pitch, Quick vs. L&D

The game had the home L&D Amsterdam (the team name was actually the Pirates, but for sponsorship reasons, the team was officially named "L&D") playing the visiting Quick Amersfoort. Amsterdam was one of the top teams in the league, and the Quick muddled in the middle, so a home victory might have been expected, but it was not fulfilled this evening.

The game started quick-ly (get it?) with the Quick jumping out to a 1-0 lead on the back of two singles, two stolen bases, and a sacrifice fly to left. However, Amsterdam tied it up with a single, stolen base, and a double, leaving it at 1-1 after an inning. Amersfoort kept it going in the top of the second with three doubles bringing in two runs, re-establishing the lead at 3-1. L&D weren't up to the chase, only getting a baserunner to second on an error and a steal. Things quieted down as both sides went in order in the third and fourth.

While the Quick were only able to muster a walk in the top of the fifth, Amsterdam got one back in the bottom of the frame with a walk, sacrifice bunt, passed ball, and a two-out single, cutting the lead to 3-2. Amersfoort got back to scoring in the sixth with a lead-off homer to right, extending the lead back to two runs at 4-2. L&D went quietly in order in the bottom of the inning.

While the Quick went in order in the top the seventh, Amsterdam went on a two-out scoring barrage, as a fielder's choice, single, walk and double plated three runs, giving them the first lead of the night at 5-4. This lead didn't even last one disastrous half-inning. Amersfoort started the eighth with a lead-off walk, and then a triple to bring him in. A two-run homer to left followed, and then a walk, sacrifice, and two singles, and when the dust cleared, the score was 9-5, Amersfoort. L&D were only able to get one back in the bottom half, as a lead-off double moved to third on a wild pitch and came home on a sacrifice fly, closing the lead to 9-6. The Quick struck out in order in the top the ninth, but despite threatening, Amsterdam couldn't get it done in their last licks, scattering a couple of walks and a fielder's choice, leaving the visitors the 9-6 win.


The Scorecard: 

Quick vs. L&D, 5/9/19. Quick win, 9-6.

As the Dutch don't sell their own scorecards, I was breaking out my trusty BBWAA scorebook. My biggest difficulty, especially with this first game, was working out who the players were and where they were playing. While the scoreboard did display the numbers and names of the batters, they did not do the same for the pitchers or the positions, which were only announced in Dutch. My ear wasn't anywhere near what it would be by the end of the trip, so the only way I had to determine where the players were playing was to spot them on the field and write them down. The player who wasn't on the field was the DH. So I didn't catch any of the pitchers' names, nor did I get the name of the pinch runner for L&D in the bottom of the ninth.

Scoring-wise, the game was pretty conventional, although with a great deal more errors, running, and walks than you might expect. There was only one golden sombrero, which was a little surprising with all the strikeouts, but there was only one really controversial play that I thought deserved a note. In the bottom of the first, Amsterdam lined a shot to left that literally bounced out of the fielder's glove, but was somehow ruled a double instead of an E7. I disagreed and made note.

I did get also learn Dutch abbreviations for common name prefixes. "Van" becomes "v" and "Van Der" becomes "vd." So, you know, check mark for Thursday.


The Accommodations: 

Urban Lodge Hotel, Amsterdam

My hotel for the first leg of this trip was the Urban Lodge Hotel, just down the road from Sloterdijk Station. With the exception of a couple of hotel restaurants, a convenience store, the fast food in the station, and one or two restaurants, there wasn't a lot happening in the area, but that's not why I was staying there. I was staying there because for the effort of a five-minute train ride to Centraal, I was staying at a place easily $100-150 cheaper per night than it would be in most areas of Amsterdam. The hotel itself was aspiring to hip boutique. There was a restaurant and bar on the ground floor, along with a large fireplace and cozy little couches strewn with board games and books for groups to convene in and the like.

My room was quite nice, with a main room larger than average for cramped Amsterdam, with two pushed-together double-beds in the center, flanked by solid wood night stands. The entrance corner to the room had an easy chair with reading light and driftwood foot rest. Across from the beds were some shelves under the flat-screen TV and a large wooden dresser, hiding a refrigerator. A small desk was in the other corner by the windows, across from the entrance to the bathroom.

The bathroom was tiled in large tiles, interspersed with faux-Delftware blue tiles showing tourist-book scenes, or the royal family. Along the far side of the bathroom was a squat little toilet controlled by two wide panel buttons, and a naked sink with a small shelf underneath. The left side of the room was dominated by a large, half-walled shower that contained a dispenser for all-in-one soap, shampoo, and conditioner.

The cozy little room was very gezellig, as the Dutch would say, and it would serve me well for the duration of my stay.

Click here to see all the photos from this trip.

2019 The Netherlands