Atlantica - 01.09.2004, Blaðsíða 25

Icome expecting red eyes, lethargic gaits
and scalpy odours. On arrival in
Amsterdam, I find the international jet
set: multi-cultural, thin, fantastically quick
walkers. I step into the in-airport grocery
and watch six people purchase energy
drinks. They are so businesslike and
attractive that I put down my mayonnaise-
laden sandwich and instead grab a small
silver and blue can.
Minutes later I’m dehydrated, disorient-
ed and nauseous, driving with my pho-
tographer the wrong way over a one-way
bridge. Conventional wisdom says don’t
drive in a city where the citizens admit
their traffic laws are arbitrary, to discour-
age driving. Conventional wisdom also
tells us not to consume a lifetime of caf-
feine in two minutes. I recommend both
experiences, for the same reason I recom-
mend listening to the oeuvre of Msr.
David Hasselhoff, which is playing on the
Dutch radio. It feels incredible to stop.
We stop. And we find parking. And
though we break laws, nobody seems to
care. Driving in Amsterdam simply isn’t as
bad as the Dutch say it is. Neither, for that
matter, is the red light district.
The helpful woman at the tourist infor-
mation centre located just outside
Centraal Station draws me a map and cir-
cles where I shouldn’t go. “This area is not
good. You don’t want to go here. You
won’t enjoy it at all. The real Amsterdam
is near the museums.”
I promptly head directly into the wrong
neighbourhood.
Immediately adjacent to the red light
district I find a book selection so remark-
able that it would be worth the price of a
flight in itself. The city’s appreciation of
diversity and the extreme Dutch tolerance
have allowed for the kind of literary scene
that will be celebrated for decades, like the
one Paris boasted in the 60s. The book
shops American Book Centre, the “largest
English language bookstore on the conti-
nent”, and Athenaeum Nieuwscentrum
offer stunning diversity in English lan-
guage fiction and poetry. Athenaeum may
be the only non-university bookstore
where AdBusters, Triquarterly and
Missouri Review are given equal display
access to Elle and Vogue. Art bookstores
are just as astounding, my favourite being
the small Nijhof and Lee, again near the
red light district—the photographer prefers
Art Book Kunkstboekhandel near the
Rijksmuseum.
In wandering from the bookstores back
toward the red light district I experience my
only low point of the trip. Still high-minded
from my browsing, I see a lighting and
sound crew and think I might be walking in
on a student film. Maybe an independent
fine work of European cinema, perhaps
something along the lines of Bernardo
Bertolucci’s The Dreamers—sorry, Paris
again. “Is this a student film or some-
thing?” I ask the security guard, who has
already let me pass.
He shakes his head in shame.
“No. No… this is… this is Deuce Bigelow
2.”
“Oh my God. They’re making another
one?”
The guard nods with a grimace.
“You shouldn’t be in there,” he says, which
I take as a positive evaluation of my char-
acter.
It is three in the afternoon, a beautiful
day, and my brush with American fraterni-
A T L A N T I C A 23
Hard to believe that one small country could
produce Rembrandt and Van Gogh. That a country that
housed the Puritans before they went to America would,
in the modern era, legalise drugs and prostitution. A coun-
try that once crashed its economy over-investing in tulips
now houses the most prestigious investment firms in the
world. Bart Cameron went to the Netherlands and found a
full history treated with refreshing candour.
PHOTOS BY PÁLL STEFÁNSSON
022 Amsterdam ATL 504 23.8.2004 18:55 Page 23