I have heard it said that everyone has a doppelganger somewhere in the world. I think mine is called Charlie, and he lives in Amsterdam where he seems to have a very large circle of friends and acquaintances. In fact, Charlie is so immensely popular that as I strolled through the small back streets of the city's red-light district late one evening, I lost count of the amount of people who said hello, always in a clandestine manner, with a nod of the head or the wink of an eyelid. Occasionally, they even followed me down the street saying "Charlie" over and over. "No, you must be mistaken," I replied more and more emphatically. "I don't know anyone by that name," (since I don't suppose Charlie Haughey counts these days). But they simply would not leave me in peace and it soon became very irritating. That guy Charlie must be such a social butterfly, the life and soul of the party.
The narrow lanes of the red light district are stuffed full of pushers (Charlie joke over) who will very persistently offer you anything you fancy. And it's true what you've heard: if you want, you can sit in a coffee house and roll a joint or eat a chocolate muffin with hash in it ('space cake') and it's all perfectly legal. Of course, where there are drugs, sex is never very far away, so allow yourself time to wander through the district and take a good hard look at the numerous prostitutes sitting in individual shop windows openly displaying their wares. Generally, like me, most people were only window shopping and had no intention of following through. However, I did see one young man furtively strike a deal with a voluptuous oriental lady who promptly pulled a curtain over her window and hung up a sign reading 'Back in 5 Minutes'. (Oh, the brevity of it all!)
Amsterdam may be famous throughout the world for its liberal attitudes, but while it's all a very amusing form of soft-porn entertainment, in reality the red-light district is rather seedy. Please don't think I am taking the moral high ground here, for I wouldn't have a leg to stand on, but the overt display of sex shops, prostitution and soft drugs quickly becomes repetitious. While it is certainly worth a look, the red-light district is by far the least appealing part of the city.
The real Amsterdam is stunningly elegant. Built on a series of concentric circles which radiate outwards from the Central Station, the geometric curves alternate between canals and pedestrian streets, dissected by pretty laneways and beautiful bridges reflecting gracefully in the water. The canal houses are steeped in history, built at a time when the city exerted huge influence throughout the world and acquired enormous wealth. (Think South Africa, think diamonds.) With an ever-changing international population, Amsterdam manages to be both stylish and unpretentious. The Dutch themselves are charming and hospitable, and without exception speak fluent English - which is just as well, because no matter how hard I tried, I could not get my head round their language.
After a casual wander down the main shopping street known as Nieuwezijds Voorburgwal, I took a tram to the museum district to find the purpose-built gallery devoted to one of the country's most treasured artists, Vincent van Gogh. I have always adored Van Gogh and his unique, vivid, childlike view of the world. Here you can see some of his most celebrated works, including the famous sunflower still-life which he painted in Arles for his friend Gauguin, one in a series of five. Next door lies the Rijksmusem, the national museum, which is currently undergoing extensive renovations, though its unrivalled collection of masterpieces by Vermeer, Rembrandt and many others remain on view.
A walk back along the canals brought me to the Anne Frank House, one of Amsterdam's most popular attractions. Like most people, I was aware of the story of the young Jewish girl who kept a diary as she and her family hid in the attic of their canal house to avoid being arrested by the Nazis. The house has now been restored as a museum, and the tiny annexe where the little girl hid is still reached through the original secret door behind a bookcase. Of all the rooms that lie beyond, the most disturbing is Anne's own bedroom, decorated with old pictures of movie stars and flowers pasted on the plain wallpaper - the efforts of a young girl trying to bring life into a claustrophobic existence. The room still has its ghosts, and the feeling of muted fear is palpable. When I left the house, I stood and breathed in the fresh cold air. I was overcome by a sense of my own freedom, something Anne thirsted after. After two years in the attic, she and her family were discovered and taken to a concentration camp. Tragically, Anne Frank died in Belsen at the age of 14, just a month before its liberation. After the war, her father - the only surviving member of the family - returned to the canal house in Amsterdam and it was there that he discovered his daughter's diary. Beautifully written, surprisingly candid and mature, it is much more than just a young girl's day-to-day thoughts. It is the legacy of a gifted young writer whose life should have been long and productive but instead was brutally cut short. The Anne Frank Diary has become a symbol of all the children murdered during those dark years, a testament to the loss of an entire generation.
Amsterdam
comes alive at night. There is an excellent choice of restaurants where people
are happy to linger for longer than tends to be the habit in Dublin - and the
cost is noticeably cheaper. A first class three-course set menu can be as little
as €17.95 per person, meaning that, with a modest bottle of wine, a couple can
have dinner for less than €50. But the Dutch seem to drink less, and much more
slowly, than the Irish, who have been knocking it back with such abandon lately
that you would be forgiven forthinking that Bertie is planning to ban alcohol in
public places, just as he did with the cigarettes. And therein lies another
difference. I was very surprised, one evening in a smart restaurant, when
someone was persistently smoking a very pungent cigar at the table next to me.
(At one point he absent-mindedly tipped the ash into his soup and then just
continued on eating.) Of course, he had every right to do so, but I had to bite
my lip in case I was tempted to complain or shoot him a disapproving glare.