Amsterdam Jordaan neighborhood travel guide Anne Frank House visit tips Amsterdam Amsterdam bike tour for tourists
1. Arrival: The Whisper of the Lowlands
The hum of Schiphol Airport’s terminals softened as I stepped off the plane, and the first thing that greeted me wasn’t the sharp chill I’d expected, but a mild, damp air that smelled like rain-washed grass and distant canals. The announcements cycled through Dutch and English—Dutch rolled off the tongue like pebbles in a stream, soft yet distinct, nothing like the harsh gutturals I’d imagined. I followed the signs to the train station, my suitcase wheels clicking against the polished stone floors, and bought a single-use ticket to Centraal Station.
The train ride to the city center was a 20-minute masterclass in Dutch landscape. Through the window, flat green fields stretched to the horizon, divided by neat ditches that glinted like silver threads. Every so often, a windmill would rise in the distance—not the garish, oversized replicas for tourists, but weathered, wooden ones with sails that looked like they’d turned with the wind for centuries. The sky was a soft gray, the light diffused as if filtered through linen, and I found myself leaning closer, trying to memorize every detail. It felt like stepping into a painting—not a bold Rembrandt, but a quiet Vermeer, where the beauty lay in the mundane: a farmer tending to sheep, a bicycle propped against a fence, a row of tulip bulbs sprouting tiny green shoots.
Centraal Station emerged from the train tunnels like a Gothic fortress, its red-brick facade etched with spires and arches. As I pushed through the glass doors, the city hit me all at once: the clatter of bicycle bells, the murmur of voices in a dozen languages, and the unmistakable scent of fresh stroopwafels wafting from a street vendor’s cart. But what stopped me in my tracks was the water. Just beyond the station, the IJ River curved like a dark ribbon, and branching off from it, the first of Amsterdam’s canals glinted in the afternoon light.
My Airbnb was in the Jordaan, a neighborhood of narrow streets and 17th-century townhouses just north of the canal ring. The address led me to a building with a stepped gable—its roofline rising like a set of stairs—and a tiny wooden door painted navy blue. A woman in her 60s with silver hair tied in a braid opened it: that was Liesbeth, my host. “Welcome!” she said, her English accented but warm. “Watch your head—and your luggage.”
She wasn’t joking. The hallway was barely wide enough for one person, and the staircase was a steep, twisting thing that looked like it belonged in a fairy tale. The steps were worn smooth by centuries of feet, and the angle must have been close to 70 degrees. I hauled my suitcase up one step at a time, my arms burning, while Liesbeth called out encouragement from above. “They built these houses narrow because taxes were based on width,” she explained. “So they went up instead of out. And see that hook above the door?” She pointed to an iron hook bolted to the gable. “That’s how they moved furniture in—hoisted it up with ropes, since the stairs are too small.”
My room was on the third floor, a cozy space with exposed wooden beams and a window that overlooked a tiny canal. Through the glass, I could see a houseboat moored along the bank, its deck strung with fairy lights and a potted geranium on the windowsill. Liesbeth left me with a key and a map. “The best way to see the city is on foot—or by bike,” she said. “And if you get hungry, there’s a bakery on the corner—t heir appeltaart is the best in Jordaan.”
By then, the sun was beginning to set, painting the canal water in hues of pink and gold. I dropped my bags, grabbed my jacket, and headed out. The streets were quiet but alive: a couple walked their dog along the canal, a teenager zoomed past on a bicycle with a loaf of bread sticking out of their basket, an old man sat on a bench feeding pigeons. The air was cool, but not cold, and the sound of water lapping against the stone banks was a constant, soothing backdrop. I wandered aimlessly, turning down narrow alleys lined with houseboats and boutique shops, until the smell of cinnamon and baked apples led me to the bakery Liesbeth had mentioned.
The shop was tiny, with a glass case filled with pastries: croissants, speculaas, and rows of appeltaart—round tarts with golden crusts and filling that oozed with cooked apples and cinnamon. The woman behind the counter smiled. “One slice?” she asked. I nodded, and she handed me a paper plate with a warm slice, the crust still crisp. I took it to a bench by the canal and took a bite. The pastry melted in my mouth, the apples sweet and tart, the cinnamon warm and spicy. As I ate, a boat glided past, its passengers waving, and a bicycle bell rang as a rider swerved to avoid a duck family crossing the street. In that moment, I felt like I’d already been in Amsterdam forever.
2. Anne Frank House: When Silence Speaks Louder
I’d booked my ticket to Anne Frank House weeks in advance, knowing that lines could stretch for hours. Even so, when I arrived at 9 a.m., there was already a queue snaking around the corner of Prinsengracht 263. The crowd was quiet—no loud chatter, no pushing—just a slow, respectful shuffle forward. A family from Japan stood in front of me, the parents whispering to their teenage daughter, who held a copy of The Diary of a Young Girl with dog-eared pages. Behind me, an elderly man in a tweed jacket stared at the building’s facade, his hands clasped behind his back.
After 45 minutes, we reached the entrance: a plain, unassuming door that blended into the row of canal houses. Inside, the first floor was a museum dedicated to the Frank family and the history of the Holocaust in the Netherlands. There were photographs—Anne as a toddler, grinning with her sister Margot; the Frank family at the beach; the employees of Otto Frank’s spice company who helped hide them. There were letters, too, and ration cards, and a map showing the network of hiding places across Amsterdam. But the real weight of the place hit when we climbed the stairs to the second floor, where a bookcase stood against the wall.
The guide pulled it open, revealing a narrow doorway. “This is how they entered the secret annex,” she said, her voice low. “Only the employees knew it was here.” We filed through the doorway, into a small hallway. The air felt thick, as if holding its breath. To the left was a tiny room that had been Otto and Edith Frank’s bedroom; to the right, a larger room where Margot and Anne slept. Further back was a kitchen, a bathroom, and a small attic where Anne would go to write.
The rooms were sparse—furniture had been removed by the Nazis, but some items remained: a chipped mug on the kitchen counter, a worn blanket folded on a bed, a map of Europe on the wall with pins marking the progress of the Allied forces. But the most haunting thing was Anne’s bedroom wall. Covered with photographs of movie stars—Marlene Dietrich, Greta Garbo, Ginger Rogers—torn from magazines and taped up. She’d written their names on the photos in pencil, and some of the writing was still visible. It was a small, ordinary thing, a teenager’s obsession with celebrities, but in that context, it felt like a lifeline—a reminder that Anne was just a girl, not a symbol, not a statistic.
I stood there for a long time, staring at the wall. A woman beside me—silver-haired, with a scarf tied around her neck—reached out and touched the glass that protected the photos. When she turned to me, her eyes were wet. “I was her age,” she said, her voice trembling. “I lived in Rotterdam during the war. My family hid a Jewish boy in our attic. We were lucky—we weren’t caught. But so many weren’t.” Her name was Mrs. Hendriks, she told me. She’d come to Anne Frank House every year for the past 30 years, “to remember.”
We walked through the rest of the annex together, not speaking much, but sharing a quiet understanding. In the attic, where Anne wrote that she still believed people were good at heart, Mrs. Hendriks paused. “You know, when I first read her diary, I was angry,” she said. “Angry that she died, angry that the world let this happen. But now… I think her hope is what matters. It’s a reminder that we have to keep fighting for good, even when things are dark.”
As we left the annex, the sun had come out, casting bright light on the canal. The crowd outside was larger now, but still quiet. Mrs. Hendriks hugged me goodbye. “Take care,” she said. “And never forget.” I nodded, and as I walked away, I pulled out the copy of Anne’s diary I’d brought with me. I opened it to a random page, and read: “The best remedy for those who are afraid, lonely or unhappy is to go outside, somewhere where they can be quiet, alone with the heavens, nature and God. Because only then does one feel that all is as it should be.” I looked up at the sky, blue and clear, and thought of Anne, sitting in that attic, dreaming of the world outside. And for a moment, I felt her there, too.
3. Museum Quarter: Art as a Living Conversation
The Museum Quarter is Amsterdam’s cultural heart—a sprawling area bounded by Vondelpark to the west and the Singelgracht canal to the east, home to three of the city’s most famous museums: the Rijksmuseum, the Van Gogh Museum, and the Stedelijk Museum of modern art. I’d planned to spend the entire day there, starting with the Rijksmuseum, and by 10 a.m., I was standing in front of its grand entrance: a neoclassical building with a dome that glinted in the sun, flanked by two lion statues.
Inside, the museum’s Great Hall was bustling with visitors, but I made a beeline for the 17th-century galleries—the “Golden Age” of Dutch art. The rooms were filled with masterpieces: Vermeer’s The Milkmaid, with its soft light and meticulous detail; Hals’ The Night Watchman, a portrait of a militia group that seemed to breathe with life; and Rembrandt’s The Jewish Bride, a tender painting of a couple that glowed with warmth. But the main attraction was Rembrandt’s The Night Watch, a massive canvas that dominated one entire wall.
A crowd had gathered around it, and I squeezed in, standing on my tiptoes to see. The painting was even more stunning in person than in photographs: the play of light and shadow, the way Rembrandt had made the figures seem to step out of the canvas, the detail in their uniforms and weapons. A guide was explaining the painting’s history—how it was commissioned by a militia company, how Rembrandt had broken with tradition by painting them in action rather than in a formal group, how the title was a misnomer (it’s actually a daytime scene, but dirt and varnish had darkened it over the years). As she spoke, a little boy pointed at one of the figures. “Why is he holding a drum?” he asked. The guide smiled. “Because he’s the drummer boy—he keeps the group in step.” The boy nodded, wide-eyed, and I thought about how art connects us, across centuries and generations.
After the Rijksmuseum, I walked next door to the Van Gogh Museum. The building was modern, with clean lines and floor-to-ceiling windows, a stark contrast to the Rijksmuseum’s grandeur. Inside, the galleries were arranged chronologically, tracing Van Gogh’s career from his early dark paintings of peasants to his vibrant later works. I started on the ground floor, where his early works hung: The Potato Eaters, a somber painting of a family eating dinner, its colors muted browns and grays. It was a far cry from the sunflowers and starry nights I’d come to love, but there was a raw honesty to it that made my chest ache.
As I moved up the floors, the colors brightened: the vivid yellows of Sunflowers, the swirling blues and golds of The Starry Night Over the Rhône, the bold reds and greens of The Bedroom. I lingered in front of Sunflowers—a series of five paintings, each showing a vase of sunflowers in different stages of bloom. The paint was thick, applied with bold brushstrokes, and the flowers seemed to glow, as if lit from within. A man stood beside me, staring at the painting. “My wife loved these,” he said, noticing me looking. “She passed away last year. We came here on our honeymoon, and she said these sunflowers made her feel alive.” His name was Jan, and his wife, Martha, had been an art teacher. “We’d come back every anniversary,” he said. “She’d always say, ‘Vincent understood joy and pain, all at once.’”
Jan and I walked through the rest of the museum together. He pointed out details I might have missed: the way Van Gogh’s brushstrokes became more chaotic in his later works, the hints of sadness in Irises, the hope in Almond Blossom. “Martha used to say that Van Gogh didn’t paint what he saw—he painted how he felt,” he said. In the museum’s café, we ordered coffee and bitterballen—fried meatballs dipped in mustard. Jan told me about his and Martha’s trips to Amsterdam, about how they’d ride bikes through Vondelpark, about how she’d insist on stopping at every bakery for stroopwafels. “I still come here alone,” he said. “It’s like she’s with me, in these paintings.”
As we said goodbye, Jan squeezed my hand. “Take your time with these,” he said, nodding at the paintings. “They have a lot to say.” I watched him walk away, and then I went back to the Sunflowers. For a moment, I felt Martha there, too—her joy, her love, her quiet strength. And I understood what Jan meant: art isn’t just something you look at. It’s something you feel, something that stays with you, long after you leave the museum.
4. Jordaan: Poetry in the Everyday
The Jordaan is often called Amsterdam’s most charming neighborhood, and by my third day in the city, I understood why. It’s a maze of narrow streets and canals, lined with 17th-century townhouses painted in soft pastels, boutique shops with handwritten signs, and cafes with tables spilling onto the sidewalks. Unlike the busy canal ring, the Jordaan feels slow, unhurried—as if time has paused here, just for a little while.
I started my morning at the bakery on the corner, the one Liesbeth had recommended. The owner, a man named Piet, greeted me by name. “The usual?” he asked, holding up a slice of appeltaart. I nodded, and he handed it to me, warm and fragrant. “Today’s special is poffertjes,” he said—tiny, fluffy pancakes dusted with powdered sugar. “You should try them tomorrow.” I made a mental note, then took my appeltaart to a bench along the Prinsengracht.
The canal was quiet that morning. A few houseboat owners were outside, watering plants or drinking coffee on their decks. A woman in a red coat walked her dog, stopping to chat with a neighbor. A bicycle passed, its basket filled with fresh flowers—tulips, daffodils, hyacinths. The air smelled like coffee and flowers and the faint, earthy scent of the canal. I ate my appeltaart slowly, watching the world go by. It was a simple moment, but one of the most peaceful I’d had in a long time.
After breakfast, I wandered down Brouwersgracht—a canal lined with grand 17th-century merchant houses, their facades decorated with carved stone and iron balconies. Unlike the Prinsengracht, which is busy with tourist boats, the Brouwersgracht is quiet, its water so still that it reflects the houses like a mirror. I walked along the bank, stopping to look at the houseboats. One had a roof garden filled with tomatoes and herbs; another had a sign that read “Home is where the boat is”; a third had a cat curled up on the deck, watching the water.
I noticed a small bridge halfway down the canal, and crossed it to the other side. There, a woman was tending to a window box filled with geraniums. “They need a lot of water this time of year,” she said, smiling. Her name was Sophie, and she’d lived in the Jordaan for 40 years. “I grew up here,” she said. “My parents had a shop on this street—they sold cheese. Back then, the Jordaan was a working-class neighborhood. Now it’s full of tourists, but it still has heart.” She pointed to a tiny alleyway. “Down there is the smallest house in Amsterdam—only 1.8 meters wide. My uncle used to live there. He was a painter—he’d set up his easel in the alley and paint the canal.”
Sophie invited me into her house for coffee. It was narrow, like all Jordaan houses, but cozy—filled with books, paintings, and photos of her family. Her living room window overlooked the canal, and we sat there, drinking coffee and talking. She told me about the Jordaan’s history: how it was built in the 17th century for workers and artisans, how it was a hotbed of resistance during World War II, how it had gentrified in the 1980s but still retained its community feel. “Everyone knows everyone here,” she said. “If you forget your keys, the baker will let you borrow his phone. If you’re sick, your neighbor will bring you soup. That’s the Jordaan.”
After coffee, I walked to a brown café on the corner of Elandsgracht. Brown cafés (bruine cafés) are Amsterdam’s traditional pubs—named for their dark wooden interiors, stained by years of smoke and beer. This one was called De Jordaanse Ouwe, and it was packed with locals: retirees reading newspapers, workers having lunch, friends chatting over pints of Heineken. I found a seat at the bar and ordered a beer. The bartender, a man named Peter, was a retired history teacher. “First time in a brown café?” he asked. I nodded. “Good choice,” he said. “This place has been here since 1892. My grandfather used to drink here.”
Peter and I talked for hours. He told me about Amsterdam’s history—how it grew from a small fishing village to a powerful trading empire, how it survived floods and wars, how it became known for its tolerance. “People think Amsterdam is all about canals and coffee shops,” he said, “but it’s more than that. It’s a city of survivors. We’ve learned to adapt, to go with the flow—like water.” He pointed to the canal outside. “Water is our lifeblood. It built this city, and it’s taught us to be flexible. We don’t fight the current—we ride it.”
As I left the café, the sun was setting. The sky was pink and orange, and the canal was bathed in gold. A group of children were playing on the bridge, their laughter echoing through the streets. A bicycle passed, its bell ringing, and a man sang a Dutch folk song as he walked his dog. I felt a warmth in my chest, a sense of belonging that I hadn’t expected. The Jordaan wasn’t just a neighborhood—it was a feeling, a reminder that joy is often found in the small things: a cup of coffee with a stranger, a cat on a houseboat, a song in the street.
5. On Two Wheels: The City’s True Rhythm
Liesbeth had been right: the best way to see Amsterdam is by bike. The city is flat, the streets are bike-friendly, and there are more bicycles than people—over 800,000, according to a local statistic. So on my fourth day, I rented a bike from a shop near Centraal Station. The owner, a young man named Joris, helped me adjust the seat. “Remember,” he said, “bikes have the right of way here. Cars stop for you, not the other way around. And watch out for trams—they’re quiet, but they’re fast.”
I started slowly, pedaling along the Singel canal. At first, I was nervous—there were bikes everywhere, zipping past me like bees—but after a few minutes, I found my rhythm. The bike was old but sturdy, its tires humming against the cobblestones. I pedaled past houseboats and cafes, past tourists taking photos and locals rushing to work. The wind was in my hair, and the sun was on my face, and for a moment, I felt free—no plans, no deadlines, just me and the city.
I decided to ride to Vondelpark, Amsterdam’s largest park. It was a 20-minute ride from the Jordaan, and the route took me through quiet residential streets lined with cherry blossom trees. As I entered the park, the noise of the city faded away. There were people everywhere—joggers, picnickers, parents pushing strollers—but it was peaceful. I parked my bike near a lake and walked around. Ducks swam in the water, children fed squirrels, a group of musicians played jazz under a tree. I sat on a bench and watched, feeling the sun on my skin. It was a perfect afternoon.
On my way back to the Jordaan, I got lost. I turned down a narrow alley and found myself in a neighborhood I didn’t recognize—rows of tiny houses, a small playground, a corner shop with a sign that read “Fresh Eggs.” I stopped to check my map, but before I could, a girl on a bike pulled up. “Lost?” she asked. She was about 16, with a backpack slung over one shoulder and a skateboard tucked under her arm. I nodded, showing her my map. “You’re in De Pijp,” she said. “Nice neighborhood—good falafel. Want me to show you back to the Jordaan?”
Her name was Lila, and she’d lived in Amsterdam her whole life. We rode together, chatting as we went. She told me about her school, about her friends, about how she loved riding her bike to the beach in Zandvoort on weekends. “Amsterdam is the best city to be a kid,” she said. “You can ride your bike anywhere. My parents let me go to the museum by myself when I was 12.” We rode through De Pijp, past the Albert Cuyp Market (which was closed for the day), past the Heineken Experience, and back to the Jordaan. As we parted ways, she handed me a piece of paper with her phone number on it. “If you get lost again, text me,” she said. “Or if you want to go to the beach— I know the best spot.”
That evening, I rode my bike to the Westerkerk, a Gothic church with a tall spire that dominates the Jordaan skyline. I parked my bike outside and climbed the tower for a view of the city. From the top, Amsterdam spread out below me: a maze of canals and streets, red roofs and green trees, bikes and boats moving like ants. The sun was setting, and the city was bathed in gold. I stood there for a long time, watching, as the lights came on—streetlights, house lights, the lights of boats on the canals. It was the most beautiful view I’d ever seen.
As I rode back to my Airbnb, the streets were quiet. A few people were sitting outside cafes, drinking wine. A man walked his dog, humming a song. The only sounds were the wind in the trees, the water lapping against the canals, and the hum of my bike tires. I felt a deep sense of peace, a connection to the city that I’d never felt anywhere else. Riding a bike in Amsterdam isn’t just a way to get around—it’s a way to be part of the city, to feel its rhythm, to become one with it.
6. Markets and Flavors: Taste of Amsterdam
No trip to Amsterdam is complete without visiting its markets, and on my fifth day, I headed to the Albert Cuyp Market in De Pijp. It’s the largest outdoor market in the Netherlands, stretching for blocks along Albert Cuypstraat, and it’s open every day except Sunday. When I arrived at 10 a.m., the market was already bustling: vendors called out prices, tourists haggled over souvenirs, locals loaded up on fresh produce. The air smelled like fried onions, fresh bread, and blooming tulips.
I started at the food stalls. There were stalls selling herring (a Dutch staple—served raw with onions and pickles), stalls selling stroopwafels (freshly made, with caramel oozing out), stalls selling bitterballen and frites. I stopped at a falafel stall recommended by Lila. The vendor, a man named Mohammed, smiled. “One falafel wrap?” he asked. “Extra hummus?” I nodded, and he handed me a warm wrap filled with crispy falafel, fresh vegetables, and creamy hummus. It was delicious—spicy, savory, and fresh. I ate it as I walked, watching the vendors set up their stalls.
Next, I wandered through the souvenir stalls. There were wooden clogs (in every color imaginable), tiny windmill replicas, Delft blue pottery, and t-shirts with Dutch sayings. I bought a small Delft blue mug for my mom and a wooden clog keychain for my brother. A vendor noticed me looking at the clogs. “Want to try them on?” she asked. I shook my head, laughing. “They look heavy,” I said. “They are,” she said. “But they’re good for your feet—my grandmother wore them her whole life.”
Further down the street, there was a flower stall filled with tulips—red, pink, yellow, purple. The vendor, a woman named Lizette, told me that Amsterdam’s flower market is the largest in the world. “We get tulips from all over the Netherlands,” she said. “These are from Keukenhof— the famous flower garden.” She handed me a bunch of pink tulips. “For you,” she said. “A gift from Amsterdam.” I thanked her, and she smiled. “Enjoy your stay,” she said. “And come back in April— the tulips are even more beautiful then.”
After the market, I walked to a stroopwafel shop on the corner. The shop was tiny, with a window where you could watch the stroopwafels being made: two thin waffles pressed together with caramel syrup in the middle. The owner, a man named Hans, gave me a sample. It was warm and sweet, the caramel sticky and gooey, the waffle crisp. “We’ve been making stroopwafels here since 1950,” he said. “My father started the shop, and now I run it. We use the same recipe—no shortcuts.” I bought a bag of stroopwafels to take home, and Hans gave me a tip: “Put them in the microwave for 10 seconds— the caramel melts, and they’re even better.”
That evening, I went to a canal-side bistro in the Jordaan. The bistro had outdoor seating, and I sat at a table overlooking the Prinsengracht. The menu was Dutch comfort food: pea soup, mashed potatoes with sausage, apple tart. I ordered the pea soup and a glass of Dutch beer. The soup was thick and creamy, with chunks of ham and carrots. As I ate, a boat glided past, its passengers waving. The waiter, a young man named Tom, stopped to chat. “First time in Amsterdam?” he asked. I nodded. “What do you think?” I told him I loved it—the canals, the museums, the people. “It’s a special city,” he said. “Not perfect, but special. We have our problems—crowds, housing—but we love it anyway.”
A couple from Australia sat at the table next to me, and we struck up a conversation. They’d been traveling through Europe for a month, and Amsterdam was their favorite city. “It’s so relaxed,” the woman said. “No one is in a hurry. And the bikes—we rented bikes yesterday, and it was the best day of our trip.” We talked for hours, sharing stories of our travels, laughing at our mishaps (they’d gotten lost in the Jordaan, too). By the time I left, it was dark, and the canal was lit up with fairy lights. The couple waved goodbye, and I walked back to my Airbnb, the bag of stroopwafels in my hand, feeling full and happy.
7. Farewell Cruise: Gold on the Water
My last day in Amsterdam dawned gray and rainy, but I didn’t mind. I’d saved the canal cruise for last—Liesbeth had told me that Amsterdam looks even more beautiful in the rain—and I was looking forward to seeing the city from the water. I booked a small group cruise with a local company, and at 2 p.m., I met the guide, a woman named Emma, and the other passengers (a family from Canada, a couple from France, and a solo traveler from Japan) at the dock on the Prinsengracht.
The boat was small, with a covered roof to keep us dry. Emma handed out blankets, and we settled in as the boat pulled away from the dock. “Amsterdam has over 100 kilometers of canals,” she said, “and 1,500 bridges. The canal ring was built in the 17th century, during the Golden Age, and it’s a UNESCO World Heritage Site.” She pointed out the different types of gables: stepped gables, neck gables, bell gables. “Each gable has a story,” she said. “The stepped gables were popular with merchants—they showed off their wealth. The neck gables were for working-class families—they were cheaper to build.”
As we cruised along the Prinsengracht, Emma pointed out famous landmarks: the Westerkerk, where Anne Frank’s father Otto is buried; the Anne Frank House, its facade plain and unassuming; the House with the Neck, a 17th-century house with a distinctive neck gable. She told us stories about the canal houses: how they’re tilted forward to make it easier to hoist furniture up with ropes, how the hooks on the gables are still used today, how some houses have secret rooms where families hid during the war.
The rain stopped halfway through the cruise, and the sun came out, casting a golden light on the water. The canal became a mirror, reflecting the houses and bridges. A group of ducks swam past, their feathers glistening. A bicycle rider stopped on a bridge, taking a photo. A houseboat owner waved from her deck. It was magical—like sailing through a painting.
We cruised along the Herengracht, the “Gentlemen’s Canal,” lined with grand merchant houses. Emma pointed out a house with a golden door. “That’s one of the most expensive houses in Amsterdam,” she said. “It sold for over 10 million euros last year.” We passed a café where locals were sitting outside, drinking coffee. A waiter carried a tray of drinks to a table, balancing it on one hand. “Amsterdam is a city of contrasts,” Emma said. “We have million-dollar houses next to houseboats, fancy restaurants next to brown cafés. That’s what makes it special.”
As the cruise neared its end, the sun began to set. The sky turned pink and orange, and the canal water turned to gold. Emma stopped talking, and we all sat in silence, watching. The only sounds were the engine of the boat, the water lapping against the sides, and the distant ring of a bicycle bell. It was a perfect ending to my trip.
When I returned to my Airbnb, Liesbeth was waiting for me. She’d made me a plate of appeltaart. “For the road,” she said. I thanked her, and we hugged goodbye. “Come back soon,” she said. “Amsterdam will be waiting for you.”
The next morning, I took the train to Schiphol Airport. As the train pulled away from Centraal Station, I looked out the window, watching Amsterdam fade into the distance: the canals, the windmills, the red-brick houses. I pulled out the bag of stroopwafels, the Delft blue mug, and the tulips Lizette had given me. I thought about Mrs. Hendriks and her tears at Anne Frank House, about Jan and his memories of Martha, about Sophie and her coffee in the Jordaan, about Lila and her bike ride through De Pijp, about Peter and his stories in the brown café.
Amsterdam isn’t just a city. It’s a feeling—a feeling of freedom, of peace, of belonging. It’s a city that teaches you to slow down, to appreciate the small things, to be kind to strangers. It’s a city that stays with you, long after you leave.
As the plane took off, I looked down at the Netherlands, a patchwork of green fields and canals. I made a promise to myself: I’d come back. Not to see the museums or the canals, but to feel that feeling again—to breathe the air, to ride the bikes, to eat the appeltaart, to be part of the city’s rhythm.
Amsterdam, I’ll see you soon.
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