First look at Amsterdam

It’s just past dawn in Amsterdam. We are stopping over for a few hours before embarking on the next leg of the journey to America. We could have simply moved to the next gateway and positioned there. But we wanted a first look at Amsterdam, where people live below sea-level. I remember my Dutch friend explaining that they had to be tall to keep their heads above the sea waters!

We had been told not to smile, because the immigration officials in Europe are pretty suspicious of Asians. We have nothing to declare to customs. The immigration officer frowns at my passport photograph (taken without glasses) and comments that it doesn’t much look like me. We school our features expressionless. The prospect of being deported on the next flight to India because is not at all entertaining.

I suggest politely that perhaps the visa photo is more up-to-date, mentally thanking the (outsourced) visa screening process that insisted on my being bespectacled. Indeed it is, he grins date-stamping the passports with a flourish, welcome to Amsterdam!

We don’t expect any of our friends to greet us on this cold morning. They won’t come, the 80-year-old is convinced. She has to walk a fair bit, since people wanting to step outside the airport can’t take the wheelchair. As we try to call to find out whether they have at all made the effort to meet us, we realize that there is no cellphone network coverage. The reality sinks that we don’t have the local currency either. We ask the information desk for help to locate our friends. But they can only call landlines, not mobile phones.

Time is running out, we have to use a payphone. We find a money changer. A hundred dollars gets us sixty-three euros and a phone-card. She also explains how to make a local call – without the international codes.




At the end we find our friends are less than fifty yards away. It turns out the flight number given earlier has changed. They were looking for us, but were sure it was a wasted trip; we were not arriving nor could we be contacted.

We find that we only have about two hours to fraternize and renew contacts. Amsterdam we’re told is still in the grip of cold. It’s wiser not to go outside since we have some woolens, but not overcoats. So we just walk across to view the train station that connects with the city outside.

We settle for coffee and sandwiches in the airport cafeteria. The coffee is strong, but ‘instant’ I’m told, so the Dutch probably don’t grow their own. The sandwiches are our first taste of continental cuisine, and like the coffee it needs getting used to. The country is feeling the pinch of recession too, everybody fears layoffs. We feel for our friends but it’s almost time for the flight to America.

Our baggage has been checked through, so we head for the security check. This time it is thorough. We have to put through the x-ray machines shoes, coats, sweaters, watches, belts, and bangles. Women security personnel specially examine the lady in the sari. We’re questioned about our luggage: who packed it, when and where? Do we have anything in our possession that has been handed to us by unknown persons? Terror, we realize, is serious business.

Cont’d…