wanderlust ASAP: a funny thing happened in amsterdam...

Everything was moving along pretty smoothly earlier this summer as we departed for Amsterdam, which was the next stop on our itinerary following Germany. Although Aman and I had been on the road for nearly six and a half months at the time, we thus far had been spared all the potential horribles that we had contemplated before setting out on this adventure together (e.g., lost luggage, theft of valuables, malaria, dengue fever or some other serious illness, etc.). So maybe we were due for a little mishap... Certainly, with the benefit of time between then and now, we can characterize the incident as “a funny thing” or “a little mishap.” To be sure, that’s putting it mildly.

It all started, as it does in any new town, with excitement. One of my favorite cities in the world, we were happy to be spending four nights in Amsterdam. Aman had never been to Amsterdam before, and I was looking forward to showing him around.

Our train pulled into Amsterdam Ceentral railway station on a frigid, overcast day. Before leaving the station building, Aman and I decided to stop at the international ticket counter and book a reservation for our outbound journey to Paris. It seemed the efficient thing to do given that we were already at the train station, and pretty sure that a reservation would be required for onward travel. We were prepared as well, having already consulted the timetable to determine the day and time we wanted to depart on another high-speed train for France. So we walked into the international ticket office, grabbed a number and took not more than ten steps before our turn was called – thankfully it was a slow day at the office. Aman told the man at the ticket counter where and when we wanted to travel. That’ll be 88 Euros, he said after the push of a few computer buttons. No, we already have tickets, we just need a reservation, we explained, as if there had been some misunderstanding. That’ll be 88 Euros, the man repeated. Seriously?! Further conversation revealed that (a) a reservation was absolutely required for the direct train from Amsterdam to Paris, (b) the non-direct option involved two transfers and twice the travel time as the high-speed train (no thank you), and (c) the quoted price of 88 Euros was only good for two second-class seats (even though we were holding first-class tickets). Did we really just pay 88 Euros to get downgraded to second-class, I asked Aman in complete disbelief after we booked the reservation and made our way out of the ticket office. Needless to say, our opinions about the Eurorail pass and its value are pretty low.

Outside the Ceentral station, it was very busy with people moving in every direction and trams snaking in and out of the station along various lines. We found the waiting area for Tram Number 9 and joined a small crowd waiting in the tram stop shelter where we took refuge from the biting wind. When the tram pulled into the station, there was a mad dash to board, which was loads of fun for two people traveling with large bags. Just to give you an idea of how we might look on travel days, here is Aman, circa Vietnam:

On the tram, we traveled down the main street of Damrak and through the bustling city center towards the Oost (“East”) neighborhood where we had rented an apartment for our stay. It was not only a Saturday afternoon, but it was also the first weekend of the 2012 UEFA European Football Championship and Netherlands was playing in a match that evening. The streets (not to mention the fans), therefore, were decorated in bright orange and incredibly busy when we hit them on that first day.

We lost no time in getting involved and, even though the Netherlands lost that night, it was still a pretty fun first night in town.

The next morning, we awoke to a sunny day. This was perfect, as Aman and I planned on renting bicycles to explore. For those unfamiliar with the culture of Amsterdam, apart from public transportation, getting around by bicycle is a way of life for Amsterdammers. The city is very bicycle-friendly with lots of bike paths and bike racks. The city also discourages driving cars. Thus, like the US Postal Service, “neither snow nor rain nor heat nor gloom of night” usually tends to keep the locals off their bikes. (In fact, I had seen this on one previous, and particularly soggy, trip to Amsterdam where many people were riding around in the pouring rain with one hand on the handlebars and one hand clutching an umbrella overhead.)

Aman and I had not done much bicycle riding since the start of our trip, but we were proud bicycle owners back in NYC and thus eager to get back in the seat, even if only for a couple of days. Plus, since we were staying a little bit out of the city center, it made reasonable sense for us to have a way to get around other than tram. At the bike rental shop, we opted for the traditional Dutch bike, the big clunky kind without hand brakes where you have to back pedal to stop.

It took some getting used to, but we got the hang of it quickly and were off. With me in the lead, I steered Aman out of the chaotic Dam area and on to some of the quieter and more picturesque residential streets that I knew – along the three main canals of Herengracht, Keizersgracht, Prinsengracht – where we rode carefree along the brick-paved lanes, over bridges, up and down the concentric half-rings of pretty tree-lined canals, past the rows of skinny canal houses and the ubiquitous coffee shops and fried potato vendors.

It was a positively blissful day of riding around with no particular destination in mind. We stopped here and there to walk around, check on the score of the football match that was playing that day, or get something to eat, but generally did not stop riding until well into the night.

For our second day on two wheels, we actually picked a couple of specific destinations as opposed to riding around aimlessly; namely, the Van Gogh Museum and a really good Indonesian restaurant where I had eaten on a previous trip to Amsterdam and wanted to bring Aman for dinner, Kantjil en de Tijger. It was another beautiful, warm day that afternoon as we left our apartment and rode along Singelgracht, the outer canal of the city center, to Museumplein, where all of the important museums in Amsterdam are situated.

Both Aman and I really liked the Van Gogh Museum and will go so far as to say, that it is probably one of the best museums out there. That is, of course, if you are a fan of Van Gogh. The permanent collection is displayed in such a way that Van Gogh’s life unfolds more or less chronologically, from the early period of his career when he was influenced by other notable artists, to his heyday when he painted some of his more well-known masterpieces, to his later career and the influence that he had upon other artists of the time. There was also a good temporary exhibit on late 19th century, European landscape paintings and their symbolic significance. Fascinating stuff.

By the time we were done canvasing the museum and all of its treasures, we were famished. We hopped on our bikes and took the bridge over Singelgracht, towards the center of town.

Dinner at Kantjil en de Tijger was a total feast. The restaurant is known for its killer rijsttafels, a balanced collection of various specialties that come served in about a dozen little bowls and plates. It is basically a bite or two of everything – vegetables in spicy sauce, vegetables in sweet coconut sauce, grilled fish, prawn skewers, beef skewers, salad, rice served in a banana leaf. When we saw the plates arrive, we were all of the sudden glad that we skipped lunch earlier that day.

As we were wrapping up, the sky turned ominously dark as an impending storm approached. Aman and I took cover, just as the rain started, at a brown café across the street where the evening’s UEFA football match was playing on several screens. We sat at a covered outdoor table, watched the match on a screen that had been set up on the sidewalk and waited for the downpour to taper off.

With the rain lightening up and the match over, Aman and I had a critical decision to make: do we ditch the bikes for the night and go for some drinks, or do we ride back to the apartment and relax over the bottle of wine that we had bought the day before? For no particular reason, we chose to do the latter. We walked the couple of short blocks to where we had chained the bikes earlier in the night and began wiping the seats dry. We hopped on, and took off in the direction of Vijzelgracht, a busy street leading over the main canals and out of the city center. And that’s when it happened…

We were riding with me in the lead. I was not on the bike path – it was closed because of construction – but, rather, riding on the edge of the street. Or at least I should say that I thought I was riding on the edge of the street. Cruising along, the next thing I knew, the bike started to wobble badly and I realized it right away – I rode into the groove of a tram track…. (The first and last advice they give you about riding a bicycle in Amsterdam is be careful of the tram tracks, which run down the middle of many streets. We knew this, and I thought I was being careful enough, but….) Long story short, as I struggled to pull my bicycle out of the death grip of the tram track and slow down at the same time, i.e. back pedal, I lost my balance and the bike came crashing to the ground. Hard. With my left leg pinned underneath the clunky frame of the bike. If that was not enough, recall that it had been pouring rain that night, which made the streets very wet. The bike (and I) went hydroplaning, for what felt like an eternity, stopping only when we abruptly collided with the curb. At that point, I picked myself up out of a puddle and hobbled to the chain link fence that separated the road from the construction zone. (Damn construction zone.)

For someone who had never experienced a serious injury before that moment (assuming that a sprained finger in the fourth grade doesn’t count), I could not believe the pain. Blinding pain… I clutched the fence for support and closed my eyes. When I opened them, a young girl was standing next to me telling me to breathe. Another person asked if I wanted him to call me an ambulance. Yet another person was picking up my bike and moving it out of the way of oncoming traffic. Aman was scrambling off his bike, running to my side and asking me if I was okay…

I tried to breathe. I told the man that I did not want an ambulance. I thanked the person for moving my bike. I told Aman that I was not okay…

The kind bystanders dispersed once they saw that Aman had everything under control. He first helped me across the street where I could sit on the steps of a closed shop. Can you walk, he asked. Leaning on Aman for support, I tried to walk on my left leg as if nothing happened. It felt as though my lower leg was detached at the knee. I can’t, I think I just seriously hurt myself, I said. Aman proceeded to lock up both the bikes to a nearby bicycle rack and hail a taxi. Do you think you need to go to a hospital, he asked. No, no hospital, I said. Are you sure, he asked again. No hospital, I repeated. We told the taxi driver to bring us to the apartment where we were staying. How are you going to walk up the stairs, Aman asked. Our apartment was located two floors above street level. I’ll manage, I replied.

That night, I crawled one up two flights of stairs backwards on my hands and right leg. Aman helped me get in bed, and I fell asleep hoping that it was not as bad as I feared and, deep down, suspected that it was.

When I woke the next morning, I threw the covers off my left leg and looked down in hopes that my knee looked normal. It did not. It was swollen and throbbing and I couldn’t move it at all without the most excruciating pain. I think you need to take me to the hospital, I told Aman reluctantly. He helped me to get ready and then hobble to the top of the staircase, which I descended, again, on my hands and one good leg. At the street level, however, we ran into a problem. We were on a quiet residential street – how were we going to find a taxi? We had identified a hospital nearby, but I certainly couldn’t walk there. Nor could I walk around looking for a cab. Aman made sure that I was comfortable sitting at the bottom steps to the house before going off to find help. Moments later, he came back. Did you find a taxi, I asked. No, but there is a couple of police officers up the street who can help, he said. When the police van pulled up, Aman carried me to it and one of the police officers lifted me inside. Why didn’t you go to the hospital last night, they asked after I told them what had happened. I didn’t realize it was so bad, I explained.

We were at the hospital for about two hours. I had a few x-rays of my leg done, which revealed that I had an avulsion fracture to the tibia. (An avulsion fracture basically occurs when the ligament along with a small piece of bone gets pulled away from the main part of the bone due to some sort of trauma.) The ER doctor also explained that my leg was in an “acute stage” and that additional testing should be done one week later. In the meantime, she prescribed me some painkillers and crutches, and had her medical assistant wrap my knee in an ace bandage.

Back at the apartment (which I again crawled into), Aman and I had some immediate decisions to make. We had been scheduled to check out of our apartment and move on to Paris the next day. It was clear that those plans would no longer work. So we called the couple that managed the apartment and arranged to extend our stay. Eric and Hill, incredibly nice people who stopped by as soon as they heard that I had injured myself. They could accommodate us for one additional night, as other guests where checking in the day thereafter. One extra night, however, was not going to buy us enough time. I started searching online to find another apartment for two nights, while Aman went to the Ceentral station to modify our train reservation. He also had to pick up and return the bicycles from the place where we had locked them up the night earlier.

While Aman was out running around… I sat on the couch, as it was all that I could basically do in my incapacitated state, staring at my leg and trying to comprehend how quickly our circumstances had sadly changed. Aman came back hours later, after returning one of the bicycles, with a new train reservation and doner kebab for dinner. With the exception of moving apartments two days later, that was pretty much how we spent the rest of our time in Amsterdam – with Aman scavenging the city for takeaway food, and me resting on the couch.

Eric, helping us move across town by bringing Aman’s bicycle to the second apartment where we stayed: