Then I met Bev. We were in early days, just dating then, so I expected to leave and return to an email saying that she’d met someone else while I was gone. There was that possibility. We didn’t know much about one another then.
I researched what weather I’d expect to face, not to mention what was socially acceptable. Lonely Planet was a help in that department. I discovered that it was considered rude to turn down a cigarette when offered one, hence my deciding to wait until after the trip to quit smoking. That was probably just an excuse to delay the inevitable, but I wanted to give myself the best chance of success. I packed light-ish. There was no need for rain gear (Egypt being in the thick of a desert), but there was great need for hiking boots and long pants. Knees were a no-no, so long pants were a necessity, although I did pack shorts and a couple bathing suits—I was a tourist, after all. Everything went into the backpack. There was really no need for a backpack, but I had one and was hell bent on using it.
Flights were similar to the prior year. Timmins, to Toronto, Toronto to Amsterdam, with yet another eighteen hours to kill until connecting to Cairo. This time I had a mask and earplugs. This time I was prepared. This time I was well rested upon landing in Amsterdam, or at least reasonably well rested. And this time I had some understanding of the city, the trams, the museums, and confidence in the timetable I needed to keep.
I passed customs, caught the train, disembarked at Centraal Station and found a café for breakfast. Exactly the same as last time, but this time without trepidation, this time without the weight of exhaustion pressing down on me, taxing my thought processes.
I made my way to Voorburgwal and caught transit to The Rijksmuseum. I wanted to see Rembrandt’s “The Night’s Watch”; I wanted to see the van Gogh collection. I took my time, sitting in front of the limited list of masterpieces I sought out, reading from the museum guide book, taking in that I’d read and applying it to what I was seeing. I didn’t stay anywhere near as long as I wished to; time was short, and eighteen hours is not as long as one might think.
But I was of a mind not to rush. Amsterdam is a walking city and I wanted to get a feel for it as such. I didn’t know when I might be back, if ever, so walking afforded me the best view I was ever likely to get. It was only a couple kilometres, I reasoned, and I still had time. I took what looked to be the most direct route, up Nieuwe Spiegelstrat. I was making great time until I came face to face with a canal crossing my path and no bridge spanning it. I crossed at Vijzelstraat, a couple hundred meters over, following Rokin after crossing yet another canal. Each step brought me into further confusion. It was dizzying navigating streets that thread between canals. I began to wonder if I were lost. I wasn’t. I just thought I was.
Amsterdam is also a city navigated by bicycles, so I was passed by more than a few of them, astonished at what people managed to balance upon them and still keep to their seat. What Amsterdam is not, is a car friendly city. There are cars, but they are small, compact 1.2 litre affairs; anything larger would find their route too narrow and risk being hung up on curves and curbs. I saw one such, hung up on the curb, its wheels racing, a crowd gathering to watch the fun before a few men stepped forward to help. They were still helping long after I’d seen the need to be on my way. I was hungry by then and in search of a café.
I grew hungrier still. I began to wonder whether I’d made a mistake walking, thinking that it was taking longer than it should to get back to the city core and its main canal, wondering if I were in fact following a ring route and not a spoke. I didn’t have a map other than the one in the Lonely Planet Guide I was carrying and it wasn’t as detailed as I’d have wished. That was stupid of me. But I continued to cross canal after canal, each curving forward from me. That seemed promising. What I saw seemed similar to what my little map was showing me, anyway. I gave a sigh of relief upon spilling onto Damrak after about an hour. I recognized it instantly, thankful I hadn’t gotten myself turned around.
I had an early supper, preferring that to some gourmet salami and baguette for twenty bucks at the airport.
I lingered over a book back at Schiphol until my flight was called, tackling and failing to complete Pynchon’s “Gravity’s Rainbow,” sleeping well on the plane, waking shortly before landing in Egypt in the relative coolness of an Arab dawn.
I made it. Strike it off the list. I’d always wanted to come to Egypt. And now I was there.
I hoped this adventure would be as memorable as the last.
