Much of the Visitor's Guide is set up like a phone book's yellow pages. I was able to find someone to fill my "assembly and development of hardware and software" needs should I encounter any in my week long stay, as well as a place to rent "Cocktail Dresses for discriminating Ladies and Gentleman", and the mysterious BV J. Lagerberg who specialises in "International Removals, Corporate and Private". I learned of all of these valuable resources before deplaning!
My next encounter with the helpfulness of the Dutch was at the Rent-a-Car counter. I had been delighted when my travel agent had been able to reserve for me a little five speed Alfa Romeo Sports Coup for only $60 per day, so I was a bit shocked when the Rental Clerk asked if "I would be interested in upgrading to a Ford Escort for only $5 per day more." I asked her to repeat what she had said twice, and then asked "Why in the world would I prefer a Ford Escort to an Alfa Romeo?" "Well, " she explained "it is my understanding that Americans prefer the luxury of automatic transmissions." I assured her this was only true of older Americans, and I could tell that she made a mental note of this before renting the Alfa to me.
Driving in Amsterdam is rather unnerving. For one thing, all the street names are at least twenty letters long, and they all end in "straat", which makes distinguishing between them a real challenge while whisking past in a car. Moreover, the Dutch have carefully laid out lanes for the various modes of transit available in the city. These include lanes for electric trams, busses, bicycles (which are abundant), pedestrians, and roller skates. Rarely did I find patches of street that were clearly designated for automobiles, and I usually crept along the least congested of the specially designated lanes, hoping not to hit anything and to continue avoiding arrest for whatever moving violations I was probably engaged in at the moment.
Another confounding fact about Amsterdam is that it is shaped like half of a huge spider's web butted up against a harbour, in which the strands of the web are actually the famed canals. Because of the semicircular nature of the canals, they always get in the way just as you seem to be making some progress in the direction you are trying to go. Of course, often people don't let the lack of a bridge stop them, which is why the helpful Dutch television stations are constantly running public service commercials explaining what to do if your car unexpectedly lands in the drink. It's a shame that Teddy Kennedy hadn't visited Amsterdam in his youth.
Any attempt to learn even a modicum of the Dutch language is met with strenuous objections. "Oh no, sir, all but the oldest of Dutch are quite fluent in English- you need not concern yourself with learning any of our language". They even resisted my inquiries of how to say "please" and "thank you". I began to believe that my experiences with French the previous week had been communicated to those in the Netherlands, and that they preferred to speak English over having to endure my crude attempts and speaking Dutch.
Having found driving to be unreasonably stressful, and suffering from some reticence of forfeiting a rather decent parking space that was less than a mile from my hotel, I decided to explore Amsterdam on foot. Most of the dwellings were closely packed three of four storey brick affairs, with huge, uncurtained windows facing the street and some sort of shop or office on the ground floor. While walking along a typical street one could not help but notice that the Dutch are a nation of exhibitionists. In front of these windows, which I understand are huge for the purpose of moving large items in and out of the flats, I couldn't help but notice people reading the evening paper, eating dinner, grooming, and all manner of unspeakable things. They didn't seem to mind living their lives in a fishbowl as an enquiring public bustled past on the street.
It began to rain and, finding myself in front of a Fire Station, I decided to knock and see if they were agreeable to a visit. While attending firefighting school I had been told that there was an international camaraderie amongst firefighters, and wanted to determine if this was indeed the case. An older fellow with a gigantically bushy moustache answered the door and mumbled some question in Dutch. I took a breath and explained: "Hello, I'm a firefighter from the United States and I was wondering if you might find the time to discuss the techniques you use here in the Netherlands?" His eyes grew wide, and he clamped down on my forearm and yanked me off the street and into the firehouse with an urgency that was alarming. He dragged me up a short staircase, all the while yelling to his mates in Dutch.
I found myself in the station kitchen with about a dozen other firefighters all of whom were shouting and crowding around me, with Moustache still clamped on my arm. I was apparently his, and he didn't want to give me up. A tall, calm fellow who was clearly the commanding officer got everyone settled down and asked me if I would join them for lunch. I said I would be delighted to, and as I approached the long wooden dining table the other men, in their attempts to divine where I was going to sit and thereby contrive how to sit next to me, looked as though they were playing musical chairs.
Lunch was pleasant enough, and consisted of some sort of pickled fish, huge portions of potato crisps, and beer. We discussed the differences between our firefighting tactics, including the American's tendency to ventilate burning building as soon as we are able, and the Dutch's ability to slip fire boats along the canals and under the sometimes extremely low bridges in order to fight fires directly from the water. This not only avoids the problem of having to navigate Amsterdam's daunting streets, but also permits the use of a wonderfully convenient water supply.
After lunch it was decided that I would join them in the garage so that they could show me their half-a-dozen trucks. They all became excited and somewhat possessive of me again, and scrambled to the garage like a flock of sparrows, all talking at a fearsome rate and swarming around their respective trucks. They began opening doors and cabinets, hauling out all sorts of heavy rescue equipment. One group pulled out their entire "Jaws of Life" set and had it spread out on the floor, while another group began setting up a demonstration of their ability to generate foam retardant.
I was tugged back and forth between one truck and another, and was trying desperately to be as polite as possible when a very loud buzzer sounded. Everyone, including myself, was stricken with paralysis, eyes wide, listening. A booming voice in Dutch announced something, and the men became electrified. They started throwing the equipment back into their truck compartments willy-nilly, slamming doors shut, and pulling on their protective clothing.
I suffered tremendous guilt for having created this chaos, and decided that it would be best if I simply plastered myself against the back wall of the garage area until they had safely departed, at which time I would make a discrete exit from the premises. As the first truck rolled out into what was now pouring rain, Moustache ran up to me and began dragging me along. I couldn't imagine why I was in the way against the wall, but I went along anyhow. He dragged me up to a 40' long ladder truck and said, with a huge smile, "Geet in!"
I was so shocked by this invitation that I stood their speechless. "Geet in, geet in!" he repeated and began shoving me up into the passenger side door. I clambered in, taking a seat next to the driver. Moustache sat to my right, and a Captain sat to his right. The driver hit an amazing number of switches to activate the impressive array of flashing lights and sirens, and roared out of the station at full bore.
The Captain reached under his seat and began pouring through a computer printout the size of a Manhattan phone book. Apparently, the thoroughfares of Amsterdam are so fraught with one-way streets and canals that the fire department embarked on a project to determine the optimal path between each station and every street address in the city. The Captain found our destination address and began shouting off instructions "At Schinkelhavenstraat, turn right! at Kromme Leimuidenstraar turn left! At Oostenburgervoorstraat turn right!"
Meanwhile, the driver was handling the truck like a stunt man. He never lifted his foot from the accelerator as we careened around corners in the driving rain, barely missing other vehicles, sirens blazing. As we approached a more congested area of the city, a feeling of terror began to overtake me. He bore down upon whatever was in his way; cars ducked defensively onto medians, schoolchildren leapt wildly for cover, and even trolleys, captive on their tracks, seemed to scatter in fear of our onrushing vehicle. The wetness of the streets coupled with the uneven cobblestones surfaces caused us to skid around corners, with the omnipresent canals seeming more ominous than ever.
I dug my fingers into the seat and grimaced. I began to doubt that we would arrive unscathed. An elderly woman who was crossing the street was forced to abandon her umbrella as she flung herself out of our path. It caused a flitting sound as we ran over it, and Moustache made a clucking noise with his tongue.
We arrived at the scene along with at least forty other trucks, and without any disaster visibly apparent. The three men in my truck hopped out and had a chat with a police officer that was standing around. They all climbed back into the truck. "False alarm", they said. Of course, had there been a real emergency, the Dutch would have been most helpful.