King’s Day (Koningsdag)

I desperately needed the loo.  

And the only obstacle I could see between me and relief on the distant horizon, was about 5000 Dutchies.

This was my first time on the Museumplein in Amsterdam. 

On King’s Day.

I set off on my journey and was immediately swamped by a huge sea of orange-clad people, all drinking, dancing, and generally getting in the way of a frantic Englishman, about to prematurely and embarrassingly burst.

Apart from being just a party, King’s Day is a celebration of the Dutch monarch’s birthday where everyone gets dressed up in orange, eats orange tompouce (some sort of biscuit with custard) and gets fairly drunk.

For the generally-reserved Dutch, who normally have to be home by six to eat their potatoes, King’s Day is a free pass where they can go a bit wild and no one will judge them for it.

They can let their hair down and come home at seven instead.

Oddly, on this day, people also try to sell all kinds of tat to the unsuspecting or inebriated as well.

You can wander along the streets of Amsterdam on King’s Day and find it’s suddenly been transformed into giant flea market.

And you can be sure that pretty soon someone will try to sell you some beads.  Or their broken radio.  

Or their underpants.  

It’s appears to be the only day of the year where people are allowed to sell absolute junk to other people and get away with it.  

Meanwhile, half a kilometre away from the flea markets back in the big overcrowded field, I had returned from the loo. Very much relieved after making it with seconds to spare. 

However the feeling of relief quickly changed when I realised I had another big problem.

Five minutes earlier, I had been desperately needing the loo and now I was desperately looking for a blonde Dutch woman dressed in orange, in an ocean of blonde Dutch women dressed in orange.

I knew where I’d left her, exactly where I was standing in fact - in front of the croquette stall and to the right of the fries stall.

So why wasn’t she here? It just didn’t make sense.

I stood on the same spot for a long, long time and turned around slowly, scanning the hordes of people, my heart sinking with every passing minute.

What a day to have a dead mobile phone.

Finally, in desperation, I retraced my steps back to the ‘events’ WC, which, incidentally is a curious Dutch creation resembling an open platform which you step up on, lower your trousers and are subsequently on full display to absolutely everyone.

Then, just as I was about to give up and go find the answer in the bottom of a glass in the nearest pub, I turned wearily to look back at the croquette stall in the distance once more.

Suddenly, a giant light bulb went off in my head.

There were other croquette and fries stalls!

Lots of them. As far as the eye can see in fact.

All identically laid out in the same order. All in a row. All with the same blonde Dutch people dressed in orange standing in front of them...

I had gone back to the wrong one.  To the wrong blonde Dutch people.

Stupid man.

After the eventual happy reunion, the inevitable inquisition began on the long walk back to Centraal Station.

Her: “If only you’d charged your phone before leaving, this would never have happened.”

Me: “If only you had more varied cuisine in the Netherlands, this would never have happened.”

As we both picked our way through the partied-out throngs of people making their way home, something caught my eye laying on a blanket on the pavement.

 A rechargeable mobile phone charger.  

Now if only I’d had one of those earlier in the day I thought.

One of the flea market guys was finally (but belatedly) selling something useful.

"How much mate?"

"20 euros"

Hmm.

He could see I was unsure. 

"And I’ll throw in these underpants for free."  

As a deal clincher.

I pondered the generous offer for a split second and was about to seal the deal...

...when I was unceremoniously dragged away by a impatient blonde Dutch woman. 

It was time to catch the train home.  We were late.

The potatoes were waiting.