In Amsterdam...

Took a local train into central London around 0839hrs and then jumped the Underground, Victoria Line, all the way to King's Cross. Then, a shortish walk to St Pancras where I discovered a huge queue for the 1104 Eurostar to Amsterdam. Surely I would'n't have to queue! Why? Normally I simply check in, go through the baggage scanner and passport control and I'm there, in a kind of no-man's land, sipping coffee and munching on an almond croissant. Not today. "It's half-term," said a man in uniform after I'd retrieved my tickets from the machine. I skulked away and found the end of the queue; fortunately, it didn't take long and I was soon placing my suitcase into a large black plastic tray and walking through the scanner, just the same as when I'm flying. And was I glad I wasn't flying? Apparently, I could make a ridiculous amount of Eurostar journeys to Amsterdam and back and not get anywhere close to the amount of carbon I'd be emitting if I'd flown there. 

On the Metro, leaving Amsterdam Centraal...

I was in coach 7, seat 67, an aisle seat and the journey was, well, I wouldn't say pleasant, there's something rather unpleasant about travelling on the Eurostar and I'm not sure what it is; I suppose it's something to do with the cramped conditions, then it's the frosted (or are they dirty?) windows which mean you can't see properly, there's a kind of grey film over the windows which makes looking out pointless. So I sat there reading The Bear Comes Home by Safi Zabor (oh, please, let me finish it soon, I can't stand it!) I read a few pages, then stopped, then read a few pages and stopped. Around lunch time I made my way to the buffet car and bought a cheese and ham panini or baguette, a bottle of mineral water and a KitKat. I returned to my seat and then realised that my tray, the tray in front of me, was already laden with my beanie hat, glasses, book, notepad, phone and tickets. I decided to pick up the important stuff (tickets, passport, phone) and head back to the buffet car to eat my baguette. I didn't really want to subject the guy sitting next to me to that awful whiff of hot food. There's nothing worse than the smell of somebody else's hot food when you're not eating anything. Afterwards, I returned to my seat and in between sips of green tea and that KitKat I just sat there trying to work out why I seemed to be constantly down. It's a mixture of stuff: the country, the government, the future, and it's not good, it's almost physical in nature, but I won't bore you with it now. Suffice it to say that I need to chill much more than I am doing. I often wonder what other people see when they look at me and I'm guessing it's somebody preoccupied, somebody staring at something invisible, somebody with a look that says paranoia, a look that says I'm being attacked from all sides, nobody can be trusted (or very few people) and so on and so forth.

Postillion Hotel (centre)...

First we stopped at Lille, then Brussels, then Rotterdam and then Amsterdam, our final destination. All was fairly straightforward. I jumped off the train, found the exit, checked my phone for directions to the Postillion Hotel, jumped on the Metro, six stops, and then a walk, not that far, and a much-welcomed breath of fresh air. I love Amsterdam. I love Holland. The bike lanes, everything. As always, I wish I lived there, it would be better than the UK, mainly because everybody rides a bike, anybody can go anywhere in and beyond the city on a bike, it's safe, it's easy and everybody gets exercise, free exercise, no need for gym membership in Holland.

Inside room 915, Postillion Hotel

I checked in to the hotel. Room 915 on the ninth floor. A great view from the window. The room is pleasant, a twin room, decent facilities, nice bathroom, a flatscreen television on the wall in front of the bed, free wifi. CNN is on and of course it's nothing but depressing news about war and earthquakes.

I'll be picked up at 1900hrs and taken out to dinner. I'm looking forward to that. Tomorrow an interview then I'm back on the train at just gone 1600hrs and heading home. A whistle stop trip. I'll arrive back in the UK around 2000hrs tomorrow night and I'll probably get home around 2130hrs.

Being on the ninth floor of a tall building is fine if you're in Amsterdam; I'm just glad I'm not in Turkey where the recent earthquake has taken over 30,000 lives. The Postillion is a quirky sort of place. Check-in was easy and fast and, as always, I found myself standing in the lift wondering why it wasn't moving after I'd pressed the number nine for my floor. The answer was simple: I needed to use my keycard to activate it. Once I'd brushed the card over a specific area of the lift's control panel I felt movement and soon realised we were on the move, upwards, to room 915. I would have preferred room 918 as nine plus one plus eighgt = 18 and that's my lucky number (yes, I've resorted to superstition to relieve my constant anxiety). The number of the train was 9126, which adds up to 18, I was in coach 7 (lucky number 7 perhaps) and the other day I spotted a spider in the kitchen. It was early in the morning, I even wished him (her) – or perhaps it was a transgender spider or a spider version of Sam Smith, in which case I'd probably have to refer to my eight-legged pal as 'they' or 'them' or 'it'. Or in Sam Smith's case, 'nob'. Actually anyone who expects me to address them as 'they' or 'them' will be given short shrift. In my world if you have a dick, you're a bloke; if you have a vagina, you're a woman. But let's not go there as it's just something else to annoy me. The Brits were on over the weekend and Sam Smith arrived in ridiculous inflatable outfit. To be fair to the guy, he made me laugh and I think he was given a lot of (much needed) media attention as a result of what he was wearing, but I found myself wondering how he would manage to sit down and eat dinner, I've always been a fairly pragmatic person. Perhaps he'd dine alone (he'd need the space, otherwise he'd be invading his fellow diners' space, possibly knocking them off their seats).

View from room 915, Postillion Hotel

CNN's still on behind me and they're talking about the UFOs that American fighter jets have been shooting out of the sky. I say UFOs, it's more likely that they're surveillance balloons operated by China, but why? It's not as if they're not going to be seen and shot down. The Chinese are saying that the US has been doing the same, but the US denies the accusation. Four 'UFOs' have been taken out. It's very childish when you think about it. Childish and ridiculous, but let's see what transpires. The first one was definitely Chinese, let's see where the others come from, although I'm putting my money firmly on China.

The hotel room annoys me. It's one of those hotels that relies upon technology and we all know that technology simply doesn't work. There's a panel by the side of the bed that lets you control the room, draw the curtains automatically, turn lights on and off and so forth, but of course it was going to let me down. I went through the panel switching off the lights and then on again to check it all worked and, to be fair, it did work, except that I couldn't turn the bathroom light off. The television came on unexpectedly and eventually I worked that out, although it was easier to simply use the remote control. When I woke up early in the morning I used the bathroom having gone to bed wondering how I could possibly turn the bathroom light on again as there was nothing on the control panel that said 'bathroom light' – which would have been far easier. Actually, a switch on the wall, or cord dangling from the ceiling, would have been far, far easier, but technology doesn't do 'easy', it's not about ease of use, it's just about technology. 

So here I sit, at 0601, in the dark. The control panel now reads 'insert card' but it's already inserted in the slot by the door, so I can't even use the technology, apart from some mini bedside lights, which are next to useless. Fortunately, as I say, the bathroom light comes on automatically, but I'm guessing that half way through a shower the light will switch off 'to save power' and I'll be stranded, naked, and in the dark, covered in soap. For all I know the shower won't work at all for some inexplicable reason, who knows? I feel my first Trip Advisor review coming up, the first in ages, and it won't be good. Not even a decent breakfast will redeem this place. Even the shop downstairs by reception! "Can I put this on my room?" said I, picking up a bar of chocolate, but oh no, there's an automatic system, just like those in the supermarket, so I had to faff around. To be fair, it wasn't difficult, but that's not the point, is it? Just put it on the fucking room bill!

I'm being let down by technology left right and centre and it's happening a lot these days. Like right now. Here I am sitting in the dark early in the morning because the lights won't come on and I have a new digital recorder which is pants basically, the highest volume is too low, the whole thing simply doesn't work the way I want it to and once again, like in Sweden a few months ago, I'm beginning to panic: I have an interview in about four hours from now and I find myself thinking where is the nearest shop where I can purchase a decent recorder? I know darn well that when I reach reception they'll say there is a place but it's on the other side of the city and I'll be left relying upon the voice recorder on my iphone, which is also rubbish. So, not a good start to the day by any stretch of the imagination. I seem to be followed around by calamity and all the faffing about trying to get the recorder to work means I'm missing breakfast and time is moving on. I'm not happy at all.

Breakfast was actually quite good. I had two fried eggs on toast, some yoghurt and granola, a mug of green tea and a couple of mini pastries, not forgetting an apple that I took with me to the room. But just because it was a good breakfast didn't mean I forgave the hotel. When I got back to the room the lights mysteriously came on again. Too late, I'm afraid, I had already been inconvenienced. The problem of the crappy Philips digital recorder was still alive and kicking. Eventually, when a cab arrived at 1000hrs to take me to my appointment I asked the driver if he could take me to Cool Blue, an electronics retailer. He did and soon I was in possession of an Olympus recorder, a brand I trust. I now have two recorders and one must be returned.

After lunch I was driven to the beach to take a look at the sea, then another cab took me to Centraal Station and I was soon onboard the 1647 Eurostar to London. I say 'soon', I got there miles too early and had to sit around until the train arrived, but eventually we got underway and, fortunately, I didn't have anybody sitting next to me, which was good. I ordered some food from the buffet car (a cheese and ham baguette, an English breakfast tea and a KitKat (roughly the same order I had on the way out) and then settled down (with the same book) and got on with the journey. We arrived into St Pancras 10 minutes early, the escalators didn't work, but soon I was on the Victoria line and heading for Victoria station where I jumped aboard the 2050 train to East Grinstead (I'll be getting off at Sanderstead). Yes, folks, I'm on the train now, writing this blogpost, finishing it off and I'm sipping a large green tea I purchased from Starbucks on the concourse at Victoria. Next stop East Croydon and then it's my stop.

A good trip, but rushed. I could have done with another day and a little bit more mooching about. In fact, that's what I didn't get on this trip: mooch time, but I guess you can't have everything.

At Schipol Airport...back to Brexitland

Getting from central Amsterdam to Schipol airport couldn't have been simpler. No, I didn't walk it, I simply didn't have time and besides, I've got a heavy suitcase, it would have taken me ages and I would have missed my flight. I took a train from the Rai station and about 10 minutes later I arrived at the airport. The check-in was very smooth. I didn't even have to take the lap top out of the case. Passport control was good too, although I've noticed how the officials are being jokey about Brexit, saying stuff like, "Even British passports accepted." Ho, Ho, Ho!

View from a train window

If the truth be known, I don't want to go home to England, it's a horrible place, full of the wrong kind of attitude, there's a lot of inequality, a lot of horrible people, I just hate it, and it's much more pronounced after spending time outside of the country. Tories and Brexit are the root cause. People have a go at remainers and say they're too aggressive, but I find that leavers (not all of them, but, perhaps, the stereotypical 'Brexiteer') is kind of annoying in a Mark Francois sort of way. What a horrible man. He's like the boss you hope you never have to work for: irritating, arrogant, clueless - we all know a boss like that, always trying to screw you over, not pay you what you're owed, underrate your contribution to the business, the sort of person you dream of whacking around the head with a splintered piece of timber pierced here and there with rusty nails.

I found myself at Bread, a bright and breezy food establishment beyond passport control and security, offering panoramic views of the tarmac and the planes on it. A huge KLM jumbo jet being pushed out by one of those airport vehicles I always fancy owning myself. I imagine it parked on the drive back home. Totally unsuitable for shopping, but fun to drive with its huge wheels and tiny cab upfront. Just room for one more inside. I remember a movie about that phrase, and the premise was simple: the person who took up the offer of the bus conductor or whoever, ended up dead, be it from a plane crash, a bus crash, any kind of crash you can think of. It was an old movie, but I can't remember the name.

Wandering around the airport...

I ordered a ham roll on crusty bread with plenty of other stuff thrown in: salad, honey mustard, tomato, you get the picture. I also ordered a yoghurt bar and some weird tea that was very tasty indeed. After phoning home, I took out the lap top, the one I'm using right this minute, and started writing the opening paragraphs to this blogpost. I kind of got carried away and nearly missed my flight. There were some English people sitting close by and when they got up I asked them if they were on the Gatwick flight. They were, but the flight hadn't been called yet. Fair enough, I thought, I'll stay put for a while longer, but soon I figured I ought to make my way to the gate. Except that I got confused. I looked at the destinations board and saw a flight for London Gatwick going out of Gate H5 and headed in that direction. I was conscious that time was running out and quickened my pace only to find, on reaching said gate, that people were queuing and I hadn't missed the flight. Except that I was at the wrong gate. H5 was the easyJet flight. I started to panic inwardly. Where, then, was the BA flight? Perhaps if I'd looked at my boarding pass I'd have known it was Gate D8 - which was miles away. Literally miles. I'd forgotten how big Schipol airport was and really had to hoof it. I think it took me longer to reach the gate than it does to fly from Amsterdam to London. Perhaps that's a slight exaggeration, but time was ticking by, the flight was due to take off at 1920hrs and it was now 1905. I was cutting it fine, but I made it with time to spare, although I was sweating profusely.

Looking for the plane home...

Once again it was a full flight, except that this time I was further away from 'Club' - or whatever BA calls its poncy upper class section of the aircraft. On the flight out I started to experience status anxiety. Why should I be stuck in pleb class while some fat bastard gets given hot towels and treated like a member of the royal family? It annoys me. But fortunately I wasn't up close and personal with the nasty little grey curtain that is drawn across to separate those in cattle class from those who can afford a bit of luxury. I mean it's nothing special, but they don't pay for their food, it's all free (although if you believe that, you'll believe anything). Nothing is free. They might not believe it, but they are paying for their hot towels indirectly and their 'free' food is also included in the price. I'm reminded once again of the first Clash album and the song, Garageland. "They think they're so clever/They think they're so right/But the truth is only known by...gutter snipes!" Something like that.

The flight home was smooth, just like the flight out and it was still light when we landed. Summer is well and truly here, folks. The plane made its way to the terminal building and once off of the plane and through passport control I picked up my bag and headed home. As I say, I wasn't glad to be back having enjoyed a relatively chilled out time in Amsterdam, wishing that I could somehow get Dutch citizenship, but knowing full well that it was out of the question. Sadly, I reflected as I left the airport, I was English through and through.

On a completely different subject, I've never been one for taking a photograph of the plane that's going to fly me home. Somehow it's tempting fate. But on this occasion, I did just that: I took a shot of the plane that would fly me home and this is it. Some say it's bad luck and, to be honest, I agree with them. Fortunately, I'm still alive to tell the tale.

My flight home awaits me...

Ramada Amsterdam Centre...

I ought to say a few words about the hotel, the Ramada Amsterdam Centre, from where I write this blogpost. The words 'Amsterdam Centre' are a bit misleading. In essence, if I was comparing the location with London, this fantastic establishment would be in Croydon or Sutton, but certainly not in the centre of town.

The view from room 514, Ramada Amsterdam Centre

Now I would be foolish to say that it's out on limb because it took me two hours to walk from here to the Novotel and then another hour to reach the very hub of this great European city. For a start there are good rail links into the centre. In that sense, the hotel is 'well connected', but then again, no, it's not well connected. From the nearest Metro station, Postjesweg, it's about a 15-minute walk, if you hoof it, so, arguably my assertion that this place is nowhere near the centre of town is correct.

Other than its location, it's a wonderful hotel. In fact, I have nothing really to moan about. I'm staying in Room 514 on the fifth floor in a spacious room with a decent desk and even a sofa. There are wooden fittings, which conceal a 'wardrobe' - better make that 'space in which to hang stuff' - and there's a decent-sized television, albeit a rather complicated piece of equipment that takes an age to switch off. I resorted to calling reception, as you might have read two posts back. The trick, I was told, was to keep the red button on the remote pressed down for at least 15 to 20 seconds and sure enough it switched itself off. The only other real gripe I have is the WiFi and that's because I have to re-log-in every day. It was fine yesterday, but for some reason today there's been a problem, which only the guy on reception could fix. Still, it's working so all is well.

Inside room 514, ignore my coat on the bed!

The bathroom all works fine too, which is good. The shower is perfect, the sink too, and the view from my hotel window is very pleasant. Sometimes views from hotel windows can be not so good, just take a look at the panel above this post, press 'Hotel Views' and you'll see what I mean.

I forgot to mention the safe. It works fine, just like all hotel safes, so there's nothing to grumble about.

The view from the 17th floor restaurant at breakfast this morning

Fortunately, considering the location, there's a hotel restaurant, and it's located on the 17th floor offering guests panoramic views across the city. There's a central bar, seats surrounding it and tables dotted around the place, all offering decent views (see above).

The food on offer is 'trendy' but very nice. There's a selection of 'signatures' and a note advising you that the staff will be able to offer you their matching skills. This put me off slightly because that fact that matching was involved probably meant small portions, tapas style, so I avoided that part of the menu and went for what seemed to be more traditional. On day one of my stay I enjoyed the trendy F17 burger, an architecturally challenged construction, but very tasty and accompanied by a bowl of chips (as an extra). I started with a brocolli soup and finished with an apple tart and ice cream. I ordered a large bottle of mineral water too and a Solero 'mocktail' and rounded the lot off with a real mint tea, meaning there were mint leaves aplenty in a glass of hot water that remained hot for a considerable time.

On day two I ordered bell pepper soup followed by a mushroom risotto and a couple of Heineken 00 non-alcohol beers. Again, fine, absolutely fine. Similarly, on day three (today, Wednesday) I started with soup (celeriac) and then a Skyburger, which I think included duck liver (possibly foie gras, which I abhor, not just because it means awful things are done to the duck, but also because I spent a few years editing a fine dining magazine and found foie gras on my plate very often, along with the odd King scallop, another comestible I can no longer stomach as a result. I know, I shouldn't be moaning, but there you have it. One thing I discovered today was that the hotel charges 4.50 euros for a bottle of Heineken 00, which is the same price as a 'normal' beer containing alcohol. Something not right about that.

The 17th floor restaurant is trendy and vibrant and always packed. On Monday night I managed to get a table, but since then I've been offered a seat at the bar where it is more likely that you'll end up in conversation with a stranger. Fine, if you don't mind, but irritating if you're comfortable in your own company. I can take it or leave it. I've always been a reasonably sociable person.

Breakfast is also on the 17th floor, but not in the restaurant. The morning offering is good, there's everything you could possibly want and if you're not in a hurry it's worth finding a table where you can admire the view.

Because the hotel is generally very good I can forgive it for being out on a limb and I can quietly forget about the minor wifi problems and the television that takes an age to switch off. It's a great place and I would definitely return.

The check-out was as smooth as the check-in and, as always, I found out that the hotel was more connected than I originally thought, so ignore what I said earlier. The girl on the front desk told me that there was a tram stop behind the hotel (well, I didn't know that!) and I could link with a train to Rai station. She also told me that I could catch a train from Rai to Schipol Airport so rather than leave my case with the concierge, I took it with me and left the hotel without buying a fridge magnet from the shop in the lobby. I'd have to get one somewhere else, probably the airport.

I trundled out of the hotel and headed for the tram stop and soon I was waiting for a train to Rai. Now, I'm working, soon there is lunch and after that I'll be working again, until 1600hrs when I'll head for Schipol airport and a short 40-minute flight home to London Gatwick.

Psychogeography - walking through Amsterdam...

I resolved to get up early, have breakfast - fresh fruit, yoghurt, Coco Pops, green tea with lemon and and a small croissant - and then attempt to walk to the conference hotel without the aid of a map. The event registration was at 1330hrs so I had the time to get some exercise. I walked through the Rembrandt park until I emerged on the streets and then followed a canal, which in turn seemed to follow the flight path of aircraft into Schipol Airport. Every minute or so a plane would fly over, undercarriage down, approaching the runway.

The walk started at Rembrandt Park

I passed a number of nice looking houseboats and began to wish that I was living in one, enjoying a much more chilled out existence than I'm living in the UK at the moment where there's a knife crime epidemic, rising homelessness and inequality and, of course, Brexit. Good old Tories.

The houseboats gave way to modern, often ugly, office buildings, which continued all the way to the Novotel where I will be spending all day Wednesday and Thursday before flying back to the UK.

Having reached the Novotel and checked things out for the conference, I decided to head towards the 'centrum'. It would add another hour or so of walking to what had already been a punishing walk. Not that I was feeling it. When I reached the American Hotel - somebody once told me it was Gestapo headquarters during the Second World War, but I don't know for sure - I went straight to the restaurant, ordered a Heineken 00 and a club sandwich and relaxed. The food was of a reasonable standard, although somehow I was expecting it to be slightly better than it was. I don't know about you, but I can't stand it when I order sandwiches and they arrive with a pile of crisps (or potato chips as they call them in the USA). Not that my disgust for crisps stopped me eating every single one of them. I polished them off with aplomb and even considered dessert, but eventually decided to head back to my hotel, this time in a train. I walked all the way - or almost all the way - to Amsterdam's Centraal Station where I intended to pick up a train to Postjesweg.

Cycle lane early on the walk...

I followed signs to the station, but found a metro stop and bought myself a two-day ticket. The nearest station to the Novotel is the Rai stop. There's a big exhibition centre in Amsterdam called the Rai Centre. It's been there for years and I've never, ever, been inside it. I hope I never have to. Prior to reaching the Metro station I found an American bookshop and spent an inordinate amount of time picking up books by Chomsky, Joyce, Mailer, you name it, but didn't buy anything. Ideally, I wanted something on 'psycho geography', but there was nothing. The first train took me as far as Zuid where I changed to the M50, or M51, it didn't matter, to Postjesweg. There was a short wait. The train was packed, but I managed to get a seat and spent the time looking out of the window to see if I could spot some of the landmarks of my outward trip. It was a bit like fast rewind on a tape recorder.

When I got off the train I needed to ask directions for the hotel. I don't like asking for directions, who does? But I eventually did ask and soon I found myself back in Rembrandt Park as daylight faded, for what amounted to a short walk. I was tired, but I had work to do before moseying on up to the 17th floor for dinner. There were no tables, but only space around the bar, which I accepted and struck up a conversation with a retired Finnish gentleman who used to be a civil engineer. He was on holiday with his wife who must have gone to bed. Him and I talked about many things, including Brexit. I ordered a bell pepper soup followed by a mushroom risotto and a couple more of those Heineken 00 beers. I passed on dessert, said goodbye to my new Finnish friend and now I'm back in the room looking out at the darkness and longing to hit the sack.

Crossing a canal...

Walking is good and in total yesterday I walked 18 kilometres. It's liberating to view the city from a different perspective and not just from a taxi rear window. I expanded my knowledge of Amsterdam's geography and didn't feel dictated to by 'the man'. Walking is little subversive too as I found I wasn't subjected to advertising billboards as I might have been on the train or bus. The establishment wants us 'in our place', it wants us to consume the goods of the capitalist system and spend our money on proscribed routes from A to B. They certainly don't want us to be using our own initiative, finding short cuts (or long cuts) where 'they' might not be in control. I was intrigued to discover, whilst watching a lecture on YouTube given by Will Self to Google employees back in 2007, that the wide boulevards of Paris were so designed not only to aid troop movements, but to oppress the masses should the need arise, so it's good to know the back alleys, the short cuts, the different routes in and out of the metropolis. Not that I have any intention of rising up and bringing down the Government, I'll leave that to Brexit. I voted remain, by the way, just in case I haven't said so before on this blog.

Houseboats - a pleasant place to live, I thought...

Signs proved useful occasionally...

There were bikes everywhere...

A well-earned beer at the American Hotel

At Heathrow Airport...and then Amsterdam

I'm flying British Airways to Amsterdam and it's only a short flight, something like 40 minutes, but the flight is full and I had to go to the desk close to Gate A10 to secure a seat. I asked for a window, but I've been given seat 8D, which is an aisle seat, and I'm happy with that because it's not a long flight so it doesn't really matter. Had it been a little longer, I would have been happy with an aisle seat, so all is well.

There's not enough time to chill out with a cup of tea and a Millionaire's Shortbread - or something of that ilk - so I thought I'd start blogging early. Normally I can't do this because my old Macbook was, well, old, and it wouldn't have the battery power, but my new Chromebook is a different kettle of fish. The battery's been going since yesterday morning and there's still loads of power left, so I can sit here, at the gate, blogging until the flight is called. I'm now at Gate A2 and the crowds are gathering, not to watch me blogging, I hasten to add, but to get on the plane.

It's currently 1532hrs and outside it's bright and clear skies, a complete contrast to yesterday's drizzly, cold day. And now that I'm sitting here writing, I realise the reason (apart from the poor battery on my Mac) why I don't normally blog prior to arriving at my destination: there's not much to say. The journey here was pretty uneventful and, look, I'd better go as they're boarding the flight, we can continue this conversation later.

Later...
The flight was packed. So packed that there was no room for my suitcase. I stood in the aisle next to seat 8D as I knew there were people destined to sit in seats 8E and 8F. They eventually arrived, but I remained standing, my suitcase on my seat. When the steady stream of passengers filing in to the plane slowed to a trickle, I went in search of a member of the cabin crew to tell him or her there was no room for my suitcase. A male steward moved a few bags around, placing them in other overhead lockers and then invited me to place my case in the vacated space. At last I could take my seat.

The plane trundled out of the gate and made its way to the runway. The pilot said it was excellent flying weather and he was right. I ordered a peppermint tea and a KitKat and shortly after I finished my tea and had read John Simpson's column in High Life (the only piece of writing in the entire magazine worth reading in my opinion) the pilot announced there was 10 minutes until landing. We hit the tarmac with a thud and made our way to the terminal building and then I went in search of the hotel shuttle buses.

Having listened (watched) Will Self giving a lecture at Google HQ on the subject of 'psychogeography' I looked at the taxi rank with suspicion. Taxi drivers, says Will Self, are the arch enemies of the psycho-geographer and I knew what he meant. I was reminded of a quote that appears in Fahrenheit 451, something like "if they give you lined paper, write the other way'. So I waited for the hotel shuttle bus, which rolled up after about 15 minutes of hanging around. I was the only passenger. It didn't take long to reach the hotel, but I was a little concerned that it was closer to the airport than Amsterdam's downtown, where I'm guessing my conference hotel is located.

It's a good hotel - so far. The check-in was quick and friendly, the room is very good: twin bed, flatscreen television on the wall opposite the bed, a desk looking out on the city (I'm on the fifth floor of 18) and there's even a sofa, a safe, a telephone, tea and coffee making facilities and a few magazines, everything you might expect, including a bottle of mineral water. But no minibar. Not that I want one. And no wardrobe either!

Time was moving on and I needed some dinner. The restaurant is on the 17th floor and it offers panoramic views of Amsterdam and an interesting menu. I opted for brocolli soup, an FL17 burger (basically a beefburger with bacon, lettuce, cheese) and an apple pie with ice cream - or rather a kind of 'tart', certainly not a pie. I ordered a bottle of mineral water (sparkling) and a Solero 'mocktail', which was more ice cubes than cocktail. I had a side order of chips and a mayo dip and just sat there, alone, people watching and listening to the loud music that played throughout my time there. Not my kind of music if I'm honest.

I headed back to the room to get my credit card (I wasn't allowed to put the meal 'on the room') and then returned to the 17th floor to pay the bill. Now I'm back in my room, the Brexit documentary is on the television (I can get BBC1 and BBC2 here) and I'm feeling tired. And there's nothing worse than feeling tired and not being able to switch off the television. Yes, there's a big red button and I know it's the power-off button, but it doesn't work so I spent an inordinate amount of time faffing about pressing different buttons and getting nowhere. Eventually I resorted to calling reception. "Press the big red button at the top of the remote," said the guy on the other end of the phone. "Thanks," I said, and hung up. I then spent a good 15 seconds, maybe longer, possibly 20 or even 25 seconds with my finger pressing down the red button before, suddenly, the screen went blank. Now, I can get some sleep. And yes, you're right, I re-logged in just to write five sentences.

In Amsterdam...

One of many canals found in Amsterdam

I flew out of London City Airport on Monday afternoon heading for Amsterdam and around 45 minutes later I was there. I jumped on a train from Schipol to Amsterdam Centraal Station and then, rather than take a taxi, I walked to my hotel on the other side of town (approximately a 30-minute walk). Walking is fine and I admit to doing a lot of it, but hauling a suitcase behind me makes it a little unpleasant. However, eventually I reached my destination – the Best Western Leidse Square – and a small room (room 356) with a single bed and cell-like proportions. There was definitely not enough room to swing a cat although, after a fashion, I found myself liking my cell. I've said before that large rooms I find uncomfortable. I don't like them and I suppose it's got something to do with the unused space surrounding me. In a similar manner, I'd rather camp in a small back garden, say, rather than in the corner of a very large field. I don't know, something along those lines.

I was tired and if I'm honest I could have done without dinner. In fact I was seriously considering not having dinner and just hitting the sack but convention kicked in: I always have dinner at dinner time (although the time was edging towards 9pm). So I went out with no idea of where to eat, although, having stayed in this hotel once before – in room 357 opposite room 356 and a much better room, I hasten to add – I knew what was out there. There was an Indonesian restaurant about five minutes away, there was an array of cheap and nasty places, plus some standard trattorias and pizzerias in and around the Leidseplein area and, nearby, a couple of hotel restaurants.

Soup served in a jar at Joost. Why not a bowl? Why? Why?

Avid readers will recall that the last time I was here I went down with food poisoning. At the time I initially blamed it on the Indonesian restaurant, but I was wrong: it was a seafood restaurant near the coast that I'd visited with a Dutch colleague. That aside, I didn't fancy the Indonesian place so I went into the cosy-looking restaurant in a hotel owned by the NH Hotels chain (I'm assuming it's a chain). It was dark and candlelit and I'd left my glasses in the room so I couldn't really make out the items on the menu. I worked out that the restaurant was predominantly offering steak (this was a place for people who like to pig out and while I used to be that sort of person, for the past year or so I've been watching my weight so I wasn't impressed. I opted for the soup of the day (I think it was potato and leek) followed by some kind of risotto, but I could have made do with soup and bread, I just felt a little guilty coming into a place where I was expected to eat half a cow and just order soup – a bit like going to an Indian restaurant in the UK and choosing egg and chips from the 'international menu'. I had a glass of red wine and some mineral water and then went back to the hotel and hit the sack.

My business meeting for the next two days was back near the Centraal station, mildly annoying as there was a cocktail reception for the event in question the night I arrived and I could have dropped in and introduced myself had I known where the place was. Still, it was not to be and I eventually opted for a cab on Tuesday morning to take me to the hotel in question. But that was my only taxi. For the rest of the trip I walked there and back and it was very enjoyable, thanks to excellent weather. Hotter than Spain the UK papers were saying before I left for Amsterdam and I have to admit that it was very nice walking along the canals and through the streets of this great Dutch city, watching the many cyclists riding along the cycle paths. I could have cycled to work these past two days but because the cycle paths don't necessarily follow the same route one would take on foot I decided not to introduce any more confusion into my daily routine. Besides, with the sun shining it was very pleasant.

A traditional Dutch 'Stampotje'. Tasty.

On Tuesday night I had another late dinner in the hotel restaurant across the road from the Best Western (which doesn't have a restaurant). The Vondel Hotel is worth remembering should I find myself here again, which is highly likely. First, it has a restaurant and, judging by the demeanour of the staff and the general vibe, it's probably quite a decent hotel all round. That said, I've never been a fan of 'quirkyness' because, like Quentin Tarantino movies, a lot of the time the word quirkyness deserves the inverted commas because it's not natural, it's contrived. In the case of the Vondel Hotel's Joost restaurant it was serving soup in a lidded jar, not a bowl. I wonder what they were thinking? "Right, this'll impress them: soup in a jar, not a bowl!" Well, no, it's just annoying. What sort of reaction are they expecting. "Wow! Soup served in a jar! Radical! Perhaps next time they'll hollow out the receiver of an old telephone and fill both ends with soup...now that would be really impressive!" Having said that, the soup was good and the main course even better, it was a traditional Dutch 'Stampotje' (I hope that's right) and consisted of mashed potato, a fillet of white fish and pickles – very tasty. I skipped dessert.

Last night, business over, I took a longer walk than usual and tired myself out in the process. I ended up enjoying a glass of wine and some very salty nachos with a guacomole dip by the canalside, reading The Economist's view on various subjects from Iran's nuclear deal with the west to the fact that both David Cameron and Ed Milliband are making predictable promises to the electorate along the usual ideological lines. The paper argues that had they both gone against the grain – let's say Cameron announcing he would end the non-dom taxation rule and Milliband cutting taxes for top earners – then the electorate might have more respect and turn out to vote; it's looking as if turn-out will be low and that another coalition government will be in place after May 7th or whenever it is the election is taking place.

My view of the canalside last night.

By the time I reached my hotel I couldn't be bothered to go out again so I skipped dinner, hit the sack around 8.30pm and here I am, refreshed after a decent night's sleep (and a pleasant breakfast) ready to see what the day has to offer. In essence, not much. I've got to check out of the hotel, put my bags in storage for an hour or so, probably find somewhere to have lunch (near Centraal station) and then jump on a train to Schipol. Before I do that I've got to write a couple of emails and then I'll be heading home.

Oddly, I gave the Best Western Leidse Square a fairly poor review on TripAdvisor the last time I was here, but this time I had a better stay. Perhaps they knew I was coming as the phone in my room didn't work and the room was tiny, although, compared with my last visit, the breakfast was much better – the fresh fruit salad wasn't as tired-looking and the general vibe was better, possibly because there were more people than last time. But if you consider the faulty phone, the tiny cell-like room and the mildly grubby and very slow to arrive lift, well, perhaps another poor review is on the cards, especially when there's a decent hotel just across the road. That said, the room was fine, I got a decent night's sleep, the shower worked fine so I shouldn't really complain and let's face it, the hotel is bang in the centre of Amsterdam. Who could ask for more? Well, alright, a restaurant would have been nice, a phone that worked, a faster lift, a bigger room...

Food poisoning, techno confusion and general frustration...

In between the clouds en route to Amsterdam

I flew out of City Airport on Monday lunchtime in the rain and wind. This made for a bumpy (ish) flight with nothing but the whiteness of the clouds outside the window. I wouldn't say it was unpleasant, but anything but a smooth and carefree flight makes me a little edgey...and to top it all there was hardly any time to eat or drink anything. Well, almost anything. By the time I'd finished a small plastic carton of orange juice and an even smaller bag of crisps (that's what they call in-flight service these days, even on major airlines) I had hardly any time for a tiny 187ml bottle of red wine, something I always enjoy when flying.

While I'd only been in the air for 40 minutes I still felt a little shattered, mainly because everything happened so quickly. One minute I was in London, the next I was high above the clouds and then I found myself on the ground in another country. Bad timing on my part meant that I would be away from home for the entire week, although it all worked out for the best in the end. I'd arranged a meeting for Tuesday in the Netherlands but had to attend a conference in Germany on Thursday. Logistically, it worked out fine. Late on Tuesday afternoon, work done, I hired a bike to ride from the hotel to Amsterdam Centraal Station where I bought a ticket to Dusseldorf.

Bike 775 – this Batavus ferried me to the Centraal Station

It would have been foolhardy of me to visit Amsterdam and not ride a bike as the Netherlands is THE city for cyclists. Furthermore, hiring the bike cost me just 15 Euros. A taxi there and back would have cost triple the amount.

Wherever I look there are bikes, like here on a canal

Where cycling is concerned, the UK should take note of how things are done in Holland; for a start the cycle lanes are more than just lines drawn with chalk in the road. In the Netherlands the cyclist comes first and the cycle lanes are completely separated from the roads. This is good news for the cyclist who, it has to be said, wins out in any court case with a motorist, a bit like in the UK where, if I crashed into the car in front of me I would be at fault in terms of insurance liability.

Taken from one of Amsterdam's cycle lanes

And think for one minute how fit the Dutch must be; all that cycling around in a city where it's legal to enjoy a spliff with your coffee. Personally, I prefer a millionaire's shortbread or a couple of stem ginger biscuits – each to their own – but it's amazing how the Dutch can stand up, let alone ride bicycles around a busy city without coming a cropper.

Bikes everywhere...
Amsterdam is full of bikes. There are, I am told, 16 million people and 12 million bikes and this fact doesn't go unnoticed. Everywhere I look there are bikes: against the walls, in giant bicycle sheds, they're everywhere and most of them are of the 'sit-up-and-beg' variety and mainly traditional women's frames, which are riden by male and female alike. Batavus is a frequently seen brand. Occasionally I might see somebody on a top-of-the-range mountain bike, but this is rare and the equivalent in motoring terms, of seeing somebody driving, say, a Bugatti Veyron.

On the bike...

And while it is generally safe, much safer than in the UK, to ride a bike in the Netherlands, it is also worth remembering that motorised scooters are allowed to ride in the cycle lanes...not that you'll see many of them, but bear it mind as they whizz around at twice the speed of the bicycles. It's also worth bearing in mind that there are a lot of cyclists in the Netherlands and they're all comin' atcha, meaning there is no room for those who dawdle along or stop or change direction - like yours truly looking for signs to the railway station. Those cycle lanes cover the entire country. On the train yesterday, as I left Arnhem behind and headed for the German border, I noticed how there were still cycle lanes right up until the train crossed into Germany.

Having arrived at Amsterdam's Centraal railway station

I spent a lot of time on the bike as I didn't really have a clue where I was going. I had taken a brief look at a street map of Amsterdam, supplied by my hotel, and I deduced from it that it was a straight road to and from the Centraal Station. What I didn't count on was the fact that there are certain areas of the city where cycling is prohibited AND there are policemen waiting for those who break the rules – not to fine them, but to tell them, in a laid back manner, not to ride in pedestrianised areas. I'd imagine that pedestrians are at the top of the pecking order in the Netherlands, followed by cyclists and then motorists. When I saw a policeman I quickly jumped off the bike and decided to stay off until I found a cycle lane (there are plenty of them). I'm sure that a map exists of all the cycle lanes and where they lead to, but I only possessed a street map...and I'd left that in my hotel room.

I set off during the daylight hours and returned after dark. You could say I enjoyed the ride, even if the weather was a little on the chilly side, although Monday's rain had ceased and the Dutch had a couple of days of decent weather ahead of them.

Parked up and padlocked outside Centraal Station

'Like sucking snot off the back of a tortoise'
So far, so good, you might be thinking – and to a degree you'd be right. On Monday afternoon I had been taken to an oyster bar in Amsterdam and it looked like (and I'm sure it was) a decent establishment. I'm not a great fan of oysters. In fact, I rarely eat them. In my entire life I've only had them a couple of times and on one occasion, the person offering them to me (a publican called Eddie Cheeseman) told me that eating oysters was like (and I quote) 'sucking snot off the back of a tortoise'. He wasn't far wrong, but on this occasion, I thought they were quite tasty – and very meaty. I ate three of them. The oyster restaurant seemed to specialise in selling uncooked food. I'd say 'sushi' but meat was also involved. The oysters were raw and we also had steak tartar...again, I'm not a fan. I like my food to be hot. Cooked in other words, but it would have been rude to object so I gave it all a go and after a couple of small glasses or red wine all seemed well with the world. In fact, all was well with the world.

Looking out from Amsterdam Centraal Station

The following morning (Tuesday) I was up with the lark, enjoying (if that's the word) the rather lame breakfast offering of my Best Western hotel and looking forward to my day of interviewing and meeting various people connected with my line of work. It went well and we, that is my colleague who took me to the oyster bar and I, decided to have lunch in a seafood restaurant by the sea (on the basis that a seafood restaurant on the coast had to be good, right?). It was very pleasant. We both had Dover sole and a beer and then went back to work.

Later, after I had said farewell to my Dutch colleagues, I went on the aforementioned bike ride to pick up my train ticket to Dusseldorf and then I thought I'd have a relatively early night. But first, a visit to an Indonesian restaurant for a late dinner. I had a relatively mild, straightforward chicken dish with vegetable soup at the same restaurant on Monday night and, as you know, I awoke on Tuesday morning feeling rather good and looking forward to my day at work. On Tuesday night, after the bike ride, I went for a longish walk looking for somewhere different to eat but ending up in the same Indonesian restaurant – not a problem. This time I ordered prawns and all was well. I left the restaurant (minus the receipt and had to go back for it) and, when I reached my hotel room, I settled in for that 'relatively early night' which meant I was going to watch a BBC thriller starring James Nesbit called The Missing or Missing. But I felt tired – and found the drama a little slow and boring – so I switched off the television and hit the sack.

"Would sir like to sit on the toilet all night?"

At 0300hrs, however, I was wide awake and feeling a little dodgy in the stomach department. You know how you clock that something is up but don't want to admit it in case you're right? That's how I was feeling. I won't even tell you what happened next, I'll simply leave that to your imagination, but suffice it to say that I was finished the following the day. A lack of sleep and a general weariness made it impossible for me to function properly. It took me an age to pack my suitcase and get myself together enough to check out of the hotel and after I'd managed that I simply sat in one of the bright orange seats near the front desk and tried to sleep (I had about an hour before I had to get my act together and call a cab to take me to the Centraal station). When it was time to go I was feeling a tiny bit better, it has to be said. There was no risk, for instance, of making an exhibition of myself in public (not that it's possible to make an exhibition of oneself in private). I ordered a cab and reached the station with 10 minutes to spare, jumped on the train, found a seat and then spent the journey staring out of the window in a state of unmedicated weariness while fending off the attentions of a toddler who kept calling me 'dad' and offering me the biscuits she had dropped on the floor. Had I been feeling a little brighter I might have sung that Kid Creole number, "Annie, I'm not your daddy!", but I wasn't feeling bright at all.

When I reached Dusseldorf I had a short walk to the fantastic Leonardo Hotel on Ludwig Erhard Allee and the welcoming face of receptionist Natalie Williams. After checking in, I went straight to my room – it was about 1530hrs – and slept through to 2222hrs (that's what it said on my iphone when I regained consciousness, I'm not trying to brag about my 'preciseness'). I had consumed nothing all day other than a half litre of mineral water purchased from a vending machine opposite the front desk of the Amsterdam hotel.

In a weary state I lay in bed watching BBC World and listening to how US president Obama faces a rocky couple years having been trounced by the Republicans in the mid-term elections; there was stuff about Ebola and an interview with Zimbabwe's minister of tourism (Hardtalk) who discussed building some kind of theme park and casino at a time when the country simply doesn't need one. Is he crazy or what? Mugabe is in his early nineties (91) but there are rumours that his family wants to retain power after his demise.

I wandered downstairs to buy a bottle of mineral water and to ask if there were any snacks available; the answer on the latter was no, but there were free, shiny and very green Granny Smiths in a bowl so I had one of those and returned to my room where I fell asleep and didn't wake up until 0730hrs – feeling good. Thursday morning and I felt absolutely fine. Fine enough to eat a decent breakfast followed by lunch and now I'm considering dinner. Hmmm, perhaps some raw seafood and uncooked meat!

This morning, when I reached the conference, my colleague who had enjoyed the oysters with me on Monday afternoon, told me that he too had experienced what I have already detailed above. This means that it might have been our lunch by the sea OR those oysters. The consensus of opinion was the former. Another colleague of mine related a tale of how he enjoyed a few oysters earlier in the year in Paris and they came back to haunt him two days later. And there was me blaming the Indonesian restaurant (which was clearly innocent). It was either the oysters or the Dover sole, but let's remember this: the Dover sole was cooked, the oysters were uncooked...or perhaps it was the steak tartar – think minced beef, uncooked – very dangerous. I mean, let's be honest. Would you go to your local butcher, buy a half pound of mince and start eating it raw on your way home? Well, that's what steak tartar is all about. Add a few raw onions from the greengrocer and Bob's your toilet attendant!

And now there's nothing much else to say. I will certainly be avoiding seafood, especially oysters and, indeed, anything that isn't cooked. Who in their right mind eats food that is uncooked, unless it's something like fresh fruit and vegetables? Only wild animals don't cook their meat. Having said that, I'm rather partial to a bit of raw cauliflower and only the other week I was munching away on some raw cabbage while cooking the Sunday roast, but no more raw food, however trendy it's supposed to be. There's nothing trendy about sitting on the throne at 0300hrs trying not to be sick.

Techno confusion and general frustration...
That's the food poisoning dealt with, as for the 'techno confusion' and the 'general frustration' one neatly links into the other: despite keying in my password and user name correctly, I couldn't access my work email account this evening; that's one frustration; then the WiFi in my hotel room didn't work (I'm downstairs writing this on the hotel 'business centre' computer) and, if I'm honest, I'm getting a little fed up with my general slapstick behaviour. I put on a pair of glasses, I look down at a book, the glasses fall off – once they fell off and dropped into a bowl of soup in a restaurant. And how about this: I'm sitting in a conference hall, I take out my glasses case and immediately can't find it. Where the hell has it gone, I fume inwardly, not wanting to let others know of my frustration. I eventually find them wedged underneath the seat next to me where they must have quietly fallen after I'd allowed them to rest on the cushion. And then there's simultaneous translation. I hate it! Why can't everybody speak the international language – English? I feel really guilty about not speaking another language. I wish I'd learned French or German, but then again my secondary modern 1970s education stipulated that I was too thick to learn a foreign language. Not that they'd in any way tested me. "Secondary Modern Schools are Designed to Produce Failures." Discuss.

Something else that bugged me on this trip in particular was my constant inclination, when leaving the hotel room in Dusseldorf (Room 501) to turn left instead of right. The correct way to the elevators was to turn right, not left, but every time I left the room, deep in thought about something or other, I turned left and then, realising my mistake, adjusted my direction accordingly and headed for the elevator vestibule. Is that the right word? Vestibule? I only got it right when I vacated the room for the last time, which was doubly frustrating because I knew I wouldn't have the pleasure of getting it right again.

Fortunately, I missed out on one big frustration: Germany's train drivers were on strike today so it was lucky that I travelled to Dusseldorf yesterday, even if I was completely out of it. We'll leave it there, but let this post be a lesson to all who read it: don't eat raw fish or meat, it ain't big and it ain't clever and its definitely not trendy.