After 45 minutes of being trapped in a Ryan Air flight – and trust me, if you’ve ever flown with one of their planes, trapped is indeed the most appropriate word – one would expect to rush out of the open hatch and take in the fresh morning air. One would not expect Eindhoven to smell as if you’d landed in a giant turd, but it did. Cow manure had ambushed my nostrils.
Fleeing Eindhoven is relatively simple: you can opt for a direct bus to Amsterdam (or Utrecht) from the airport, for about 20 something euro one way. I believe the train is somewhat cheaper, but you would need to get a bus to the train station and I could never be bothered to attempt that.
At one point in my recent blogging history, I compared Copenhagen with Amsterdam. I was utterly, terribly wrong in doing so. The two are nothing alike, as my recent revisit has proven to me. Amsterdam has an energy about it, a life which cannot be rivalled so easily. The cannals are a less smellier version of Venice, very quaint and relaxing, as you pass by the corner cafe’s that exude the smell of marijuana (not a very pleasant smell might I add), as you pass by windows with women in their elaborate, silky undergarments, waving a delicate hand at you. Winking a naughty type of wink. Yes, these are prostitutes, not a fiction of my imagination.
I wouldn’t imagine female prostitutes.
It had been lovely to meet up with Doville whilst in Amsterdam (and then going on to Utrecht Open to break to semifinals), and it is one of the great joys I have started having in the past few years from traveling: meeting up with old friends that have dispersed throught this world.
The city seemed invaded by cats: cats on the streets, cats in the store shop, cats in the coffee shops. The critters were everywhere!