Arrival in Amsterdam

The 13-hour direct flight on KLM was a breeze. I slept through most of it, and because the movie selection was crappy (I'll miss you, SQ!) I decided to re-watch Mr. & Mrs. Smith, back in the days when Angelina Jolie was still hot and not the plasticized twig she is today. I also saw a few episodes of The Office, and watched the new Woody Allen, You Will Meet a Tall, Dark Stranger.

In between all of this, I drifted in and out of a mixed haze of moods.  I felt overdressed and frumpy, seeing the Europeans in their slim jeans and sleek knits. I had mini-panics: I have no friends! I have no job! What if I hate it? Then I realized I had just leapt into the unknown, and instantly felt better. I also felt better about the number of bags we had when I saw a knot of backpackers in front of us who had the same number of bags, except they were trash bags. And I kept thinking about Rogue all alone in the cargo hold every time we went through turbulence.

The plane landed at quarter to eight in the morning. It was pitch black outside. I assured Marlon that the sun would rise at around nine, but it never did. 

At Schipol Airport: no questions at Immigration. Nada. Not a single one. They just stamped my passport and let me into Europe. You're never getting me out, suckaaasss!

Naturally, our massive bulks of luggage attracted the attention of Customs. When the female Customs official asked us where we lived, Marlon replied that he was starting a new job in Amsterdam. Her stern expression gave way to a warm smile. "Ah, that explains why you have so many bags," she said. "Go on then." And go on we did.

We took a taxi (43€! Josme!) to a residential area south of Amsterdam, called Buitenveldert, where our serviced apartment is. The relocation agency had offered Marlon a choice of a hotel in Dam Square, smack in the center of town, and a more out-of-the way serviced apartment. Since we planned to stay the full three weeks that it was going to be available to us, we chose the serviced apartment so we could self-cater (and not go crazy with cabin fever).

Boy, was that a good choice.

By far the best thing about this place is the kitchen. It's got a Miele induction cooktop and combination microwave/oven, Nespresso machine, even a barely used rice cooker. Cookware and china-wise, it's a lot better equipped than my own kitchen. I'll be sad to leave it.

There's also a smaller bedroom which we use for storage.

A bathtub! Yay!

And a decently-sized master bedroom with plump and cozy bedding.

After unpacking and a bit of rest, we headed out to the nearest shopping center, Gelderlandplein, which is about a 10-15 minute walk away, for lunch and groceries. By the time we got there,  I had figured out that whatever the Dutch say is walking time needs to be doubled for people with short legs like yours truly.

We stocked up on some basics at the big grocery chain, Albert Hein, which had two wide center aisles devoted entirely to wine, with some bottles being as cheap as 6€ (roughly the price of a Starbucks grande frap in Singapore). Alcoholics Anonymous, make room for two please. They also had an entire wall dedicated to bread, and two walls to cheese. At a passing glance I counted at least eight different kinds of Gouda.

Marlon and I goggled over the beauty and freshness of the produce, and over the fact that we now get cilantro from Kenya, tomatoes from Spain and salami from Hungary. Not being local, the produce was probably a little pricier than normal. I'm sure once we settle in, Marlon will want to hit the markets and that will bring our food expenses down considerably. Still, coming from Singapore, you can't beat olive oil from Greece for 4€.

I didn't see anyone using plastic bags. Good on you, Europe! Of course, having just arrived, we had to be the bad guys and fork over money for plastic bags. We also had to cart home more than 5 kilos of groceries (including cat litter!) over a 10-15 minute walk in the cold. On the way home, Marlon and I formulated a new rule of thumb that ought to curtail spending: only buy what you can physically cart home with the least amount of difficulty.

Then Rogue arrived!

Looking like the sorriest cat in the world, Rogue stumbled out of her carrier with a wet tail and wobbled around the apartment, yowling, for about two whole hours. She was so out of it she didn't even sniff at her reward meal of Fancy Feast, which normally she would've tried to rip out of Marlon's hand as soon as he cracked open the can.

By some miracle Marlon and I managed to nap amidst the maelstrom of circling, purring, yowling and rubbing, and woke to fix a very... European dinner of fish and potatoes. And by yet another miracle we managed to keep ourselves awake until 10:30. With a tight hug under the covers and a prayer of thanks, it was lights out on Day One in Amsterdam.