VACATION MEMORIES : In Search of Local Color, They Saw Red Instead

My fantasy of sharing coffee and conversation with the Dutch hotel proprietor quickly faded as he stood before me--an unshaven, potbellied, dour-looking man in a stained undershirt.

So went my first encounter with the hotel I had so carefully chosen from the list supplied by the tourist board. Granted, I had selected it from the “plain but comfortable” category.

It would be the kind of establishment, I reasoned, that would be oozing with local color and Dutch hospitality. Who needs mints on the pillow? Give me the apple-cheeked husband-and-wife team whose goal is to make each client a lifelong friend.

At that moment, however, a rainy midnight in Amsterdam held nothing for me but a cobweb-filled entryway and a less-than-apple-cheeked host.

My husband was quick to remind me that his hotel choice had been from the “expensive but worth it” category.

Ever hopeful, within 60 seconds my enthusiasm was rekindled by fantasies of the lovely room waiting at the top of the stairs. I was sure it would offer me a four-poster bed, Laura Ashley wallpaper and a good hot bath followed by those yummy, hotel-quality towels.

So what if Franz needed a shave, and his shirt hadn’t seen the inside of a Maytag for at least 90 days? Was this a true indication of what the rooms would be like?

My husband, however, was definitely not catching my renewed optimism. With a look that could only be described as hang-dog, he claimed ownership to the key to Room 304 and began a spiral ascent. I had to go up sideways with my size nines.

Opening the door to 304 allowed my husband to use that oh-so-satisfying phrase: “I told you so.”

Not only was there no four-poster bed, there was no bed. To rest our weary bodies this room provided two sagging iron camping cots appointed with gold-green blankets of questionable cleanliness.

The wallpaper was nonexistent, and the walls had curious dark, asymmetrical spots.

We were to break this code a few hours later, much to our dismay. My last ray of hope was dashed as the bathroom revealed not a tub but a shower with no curtain, one transparent gray-white face towel and one lone leaf of toilet paper.

As my husband grumbled something about working for 20 months without a vacation, I took it upon myself to demand a couple more towels and a roll of toilet paper from the proprietor.

He mumbled that he would have it sent up, and like a sidewinder I made my way back up the three flights to our room.

At that point all I wanted was to catch my six hours of sleep so we could make our move first thing in the morning. That was the short-term goal: survive the night.

In a few minutes a rap at the door brought a woman who looked like the captain of the Dutch wrestling team, who tossed my husband a few towels and disappeared. I cried myself to sleep, still wearing my clothes.

This lasted barely an hour as I was awakened by an unwelcome drone.

I bolted upright and squealed, “Mosquito!” From his adjoining cot, my husband resignedly confirmed, “I know, and it’s the killer variety.”

We smashed the insect against the wall. A fresh red splatter joined the other spots, and the blob mystery was solved.

We had killed only one of an endless mosquito dynasty, and their family tree was on the wall for posterity. Now I could see why the hotel didn’t bother with wallpaper. The guests custom design their own pattern.

The goal to survive the night was seeming more and more elusive. My sleep was interrupted by two drunks in the room directly above who had draped themselves outside their fourth-floor window and were bellowing at passers-by in the street.

It was a multilingual melange of songs, jeers and catcalls directed at whomever was roaming the neighborhood at 4 a.m.

I doubt that sleep for anyone within a quarter-mile radius was possible, as they sang their own arrangement of “Hey Jude.”

I held a faint hope that they would soon pass out, but no such luck, as they began an endless rousing chorus of “Alouette.”

Dawn crept in as I caught the tail end of my husband’s lecture on choosing the correct hotel.

Later we gave our regards and one night’s rent to the proprietor (“You leave already?” “Yes, illness in the family”) and picked up our bags.

We found a lovely small hotel, very much in keeping with the one I had conjured up in my dreams. We even had coffee with the owner.

Strangely enough, though, that first night in Amsterdam remains one of my fondest memories--even with the serenade by the drunks and the whine of the mosquitoes.