An old story from Berlin

I have not had a an opportunity to blog in the last few months. But here’s something I wrote a while ago after a trip to a travel exhibition in Berlin…..

We leave the office just after half past three on Tuesday afternoon. I lead the charge across Blackfriars bridge, with Deborah Dewe and Emma Barnes twenty yards behind. Sheryl Makin is late. Sheryl is always late.

The train journey from Blackfriars to Luton Parkway passes uneventfully. The Chinese woman sat in front of me is not impressed by the gabble spewing from Barnes and Dewe.

It’s a short taxi ride from the train station to the airport. We are the taxi driver’s first fare on his first day in the job. Despite this, Dewe doesn’t tip him. We check-in at the easyJet desk without, surprisingly, any issue at all. I had promised myself to try not to drink over the course of the trip – this lasts less than two hours. We lounge in a French bar in the terminal and quaff lager.

Barnes manages to charm one of her best contacts and gain us access to Silverjet’s wonderful business-class lounge. Sheryl arrives. We kick-back with champagne (we manage to get through almost two bottles in 40 minutes) and it’s not five minutes before the witches’ coven has excluded me from its conversation.

So, to the flight. The coven pitches itself at the rear of the cabin, presumably to plot in private. I’m comfortable in row eight, sat next to a fellow journalist who just happens to work at a rival publication. We drink coffee and talk about the struggle of the left in Britain.

What’s my first impression of Berlin at the airport? It’s a lot less efficient than I expected. The queue through passport control is frustratingly disorganised and long. I mumble loud enough for those in close proximity to recognise that I’m displeased with the situation.

A German assures me it is easyJet’s fault, and nothing to do with the airport operator. Outside, the taxi queue is also spread out like vomit on the pavement. Is this easyJet’s fault too? I drop the coven at the 5-star Ritz Carlton hotel in Potsdammer Platz. A posse of porters descend on our Mercedes and escort the girls and their broomsticks to reception. It’s a magnificent 1920s Art Deco building. From the taxi I can see a spectacular marble staircase and chandeliers in the lobby. I’m not jealous. Well, not very.

The taxi driver and I speed off into the night, bound for my 2-star hotel. The street is dimly lit. The only illumination comes from neon lights: LIVE SEX SHOW, and GIRLS GIRLS GIRLS. I’m wondering if we are in the right place. The driver, who grins wryly, assures me we are. He drops me at number 52. I can now see a sign: ‘Hotel Birth’ – this is it. A group of professional ladies loiter at the door. The speak German to me.

Realising I have no clue what‘s going on, one engages me in ‘Ingleesh’: “You look for vun sfveetie?” I politely decline as I clumsily open the large wooden door to the hotel. And when I say hotel, I now mean brothel. I’m standing at the foot of a stone staircase and I’m flustered. It’s almost midnight. There is a chair at the top of the steps on which a piece of white paper is sellotaped. It reads ‘rezeption’ and an arrow points me towards a half open door. It opens with a loud creak. It looks like an old-fashioned living room, flowery wallpaper and a dirty brown carpet.

I whisper hello in an attempt to attract the attention of someone who is not there. All of a sudden, a pale-faced man wearing a charcoal suit comes out of a dark cupboard.

I wish him a good evening. He has long greasy hair and I’m sure he has something to do with the adjoining ‘Sissi Bar’. “Veev been expecting you Meester Ferguson,” he says, with the voice of a man who smokes at least 40 cigarettes a day.

I’m nervous. His name is Klaus. He smells of pickle. I’m shown to my room and told I can only pay in cash when I check out. This is problematic as I only have credit cards.

The room consists of a single bed and a table. There is no wardrobe, no bathroom, no bedside table, no phone and no complimentary chocolates. There is a television, but it doesn’t work. There are, however, scores of whores. I hear at least two ply their trade during the night.

Oh, and there is a fight outside in the street at 2am.

I wake on the Wednesday morning. It’s by no means the “finest little whorehouse in Berlin”, but the communal shower facility is clean. I half expected the female hairy armpit brigade. The shower itself has a powerful spray, much needed after my restless night’s sleep.

I go through to the ‘breakfast room’. I’m loath to criticise other cultures, but what the fuck is the German breakfast all about? Who wants cold meat and beetroot at 8am? I unearth a boiled egg and some dry bread and take a seat. The coffee is lukewarm.

An elderly German lady scolds me her native tongue for sitting in the wrong room. I’m not a violent person and I’d never contemplate hitting a woman. But the way I’m feeling this morning, the urge to make my forehead meet her nose at a rapid pace is overwhelming.

I lift my plate and relocate to another table. My attempts to ‘stare her out’ don’t go down well either. She leaves the room shouting and I worry she is going to fetch a large male colleague. I decide not to finish my egg and leave to find a taxi.

I arrive at the ITB conference centre ridiculously early. It’s just as well I arrive an hour below the gates open to the public; it takes me 45 minutes to find the press centre. The exhibition’s reputation for being held in an unmanageably large venue is well founded.

I drag my bulging laptop shoulder bag around for hours and miles. I speak to hoteliers, an airline representative, travel consortia and more hoteliers. I sweat profusely. This is not fun. Thursday at the exhibition passes in much the same fashion.

Aimless wandering in the hope of finding a scoop. Realistically, I know I’m not going to pick up anything other than puff. 

My tenure at the brothel, while uneventful in terms of real scandal, is one of my more memorable stays in private accommodation.

I shan’t forget how one girl flaunted her services for 60 euros on the night of my arrival, before slashing the fee to 20 euros on Thursday night. Either she is desperate, or has heard my financial situation is dire after having to fork out the hotel bill in cash.

Friday morning. At breakfast I say farewell to the elderly German woman with whom I’m on speaking terms. In the street I hail a taxi and head back to the Ritz to pick up the girls.

We have a prearranged time of 7am. Dewe is punctual. Sheryl is late. She arrives at 7.15am. Sheryl is always late.

Vigo – Galicia’s rough diamond

I whispered to the girl sitting next to me: “Where the heck is Vigo?” I was studying Spanish at university and that morning the students were finding out where they would be spending their year abroad.

I heard Madrid, Seville, Barcelona and Valencia, and salivated at the thought of either. But my name wasn’t on any of those lists. I’d never heard of Vigo before. My shoulders slumped when my name was read out. But fortunately it was the best thing that could ever have happened.

For many, the thought of Spain provokes images of beaches, sunshine, flamenco and dusty streets. Some people envisage crowds of men huddled in cafes loudly gesticulating at a Real Madrid match on TV. That’s why arriving in Vigo for the first time felt so strange. It’s not the place I expected it to be and it didn’t feel like Spain at all.

For a start, everywhere was green and hilly and the wind blowing in from the Atlantic Ocean made the air memorably refreshing. The province of Galicia is the country’s most north westerly point. Its people speak the Galician language, a hybrid of Spanish and Portuguese, and their pale skin and fair hair give away their Celtic ancestry.

In a bid to escape the baking summer heat wealthy Spaniards from Madrid and the south flock to their Galician summer houses which pepper the coast from the Portuguese border all the way north to La Coruna.

Pilgrims arriving at Santiago de Compostela’s sacred cathedral make up the bulk of tourist arrivals, and aside from a handful of visitors arriving on Clickair’s London Gatwick service and the odd cruise ship calling on a short stop-over that’s as far as it goes.

The Spaniards affectionately refer to the province as “Spain’s garden” though for many years it was known as “Spain’s forgotten corner”. When the Franco dictatorship ended with his death in 1975 Spain embraced democracy and fell in line with its European neighbours and their market capitalist system. Galicia was a province of fishermen and farmers.

So while the businessmen lived and worked in Madrid, Barcelona, Bilbao and Seville, Galicia didn’t see its fair share of investment throughout the 80s and 90s. “It was as if they had forgotten we were here,” said one Galician poet.

But the Gallegos plodded on without complaint, sticking faithfully to their horse and cart culture. Sure, things have moved on slightly, though to this day the North West is the only region not linked to Madrid by the AVE, Spain’s high-speed rail network.

But times are changing. Vigo is home to more than 300,000 people. The majority is employed by the either fishing industry or at the massive Citroen car manufacturing plant in the Balaidos district. Hard labour is and ethic at its core. But like most grafters Los Vigueses know how to let their hair down.

There are more pubs, bars, cafes and restaurants than you can shake a stick at. English is not widely spoken, but like their Scottish and Irish cousins, Los Gallegos will bend over backwards to make you feel welcome. Cafes where quality tapas and wine can be bought for embarrassingly low prices are littered throughout the city.

Try Cafeteria Esquina on Avda de Castrelos where tasty treats are served with each glass of wine or beer 24 hours a day, seven days a week. Younger revellers want to head for the nightclubs at Calle Churruca, while the more sophisticated clubber will be more suited to venues on Calle Arenal.

The Casco Vello is the old centre of the city. In recent years the local government has thrown a substantial amount of money sprucing up some of the 300 year old buildings surrounding the Plaza de la Constitucion. As you wind through its narrow streets you’ll unearth a glut of tiny tabernas, mostly selling fresh mussels and clay bowls – known as tazas or cuncas – of home-made wine.

Don’t be taken aback at the low prices. The notion of profit has yet to reach many of Vigo’s tabernas, something the people are very proud of. Tips are never expected, but if you do leave a small gratuity prepare to have made a friend for life. And Los Gallegos are big on cuddles.

In contrast with Vigo’s industrial urban heart, a five minute drive from the city centre and will take you to the spectacular scenery and beaches that draw so many Spaniards to the area.

Towering above the Spanish – Portuguese border stands the imposing mountain, Santa Tecla. Drive up the winding road to its summit and pass ancient Celtic ruins, known as castros, on the way. The view over the Rio Mino (Europe’s only natural border) and out over the Atlantic is breathtaking. At this point you’ll be asking yourself: “Why don’t more tourists come here?”

En route to Santa Tecla stop off in Baiona and visit the old fortress, now owned and run as one of Spain’s well known Parador hotels. And on the roads between villages such as Gondomar and Tui break for lunch at one of the dozens of family run restaurants where the province’s acclaimed Albarino white wine can be quaffed along with the catch of the day.

Vigo and its surrounding areas remain relatively untouched when compared to other parts of Britain’s favourite holiday destination. But it won’t be like that forever.

Galicia’s infrastructure now matches that of Spain’s most developed regions. And with Ryanair and Clickair both looking at increasing services into Vigo and Santiago de Compostela airports, the rough diamond in Spain’s garden won’t be a secret for much longer.

Where to stay:

Hotel and apartments Puerta del Sol – low cost rooms in the centre of the city

http://www.alojamientosvigo.com/

Puerta del Sol 14

Vigo 36202 +34 986 222 364

 

Hotel Husa Ogalia – excellent service in a hotel at the heart of Vigo’s shopping district

www.husa.es

Rua Lepanto 1

Vigo 36201

+34 986 227 726

 

Hotel Zenit Vigo – mid rang hotel popular with leisure and business travellers. Central location.

www.zenithotels.com

Avda Gran Via 1

Vigo

+34 986 417 255

 

Parador de Baiona – luxury 4-star hotel. The building used to be a fort. Simply stunning. 27 kms outside the city.

www.parador.es Baiona

+34 986 355 000

Pazo los escudos

 

Where to eat:

Cafeteria Esquina

Avda Castrelos 24

Vigo

+34 986 230 252

 

La Taberna de Tony

Calle Gil 2

Vigo 36203

+34 986 222 419

 

Restaurant Las Bridas

Calle Ecuador

Vigo 36203

+34 986 470 037

 

Rocamar – one of the finest seafood restraunts in the province 25 kms outside Vigo

Calle Baredo Baiona

www.restauranterocamar.com

+34 986 355 204

 

Asador Soriano – Vigo’s most famous fine dining restaurant. Pricey, but worth ever penny

Bembrive 2

Vigo

www.asadorsoriano.com

+34 986 481 373

 

How to get there:

Direct: Clickair – London Gatwick to Vigo Peinador

www.clickair.com

Ryanair – London Stansted to Santiago de Compostela (one hour 45 minutes from Vigo)

Hourly flights connect Vigo from the Spanish capital, Madrid

There are a number of car hire firms at Vigo Peinador airport and Vigo train station

GTMC conference

The Guild of Travel Management Companies annual conference starts this weekend in Dubai.

All the great and good of the business travel agency community will be there, plus a few dastardly suppliers promoting their wares.

It will be my first GTMC conference, and assuming swine flu doesn’t grip the Middle East by Saturday it’ll be my second visit to Dubai.

I was both over and underwhelmed by my first trip to the Emirate. It is truly awesome in the old sense of the word.

To see structures like the Burj Al Arab hotel, The Atlantis, The Palm and “The World” was very surreal.

It demonstrated what can by done with infinite amounts of cash and labour.

But it came across as a place with no soul. And knowing the conditions suffered by the poor buggers on the construction sites leaves a bitter taste.

The conference is bound to generate some vibrant discussion, what with all that’s going on at the moment. 

We’ve climate change, swine flu, the global recession, an airline crisis, GDS negotiations, ongoing security issues…the list goes on.

I’ll be filing stories from the conference on www.ttgbusiness.com and posting updates here and on my twitter (travel_hack).

Looking forward to being hosted by the ever generous Jumeirah Group and Emirates Airlines.

Far Eastern Promise – any tips?

A bustling shopping area in Hong Kong

I have made a huge miscalculation – and I really should have known better.

On Wednesday I embark on a 17-night excursion to the Far East.

I am a frequent traveller, but can’t recall ever having to pack for more than seven nights.

In fact, I can’t remember the last time I went on a holiday lasting more than a week (maybe Canada in 2000?).

Anyway, it turns out I only posses one small and one medium sized suit case in which to fit enough apparel and provisions to last the duration of the trip.

This close to pay day, I can’t really afford to splash out on a king-size Samsonite.

So I’m working on the assumption I can wear each pair of socks twice, wash my briefs in the sink at night and manage without my entire collection (five) of short sleaved shirts.

Once again Primark has proven to be a valuable pre-vacation resource.

There are obvious dangers associated with entering its Oxford St branch – cholera, dysentery and sporadic violence – but if you’re lucky enough to exit with your limbs and senses in tact, it can save you a fortune.

But what about all those unfortunte souls working long hours until their fingers bleed in third world sweat shops just so I can buy two t-shirts, two shirts, two pairs of shorts and a five-pack of white ankle socks all for £27.40 I hear you ask.

True. It’s outrageous. But you can bet your bottom dollar that stores such as Gap (across the road on Oxford St) are involved with the same disgusting practises.

The difference is that Gap clothes don’t fit wee chunky guys like me. And it’s extortionate. So Primark is the lesser of two evils.

On top of that, I don’t feel uncomfortable stuffing my new Primark clothes into my miniscule suitcases. They’re far cheaper to replace.

So I’m appreciate any travel tips, if anyone can be bothered leaving me a comment below.

Last time in HKG: drunk Scottish guy in Chinese dress barges onto stage in hotel bar and insists on singing

It all starts with three nights at the Cosmoplitan Hotel in Hong Kong.

What else is there to do apart from eating at the floating Jumbo restaurant, watching the lights display from the harbour at night and shopping at the Ladies’ market (this is neither a red light district – see Sex, Drugs and Cycle Paths blog - nor a trading area for girls’ wares – it’s just its name!) and paying the equivalent of £2.50 for a massage (extras not included)?

Does anyone have any other recommendations?

After HKG it’s on to the Malaysian paradise island of Langkawi – the five-star Meritus Pelangi Beach resort, to be precise. What else is there to do on the island apart from lying on the beach sipping a cocktail and reading?

The trip conculdes with two nights in Kuala Lumpur – at the Shangri La Traders hotel. Again, any hints or tips?

What ever happens, it promises to be a good time and a welcome break from the daily doom and gloom in the UK.

Now, back to the suit cases. Why didn’t they teach boys how to fold clothes at school? It seems no matter how hard I try I can’t do it as well as my mum or any woman I’ve ever known.

Sorry, protestors, but the expert has a point

One of the world’s leading climate change experts has criticised the opponents of Heathrow’s third runway.

Jim Hansen, director of Nasa’s Goddard Institute of Space Studies, stated in no uncertain terms that the protestors are wasting their energy.

In a previous blog entry (scroll below) I suggested the same thing.

I was not claiming aviation does not harm the environment. It does. But to no where near the same extent as other industries. That’s where there should be focus.

I’d be interested to hear people’s thoughts on this. You can read the article by clicking the link above then leave me a comment.

What was all that fuss about?

London’s tube system is back to relative normality this morning.

The buses are running again. And so are the express trains to the airports.

Some of overland train services appear still to have problems.

My folks tell me the weather isn’t great in Glasgow. No real change there then.

There are still problems at the airports. More than 650 flights were cancelled at LHR yesterday.

Eurostar is running with delays.

So who was to blame for the transport chaos yesterday?

Snow bother to me

A wee bit of snow falls and London comes to a stand still. Come on, it ain’t that bad.

Where are all the gritters? What the heck am I paying the council tax for?

And how on earth is the snow stopping the underground? Bah!

Doctor, doctor…

I received this joke by email this morning and thought it was worth sharing…

 OLD people have problems that you haven’t even considered yet. 
 
An 85-year-old man was requested by his doctor for a sperm count as part of his physical exam. 
 
The doctor gave the man a jar and said: ‘Take this jar home and bring back a semen sample tomorrow.” 
 
The next day the 85-year-old man reappeared at the doctor’s office and gave him the jar, which was as clean and empty as on the previous day. 
 
The doctor asked what happened and the man explained: “Well, doc, it’s like this–first I tried with my right hand, but nothing. Then I tried with my left hand, but still nothing. 
 
“Then I asked my wife for help. She tried with her right hand, then with her left, still nothing. She tried with her mouth, first with the teeth in, then with her teeth out, still nothing. 
 
“We even called up Arleen, the lady next door, and she tried too, first with both hands, then an armpit, and she even tried squeezin’ it between her knees, but still nothing.” 
 
The doctor was shocked: “You asked your neighbor?”
 
The old man replied: “Yep, but none of us could get the jar open.”

Heathrow’s third runway good for the Kingdom

Today Gordon Brown’s Labour government finally gave Heathrow’s third runway project the green light.

This is great news for both UK businesses and consumers.

It will be many years before the project becomes reality as there are still a number of planning hurdles to be overcome. But the first steps have been taken.

The green lobby is furious.

I am sensitive to their cause. Environmental scientists have already warned that we’re ebbing dangerously close to a natural catasrophe. If average global temperatures rise by two degrees, they predict, we’re in serious trouble.

I, for one, am convinced urgent collective action is necessary.

But, in terms of the third runway, it is my opinion protestors are directing frustrations and energies in the wrong place.

The aviation sector and travel industry have been the whipping boys of green warriors and media for years now.

Any mention of climate change is predictably followed by references to aircraft emissions. But the truth is travel and aviation have been facing up to the situation for a lot longer than most.

Great strides have been made in constructing quieter and more fuel efficient planes, while scores of airlines have invested millions researching alternative bio-fuels.

Business travellers and consumers have been chosing rail over air travel for domestic journies in burgeoning numbers, and the success of Eurostar last year forced BA, BMI and Air France to cut an pull services between London and Paris.

Videoconferencing is on the rise and environmentally cautious travel managers are tightening policies to satisfy CSR regulations imposed on themselves.

We have carbon calculators for airlines, hotels are spending millions on energy saving projects and car rental companies replacing unleaded petrol cars for modern hybrid automobiles.

Rest assured: travel and aviation in this country are playing their part.

However, there are still a variety of industries pumping tons of CO2 into the atmosphere. But protestors are not chaining themselves to the gates of power plants, cement refineries or pharmaceutical companies. Sectors which could be doing more to help.

A third runway at Heathrow is necessary for many reasons. In economic terms we must compete with Paris Charles de Gaulle, Amsterdam Schiphol and Frankfurt.

In social terms, people have to travel. It will not stop. We live in a global community where people have to fly to make a living and to visit loved ones.

So give the airlines a break and let’s focus on the real polluters. Agreed?

Sex, drugs and cycle paths

Amsterdam is famous for its liberal stance towards the sale of sex and marijuana. But it’s not all hash and prostitution in the Dutch capital, writes Martin Ferguson …

Amsterdam for me was synonymous with three things: the legal consumption of cannabis, the legal consumption of ‘sex for sale’ and the city’s great football team, Ajax.

All are integral parts of the city’s culture and heritage. But a three-day city break is ample time to discover there is more to Holland’s northern capital than drugs, football and ladies of the night (also available as ladies of the day).

Wrap up in Amsterdam

The weather is skin-chappingly cold in winter. Failure to pack a woolly bonnet, scarf and gloves, will lead to frustrating periods of necessary refuge in a warm hotel room. That time would be better spent visiting the fascinating museums, stylish architecture and the myriad of Argentinean and Indonesian restaurants which make this place a surprisingly cosmopolitan hodgepodge.

Getting to Amsterdam from the UK is straightforward. British Airways, BMI and KLM all fly daily between the capital city’s state-of-the-art Schiphol airport and most large British cities.

It’s a forty-minute train journey – give or take 10 minutes depending on the time of day – between the airport and Amsterdam Central Station. A ticket will set you back €5. More affluent travellers may hail a taxi for about €40 to the city centre – though the journey by road is longer than that of the rail track.

 

 

The four-star Hotel De Rode Leeuw is a 10-minute walk from the station and lies 50 metres north of Damm Square. The red light district is a teasing five-minute walk from the hotel’s front door and all the city’s museums are within, at the most, half-an-hour on foot. It could be worse than €140 for two-nights in a basic room.

Beware of lunatic cyclists

Warning: beware of insane cyclists. There are 750,000 people in Amsterdam and, according to local government statistics, more than 800,000 bikes. A tiny minority wear helmets, many ride with children or shopping balanced precariously on their handlebars, but they all share a deep contempt of the pedestrian. Care must be taken at all times not to tread unwittingly on cycle paths. Walkers will be knocked down, or, if lucky enough to escape collision, be subject to the violent ringing bells and severe verbal abuse.

 

I am not a cannabis smoker, but in the interests of journalism I felt obliged to sample the mildest herb on offer at one hash bar. I found the first few draws uninspiring and was starting to question what all the fuss was about. Complacency lead me to take a drag dangerously large for my novice standard. My skin turned white and a light film of sweat covered my entire body. After 10 minutes of severe nausea I was not sure whether I wanted to vomit or defecate. The queasiness lifted after 20 minutes and was replaced by a dumbing haze lasting several hours.

 

 

Amsterdam is blessed with a number of remarkable museums. Tickets booked online for the Rijksmuseum – Holland’s national museum – cost €11. The Van Gogh Museum – currently home to the Rembrandt Association’s 125^th anniversary exhibition – is slightly more expensive, with online tickets priced at €12.50.

The most moving visit to a museum in the city is unquestionably found at Anne Frank House. An €8 ticket grants access to the home where a young Jewish girl and her family hid from the Nazis between 1942 – 44 before being captured and taken to the concentration camps. There is never a dry eye in the house.

A large part of Amsterdam’s tourist centre is build around the meandering canals. A boat trip is essential for anyone wanting to get to grips with the make-up of the city. There are several mini-ports where these excursions can be found. Prices vary, but no one should pay more than €10 unless some form of alcoholic drink is thrown in. From the water a number of historic sites can be enjoyed, including the Mayor’s residence and a number of properties formerly owned by the country’s wealthy 17^th century merchants. Experienced guides will also explain why houses built alongside the canal are so narrow and why they lean forward.

Cafes selling marijuana can be found on most corners, though the majority are situated in and around the red light district. These establishments are well regulated by local government, but that should not signal a green light for indulgence, as I found out to my cost.  

For determined amateurs bound by a ‘when in Rome’ attitude, a safer option is the hash laden chocolate brownie, otherwise known as a space cake. Rather than bring on nausea, overindulgence leads to uncontrollable fits of the giggles. No harm in that, right? 

 

 

Droves on horny stags – almost all British I far as I could tell – are seen nightly, and daily, circling round the hundreds of red-lit windows. Most are fuelled by enough Heineken to provide them with the brass neck to negotiate a fee with the girl for sale. It is a seedy business, that is not up for debate, but the area is well policed, safe and definitely worth satisfying any curiosity.

Eating out Amsterdam is easy. There are hundreds of restaurants and something to suit all tastes – the city’s main talent. There were, for me, two surprises: most Dutch people speak impeccable English, yet menus are so poorly written you will find yourself chuckling (for those who have eaten a Space Cake before going to a restaurant, reading the menu may send you over the edge).

There are an unusual number of Argentinean restaurants. Holland’s former colonial links makes the presence of the numerous Indonesian eateries blatantly obvious, but what is the connection with South America? I asked around, but the best response I received was from the Argentine manager of La Pampa steak house next to Damm Square: “there is a demand for quality meat and the Dutch can’t provide it.” I remain unconvinced.

Two nights and three days is enough to see the majority of what Amsterdam has to offer. But unlike some other cities I have visited in Europe, I left the Dutch capital saying: “I’ll be back.”

 

Places to eat and drink in Amsterdam

Lunch at the dimly lit Cafe de Gaeper. It had a number of local dishes, including Frikandellen (basically long hot dogs), chicken satay (which the Dutch people seem to be obsessed with).

There was a good selection international dishes on the menu and plenty of wines beers and spirits.

It was also full of locals which always gives establishments in touristy places a little more credibility. The big friendly land lady teaches people how to say thank you in Dutch – Dank u wel or Bedankt.

Dinner at Indonesian restaurant Aneka Rasa.

On the menu there is one option which includes a bit of everything on the menu. That with four Indonesian beers will cost in the region of €80 but comfortably feed and water four strapping lads.

Lunch in De Beiaard micro brewery (part of a chain, there are three beer cafes in the city)

Good wholesome food on the menu at reasonable prices. It has a website where you can find a map and address but beware as the rest is in Dutch.

Dinner in La Pampa, just off Damm Square. Traditional Argentinean food. Quite pricey. Start with empanadillas, then try t-bone steak eggs chips and salad.