" A Little Cream in My Coffee" A Black Woman's Solo Journey To Amsterdam (reprinted)

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Past Reflections:
A Little Cream in My Coffee-
Diary of One Black Woman's Journey into the ‘Hood in the Netherlands


By: Cheroll A. Dossett, MBA, M.Ed
Reprinted: July, 2007


Tuesday, April 27

In 45 minutes I will board Flight #615 to Amsterdam, Holland. I am flying there by way of Icelandic Air making a quick stop over in Reykjavik, Iceland. The cost of the round trip airfare from JFK airport to Schipol International Airport in Amsterdam, Holland was only $335.00 tax and fees included.

I have asked myself time and time again what reason can I give myself for going? The only answer that I seem to able to come up with is that boredom may the culprit. And, better yet, idleness may be the cause. One thing is for certain; I really needed to get as far away as possible to clear my head and figure out how I am going to get my life back on track and get the groove back into my life.

Traveling abroad is the link I use to help me regain perspective of who I am and what I am capable of doing. Taking an international trip alone is how I reaffirm my strength as a Black woman. I really do not believe that I have been able to match this resounding feeling of empowerment against anything else that I have accomplished over the last twenty years.


Wednesday, April 29 1:00pm


My First Impressions of Amsterdam


Maneuvering my way to follow the signs to the Baggage Claim area, I noticed that almost everything is written in English as well. Amsterdam is definitely user friendly to the American Tourist. My second stop was to the currency exchange window. I had read on the plane that the exchange rate is about 2 to 1. I changed about 200 US dollars to start.

As I headed toward the bank of stairs which lead down into the metro station, I made a quick detour to the Holland Tourist Information Station to locate a room for the night. After thumbing through the list of Bed and Breakfast Accommodations in the small metal-framed shelves that housed the brochures, I asked the tourist information desk clerk to make a reservation for me.


"Rooms are going to be hard to come by," she said. "I guess you didn t know that you had arrived on the week of the Queen s birthday. May 1st is the national holiday to honor the birth of the Queen of The Netherlands."


I thought to myself that I really could care less about the Queen.

On a sentimental level, I figured if my sensitivity toward this most celebrated Holiday qualified me for a special discounted rate on a room and a guaranteed place to stay, then I would pretend.


Within what seemed like minutes the clerk handed me a confirmation sheet that a vacancy had been found. She said she had called ahead and spoke with the owner. My host, Mrs. K. was expecting me to arrive within the hour. The room was going to cost about $30 per night. The clerk told that if I had arrived two days earlier the room would have only cost the equivalent of $21 per night. Needless to say, I gathered a map off the "free - take one" shelf and headed towards the train station located on the lower level.


The trip from the airport to the Center of Amsterdam was about 20 minutes. It is almost impossible to get lost because the city is so compact. You either go from point A to B in a straight line on the rail system or you take the metro; the system is built in a circle.


The trains were clean but the hard back seats made the ride to the Bed and Breakfast somewhat uncomfortable. I was also becoming irritated by my own scent as a result of not being able to bathe properly over the last one and a half days. The only thing that I kept thinking was about how great it would be to take a hot shower.


Somewhere in between the stench from my body and the blisters that were forming on my bottom, I managed to drift off into a deep sleep and ended up missing my stop. I think it was my snoring that compelled a Dutch couple to come to my aid. I recall seeing the two of them a Schipol International Airport.

They were nice enough to wake me to inquire whether or not I knew where I was going? Somewhat embarrassed by my unbearably loud snoring, I apologized for creating a disturbance. I then pulled out the confirmation letter which indicated the correct street address for the Bed and Breakfast. The Dutch couple was gracious enough to help me find my way that they offered to disembark the train and wait with me until the next train came along.

The map that the clerk scribbled on the back of the confirmation sheet made finding the address to the Bed and Breakfast uncomplicated. But the only thing that she had forgotten to tell me was that the house was quite a distance away from the rail station. The walk to Schaldestraat street took me a bit longer than I had expected because I was still a bit disoriented from falling asleep on the train.


Upon my arrival, Mrs. K. greeted me with a warm smile and welcoming arms. I was assigned to stay on the top floor in her home. It was a beautiful home. The stairway was narrow and steep. I later found out that most of the homes in Amsterdam are built that way.

Ordinarily, I would not have complained about climbing the twenty-five flights of stairs, but considering that I had been carrying a 30 pound backpack for over two hours and was suffering from jet lag and fatigue from my flight, a nice hot bath and a comfortable bed was long overdue.

Ms. K. was a delightful host. She had offered me a cup of tea to help me unwind from the long trip. She was quick to remind me how lucky I was to find a place to stay at the last minute because this week "all of Amsterdam is celebrating Queen's day." I thanked her again and expressed my appreciation for having a vacancy in her home. After settling in to my private room, I opted not to take a nap but rather a quick shower and hit the streets to do some exploring.

My first stop was going to be Centraal Station - Amsterdam s version of New York s Grand Central Station. My first real glimpse of Amsterdam was breathtaking. It is city that has a lot of charm. A mixture of old, historic architecture and new modern office complexes.

The city has millions of alleyways and hidden places that are not known to the lay tourist. As a professional traveler, I knew that each alley, every building, all the houses had a story of its own. I was especially curious about the Red Light District and the other underground places of interests that a tourist would not have ordinarily have access to without the help of "locals."


Wednesday, April 29 4:00pm

Every tourist brochure that I have ever read about Amsterdam describes it as the “City of Inspiration” because of the cultural impact made by Van Gogh and Rembrandt. To get my journalistic juices flowing, I decided to first take a detour to one of the snack food counters located inside of Centraal Station.

As I passed through the foyer that leads to Centraal Station, I couldn t help but notice how Centraal Station is structurally designed to encourage the movement of masses of people. The whole place was crammed with people arriving from all points-nearby fishing villages, neighboring towns and the international airport.

Centraal Station is a great location for the curious traveler because it offers an attractive combination of feeling both safe and being in the mix to soak up the atmosphere for some serious people watching.

In the center of the city is Dam Square. Canal bridges take you to and from Dam Square as they line the tiny streets of Amsterdam with cafes, small specialty shops, trendy hotels and family run canal houses. As sunset begins to fall, one begins to fall in love with the lights that illumine the canal bridges.

As I rushed to take a photograph of a group of people aboard a canal cruise, I heard someone shouting from behind me to watch out for the oncoming Tram. Because my energy was starting to wane from the long trip I didn t bother to turn around. I was actually embarrassed for having been so careless as to not watch out for the oncoming tram car. Quickly gathering my bearings, I jumped off the tracks and landed shoulder first onto the pavement. A young girl ran over to help me and politely asked, "Excuse me Sister, do I know you? You look really familiar." At first, I hesitated to say anything for fear she was trying to run some type of con game on me. After what seemed like only a few seconds, I relented and in my sister-girl tone with my hands on my hips, I quipped, "No, you
don’ t know me!"

Then, when I shifted my body in the opposite direction and from the corner of my eye, I noticed a young African male leaning against the wall to the bridge. As he headed my way, I felt the "vibe thing" going on! I tried to play it cool.

"Uh, they call me Ballah," he said. "And this is my cousin."


"Oh, you can just call me sister," she echoed.


"Fine. My name is C-h-e-r-o-l-l," I replied.


"Where are you from? My cousin and I were debating whether or not you were from Surinam or some other part of Africa?"


"No," I hissed, "I am from New York."


"The States!" Sister screeched in amazement. "Say whaat!" she added.


As we stood on the main canal bridge and continued to share stories about our distinctive lives, I had decided to invite the two of them to join me for dinner.


"So, where can I get some good, African food?" I quizzed.


"Oh, I know one place but it is kind of far," said Ballah.


"Okay, cool. Let’s go." I replied.


"But first, let us show you around to some places in Amsterdam." Ballah interjected.


The road leading up to the Red Light District was paved with a splendid backdrop of historic old canal houses and warehouses. The narrow streets really added to the ambience. Along the way, I

couldn’t help but notice the presence of so many Blacks from Surinam, Africa and the Caribbean who call Amsterdam home.


No one knew or cared that I was an African-American. It was taken for granted that I must live in Amsterdam as well. Well, that was until they heard me speak. Then it all changed! Ballah sensed that I needed protection so he politely volunteered his services to be my night and day watchman. His intent was to make himself available for me on this trip and any future visits to Amsterdam as well. As I was getting both hungry and tired, what I really needed right now was to get something to eat then find my way back to the Bed and Breakfast to get a good night’s sleep.

Amsterdam is full of erotica. I think it is the only European city that can boast about having a five star erotic theatre. I didni’t go in but Ballah assured me that the place was very classy.

Walking along the narrow, cobblestone-like streets in the Red Light District, one could see the oldest profession taking place right before your very own eyes. The main distinguishable difference prostitution in the States and prostitution in Amsterdam is that the women did not walk the streets but rather they were standing behind enclosed glass windows.


As the three us continued our moonlit stroll through the narrow streets and back alleyways of Amsterdam, Ballah conceded that he had wanted to take me to another part of Amsterdam.


"So, Sistuh. do you really want to go and eat some really good food and not have to pay a lot for it?"


"Count me in," I resonated with excitement in my voice.


" Well, we have to take the metro to what we consider to be a somewhat dangerous part of the city." Ballah added.


"let’s get going!" Sistuh and I shouted in unison.


The metro ride was an experience in and of itself. As we boarded the station from the city center, I was breathing heavily with a mixture of anticipation, intrigue and sheer curiosity as to where my informal tour guides were taking me.


They call this place the "Baamas" in Amsterdam. After exiting the train, I quickly looked around to take a quick inventory of my surroundings.


“Unbelievable, " I remarked, "You mean to tell me that I am in the Hood!"


"Yup," Ballah said as he smiled with pride. "You see, Sister, I have just taken you to one of Amsterdam s best kept secrets. Very few tourists come down here. In fact, I think the only ones that do come here are students who are looking for a cheap apartment. And, there might be a few others who have black girlfriends/boyfriends that come here as well.. It is not really all that bad," he said. I don t live here, but I come and eat at this restaurant I know every now and then."

Furthermore, Ballah added this neighborhood is a way for the Dutch government to set aside apartments to help keep the Blacks that were coming into this country illegally from living in the streets and who desperately needed a place to stay.

As we walked down the long, winding walkway, a string of foreign cars whizzed past us. Good looking, Black men chatted effortlessly on cell phones while their passengers hung there heads out of the window trying to get their mack on with a group of young women that were giggling on the street corner. I shook my head and quietly whispered in Ballah s ear, "the same thing goes on in the States as well."


I could barely read the apartment number on the door when we arrived. It seemed as it someone had scratched it off with a thumbnail. Then, Ballah knocked three times in a rhythmic manner on the door.


"Hmmm thought to myself, "Is this some type of code?"

In a matter of seconds, a tall, athletically built man with smooth mocha color skin tone popped his head from the around the door. He did no tot speak to us but simply moved out of the way to let us in. He had suspicious looking eyes, so I let Ballah lead the way.

Ballah entered first, then little sistuh, then me. The first thing that I had noticed was that the hallway was dimly lit and the furnishings were sparse. Then the brother who had answered the door led us down a narrow corridor and motioned to the three of us that it was okay to go in.

I couldn’t believe my eyes. We were standing in someone’s flat. The host obviously converted their living room into a restaurant. Sensing that I was puzzled, Ballah gave me a plausible explanation as to how it is commonplace for many Blacks in the Baamas to use their apartments as restaurants because they cannot afford to pay the yearly taxes needed to keep a restaurant up and running.

In an attempt to respect their privacy, I suppressed my urge to photograph this place.
Still fascinated by their enterprising spirit, Ballah and I ordered the Joloff rice with fish. Little sistuh ordered the chicken with peanut stew.

As we waited for the food, I noticed that little Sistuh and I were the only female patrons in the place. There were approximately five other guys sitting around a free-standing white Formica table. Three were eating and two of them were rolling a joint.


"Do you smoke?" One asked with a Queen's English accent.


"No, thank you," I replied.


"Where are you from?" He queried. "New York? Oh, that s cool! I know the States. I had lived in Jamaica, Queens for two years before moving to London."

"So, what are you doing in Amsterdam?" I asked.

"I came here on vacation," he remarked.

At last, a connection had been established between me and the rest of the patrons seated in this restaurant by night - living room by day eating establishment. Our food shortly arrived and the fine looking man from London refocused his attention on rolling his joint.

After dinner, Ballah and "Little Sister" made sure that I got back to my room safely. They rode with me on the metro and the tram and walked me directly to my door. I thanked them both for an interesting evening and agreed to meet with them the next day. We exchanged hugs and waved goodbye and made arrangements to meet back at Dam Square at 7pm sharp.

While experiencing some degree of difficulty with unlocking the latch to my bedroom door, I thought to myself how lucky and blessed I am for meeting my new informal tour guides. I was excited that Ballah had promised to cook me an authentic African dish at his place the following evening and to take me to a place where they play some soulful, "Jah love" reggae music for free. He assured me that only the locals know about this place. I was pleased to know that because the last thing that I wanted to do on this trip was to hang out with other tourists.

I could barely undress myself quick enough before my head came crashing down on the pillow beneath me. I guess the jet lag finally kicked in and the only thing left for me do was to submit to the fatigue.

"Oh, Father! Thank you for bringing me across the waters safely and for having my back as I ventured out into the unknown alleyways of Amsterdam. Today was a good day and I am especially grateful to You for sending Ballah and Sistuh to watch over me!"


Goodnight.

"A Little Cream in My Coffee" is an excerpt from Travelling Shoes and Travelling Mercies: A Collection of Essays, Prayers and Street Politics for the Solo Traveler of Color. (An work in progress)



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