The Milkmaid and the Bike Taxi
We left Paris for Amsterdam by train, which turned out to be absurdly easy—suspiciously so, like when a recipe says it takes “five minutes” but you’re still chopping onions two hours later. You just walk on with your bags, sit in a large, comfortable seat, and marvel at the WiFi and electrical outlets, which are apparently the new baseline for civilization. They even brought us snacks with coffee and water, as if we’d stumbled into a flying first-class lounge that just happened to be on rails.
I didn’t take the coffee. Chad and I had already stopped for cappuccinos before boarding, which had to be done before someone got hurt – I need coffee in the morning. But the woman offering beverages was so cheerful I felt guilty turning her down—like I was personally attacking her coffee-making lineage.
The conductor—tall, lanky, and topped with a cap—strode through the car with a thick, gray mustache so perfect it might’ve been affixed backstage by a makeup artist. He looked like the sort of man you’d cast as “Dutch Conductor” if your film had a budget and a costume department.
We arrived in Amsterdam and, with us, came the strangely persistent sunshine. It felt like we were dragging a weather cheat code from city to city—everything looked sharper, like someone had toggled “high-definition” in real life.
After collecting our luggage, we tried to exit the station but were stopped by a stubborn turnstile that refused to open, perhaps as an act of civic hazing. We looked around for a solution, like two raccoons trying to exit an IKEA. Finally, I consulted Google and discovered the magic trick: you have to scan your ticket again to leave. You’re welcome.
Our hotel was visible from the station—a dangerously convenient arrangement—and we walked over. I broke the news to Chad that I wanted to visit the Rijksmuseum. Not in a “we’re doing this” tone, but in the more delicate “wouldn’t it be charming?” register of long-term relationships. I have a thing for Vermeer, and the last time we were here, in 2012, the museum was under renovation, and we never made it inside. I only got to see two of the four Vermeers they have, like being given a sampler platter and told to imagine the rest.
The full set includes:
- The Milkmaid
- The Love Letter
- Woman in Blue Reading a Letter
- The Little Street (my favorite)
Chad, being a good sport or simply resigned, came with me. On the way, we got a sense of the city and stopped for a waffle. Here, they dip them in chocolate, presumably because they want you to lose all self-respect as quickly as possible.
We wandered through Vondelpark and sat on what I initially thought was a charming bench but turned out to be a tree stump. I felt like the boy at the end of The Giving Tree—just grateful for something to sit on, vaguely haunted by a metaphor.
Inside the Rijksmuseum, we encountered the usual suspects: the people who take photos of paintings as if the art might escape without proof of capture. I saw The Milkmaid—serene, gorgeous, timeless—if you could ignore the parade of smartphones being held up like sacrificial offerings.
Friendly reminder: you do not need to photograph a painting. They sell postcards, posters, tea towels, probably even an apron. You have Google. You can stare at The Milkmaid in your pajamas later. Just… look. With your eyeballs. Let Vermeer do his job.
The museum itself does a great job moving people through the highlights. It’s like touring a nation’s attic—these are the things they couldn’t bare to part with, and here we all are, crowding around them with audio guides and judgment.
Afterwards, we realized we’d wandered far enough that walking back wasn’t appealing, so we decided to conquer the Amsterdam subway. It turns out we are pros at figuring out the subway and it was even easier than the Paris Metro. There’s more English in Amsterdam than you’d expect, and easy to communicate with people.
Back at the hotel, Chad consulted with the concierge, a man named Caesar—yes, really—about where we might find an Indonesian Rice Table. This was new to me, but apparently quite common in Dutch-Indonesian restaurants. Caesar suggested we take a bike taxi since the weather was so pleasant. Chad balked at first, insisting he couldn’t possibly subject another human being to hauling us around. But it turns out it was an electric bike, which meant we simply sat back like minor royalty and enjoyed the ride, our guilt comfortably motor-assisted.
Because Indonesia was a Dutch colony, there are plenty of Indonesian restaurants in Amsterdam, and the Rice Table—Rijsttafel, if you want to sound knowledgeable and slightly pretentious—was invented by colonists trying to impress one another by making their Indonesian cooks prepare twenty different dishes in one sitting. Colonialism: not content with taking your land, they also want you to cook a buffet.
It was delicious, mind you, though twenty dishes is still a bit much unless you’re training for an Olympic eating event. Fortunately, the modern version comes in three waves and the portions have been scaled down to something short of overwhelming.
We walked back along the canals, dodging bikes and bachelor parties, which is just how you navigate Amsterdam in the evening. The water shimmered, the lights twinkled, and the whole city smelled like waffles and possibility. What a lovely day.
