Page 20 of A New Life in Amsterdam

I wake up with a banging headache, a dry throat and the memory of running out of next door’s houseboat last night.

I sit bolt upright as I remember the evening and decide that it might be best if I keep a low profile for the next few days.

My kettle whistles loudly, bringing me back down to earth, and I hear a knock on the door at the same time.

What if it’s Abe? I hesitate about answering it.

Then I see a shadow outside and I can tell by the build that it isn’t Abe but the postman.

‘Good morning, you need to sign for this,’ he says.

I peek my head outside, towards Abe’s boat.

There is no sign of Ted on deck, so I guess they are already at the coffee shop.

I decide it might be for the best not to pop in for those lovely hot chocolates anytime soon.

I would hate for Abe or Beatrix to think I am always hanging around.

The only consolation is that my mail will keep me busy for a while.

I look at the books that have come in the post – Dutch in Four Months.

Since I managed to find a beginner’s Dutch class in Amsterdam that starts next week, I wanted to be prepared.

There’s nothing worse than walking into a class with no experience, so I thought this should help me feel a little more confident.

With nothing planned for today, I sit with a coffee and start reading right away.

‘Dank je,’ I repeat. At least I can say thank you for my coffees now.

‘Goedemorgen,’ I say out loud to myself. I’ll practise this the next time I see the postman.

This is going to be so easy. Then I look up the words ‘I am sorry’, since I always seem to be apologising for myself, although I am trying to stop that terrible habit.

‘Het spijt me.’ Is that right? It sounds like spit on me or something.

I hope I don’t say that wrong. This then leads me down a rabbit hole of new vocabulary.

By the time I have learnt a few basic words, my head is thumping.

A mixture of yesterday’s beer and it being a long time since I had to concentrate on learning something new, I can feel the fatigue setting in.

Knowing that Abe is safely nowhere near home, I decide to go for a walk to clear my head.

The autumn air is exactly what I need, and I feel better for getting outside.

I have no idea where I am heading but it feels good to take my time and look around the streets.

As I am walking past a shop, the smell of caramel and fresh dough wafts over me.

Since I skipped breakfast, my stomach rumbles, reminding me to eat something.

The caramel smell is too tempting, and I quickly find myself ordering a stroopwafel.

An enthusiastic Dutch guy tells me the extortionate price of the waffle and I hand over my credit card.

The cost of waffles seems to have risen hugely since my last visit here, but then again this is a European city.

However, instead of being handed a takeaway, the guy hands me an apron.

At first, I am confused. I suppose eating waffles can get messy if you heap it up with maple syrup, but then he takes me into a room at the back where five happy faces smile at me.

For a moment, I wonder if they are still drunk from partying the night before.

‘Have you ever made stroopwafels before?’ asks the super-excitable host.

‘Um, nope.’

‘It’s very easy,’ he tells me.

He then presents me with a waffle maker and puts it in front of me.

I’ve heard of self-service but making your own waffles isn’t something I had expected, particularly for the price they charge.

I look around, bewildered and finally summon up the courage to ask someone what is going on.

An American tourist kindly informs me that I have walked in on a waffle-making workshop.

No wonder it was more expensive! At first, I feel like asking for my money back and explaining that there has been a terrible mistake.

I was only feeling peckish! However, while it isn’t quite how I saw my day panning out, looking at all the happy faces, I decide that it isn’t the worst way to spend it and so I gleefully muck in and knead the dough without complaint.

As I do so, a young guy next to me manages to drop his dough on the floor.

‘Ah, it’s okay. Start again,’ says the patient host, Jan. We all give the guy a sympathetic look.

‘So, if you take your waffles and use your cutter. There are all different shapes you can use.’

We all scramble for our nearest cookie cutter. Mine is in the shape of a star.

When I am finally happy with the shape, I pop it into a waffle maker and, like magic, I manage to make the perfect hot waffle.

Having made our waffles, Jan instructs us on the next step, which means it is time for the topping.

My mouth is watering as I look at the choices of maple syrup, whipped cream, Nutella, honey and hot fudge sauce to choose from.

There are healthier options too, like fresh fruit, but I’d have to be a maniac to choose that.

‘Oh, I don’t know which toppings to choose,’ I say to the American tourist.

‘I’m going all out. Nutella, whipped cream and hot fudge,’ she says.

Jan brings around coffee and tea for us all to enjoy with the waffles and we sit back and relax. I take a bite of the delicious stroopwafel, which is truly divine.

‘How have I been here so long and not tried a fresh stroopwafel?’ I say out loud.

Everyone is too busy making ‘mmm’ and ‘ahh’ noises to answer. The look on everyone’s face tells anyone who might be looking into the room that this is a truly orgasmic experience.

By the end of it, I feel as though I have made five new friends, and I even have a certificate proving that I attended the workshop and that this wonderful experience wasn’t some kind of fever dream.

I may even frame it since I don’t have many certificates that I’ve earned through life.

We all say our goodbyes and I head off with the extra waffle I made, which is wrapped in tissue and tucked in my bag.

I consider whether I will eat it later. Then I think how Abe and Beatrix have always been so kind, sharing food with me and lending me equipment for the renovations, so I decide to give them my extra waffle.

More importantly, it might also help break the ice after I ran out on him last night, and act as a sort of peace offering to show that I am as interested in Beatrix as I am in Abe.

Even though they are probably sick of stroopwafels by the time they leave the coffee shop, I decide to drop the extra one on the doorstep.

When I get back to mine, I am surprised to find a handwritten note has been posted through my letterbox.

The writing is in Dutch, and I realise it can’t be from next door because they would know I couldn’t understand it, so I quickly try to read it.

Is it from the mysterious pumpkin picker? I still have no idea who that is.

I attempt to read the torn piece of paper, but I can’t understand a word of it. So, I reach for my language books for help. Word by word, I do my utmost to translate it all.

The first part says, ‘You’re invited.’

Okay. What am I invited to?

It takes me ages to translate each word but finally I get the gist of it.

Halloween houseboat plate party on Dutch Schooner. 30 October. Bring your own drinks and one dish. 7 p.m. RSVP

A Halloween houseboat plate party sounds so much fun.

Abe, Beatrix and Gerrit have told me how sociable it is around here, but I have been so busy settling in that I haven’t had a chance to enjoy the community.

I still haven’t met many people. This party sounds just what I need.

I might even find out who left the pumpkins.

Maybe it was someone on one of the other houseboats? Was it a housewarming gift, perhaps?

I don’t know which boat Dutch Schooner is, but I immediately write a note to say how much I would love to attend and apologise for my lack of Dutch.

Having the note to deliver will give me an excuse to check out the neighbours’ houseboats.

I decide to drop the note off right away, before I forget to RSVP.

I pop my coat back on and pass next door’s boat first. I look at Aquaholic, which is such a fun name for a houseboat.

Now that I know about Abe’s past, I guess the name also seems appropriate given his previous life as a workaholic.

I consider what mine should be called. At the moment, it has a Dutch name, which is quite a mouthful, and I am ashamed to admit I can’t even pronounce it.

So, I try not to mention its name and merely call it ‘my houseboat’.

Looking at these fascinating names that tell me something about the personalities of those who live on board, I really think I should register mine with a new name.

I remember Gerrit mentioning that this isn’t too difficult to arrange.

I think about what I should call it. I study the other houseboat names that I pass, some of which make me smile.

There is Liquid Asset, Ship Happens, For Cod’s Sake and Bullshipper, while other boats have Dutch names that I don’t yet know the meaning of.

I remember a doctor who had a houseboat on the canals of Brecon called Knot On Call, which I guess was appropriate.

It’s further proof that people’s personalities shine through via the name of their boat.

Finally, I find the barge I’m looking for.

Dutch Schooner is an older houseboat, which is similar to mine since it needs some TLC.

I try to work out who lives there. Who invited me to this party?

There is no sign of anyone around and a simple solitary blue wooden deckchair sits on the deck.

Pots with the remnants of perennial plants are scattered around and moss grows on the roof.

Whoever lives here doesn’t have time to pamper their boat. Perhaps they would rather party.

The scruffy wooden door has paint chipping off it and I post my note carefully in case I accidentally remove any further paint.

The boards creak as I try to scarper before anyone comes out.

Although I received a friendly party invite from here, it looks like one of those places where someone might come out and threaten you with a shotgun for trespassing.

There is something a little creepy about it, and an awful thought occurs to me that I could be the only person invited to the Halloween party.

Now that would be incredibly scary. Surely the person who owns this place isn’t that weird?