The Hague

Four nights in The Netherlands. Amazing how different cities can be. I had detailed instructions from my colleagues here including exactly where to change my pounds for euros at Schiphol (in the baggage claim hall) and what ticket to buy (2nd class to Den Hagen Centraal Station CS or Den Hagen Hollandspoor Station HS). I had a Google map showing my colleagues' offices, my hotel, the station and the place where we were due to meet with members of the Dutch government in the afternoon. And I had an email which read, "Too far with 2 suitcases. Take tram 16 to Wateringen or 17 to Statenkwartier just outside station on the left, and get out at Kneuterdijk. From there 2 minutes walk. Small stripe cards of 1-2 euro are available in tram. Or take a cab for about 10 euro."

Difficult choice - 2 euros or 10 euros ... my Scottish blood coarsed strong. I took the tram.
That is when things started going wrong. It may have been on account of my thinking the busdriver would appreciate it if I spoke Afrikaans rather than English. "Hoeveel kos dit om na Kneuterdijk te ry?" I asked. He looked non-plussed, bored, sullen. "Kneuterdijk" I said again. Maybe I was pronouncing it wrong. "Knay-ter-dayk?" "Knay-ter-dike?" "Kneea-ter-dayk?" "Kneea-ter-dike?" No response. Eventually a sullen "Een sestig". Problem was I only had one forty in change, and besides that a few 50 and 20 euro notes. He wasn't interested. I dumped my suitcases on the front bench and stood so that I could look out for the busstop signs. The tram lurched forward and off we went. It was very pretty - canals, old houses, cobbled streets - charming. Problem was none of the signs said "Kneuterdijk". Eventually I summoned up the courage to go back to the grumpy old fart. "Ekskuus meneer, maar sal dit nog lank wees voordat ons by the Kneuterdijk kom?". "Dis lankal verby," was all he managed to grunt, with an air of satisfaction and a slight smirk. He then told me I should get out and catch the next tram back. "Moet ek hier uitklim?" I asked. "Ja, ek sal so se" - again the smirk.

I managed to get the luggage out and across the road to the inbound busstop. Then I remembered I still had no change and presumably the fare would be the same. So I popped into the local cafeteria and seized the first edible thing I saw which happened to be a punnet of apples. Just as I was paying the tram arrived. I grabbed my cases and the apples and sprinted out the door. Hague streets are different - well some of them are - the trams run in the middle, flanked by pavements where the tram stop is, and outside those are the car lanes. I dashed across the car lane and a large panel van screeched to a stop, narrowly missing me. But I couldn't be bothered - I ran on and hopped onto the vehicle just in time. This time the driver was a little more sympathetic and showed me where to get off. Except it took about five times before I realised he was saying "Buitenhof" - it sounds like he was chewing cardboard.

Then I misread the map and went looking for the Park Hotel in Park Street - sounds logical. Problem is the Park Hotel is in Molen Street. Eventually I asked somebody and they kindly pointed me in the right direction.

The hotel itself is in a charming little street just off the old city centre. It is not wide enough to take more than one car. It is flanked by 3-4 storey old buildings. Presumably the upper floors are offices or apartments. The ground floors are shops - many restaurants, but also an art shop, a tobacco and pipe shop, some clothes shops, a cafeteria, an Italian take away - none of them huge, in fact many of them only a room. I had reserved an entry level single room but the hotel was pretty empty and they kindly upgraded me to a double in the "garden wing". Nothing fancy but comfortable enough. Complimentary fast internet connection. Walking distance to the office, the station - just about everywhere. I could see I was going to enjoy this.

The next morning I met my colleague at the station. We had a meeting the other side of town, about 3km away and she suggested we go by bicycle. It was a fine day - a little windy but dry enough. She had hired me a bike and off we set. The Hague is extremely well supplied with cycle paths, cycle lanes, cycle just about everything. The place is crawling with bicycles, which is somewhat intimidating to start with for both pedestrians and cyclists but once you get the hang of it it is easy enough. I was wearing a suit so felt a bit of a Charlie, but then noticed that there were many others doing likewise and I didn't stand out in the least.

That night I went to a dinner organised by the folk at the office. They meet regularly in each others' houses and have a "theme meal". This time the theme was "Morocco" and I enjoyed a number of traditional Moroccan dishes whose names I cannot remember but which tasted really scrumptious. I took with me a bottle of SA wine - found some pinotage at the cafe across the road for 7 euro's or so. I didn't recognise the estate but at least the cultivar was genuine SA. Actually it was a very pleasant little wine. The venue was someone's apartment about 10 minutes' ride from the hotel. We rode through the "Hagenbos" which is a very pretty little wood. The meal was delicious, the company excellent and the wine did not disappoint. I managed to pilot the bicycle back to the railway station from where it had been rented and walked the remaining km or so back to the hotel.

My last afternoon and night in The Hague was supposed to be another cycle, but the heavens opened, complete with thunder and lightning and instead of some exercise I sat in my hotel room and tried to catch up on emails. Boring ...

About 8 pm I was feeling decidedly peckish so thought I would take a walk and see what was on offer. Across the road from the hotel I found a small Italian restaurant. Actually more of a take away - just one table if you wanted to sit and eat. The lasagne had just emerged from the oven but was unfortunately too hot to serve. I settled on a tomato and pesto panini, expecting the kind of thing we get served up in our supermarkets under the name panini. I stepped out onto the cobbled street, drizzle starting to run off my hair, took one bite and was almost blown away. So this is how panini's are supposed to taste! I was so impressed that when I had walked all the way around the block, by now pretty much wet through, I returned and said rather sheepishly "I have come back for the canneloni", which I took back to my room like a polar bear with a fresh fish, to devour in private and at my lesiure.

Then it was all over and I was on the train to Schiphol and on to Cape Town। But I had been there long enough to have decided that I liked it and that I should come back for a holiday and get to know the Dutch, the Netherlands and The Hague a little better.