Queen’s Day

Queen’s Day. The day I have been anticipating since before my arrival in the Netherlands. The day that I have been anticipating since Ahna Minge discussed how amazing the day was during Macalester pre-study abroad orientation. The day when the Dutch let their hair down, go crazy, dress all in orange. The day of city-wide street parties, of concerts in every major city square, of day long drunken revelry. Queen’s Day. Queen’s Day was Wednesday.

Our celebration began Tuesday evening. With the ceremonial lighting of the Party Candle, our festivities began. An impressive collection of cheap, knockoff brand soda and bizarre and brightly colored liquored materialized on my desk in a matter of minutes. A case of Grolsch sat waiting in the fridge. The fun, summer-y music of Cut Copy floated from my laptop. We sat in a circle and we drank. We made plans. We reveled. Nick was asked about his ten day trip through Germany, Italy and Switzerland more times than I could count. We debated the nature of orange and whether Bri’s liquor was of orange hue or red (it was red). We decided to head out. Beer was packed into backpacks, mixed-drinks poured into soda bottles, tobacco and rolling papers stuffed into pockets. The party candle: extinguished.

Bikes were unlocked and many attempts were made as Sarah tried to ride sidesaddle on the back of mine. Eventually we succeeded and rode to the ISHSS, our predetermined point to store our bikes and walk into the city center. We rolled as we walked, drank as we walked, celebrated. I joked about smashing my bottle on the ground ala Ryan in season four, episode eleven of The Office, but he was high on cocaine and we’re not into that shit.

As we passed Waterlooplein, the bass beats began to pound, drawing us in. We had planned to go to Spui, but that could wait. The music drew us closer. Behind Het Muziektheater a stage was set up. Lights flashed. Crowds gathered. We pressed on, it was Rembrandtplein we were now searching for. We were split. Bathrooms had to be found. More beer was removed from backpacks. We waited, we were reconnected. The “naah-nah-nah, naah-na-na-naaaahs” of a Hey Jude cover wafted through the square. Those around us danced and pressed forward to the stage. We retreated, we retraced our steps. We advanced toward the music at the Muziektheater. The crowd pulsed, we pushed, moving forward, closer, closer to the stage. Again we were split, stranded among thousands, dwarfed by the population of the tallest country on the planet. Again we retreated, and in our retreat, we were reunited. More pushing, more drinks spilled upon us by those who attempted to carry uncovered drinks into the mass, more dirty looks and muttered curses in languages we didn’t understand.

Outside a tent, we reconvened. Talked, laughed. Smoked. Talked and laughed about addiction, and how it was over, done, I, maybe all of us, were addicts. We lost Sarah. Through SMS texting, she was found. We skipped, jogged, jumped, descended upon her outside the Metro. She had to go to Centraal. I donned a tiara. Minus Sarah, we began to our original destination, to Spui.

In Spui, we ran into other IES kids. Sam wore a hood attached to no jacket. He pointed us to the music. We walked. We the found the band. Some guitars, two saxophones and a trombone. Probably a singer somewhere in there. We pushed on. We were in Dam Square, we found a carnival and neon lights. We contemplated riding, but were in no state. In the morning! Yes, yes, in the morning we would ride. Hallie bought cotton candy, we began walking back to our bikes. Nick and I talked music. We talked Battlestar Galactica and the final five. We surged on and returned to Funen on our bikes. Briefly we returned to my room, lit the party candle, convened. It is after midnight, I don my orange t-shirt, for it is now Queen’s Day proper. Then up to Sarah’s room, where she was entertaining Eleni and Anne, two other Mac kids. We conversed, a brief respite from the night.

In a state, I realized the party candle might still be burning, unattended in my room. An image of a Funenpark in flames filled my head. I returned to my room, but the candle was out. Who extinguished it I know not, but I am grateful. With a bowl we go to the roof and retire to the smoking corner out the wind. We pass the bowl. It hits hard. Later we rejoin the circle. The ground seems to wobble beneath my feet. I take a step backward, then a couple forward, trying to maintain my balance. I try to lean back against the wall, but it is farther than I imagined. I fall.

Suddenly, sitting up on the ground, my mind is clear. I am back with reality. Christy suggests soda. I think that is a wonderful idea. In my room, I sip on a mug filled with €0,33 EuroShopper Cola as the conversation continues around me. As time passes, out numbers dwindle. Bed, they say, wake us up at 6am for shopping. Soon it is Nick, Christy and I staving off sleep in my room, the last three of our crew left to fight away the call of our soft pillows. Six a.m.! Pah! we say, that is but mere hours away. We can stay up. We shall persevere. We run through our options in staving off sleep. Card games! Yes! Perfect, but we have no cards. We shall make cards! Of course, yes, we have index cards, we have writing utensils, yes, we shall make playing cards! No, what an idea. Making cards? Whose idea was that? Far too much work. We shall take a walk, watch the sunrise, stay awake.

Away from Funenpark we walk, toward the windmill, toward the Albert Heijn, which, to our dismay, does not open until 8am, a full four hours away. We walk to Oosterpark, through Oosterpark, around the block. We decide to find the perfect vantage point to watch the sunrise, over the water, on a bridge. I lead us through the Dappermarkt, expecting to arrive back by the windmill. But we do not. We pass under unknown train tracks, we walk down unknown streets. We are lost. The sun quickly approaches the horizon. It is a race against time. Soon, a FEBO in the distance. I know this place!

To the river, to the bridge, we walk. Conversation becomes irrelevant. We are zombies, zombies waiting for the sun, hoping for the perfect view. It is light out. We reach the bridge. Has the sun ascended above the horizon? We cannot tell. A chilly breeze floats over the water. We stare off in silence, observing. It is 6am. We have friends to wake. Back to Funen we walk.

A knock on Bri’s door. She answers, Dana pops up behind her. She will be out shortly. Alex’s door: Liana answers, confused. Alex will be out shortly. We decide to prepare some breakfast, but there is miscommunication. Time is lost. The day is fading away, the Free Market has begun, goods are being bought. Around 7am, as a reconvened group, we again depart Funen.

The streets are quieter than we expect. No vendors, no booths line the sides of Prins Hendrikade. Nothing near Centraal. We arrive at the Jordaan, our legs exhausted, our endurance waning. But we have arrived at the booths and the vendors and the shopping. We felt reinvigorated. We bought coffee for €1, and chocolate-orange cupcakes for another Euro. We are replenished. We search out deals, we search out oddities. A framed photo of a very young Arnold Schwarzenegger dressed as what appears top be a geeky scientist? Check. Amsterdam Ajax football scarf? Check. Sherlock Holmes, sci-fi and humor books? Check. And various t-shirts, jackets and bags? All accounted for.

We stroll. We peruse and browse. The streets fill as time passes. Our cravings for sustenance increase, as do our assertions that there is no way we are walking back to Funen. We find ourselves near Spui, we find ourselves on Leidsestraat. Christy breaks away, back to Centraal Station, back to Funen. Us others press on to Museumplein. Nick and I break away, to find a tram, to find Funen, to find sleep. The 10 tram from Leideseplein isn’t running. We walk further, ask a woman directing traffic about the 10. It isn’t running, she says, but try the 14, just over that way. Over that way we walk, but find no tram, only a lonely, abandoned bus stop. We push on. Ahead, a tram! It’s number is no matter, anything to rest our feet. No charge, the attendant tells us when we offer her our €1,60 in payment, too much craziness today to take money. As the tram pulls to a stop, I see the 10 approaching behind us. Off our unknown tram we hop, and onto the 10 we climb. The attendant this time is less benevolent. We pay our €1,60. We arrived back at Funen.

Let’s sleep for a while, Nick and I say. It is 11:30am, we have been up for over a day, do we not deserve this rest? we ask. We will meet again at four, we say, we will go out again at four. We go our separate ways. I sleep.

At 3:30pm I wake up again. Soon, I receive an SMS from Sarah. They are in Spui. I cannot bring myself to walk there. There has been so much walking already this day. So so much. I say I will meet up with them later. I do not. For the rest of the day, I watch Six Feet Under in my room, recuperating on Queen’s Day, my timing all off.

I will return in years to come, this I vow, of this I am certain. I will come back to Queen’s Day, and in the years to come, I will adjust my timing. In the future, no more will I sleep away Queen’s Day afternoon, missing the music in Museumplein and Spui and across all the city. But for now, at the moment, I am content. Wrapped in my Ajax scarf, I look back upon Queen’s Day, the night before, I look back upon Free Market and getting lost in the city in the middle of the night, upon beer in backpacks and rolling while we walk, upon falling to the ground and clearing my head. I look back and think Man ‘o man ‘o man. I survived Queen’s Day 2008. That was a good day.