The Honest Truth

Two Dutch couples sit on chairs facing the street, sipping on wine. Their chairs are straw, their expressions serious. In Maastricht, people watching is more important than dining.

There’s restaurant’s everywhere in this place. Some of them are six-star Michelin, but some are just bad. Ruth and her boyfriend Alex have been living here for then months though, and know where they party’s at.

Apparently there’s good indonesian food, because there are many Asian immigrants. Ruth says the sushi isn’t bad either. It reminds me of eating sushi at a Cuban resort, though. What you really should be having, if Cuban food.

Turns out, Dutch food’s a little weird. We settledon what looked like a classic Dutch pub because most restaurants are closed on the Monday. There is a lot of meat here in Maastricht. We order a platter of cold cuts to share with bread, and I order some scampi in wine sauce with salad to follow.

The beer is insane. The big group of Dutch people beside us must’ve had at least ten rounds in little pints. I have a light beer with a sortof nutty flavour. There should be wine labels for the beer: nutty on the nose, a hint of rasberry, pairs well with meat.

My shrimp are good. Alex’s spare ribs look dry, and Ruth’s pork is covered in a creamy gorgonzola sauce. They say that’s typical fare here. Nothing tastes amazing, but there’s always fries, meat and tomatoes. Fine by me.

Around us looks like Gotham city. The buildings are tall, streets are narrow, and it feels like there’s a mist hanging over the city. There’s something medieval about being here. Like bats could descend on us at any moment.

As for people watching, I’m too engulfed in conversation with old friends to take in the Dutch people passing by. Besides, our chairs were turned towards each other, rather than in a row facing the street. I took in the sounds, though. That hard dutch sound that gets louder with each beer. Those words that sound like they might be English, just a little different. goede nacht. good night.

We downed a couple more pints before stumbling down the cobble streets to the apartment. As we leave, Ruth tells me to look behind. One of the Dutch couples still sit at the table, their stern expressions not letting up despite the wine, staring straight ahead.

*Stayed tuned tomorrow for Alex’s last night in the deutschland. PARTY.

Maastricht. Here I am. I missed a night of sleep because on the flight to London they make the plane dark when you get on at 6 p.m., and then draw up the blinds to serve breakfast at 12 a.m. In London, it’s morning. Rise and shine.

Heathrow airport was hell. Full of signs that seem like they must be meant to throw you off. A practical joke that’s not funny to any traveller. I almost missed my connecting flight to Amsterdam after waiting in an unnecessary line, pinched through the gate, and still had to ride on a shuttle to get me to the airport. Heathrow is ridiculously huge and complicated.

Crashed for an hour and woke up in Amsterdam. Luggage went missing, which was expected considering I almost didn’t make the flight, but I kept my head high and got on a train.

I love trains. I can justifiably space out, not have to worry about what direction I’m going or getting into an accident. I know I’m going somewhere, but someone else is in charge.

Three hours later, I’m off the train and running towards Ruth, my friend living in Maastricht. We crack a joke and just like riding a bike, we’re speaking that old language we developed living together in university. Ruth’s in Maastricht working for the European Journalism Centre, living with her boyfriend who’s doing his masters in European studies at the University. We tell each other we look the same.

We walk out onto cobble stone streets. Every sign looks like it’s for Ikea. Helvetica and simple pictures. There’s shops and restaurants littering the streets. Expensive ones. It’s a huge boutique town. There’s a big river that seperates the city, and we walk over the bridge. I joke it’s the brooklyn bridge, and point to one beside it that must be the Manhattan.

We pass pastry shops, shoe shops, cafes. People are everywhere, basking in the heat. Enjoying a smoke or a beer. Chimes are going off. It’s a religious town with lots of older, rich people. The preserved jewel of the Netherlands.

We get to Ruth’s apartment ontop of two cafes. It’s adorable. Simple. Ikea-like. White and reds. She has big windows sun pours into and it’s humid as hell.

Ruth’s back to work, and I’m trying to track my luggage. In a couple hours, we’ll meet for wine. For now, I need some sleep.