Nirvana on the Zuider Zee

After whirlwind visits to New York, London, Copenhagen, Oslo, Bergen, and Amsterdam, the boys were tired. Embracing their new traveling mantra, “Be flexible,” they took another look at their planned itinerary, which called for them to head into the heart of Germany. But Tom and Jim agreed that it might be a nice break to find a smaller, Flam-like town to recharge their batteries.

Tom pulled out his dog-eared Let’s Go Europe and one of his maps, falling apart from multiple re-foldings.

“Here’s one—Enkhuizen,” Tom said. “It’s on the Zuider Zee.”

That sparked Jim’s attention and fond memories of reading about Hans Brinker, the Silver Skates, and the boy who plugged a dike with his finger.

Located about 40 miles northeast of Amsterdam, Enkhuizen sits on the shores of Ijsselmeer and Markermeer lakes. For most of its history, which as a city started in 1356, Enkhuizen was an important harbor on the Zuiderzee and a major trading hub for the Dutch East India Company. At one time, it had the largest herring fleet in the Netherlands and for a long time was known as “Herring Town.”

Upon reading this (aloud, per usual), Tom envisioned a fishing village, with boats, seagulls, and women on the docks, waiting for their husbands to return home from the open seas with the day’s catch.

More reading revealed that although for centuries it played a prominent role in the herring fishing industry, the city now focuses on other economic sectors—water sports being one of its most popular and profitable. But what struck Tom and Jim was the town’s quiet charm—its cobblestone streets, numerous cafes and restaurants, and a population of just 10,000 (now closer to 18,000).

One of Enkhuizen’s major attractions, then and now, is the Drommedaris, a 15^th-century fortress and bell tower. Back when Tom and Jim visited, its upper floor, once a prison, had been converted into budget lodging. For just 6 guilders—about $2.50—they could toss their sleeping bags down in the large open space. The tower also housed a 44-bell carillon—which nearly knocked them off their feet when they chimed as they dropped off their backpacks.

They had arrived early in the day, so after stashing their backpacks, they rented bikes (just 5 guilders for the day) and set off. They pedaled along the canals and into the countryside, where even the ducks and swans, it seemed to Tom, waddled up to say hello. As with the small village of Hilton in England, Enkhuizen struck them as the perfect storybook setting.

That feeling only deepened in the early evening as they walked the cobblestone streets. The houses were lovingly tended—flower boxes on the windows, small gardens in neat plots, lace curtains pulled back even at night. You could peer in and see families gathered at supper. Bells rang constantly from the Drommedaris, the local church, and the town hall. Children played in the park. It all felt like a brief step into utopia. Nothing to fear in Enkhuizen.

That night, they were surprised to see that no other backpackers had checked in, and they had the entire third floor of the Drommedaris to themselves. All that space—atop a former fortress and prison—was fitting. It was Halloween night. Spooky.  And it gave them a taste of what a late-October night felt like inside a drafty 15^th-century building.

Tom and Jim spent Halloween '77 as lone hostelers atop the 15th-century fortress, Drommedaris. (Photo (c) Drombar)

The next morning, Tom and Jim continued their exploration of the town. As they descended from the third floor, they discovered that the other floors were used for various local activities and cultural events. That particular morning featured a fencing match. The boys sat and watched for a while, not knowing the sport but enjoying the cheers that erupted with each sudden thrust and parry.  

They also visited the Enkhuizen cemetery, where many of the gravestones marked the resting places of men and women their age—or younger—casualties of WWII. They also visited the Tomb of the Unknown Soldiers. Known Unto God. They both reflected once again on the incongruity of the horrible events that took place in this now quiet and peaceful place.

Before catching another overnight train, they walked once more along the canals, past cobblestone alleys, windmills, red-roofed row houses with furniture hoists. This, Tom remarked, was how life should be lived.  As night fell, this feeling deepened as they could easily see scenes of domestic tranquility.

From Jim’s journal: Walking in the cold wind and looking in the windows of the small cottages, so close to the sidewalk/street. A woman in a chair, legs tucked beneath her, head tilted, asleep. A man in a chair in a corner, reading. A child? Maybe. Warm.

From Tom’s journal: The streets, the houses, the friendliness, the shops, the canals, the bicycles, the nightly walks, the bells, the children, the flowered parks, the smell of the bakeries, the water always nearby, the use of cycles, the windmills, the fine weather, the small local pubs serving the sausage and cheese you want and top off with a Heineken. Just needed a town crier!

It was another extended “Moment of Nirvana” for the two Overlanders. But Germany—and beyond—beckoned.

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 And now for the NOW. Reflections on Enkhuizen:

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Amsterdam: Definitely Not in Ohio Anymore

The backpackers Tom and Jim met in Scandinavia were eager to share their must-sees and don't-bothers about their upcoming visit to Amsterdam:

"Don't miss the Rijksmuseum. Awesome."

    "Too crowded. If you want to see The Night Watch, buy of box of Dutch Masters cigars."

"Take the Heineken tour. It's free and you can get a nice buzz on by noon."

    "Heineken? That's not real beer."

"You can get whatever drug you want, anywhere you want."

    "Don't buy from the Moluccans. They're aggressive as hell and their hash is garbage."

Just as they had eagerly anticipated the good, the bad, and the tawdry on their way to New York City, Tom and Jim couldn’t wait to experience canal-laced Amsterdam—The Venice of the North.

On the train from Bergen, Norway, they shared a compartment with a couple from Colorado. Ellen, a history major, was thrilled to be visiting Amsterdam for the first time. She looked forward to seeing masterpieces from Holland's Golden Age. She was especially psyched about the newly opened Van Gogh museum and the chance to walk the historic canals that earned Amsterdam its nickname.

Doug, by contrast, was a seasoned backpacker who had been to Amsterdam several times and seemed interested only in replenishing his drug stash. It was he who had warned them about the Moluccans. “And stay away from the Youth Hostel,” he added. “It’s full of thieves.” 

After parting ways with the Colorado couple at Amsterdam Centraal (not a typo) Station, Tom and Jim were surprised to run into a familiar figure on the train platform: Devron, the mysterious “Man in Black,” as Jim had dubbed him. They had first met him on the ferry in Aurlandsfjord, the spectacular branch of the Sognefjord in Norway. In his characteristic formal manner and aristocratic accent, Devron greeted them with, “I should very much like to find accommodations with you.” The three of them booked a room at a hotel near the train station, costing 12.5 Guilders each—roughly five dollars in 1977. By the next morning, the trio agreed that the cramped quarters weren’t worth the “exorbitant” price,

Since Tom and Jim enjoyed the youth hostels they’d stayed in so far, they decided to ignore Doug’s advice and try their luck at the Christian Youth Hostel—located, ironically,  in the heart of Amsterdam’s notorious Red Light District. A stone plaque above the entrance read, “Jesus Christ is Lord of This House.” (The hostel has been considerably updated and upgraded since then, but at the time it was loud, crowded, and dingy.) Several signs in the check-in area warned against pickpockets. The dorms were segregated by sex, and Tom, Jim, and Devron found themselves among fifteen to twenty men, none of whom spoke English and all of whom looked, as Tom later put it, “The greatest collection of freaks and burnouts from a wide assortment of countries.” They were loud, leering, and—frankly—in dire need of a shower.

Jim slept in his clothes that night, money belt tucked under the waistband of his jeans.

Before all that, though, the newly formed trio spent the day hitting all the must-sees. They started on a boat tour of the Canals, followed by a visit to the Rijk and Van Gogh museums. They stopped in several bars, where beers were served with cheese-and-cracker boards—no salty peanuts for the Dutch—and the vibe was bright and social. Drinking, it seemed, wasn’t the point. Socializing was.

That evening, before returning to the Youth Hostel, they walked around the Red Light District—De Wallen, as the locals call it. It is the oldest district in Amsterdam and specializes in the world’s oldest profession. Tom and Jim walked along the main canal, Oudezijds Achterburgwal, wide-eyed and slack-jawed at the women in the windows lounging about in barely-there lingerie. Almost as surprising was the normalcy of it all: People returning home from work—home might be right above a red window—couples strolling along nonchalantly, families wending their way through the throngs of tourists.

“Doc,” Binks said at one point, “We’re definitely not in Ohio anymore.”

Devron played it cool, of course. The Mystery Man In Black launched into a monologue about the more sophisticated European mores versus America’s puritanical mindset. It may have been the beers sampled in the various bars they visited that led him to eventually claim that if he were to go into one of the “shops,” the woman inside would pay him. Tom and Jim laughed, but Devron didn’t crack a smile. When they half-seriously offered to pay for his hostel bunk if he’d just go inside and ask how much she would pay him, he demurred, then declined.

“I don’t want to show off,” he said.

After a restless night in the Youth Hostel (Jim still half-expecting to be robbed at any moment), the three visited the Royal Palace and then split up for the rest of the morning. Tom and Devron toured the Heineken brewery, while Jim wandered around DAM Square, ordered a coffee, and watched the street performers. Every few minutes, a young man would lean in and stage-whisper, “Haaaaash?”

The three regrouped for a late lunch before heading to their final stop in Amsterdam—a sobering counterbalance to the city’s freewheeling spirit: The Anne Frank House, located at Westermark 20 the Prinsengracht Canal. As one of the most famous museums in the world, there’s no need to describe it here. Despite the long line outside and the crowd inside, the house was eerily quiet. Afterward, Tom, Jim, and Devron were uncharacteristically quiet as they made their way back to the hostel to pick up their backpacks en route to Centraal Station. Devron was off the Italy to scout out more framing opportunities; Tom and Jim had decided on Germany for their next leg of the journey.

On the train, Tom immediately pulled out his journal and a brochure he’d picked up from the Anne Frank House and copied down her most famous diary entry:

“In spite of everything, I still believe that people are really good at heart. I simply can’t build up my hopes on a foundation consisting of confusion, misery, and death. I see the world gradually being turned into a wilderness, I hear the ever-approaching thunder, which will destroy us too, I can feel the sufferings of millions and yet, if I look up into the heavens, I think that it will all come right, that this cruelty too will end, and that peace and tranquility will return again.”

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And Now for the NOW: Reflections on Amsterdam

Comments, Observations, Questions? We'd love to hear from you! Please share your thoughts in the comment section below.