I assumed the gang of attractive young folks instinctively sensed my charisma and decided to join me at my table uninvited. But, more than likely, it was because I was an American and they were stoned.

Amsterdam is a friendly city, I think in part because many vices are legal and people are more relaxed. 

During the delusional old days, when Colorado’s ski industry’s PR efforts were hemorrhaging money, they came up with the ill-conceived concept that they should send a pack of ski-bum miscreants to host press-parties around Europe and Great Britain to promote the Rocky Mountains. 

Amsterdam was my favorite and not only because of my love of bicycling and Dutch-like complexion.   

After working late the night before, I spent the morning visiting the Anne Frank Museum. Like many students of my generation I had read Anne Franke’s diary, but the book did not prepare me for the emotions the home would evoke. It was easy to imagine a stain of terror left on the walls of that old home. While walking the narrow stairs toward the attic and listening to the tour guide’s description of the events in that building and city I was fighting back tears.  

I wept for the Jews, gypsies, gays, clergy and all those who suffered and died at the hands of the Nazis. But I also felt near nausea that the murder and suffering was, if not enacted, ignored by regular people of varying backgrounds and nationalities. 

I walked out grateful that there are monuments and museums that serve to remind us of what is possible when otherwise average people allow others to think for them. History is replete with stories of many creeds being fooled into believing that their problems are caused by a particular race, faith or lifestyle.

After such intensity there was ample rationale to visit one of Amsterdam’s many fine cannabis coffee shops.

I was sitting alone and reflective. I wished I had someone to talk to. And proving that God has a sense of humor, up rolled a handful of guys and gals who looked to be in their 20s. (At the time I was in my 50s.)
 I don’t speak Dutch so I don’t know if they asked to join me — but I do know they did.

My guess was that my jeans, boots and ball cap tagged me as an American. A few of them spoke passable English and when one gal asked where I was from and I answered Colorado, the crowd went wild. Some of them had visited and skied in our state.

After we all enjoyed some of the cafe’s libations, they got up to leave and motioned me to come along.

I had no clue where we were heading or if the bicycle they gave to ride was stolen, but off we went. As we rolled along, one of them said that we were going to a soccer match between a local team and one from Munich.

The crowd was divided, with half wearing the colors of Germany and the other wearing the orange of the Netherlands. The game seemed to be a match between local clubs and the rivalry seemed good-natured. There was cheering and chants from both sides and I tried to mimic my Dutch friends.  

It was much later in the game, perhaps fueled by alcohol, when things turned more serious. The chants on the Dutch side became longer sounded less good-natured. They were unanswered by the opponents.  The one word I could make out was “grootvader.”

The collected demeanor of our group was heated as they directed their chants at the opposing side. I sought out the gal who spoke the best English and asked what they were saying.

“Give us back our grandfathers’ bicycles!”

The Dutch love cycling. It seems that during World War II, the occupiers commandeered many bicycles owned by the Dutch. Many Dutch still held those bike thefts against the descendants of the German soldiers. Neither I, nor anyone in my group, or few in the stadium, were alive back then, but the anger had outlived the victims. And of course, stolen bicycles was simply a metaphor for more serious sins. 

And though the back and forth between the fans of the two nations had a perceptible edge, I have to believe the half-century between offense and confrontation had softened the resentment. 

This was confirmed when later, back at the cafe, I asked one of my new friends if they really held those bicycle thefts, 60 years past, against the grandchildren of the thieves. “Oh, no,” she said. “People are all the same — we just wear different colors.”

That is a good thing to be reminded of.