Amsterdam 2025: Sticky Bars, Rose at De Kroon, and a Slimy Herring Regret

My husband is Dutch, so we go to the Netherlands as often as our hectic schedules allow. It’s always hard to leave the farm because it’s a lot for someone else to handle alone while we’re gone. It usually takes a few people coming at different times during the day—one in the morning to let the dogs out, one midday to let them back in if it’s too hot, and one at night to make sure everyone is safe from the wild critters that own the forest we call home.

In the past, our trips have been whirlwind visits, squeezing family time in between ultimate tourist activities. The end result is always the same: I come home absolutely exhausted from my vacation. That’s partially because I’m not a seasoned international traveler like Dennis. He can cross the world and still function the next day, while I struggle for days to get into the rhythm of the foreign land I’m visiting. Daylight savings time messes me up for weeks, so you can imagine what an eight-hour time difference does to my delicate circadian rhythm.

This time, we wanted to slow it down and just let the trip be what it would be—and we managed to do just that. To fight jet lag, we started off with a five-mile hike in a forest whose name I can’t remember. We saw sheep grazing among the trees, but the temperature was rising, so they were moved to a giant loafing barn to keep them cool. The increase in heat has his mother a bit flummoxed; she’s lived in Nijverdal her entire life and has never needed air conditioning, but she’s now considering it after dealing with the heat waves. You’d think I was talking about temperatures over 100°F, but alas, we were barely hitting the 90s. Still, it was humid, and the sweat running down my butt crack felt like I was being baked in an oven. We have roughly the same temperatures at home but with air conditioning everywhere.

We toured the Grolsch beer factory, and guess what? It was hot as a pepper patch too, but it was a fun tour. I will never forget how sticky the wooden floor in the tasting room was—probably because it pulled my sandal off, forcing my bare foot onto it. By the end of the tour, I was half-drunk with a sticky right foot. What could be more fun than that? At least I got a cool glass out of the deal.

We rented electric boats and toured around the canals taking in the sights of the villages. I was surprised at the staggering number of swans in the water and Dennis was surprised at the amount of people who didn't know how to steer a boat. It was more like bumper boats until we got into the larger area of water but it was a fun thing to do.

Amsterdam was hot as fuck. We started at a bar named De Kroon and ended at the very same bar. The bartender’s name was Rose. The place was divey, sticky, and dark—not my first choice in a destination—but you forget all about that once you meet Rose. She’s a friendly Turkish woman who speaks three languages fluently, and it’s always nice to find people who speak your language. On our first visit, she was super friendly and engaging, asking the usual questions: Where are you from? Why does your husband talk so weird? She wasn’t just like that with us, either. Rose was friendly to everyone who entered—unless they were underaged kids trying to score a round. She could see them coming a mile away.

We bar-hopped in the stifling heat, me sweating like an earthworm at a cardinal convention. Most of the bar owners just threw us a beer, took our money, and went on with their jobs. Some had an obvious dislike for Americans. We didn’t stay long at those places or return on the trip back.

The Old Sailor bar has been in Amsterdam for a bajillion years and is located in the red-light district. The bartender was a giant Dutchman with a foul mouth and foul temper, but he was hilarious. Someone ordered a Shandy beer which, if you’re like me and have no earthly idea what that is—behold: it’s half beer, half 7-Up. Folks, I kid you not. There are people mixing soda with beer. I can see all my alcoholic family members rolling their eyes and literally in their graves over this absurd creation. Dennis said the Dutch call it kinder beer, which means “beer for kids.”

The angry Dutch bartender, who truly lived up to his establishment’s name with his colorful sailor language, asked the man ordering the Shandy what kind of beer he wanted and was met with a blank stare of utter confusion. The bartender wasn’t one to waste time. He kept repeating the beer options louder and louder as his annoyance grew. Eventually, a decision was made, and the drink poured, but the bartender huffed, puffed, and cussed about it for several minutes afterward, declaring he wasn’t sure he could survive another seven years of idiots before retirement. It was comical, and honestly, I could identify with his frustration.

I never tried a Shandy beer, but I might someday—when it’s not at tourist prices.

We had lunch at a tapas restaurant in the red-light district too. Neither of us remembers its name, not because we were too fucked up but because it was completely unremarkable. Our waitress wasn’t friendly or engaging, and the food was typical tourist fare: under-flavored and overpriced. The bottled water was nice and cold, though. I used the restroom before leaving only to discover there was no soap. That always makes me question my life choices. How do those preparing the food wash up? They don’t!

We ended up back at the De Kroon just as a glorious thunderstorm rolled through, darkening the sky and releasing big, fat, glorious cold raindrops. I danced in puddles while others scrambled for cover. It felt wonderfully delightful on my overheated menopausal body. When we entered, Rose was standing there smiling, handing everyone paper towels. I ordered a giant beer and chugged it down like a dehydrated desert camel.

Underage people came in trying to sneak past Rose’s radar, but she carded them every time. It was fun to hear the myriad excuses they came up with for why their IDs couldn’t be produced. Rose handled it all like it was just another day at the office, with the patience of St. Arnulf (the patron saint of beer).

There was a coffee shop across from the bar, so I shot over to buy some weed. When in Rome… In no time, I was back at the bar, joint in hand, ordering another beer. Rose gave me the side-eye and asked if I was sure. Dennis came to my defense—sort of—by telling her, “Oh, she’s a stoner from way back. She knows her weed limits.”

Rose replied, “Maybe so, but you’re not in America anymore. The beer you’re drinking is 12 percent. If you smoke that joint and drink another 12 percent beer, you’ll either be dancing on this sticky bar or passed out under it!” She didn’t have to do that. She could have let me be a dumb American tourist, quite possibly embarrassing the shit out of myself in Amsterdam. But she was kind and took the time to ensure I continued having a good time. I took her advice and ordered a 5 percent beer instead. It wasn’t my favorite, but combined with my weed purchase, it created a wonderful sense of euphoric happiness that is always welcome in my kingdom.

It also created a maddening hunger—grade 13 out of 10 on the crunchy munchie scale. Dennis doesn’t partake in the devil’s lettuce but had enjoyed enough whiskey shots to require sustenance before we got on the train back to his mom’s house. Just across the street was a shawarma place. I have no idea what kind of meat it was, but the man placed it on a tortilla with vegetables and magic spices, threw some fries in the bottom of a white paper sack, shoved the wraps in, and sent our drunk asses on our way.

As we were leaving, I asked Dennis to take a photo of the bar and Rose came running after us with a purchase we’d left at the bar. She had gone down the street looking for us and was so excited to see us stumbling out of the shawarma place. We thanked her profusely for saving our stuff, and once again, she went above and beyond. She gave us hugs and said it was nothing, then watched as we crossed a few streets to find a place to sit, eat, and people-watch.

That wrap was hands down my favorite meal of the vacation. I still have no idea what it was, but it was hot, juicy, and bursting with flavors that exploded in my mouth like tasty pop rocks. The rainstorm had cooled the pavement, passerby were in better moods, and a light breeze kept the temperature perfect. We talked, ate, and watched people watching us for the better part of an hour until we felt confident we could find our train and haul ourselves aboard without vomiting.

In the train station, my many beers of various percentages were demanding a speedy exit, and I was in desperate need of a toilet. Seeing the signs, I ran for the restroom with Dennis close behind, mumbling something about coins. I got there and stopped, confused. Turnstiles blocked the entrance to the restrooms. The only way in was to pay. What kind of fuckery was this? I stood there, mouth gaping, bladder bursting, as Dennis thrust a euro into the slot and pushed me through with a gentle but urgent, “Hurry up or we’ll miss the damn train.”

Oh, the relief! I couldn’t help but wonder what would’ve happened if I hadn’t had the euro. I can tell you: I would have peed behind a trash can because I had no other choice. On the train ride home, Dennis told me there’s a way for children to get in for free if they absolutely can’t hold it, so I guess Europeans aren’t as callous as I’d been thinking. But that explains the constant smell of piss we encountered down alleys and corners of buildings, especially around the bars.

My least favorite meal of the vacation? Herring. I like fish—anchovies, salmon, you name it. I’m not a fan of fried fish, but grill it up, and I’ll tear it up. So when we passed a herring vendor on our last day, I jumped at the chance to try the legendary fish. Dennis insisted we take it back to his mom’s instead of eating it there like everyone else—holding it by the tail, dipping it in diced onions, and sliding it down the old gobble hatch. He ate his first to show me how. I grabbed mine, expecting anything but the extreme sliminess coating it. After several attempts, I managed to dip it in the onions and hold it up to take a bite. It was easy to bite through, but the slimy mushiness fell into my mouth like a gelatinous horror. I dropped the rest and searched frantically for somewhere to spit it out. I barely made it to the trash can before my stomach began to heave, warning me of a mass exodus if I didn’t act fast. Dennis laughed, saying that’s exactly why he wanted us to eat it at home—he knew I’d yuck it up. What can I say? He knows me. Most Americans don’t like them, but most Europeans do. I didn’t taste fish at all—just slime and mush. It makes me nauseous just writing about it. If you remember nothing else from this post, remember to JUST SAY NO to herring. When in Rome… leave the herring alone.

We went on several walks with my mother-in-law, had dinner with relatives, and caught up with good friends. This trip was a great balance of family time, couples therapy, and drunken tourist activities.

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