Amsterdam

Getting off the tram, I start to follow the Asian guy across the bridge, as he's also carrying a backpack. When I catch up I ask what hostel he's going to and he names a different one from the one recommended to me at the station, but its much cheaper so I stick with him. He's Eddy, another South Korean guy on his own, doing an even tougher route than Ba-Kong, from the Sacre-Coeur, had been. His incorporates many of the major cities but also Hungary and several other Baltic Countries. He has however studied English at Portsmouth University, so is perhaps a little better prepared language-wise. He's certainly more prepared than I am, having booked the room in advance, whereas I'm lucky to get the last bed going. The Flying Pig Hostel is the first real backpacker haunt that I've stayed in, and becuase its Amsterdam this means the bar area is enveloped in a smoky marajuania eiderdown.

Celebrations in the Getafe penalty area turn to disbelief as the Real Madrid players realise that their goal has been disallowed and that the opposition have taken adventage of this to break for the other end unopposed and score. The flags and scarves on the walls predict a sombre mood in this tapas bar tonight, their players disbelief mirrored on their own faces. Jan, a Croatian working behind the bar, hopes the boss will not be in as foul a temper as last time his team suffered such a defeat. Said boss is a large man sitting next me, munching angrily on some chicken, but earlier he offered me some food to go with me beer. No more favours will be forthcoming I fear, as his mood is further blackened by a friend of his, a Barcelona supporter, who runs in and points at the replays and bursts out laughing, then proceeds to gloat rapidly in Spanish. I turn to Jan, who is philosophical about the whole thing. In fact he is philosophical about everything, after serving in the Croatian army for several years. This experience taught him to enjoy life while its there and he's traveled extenisvely, particularly falling in love with Cuba, where, despite having little, the people are happy. Its the sort of thing you'd expect to hear in Amsterdam, but the fact that Jan has learned these lessons the hard way is obvious and gives his words considerably more weight.

Outside the rain is streaming down, people shelter in whatever doorway is available, even, for brief moments, that of Cock Ring, until the hatch slides open and a bearded face glares out. Adam, an Australian, and Eddy were heading to a Coffee Shop for a smoke but they've gone by the time I get there. I wander in the rain and briefly consider borrowing one of the many bikes that lies unchained around Dam Square. In the end, after a short walk, I take shelter in the bar with the loudest music. The tunes are a fairly eclectic mix, as are the clientele. Rose Marie and her sister Dora are two Irish ladies keen to enjoy their stay. The sisters, in between accusing many of the women of being lesbians, would also like me to meet Rose Marie's daughter Fiona, who is apparently lovely and doesn't drink very much. Then a song comes on that everyone starts singing and they look at me as if I should know it. Thankfully, years of choir practices mean I can mime along to just about anything but afterwards I decide to make my excuses and leave, hoping to avoid an embarrassing song-related disaster.

TRAVELLERS TIP: Just because it looks like someone has left their fur hat behind, don't just try and pick it up to wave at the barmaid. Look closer first because it may be the barmaid's cat.

I meet Eddy again at the Van Gogh Museum, in front of the Sunflowers. I agree with him that the exhibition is very inspiring, following Van Gogh from his humble beginnings as an art dealer to his posthumous worldwide acclaim. The paintings make me want to go and draw something. Eddy recommends the John Everett Millais exhibition and he is not wrong, the collection is stunning, even more impressive perhaps than Vincent's work upstairs. To complete a morning of museums that had started with the world's smallest diamond (harder to create than it sounds), I head to the House of Bols, home of the famous genepe and the School of Bartending. After my cocktail I spend several minutes in the "flair booth" trying to make the screen work, then several more trying to juggle a bottle.

I wend my way back to the station through the canals and the streets, past two children drawing chalk dragons on the road in an alley. Crossing a bridge, one notices a predominence of ruby coloured neon signs and full length windows. The ladies wave as I walk past towards the station and I wave back, some talk on mobile phones, some stare out at the sky. There are posters in the windows protesting some planned legislation, the gist seems to be that it will force the girls out onto the streets, unprotected by their glass. The whole thing is more surreal than sexual.