At the beginning of July, wife and me took a notion and booked three nights for the family in Amsterdam at the end of the month.
The following Saturday morning I was in the house killing time with the kids. I said, ‘Let’s get the Glider into town and see if we can get something about Amsterdam!’ I wanted to look at guidebooks and maps in Waterstones. Foolishly thinking this meant Dutch-themed colouring/books/toys for them, the kiddies happily agreed. I didn’t correct them.
Off we went, and in the bookshop’s travel section we found no less than ten different thick guidebooks on Amsterdam. There was also a postcard-sized, fold-out map. But then I saw just what I wanted, a guide book with a fold-out map – maps in fact, including various sections of the city and the transport network. It was pocket-sized and affordable. We took it to lunch, played at folding it and looked at the photos.
Three weeks later we arrived in Amsterdam. The first morning, after breakfast, I asked, with a little faux helplessness, what was the best way to get into the city centre. This did the trick. Out came the hotel’s own branded city map. The receptionist laid it out between us and circled the hotel and the closest metro station. This map also marked some local points of interest like the nearest supermarket. Most importantly as it turned out, it contained the numbers of the city’s tram lines.
This was a win, but I wasn’t done yet.
‘But there’s got to be a stand full of tourist leaflets somewhere round here? There always is,’ I said.
‘There is,’ said my wife patiently, nodding past the reception.
Ah yes, tiered display shelves of literature – and I scored two more maps, one in a booklet of coupons, and another, a fold-out part of a city guide. Both free, but both with differing coverage of the city, different little pictures of landmark buildings, and different kinds of transport info.
Over the next three days, the maps were half-ripped from snatching, lost then found, smudged by rain and coffee, and crumpled from incompetent folding. At night I studied them, picking destinations, estimating distances, and charting routes. On subways and street corners I had two or more out at once, cross-referencing for our next move. The maps were joined by others that we picked up in local areas, tour routes and attractions – maps within maps, maps in every hand and pocket. Just once, when it was raining, I resorted to asking my wife to get out her phone and use the ‘stupid blue dot’ on Google Maps to find where we were (I refuse to turn on my location). But I had my maps and, for the most part, they were all we needed.
My six-year-old likes to write books after breakfast. The day after we returned home, she got some pages and wrote about going to Amsterdam. She listed all the places we went in order of her preference. Then she got the hotel city map out of the recycling and attached it, folded, to the back of her book. She was so pleased she’d made a book just like our guidebook.
On this trip I was more aware than ever what a colossal privilege it is to simply be a tourist. The amount of money, time, health, and social confidence it takes for a small group of people to successfully move from one country to another and back is staggering. So when I have that privilege, I want to do it right. The tourist map’s days may be numbered. But the map isn’t just about a place. It is a place.
So keep your blue dots! I’ll find myself – in the folds of a dog-eared tourist map.
David Mitchell 