How To Make Real New Friends In Amsterdam

I wrote the following article in 2013 (!!) for PS of the Amsterdam news paper Het Parool.

(this article is translated by Chat GPT, let’s agree we don’t mind the correctness too much)

Alright. I’m going to make friends. In the Jordaan, or maybe in De Pijp, or in the Plantagebuurt or Baarsjes or another area in Amsterdam.

I’m really going to do it. Take steps. Go to clubs. Go to bars. Strike up conversations in the Vondelpark, and who knows what other spec-ta-cu-lar things. Because making friends is, of course, very easy. Know your interests, look for likeminded people and make contact. Easy does it.

Or should I approach it completely differently? Maybe it’s very difficult? Does Amsterdam not want a new friend at all? And am I open to it myself? And why is it actually so awkward to admit and discover that this is the case?

Just a normal guy
I’d like to introduce myself. My name is Johan, I’m single, and I’ve been living in Amsterdam-West for over six years. I’m a comedian, available for hire for team-building purposes. I enjoy the city, frequent bars, theaters, and restaurants, and I’m actually quite spontaneous in my interactions.
What I mean is: I’m just one of those Amsterdam guys. When I see myself rushing by in a shop window, I think: just a normal guy, with to be honest: a great taste for style! On the outside, it looks relaxed and maybe even successful, but on the inside, it regularly stumbles over itself.

One Sunday afternoon a few months ago, I was walking alone through one of the parks. Just another Sunday. A slightly chilly day, in the Rembrandtpark. I was bravely taking a stroll. I was getting some fresh air, like some people inhale a line of coke. With a determination, as if that nose just wouldn’t get fresh. I was trying my best to get through Sunday. I had already watched two episodes of Dexter and now I was walking through the park. Ah, nice.

Or not so nice?

Uh, no. Not really. Because I wanted… togetherness. I had been alone on Saturday night that weekend too, and it happened more often. Saturday night, yes. Alone. You read that right. That feverish night when everyone, absolutely everyone, is going wild in the city, and everyone loves everyone else and gets drunkenly smooching, on that supersonic Saturday night, I’m sometimes alone. At home, on the couch.

Of course, I could go to Apeldoorn or Nijmegen to have a cozy coffee with genuinely nice distant friends, but I didn’t move within the ring to roam the quiet streets and squares of Schubbekutterveen every Sunday. (Schubberkutterveen is a non excisting place but it means all the boring small villages where nothing ever happens) I find Sunday a difficult day, especially in Schubbekutterveen.

Well then. Action! Making new friends. On a Saturday afternoon, I did go to a free tango class for singles. With great reluctance, I sit on the bike. What a hassle. Making friends.

Elephant in the room: Am I secretly looking forward to meeting a nice single woman? Yes, yes, of course, but you know, I had promised myself not to look for a lover anymore, because everyone and everything tells me with a serious look: you must not look, you must especially NOT look! (absurd tip of course, because if you’re looking for a house in Amsterdam, no one ever advises not to look, instead they say you should go crazy on Funda.nl, what’s the difference?).

Arriving at the spacious, somewhat dark tango dance hall, I see five couples sitting. Boom. My new friends, it can’t be otherwise. I shake everyone’s hand a little too enthusiastically. Carefully, I ask where my dance partner is. She’s not here yet. Okay. No panic. It’ll be fine. Patience is a virtue when it comes to friendship.

The dance class starts, and the girl still hasn’t arrived. I call out to the tango teacher that I filled in my height on the website, ‘so you could find a good match!’ The tango teacher dances fierce tango steps and shouts: ‘Just watch the other couples. You learn a lot from that too!’ There I am, dancing alone. A perfect summary of my life.

After solo dancing, I collapse on a terrace and wonder if Amsterdam even wants friendship anymore. And how do others do it?

I pose the question to Merel Hendrikse, a sociologist. Her answer is disturbing: “In Amsterdam, there are more highly educated people. If you have some brains, you move to the city. They are often ambitious people who come to the city to build a career. They are not looking for new friends unless those new friends are useful.”

I let Merel’s words sink in and look around the café where I agreed to meet her. Café Gent by the Schinkel. I realize that I agreed to meet there because I hoped there would be successful types. People useful for work. Am I also so obsessively focused on my career?

SURVEY
A day after that talk, I post a survey on Facebook about friendship in Amsterdam. My question was: ‘How satisfied are you with your social network?’ The results (26 respondents) disappoint me. The majority respond: ‘Very satisfied. Enough people nearby!’ ‘Very satisfied, I know wonderful people I can count on!’ and ‘Mischa’ writes that she expects forty friends at her birthday and is proud of it. Only Yvonne offers me some comfort. She writes: ‘Recently, I wanted to meet up after a hard day’s work, and no one could. So I drank a bottle of wine at home by myself.’

Next activity. I went to the introductory drink of the club New People Meet. I plan to just browse. What could go wrong? With a pounding heart, I walk into the café in the Jordaan, and there I am. The introductory drink. Surrounded by other people who also Want to Meet New People. That’s what connects us. We are lonely. We look at each other uncertainly and sheepishly, and there are some limp handshakes here and there. I’ve never felt so sad.

But why actually? It’s very lively to meet new people, right? It’s good to open up, isn’t it?

Still, that idea doesn’t really take hold in my mind. I think one thing: I’m standing here with other losers, who are too ugly for a normal friendship. Or too dumb. Or too socially awkward. I consider leaving the place growling, but no, I stay. Damn it. I order a beer, and in the hours that follow, I have well-meaning conversations with men and women I have little connection with. They are really sweet, but I miss the coolness. Disappointed, I bike home through the Jordaan. I pass Proust and Thijssen, where crowds of people are standing, drinking, and laughing together. I pedal on and curse myself. Why not just have a beer there? Most people are quite up for a chat, after all?

A CRASH FRIEND
Where do I find that place where I can always immediately go with my story, with my daily worries? Because that’s what I’m looking for. A crash friend.

In Amsterdam, I have one so-called crash friend, D. I can call him anytime for coffee, to crash, so to speak. Then I have another enthusiastic friend, but she’s in a relationship. Less spontaneous. Besides that, I have a bucket full of neighbors. And maybe more than fifty acquaintances.

The specific feature of a ‘crash friend’ is that you can drop by spontaneously. Spontaneous is the key word. That seems wonderful to me. That’s what I want. That you only have to bike for a maximum of fifteen minutes. Oh, what: I want to crash three streets away. And that the coffee turns into a few beers because you end up chatting spontaneously and deeply about women and the meaning of life and Ajax. That can happen with friend D., but I want more of that. (Friend D. also has a remarkably generous side, very sympathetic, because he doesn’t really care about Ajax, but he still talks about it. See, that’s friendship.) A crash friend. Deep and open conversations (about the true nature of people and their motives) peppered with fresh self-insights and a dash of women updates, seasoned with tidbits about the latest films and theater, with a dessert of chatter about Frank de Boer and his team. That’s the wish list.

I decide to consult a psychologist, Jitske Zengerink, about my quest. I wonder if there’s something about Amsterdam that makes forming friendships so tough. What does she encounter in her practice?

IDEAL

“What you see in the fast, beautiful city is that people are sensitive to an ideal image. Great job, beautiful house, enough money, many friends to do things with, a relationship, children. It seems through social media and hotspots as if everyone has it, and you don’t. That can give a feeling of loneliness. While you’re just looking at the outside. Besides, that perfect image doesn’t have to be your own picture.”

I think about Jitske’s words. They are about me. People who seem a little less hip and are not immediately in the creative corner, I close my heart to. Not interesting.

What Jitske says about the pursuit of the perfect picture reminds me of the ideas of psychologist Ingeborg Bosch. Bosch writes about how we turn away from childhood pain through various behaviors. She writes and talks about longing. Longing for money, sex, a whole lot of perfect friends, and a top career. And achieving that perfection is also imbued with urgency as if our lives depend on it.

That urgency, I recognize it in my quest too. I’m looking for a perfect picture.

Besides, I know that I sometimes suffer from another phenomenon: if someone doesn’t text or call me back, I draw damned quick conclusions. Conclusions like: they don’t want me. I must have said something wrong. They think I’m a bore. In nine out of ten cases, it turns out I’m completely wrong in my conclusion. People enjoy my company.

I absolutely want to make a third attempt. I post a message on Twitter: ‘I’m a bit tired of eating alone, who wants to cook for me once?’

I got a message from Joël. He wants to cook for me. My first reflex is to write that my tweet was a joke, but I decide to accept the invitation. Even though I read in his Twitter bio that Joël is a VVD council member and loves foie gras. Even these imperfections I accept. Foie gras? And eating with a VVD’er? VVD’ers are horrible, right?

MARINADE
On a Sunday evening, I’m welcome. Joël is going to make lamb. The evening before, he tweeted, the lamb was already marinating. Delicious.

Arriving at his apartment, I see Joël already standing on the balcony. With his friend. What?! Friend? That wasn’t in his Twitter bio! Am I going to eat with a gay couple? Yes, indeed. Get over it, don’t whine. Make contact. As long as they don’t want to marinate you, there’s no problem. Hup! Upstairs, I shake their hands, light a cigarette, and Joël asks me to smoke on the balcony. Sure. No problem.

Is it a nice evening besides that? Yes. Absolutely. The lamb is excellent, the wine flows abundantly, Joël and his friend are nice, and the conversations are amusing.

Proud of this action, I come home that evening. Is this the beginning of a new friendship? At least it’s a tentative proof of what I had forgotten for a moment: there are indeed people open to contact. Even ambitious, highly educated Amsterdammers.

Besides, I’ve decided to strengthen ties with a good acquaintance. I’ve called a few times, and he hasn’t called back, but I won’t be deterred. I’ll talk to him soon, I promise.

I’m Johan and I’m a writer. I’m inspired by the crazyness of being a human being. About how we struggle and in the mean time trying to hide that. So funny. My pieces are sometimes reality, but sometimes the story gets stronger with a bit of fiction. 

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