Bikes and booze

by Elida Tato Tedin (Spain)

Making a local connection Netherlands

There is nothing quite like being in your early twenties and living abroad for the first time. Arantxa and I had met for the first time a couple of weeks earlier in Nijmegen, a small city in the Netherlands. We were granted an Erasmus scholarship that would allow us to study abroad for a year. When one thinks of the Netherlands one of the first things that pop into your mind are bikes. There are more bikes than people. Bike theft is the most common crime in Amsterdam. Everyone owns a bike, from children as young as three riding their own tiny bikes next to their parents' to people in their late eighties riding smoothly to the supermarket to everyone in between. Hence, what is the first thing you do when you move there? Exactly, you buy a bike. I bought the coolest second-hand bike in the world. Pink. Yellow flowers hanging in the handlebar. Coaster breaks. I was quite sure it was a kids' bike, but I am 1'60 meters (5.3ft) and all the other bikes were too high for me. Arantxa, on the other hand, was slightly taller than me and got herself a classic black bike. It was a lovely Saturday morning. Everyone was hanging out in the city center and we, of course, were no exception. Being Spaniards ourselves we did not want our new foreign friends to be disappointed and following the stereotype, we were late. Unable to find bike slots where we could leave our bikes we decided to leave them next to some other bikes attached to a tree. "That will do". Spoiler alert, it did not. When we came back our bikes were gone. There stood the lonely tree on its own. It took us five seconds to stop pretending we were not freaking out. Then and there we started enquiring everyone in the street if they had seen our bikes as we had lost a newborn baby. " You are not supposed to leave your bikes attached to a tree" - said a bearded Dutchman pointing the obvious “ Probably AFAC took them” “ A f*ck?” “ Look, kids, chances are your bikes have been towed”- we stared at him as we both understood what that adjective meant- "Let me search the address for you” Half an hour later there we were; in the AFAC headquarters, the bike police. Hundreds of bikes were neatly stored against the walls, each one of them with a yellow tag indicating the date of arrival and a serial number. Our ignorance did not save us the 10 euros we had to pay as a fine nor the deserved rebuke but it was ok, we had our babies back and it felt like a time for celebration. Five hours and more than five beers later we said goodbye to each other and we headed home. The very next day Arantxa and I met some friends for lunch and I was about to mention our adventure of the day before when she interrupted me to say that she had had an accident after our farewell. "I hit a wall" she laughed. "My front tire is crooked" She then began to explain how after having the most ridiculous casualty she locked the bike to one of the available bike slots around - we had learned our lesson - and walked all the way back home in the middle of the night. The plan was to pick up the bike after lunch and bring it to her place so it could be repaired on Monday. However, as soon as we reached the spot no bike was there to be found. Not there, not nearby, nor even in the AFAC offices the next morning. Not even the crooked tire was left behind. One thing I was sure of at that moment, buying a pink bike was indeed a great decision.