Shanghaied in Amsterdam
We recently went on a vacation to the Netherlands. Just my wife, Genifer, our youngest daughter, Lily, and I. At least that’s what we thought. Our cat Chester had other ideas.
I broke the news of our pending trip to him a few days before we left. Not one for liking change, I was expecting him to have a meltdown. But he kept his cool and just nodded. There was silence when I informed him that our neighbor would stop by daily to take care of his needs.
Not like Chester at all.
I was suspicious that this was going too smoothly. Not a hint of disappointment. No sarcastic comments. Just a bobbing head and his poker face was all the feedback I received.
I expected him to either jump into our luggage or bar the door. Neither happened, unlike a Chester doppelganger named Milo, who was doing just that last year.
“Bon voyage,” Chester said in a deadpan voice as we walked out with our suitcases and locked the door behind us.
As we drove away, we saw him sitting on the windowsill as if we were just going to pick up something from the store for him and quickly return home.
Usually, when we’ve gone on vacation, Chester puts up a big stink about being left behind. Not this time.
We soon put it out of our minds concerning the unnatural reaction our cat had and focused on the excitement of the start to our adventure.
We had high expectations for Amsterdam and the city exceeded them. Everywhere you looked was a postcard view of one of the planet’s most beautiful metropolises.
On our second day of strolling the streets, we heard a voice yelling “Hey American tourists, how are you enjoying your trip?”
That didn’t attract our attention since half the people on Spui street were from the U.S.
“How’s the weather back in Connecticut?” the voice said.
That stopped us in our tracks.
We all turned to see Chester sitting at a roadside table, sipping a virgin Fish Bowl cocktail at Café Luxembourg. He wore a big smirk on his face and had a couple of queens with him—the feline kind.
Someone could have made a lot of money if they had taken our picture showing the expression on our faces.
“How did you get here?”, I almost shouted.
“Plane,” was Chester’s crisp response.
“Ok, but how?”
“Booking.com.”
“But you don’t have a passport or REAL ID.”
“Who says,” Chester chortled. “With the new administration, all they care about is that you’re not a certain type of human. Know what I mean?
“No worries for us cats. I even got myself Global Entry for flying through customs when our holiday is done.”
“Our holiday,” I gasped.
“Yes,” Chester said haughtily. “I’m tagging along to soak in the wonders of the Netherlands.”
“How are you paying?” I naively asked.
“Credit card.”
“How did you get that?!” I foolishly asked again.
“Dude, America’s financial institutions love to hook what they perceive to be vulnerable populations who get caught in a never-ending cycle of credit card debt. That’s why the tallest buildings are usually built by banks, and the money comes from credit card interest rate payments.”
“Who would be dumb enough to issue you a credit card?”
“Wells Fargo,” Chester purred.
“I don’t believe you.”
Sure enough, Chester pulled out a Wells Fargo credit card from his Hello Kitty wallet.
“What type of con job did you do to obtain that?” I demanded.
“None,” Chester said matter-of-factly. “I filled out an application online and seven days later, I had my plastic.”
“Wasn’t there a background check?” I stammered.
“All they cared about was that I’m breathing,” Chester rejoined.
“Don’t forget that Wells Fargo is always eager to make money no matter what,” Chester continued. “Cat, human, hamster; it doesn’t matter to them. All I am is a potential windfall of debt.
“This is the same company that’s paid billions of dollars in fines over the past few years for things like: misapplied loan payments, wrongful foreclosures and repossessions, incorrect fees and interest charges, surprise overdraft fees, anti-money laundering and sanctions violations, and finally…fake work.
“That last one doesn’t seem to be a crime. I love fake work.
“Anyway, the bottom line is they need the scratch.
“Did I tell you how sweet KLM’s World Business Class is? They know how to treat a cat.
“Speaking of treats, what type of Dutch treats are you going to buy me now that we’re travel buddies?”
“None,” I said. “You just showed me you have your own credit card. You don’t need me to pay anything for you.”
“Well….” Chester’s voice trailed off.
“You see, on the credit card application, they wanted to know if I had sufficient income to repay any debt. Of course, I said yes, and the reason was you. I forged your signiture as a cosigner so you’re now on the hook for my discretionary spending and I will be discretioning as much as I can on our holiday together.
“Thank you in advance,” Chester said facetiously.
Genifer and Lily held me back from going after Chester. The only reason they didn’t is he hadn’t put their names on the credit card application.
We continued our walk with Chester joining us and dumping his female companions. In the process, he left them the bill despite having a credit card.
One thing you quickly learn while walking around Amsterdam is that bicyclists have the right-of-way.
In Manhattan, it’s pedestrians, cars and bicycles. In Amsterdam, it’s bicycles, cars, then pedestrians.
Generally, the Dutch are friendly people, but put them on bikes and place a horde of tourists before them, and you get the real-life version of Death Race 2025. Doubly so during tulip time.
Your head needs to be on a fast swivel because the cyclist will come from any direction.
There were many times when Genifer, Lily or myself would pull the other back from stepping out in front of Holland’s Hells Angels.
Chester was amused by the surprised looks on our faces as we dodged injury or worse.
“What are you scared about,” Chester asked.
“Dying,” I responded.
“You know what the leading cause of death is,” Chester solicited.
“Heart disease?”
“Good guess, but no. Try again.”
“Bicycles.”
“I see you’re giving this serious thought, but that’s not it either.”
“Okay, cat. I’m trying to enjoy our vacation and this topic isn’t helping in the enjoyment department.”
“Life.”
“What about life?”
“Life is the leading cause of death,” Chester purred.
“Everything that comes alive dies,” our Tabby exclaimed as he reached his eureka moment.
“Why are you bringing this up, Chester?”
“Don’t you see, scientists are focused on the wrong things. Forget fighting cancer, war or having your favorite TV show canceled. If they could solve this life thing, no one would die.”
“You got me there.”
“I know. I’m a friggin genius,” Chester finished as he skipped down the street, tail straight up.
Chester’s stream of associative thinking was fortunately interrupted when we visited some of the country’s great sights.
Even he was transfixed on the beauty of the Netherlands.
Chester took in the aroma of the vast tulip gardens at Keukenhof. We had to pull him out of the flower beds several times as he rolled around like he was sniffing catnip.
He marveled at all the windmills in Kinderdijk. Unfortunately, we almost got thrown out because Chester thought it would be fun to ride one of the sails. He got several revolutions in before an angry owner chased us away.
Then Chester became an art connoisseur when we visited the Rijksmuseum and the Mauritshuis.
While we were focused on paintings like the Girl with a Pearl Earring or The Night Watch, Chester was enthralled with any piece of art that had a cat in it.
“I had no idea a human could capture the real essence of a cat,” Chester marveled. “I give these compositions two paws up.”
As annoying as Chester could be, he became insufferable when we ate at a restaurant. That’s because we couldn’t escape him while stuck at our table.
The food was great, but the continuous stream of consciousness had us all asking for more beer.
“You know what I don’t miss while we’re here,” Chester announced.
“Commercials.”
“Yes, we have been so busy the TV where we’re staying hasn’t been on once,” I said, cautious as to where Chester would steer the conversation.
“Yeah, especially those two guys who are on every channel,” Chester opined.
“What two guys?”
“Something like Hart and Manning.”
“You mean Kevin Hart and Peyton Manning?”
“That’s it,” Chester shouted.
“I wouldn’t mind it if they were pushing kibble or catnip. But I don’t need insurance or DraftKings, whatever that is. It’s ceaseless. “
“They make a lot of money selling things.”
“Sure, I bet if you paid them a couple of dollars, they’d hawk Zyklon B.”
“WHAT,” I shouted as everyone at the eatery turned my way.
“Or maybe it was Plan B. I don’t know. They all sound the same to me.”
Whatever Chester’s viewing habits are, I wanted to change the subject.
“What do you think of the food over here,” I asked.
“It’s okay,” Chester said dourly. “The herring and eel are plentyful, but I want tuna. Especially tuna juice.”
“When we get back home, we’ll get you plenty of tuna juice,” I said.
That perked Chester up.
“What are you eating,” he asked.
“Bitterballen,” I said.
“What’s that?”
“Fried dough wrapped around beef and gravy. You want to try it?”
“Only if it has tuna.”
“No. Tuna. Don’t you like the kibble here?”
“Too cheesy. So much cheese in the Netherlands. I like my kibble straight. That’s something else to look forward to after we get back home.”
On our final day in Amsterdam, Chester said he had a place we had to visit.
“You’ll love it,” Chester squealed as he made us walk faster down the Herengracht.
“Here it is. The best place in the city,” Chester shouted.
There before us was the Katten Kabinet. The Cat Cabinet is a museum dedicated entirely to cats.
So, in we went. Fortunately, we didn’t have to pay for Chester because cats get free admission.
The museum is full of artwork about felines, and of course, a few living cats too.
This time, our art connoisseur wasn’t that interested in all the cat memorabilia, but the living furballs.
“You dragged us here,” I said. “Aren’t you going to look at all of this stuff?”
“No,” Chester said. “I’ve got more important things to do.
“I figured it would be good to educate you guys on cat history. I know all this stuff already. I’m here to talk to some natives.”
Lying on top of the lobby counter was a ginger Maine Coon enjoying a lazy day.
So, Chester struck up a conversation with the ginger in Dutch!
“Hoe gaat het met je maatje?,” he said with a perfect accent.
We were flabbergasted.
“How do you know how to speak the language?” my wife asked.
“Babbel,” was Chester’s reply.
“How long did that take?” Lily followed.
“A few months,” our cat said nonchalantly.
We left him in the lobby while we strolled through the museum. When we returned, Chester was speaking to several other cats in Dutch.
“I hate to break this up, but it’s time to go,” I said to Chester.
“Tot ziens,” our global ambassador said and hopped off the counter to join us.
We were sad to leave, but it was time to go. We had a great vacation.
We all took the same flight back, humans in economy and Chester in World Business Class.
Our shopaholic cat left the Netherlands with plenty of Delft cat figurines, tulip bulbs so he can roll around next spring in the flowers, two pairs of wooden shoes, and an assortment of other tchotchkes. He skipped the cheese.
I dreaded seeing his credit card bill, especially since he had me listed as his cosigner in case he couldn’t pay his debt, which was highly likely.
After we landed, the three of us waited in a long line to clear customs while Chester breezed through, showing his Global Entry card.
As he was heading out, he turned to us and shouted, “see you later, suckers.” Then jumped in the limo he had ordered and took off.
An hour and a half later, we reached our car for the long drive home.
Thanks to traffic, it took another four hours to get to our abode.
Opening the door, there was Chester, lying on the couch with a bowl of kibble and a large tuna juice drink. Apparently, he had a key to the house.
He was watching an NBA game when it went to commercial. Back-to-back Peyton Manning and Kevin Hart ads flashed before Chester’s eyes.
“For Bastet’s sake,” Chester cried.
He switched the channel to another game. More Manning and Hart. Another channel, same thing. Again and again, Chester couldn’t escape the kings of advertising.
“Ik haat deze onzin!,” he yelled in Dutch.
Chester finally gave up and turned the TV off and curled up to take a long cat nap.
Welcome home.
The Chester Chronicles 