Trashy thoughts

The bins outside my house resemble deep wells, with swinging, gaping mouths ready to swallow down bags of people’s refuse. Each morning, I hear the clang of their metallic mouths shutting – something that I can only describe as a large, yawning basking shark. The rubbish bags make their way down into a sweating, cavernous inferno, only to be hauled out like Arthur’s sword each week with a Transformers-like, magnetic clamp. Afterwards, it’s taken off to somewhere we’d rather not think about, deep in the industrial heartlands of Amsterdam, far from here. It’s Protestant in essence: sweep it away, hide it, deal with it later. 

When I walk into the city centre, I see that the previously mentioned, conservative attempt to store rubbish underground is no longer in use. Since the grandiose houses along the canal belt do not have space outside for these rubbish wells, inhabitants must throw their rubbish onto the street. They are expected to leave their sacks of rubbish on the pavement, where they’ll be picked up by bin men in the early hours of the morning. Before you’ve risen for your morning havercappuchino, the evidence of your grisly grocery habits will be long gone, the pavements anew for whatever the day will bring.

In a city that is not only home to Amsterdammers, non-Dutchies (tering expats) and young families (yuppen), but also rats, seagulls and a whole menagerie of other vermin, this idea is merely a fantasy. By morning, bin bags are strewn all over the city, with seagulls screeching and tearing at Albert Heijn shopping bags like vultures nipping at flesh. Nespresso pods, rotting potato peels and crumpled beer cans are flung like innards over the pavement. Bins are pulled open by people searching for recyclable cans to exchange for coins. 

I see tourists wander over the bridge towards the Negen Straatjes, unable to fathom the fact that this Disney-esque city isn’t as sparkling and cutesy as they may have wished. A homeless man reaches into a bin and rummages around. Such disappointment for these tourists, I imagine, who, having travelled for thousands of miles to visit the Rijksmuseum, are exposed to the smellier, seedier side of this ancient city that’s splintering in the sun.

And then I see it. Like a Fata Morgana of overpriced, greasy food, I see the familiar queue over the bridge for Fabel Friet. Hungry tourists wait up to 30 minutes, ferried along by an actual security guard, to try truffle mayonnaise-soaked chips topped with a small mountain of parmesan. The heaving queue moves along slowly, and I see a group of Italians lean against the tiny storefront, posing for a selfie with their deep-fried wares. Beside them, a sign is placed beside a velvet rope more commonly spotted at a film premiere, asking patrons to move along, to bring their rubbish with them and to think of the people living there.

This street is no longer a quiet, charming, local one – and I’m not sure if it ever was – but a bastion of trash, a stop on the ride of the Disneyland that is Amsterdam Centrum. Like the torn-apart bins and rubbish incinerators far from here, this is the responsibility of the municipality, and who wants to climb that bureaucratic mountain? The city is drowning in rubbish and tat, from broken bins to 'influencer' chips. Maybe this adds to the liberal charm, the give-no-fucks attitude of a city that I love so much.

As I walk my bike over the bridge, and in a move that’s almost too poetic to write, a seagull swoops down overhead and snatches a chip out of a man’s hand, knocking the bag out of his hand, and splattering his food on the floor. I feel a pang of anguish for him – all that queuing for nothing.

I hope he got a selfie, at least.

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