Last week I abandoned caution and spent the day walking in Amsterdam with a flock of female friends, on flipflops. Yep, those gorgeous but basically not-so-good-for-your-feet flipflops. Just because mine are Crocs and every nurse in the world swears by her crocs does not mean they are actually appropriate for serious walking. 

Because women do not walk sensibly. We mission on. We have a plan and we stick to it: the Albert Cuyp market and The 9 Streets. Gotta do it doll, gotta see it all.


Make no mistake, it was hilarious. One of us had a travel guide and an other's husband (who seems to be rather controlling or is this just me?) had drawn up 'the most sensible route'. Between her book and her hubby we spent a lot of time looking for streets.
Every now and again someone would ask me to consult my app. Which would always at that moment have fallen into one of the many black digital holes of Amsterdam. 

To save money we took our own lunches along. I, being a virgin in the 'group of friends on a roll' stakes, had made dinky little gluten-free wraps with salad and ham and chopped tomatoes. 
Ha! The others were obviously street sluts: they had raisin buns and bread rolls with sticky and chew-offable stuff on them.  


Because we did not picnick in the park as I imagined. Good grief no! That would waste time better spent on arguments over whether we should go left or right. The guide book wasn't too clear and hubby said go right. All my instincts and some knowledge of Amsterdam told me to go left. When I explained why she blithely exclaimed: "oh that's ok, we'll go left: he often mixes up left and right!"Which sent us into gales of laughter remembering marital conversations with him at the wheel and her with the map yelling left! left! No! I mean the OTHER left!






My wraps were delicious, even falling apart while hiking through divine little streets (there was a dog who politely cleaned my fingers for me afterwards).






And we were not the only ladies walking the streets.
women on the go

There were old ladies. There were young ladies. Middle-aged. Fat, thin, black, white and brown.
And when there were two or more they were smiling. Laughing. Giggling hysterically. Wiping the tears of laughter from their eyes.













Like us. We saw what we wanted to see. We ended with a bad dinner on a terrace with a friendly owner and the sun in our eyes and a whole summer of pleasure in our hearts.
 



 

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                               
 

But my feet are sore. Three days later they are seriously insulted. A whole day on flipflops just can't be done anymore. 
Those Italian ladies look like they might be able to walk again the next day. Not me: I am sitting on the couch with memories to treasure and very seriously sore feet:-)
 

SoreFeet