(From top): Amsterdam’s famed red light district; Van Gogh’s celebrated ‘Sunflowers’; a view of Amsterdam by night; canals criss-cross the entire city; Amsterdam’s national flower — the tulip; one of the city’s countless flower stalls

I had a date with Amsterdam. Only, it took ages to come to pass. Several years ago, I’d spent five hours in the transit lounge of Schiphol Airport, waiting to catch a connecting flight to London. I wanted to venture out and catch a quick glimpse of the city. But I was on my first trip abroad and a bit nervous about finding my way about and then making it to the airport on time. Well, I’ll be back, I’d told myself like Schwarzenegger’s Terminator. But not being an android with a monomania, I didn’t get there until one cold grey April morning this year.

Stepping out of Amsterdam’s Centraal Station ? the city is a short 20-minute train ride from the airport ? the first thing that strikes you is the sea of tourists everywhere. From scruffy backpackers to sleek men and women hailing taxis and gliding away, the sprawling square in front of the station was heaving with holidaymakers. We ? my companion and I ? found our hotel easily enough for it was just a stone’s throw from the station. And though a bit jetlagged, we set off right away to take in a few sights.

A canal ride seemed like a good way of kicking off our tour. The Netherlands capital is criss-crossed by a number of canals flanked on both sides by tall narrow cream and brown houses with elegant gables. The hour-long boat ride won’t tell you an awful lot about the city for the commentary is way too sketchy. But it’s as good an introduction to the place as any, and it’s certainly pleasant to sail along those serene canals with their sonorous names ? Prinsengracht, Herengracht, Singel... ? and look at some of Amsterdam’s finest old houses.

I sat out on the prow of the boat to get a better view but the chilly wind soon had me scuttling for cover. By the time we got back from the boat trip, I, who’ve always laughed scornfully at the archetypal Bong’s penchant for mufflers and monkey caps, had succumbed to an atavistic yearning for anything that would protect me from the cold. “Where can I buy a woollen cap and a scarf?” I asked the boat driver, my teeth chattering despite my layers of woollies.

“Damrak,” said the man, gesturing vaguely.

Damrak turned out to be a wide, bustling thoroughfare filled with shops and ugly old buildings and swarming with tourists who ambled along, enjoying hotdogs or frites (finger chips with mayonnaise). The place has bit of everything. Turning a corner, we found a mini amusement park with a mile-high giant wheel from which cries of fright and elation sailed forth. On a Saturday afternoon, we even came upon a group of men and women making salsa moves and inviting passers-by to join in. The music blared from a scratchy stereo, a tall girl in a jewel green dress swayed sinuously, and we gawkers had a jolly good time.

But I digress. Having procured a cap and a scarf and duly donned them, we wandered around a bit. (Here I must mention that the scarf proved surprisingly difficult to find. Nearly everywhere I went, shop girls told me brightly that “vinter” was over, meaning that that I’d about as much chance of finding a woollen scarf now as I had of bumping into a woolly mammoth.) Anyway, we passed through narrow alleyways, dawdled over cups of cappuccino at noisy caf?s and then, before we knew it, we suddenly found ourselves in the middle of Amsterdam’s famous red-light district.

I had read about the place in the guidebooks. But nothing can quite prepare you for the real thing ? the prostitutes at their pink-lit windows, the masses of sex shops, peep shows, live sex shows, and, of course, the throng of tourists, some just looking, and some out to make the most of this orgiastic display of sex as a merchandise.

We went and sat in a bar next to the Oude Kerk, an imposing Gothic church in the heart of Amsterdam’s sin city. When evening fell, the church bells began to toll. I listened to their deep sombre notes over the din of techno music while the neon glowed luridly over a sex shop outside. For me, it was Amsterdam at its most surreal.

Prostitution is legal in the Netherlands. So is cannabis, which you can smoke in Amsterdam’s numerous coffee shops. I came across a shop called Hempshopper that stocks such fascinating stuff as cannabis candies, hemp lollies, cannabis cookies, etc. I was tempted to try one of these cool confections but seeing my fellow traveller bristling with disapproval, I decided to give it a miss.

The next day, we took a tram to the Van Gogh museum ? a vast post-modern affair that houses the world’s largest collection of the artist’s works. I lingered by the paintings, overwhelmed by his incandescent genius, a genius that had slowly descended into dark, despairing madness.

Later, we went to see Anne Frank’s house on tree-lined Prinsengracht. We saw the famous bookcase that had covered the secret annexe where 13-year-old Anne and seven others had remained hidden for over two years during the Nazi occupation of Amsterdam. Just a couple of months before Holland was liberated, they were betrayed and sent to concentration camps. Barring Anne’s father Otto Frank, none of them came back alive.

A visit to Anne Frank Huis can leave you feeling damnably sad. But the sun was finally up that afternoon and my mood lifted as we sat in a caf? by the canal and made a late lunch of salami sandwich and apple pie with whipped cream. A short saunter up the canal threw up a surprising treat ? an open air street market with stalls selling huge slabs of golden yellow cheese, the most incredible variety of breads, mysterious looking preserves and other odds and ends. Obviously, it was a place the locals frequented.

Over the next day and a half, I tried to soak up as much of Amsterdam as possible ? I strolled along the flower market on the Singel with its masses of many-hued tulips, browsed through souvenir shops brimming with Delft knick- knacks and tacky Van Gogh prints, and hung out at the bars of Leidseplein, those boisterous, smoky joints where everybody came to have a good time.

The last evening, we dined in a small Dutch restaurant called Claes Claesz off Prinsengracht. The food was excellent ? I had aubergine rolls stuffed with spinach and red gurnard (a type of fish) with a fennel pur?e, leeks and truffle oil ? and the house wine was cheap but good. Around 11 ’ clock, the chef, a tubby, bearded Dutchman, came out. He waved away the old gent playing the piano and took the mike himself. And he sang, believe it or not, the best rendition of You look wonderful tonight I’d ever heard outside of Clapton’s original. We sang along with him, all of us slightly high on wine and song.

I couldn’t have wished for a better way to call it a day in Amsterdam.