The fall of Amsterdam?

To the world, Amsterdam is a postcard — canals that look like paintings, cafés that spill out onto cobblestones, the kind of nightlife that fuels legends. And I’ve lived here. Three times. I’ve loved her, left her, come crawling back again.

When I first arrived, it was easy to fall. You didn’t need Dutch. The coffee was strong, the food global and unpretentious — Surinamese roti one day, a perfect croissant the next. It was right after Covid, when the whole city seemed hungry again. Terraces overflowed, parks became beer gardens, and you could feel the pulse of people finally exhaling. It was hard not to love this place.

But the city I knew has changed.

Housing was always a mess, but now it’s a bad joke. Inflation has made even the basics feel like luxuries. A night out can cost less than a grocery run. I left because I couldn’t find a place to live that didn’t eat my entire paycheck — unless you count a bunk bed in a hostel as “home.” Every euro was a decision. Every indulgence felt like a gamble.

The Amsterdam I first met had room for everyone — the cooks, the bartenders, the students, the oddballs. Now, it’s leaning toward those who can drop a month’s rent on dinner without blinking. The charm is still there, but it’s getting harder to see it through the cracks.

A city without its locals isn’t a city. It’s a show. And if you’ve ever loved this place, you know she was never meant to be a stage.