The Hillbilly Viking

I don’t trust the Dutch, mainly because they are so hard to pin down. Just when I think I understand the difference between Holland, The Netherlands, Belgium and Luxembourg, it blows up into a Flemish fuck-all. (Oh, and you can throw “The Hague” in there too, which sounds like the name of an aging, Euro-discotheque that reeks of cocaine sweat and Ketel One.) And to confuse me even more, I personally feel like the Dutch are really just French, but with less nicotine and more cheekbones.

Further vindicating my Dutch aversions today, KLM airlines subjected us to a classic bait and switch (or “baiten zie swichen”) when our connection from Amsterdam to Portugal was cancelled and automatically rebooked on a flight nine hours later. That meant our acceptable, two-hour layover at AMS turned into eleven. Believe me, I can’t afford enough overpriced, airport gouda and Heineken in Terminal B to make that tolerable. I needed options.

Hmm, what about a private, airline lounge?

Since I generally resist joining loyalty programs under the Groucho Marx axiom of “I wouldn’t belong to any group that would have someone like me as a member,” I have accumulated absolutely no “miles.” Furthermore, I’ll never know if “medallion status” requires me to wear an actual medallion (God, I would hope not), and the zone printed on my boarding pass generally falls between prisoner transport and livestock. But I’m still an emotionally evolved traveler, and I know that corporate loyalty is not binary and exists more on a spectrum, so I have no trouble admitting that even though I don’t identify as a frequent flyer, I’ve perhaps been a bit lounge-curious from time to time. Why wouldn’t I be? Lounges are universally sexy the way they linger discretely in the dark corners of the terminal, hidden behind futuristic, smoked glass doors adorned only with a subtle, dimmed version of the airline logo more akin to a secret society than a multinational, travel network. So, of course I’ve fantasized about getting past the stern looking, cosplay flight attendant guarding the entrance and wallowing in the untold pleasures that are exclusive to the air travel illuminati that dwell within.

Well, come to find out, for a mere 60 Euros, you can buy your way into the KLM lounge at AMS like a tech oligarch barging past Mortimer Duke at an old money, gentlemen’s club. For the record, I have neither old money nor new money, but I can afford 60 Euros to further explore my frequent flyer kink and remove myself from the unwashed masses of the travelling proletariat.

So, was it better than the wilds of Terminal B? Yes. Was it worth the 60€? Well, the way we downed the complimentary Heinekin and watered down KLM chardonnay over the course of eleven hours, we surely came out on the right side of that transaction, but individual results may vary. It definitely wasn’t the Xanadu I had concocted in my head, though. It was basically a similarly crowded but quieter version of the airport with incrementally more comfortable seating, if not any cleaner. It also included a Chamber of Commerce-like buffet, a self-serve beer and wine bar, and freedom from blasting airport announcements and children.

Oddly enough, it also offered private showers. And because getting naked in an airport terminal is apparently a newly discovered bucket list kink of mine, yes, I partook. After travelling for 24 hours, I felt like it was time to rinse off my netherlands.