How to Survive Amsterdam pt. 1
A full-time student, a 30-hours-a-week job, homeless, and juggling a low-paying internship—how did she do it?
- Deel één - part one -
Well, just when I thought moving to Germany was a challenge in itself (after trying to move there twice), Amsterdam really tested me. Little did I know, the skills I picked up while moving to Berlin would be totally useless in my next adventure—language barriers, building a kitchen in an apartment, negotiating a contract in German, and getting an anmeldung? Toss those skills out the window, sis, and buckle up. Ahh, Amsterdam, where do I even begin?
Once upon a time, there was a girl who worked in retail and had a fascination with fashion and denim. After finishing high school, unsure about what to study, I took five gap years. Before moving to Amsterdam, I spent some wonderful weekends visiting friends and exploring all the gems the city had to offer.
Visiting Amsterdam was magical. A city I liked to call “Pleasantville.” Everyone rode around on bikes with friendly faces, people spoke English, and if you asked for directions, they’d actually help you (very different from my experience in Berlin). The food was indulgent, and the cafes and restaurants? Gezelig. There was a wholesome vibe in the city—walking past those grand windows along the canals, peeking inside to see picture-perfect families gathered around dinner tables. The cobblestone paths led you down all sorts of alleyways to enlightenment. One canal took you to the red-light district, with sex shows, prostitutes in red neon windows, and just a whole lot of naughtiness. Then down another path, you’d find weed cafes. Amsterdam had it all—weed was legal, sex was celebrated, environmental sustainability was key, locals were super friendly, and the electronic dance music scene was buzzing. It was just a picturesque city to wander through. You’d think, “Wow, wouldn’t it be grand to live here?” Ha ha, I nervously chuckle to myself now; it all seemed so easy visiting Amsterdam.
As an EU citizen, I’m grateful to have the right to study and live in Europe without a visa. So when I found a school in Amsterdam specializing in denim development and design, I thought, “Great! This is perfect for me.” Jean School is an amazing program offering fantastic industry contacts and the best opportunities to break into the fashion world. Amsterdam is known as a denim hub, with well-known brands like Nudie Jeans, Scotch and Soda, G-Star, and Denham the Jeanmaker. It was the place to be if you wanted to thrive in the denim industry. I discovered the course through a friend while living in Berlin, saved thousands of euros working my butt off at my well-paying job there, and sacrificed the life I built—my beautiful apartment, the job I loved, and my friends—because I thought, “This is it! If I’m going to study, I should be doing it now.” because when is the right age to study? I felt like I should be by 23. If I had my time again I wouldn’t bother. You can study at any age, just live.
Jean School Campus @ De Foodhallen
I spent the summer of 2018 and 2019 working hard in Berlin, where I was a waitress at Soho House Berlin. We earned an insane amount of cash tips thanks to the local tipping culture. I saved 20k and paid my tuition fees upfront. I packed up my apartment in Berlin, was thrown in the pool on my last day at Soho House, and had the best leaving party one could ever ask for. I was on a high. Looking back now, I wish I had never left then; I was truly happy in Berlin, with beautiful friends, celebrations, and my gorgeous cheap apartment. But I had to keep growing in life. It felt like the right thing to do to study.
Snaps from my leaving party @ Our Berlin/Vodka warehouse, in August 2019:
You can travel to Amsterdam via train from Berlin. I had 5000€ left over from my savings to cover my expenses for the move, including the first month’s rent and bond. Thankfully, Soho House had just expanded to Amsterdam, so I was able to transfer my role to the new house (thank you, Cassano, for the opportunity, and may you rest in peace). I spent the first month in an Airbnb, settling into the city. Everything seemed easy and fun. I was inducted into my college, started my course softly, and even managed to fit in a few days in Portugal for a last break before I put my head down.
Working @ Soho House Amsterdam
I had one last week in the Airbnb and was on the hunt for a permanent place to live. I really liked the area De Pijp. It was a humble area, quite central to the city, with a market every day, cozy bars and restaurants, a cool crowd, and a short bike ride to my school. I found an apartment smack dab in the middle of De Pijp, on the best street. It was only 500€ a month for the room. My mom was visiting, so we went together to view it. We met with an older guy in his late 40s. I’m glad my mom was there because she’s a great judge of character. He came across as jolly and friendly, explaining that he was never home, so I would have the whole place to myself most of the time. It was a two-bedroom apartment with a balcony. Looking back, there were a few orange flags—a conjoining door between our bedrooms (which I managed to lock) and that he couldn't tell me when he’d be back, just that it would be last minute. However, my mom met him and thought he was fine. With her seal of approval, I moved in.
The iconic market in De Pijp. A street away from where I lived.
A few weeks into my studies and working, life was very different from how I lived in Berlin. I hadn’t partied in an entire month or socialized. I was at school from 8:30 AM to 5:30 PM Monday to Friday, and on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, I’d leave at 5:15 PM to make it to my part-time job.
Fantastic Facilities and Campus @ Jean School
Here’s a snapshot of my week:
Mondays: School 8:30 AM - 5:15 PM, Work 6 PM - 3 AM, Sleep 4 AM - 7 AM (ha)
Tuesdays: School (with 4 hours of sleep) 8:30 AM - 5:30 PM, Night off to do 2 hours of homework (it was a very intense, fast-paced course that condensed three years of study into one), get a good night's sleep.
Wednesdays: School 8:30 AM - 5:15 PM, Work 6 PM - 3 AM, Sleep 4 AM - 7 AM.
Thursdays: School 8:30 AM - 5:30 PM, Night off to do homework and catch up on sleep.
Fridays: School 8:30 AM - 5:15 PM, Work 6 PM - 4 AM, Sleep most of Saturday.
Saturdays: Wake up at 1 PM, mega fatigued. So fucking fatigued it hurt. Tonight was my only night to do social things and housework—do laundry, try to get some fitness in, usually brunch with friends. My apartment didn’t have a laundry, so I had to sit in the laundromat for 2 hours of this day.
Sundays: Wake up hungover at 10 AM, spend the whole day meal prepping, 4 hours of homework (seriously, it took up my whole day).
The course was full-on. Each day was a new chapter followed by homework that evening. I remember one evening cutting patterns on my kitchen floor for 3 hours while eating rice, that I had prepped for the entire week. The definition of a broke student. I batched fried rice for 20€ and ate it all week, everyday for lunch and dinner. I treated myself to 3€ coffee three times a week (Tuesdays and Thursdays) to get through the day with just 4 hours of sleep.
With all that, I was earning 1000€ a month after tax. A MONTH! The rent was 500€, which left me with 500€ for the month to survive on. I didn’t have a credit card, government support, or cash handouts from my parents; I didn’t come from a wealthy family. We worked hard for what we earned.
But hey, did you know there are 2 million bikes in Amsterdam and about 1 million people? That’s two bikes for every person! It’s funny to think because I only had one—until it was stolen. It’s pretty common for bikes to be stolen in Amsterdam, so I wasn’t shocked. However, I was pretty bummed because I brought my bike over from Berlin, which I absolutely loved. Bikeless and walking to school, I walked past my regular chicken shop and found my bike sitting there! So what did I do? I stole it back. But not only that, I left a note saying, “Good try stealing my bike, bitch. I’m stealing it back off you. Maybe live in a different neighbourhood next time, dumbass!” Haha. Chuffed and puffed, carrying my bike 2.5kms, I walked into my bike servicing garage, where the gentleman there recognized me from servicing my bike the week before. I said, “Mate, you know me, you know this is my bike; I need you to cut this lock off.” Off I went to school, feeling like I dominated the theft cycle.
Before I decided to steal my bike back like a boss
If you’re Dutch or have lived in Amsterdam, you probably noticed earlier that I found an apartment in De Pijp for 500€ a month, which I now know is unheard of.
There were a few moments during my short time living in this apartment when I questioned Garry’s character. The blonde prostitute who spent a little bit of time with him, or the phone call to someone demanding money and threatening he would send his “brother” over, I was minding my own business but I started to feel uncertain about him.
Too good to be true. The “landlord” found his target, me. the second month I lived there, literally day after I paid a month’s rent, he sent me a text message advising, “There is asbestos in the roof, and we must move out immediately but don’t worry, I’ll find you somewhere to live; you can’t come back here.” I was actually homeless. Wow. It was 2 PM that day; I was at school in the middle of chaos, about to start work at 6pm.
I messaged my manager, Will, and said, “I don’t know if I can come into work tonight. I’ve just been kicked out of my apartment, I’m homeless, and I have nowhere to stay. I’m freaking out.” I had only a couple of friends in Amsterdam I could count on. Thankfully, Soho House provided me with a bed for the night, and I managed to get three hours of sleep before heading to school.
Burnt out but determined, I walked into my least favourite class the morning after this hiatus. I was terrible at sewing, and to be honest, it made me question why I was even studying this. After working the night before and barely sleeping, I presented my work to my teacher—a hardass, but for good reason. He looked at my stitches and said, “Not good enough; unpick all of it and do it again.” I broke down in tears.
How was I supposed to continue in Amsterdam? I don’t know how to fucking sew, I was the second oldest in my class and this teacher thinks he can push ME? I had a job, I had real life problems, I wasn’t stitching this fabric because I lived at my mom and dad’s house and didn’t earn a living. I don’t have the capacity for you to push me in life right now!!!
Dead-beat Garry the Scamlord
I didn’t know 500 euros a month in De Pijp was too good to be true, I was new to the city and moved alone and on my own. So you can’t shake your head at me like I should have known better.
That day, I sat down with the college principal, Mira, and said, “I can’t do this anymore. Here are my circumstances; I’m trying my hardest, but it’s not working. I want a refund and to go back to Australia.” I had no savings, no apartment, and no energy. It was terrifying to be so far from home with absolutely nothing.
This day really tested me, I didn’t want to stay in this city of failure. I earlier that day I left my textiles class thinking nup, fuckkkkk this, doeiiiiiiii. I don’t have the capacity for “Fashun School”. Mira, my beautiful mentor, was understanding, however, explained that the tuition was not refundable. I could either leave without my refund and come home empty-handed, or stick it out and at least earn my degree.
Wiping away my tears, I realized my reality. I went back to my friend’s place and slept on her couch that night to think it over. After a good sleep, I felt more rational and decided to keep pushing on.
On a payment plan, deducted out of my 500 euro spending money a month, I hired a solicitor to help me understand my rights as a tenant and hopefully sue Garry.
Unbeknownst to me, My “landlord” had given me a fake name, changed the locks, and left the apartment empty. He was unreachable and untrackable. The address he was registered in - he didn’t actually live there. He was a con artist. I went back to the flat, nervous as hell if he was there, to bang on the door and demand my money back. I found my furniture and belongings crushed up on the street, ready for rubbish pickup. Buzzing a random buzzer I got into the front door, peering into the small window to see the apartment completely empty, no asbestos removal in the works. We never managed to track him down; that was the end of that. Can you believe he got away with it? I still can’t.
To be continued in part 2… Did she survive?