A little-known Dutch treat
Vibrant city in the northern Netherlands is like a smaller Amsterdam, without the backpackers
GRONINGEN, the Netherlands -- ''People think we only have cows and sheep here," said Roberto Werker, an intern at Hotel de Ville, one of the city's classier places to sleep. ''Groningen is a well-kept secret."
I had thought exactly that as I drove into Groningen. Splashy suburban architecture clashed with the strong odor of livestock wafting off the fields. ''Hip college town" was not the phrase that came to mind.
But my father had told me that this was the northern Netherlands' most vibrant city. He had lived here as a university exchange professor. When he learned I would be passing through the Netherlands, he told me not to miss this capital of Groningen province, about midway between Germany and the North Sea's Frisian Islands.
''You'll like it," my dad had said. ''It's clearly a happening place." He had arranged for me to stay with Franka van den Hende, his former colleague at the University of Groningen, her husband, Osman Erer, and their daughter, Esra, 5.
Groningen began as a medieval-era trade center and autonomous merchant state. World War II left it in ruins. Rebuilt, the city now boasts some 50,000 students and 180,000 residents. It's not Amsterdam (150 miles to the southwest), but Groningen manages to capture much of that well-known city's appeal -- compact layout, squat townhouses along canals, laid-back nightlife -- all without the chaos of a metropolis.
Since Groningen has yet to be discovered by North American backpackers, to me the city seemed more authentic, right down to the hashish-selling cafes called ''coffeeshops."
''In Amsterdam, the coffee-shops are more for tourists," Franka said. ''Here, they are more for locals."
Franka said she and Osman would meet me for dinner but leave me to my peripatetic ways during the day. Navigating solo was no big deal; I didn't need a private tour to get a feel for Groningen or to meet the locals.
I took in the varied brick and stone architecture, the students lounging on sofas pulled onto sidewalks, the people drinking beer on houseboats moored in the Zuiderhaven canal. I could live here, I thought.
Dominated by two-footed and two-wheeled traffic, Groningen is a pleasure to explore. A mid-1970s planning decision banished most cars from the city center. Parking spaces were replaced with bike paths. Two-thirds of the residents now regularly ride bicycles. They can bisect the old quarter -- a rough three-quarter-mile-in-diameter circle bound by the canal -- in 15 minutes.
I turned onto Folkingestraat, one of Groningen's hippest streets. The mix of shops displayed a funky independence: art galleries, used-book stores, and home design shops catering to college students.
For lunch, Franka had suggested a place called Puur! It didn't take long to strike up a conversation with the man cooking in the open-air kitchen: Jan Willem, the owner-chef.
''Groningen, it's a village," Willem said when asked about the city's allure. ''This is a feel-good place." Then, gesturing to a man at the counter finishing a coffee, he said, ''Harry and I are public figures." Harry was Harry Hummel, editor of the arts weekly Uitloper.
''Especially when you are a party animal, you start to know everyone," Hummel added. ''Plus, there is no closing time. You can stay out all night."
Hummel invited me to a club named Vera for what he promised would be ''great music." Out of thin air, my night on the town was materializing.
I left the restaurant and headed to Vismarkt and Grote Markt, the city's main shopping zone. I roamed among the outdoor cheese and produce vendors. A few close calls with bikes whizzing by taught me to be careful crossing the street.
My father had insisted I see the Groninger Museum, so I ambled back southward to the Verbindingskanaal. The museum's pavilions were built like islands on the canal. Works by Peter Paul Rubens and Dutch Expressionists seemed afterthoughts alongside the museum's wild ''Miami Vice" pastel scheme. But I couldn't deny the architects' daring: Some galleries were submerged in the canal, and the water level came up to their windows.
For dinner, I met my hosts for a traditional meat-and-potatoes Dutch meal (not an easy task given Groningen's bias toward cheap Indonesian, Mexican, and French eateries). Franka and Esra went home by 9, but Osman, who once owned a bar called the Lazy Frog, offered to take me on a pub crawl.
''It's too early," he said as we passed the dozens of bars on Poelestraat. One sold half-liters of beer for $2, and I suddenly understood how students could afford to keep drinking till daybreak.
As night fell, Groningen changed its face but kept its small-town familiarity. As we walked, Osman passed several acquaintances, including Elma van Baasbank. I asked her about the nightlife, from a female perspective.
''It's very good for women to go out alone," Elma said. ''Dutch men are not harassing you or being aggressive. You can walk around at night no problem."
Osman then led me down a dim side street called Kleine Peperstraat, home to a couple of ''coffeeshops." We ducked into one called Cafe Dees. Keeping in mind that smoking hash in the Netherlands is no big deal, I tried not to gawk at the cannabis menu with names like ''Skunk" and ''Haze."
We left for the Lazy Frog. I sat with Osman at the bar of his old pub. He seemed to miss what he called the ''social work" of being a bartender. ''You have to listen to the people," he said.
My concert time had come. Bidding Osman goodbye, I strode to Vera, the nightclub. Hummel was there, and Willem, and some of their friends amid a sea of jeans, T-shirts, and dyed hair.
Hummel had nailed it: The soul band King Kahn and the Shrines was hot. Willem danced a mean mashed potato. We all did our best James Brown screams.
After the show, I called my dad to tell him about my night and update him on the lives of Franka and Osman. So engrossed was I with our talk, I didn't notice I had moseyed onto the city's one red-light street, Hoekstraat, where prostitutes posed in front of plate-glass windows.
No big deal, I thought, and kept blabbing to Dad, making him nostalgic for his old Dutch days. Had he been with me in Groningen, I believe I could have persuaded my teetotaler parent to drink a little beer, even let out a youthful hoot into the night.
Ethan Gilsdorf lives in Somerville. He can be reached at ethan@ethangilsdorf.com. 