I had one night in Rotterdam and I spent it at a Dutch frat party. I couldn’t understand a word anyone said, the floors were drowning in beer, and the bathroom lines were hilariously long. Not far off from the North American frat really. Overall, it was a good time. The Heineken was flowing, a live band played both Dutch and English music, and I tried Flugel. A lurid red mixed drink, it came in a miniature glass bottle. Most people downed them like a shot, in one gulp ingesting the cherry cough-syrup flavored drink. I chose to sip mine.

The striking difference between American and Dutch frat parties is in how members of the opposite sex (dames und heren) interact with each other. None of the Dutch guys, with their slicked-back hair and nice shoes (Canadian men take note), were slapping girls’ asses. There was no dancing *cough* dry-humping *cough* going on in dark corners. There were also far fewer grossly drunk people. Instead, from what I observed, guys and girls mostly talked and laughed in large groups, occasionally singing along passionately to Dutch party tunes. Weird, I know.

Leaving the party, I walked down a series of dark and quiet streets. Only a few bikers passed me, moving swiftly, silently. I was in a peaceful part of Rotterdam that night. Tomorrow, I go to Amsterdam.