That Piano Bar in Amsterdam: Where I Learned to Trust Myself Again

Little by little, I learned to trust myself again after André's disappearance. This also meant consciously—and with me in full control of the situation—stepping out of my comfort zone from time to time. It helped me get in touch with my boundaries, and what I could and couldn’t tolerate.

My friend Chris grew up in Amsterdam. But for someone like me—raised in the small town of Alphen aan den Rijn—the city felt unsafe. An unfamiliar setting, where “unpredictable things” could happen without notice. The Red Light District, people shooting up in public—what can I say? It was the 80s, and Amsterdam was dealing with a heroin epidemic. Strangely enough, everything about Amsterdam both scared and intrigued me. But I would never go there alone. “What if I show you around in my car?” Chris suggested. He would drive me through the neighborhoods he grew up in and tell me the stories. And he had some stories to share. As a boy, he knew all the prostitutes by name and played ball in the Warmoesstraat—the drug-dealing epicenter of the Red Light District. I agreed, and from the safety of this old Saab, I observed as he reflected. 

The approach worked wonders for my self-esteem in unfamiliar surroundings. Now I knew were to go, and where to park, I even dared to drive to Amsterdam myself not long after that. 

One day, I stumbled upon a small piano bar tucked into a narrow cobblestone side street near the Leidseplein. My eyes caught a pamphlet taped next to the door: 

Live Piano – Every Sunday Night. 

I paused. Something about it tugged at me. I made a mental note to come back. 

That Sunday, I did. 

I could hear the music as soon as I turned the corner from the Leidseplein into the side street. The door was heavy and I really had to lean into it. You couldn’t miss the grand piano. It took up nearly the entire left side of the space and was surrounded by old, worn bar stools that looked like they’d heard every secret in the city. It was still early and I picked a stool close to the pianist. With my back to the window, I could see the whole room.

That particular stool became mine—every Sunday night. Without the need to talk to anyone, I could just be. As the deep tones of that beautiful grand piano resonated through my belly, I felt safe. Like I belonged. 

Part of that sense of belonging was due to the pianist, Frank. Frank Affolter was a singer-songwriter and brother of Heddy Lester, who once represented the Netherlands in the Eurovision Song Contest with the song “De Mallemolen”. On Sundays, he played to a small, loyal crowd of music lovers. To this day, I can’t hear “Piano Man” without being pulled right back into that warm, dimly lit room, Frank’s voice filling the space and easing my broken spirit. Billy Joel would’ve loved what he heard.

That piano bar became my anchor. The evening I looked forward to all week. The place I could press pause on the painful reality that was my life, and where I could reconnect with myself.

From my bar stool, in the comfort of Frank's voice and the safety of this tiny piano bar, I began to observe people differently. Not their clothes or hairstyles, but something deeper. I let impressions come to me—an inner knowing I hadn’t trusted in a long time.

That little girl inside me—my younger self—was speaking to me again.

And as the weeks passed, I learned to trust her.

Piece by piece, I began to embrace her again.

That little bar, tucked away in a side street in Amsterdam, became the first place I felt safe in my own life.