However what does not kill you must only make you stronger. As my five hour trek through the streets of Madrid with no water or food didn’t kill me, it reasons to be that I must now be stronger. Using Western Union wire transfers and helpful people’s bank accounts, I retain a steely determination not to end up coming back to England early like those other 24 losers (I include you in that, Fabio). I’m reluctant to promise I can stay out here until the final - most things one books, i.e. accommodation, involve some sort of card being needed - but I’ll certainly give it a shot. In any case, the amount of European teams potentially in the final has now dwindled down to three. I’m already in one of them, and will stay for the Paraguay quarter final on Saturday - although I may be in Barcelona for logistical purposes, not exactly Spanish nationalist country.
Eventually collapsing onto my hostel bed at around 21:00 local time last night, I of course can’t tell you too much about how the victory of Portugal was enjoyed in the Spanish capital. I did venture out for the second half, but no further than a tapas bar on the very same street. Busy enough, but not exactly an overwhelming atmosphere. Nonetheless, I spoke with Miguel about La Roja. Surprisingly he had little confidence in Spain winning the competition, stating that he thought Brazil and Argentina were much stronger; I tried reasoning with him the overwhelming power of their bench alone, but he had his doubts over Vincent del Bosque and the defence. Like everyone who I’ve met since the game vs. Algeria, he had a keen sense of disappointment over not just England, but Wayne Rooney in particular. As for Joan Capdevilla's bizarre piece of play acting to get Ricardo Costa sent off (the most blatant 'simulation' ever?), he merely said: "I think this is a problem with the mentality of Spanish people." I told him we had much experience of the the Portuguese doing this sort of thing so struggled to have all that much sympathy.
Following the full time whistle, I was probably treated to my loudest session of car honking I’ve seen, perhaps rivalled only by Germany (Amsterdam was more bike belling). I would have loved to have ventured out further and sampled the atmosphere, but I hope you understand that following the wallet debacle I really wasn’t up to it.
The five days previous probably didn’t help my energy levels either. My first experience in Amsterdam was naturally an enjoyable one - and with two Holland wins, one can’t really complain. The Cameroon game was of course something of a dead rubber, so although the town was still decked in orange there wasn’t exactly a huge sense of occasion. I spoke at length with an appropriately oranged up man named Stefan (left) during the second half, who essentially gushed over the qualities of Arjen Robben, benched for this particular game. Like so many locals who seem to make the right calls with substitutes, Stefan said “We need to see some Robben” - he was then brought on and smashed a shot from the edge of the area onto the post, which was tapped in by Klaas Jan Huntelaar, winning the game for Holland.
The Slovakia game of course invoked more passion, although there was still a general expectation that a win would be relatively comfortable - and so it proved to be. Once again making friends in the second half (you may have noticed this has been a tradition of mine right from the very start), I spoke with Ramon, Ron and Rob. That link will take you to the normal picture, but I much prefer this one, where Ron shows off the qualities of probably the only orange t-shirt he owns:
Rob shared with me the genuine belief among Dutch fans this time - “There is a sense,” he said. “that we can beat Brazil and Argentina. We don’t usually think we can beat these teams.” Getting in the fourth round of Amstels in very quick succession, Ron told me that, like a fair few I have met so far, he wasn’t generally a huge football fan but loved the atmosphere and occasion of a World Cup. Glancing round the incredibly colourful scenes of Amsterdam, you could see what he meant.
Just after the second goal had gone in, Ron turned to me and said: “This is why I love football. If you got this sort of thing with curling, then I would love curling.” Never has someone so succinctly summarised what drove me into doing this trip.
I have to say, however, that these weren’t even my favourite strangers in Amsterdam. Some way into my conversation with Rob, a Hispanic gentleman turned around and offered a quick ‘Cheers’. He was a Mexican by the name of Omar (draped in Holland flag), with his friend Marcos, and between them offered the most stereotypical Mexican voices one can possibly imagine. “Everything you know about Mexico,” he said. “Comes from Guadalajara.” They also knew football and told me they shared England's pain, as Mexico were too wronged by a bad linesman decision. I reminded him that, like England, Mexico were also wronged by comical defending. It's them you can see doing a little dance with each other following Holland’s 2nd goal, and it’s Omar you can see here looking, frankly, awesome:
And the camera continues to have evil powers. It’s not worth uploading, but once more I pressed record to film celebrations of the victory. Before I knew it, I was hearing the Dutch words for ‘Penalty to Slovakia’ behind me. Magic.
And on Slovakia, Bratislava is of course denied another giant-killing, but I think the ousting and embarrassing of the world champions should be prize enough for Vlasto and co. I was staggered to hear the Italy score, and of course delighted for the Slovakians - not just because it would have given those Coca Cola girls something to really dance about, but also because my Norwegian co-football tourists Christer and Emir were in Bratislava that day. There are no longer any curses to speak of. Except, perhaps, the curse of the stolen wallet.
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