14 March 2025

Slow mornings in the Jordaan

If I had to pick one hour of the day to show someone this city, it would be the first hour after sunrise in the Jordaan. The streets are narrow enough that the light arrives late and sideways, and for a while the only sounds are bicycle bells, a delivery van reversing somewhere, and gulls arguing on a rooftop.

The neighbourhood sits just west of the main canal ring, and it was built for workers and small trades rather than merchants. You can still feel that in the scale of things. The houses are lower and plainer than the grand ones along the big canals, the side streets are named after flowers and trees, and the canals that run through it are small enough to talk across.

How I walk it

I usually start at the western edge and drift east without a plan, crossing back and forth over the little bridges. The trick is to look up. Almost every house has a hoisting beam sticking out under the roof, because the stairs inside are far too steep for furniture. Moving day here still means a rope, a pulley and a lot of shouting from the street.

Then look down, at window height. People here don't tend to close their curtains, and the front rooms are like little shop windows of everyday life: a cat asleep on a stack of books, a bike parked in the hallway, a table already set for breakfast. It feels nosy at first. After a while you realise nobody minds, and that being seen is part of the deal.

The hidden courtyards

Some of my favourite places are the old almshouse courtyards, the hofjes, tucked behind ordinary-looking doors. A few of them let visitors walk in quietly during the day, and stepping from the street into one is like turning the volume down to zero. There is a small garden, a bench, a ring of tiny houses, and someone's laundry. People still live there, so the rule is simple: whisper, don't linger, close the door behind you.

The best thing about the Jordaan is that nothing in it is trying very hard.

Coffee and a church bell

By the time the bell tower of the big church at the edge of the neighbourhood starts marking the hour, the cafés have their chairs out. I like the brown cafés best, the old ones with dark wood and windows fogged from the inside. Order a coffee and you will usually get a small biscuit with it, which feels like a tiny gesture of welcome every single time.

By ten, the streets fill up, the tour groups find their way in, and it becomes a different place. Still lovely, just louder. That is my cue to cycle home, slightly smug, having had the neighbourhood to myself for an hour.