There is, so they say, nothing like Kings Day in Amsterdam. After living in the Netherlands for over a decade, Brandon Hartley decided to find out what all the fuss is about.

If you didn’t grow up with it, Koningsdag is a weird holiday. One part yard sale, one part street party, and with a carnival sprinkled on top, it’s an occasion almost universally beloved by the Dutch that often leaves the rest of us scratching our heads.

It’s also a holiday I hadn’t ‘properly experienced’ until last April. I live in Leiden. Down here, it always feels like celebrating New Year’s Eve on Long Island when Times Square is practically within spitting distance.

Over the years, more people than I can count told me I had to go to Amsterdam if I wanted to see “the real Koningsdag”.

Pointers 

I’ve heard plenty of wild tales about the annual celebration in the nation’s capital and asked various colleagues for advice. One claimed I’d have to walk back to Leiden because the rail system would inevitably collapse under the weight of the crowds pouring in and out of Amsterdam.

Another guy who decorates his place with random bric-à-brac from the Jordaan advised getting up early, hitting the sales to grab as much ‘good stuff’ as possible, and retreating back home no later than noon.

Many said Vondelpark was a must. The most oft-repeated tip? Getting out of town no later than 2 pm when the inebriated hordes become downright unbearable.

The fact that I couldn’t find anybody willing to go with me should have been a warning sign.

• The Dutch News guide to surviving King’s Day

It was pouring when I got to Amsterdam Centraal, which all but eliminated my chance of coming home with a conversation piece from some rich eccentric’s canal house. Instead, I joined around a hundred orange-clad people all starring at the Buienradar app on their phones in the main hall.

The clouds eventually parted and things were already bustling in the Jordaan by the time I got there. There were countless families selling stuff along the canals, as well as a diverse array of food stands. I bought a pretty great jerked chicken sandwich from one.

Kids busking is another cornerstone of the holiday. On one stoop, a woman was gently helping her young grandson with his stage fright. He was dressed like Michael Jackson circa 1982. I dropped a few coins in his bucket while he moonwalked to ‘Beat it.’

I gradually made my way to Vondelpark, which was packed full of young musicians and homemade carnival games hosted by families. One kid urged me to try tossing bean bags into the stinky butthole of a plywood Willem-Alexander. Other games also involved various orifices belonging to the royal family.

Seems an interesting way to celebrate a monarch’s birthday but maybe that’s just Amsterdam?

Maybe I should have tried my luck, but I have no regrets about skipping the archery range located precariously close to a snack stand.

I was impressed by the musical chops of Amsterdam’s adolescents. One boy with an electric guitar shredded his way through the intro to AC/DC’s ‘Thunderstruck.’ A teenage band drew a crowd with their covers of The White Stripes’ ‘Six Nation Army’ and Blur’s ‘Song 2.’

Meanwhile in Leiden, you’re lucky to find one kid with a violin willing to even attempt ‘Frère Jacques.’ I encountered no less than three unapologetic Michael Jacksons alone in Amsterdam, all of them with downright impressive dance moves.

And why Jackson? I could only assume it’s because he was the King of Pop and this was King’s Day.

Stayed too long at the party

But I failed to heed the warnings of my peers. I began the long march back to Amsterdam Centraal a few minutes past 2 pm after getting swept into a spontaneous Hare Krishna dance party on the Museumplein.

There was a lot of Oranjebitter, Heineken, and who knows what else flowing through the veins of the crowds clogging up the narrow streets of the Jordaan. Outdoor discotheques had materialised at most intersections and the canals were heaving with boats.

At times I couldn’t move. At one point, I found myself trapped between the masses and a speaker blasting an old Lenny Kravitz song louder than the afterburner of a fighter jet.

After getting hammered by ear-splitting techno beats more times than I could count, I made it to the station around 4 pm. I rode back south on a crowded train across from four grad students waiting for their magic mushrooms to kick in. It’s around this time I admitted to myself that I was at least a decade too old for this side of Koningsdag.

Would I do all this again? Nope, but I’m glad I experienced it at least once. This year, I’ll be back to our usual routine down here. And there is no rain forecast either.