The Dylan

For a man of advancing years, surprises can be unsettling. There's a clip on the internet in which a group of practical-joking 12-year-olds play a hilarious trick on a hapless passer-by. The cheekiest and boldest of these young scamps – and this is quite inspired – jumps out at the unsuspecting stranger. Does this chap scream, and cry like a footballer; does he run shrieking down the road; does he wail like the fat kid on the rollercoaster? No. He punches his assailant square in the face. Surprise!

Fortunately for me, and perhaps for her, Mrs Smith is well aware of my concerns regarding the unexpected. She also has some experience of European travel and stylish hotels. So when it became apparent she had arranged a surprise weekend away at a chic stay in the Netherlands I stopped short of ‘ironing her out’, as they say in the East End, and embraced the experience with the unruffled air of a man who knows he is in safe, well-moisturised hands. And so it proved. Amsterdam's Dylan Hotel is the sort of languid, unfussy yet polished urban haven that could dissuade even the most committed surprise-aphobe from unnecessary acts of violence. Converted from a 17th-century theatre, complete with its own courtyard, and overlooking one of the Dutch capital's grandest canals, the Dylan Hotel is an effortlessly opulent design hotel that wears its sophistication with a nonchalant ease. Originally designed by boutique hotel svengali Anouska Hempel with the addition of new reception areas by current owners FG Stijl (which I thought was the name of an album by the White Stripes but Mrs Smith says otherwise), the just-so interiors and elegant furnishings manage to be both startlingly simple and subtly indulgent.

Take our bedroom, part of the ‘Kimono’ range; spacious enough to run laps around of a morning – yes, I tried – and decorated in disciplined black and white, everything in it whispered of calm and order. The Japanese motif suggested by the name extended to immense, slatted screens that rolled across two towering black-framed sash windows. Small pieces of slate rested inconspicuously on surfaces, primed to act as coasters if the need arose, but more than happy to simply lie around looking sleek. Our bed was large and comfortable, just as beds should be, with four posters and a black, wooden canopy that echoed the two window screens. The bathroom was simple stone and marble – sizeable bath, roomy shower – all of it straight and clean and economical. Even the radio/CD player looked like it had issued direct from the sharp end of Anouska’s sharpest pencil. Yet all this seamless efficiency has not been achieved at the expense of comfort. Indeed, the opposite is true. Staff are mostly knowledgeable (although perhaps beware of any concierge who suggests a table at the Blue Pepper) and impressively helpful; there is a gym just in case you get bored of doing laps in your room; and, of course, there are bicycles. This is Amsterdam, after all.

This last fact is neither unsettling nor particularly surprising. The bicycle was clearly invented by a Dutchman who was simply too stoned to walk to the shop. If our taxi driver is to be believed there are over two million bikes in Amsterdam, which in a city of around 750,000 people works out at just under three bikes per person. Whatever the truth might be, cycling in Amsterdam is like scowling in London; everybody does it, and those who don’t are obviously American tourists. The Dylan Hotel's bikes can be hired by the day, and are by far the easiest and most enjoyable means by which to explore and absorb Amsterdam's particular delights. Mrs Smith and I managed (roughly): one house, three museums, five bars, three cafes, two restaurants, and 27 shops, all in the space of a weekend, without ever feeling as if we had overexerted ourselves. Despite being keen to take in at least some of the more obligatory sightseeing spots – Anne Frank’s house and the world-famous Rijksmuseum and Van Gogh museum – our mode of transport added a certain spontaneity to proceedings that was rewarded with a number of dynamite finds. Mrs Smith discovered, and then refused to share, a superlative Chicken Club sandwich at Chocolate Bar in De Pijp; a trundle around the shops in the ‘Nine Streets’ revealed the bohemian Bar With No Name, known to locals as Wolvenstraat because of the street on which it sits and resided over by a large, proprietorial cat with a striking aversion to hippies; Dinner at Silex on Daniel Stalpertstraat, was a real stand out: unpretentious and skilfully executed cooking combined with a charmingly attentive and eerily telepathic waiter for one of the most satisfying meals I have ever experienced. It was then just a short walk around the corner to Flamingo, a fun, vibey sort of place where everyone is fantastically tall and good-looking and where it’s dark enough for you to pretend you are too.

Yes, and they all speak perfect English, TV is naked chicks 24/7, coffeeshops are stocked with all you can smoke, every flavour of prostitute is entirely on display – Amsterdam is a place where the clichés are all true, and the decadent setting of the Dylan is the ideal vantage point in this sanguine city to gently expand your horizons – if only with a little window shopping. There are surprises; the policemen won't make you think of the Village People; not everybody wears clogs, and I didn’t see a single windmill. It’s just that none of this seems strange or unnerving. At one point, on returning to the sanctuary of our sophisticated suite, I realised I had forgotten to pack a razor and shaving utensils, so I telephoned reception to ask if they knew of a shop nearby where I could buy replacements. In less time than it could have taken to climb the stairs there was a knock at the door and a member of the hotel’s staff was there, smiling serenely and holding everything I needed. She took me quite by surprise. I don’t think she realised quite what a narrow an escape she had.

Reviewed by George Dalton