Despite the infamously rough Dutch housing market, you always find a gem or two amidst the hell. Here’s a special tribute to an Amsterdam friend, roommate, and landlord.

A post long overdue.

During my seven years going from student to expat in Amsterdam, I’ve been fortunate to live with several private landlords, most of whom were Dutch and elderly. One of them was Louis.

He was an 80-year-old widower — his Indonesian ex-wife had passed away years before — with a few grown kids scattered elsewhere. He lived alone in a big house in the Amsterdam suburbs and cared for it every single day, down to the marble floors.

Since he lived alone, he rented out rooms to young women, especially students, like me back then. This is quite common in popular cities like Amsterdam.

Louis was one of several landlords who gave me an affordable roof over my head and, without ever quite saying so, helped me hold it together through some genuinely tough years — finishing my thesis, graduating, just generally figuring out how to adult. I became successful in all of that eventually, and I owe part of it to souls like him.

Louis and I would sometimes sit for dinner or lunch and just talk. He told me stories about growing up during wartime, about Dutch culture, about a life I only got small glimpses into. His house was full of old paintings and antiques, the kind you find in a typical Dutch home from an older generation.

He was also incredibly particular — he’d text me about a stain on the kitchen counter, or a smudge on the shower glass. We even survied COVID-19 together (him especially given his age), but he texted me multiple times to return home for he is at risk if I caught anything. Total party pooper he was.

Yet, underneath the fussiness, he was kind in ways that mattered: buying me an office chair to make thesis-writing more bearable, letting me switch rooms more than once without complaint. I even helped him find a new tenant online once, for a small fee.

I took a lot of it for granted. Even our friendship. I once stole a bottle of wine from his collection and got caught — not because I couldn’t afford one, just because I was too lazy to walk to the shop. When I eventually moved out, he was sad, and wondered aloud if he’d driven me away. He hadn’t, not really — I just didn’t want to live so far from the city center anymore. I never told him that. I let him wonder.

A year passed. We kept in touch, and I promised Louis I’d come back for one more coffee.

Then one winter, he stopped replying. His WhatsApp eventually settled on a single checkmark. Later, his profile photo disappeared entirely.

I can’t confirm it, even two years later. But I’m fairly certain he’s gone.

I never got to say goodbye. I never got to properly thank him for carrying me through some of my darkest stretches abroad. I never got that last cup of espresso with him.

The one (featured) photo is one of my favorite memories with him — I was usually eating dinner inside and can see his back where he sat in that same, damn plastic chair on the terrace, watching his backyard fly by.

Words inspired by Bob Dylan….Louis, he was a friend of mine.

Rest in Peace,