What happened to Paul, friend of the Dutch king?

Two years ago, we met Paul, friend of the king on a lazy weekend morning in Amsterdam's Vondel Park, a short walk from the Rijksmuseum.

With a long weekend and the odd vacation day, we finally managed to go to what is probably the world's largest flea market but certainly one of the best parties ever.

Wonder what happened to Paul.

Yes, odd, isn't it. 

Wanna go check the park?

Maybe.

The inner city looks like carnival rides have sprung up on every square big enough to hold one. That's not a huge number of rides, given that most of the center streets are just single lane, wide enough for a car and one not too heavy set pedestrian.

And the rides have to share the space with food and drink vendors and bands playing a wider variety of music.

Wait, is this German pop music?

Let's go check.

The male lead guitarist was wearing the traditional orange shirt with a pair of lederhosen. Picking up some bits of conversation, we realized we were right. This was an all Dutch band playing outstandingly rocking versions of late 20th century German pop music.

The kind of music that was sung in Germany by a male wearing suit and tie and a fake happy smile, or depending on the song, an expression of equally fake gravitas.

If you have never seen and heard a Dutch band do a rocking Marmor, Stein und Eisen bricht (based on an old Burt Bacharch song) , you missed out on greatness.

The flea market in the narrow, canal lined streets of the Jordan also featured music, both live and recorded via open upstairs windows of the houses.

Right next to an electrically amplified hip hop band, a mere yard away from the band's drummer, sat a boy, no more than ten years old, playing on an acoustic guitar, concentrated and unfazed.

We couldn't hear a note he was playing.

As we put a couple of small coins into the hat he had sitting on front of him, he looked up, puzzled, his fingers continuing to press on the strings and move from not to note.

We didn't see Paul.