Rotterdam: Third Time’s the Charm (Said No One Ever)

This was my third time in Rotterdam, not because I’m madly in love with cube houses or Dutch cuisine (though the Bitterballen at the venue are 5 stars), but because Breakbulk Europe insists on happening here year after year.

This time, I even booked my hotel in January. Hoping I would save some money, get some quality to choose from, you know all that… For my noble efforts, I was rewarded with a €700-for-four-days surprise box, also known as a hotel room. But more on that circus act later.

I landed in Amsterdam on a Monday, aboard a fully packed A380. And, shockingly, the Dutch trains were on their best behavior – no delays, no surprise strikes, not even a random “we’re skipping your station for fun” announcement. The weather was very un-Northern Europe – not a cloud in the sky and 24°C, it felt like the Netherlands trying to act Mediterranean for once.

But sunshine in this country has its price.

Because once the weather hits pleasant, it’s like the entire cast of “urban wildlife and questionable decisions” emerges from winter hibernation. People who haven’t seen daylight since last September are suddenly lounging on every flat surface like lizards. And by the time I had changed into shorts and a t-shirt and stepped 150 meters outside my hotel, boom, an Algerian Romeo was already hitting me up for my phone number.

I don’t give it out, of course. But hey, props for confidence and timing.

My hotel was perfectly positioned in Witte de Withstraat, just four tram stops from Rotterdam Centraal. That street is what you get when you blend art galleries, bars, overly confident seagulls, and the smell of three kinds of beer and fries into one chaotic symphony. Also, everyone yelling until wee hours of the morning – which I didn’t take into consideration when I booked this place.

To be fair, I was quite tired after sitting in the plane, and when I went out to look for photos, I just felt like Ah come on, I have seen this place a hundred times already. But I still took some photos because the light was awesome, and the weather was great.

Normally, for these kind of work trips, I just take the Ricoh GR iiiX with me, or a Fuji X100v, but this time I decided to take along the Fujifilm XT-4. I packed the trusty 23mm lens and the 50mm F/2, and to be honest I mostly used the 50.

Hotel Room

When I returned from my street roaming (read: dodging bikes, inhaling questionable secondhand smoke, and constantly checking that nobody is stealing my belongings),
I found a fun surprise waiting for me: no hot water. Yep. In my €700 experimental urban lodging experience, the shower offered two settings – arctic fjord and why are you even bothering. So I performed a minimalist foot-washing ritual and brushed my teeth like a peasant in the Middle Ages, whispering affirmations to myself about yelling at reception in the morning.

Looking for a place to have dinner, I stumbled upon what can only be described as Rotterdam’s Asian district – a whole stretch of restaurants promising everything from Korean BBQ to Japanese ramen to “authentic Vietnamese pho”.

I love pho, so, I ordered pho. Naturally, it was made for people who consider ketchup spicy. The noodles were there. The soul was not.

As for sleep?

Well, the window faced the street – which, during Dutch summer, basically means you’re sharing your bedroom with drunk philosophy students and questionable music choice people in cheap cars until at least 2 a.m. The only escape was to slam the window shut and fire up the little in-room fan, which, to its credit, didn’t sound like a dying blender.

Fun fact: in Northern Europe around May, the sun doesn’t even go down properly until after 10 p.m. But I was asleep by 10, because I’ve long been domesticated by Dubai hours and prefer my existential crises in the morning.

Morning Street Photography

Now, if you go to bed at 10 p.m. like a responsible adult, it’s only natural you wake up at 6 a.m. – or, in my case, 5:45 or so.

But that early morning punishment comes with a reward: the golden hour light that makes every grimy brick and reflective tram track look like a cinematic masterpiece. (The trams only run after 6 a.m.) Rotterdam, bathed in that honey-glazed glow, briefly tricks you into thinking you’re in some kind of Nordic Wes Anderson film.

So I grabbed the Fuji, gave an earful to the receptionist about the water situation… and headed out to roam.

Only to realize… Rotterdam doesn’t wake up until 9:30 a.m. at best.

No humans. No activity. Just me, the seagulls, and some confused guys who seems to have slept outside this night.

It’s a strange thing to hunt for street photography in a city that’s still in REM sleep. You either have to wait 30 minutes for a single person to walk into your frame, or accept that your street photo series will mostly feature empty sidewalks and philosophical shadows.

Eventually, I checked the event schedule for Breakbulk, assuming – like every year – it would begin at the mysterious, borderline illegal time of 5 p.m. Surprise: not this year! I had to wrap up my wandering and hustle to the venue for a proper full-day shift that ran until 7 p.m.

Upon my unwilling return to the hotel, finally woken-up enough to see what’s going on, I noticed a cat tower in the lobby. A moment later, a cat called Bubbles strutted out. Bubbles said hi with the kind of grace and indifference only a hotel cat can muster.

I can say without a shred of sarcasm that Bubbles was the best part of the entire hotel experience — second only to the location, which remains undeniably perfect for someone trying to exist without a car and in hope of street photography.

Same Walk, Different Day, Same Maritime Spell

The next morning, armed with slightly more optimism and the lingering warmth of Bubbles’ indifference, I decided to switch it up. So I figured I’d go in a different direction for my morning photo stroll.

I ended up walking by the water. Again.

Because apparently, my subconscious refuses to discover new places before 9 a.m.

Yes, Rotterdam, I’d been there before.

Yes, the views of the bridge and the high-rising financial district are still attractive – all glass basking in soft morning light.

But despite my intentions to wander further or explore something completely new, I somehow found myself, once again — at the Maritime Museum.

Not inside, of course. On Monday’s it is closed and on other days I am at work, so I can’t visit.

Do I simply have a deeply buried ship fetish? Let’s not go there.

All I know is: even with thousands of steps walked and dozens of photos taken, I always seem to land back in the same few square kilometers of this city — camera in hand, looking at boats and reflections and wondering how many more times I’ll take the same-but-slightly-different photo of the same harbor.

Spoiler: many. Because it’s same but different. And that’s what matters.

Drinks Without a View

By the end of the working day, I had officially been Breakbulked into oblivion. With the video completed, approved and the photos sent, me and Maria, the ever-fabulous hostess at our booth, decided to celebrate with ramen. Real ramen. Not sad noodles in warm tap water. This one had spice. A broth that could fight a cold. And it was getting cold outside. The wind was unforgiving.

Secondly, for the evening we wanted to catch the sunset from a rooftop bar, because if you’re going to be exhausted in Rotterdam, you might as well do it with a view and a €14 mocktail in your hand.

After crossing the bridge to Wilhelmina Station with less than friendly wind, we had to find out that the entire bar had been booked out by Breakbulk people. You know, the same ones we’d just spent all day smiling politely at.

So instead of panoramic rooftop bliss, we found ourselves watching the sunset from ground level, through the massive windows, which, honestly, wasn’t too bad.

And just like that, the day folded itself neatly into blue hour, with the city outside still humming, and me once again planning to sleep by 10 p.m. because who has energy to rebel after ramen?

Well, apparently the Breakbulk people yelling inside and outside for a while… anyway, last day is tomorrow, so I can sacrifice a little bit of sleep.

Rotterdam Gray Focking Mornings

On the last day of Breakbulk, I woke up to what can only be described as classic Northern European misery: a sky the color of dishwater, light so flat, and that wind that makes you question your life choices.

Naturally, I did what any photographer in denial would do – I layered up like an onion. Hoodie, jeans, scarf, beanie. The look was somewhere between “urban explorer” and “person who hasn’t felt warmth in days.” The Dutch people were giving me a side eye, while still in shorts – 6 C outside, come on.

I knew that this kind of weather never does me any creative favors. No shadows to play with. No golden glow to wrap around corners. Just the blank, sad glow of northern cloud cover, a light source that turns even the most interesting scenes into grayscale stock footage.

And yet… I still found a few things.

Little things. Quiet, gray things. But worth capturing all the same.

Maybe the real street photography isn’t always about dramatic light and epic silhouettes. Maybe sometimes it’s just about showing up, hood on, hands freezing, hoping to catch the subtle moments that sneak past when the city thinks no one’s looking.

Fenix Museum of Migration

In the evening, I had more epic plans. A friend of mine from the ever-glorious Glass App photography cult (community, I mean community) messaged me with an invite to the Fenix Museum of Migration. A shiny new space dedicated to people who move – and after a week of maritime things, I was ready to see something different.

By the time I headed out, the clouds had retreated, sunshine made a triumphant return. But the wind had not received the memo. Also, my legs were staging a small protest at this point. “Why are we going somewhere again?” they asked. I didn’t have an answer.

To be fair, the Fenix Museum was a marvel — reflective glass, architectural drama, and the kind of lighting that makes every corner cinematic. The company was great, and the vibe was buzzing with creative energy.

While my friend, full of ambition was off to shoot sunset windmills, I chose what any self-aware traveler would: a steaming bowl of lentil soup and bedtime at 9:30. A strong, seasoned choice. My social batteries were dead, and so was my will to chase golden light over slippery grass.

Last Morning in Rotterdam

If you think I slept in on my final day in Rotterdam, you are about to be introduced to the possessed thermostat box mounted on the wall of my room.

At exactly 5:20 a.m., it came to life – clicking like it was trying to summon something from the underworld. A plastic gremlin from AC hell. It had clearly been smashed before, which tells me I’m not the first guest to attempt an exorcism via blunt force.

And let me tell you, no amount of punching, patting, or pleading would silence it.

So, in true tragic photographer fashion, I gave up on sleep, layered up one last time. And headed out to freeze my ass off. If you’re going to be up before the seagulls, you might try to find that final frame that makes it worth.

I snapped a few last photos with numb fingers and the kind of I-have-to-just-because determination that only street photographers understand.

So no, I didn’t sleep in.

I didn’t eat anything particularly memorable.

And I may never trust a Dutch hotel thermostat again.

But I did walk away with a couple of shots I don’t hate. And enough chaotic anecdotes to last until Breakbulk summons me back next year.

Because at the end of the day, Rotterdam has character – whether you want it or not.

And if there’s a cat in the lobby, I’ll probably still say yes.

Much love,

Anna