So, where to start, when there is so much to say? I think I'll start from the beginning...   Remember I mentioned, in a very subtle way, that I found a new apartment at Leidseplein? Well, as it turns out, the guy from the agency, Mr. S, and I agreed that I would go to his office on Monday (14th Jan 2008) to pay the agency commission (apparently, as he mentioned, there was another agency in the process and he didn't want to mix things with the owner) and then on Tuesday to the owner, to pay the rent, the deposit, and the expenses with the contract. I went to the bank on Monday, during my lunch break, to request a credit card (I need one to rent a car, apparently) and I deliberately "forgot" to withdraw the money for the payment of the agency's commission. I just was not in the mood to pay that before I had the contract in front of me, ready to sign. I was going to tell the agency guy that I just forgot. Period.   I arrived at the supposed office around 19. When I got to the number he mentioned I was prompted with 3 doorbells, none of which properly worked. A phone call to Mr. S and he was opening the door in 2 minutes. I got up to the third floor, following the agency guy, and when I get there what do I see? I see a bedroom. Not an agency office, a bedroom. One would assume that I would get suspicious that something didn't feel right. One would assume correctly.   I entered the room and was greeted by another man, Mr. J2, who introduced himself as Mr.S' colleague of profession. Finding the whole situation extremely fishy (who wouldn't?) I starting poking around, asking more questions than I think they were expecting or ready to answer at the time. It turns our Mr. J2 was from Surinam, spent a couple years in Brazil, and could speak a little of Portuguese (a tiny little, I might add). I explained that I was not comfortable with paying right now and that I would come back the next morning to do it. Did I mention that, when I visited the apartment, I wrote down Mr. S' motorcycle license plate, right after I handed him 200 Euro as a deposit for the house (so he would "hold" it for me) and not checking if he had signed the fore mentioned document? Maybe I forgot that detail. Anyways, there I was in a bedroom looking at the ridiculousness of the whole situation when Mr. S, in his anxious way to go ahead with the transaction, said that I could see the contract right away, though in Dutch. Those who know me know that my Dutch skills are practically non-existent and, as such, I promptly requested a copy in English, as I would not sign anything I could not understand. He agreed, but said that only his colleague, Mr. J1, had contracts in English and, as such, I agreed to wait a while for him. After a couple of minutes we decided that the next morning would be better, as Mr. S was not completely sure what time Mr. J1 would arrive.   Leaving the office – sorry, the bedroom – I rejoined with my dear friend Luis near a street where, according to Mr. S, the other agency involved in the process was located. I had to see for myself that at least some part, of what looked like a complete charade, was real. I could not accurately recall the number of the door. I knew it was either 35 or 53, so we checked both. Number 35 seemed abandoned while number 53 looked like nothing. I'll explain: there were shades on the glasses, inside, so nothing could be perceived from the streets. No clue whatsoever.   We decided we should get some dinner and discuss the subject over a meal and went to eat at an Italian restaurant nearby. After pizzas and some drinks, Luis had an idea: "Why not go to the police with the data you just collected? Maybe they can figure out something". It was indeed a great idea. I immediately asked the waiter for directions to the nearest police station, which he kindly provided us. It was hard to find; on the way there we had to ask another passerby man on where to go, but finally we got there.   On arrival, our first sight was an individual being moved from a police car to the police station. Interesting, I thought. The police lady inside was very helpful: I told her the entire story, to which she listened with great interest and attention. After I finished, I presented her with the facts that I had collected so far on these three people, the addresses, the motorcycle license plate, and everything else I could remember. She replied that she would try to look that information up, and then she vanished for about 15 minutes. When she emerged from behind the door, she explained what she had found: All addresses were plausible, meaning that it was possible that they were actually for renting, or business places. The names and descriptions were, obviously, too scarce to allow a proper search and the motorcycle, while not registered in Mr. S' name, had not been reported stolen. I was shocked. I was expecting some kind of answer, positive or negative, but an answer. And there was none to be found there. I said goodbye, thanking her for all her help, after some advice of caution, and nothing else.   Suffice to say that I was all but happy. We went back to Luis' place and I was restless. I searched the Internet for references to the collected data: phone numbers, addresses, names, etc. I found a phone number for one of the addresses and decided to take a shot. An old man's voice answered the phone. I asked if a housing agency worked at that address, to what he replied "no, it's 49". I would later realize that the man probably meant that I was calling number 49 instead of 53 but, at the time, I understood that he said the agency was on number 49. Restless as I was, I decided that I would go out and take another look at the street where the supposed agency was, even if it meant having little or no sleep that night. We arrived after maybe 20 minutes (after dropping by Mr. S' street to make sure he had not fled with my 200 Euro and, yes, the motorcycle was still there) and began to perform a more thorough investigation of the sites. Number 35, as it was pointed out by a lovely old Chinese lady next door, was a school. No agency here. As for number 53 again no luck: The windows were shut from inside like some other agencies I've seen before, so it was dubious whether there was something there or not. Neighboring stores, however, had no knowledge of anything operating there. My tension just built up even more.   We went back to the house and began tearing apart the possible outcomes of our interaction with Mr. S the morning after. From 2 vs. 3 fights, to weapons, to kicking his ass and demanding the 200 Euro back, all scenarios were carefully considered. We were ready for next morning. The plan would be to get him to sign the receipt then explain that I would not pay the commission except at the signing of the contract, on the afternoon. Needless to say that the night was slow to pass and some meditation was required on my part to get to sleep properly. But in the morning, we were ready to go.   One of the things I was required to deliver was a copy of my ID card, so we would use that to our advantage. We arrived at his place around 9.10, just in time to basically lie that I had gone to the bank and that it was still closed, hence the reason for not showing up with the money. After explaining that, I proceeded to ask him how the 200 Euro thing would work out: Would I get them back once I paid the commission? Would they deduct the value from it? He replied that it would get deducted from the deposit that I would later pay the owner. I proceeded to ask him politely if he wouldn't mind signing the receipt, which he concurred, and then I noticed a detail that caught my eye: Instead of just signing and shutting me up (like I'm guessing most con artists would do) he first filled in the missing written value (two hundred Euro) and only then signed the paper. I saw some residual piece of truth somewhere during that moment. He then mentioned that his colleague, Mr. J1, was arriving shortly with an English contract that I could take a look and that I needed a copy of my Id. It was the cue I was waiting for. I said that it would be nice to have also a copy of his Id. His face froze. He was speechless for a while but immediately tried to excuse himself from it, as I kept pushing and pushing to get one of his identification documents out of him. He finally agreed to give me his driver's license and me and Luis took off to copy both. Finally some sense of security, as small as it was.   After an eventless run to the copy store, we came back to the apartment. Mr. J1 arrived shortly after and it was a bit relieving to see him, as I had already interacted with him in my previous house searches. We started working on the contract, after reading it and correcting some minor inconsistencies, and agreed that I would pay the commission now and sign the contract later in the afternoon, with the owner present. As a trust symbol, most definitely after a conversation with Mr. S, while Luis and I were out for copies, he handed me his passport. We then went back to the store, to copy his passport, then to the bank, where I paid the commission to Mr. S (and got a receipt, signed this time) and, after some babbling on his part, got back the 200 Euro of the deposit, ripping that first receipt to shreds, obviously. And there I was: Commission paid and a 16 o'clock appointment at a hotel which, according to them, was also the property of the owner of the apartment. I was as restless as the night before; I had just paid 1000 Euro to these guys and all I had were some document copies (documents that could be fake), a passport (which could also be a fake), a license plate, some addresses, and some phone numbers. Needless to say I was not OK.   (to be continued...)