Back to Amsterdam, I bid my two compatriot cohorts adios and start hitching my way south toward the nearest Alp. Not far out of Amsterdam, I get a lift with a middle aged couple on their way home to Scheveningen. They’re telling me a story about how Nazi infiltrators, during the Second World War, could be identified, no matter how fluent they may have been in the Dutch language, by their pronunciation of their town's name.