In which we eat some herring, see a lot of tulips, and go a bridge too far.
Read on for deets about all the adventures of the traveling Laskins.
Sunday, May 7, 2017
Ah-Ah-Amsterdam 2017, Day 1
You shouldn’t fly Iceland Air anywhere if you haven’t ever traveled
by air before. This is because all the
announcements are first in Modern Icelandic (Mod Ice, as it is known among the language
cognoscenti), and then in English that is so heavily accented it might as well
be Icelandic. They aren’t saying
anything different from anything you’ve heard on any other flight, but if you
don’t know what that is, you’ll spend all your time flying to and from
Reykjavik wondering what the hell they are talking about.
On our brief stop in Iceland we encounter snyrtegar, which means
toilets, and a chocolate cookie that had so many letters in its name – some of
them unknown to us – that we had to buy it. All together now: Súkkula∂ibitakaka!
At Schiphol (pronounced like ski pole) Airport in Amsterdam,[1] there are the
requisite notices on the baggage carousels that tell you which flights are
loading onto which carousel, when they are starting, when they are done,
etc. The notices flip between Dutch and
English. You hope that when it says “Alle
bagage is gelost” next to your flight number, that it does not mean what it
sounds like.
After a few minor delays and a short taxi ride, we land at our hopelessly
hip A-dam hangout on Rustenbergerstraat 256 in de Pijp (pronounced “pipe”). It totally lives up to its Airbnb billing of
three flights of stairs, and you feel like you are climbing up from the deepest
hold on a supertanker. The apartment is both
shipshape and trés moderne, with lots of smooth black and white surfaces and
hidden storage and big windows on both ends of the narrow flat. The two bedrooms upstairs are separated by a fabulous
bathroom with a complicated, multi-jetted shower and all frosted glass panels. We feel terribly stylish and our landlord Marvin
does not dispel this, being young and cool and he used to DJ so there are
hundreds of records lying about too.
Once I realize that there are no mugs because A-damers just serve tea
and coffee in glasses, we all feel at home.
It is funny how familiar but unfamiliar this city feels. There is that wonderful cold European city
smell which is partly traffic but also maybe food stores and cafes everywhere,
and people out walking and biking and sitting and talking. (More on the biking later). So that is kind of exotic but in a familiar
way. The unfamiliarity comes from the fact that everyone tells you, oh,
don’t worry about Dutch because everyone speaks English but somehow I expected
that to mean that I would understand all the signs and labels that are in Dutch
not English and I don’t. I find myself
repeatedly pronouncing things as they might be in German (Strasse instead of
Straat, Sh-traat instead of Straat). This
is not so surprising because sometimes Dutch looks very English and sometimes it
looks very German and sometimes it is like nothing you’ve ever seen
before. So this is a linguistic adventure. But the truth is that everyone does speak
enough English, and unlike certain other countries, they don’t mind speaking English with you, so you
really can get around just fine. But you
are on your own in the grocery store to figure out what kind of cheese you are
buying!
On our first night, we gather for dinner with our travel companions
Andy and Laurent and sister-in-law KT at the Viscafé de Gouden Hoek which turns
out to be way the hell across the city but totally worth the trip. The evening is a success: we figure out the tram AND I picked a really
good fish place where we sample jenever and a beer made especially for fish
which is brewed with mustard seeds and dill and is unbelievably tasty. There was much well-fried fish, one misfire
on something that I thought was herring and Andy thought was fish balls, but
turned out to be a perfectly-made fish sandwich, and a great deal of bonhomie. Izzy and I come home early – feeling terribly
sophisticated wending our way through dark A-dam – and then of course can’t
sleep because that is how it is when you travel far away.
Ah-Ah-Amsterdam 2017, Day 2
Andy is a walker, and always likes to start with a stroll around
whatever city we are in. We happily trot
along because we agree and it orients us a bit and while all of us love Funcles
Andy and Laurent, certain members of our party will follow them to the ends of
the earth. Our walk also reminds us that
we are in Northern Europe – it is cool, windy, and then it rains and even hails
briefly.
And, it introduces us to bicycles.
A word about this bicycle business.
Everyone rides bikes here, it is like China that way. But there are two fundamental differences
from the US. First, yes, it really is
that flat here. Except for the bridges
over the canals (of which there are many, and they do go up and down at a short
but surprisingly steep pitch), it is easy-peasy riding. So the bikes are not our lightweight,
gear-enhanced sprinters, but rather these great big monster workhorses with no
gears, comfy seats (sometimes up to four, or they have a giant bucket in the
front to tote around kids, pets, tourists, groceries), and pedal brakes – no
hand brakes. Everyone has a bell and the
bikes are almost uniformly black and a bit beat-up. There is no pretension about bike riding
here.
The other thing is that this is a culture that not only respects
cyclists, but protects them and assumes their presence in great numbers. So there are bike lanes on every street and
bike lights at every intersection. The
cyclist rules in these lanes, so woe to you, American pedestrian, if you step
in without looking. You will be dinged
at by a fietsbel (that is Dutch for bicycle bell) as someone hurtles by and you
will throw yourself back to the comparative safety of the pedestrian sidewalk,
just narrowly avoiding bodily harm.
Unlike the UK, where one is exhorted to MIND THE GAP and LOOK LEFT
because the traffic is coming from the opposite direction that you are used to,
here in the Netherlands you are expected to figure it out on your own. It is taking some getting used to but we
expect that by the end of the week, we will get the hang of it.
Streets are really more sidewalk than street because here is how it
goes: sidewalk, bike lane, bike and car
parking lane, actual street of one or two lanes, then more parking, another
bike lane, and another sidewalk. You can tell what the priority is here. And gosh, the air sure is clear for a
city. KT says that they basically do
everything they can to get you to NOT drive a car. It seems to be working.
You see everything being carried on a bike: we saw one with a whole family of three
pedaling out to Keukenhof, another women toting a mannequin torso, and dogs and
children and babies and groceries and plants and luggage and more people, all
piled on. And not a single one – NOT A
SINGLE ONE – wearing tech gear not to mention a helmet. Great coats, yes. Attractive scarves, yes. High heels, yes. Helmets, no.
Because there are no handbrakes (well, there are, but plenty don’t
have them), your hands are free to: eat,
text, smoke, hold an umbrella, tow another bike, hold hands with the person
biking next to you, etc.
Finally, everyone appears tall and fit, but not in that aggressive
American, fetishization-of-working-out kind of fit. It is more of a
I-live-my-life-moving-around-and-stop-once-in-a-while-for-a-drink-with-a-friend
kind of fit. This city is SO SANE.
But back to our adventures. This
being Easter weekend, bakeries in particular have enticing window displays
featuring rabbits and chickens and delicious-looking cakes. But we are drawn
inexorably to the first FEBO we see.
FEBO is a Dutch institution, revered perhaps as something like White
Castle might be in the US – a beloved fast food icon that dishes out the
ultimate late-night drunk food, or hangover cure. Whatever you use copious amounts of fat and
salt to take care of, FEBO has it. There
is a counter where you can order food but why would you do that when you can
pop 1.80 euro into a slot, open a little door and pull out a piping hot Kalfsveelskroket
which is approximately four inches of deep fried meat-y (veal, so they say) gravy
and is shockingly satisfying. Perhaps
your taste runs more to a Vitaaltje which involves groentje (vegetables) or a
Kaassoufle which is like a salty, cheesy bechamel sauce wrapped in pastry,
fried, and served up hot. You may think
this sounds disgusting but I am here to tell you that it is not, and it is not
a stretch to imagine when this might be the most delicious thing you ever eat. We need FEBO in Harvard Square, or
Harvardplein as we will now call it.
Izzy opts instead for a waffle with chocolate hazelnut sauce next
door, while others avail themselves of the copious samples offered at SAY
CHEESE TO LIFE! a few blocks away.
Being Easter weekend, some things are closed, including the US
Consulate which we walk by, and which has all of its rolladen shutters closed
down tight. Maybe they are away for the
weekend, or maybe they are just embarrassed.
We walk and walk and walk. We
stop to listen to quintet at the Rijksmuseum playing a quite creditable Bach
organ concerto on a violin, a tuba, two accordions and the world’s largest
balalaika. We see pirates, we eat cheese, and we have some frustrating moments
figuring out how to get to Keukenhof, our goal for the afternoon.
So
Keukenhof. It is kind of the Disneyworld
of Amsterdam, wildly artificial because this stuff doesn’t grow in nature, but
actually beautiful and packed with tourists from all over the world even on this
cold and windy and kind of rainy day before Easter, totally worth seeing. KT has said, you know that tulips are a big
thing here, right? If you didn’t, you do
now. Perfect beds of technicolor blooms of
the bulbous variety (think also daffodils and hyacinths) unfold as you wander
through this large, lightly-wooded garden.
This is more flower power than you have ever seen in your life, and even
the most jaded among us can’t help but enjoy it.[1] There are conveniently placed giant cafes in
front of which are conveniently placed giant clogs that some of us must pose
in. And some art, and some ponds and the
attendant waterfowl, and of course a windmill into which you can climb and see
the strategically placed tulip fields right next door which obviously aren’t
being grown for any other reason than to provide photo ops. Still, the colors are breathtaking and that
really trumps the artificiality of it, and despite the slight hassle to get
here and the hip flexor stiffness we will all have tomorrow after so much
walking today, we are all glad we came.[2]
Home late so no rest for the weary but off to Tempoe Doeloe for rijstaffel
which turns out to be super tasty and fun even if it does take two and a half
hours.
[1]
That would be Bill.
[2]
Keukenhof was also the site of an act of petty larceny by several members of
our party. When you buy a hot chocolate
at the café, it is served in a charming yellow mug that says Chocomel on it,
which is presumably the hot chocolate brand of Holland. The mug is much coveted
by Bill, so discussion ensues: could we buy the mug? Could we just take the mug? Andy queries the staff: no one buys the
mugs. Peter looks in the garbage: people
throw away the mugs! Laurent points out
to the gal clearing tables: people are throwing
away the mugs. She shrugs. Over my express objection – think of the
terrible example being set for our youngest companions – the adorbs mug somehow
ends up in my bag.
Ah-Ah-Amsterdam 2017, Day 3
This being a largely Protestant country, Easter does not getting as huge
billing as it does in say, Rome, or New Orleans.[1] Also, it is cold and raining so like apparently
everyone else in A-dam we head to museums on Easter Sunday. First stop:
Banksy/Dalì at the MOCO which is kind of cool but of course Banksy is
really about sticking it to the art establishment so it is a bit weird to see his
work enshrined in a museum. And the Dalì
piece feels a bit tacked on. The
connection is: they are both artists who
use/d the artistic mainstream deliberately for their own ends. But while Banksy has a lot to say about the
world, Dalí is rather harder to parse. As
we’re trying to figure it out, a young museum staffer comes through with a
spray bottle, freshening the air. If you
really like that scent, you can buy it at the gift shop.
One member of our party is not at all happy about museums generally
but she rather rallies with a cool Banksy hat.
Pancake-fueled (how all tourists run here), we make our way to the
mobbed and freezing Dam Square thinking to visit the Nieuwe Kerk but it doesn’t
excite (exhibit on press photography but another member of our party thinks
that would be a busman’s holiday) so we fall into danger of aimless wandering
in the cold until we spot the Begijnhof on the google map.
Have I mentioned that it is cold and rainy here? Because it is not so pleasant for
wandering.
Anyhoo, the Begijnhof is a charming oasis tucked back in the behind
of some crowded tourist streets. It was created
as a cloister of sorts that may have been built as early as the late 14th c.,
for some Catholic women who were very pious but didn’t want to go so far as to
take the vows and live with the other nuns. This was apparently not uncommon – it was
called beguinage – and we determine that these were the cool nuns. So they built themselves a little square of
classically Dutch houses – tall and narrow and mostly brick now although there
is one original wooden one left (the oldest wooden house in all of A-dam, 16th
c.!), with large windows, all cheek by jowl because that is how urban Dutch houses
go. Once the Prots took over (during the
politely named “Alteration” of 1578, when the Prot business men kicked out the
Catholics), they were allowed to stay because their property was not owned by
the Church, but by the ladies themselves.
Their chapel was given over to an English sect, however. The gals, preferring anything to that, built
a “secret” chapel inside of two houses next to each other. The “” are because it is actually pretty big,
and has a three-story atrium inside so while it may have looked like another
prosperous house from the outside, it sure was not a secret within.
The great thing about the Begijnhof now is that to this day, only
women can live there. I suppose that
they must be women of good faith, perhaps lay sisters or some such. It might be a little bit like living in
University Hall, with tourists constantly circling, but it offers the illusion,
at any rate, of peace and serenity within this small and crowded city.
The Amsterdam Museum offers a warm, dry, and, oh, also informative
break from the elements. We learn a lot
about shipping, of course, and enough to be better informed about the rise of
secular rule (which is really just Protestant but you don’t need an advanced
degree to figure out that getting rid of the Catholics would be entirely to the
fiscal benefit of the businessmen who ended up running things for the next few
centuries) and the coming of the French (goodbye self-rule for a while but in
the end #nothankyou Napoleon, see ya at Waterloo!), and the decimation of the
Jewish population during WW2, and gay marriage (first in the world! They are very proud of that one). Only Laurent and Peter and I make it all the
way back into some rooms that aren’t well-advertised but which we think are the
most interesting of the place: the
bookkeeper’s office and boardroom of the orphanage that was the original use of
these buildings. They are left largely
as they were during the height of their use:
wood paneled, with great portraits of groups of respectable-looking
burghers with small urchins, whose lives are about to be saved, about the
tables. It is very quiet back there, and
while it surely wouldn’t have been in the 1700s, you can get just a whiff of
the earnest, self-satisfied, and pious wealth that drove this city through
centuries of prosperity.[2]
Dinner tonight is at de Struisvogel (The Ostrich), highly recommended
by more than one Chowhound and Hungry Onion source, where you can, in fact, eat
Struisvogel and it is, in fact, delicious.
After dinner, Andy and Laurent finally pay off their longstanding
debt to Izzy with a roaring game of charades.
This culminated with my effort to do a charade of Hamilton, that somehow
made my playing companions shout “Swine-y Todd!”
[1] But they do have Easter trees,
like in Germany! This is a perfectly
charming tradition where you bring in some branches, and hang little Easter
ornaments like bunnies and birdies and eggs on them.
[2]
Here’s the thing about Dutch history. It
is long, and quite remarkable for such a small plot of land, mostly reclaimed
form the sea. As in much of Europe,
there were Romans (maybe some Vikings, too), then Spanish, then they ruled
themselves and kind of got together with England – that was an
enemy-of-my-enemy-is-my-friend kind of situation). The French showed up, as they did in a lot of
Europe in the early 19th c., but that was short-lived. Belgium carved itself off in the mid-19th
c. Somehow they remained neutral during
WW1, and you’ll hear more about WW2 later in our trip. What I find interesting is that many say that
their big moment was about 50 years in the 17th c., and that it has
been all downhill since then. Sure
doesn’t appear that way, tho. This
remained a prosperous nation, a center of business and commerce, great producer
of art, with large colonial holdings, until the 20th c., and
everyone still seems awfully happy to be here.
Maybe downhill is all relative in the Netherlands.
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