How I Spent My Summer Vacation, Part 2: Amsterdam

America's European travel guru Rick Steves suggests this approach to visiting the capital of the Netherlands: "Approach Amsterdam as an ethnologist observing a strange culture. Stroll through any neightborhood and see things that are commonplace here, but rarely found elsewhere. Carillons chime quaintly in neighborhoods selling sex, as young professionals smoke pot with impunity next to old ladies in bonnets selling flowers. Observe the neighborhood's 'social control,' where an elderly man feels safe in his home knowing he's being watched by the prostitutes next door."

There really are two stories when it comes to Amsterdam — that of the anything-goes-live-and-let-live society that has made the city a mecca for those drawn to the beacon of pot and prostitution without any legal ramifications, and that of a quaint Dutch settlement steeped in centuries of tradition that attracts conservative history buffs and tulip enthusiasts. But the two sides coexist so seamlessly that when you're there, it really does feel like one story. And Rick (after the last week, we're on a first name basis) is right. The only way to get this story is just to walk around and watch, which is what we did there for two and half days. And we came away in love with it.


JEM's favorite things about Amsterdam:
1. Canals.

Amsterdam's got more canals than Venice, and they're all lined with cute boats. They also have swans and these weird little black ducks that prompted the following exchange:

JEM: Wow, y'know? Look at that duck's feet. Those don't look like normal duck's feet. I don't think those are ducks at all.
Jake: Jaz, (sigh and eye roll) it's pronounced 'Dutch'.

2. Tall, skinny houses that look like they're melting.

Apparently the reason Amsterdam's houses are so skinny is that they were and still are taxed according to their width. Their stairwells are so steep and narrow that all the houses have hoisting hooks on their fronts for moving furniture through the windows by rope. All this combined with their skewompus melting angles caused by their centuries-long descent into the adjacent canals makes them look like they were designed by 4-year-old architects. They're adorable.

3. Bikes.

Amsterdam wasn't built for cars. The streets in Amsterdam are so tiny and so crowded with pedestrians that the thought of attempting to navigate them in a car is laughable. The resulting society is, I'd bet, the most bicycle-congested one in the western hemisphere.

And the bikes are great — these old, hammered things with chipped paint and squeaky breaks and stripped down metal child seats attached to every possible appendage. Our favorites were the ones with these built-on wooden buckets. They're like bike pickup trucks.

Jake really wants to get one someday. We're still working out how we'll get it to wherever we'll be living by then, but that's a bridge we'll cross when we get to it.

4. Narrow alleys that feel like secret passageways.

5. Food.

Strawberry kiwi tart

Dutch apple pancake

Dutch apple tart

Some of the tastiest hot chocolate ever to go down my gullet

Bizarre vending machine hamburgers

6. The Red Light District.

Sorry, no photos here. Apparently if you take pictures, pimps will leap from the shadows and give you a black eye.

Let me begin by saying that I am not an advocate of prostitution. Really. But strolling through Amsterdam's Red Light District ranks awfully high on my surreal-o-meter. Since I can't take you there with photos, I'll try to explain the set up as best as I can. You remember that pic up there of Jake frolicking in an alley? So, envision an alley just that narrow, lined with windows at ground level, like shop windows, with a glass door next to each window and a red light over each door. But instead of mannequins and store displays in the windows, there are live girls in lingerie, literally a couple of feet from you, really hamming it up. They wink and smile and beckon and blow kisses and even knock on the glass to get your attention. Bargaining happens through the door, and once a deal has been struck, the customer is admitted into the small bedroom and a curtain is drawn over the window and door.

Did I mention it's really surreal?

The favorite moment of our Red Light District stroll was when we noticed, behind a pretty blond girl shimmying for a group of prospective customers, an open door behind her that led into an adjacent kitchenette that she apparently shared with her next door neighbor, who happened to be in there at the time, standing next to the microwave in a thong and stilettos, fixing herself a snack.

7. Anne Frank house.

I read the Diary of Anne Frank as a kid, I think. At least portions of it. But after standing in the rooms where the whole thing went down, I have to read it again. What an incredible and tragic story.

The clippings and photos glued to the walls of Anne's room in the above picture are still on the walls, protected by sheets of plexiglass. They are such normal girl things to put on the wall — movie stars and the like — that I was really transfixed in there for a while. It reminded me of what a normal kid Anne was, just dropped into such horrifying and extraordinary circumstances.

I had forgotten that Anne's father, Otto Frank, was the only member of their family to survive the concentration camps. There was video of him in the museum talking about how long it took for him to open and read Anne's diary after the end of the war. It was one of the most raw and gut-wrenching things I've ever seen. This small museum is definitely an Amsterdam must.

8. Vincent van Gogh Museum.
This museum tells the life story of the Dutch-born revolutionary, who decided in his late 20s, with no artistic training or background, that he wanted to be an artist.

It chronicles his development and practice, starting with dark, drab rudimentary works and ending with the vibrant, emotional, Impressionism-inspired stuff the world now adores him for.

And, for me, it reshaped my image of van Gogh, whom I had always thought of as an angry, crazy, self-destructive misfit.

In the end, I left the place heartbroken over a sweet, well-meaning dreamer who, even as his work was reaching its creative climax, saw himself as a spectacular failure and, recognizing his mounting mental illness for what it was, checked himself into a psychiatric hospital.

But was unable to heal and, only 10 years after deciding he would become an artist, died of a self-inflicted gunshot wound to the chest.

I kept looking at the hordes of people in the museum desperately trying to get close to his most famous and beloved works and thinking, "Oh, I hope he can see this."


9. The flower market.


10. (Tie) Dutch people and Dutch quirkiness.

We decided that the Dutch people have it all: They've got the Germans' engineering prowess, the Scandinavians' ethereal good looks, the Americans' cheerful, laid-back friendliness, the Frenchmen's fashion sense, and a unique, funky style all their own. And they all whistle happy little tunes to themselves everywhere they go.

When I grow up I want to be Dutch.



JEM's Amsterdam cons:
1. Pot.

I don't have any pictures, not because there weren't plenty to be had, but rather because I would prefer to forget this aspect of the city. It reinforced my opposition to the legalization of marijuana, not for moral reasons so much as an effort to protect American society from the flood of obnoxiousness that apparently comes with its legalization. Namely, nightmarishly bad street musicians playing Bob Marley songs on toy guitars that haven't been tuned in decades. One of whom took up residence right under our hotel room window, alternating shifts periodically with the steel drummer, who I swear played the same song all afternoon, and, just as we were leaving, the didjeridu guy.

I'm certain legalized pot was also to blame for the guy who knocked over a recycling bin full of glass bottles right under our window at about 4 a.m. on the first night, and the guy who, the next night, in the early morning hours, went on a lenghty tirade below our window about paying for a house and telling the sober people reasoning with him that their explanations were "BOOOO-RING!"

We also had a gang of hari krishnas parade under our window at one point, singing and playing musical instruments, but I don't think that was a pot-related one. Mostly because their song was better.

I'm not going to say everybody should go to Amsterdam, like I did with Paris. But I'm glad I got to see it. And I hope I can go back again someday.



JEM

How I Spent My Summer Vacation, Part 1: Paris

Fromage

We're back! And I apologize up front, but I'm going to have to dedicate at least two gigantic posts to the last week. I will do my very best to avoid waxing terribly obnoxious and cliché, but we had such a fantastic time in Paris and Amsterdam, it will be difficult. So, consider yourself warned.

Let's start the show.

First of all, I need to talk about sleeper trains. I've always fantasized about taking an overnight train. I envisioned it being like a Carey Grant movie — romantic and mysterious, etc., etc. And maybe in first class it is. But in second class, it's like this:

That's — go ahead and count 'em — six beds, in an area roughly the size of a broom closet. The beds are crammed in there so tightly that you can't sit up once you're in your bunk. And, in true German-efficiency form, they fill these rooms. We had five people in ours, on the way there and on the way back, despite there being multiple empty cabins.

"If we let you have your own room, we'd have to give everybody their own room," said the ticket checker.

"What would be wrong with that?" said Jake.

"You paid to sleep in a six-person room," said the ticket checker.

"So if there were six people on the whole train, you'd put them all in the same cabin," said Jake.

"Yes," said the ticket checker.

Ah, Germany. Where the customer is always wrong. Though, I should give the ticket checker a little credit. He eventually did have mercy on us and allow us to move from the room with the two 300-pound men who reeked of stale tobacco and cigarettes to the room with two less-offensive-smelling Swiss backpackers, who stripped down to their skivvies once the lights were out and climbed into the same bunk right above me. I was pretty sure I was going to be privy to a show I would've had to pay at least $10 to witness in Amsterdam, but either they behaved themselves or were extra-stealthy. Either way, I didn't have to take lit matches to my eyes and ears, which is always a win in my book.


But we made the most of it and survived, although I'm not sure sleeping on a 3-inch-thick foam mattress on a plywood bookshelf was the best thing ever for my pregnant back. Junior sure had a good time, though, and I've got the bruised ribs to prove it.

At any rate, we eventually got to Paris.

And after a shower and costume change, it was off to the Louvre.

I've heard Dresden's Baroque architecture often compared to Paris. And this is true, they do have a similar vibe, except that Paris is on steroids. And the palace-turned-Europe's-greatest-art-museum that is the Louvre is no exception. The place is immense. And gorgeous. And, at 9 Euros a head, a pretty screaming deal, too.

Inside the pyramid

With Jake's Las Vegas heritage, we had to keep reminding ourselves that we weren't looking at Caesar's Palace rip-offs. This stuff was the real deal. We saw the real Mona:

And the real Venus:

And about a kajillion other great real things. Since we get plenty of Renaissance art here in Dresden, we spent most of our time hanging out with the ancient stuff, which was awesome. I found works from my favorite ancient civilization, the Etruscans:

And Jake found stuff from his favorite ancient civilization, the Assyrians:

A good time was had by all.

We figured we'd filled our art quota by the time we got out of there, and weren't planning on visiting the nearby Orsay Museum, which focuses on the Impressionists, at all. But, lo and behold, the next day there was a torrential downpour, so we went, mostly just to dry off for a couple of hours.

And it turns out the Orsay Museum is KILLER.

Nostrils

It seemed like every room we walked into, there was at least one painting we recognized.

But the highlight of the whole day was Vinnie Van Gogh's self-portrait:

Then the sun came out just long enough for us to walk the Avenue des Champs Élysées and visit the Arc de Triomphe.

Which is really big.

While there, we shared a hearty elitist American guffaw over a bunch of France's finest.

C'mon, France. This is your MILITARY. Silk neck scarves? Are you kidding me? Why not just put them all in high heels and feather boas?

We forgave France, though, after eating this:

This is a 13 Euro banana split. In U.S. dollar terms, that's about 20 bucks. And if that price tag doesn't freak the heck out of you, try this on for size: IT WAS WORTH IT. Honest to goodness. I would pay 13 Euros to eat that thing again. I would pay 13 Euros to eat that thing every day for the rest of my life. I'd heard rumors that Paris's Berthillon ice cream was the greatest ice cream in the world. And after eating it, I cannot say it isn't.

In an effort to see a different side of Paris, we trekked out to the business district, which happens to be the largest business district in Europe. It's pretty far from the touristy part of town and since we were there on a Saturday and Europeans no likey working on weekends, the place was a ghost town, which was pretty cool in a sort of post-Apocalyptic way.

There are a lot of awesome things about Paris, but something I found especially awesome was its symmetry. If you look real close right down the middle of this next picture, you can see the Arc de Triomphe.

Directly behind the camera, perfectly lined up with the Arc de Triomphe, is this awesome building, the Grande Arche:

And if you had super-human vision and I had a camera with space-age resolution, you could look straight through the arch of the Arc de Triomphe in that previous pic and see this all the way at the other end of the Champs Élysées, right in front of the Louvre, also perfectly lined up:

Cool, huh?

Other cool things included Notre Dame:

And the Pont Neuf bridge and the Samaritaine building. If you know why these are cool, we should obviously be better friends.

And if you don't know why they're cool, here's a clue:

And if you still don't know, here's my final clue.

We were also big fans of the Cité Metro station and its weird green lighting:

And crépes. We're really big fans of crépes.

And this street named after me:

And I guess that's about it.

But it feels like I'm forgetting something ...

Ah, yes. The Eiffel Tower.

The Eiffel Tower rocks.

And it's way bigger than I thought it would be — it's actually Paris's tallest structure, even taking into consideration the skyscrapers in the business district. I loved it so much that I insisted we go back and see it at night. I was expecting pretty lights and a romantic scene, not this:

Apparently at night the Eiffel Tower turns into an alien mothership with a searching laser eye that turns people to dust. And then at the stroke of 10 p.m. this happened:

All these seizure-inducing blinking lights flashed on in a spectacle Jake aptly dubbed "Liberaci-fication".

We had to drown our disappointment in chocolate-banana-whipped-cream crépes, which worked like magic. But, in any case, I'll prefer to remember the Eiffel as she was by day.

The truth is, though, Paris was anything but disappointing. And we went in sort of expecting to be disappointed. I mean, how can any city really be the most beautiful city on Earth? It's gotta be all hype, right? No place can be that amazing.

But my last night in Paris, this is the T-shirt I slept in:


Without even the slightest hint of sarcasm.

Final thoughts on Paris:
— The people were not nearly as rude as the stereotypes would have you believe. In fact, twice in one day, French people on the Metro offered me their seats without hesitation. That's never happened to me in Dresden, and I don't expect it ever will. There was also a really sweet grocery store manager who let us use the store's bathroom, which was clearly not for customers, when we found ourselves desperately searching relief in the abandoned business district. That also would never happen in Germany.
— Madame Miles, wherever you are, you'll be delighted to know I got to brush off my 10-year-old high school French and say some stuff to real live French people who actually understood what I was saying. It was quite a thrill.

In conclusion, Paris is great and everybody should go there.



JEM

P.S. I'll be back tomorrow with all the news that's fit to print on Amsterdam. And some stuff that's not really fit to print. I mean, c'mon, it's Amsterdam.