in Bruges

Bruges, I imagine, is a quite charming town when it’s not raining and bitter cold. I bet the town cleans up nicely in the summer, when the parks are full and the few canals are lined with green, and newborn ducklings waddle after their mother in single “awww”-inspiring file.

But here, huddling in the cold, trying to get the hostel key to unlock the main door so we can thaw in our room that smells like an odd – but believable – mixture of partially discovered vomit and cigarette smoke, I’m trying very hard to picture the charm.

But it’s not the weather. I think it’s the town itself – there’s something too “It’s A Small World” about it. It’s beautiful, yes – but it all seems by design. And with shops and restaurants and tourist hotspots all around, I keep waiting for the town mascot (the Euro?) to run out and take pictures with all the kids. Granted, Amsterdam had more than its fair share of tourist traps – but it was big enough that you could, in ten minutes, outwalk it all. Bruges is very very small, and after having walked almost the entire town in one afternoon, it feels a little like a tourist catering service. I mean, we walked into a nice little traditional restaurant for dinner and they were playing the Plain White T’s and Maroon 5.

I shivered twice – only the first time because of the cold. I don’t know – to me, Bruges lacks personality.

So I’ll go have another pint of Brugse Zot in the downstairs bar, listen to the college students talk about which schools are or are not in the ivy league, then climb into bed with my copy of moby-dick and think to myself: very good, at least I’ve done that.

I found the apple pie. (by the way - best dinner ever...)

(Here’s hoping the rain lets up so we can bike to Damme tomorrow!)

Bruges soundtrack: Bon Iver – For Emma, Forever Ago

vaarwel, Amsterdam

A certain reputation precedes Amsterdam the world over, one of sexual freedom and moral ambiguity – one of unrestricted and ultra-liberal world views. Some people repeat these things with undertone and insinuation, maybe because they find such ways of life uncomfortable or repulsive, or evil. I just find them unidentifiably different, and to be honest – that kind of fascinates me.

But I knew there had to be more to Amsterdam than reputation, and there was – so much more. Just as NYC has its Times Square, so too does Amsterdam have its own tourist trap, with almost all of its populace living in the miles of surrounding city streets and canals.
Walking these streets and canals I discovered a peaceful, quiet city – one which, if you turn the right corner or walk to where shop keepers know no English, has a way of transporting you out of time.

I also discovered a little more of who I am as a person, or as a traveler at least. I love exploring – I love walking a city, or biking or taking the train – I love wandering without a map, walking down alleys and corridors. I don’t worry about looking like a tourist, I don’t excessively worry about pickpockets – though I take precautions. I love nothing more than walking through a crowded city market, seeing what there is to buy or eat, listening to the locals. I love absorbing the energy of a city by walking the conduits that lead to and from its heart, wherever that may be. I do the tourist stuff, too – but I also want to see the morning face, unmade and real, blinking in the early light.

The thing I love about Amsterdam – and places like NYC – is that everything is so easily accessible. And from the maze of streets a certain vitality of life bleeds through, a sense that here people are actively living loving learning. It’s refreshing, and reviving: it is to my soul what a deep breath of country air is to my lungs. Amsterdam has some of this effect on me – perhaps not as culturally or artistically diverse as NYC – but still, energizing.

And so, farewell Amsterdam. Farewell girls on bikes, and low-flying pidgeons, and snowstorms every 20 minutes. So long wonderful museums, and crowded markets, and sinking buildings. Goodbye houseboats covered in tulips and rust. Goodbye long walks. It was fun.

the league of extraordinarily chic women

I imagine city officials undercover at Central Station, at the tram stops at the bus stops. Agents keeping a watchful eye at the harbor, at city limits. People stationed at all the schools, and at the university of Amsterdam - all paying close attention for any signs of chic women. And when chicness is identified, or potential is seen, the woman is tapped into a secret society of chic women, given a card and a bicycle, and instructed to ride – always ride – the cobbled streets of Amsterdam.

That’s the only way I can explain it – all the chic girls on bikes. With their thin, wispy scarves billowing in the wind, knee-high boots over scuffed jeans, knit cap or beret covering close-cropped or curly hair, and always a courier bag never a purse, with some kind of custom stitching.

I don’t count the tourists, of course – they make up a large number of bike riders. But you can always tell them apart because they are typically not chic. Or because they travel in packs, and they all have red or yellow rental bikes.

But that’s one of the things I love about this city. The thousands of bicycles, the protected bike lanes, the bicycle street signals. I suppose in a city so small, and with so little parking, riding a bike makes perfect sense – but it’s a great big change coming from Houston. And I love it.

So ride on, you extraordinarily chic women of Amsterdam, and pedal proud – I’ll wear your wristband any day.

an artist's work

This is not the first time I’ve encountered living statues, and this will certainly not be the last time I’ll run into performance art on the trip. But I was moved by the focused intensity of some of the artists in Dam Square in front of the Paleis and Nieuwe Kerk.

Granted, there were a few crowd pleasers. Darth Vader was there – he was a big hit among the kids. I gave him some money just to take his picture, but he grabbed me and pulled me in for a hug and… well, I was a little afraid.

Two grim reapers were also there, and for some change you could have a picture of yourself being harvested. The older generation liked them a little more (morbid, no?). These characters saw plenty of business – their pots were full of coins. Then there were the other artists – the ones off in the corners, perhaps not as impressively dressed or not as theatrical, the true performers, doing it for the love. Artists like this guy.

There were seven coins in his pot – nine after I left. But this didn’t affect his performance – didn’t make his arm shake, his lip tremble, his brow furrow with jealousy or contempt. He kept perfectly still while in his direct line of vision Dark Vader grabbed me for a hug, and Death scythed another tourist. Over and over, coin after coin, picture after picture. And still he stood, perfectly. What fortitude! What composure, what concentration. I wanted to throw my arms around him, say “it’s all right, you’re just ahead of your time. Years from now they will appreciate your work!”

But I just lowered my eyes as he bowed his thanks, and walked away. I don’t know – maybe they all get together at day’s end, share a pint or a joint, talk about the silly tourists. Maybe they trade costumes, or cycle through outfits. Maybe they’re unionized. I don’t know. I like my story better this way: the passionate, the proud artist – tortured yet at every waking moment tempted by his art.

Whichever truth may be, I’ll run by tomorrow and drop a few more coins in his tin.

Ik wil graag een nieuwe haring, alstublieft!

Amsterdam – and I’m guessing most of Holland – is not generally known for its outstanding, sitting-on-a-bench-fifty-years-later-and-suddenly-thinking-“wouldn’t that be great!” food. Good beer, yes. Good tulips, yes. Good finely crafted Delftware, more than you can imagine. But food… not so much.

And I’m not including cheese. Cheese – to me – is still an appetizer, or something to accompany a nice glass of wine and some incriminating photos. Because Holland has got great cheese, what with Edam and Gouda being just around the corner. And you know what they say about Gouda… yeah, that’s right… it’s fabulous.

But Nina and I set out anyway hoping to find something Bizarre Foods-worthy. Having already tried the patat frites, and some oddly textured supermarket fruit snacks (Red Band Truly Smoothy? Only 29kcal per portie! Oh wait… one portie = two snoepjes…) we turned our attention to dutch pancakes and raw herring.

I had heard mixed things about the pancakes – here known as Panenkoeken – and pretty much agree, and will pitch my ‘eh’ into the mix. They’re basically thick crepes topped with pizza ingredients – ham, cheese, pineapple, tomato, mushrooms – but after having some pretty great thin crepes stuffed with more unique filler, I prefer the latter.

The raw herring, on the other hand, was… different. You can order it one of two ways: either straight up on a plate (with optional pickle and onions), or on a roll with the same condiments (broodje haring). Our book recommended Jonk’s Herring Cart, but we found a charming little stand in the Albert Cuypmarket (a great open-air market 20-30min by foot south of Dam Square) and decided to go for it. Here’s me doing my best Andrew Zimmern:

It really wasn’t all that bad – if you like raw, slimy, fishy-tasting fish. The biggest, most pleasant surprise was the pickle – so much so that I bought one to go. It was somewhat sweet – like a gerkhin – but not overpowering in flavor, and was extremely refreshing. I could feel my electrolytes being repleted, it was incredible. They should make a sports drink out of that pickle’s brine. Pickleade – I’d buy it.

We’ve not much time left in the Netherlands, but I’m still keeping an eye out for that Dutch apple pie… I know it’s around here somewhere… I will find you…

Museum Tour

Having picked up our IAmsterdam cards at the train station yesterday (48€, free access to most museums, free canal tours, discounted meals etc), we decided to spend the afternoon exploring two of the better known museums in Holland: the Rijksmuseum, and the van Gogh Museum. We had originally planned on first walking over to the Neuwmarket, but what with today being “Second Easter” and all (a legitimate holiday here), the thing was closed.

We caught the museum walk – a sign-guided route starting at Central station and ending at the Rijksmuseum – which took about 30minutes and twisted through a number of side streets. It brought us through the tulip market (Tulipomania hit Holland in the 1600s), and past the now greatest place on earth (sorry, Scotland)... although a coffee shop here is not quite the same as stateside...

The museums themselves were pretty impressive. The Rijksmuseum boasted a tremendous collection of Rembrandt, as well as the world’s largest Vermeer collection (6 canvases). The van Gogh museum had a few paintings by van Gogh. And a special exhibit on Millais. And Dubbel FriSSS – which was easily the best tasting of the three. Though I’m still not sure what it was.

Although I have very poor museum stamina, and typically am not moved to any emotion by 80% of the paintings, the Rijksmuseum and the van Gogh museums were incredible. Vermeer and van Gogh are two of my favorite artists – they are my peking duck and pan-fried dumpling of the art world. And that Rembrandt had more than a little talent. If the greatness of a nation is judged, as some would believe, by its contribution to the arts, then Holland keeps counsel with the very best.

Hallo! Waar komt u vandaan?

We touched down in a snowstorm. My first view of Amsterdam from the Schiphol train was grainy and diffusely gray – as if I was flipping through an old album, or watching the city pass in 8mm black and white. It was a pleasant surprise, but definitely not the effect I expected – I pictured sun, and trees, and birds singing in harmony, and yellow clogs. I found the clogs, but everything else was eerily absent.

And it continued to snow for three hours, which meant that – by the time Nina and I had finished our very much abbreviated Jordaan hike (an area of Amsterdam with scenic canals) – I was a shivering, mumbling mess of runny nose, pink fingers and numb lips. And I like snow as much as the next guy – more so, in all honesty: I like it heavy and thick, framing the windows and layering the sidewalks like a spread of icing, hanging on branches like so many dollops of whipped cream. I like it biting. It’s perfect café weather.

But this snow didn’t stick, or layer – it just sort of worked its way into every break in my clothing. And with all the cafés already packed to capacity, and with my being a little jet lagged and hungry for something not peanuts, I’ll be the first to admit: Amsterdam kind of kicked my ass in round one. But at least the canals were nice.

Then, as quickly and unexpectedly as it began, the snow stopped falling. So I collected my thoughts and my horde of Kleenex and set out again, stopping first to refuel. I chose the most crowded place I saw, which is usually a good sign (although I soon learned that all the people in line were tourists, probably of the same mindset as I) and ordered up a batch of Chipsy King frites. Dutch style, mayonnaise only. I can’t stand mayonnaise – I’ll scrape it off a sandwich if there’s a thin layer. But I thought “eh, who knows? Maybe the Dutch do it differently. Maybe they’re onto something here.”

I was wrong. Domestic or Dutch, mayonnaise is still mayonnaise.

I walked around for a couple of hours. Amsterdam started to grow on me. It’s actually a very charming little town, despite (in light of?) the red light district and the sex shops and the every other doorway smelling like pot. But there’s something about the tall, narrow buildings – the way they sag and tilt because of their log and sand foundation. There’s something about the canals, and the bridges, and the cyclists pedaling around town, scarves trailing in the wind. There’s something about the come-be-who-you-are attitude, the lack of judgment and the lack of discrimination. I may not agree with the methods, but I agree with the mentality – and there’s something gently reaffirming about that…


Amsterdam soundtrack: The Dodos - Visiter

a whale of a thing

I’ve wanted to do two things since graduating from high school. One was backpack across Europe, the other – read through Melville’s Moby-Dick. Both seemed like such daunting feats at the time – so full of mystery and uncertainty. But I’ve since learned how to read, and cultivated a sense of adventure, and a – at times, confounding – passion for new experience.

And the timing now feels right. Maybe I’ve grown over the past eight years. Maybe I’ve matured. I’m definitely not the same person I was back then, head down and sprinting to the wall. I’ve picked through what I’ve seen and done, selected things to live and learn by, and – as if from so many color swatches lined up end-on-end – I’ve found a few shades that suit my character. I learned about music, and movements. I discovered romance. I discovered coffee.

And with match day just hours away I’ve discovered a heaviness in time, a pressing weight which I never really noticed before. I’m not worried about matching: maybe it’s what matching implies – the anticipation of one chapter ending and another beginning. Maybe it’s the endings I don’t like.

Regardless, I’m headed somewhere next year – an adventure in-and-of-itself. But before then, a chance to do what I’ve always wanted. And so, in a couple of days, with plane tickets and train tickets and all the 3oz bottles of shampoo/bodywash/detergent I can squeeze into one ziplock bag; with my sister by my side, iPod loaded with new music, and 655 pages of 19th century literature strapped to my back, I’ll head off to the Netherlands for what I’m sure will be an amazing trip.

Check back if you are interested – I’ll try hard to keep posting, even harder to keep pace...