Amsterdam

“Enlightenment doesn’t occur from sitting around visualizing images of light, but from integrating the darker aspects of the Self into the conscious personality.”


- Carl Jung

Amsterdam-
Part 1:  Getting There
When you look at a map of Europe, all the countries seem conveniently close together—like you could easily drive from country to country--but that’s actually not true.
Countries are really far apart here, and The Netherlands is a long way from Italy.
We left Florence at the crack of dawn, calmly discussed our navigational plans, and drove northwest, crossing into France, and stopping only at Autogrills for fuel (food, gas) or visits to “les toilettes” . The plan was to get as far as we could in one day.
Jeff generally prefers to drive, and since he’s comfortable with the standard European highway scene--everyone cheerfully tailgating at 140k/hr., inches from guardrails on either side—I’m happy with it. He pops coffee-flavored Alpenlubes, and listens to the Grateful Dead on a caffeine buzz, while I busy myself in the passenger seat, feet on the dashboard, sandwiched amongst the water bottles, snacks, empty cups, shoes and wadded up pieces of paper, alternately looking at maps, guide books, magazines and the scenery.
Jenna is wedged into the backseat with luggage, pillows, sweaters, candy wrappers and a sea of Barbies.
As we drove north from Marseille, the bucolic French countryside that I’d been expecting turned out to be just miles and miles of wide flat farmland, a few white cows and sheep, and occasionally, the glimpse of a village bell tower far off in the distance. Apparently, in this area at least, the French prefer to keep their bucolic villages well away from the peage (the French freeway). Eventually we noticed road signs indicating that we were in the Rhone Valley. We followed the meandering Rhone River for a spell, but the landscape barely changed.
After 12 grueling hours, we had driven as far north as Dijon in central France, but couldn’t find a hotel room available in the town center, which surprised us. This was a city of good mustard, sure, but not exactly a tourist destination.
Little did we know, this limited-vacancy-in-France situation would portend more travel challenges in our future...but that’s another blog.
We ended up at a cheap hotel on the outskirts of town, which was fine because we all fell face-first into bed, exhausted. The next morning, determined to reach Amsterdam by early afternoon, we choked down a quick breakfast, and hit the road again, ready to do it all over.
After another 9 hours on the road, we started passing towns with names like Monchengladbah and Hertogenbosch, so we knew were were close. Just a few miles from Amsterdam, we were running on empty, so we pulled into the Total (gas station) for a fill-up. While Jeff pumped the gas, I went inside to buy a bottle of Coke (travel craving) and pay for the gas. I walked up to the counter.
“Welke pomp betaal je voor?” the cashier asked.
Oh no…Dutch. Our last stop was a gas station in France, where at least I knew a few words. With all the driving it hadn’t registered that we were now in a country where they spoke a different language—apparently a completely indecipherable language
I pointed to the gas pump outside and gave her a really big smile.
“Welke POMP betaal je voor?” she asked again slower, clearly enunciating the word that was most important in the sentence.
I chewed on my bottom lip, thinking. POMP—oh! I held up 4 fingers for gas pump #4.
“Die zullen worden vijfenveertig euros dan” the cashier said. “Voor zowel”
(The facial contortions and the throat-clearing sounds of the Dutch language just astound me. )
I tentatively handed her a 50 euro bill and she gave me back some change. Whew.
“Heel erg bedankt” the cashier with a thank-you voice.
In response, I make an audible sound like “thanks” but without opening my mouth, a muffled sort of hum with a “thanks” voice.
I left quickly, walking past a sign that said simply “Knoopunt” and I realized: I’m completely unprepared for this country.

Amsterdam-
Part 2:  Rated PG
We arrived in Amsterdam late in the day, meeting up with Jeff’s parents, Jack and Lucy, at the hotel. They had just finished a 2-week river cruise, travelling from Budapest to Amsterdam, and had lots of adventures to share. It was nice to have a family visit after such a long time, and Jenna was ridiculously excited to see her grandparents.
The fact that I fell in love with Amsterdam within one day was a surprise. It’s not that I thought I wouldn’t like Amsterdam, it’s just that I never really gave Amsterdam much thought before this visit.
First of all, it’s visually stunning, with tidy brick buildings, steep roofs and serene canals. The four main canals radiate outward from the center of town, in rainbow-shaped semi-circles, with hundreds of bridges, cafes, quaint shops and alleyways meandering around them. As Lucy pointed out, Amsterdam doesn’t just have one waterfront (like some cities), it has waterfront all over the city.
The roads are flat, which makes it perfect for all the bicycles. Bicycles appear to outnumber the cars roughly 10:1. They’re everywhere, flooding the streets and bike lanes, flowing seamlessly with cars and pedestrians. Everyone, old or young rides a bike and no one wears a helmet. It’s a steady current of people on bicycles going about their daily business—talking on cell phones, listening to IPODs, hauling bags of groceries, cradling infants. Jenna even saw a man riding along, holding the bottom half of a mannequin under his arm, and the top half was peeking out of his bike bag, with the head and arms sticking out.
It’s much easier to get around the city by bike, so we rented them the whole time. Ours were the standard, single speed “cruisers” with wide seats and handlebars, without gears or hand brakes. I hadn’t ridden a bike like that since 5th grade, so I was a little awkward, especially braking at the stoplights. I just couldn’t remember to brake with my pedals, I kept clutching the handlebars expecting hand brakes, and I subsequently careened into Jeff and Jenna with regularity.
We rode bikes everywhere, and met up with Jack and Lucy (who walked or took the metro tram) at various points in town: we rode to the Van Gough Museum, where we saw an original Sunflowers painting; we rode them to the Rijksmuseum, where we saw Rembrandt paintings of stodgy old Dutch Masters, with their floppy black hats and big white collars; we rode to the Anne Frank House, and looked around the rooms where Anne and her family hid for years.
We rode for miles, in brisk fall weather, over endless canal bridges and down bumpy, cobbled streets that made my bike bell tinkle by itself. We got lost dozens of times but that was part of the fun. We rode past open fruit and vegetable markets, clothing markets, fountains, playgrounds and along the curvy paths in Voldenpark, a Dutch version of Central Park.
We ate in restaurants, where Jack and Lucy treated us to a number of delicious meals—Indian, Chinese, Italian, and the best Thai food I’ve ever tasted. We tried stroopwafels (waffles with built-in syrup), and yummy pommes frites (French fries with various dips like mayonnaise and curry mustard) and lots of rich, foamy Belgian beer.
Amsterdam seemed like it was simply bursting with health and vitality: the fresh, smog-free air, the cheerful, radiant, red-cheeked residents with clear skin and fit bodies buzzing along on bicycles wearing their smart outfits that seem both stylish and comfortable.
People seemed so happy in Amsterdam that I had to wonder: was it the food, the air, the water, or was it the marijuana?
Marijuana is right up there with the bicycles and the canals--it’s everywhere, flowing seamlessly amongst everything else. Not only is it in the “coffeeshops” (where you can’t buy coffee, but you can buy Adult brownies, muffins, cookies and other things) but it’s also wafting through the air, all day long.
You’d think that the combination of bicycles and pot might be dangerous, especially without a helmet, but it certainly doesn’t appear to be causing any problems. I only saw one minor bike accident (other than my own). The two parties barely stopped—they just stood back up, dusted off, waved a hand of ‘sorry dude’ and matter-of-factly went on their way.
Apparently, Amsterdam takes a lenient attitude toward not only marijuana but other things as well.
I imagined the famous “Red Light District” would be a dark, seedy neighborhood, but in fact it was just a few blocks from our lovely hotel, in an area full of nice restaurants and shops.
One night, after dinner, the grandparents took Jenna, while Jeff and I went for a stroll into the “District”. We passed a Condom Museum, then a “toy store” and Jeff managed to keep a straight face, but I had to force myself to stop laughing, because people were looking at me. Then I saw a line of glowing red windows that ran down one side of the block and up the other side. People strolled, mostly men but some couples, looking into the red-lit windows, where the women posed and preened, like live mannequins on display in a surreal department store. They wore skimpy underwear and heavy make-up, pursing and parting their wet, red lips.
Their theatrical performances varied widely in skill, inspiration and originality: some of the women were clearly pros, with practiced come-hither looks, expensive lingerie, and tantalizing poses. But others were frankly not even trying, looking bored and pouty, talking on cell phones, brushing their hair, looking in a mirror--one was even reading a magazine.
There was a canal that ran between the two sides of the street, where several swans were paddling along in happy coexistence with the scene surrounding them. And I thought: Amsterdam is like that--it’s a place where the pure, light-filled things run right next to the dark places we try to shy away from, and everything appears to be working just fine.

NEXT UP: Paris