Amsterdam Day 1: Whores are Creepy

Until perhaps two weeks ago, I was unaware that prostitution was illegal in Amsterdam. Now, if you have talked to me about it before, you know that I believe in legalizing prostitution. I believe this strongly. But damn -- hookers are creepy! They stand there in their windows, staring at you as you pass by. They make gestures at you that imply that they would like to do things with you, but they don’t. They just want you to think they do, so that you will be too. It’s a trick worthy of the world’s finest used casket salesmen. You think they’re staring at your crotch, but they’re actually eyeing your wallet. And I sure as hell wouldn’t put that in the hands of a used casket salesman. Some of these women are older than my mother. Whores are fucking creepy.

Amsterdam Day 2: The City that never Wakes

For reasons I could speculate, but will not, Amsterdam seems to be a city that likes to sleep in. The museum across from where I write this does not open until 11, evidently. This strikes me as rather strange.

Is there anyone who actually lives here aside from the bum sleeping on the monument steps? Or is this place simply a long-running Jamaican-themed frat party? I get the feeling that speaking English here is, if anything, less common than in Belgium. But if this is the case, you wouldn’t know it from walking the red-light district, where in many places things are written in English and in English alone. I feel like I’ve stepped into Disneyland for horny stoners. Americans, in particular.

Amsterdam Palace

Ok, Amsterdam palace is pretty cool. For a historic building, it truly was a piece of art. The main chamber is 10 stories high with the titan of murals decorating the ceiling, and all kind of enormous sculptures adorning the room. My favorite in the main chamber is one of Lady Justice sitting tall. Kept heavily under her feet are King Midas, ass-ears sprouting from the side of his head, and an old lady with snakes for hair under her other foot. Nonchalantly sitting to Justice’s right is Death, sighing as if bored. To the left of her, sits Lady Punishment wielding a device known as a “knee-breaker”. Sculptures and paintings of a symbolic nature such as these fill Amsterdam’s Palace.

In the chamber where death sentences were once carried out, 3 biblical scenes are inscribed in the wall. In one, a man is having his eye stabbed out to save his son from the same punishment. In another, an executioner dutifully kills his son in the line of duty. The third scene depicts a judge settling a child custody dispute between two women by ordering the child to be split in half.

In the room where a person would go to declare bankruptcy, above the door Iccerous is depicted, wax wings trailing him as he plunges to his death. Yet another sculpture depicts an old man taking a bite out of a baby. It is meant to show how age feeds off of youth.

My favorite sculture in the building, however, was of a dog standing guard over an immobile person, presumably his dead master. Oddly enough, the scene is mean to represent fidelity.

Sadly, the Amsterdam history museum was not as interesting as my visit stop. It was large, and indeed I spent many many hours exploring it. But having seen it, I feel it wasn’t entirely worth the price of admission, though it did make me realize that all the symbolism appearing in the palace was typical of Amsterdam throughout the ages.

Greek gods and their mythology played a major part in much of their artwork, and this is the artwork of the history museum. . There was a delightful picture of Neptune making council with the naval commanders of Holland for instance.

After that I found dinner with a startling discovery that I really should have known – just about everyone here speaks English. I found this out when I asked my server at the pizza place I ate at if he spoke English.

For a moment he looked confused, and then he looked me right in the eyes and said “no” in a very serious tone. He then proceeded to laugh his head off and asked me why I would ask such a question. “Of course I speak English!” he said “I was born to speak English!” When I told him that many locals did not seem to speak English, he told me that he thought those people were stupid. He said everyone was made to learn English as one of three languages they force you to learn in school. Well, I guess it’s still my first day.

Contrary to what one expects in Amsterdam, my biggest problem here is that I just need to relax.

Yesterday, when I was lost and looking for my hostel, a nice young man came up, introduced himself, and offered to show me to my hostel. Now, I think it only made sense that I found his actions somewhat suspect. People acting overly friendly to obvious travelers in big cities are not to be easily trusted, it’s tourism 101. When you’re clearly lost, I’d say that goes double. But my suspicions were clearly written on my face I think, and I definitely offended this nice man who did want money, but did not mention it until he had already led me to my hostel, and even then made no mention of any estimate. He left the valuation of his services, if indeed I chose to attach any to his good guidance, up to me. He just told me he had no place to sleep, and that if I could give what I could afford, he would be grateful.

I gave him 5 euros, and I wish him well. But I did not treat him in a curious way. Even as I accepted his help I regarded him as a thief or a mugger. I feel more than a little ashamed. It bodes badly for this world that acts of random kindness are the most suspicious acts of all.

Amsterdam Day 3: Time to Start Appreciating It

As with Belgium, I think I’ve been too harsh on Amsterdam in my initial assessment. Having been here several days now, I think that the Red Light District, traditionally the sort of area associated with slums and general poverty, is a tourist attraction in Amsterdam and thus is treated as such by the city. Places like the Red Light District in DC and in New York, they’re not the best places to go at night. I also think that all the area around the hostel I’m staying at (recall the red light district is in my back yard) are simply dozens of square blocks in every direction of tourist residency. In Amsterdam that means that I’m living in the world’s biggest frat party.

It’s sad to me that Amsterdam’s global leadership in the realm of drug tolerance and tolerance for the sex trade had to turn out this way. Because so few others tolerate it, Amsterdam’s tolerance has been exploited, until the name of Amsterdam is associated with exploitation of drug tolerance. I can’t help but feel Amsterdam did a responsible thing in refusing to view marijuana use, cultivation, or ownership as a criminal offense. But in the global community it is the only legal supply to the world’s demand. I feel kind of bad for the patriotic Netherlanders who has to live with what their country’s most prominent reputation has become. If only they had gained it for their tolerance rather than their fine fine pipeweed. Oh well.

When I started writing that I was enjoying a lovely late breakfast of mocha and a French Brie and baguette sandwich. Mmm. What a way to start the day. Now I am in Harlaam, eating lunch at Jill’s Restaurant in Central Square. I haven’t seen much of Harlaam yet, but it seems nice so far. Nothing I’ve seen is spectacular thus far, but it feels good just to be away from the tourist area of the Red Light District, and I like the feel of this area of the Netherlands.

I can’t believe I’m oin my 3^rd day already. I feel like I just got here. Today marks a week I’ve been travelling alone. Nine more days to go: one here, three in Berlin, two in Munich, and then I end off the trip with three days in Geneva.

It’s always weird when things I’ve been looking forward to for a long time finally happen. Time continues to pass as if there had never been such a build up to these events. And then the day passes and as you sink into sleep you think to yourself “Huh… I never really expected this day to come. And now it’s gone.”

Time to make this last day last.

Tulip Madness

As in Brussels, this bustling town square branches off into a quiet and serene closed square where there are few people and pleasantly running fountain in the background. A good serene place for writing and meditation. One down..

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At the strong recommendation of my guide books, I set out for the Frans Hal museum. Frans Hal, for those who aren’t familiar, was a renowned painter I had never heard of until yesterday when I read about him in my guide book. The museum holds many of his paintings, but the museum is much more than that.

It begins with a lengthy introduction hall, where the entire walls literally engulfed in huge versions of far smaller original paintings which are used to illustrate a basic history of Harlaam. One of the city’s biggest quirks is that evidently the city went into something of a tulip craze at some point in its history and they became so popular that the rich had to pay up the nose for even one, and a poor man could never afford one. See when I say tulip crazy, I mean really crazy. Supply was unable to meet the demand for the tulip. People were buying up tulip seeds a season before they were in existence. Then one day I guess everyone just woke up cradling their heads and murmuring to themselves “Tulips? What the hell did I have to drink last year.” For whatever reason the tulip market collapsed withn a number of days, dealing a pretty major economic blow to the Netherlands. Tulip crazy, man.

When explaining this phenomenon in history, the museum doesn’t attempt to make it sound more reasonable than it is. In fact one of the things I enjoyed most about it is that the exhibit had no problem ripping into the upper class. .In another parts of the museum it pointed out that although there were an abundance of beautiful paintings of Harlaam’s landscape, few if anyone had bothered to requisition a painting of the slums, which were less than pretty.

Another bit I found interesting is that their upper class citizens created and sustained a myth regarding the Coat of Arms. The current Coat of Arms is four stars, a sword, and a cross. The legend that the upper class created is that long ago the sword and the cross were absent. Legend has it that a German Emperor had presented Harlaam with a sword and a cross, and they added it to their crest ever since, in honor of this occasion.

The reality is that German Emperor in mention was dead before Harlaam ever had a coat of arms, making this an unlikely tale. .

Harlaam’s Civic Guard was not as cool as Amsterdam’s either. .My favorite quirk of Amsterdam’s history is that Amsterdam’s nobility made up their minds that they would be the country’s best defenders. Thus the Civic Guard of Amsterdam was made up exclusively of its Noblemen. I’m sure they were the same elitist bastards that make up every country’s noblemen, but it seems like a good use of their elitism. These days the poor do all the fighting and the rich avoid it at all costs. Amsterdam was constructive about it at least. I wonder how much battle they saw.

By the time I left the museum it was getting late. I stopped at an internet cafe to send and check some email, then I was off.

I made a terrible choice that night. Along the street to my hostel there is a Mexican Restaurant. I managed to eat both one of the highest priced and crappiest meals of my lifetime in that one singular restaurant. Four euros for a soda, that’s how insane the prices were. Unbelievable.

Amsterdam Day 4: the Hague

I woke up a little late today, not the best of days, given the amount I have to do today. I want to explore Hague, , do my laundry, take a tour of Amsterdam’s canals by boat, and do some present shopping now that I’m nearing the half way point of my journey.

So I’m here having a leisurely lunch here in the Hague Central Square. There’s a McDonalds here too, as there is at Harlaam Central Square and in Amsterdam Square. But at least in Amsterdam Square there was a bagpiper yesterday. I enjoyed listening to him very much, although he did make me mourn for Scotland. I shouldn’t be missing one place while visiting another, especially when I may never get to visit the latter again, or not for many many years at any rate.

Isn’t it sad? I’m still travelling, not half way through my trip, and I just want to go back to the Isle of Skye or the Orkneys.

But back to the Hague. There are many bards here (or bums as they’re more commonly known as these days). Just walking from the train there were 4 different people playing the violin or guitar. Does that mean poverty in this area? I haven’t really seen anyone who meets the profile I have of a bum. There have been people who have asked for money of course, but they haven’t looked in particularly bad condition, and I have suspected that for the most part they’re either faux bums, or else bums are simply better taken care of then in my part of the world.

Failed to Capitolize

Well, I’m out of time. I tried searching for the parliament building, but eventually I lost all trust in the inconsistent signs. I did, however, find “the American Bookstore” much to my wallets chagrin. I bought Golden Fool by Robin Hobbs there, soft cover, for 12 euros. Ouch.

But I had to. I’m a desperate man. The hardest part will be not reading it for a for a few days. I want to keep it for the plane ride home.

(transcribers note: fat chance).

I ran into an interesting program here, the “Get your American Friend to Vote program” or something to that effect. It says that over 70,000 Americans don’t live in America, and almost none of those Americans vote. The idea of the program is to encourage those Americans to vote, or more specifically encourage them to vote against George Bush Jr.

Oh yes, and a day or two ago I read that Kerry’s running-mate will be John Edwards. There go my dreams of the Kerry / McCain ticket. I never even hoped for it, but I dreamed.

If Bush has a strong opponent, he’ll be crushed. But if he doesn’t it’s just going to be the pro-Bush crowd vs the anti-Bush crowd.

Interlude: European Quirks

European Quirks

Amesterdam Southwest Station, the grass underneath the rails is riddled with artificial tree stumps. I’m not entirely sure who put them there or why, but they’re there. Large, faux tree stumps.

Back in Belgium, all the escalators were entirely immobile. In America that means they’re broken, and when I first noticed this I started to avoid the immobile escalator until I realized that they were all immobile excepting the ones with passengers. See, rather than keep them running all the time, in Belgium they have pressure activated pads in front of the escalator that start it running as soon as someone steps onto it.

Did you know that along the Red Light District they have large plastic things left along the street as urinals? Toilets sitting in the streets with no bathroom in sight. I mean, the design of the thing allows men to pretty well hide their vitals pretty well while they’re doing their business in public. But still, I would like to call your attention to the second part of that sentence, “doing their business in public”. No equivalent toilets for the ladies that I saw anywhere. I guess we can see what gender the Red Light District markets most to.

They have a type of bird about Europe that eats with the pigeons. But I don’t actually believe they’re pigeons. A closer look, and they seem to resemble a variety of crow acting like a pigeon more than actually bothering to be one. But their eyes have the same intelligent look to them that crows eyes have.

A Canal Tour Through A Carnal District

After leaving the Hague, I decided to go for one of the canal boat tours. After all, how many cities can be toured by boat? Amsterdam probably wins that award. So I bought tickets to embark on a boat that was large and touristy, but at the very least close to the water.

Honestly, the tour wasn’t anything spectacular, but I do love being close to the water. It also let me see much more of Amsterdam than I’d expected to and make some realizations that I had not previously made.

For one thing, I realized that Amsterdam is king when it comes to architectural oddities and artsiness, or building-sculptures as they appeared to me. There were buildings that twisted around in every direction, take on bizarre forms, and often gaudy coloring.

Most of what we saw were old buildings, however. And much like DC, they knew the value townhouses when designing this city. But unlike DC, it looks like even the very rich live in townhouses. The result is a block of townhouses with about 40 rooms to a house. Consequently, you wouldn’t necessarily even know a mansion-townhouse from any other if you saw one unless you looked carefully to see how many doors there were. Townhouses tend to blend into one another.

And almost every house has a beam protruding outward toward the street from it’s rooftop, close to a big window. Apparently the native architects considered staircases a waste of space, and loathed making wide staircases just so that the owners could move their furniture and other bulky items in and out. Their solution was to make standard an easy place to fix up a pulley and make some large upstairs windows, and give the extra space to other rooms in the house. So the staircases in Amsterdam are almost all thin and steep, although moving into an Amsterdam home is probably less exhausting. Then again, I’ve never tried to fix up one of those pulley systems.

Along the tour we passed a huge and elaborate Chinese restaurant on the water. “It seats 900 Chinese men” the captain of the boat announced “or 600 Americans.” The joke got much laugh and even applause from other ship passengers. I’m not sure if it was meant as a friendly jest toward America (as a fat American I can’t really argue) or whether it was genuine anti-American sentiment that caused the comment, but I felt uneasy about it either way.

After that I came home, did laundry, ate a veggie burger dinner, and now I’m here. Or am I?

Goodbye Amsterdam, Das Es Berlin

Goodbye Amsterdam, hello 9 hour train ride. The train ride and I have gotten to be good friends over the past week. This isn’t entirely sarcasm – I find train rides to be pretty relaxing. I’ve spent most of my time in Europe worrying that I’m in the wrong place or going the wrong way or in any case unable to fully or accurately predict my immediate future for the next hour unless I’m lying down for bed. The train and the bed are the only two places that I know, with very little doubt, how the next leg of my journey is likely to go.

When I get to Berlin, I’ll stare at the map of the Berlin subway systems for several days or until I figure out which way I think is the best to head toward the Berlin Zoo. I will then proceed to test my theory and it is more than likely that hilarity will ensue along the way as I stumble around the Berlin public transportation systems. Once I arrive at the Berlin Zoo I will doubtless shamble around Berlin for an impossibly long period of time attempting to find my hostel. I will be nervous and frightened and I will find much relief when I get there. Things that I most certainly do not expect to happen will most certainly happen because when you’re travelling through areas you are completely unfamiliar with and don’t speak the native language things are simply unlikely to go entirely smoothly. But the point is that here, now, over the next few hours, I get to relax first.

I could have lived with staying in Amsterdam longer than I did. It grew on my the last few days, once I started to feel like it was mostly full of friendly, laid back people. By the time I left I felt pretty safe there. In most cities I felt less secure about being shot or mugged than here (there were cameras on many street corners, and for some reason they made me feel safe rather than watched). As big cities go, I enjoyed it, once I figured out that there was life outside the tourist blocks I stayed in.

I’m not sure I buy their idea that by legalizing “soft drugs” like marijuana helps them better control “hard” drugs like cocaine and heroine with an iron fist. I had no less than four (4) people approach me and ask if I wanted anything from cocaine to underage prostitutes, which averages to about once a day. Although I’m sure it happens, I’ve never had any person openly offer me drugs or prostitutes of any sort on an American street, and the frank openness of their offer surprised me the first two times. Now maybe it’s much harder to procure this stuff outside the tourist areas, but I have to wonder who knows great tips like “just go on over to where the tourists are” if not the locals?

Memories from an Evening Walk Along Amsterdam’s Red Light District and More

Along the Red Light District, the hookers tapped frantically on their red-draped windows. Anything to get you to look at them. Don’t. One of the temptresses even opened up the door and tried to beckon me in when I turned my head just a little too far toward her hungry rhythm.

The aforementioned men who ply in illicit drugs even where most are tolerated, and illicit prostitutes where prostitutes are legal and plentiful, they come up beside you like old friends while you’re walking and match your stride. They just start asking casually if you’d like some cocaine. If not, what else? Surely sex with people so young that some would call it rape would finish off the evening nicely in the absence of a good cup of coffee. They’re persistent fuckers and they don’t take no for an answer either. Maybe it’s because I was in the Red Light District alone, and I guess some people who go into the Red Light District alone do so because they don’t want other people knowing where they’re going or what they’re doing, and perhaps they’re often looking for something specific. But either way, they must not have much feel of the jailer, because they don’t take no for an answer until about the 3^rd time, even if you don’t utter anything else in the way of conversation.

I won’t miss the bums either. I ran into one bum that looked reasonably well groomed, but apparently frustrated by how unfruitful the tactic of sitting on the side of the street and asking for money had been, he had decided to take a more active approach. That is to say, he would stand in front of you, in your way, and ‘ask for’ money. ‘Ask for’ in this case meaning that he didn’t feel he was in a position to outright demand it, but he didn’t seem to feel that it was very fair that people like you were allowed to turn him down either, and he was very clear on this point.

The hostel I stayed at in Belgium was inviting. It had a nice common room with a bar that actually served great beer at a good price. But sleeping rooms were laid out as large empty rooms with regimented bunks, and had a very impersonal feel to them. In Amsterdam the staff was very friendly. There was no common room, and the sleeping room as smaller. Normally, one would think that a negative attribute, but they also shoved less people into a single room. The place was cozier and friendlier and I think that that effected everyone. I actually managed to have a chat with all my roommates, except two of the girls I was staying with (who were both travelling alone and I suspect a little unnerved by that along with the mixed-sex room). Now that I write that, I kind of wish I had made more of an effort to talk to them -- they might have appreciated it the most. Still, I suppose the time is past, so there’s little point in regret.

Leaving Amsterdam pt.2: Arriving in Berlin

Amazing. Remember my rant a few pages ago on how many things would go wrong when I got to Berlin? Nothing went wrong. I got off my train, took the Berlin metro to the Berlin Zoo, followed the well-written directions and got to my hostel without being lost for even a moment and without being confused for more than a few.

Now if I were me, jaded as I am, reading over this, and I didn’t have the memory of the situation, I’d probably be searching my words for sarcasm, or trying to figure out the joke. No , seriously. It all went fine. I’m as astounded as you are.

By its reputation I expected Germany to be among the harsher countries I would visit. I wouldn’t have visited if I didn’t think I would love it, but I must admit, I attribute at least a slightly angry stereotype to the German people. But the Berlin metro was cleaner than the one at home, the metro seemed nicer and better kept. The people even felt like they were less uptight than the metro at home.

The streets leading up to my hostel are a funny thing. There is graffiti everywhere, and most of the buildings are cheap shops or inexpensive restaurants (as is the case with the place I’m writing this, having finished a lovely chicken-in-peanut sauce salad) or else apartment complexes. These are, under normal circumstances, not the best signs for the surrounding area.

But the streets around here are practically empty, today at least. The people I have seen look more suited to cozy suburbs than these surroundings. Not much in the way of shifty looking characters. The streets just feel tranquil and kind of relaxing. In context, it’s an odd feeling to have, but I’m glad of it.

I’m staying at a hostel that calls itself “David’s Crazy Little Backpacker’s Youth Hostel”. According to the advertisement, David, the owner, hoped to appeal to the travelling counter-cultures in particular. Gay, goth, kids into film or the arts, it wasn’t very specific or discriminating. I really wasn’t sure what to make of this, and as I arrived at the hostel I still had no idea what to expect.

From the outside it didn’t look like anything special, which actually was something special given that every other hostel had. They had all looked rather official in some respect, hotel or inn-like. This one just looked like someone’s house. And when I went inside, the interior seemed pretty consistent with that perception.

I entered to find a room that looked both cozy and lived in , if a tad messy. It reminded me of home. David, as it turned out, is a middle aged man who speaks English quite well, though it is evident that it is not his first language. He gave me what was a very warm and friendly greeting as I walked in.

Every other place I had stayed in up until now, the clerks had greeted me politely and happily answered questions, but they were not particularly personable. It was quite clearly their 9-5 job to give you the key to your room and deal with any other issues you might have, but not to be your friend. The contrast with David was heavy. He didn’t let me do any paperwork or give him any money until I had made a solid introduction and told him some about my travels. He also introduced me to several other people staying at the hostel, who happened to be just littered about what one could describe as a living room. This made the first time in over a week that I had been introduced to one person by another, and I appreciated it.

It quickly became clear to me that the hostel was David’s home, and although I have not yet stayed a night, it is already clearly my favorite among the hostels I’ve stayed in. The bedding isn’t much: David just lined mattresses up on the floor, about 10 to a room. But really, part of the idea behind hostels is that we young ones don’t need much more than a damned mattress and a place to put our stuff, and somehow the atmosphere just felt like crashing at a friends house.

Do to circumstances I don’t really care to put into writing, I had chosen not to shower in my Amsterdam hostel, which left me 4 days sweaty and unshowered, and no one, or few people at any rate, were less happy about it than I was. So the first thing I did after being shown around was to take a nice, sinfully soothing hot shower. It was the best shower I’ve ever taken in my life. Remember folks, you read it here first. 7/11/2004

Dinner was lovely. I had lo mein, and not only was it tasty, but these was a huge mound of it. More than enough for breakfast tomorrow.

I caved. I finished the bubblegum star trek novel I picket up a while ago (because it was by Laurel K. Hamilton) and couldn’t help but sink my teeth into Golden Fool. I just couldn’t help it. It was a long train ride, and Robin Hobbs is just so good.