Wham! Bam! Amsterdam!
Written at 9:18 PM on 10-21-06 in Paris, France
So I’ve fallen a little behind on my blogs; I’ll try to keep this relatively brief and succinct.
Side note: I added a page for Berlin Pictures and Amsterdam Pictures. Those pictures are also now linked throughout last three blogs.
I arrived in Amsterdam without much trouble, though I must say, were I to do it again, I doubt I would arrive at night in that city. The train station was an easy five-minute walk from my hostel, so that was fortunate. However, it didn’t change the fact that I was in a city at night that I was unfamiliar with and which had a somewhat infamous reputation. I checked in to the Meeting Point Hostel and stowed away my things. They had these big oil-barrel like lockers to store one’s stuff. I then immediately headed out for some food. I’d neglected that I would be on the train for six hours and was thoroughly famished. I wandered my way through the dark streets, which, were there not throngs of tourists all around, might have been a harrowing experience, and then bought my dinner; it consisted of the usual cheese, meat, and bread.
The hostel didn’t have a refrigerator so I abided myself to eating as much as possible and throwing away the food that wouldn’t keep. I was worn out from traveling, so I didn’t really do much that first night. I talked with a few people and hung out in the hostel’s bar for a while. They had wireless internet so I took care of some emails and whatnot. Afterwards, I continued to wheedle away at the book I’d been reading, The Holy Blood and the Holy Grail, before drifting off to sleep.
I was in no hurry to see anything in particular in Amsterdam—there was nothing in particular I really felt compelled to see. So with that philosophy, I headed out the next morning for a wander. I plotted a little route based on my travel guide and a map I’d been provided, though I didn’t end up following my plans at all. For one thing, I kept getting disoriented. I read that the idea in Amsterdam was to use the canals and not the streets to guide you. Well I tried that, and it only confused me more. I checked out a couple churches, but mostly I just enjoyed the city itself. I found myself in a more residential section of the city, and I enjoyed observing the various houseboats and the colorful houses and apartments that ran together into one seamless mass. All these buildings seemed to have offices or businesses beneath them, so as you walked by, you could look down in on the people working. Imagine my surprise when I did this and found a half naked woman in one of them. Of course, I knew of Amsterdam’s reputation for the red light district, but I didn’t really expect to find a prostitute in that part of town.
I wandered into a café for a cappuccino, at one point, but otherwise I kept mostly on the move. I made a big circle, checking out most of the sights of the inner city. None were too impressive, at least compared to what I’d seen in other cities. Of course, architecture and museums is not really the reason to come to Amsterdam. It’s the city’s culture that is so totally fascinating. And there was plenty of that culture to be seen. I learned that a green and white sign that read “Coffee Shop” meant that the particular café or bar served marijuana as well. Likewise, “Smart Shops” served shrooms and a number of “herbal enhancement” drugs. Amsterdam and the Netherlands is strange in this respect. Weed and mushrooms are technically illegal. Yet, they’re sold openly and moderated through the “Tolerance Laws” or something to that effect. I think it’s basically a loophole in International law and politics. If the country technically legalized the drugs, I’m sure it would be frowned upon by other nations, but as it’s only “tolerated,” there’s really not much to be said or done.
Anyway, as you might expect, souvenirs and junk with the marijuana leaf, Bob Marley, and other stereotypical images were everywhere. Likewise, a wide range of bongs and other drug paraphernalia could be found in the windows. Apparently, it was illegal to advertise the sale of marijuana, other than the green and white sign that indicated a place was part of this union of weed dealers. It was pretty apparent which places sold marijuana and which didn’t, though, even without the signs. Likewise, certain areas seemed to attract the weed cafés and others the coffee cafés; a lot depended on the hotels and tourist-stuff in the vicinity. In general, there seemed to be a pretty substantial schism between the tourism industry of the young and the tourism industry of the old. I suppose such is to be expected, though there certainly was some overlap.
Another thing that was unsurprising about Amsterdam was the pace there. For the residents, everything just seemed to be slow and casual. Why, just look at this resident—he certainly doesn’t seem to be in a hurry (look carefully). This was perhaps mostly facilitated by the profusion of bikes. Everyone in Amsterdam owns a bike, and apparently a good portion of the population feels that if they do not have one and find an unlocked bike, it is a moral obligation to take it and use it until the bike is subsequently stole from them. I read that it was actually cheaper to buy a stolen bike than rent one. Either way, a bike seemed to be the way to get around Amsterdam. I preferred my feet, but it didn’t keep me from enjoying the steady traffic of bicycles going every which way. There were cars and water taxis as well, but all seemed to move at an equally casual pace. (At least compared to Rome, etc.) This made walking around the city much more pleasant (and much less terrifying). The city was kept clean, for the most part, and people seemed very friendly. All in all, I got a very positive impression.
As my walk continued, I passed a market where they were selling all kinds of plants. While the plants were beautiful, they reminded me of home and how when I get back, the gardens will be anything but pretty. From what I hear, the rain has come back home (in Oregon) and soon the frost will arrive as well. I can imagine, though, that if one had a garden, Amsterdam would be a fantastic place to buy flowers, based on the variety of species I saw. Walking along this part of the city took me to one of the best things I saw. I crossed over this old bridge (apparently once hand-operated) and turned into a large area beside the main canal. Standing in this area were large, identical cement blocks displaying pictures. I immediately recognized this area to be the eco-photography exhibition that my friend Jacob had told me about.
I spent about two hours there. Even despite the cold and rain, I worked my way through the dozens of displays, reading the captions carefully and appreciating the art. The artist and exhibition was sponsored by an organization—National Postcode Lottery—for environmental awareness. There’s a link: here. I suggest to anyone who appreciates the beauty of nature and the presently precarious situation of the environment to check out this photographer, Yann Arthus-Bertrand, and his work. I wanted to buy a book of his work, but it was not only to expensive (for my present budget), but it would have been heavy as well. Then I thought to buy calendars—they had 2005, ’06, and ’07, but unfortunately, all were in Dutch. These pictures, while stunning on their own, must be read in conjunction with the captions. The photographer himself said as much in a quote I saw. I resigned to not get anything then and to check it out online later in the hopes that some of the works were translated—or perhaps just to get one of his books.
I didn’t actually read all the captions to the pictures. To do so would have taken another two hours. Instead, I continued my wandering. I was getting hungry and anxious to relax (that doesn’t make much sense, does it?), so I started back toward the hostel. I found a cool little bookstore, totally by accident, which had a plethora of used books in English. Bookstores are never a good influence on my budget. Anyway, I found a book which I’d started (via audiobook), but hadn’t finished because I only had the first half. The book, Lord of Chaos, was part of Robert Jordan’s 12-book Wheel of Time series, which I’d started earlier in the summer. Anyway, buying this book was to prove a bad influence because I was to spend the next two days reading as much and as fast as I could to finish it. Such is my addiction to the written word.
I returned to the hostel, picked up my computer, and headed off to a nearby café. There, I was to spend the rest of the evening working on my novel and reading (frantically) the book I’d just bought. I returned to the hostel late in the evening to eat. I ate down in the bar, had a couple drinks, and talked to some of the other backpackers. I’ve noticed that after a certain point in traveling, you become a little reluctant to talk to people. It’s not that I don’t enjoy meeting people; I do. It’s just that after so long traveling, you become practiced at asking the same four or five questions; it never fails—where are you from, how long have you been in _____, how long have you been traveling, where are you going next, how much longer are you traveling. Julie and I were discussing this when we were traveling together. Meeting people is great, especially once you get past all these basics, but up until then, it begins to feel almost scripted. That’s one thing nice about traveling with someone you know. You can have real conversations. This can come with talking to a person you meet, but only after an hour or more of the “getting to know him/her” stage. I make a point of writing down the names of people and the places they’re from in my blog, when I remember, but sometimes the interactions are too brief, or memory just fails and his or her name, and the place he or she is from, is lost.
I awoke the next morning, my last full day in Amsterdam, and I felt lazy. I should mention that I was feeling much better (that is to say, not sick anymore). However, this sensation of laziness had been growing ever since Prague, and I think it reached its apex on this day. I did nothing. I got up at a reasonable time, but then I decided I wanted to read my book. I should mention that this book was over 1000 pages, which meant I had a good 500 to go when I started it. So that’s what I did. I hung around the hostel almost all day, reading and doing a bit of writing, as well as perusing the Internet and email. I wasn’t really being very sociable, but that changed when I went downstairs and quite without thinking, sat at a table with someone I knew. To be fair, she recognized me, and not the other way around, but once names and familiarity was established, I began to remember her. Her name was Mickaylee and she was from “the other” highschool in my hometown of Corvallis. We knew each other through orchestra and had a number of mutual acquaintances. She was studying up in Copenhagen, but it was just one of those weird, small-world encounters. I’ve had a couple of those encounters before, but I’d begun to think I wasn’t going to have one this time in my travels.
She was with a friend from Copenhagen, a girl whose name (because it was something French) escapes me. Anyway, over pints of Heineken (which started in Amsterdam), we talked, sometimes about things back home, and a lot about traveling and school. They went out for food and I started talking to another person at the table, a guy from Maryland named Kevin. He had just finished school in landscape architecture and was looking to move out west to the Portland area. Strange connections, but when you’re traveling, you encounter them all the kind. I know that people from the Pacific Northwest like to travel, but I’ve met a lot of people either moving to the Northwest or from there. Maybe it’s all signs that my trip is coming to an end and that it’s time to head home—who knows?
The bar cleared out a bit by midnight and I headed up to bed. Only, sleep was not the plan. I resumed reading my book, determined to finish it but unable to do so. 2 AM rolled around and I decided sleep was more prudent than finish the book. Besides, I needed something to do on the train.
I’d intended to catch an early train (early being 10AM) to Paris, but I never turned on my alarm. I intended to get up, but I figured that if, when I woke up, it was too late or I wanted to continue sleep, then I wouldn’t worry about it. Well, not surprisingly, I ended up going back to sleep in the morning, even after I woke up with plenty of time to get to the train. I caught a later train, at about 11:30, but it wasn’t direct and required that I go through Brussels; big mistake.
My train to Brussels ended up about forty minutes behind schedule. I didn’t have any connections to make, though, and I was in no particular hurry, so this didn’t really work against me. I did have to change trains in Brussels; navigating the city’s train stations were a confusing and wholly unpleasant affair. The train I was on didn’t go all the way to the Brussel South Station, so I had to catch a different train. But then I got off a stop early and I was like, “okay, so where’s the international trains?” There was no one to ask, though. Eventually I figured it out, but it took me a while.
After catching the correct train, it was a brief and simple trip to Amsterdam. I occupied myself on the train by finish my book (finally), and checking out the countryside. Oh, I should mention, though, that I didn’t get a train directly to Paris. Because every single train from Brussels to Paris (one each hour for another seven hours) was fully booked, I had to go to the Paris airport and catch the train from there. This gave rise to an interesting misunderstanding. When I boarded the train in Brussels, I was joined by a couple who spoke French and a bit of English. I’m not sure if they were Dutch or what. Anyway, they asked me in confirmation if this went to the airport. I said it did. Well, after about half an hour, they seemed nervous and asked me again if it was going to the airport. I said, yes, the Paris Airport.
Wrong thing to say. It seemed that they wanted to go to the airport outside of Brussels. Instantly the woman burst into—what I can only describe as a volcano of tears and French words. As the volcano boiled over, it became a tantrum (I should mention, she was about 29 or 30), much of which was aimed at her boyfriend. He seemed to take the mistake in good humor. Meanwhile, I was only praying that the volcano did not aim its wrath at me. Her boyfriend didn’t seem too worried, but she, in a flourish of waving arms and bubbling cries, stood up and started down the train toward the conductor, as if he somehow would magically make it all better.
Needless to say, the train didn’t stop, nor did they get off until everyone else. However, she did return about fifteen minutes later, slightly assuaged. Once the initial shock wore off, they were actually laughing about the whole affair (I suppose, at least; the conversation was all in French). I just kept on reading my book, still hoping they would not decide it was all my fault and that I had purposefully mislead them in some kind of malicious ploy.
I escaped unscathed and, at the Paris airport’s metro terminal, found my way to the train to take me into town. During my precious time in Paris, I had spent about twenty minutes trying to figure out the metro system before I was struck with sudden insight that made me a zen master of Parisian public transport. The skills rolled over to this visit. I navigated my way toward my hostel, without so much as the slightest hang up. I caught all the right trains and got off on the right stops. And if it sounds like I’m bragging—you’re damn straight I’m bragging! After my previous fiascos in French train stations, this felt like attaining a state of enlightenment.
I did have a little difficulty finding the hostel, but it only cost me about a ten minute detour. The hostel was a little out-of-the-way, but it was affordable (relative for Paris) and offered a nice hospitable environment for backpackers (more than I can say for my previous Paris hostel). I had reserved three nights, but I added a fourth, realizing that because I’d arrived late that day, I’d only have two full days in Paris otherwise. That would not do.
I got settled in my room, went out for a little food, and then returned. I met my roommates, a South Korean girl, whose name I’m not even going to try, and a Brazilian guy, whose name I don’t remember. I think maybe my memory is getting worse because I’m in my last week of travel. I talked to them for a while, before turning to my computer. I had free wi-fi and a good connection in my room¬—something I’d not had for quite some time—so I decided to take care of some matters, such as the small and relatively insignificant problem of trying to find a job when I get back. I also did some planning for what I wanted to do in Paris. When I was here at the beginning of my trip, I didn’t really do much in the way of planning. This time, I wanted to make sure that I saw everything I wanted to see. And that’s basically how the night ended. I was in Paris again, and this time, I had a plan.
Tags: Amsterdam, Belgium, Brussels, cafes, Europe, Netherlands, Travel, Travel
gregbilsland
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