Going Dutch

It's been two weeks since I visited the city where the lights are red and the eyes are redder  My weekend in Amsterdam was very different from my trip to London or my time in Leuven so far.  The differences began at the outset.  Whereas my trip to London involved me embarking on an adventure alone, this time I decided to take along my cousin friend Vinny.  This had the effect of confusing me at times whether we were going on a trip together or if I was leading a field trip.  Throughout, I was bombarded with questions such as: "Dan, can we stop?" "Dan, can we get food?" "Where are we, Dan?"  Not to mention sustained unprovoked laughter at me, as well as constantly poking me when we were supposed to be trying to fall asleep.  Note to self: put off plans to have children by another 5 years...

"View of Haarlem"
Jacob van Ruisdael

We left Leuven under heavy rainfall and reached our bus in Brussels just before sunrise as the rain was clearing up.  Driving to Amsterdam, we passed by many cottages, cows, and, yes, windmills.  The flat, open fields and moody sky resembled the paintings of the famous Dutch landscapist Jacob van Ruisdael.

After just arriving to Amsterdam, Vinny and I were rushing to meet my friend Charlie, whom I had met on the bus to London, when we were suddenly recruited by three Spanish ladies to help them find a cab.  I'm not sure how they knew we speak some Spanish ("Oh, look, Americans! They can help us!")  Walking to Charlie's place from Central Station, we got our first glimpse of Amsterdam's iconic canals--the origin of Amsterdam's nickname, "Venice of the North."

Amsterdam,
Venice of the North

The canals form a series of concentric circles with the Red Light District in the center (prompting Albert Camus to compare them to the circles of Hell).  On our walk to Charlie's place, we also got a whiff of the other Amsterdam staple.  I thought it was just a stereotype, but coffeeshops are commonplace in the heart of the city--the pungent odor of cannabis announces their presence every block or so.


After dropping of our stuff at Charlie's, we decided to go check out the famous Oude Kerk, or "Old Church."  While trying to navigate our way through the city center, we unknowingly meandered onto the Red Light District.  It turns out the Old Church is technically in the Red Light District (hey, it's Amsterdam.)  It dawned on  us the same way you slowly realize you are looking at an ant infestation: hmmm an adult toy shop there... a girl in that window... Boom!  Vinny, a pious Catholic, was thoroughly disturbed (and kept reminding me how disturbed he was the whole trip.)  I, on the other hand, couldn't stop giggling to myself like a junior high student.

We were able to see a lot of the city in just two days, thank in no small part to Frommer's Guide to The Low Countries.   We made our way to the Anne Frank House and the Our Lord in the Attic Museum (where Catholics celebrated mass in secret), but most regrettably the Van Gogh museum is closed at the moment and we just barely missed what little part of the Rijksmuseum is open.  However, we were able to see the the New Church, the Dam, the Royal Palace, Beurs van Berlage and take a canal tour.  I was somewhat surprised how different Flemish and Dutch people are (I naively assumed the language similarity implied a cultural similarity.)  On the surface, the Dutch are much taller and blonder.  They are also much more open, blunt, and direct than their reserved, sarcastic neighbors to the south.

It also became apparent to me that Amsterdam is a city of contradictions.  While it is renowned as a very liberal city, according to the testimony of Charlie and other locals, the Dutch are very conservative people.  Most of the customers at the coffeeshops and the Red Light District are not Dutch; the locals mostly tolerate it for the money tourists bring in.  Amsterdam is hailed as a historically tolerant city: from welcoming many of the Jews fleeing from the Inquisition to its current libertine atmosphere.  Yet, we visited not one but two secret rooms where persecuted minorities hid from the authorities.  If anything, Amsterdam is authoritarian: it is selective and arbitrary in which laws to enforce when, where, and to what degree.  The police are a large presence in the city. Technically, cannabis is illegal, they just have a policy turning a (huge) blind eye to it (although they will occasionally raid and shut down coffeeshops as they please.)   They won't mind you lighting up in a coffeeshop, but if you try to sip wine by the canal on a nice evening, they will be on you as soon as you pop the cork.

Well, if it isn't obvious enough already, we left with the impression that Amsterdam is a very unique place.  I have only seen a few cities in Europe, all within 200 miles of each other, yet they are much more different from each other than all the US cities I've been to.  As I hoped, Europe is turning out to be a multifarious place!  Can't wait for my next adventure!

An American in London

“When you come back to England from any foreign country, you have immediately the sensation of breathing a different air…There is something distinctive and recognizable in English civilization…It is somehow bound up with solid breakfasts and gloomy Sundays, smoky towns and winding roads, green fields and red pillar-boxes.”         
      -George Orwell, “England Your England”

I departed my cozy kot at 7am Thursday to catch the train to Brussels.  Ever budget-conscious, I opted to take the bus to London.  Having endured a few twelve to sixteen hour bus rides around Australia, I figured a mere eight hours would be worth saving 100+ dollars.  As I was walking in the cold, crisp morning air, backpack on my shoulders, I began to sense a familiar feeling.  It had been a while since I felt it, and it became more apparent the further into my journey I went.  Something I had not felt since Australia—the feeling of adventure: the liberation, the thrill, the exhilaration. Here I go again, I thought, off on a long trip, with unfamiliar faces through unfamiliar territory.  The song “Good Life” by One Republic, which always reminds me of my time in Australia, was playing in my head.  Its lyrics speak of travelling the world and enjoying life: “We’re young enough to say/ This has got to be a good life…When you’re happy like a fool/ Let it take you over.” The opening lyrics, “Woke up in London yesterday/ Found myself in the city near Piccadilly,” were all the more appropriate this occasion.

My bus turned out to be twenty minutes late in arriving, yet while waiting in Brussels I got to meet a few of my fellow travelers: a friendly young Canadian couple who had both quit their jobs and were spending this year travelling the world (the UK was their last stop in Europe, then onto Israel) and a cooky old English lady who would talk the nearest ear off about Tony Blair selling arms, “the truth about Ireland”, and how much John Lennon inspired her.  We felt so bad for the poor soul who was seat-belted next to her and we were shocked the British border agents did not chuck her into the English Channel. 

The virtues of my chosen method of transportation include enjoying the countryside and making new friends (conversation seems to pass the time better than reading or failed attempts at sleeping.)  I was fortunate to sit next to an English bloke my age named Charlie (sin Chocolate Factory) who is doing his Masters in Amsterdam, visiting home for the weekend and grabbing some things he left behind.  Yet, both of us were unfortunate enough to be selected to have our bags torn apart by French customs.  I had to keep myself from laughing as the French agent slowly opened my bottle of vitamins, holding it away from himself as if it were about to explode, while Charlie had to explain why he had a suspiciously empty suitcase (Ho ho, you know you could at least put a croissant in here?)

While on the ferry from Calais to Dover, the famous White Cliffs slowly crept up from the horizon.  I was immediately reminded of the poem “Dover Beach” by the great Englishman Matthew Arnold, but I was soon after embarrassed when I realized none of my companions were familiar with it.  Back on the bus, we whizzed through the picturesque English countryside and crept through the London traffic to the Victoria Coach Station, where I was welcomed by my dear bespeckled friend, Ben.  Since he kept insisting he did not have any Floo Powder, we took the Underground—the oldest metro in the world!—and made our way to some pints and pie at Ye Olde Chesire Cheese pub—an old haunt of Charles Dickens, Samuel Johnson and fatigued middle-aged professionals.

While he was still in the US, I put Ben up and we toured Baltimore for a day, so he promised to pay back the favor when I was London.  I think I can safely say I got the better end of the deal ;)   In merely two-and-a-half days, we were able to cover a lot of ground—Southwark Cathedral, Borough Market, South Bank, The Royal Academy, The National Gallery, Piccadilly, etc.  It was fantastic to finally see some of London’s icons with my own eyes—including The Eye, as well as Big Ben, St. Paul’s Cathedral, Shakespeare’s Globe, Westminster Abbey, and Buckingham Palace.  

The New Palace of Westminster

As a politics and history nerd, I particularly enjoyed the tour of The New Palace of Westminster, or The Houses of Parliament, which Ben booked.  It was awe-inspiring to walk through that historic place, although I did make sure to shake my fist at the painting of George III.  We had a proper old gent of guide who enlightened us as to the quirky traditions of the Palace—such as how every year the Black Rod beats on the door to the House of Commons exactly three times with his staff to invite them to hear the Queen’s Speech. And apparently the Speaker must be dragged to his chair upon his election.  Our guide also familiarized us with some recent occurrences—how Tony Blair was hit with a bag of flour by a student in the House of Commons and how a student (again) nearly beheaded the statue of Margaret Thatcher.  I shuddered at the thought of new bizarre traditions being created (“the annual pelting of the prime minister”, “the annual decapitation of Lady Thatcher”)

Aside from seeing and touring the great sites of London, it was also nice to get a peek inside daily life of average Britons.  For all the griping I heard, I rather enjoyed English cuisine—fish & chips, marmite on toast, Yorkshire tea, and a proper English breakfast consisting of beans, tomatoes, sausage, eggs and English bacon.  I was disappointed, however, when Ben’s wardrobe would not yield the entrance to Narnia (have to try harder next time…)

When I first entered Ben’s mother’s house, it was almost a too-delightfully-English scene: his mum and stepdad were both sitting in armchairs, she sewing and he reading a book with a large magnifying glass.  Throughout my stay, Ben and his family exhibited the stereotypically dry English sense of humor (“very droll” as Sir Humphrey Appleby would say.)  I also noticed something which George Orwell identified in “England Your England”:

“It is worth noting a minor English trait which is extremely well marked though not often commented on, and that is a love of flowers.” 

A lovely English garden

Flowers seemed to be prevalent in the English home—not only in vases but on wallpaper, on the furniture and in the smell of the air.  It is as if they are trying to bring the garden into the rest of the home.  And it seems the English take gardens very seriously.  While having tea and ice cream at Ben’s dad’s place, his stepmom expressed to me how she was glad they at least have a small but nice garden.  I got the sense that the English don’t aspire to the large house and big yard like in America, but to have and hold onto their own bit of space and unadulterated nature, especially those in the Greater London Urban Area.  Perhaps the same could be said for the city as a whole which is characterized by its many parks (“Over bridge of sighs/ To rest my eyes in shades of green” as the song “Itchycoo Park,” goes.)  Indeed much of British fantasy is an escape from Dickensian city life to some pre-modern, pre-industrial world, be it Never Land or Diagon Alley.

Ben and I enjoying a parting pint at the
White Horse pub before I depart

All in all, my visit felt far too short and I miss London sorely.  I even began to regret not trying to study in London, but a quick glance at my bank balance was consoling enough.  I hope to make it back to England very soon, but in the meantime, my neighbors will have to put up with “Rule Britannia” blaring from my room.