Amsterdam, or Disneyworld for Adults (Kind Of)
Lots to talk about in this one. First, a few random thoughts:
In my Temas y Mitos en la Literatura class, we all have to do group presentations that count as 50% of our final grades. One group of 2 did theirs on Thursday, and for the first time ever I saw evidence that the bilingual education system here doesn’t work. These kids were doing the oral part of their presentation in Catalan, but their Power Point was in castellano…except they made some of their “y”’s “i”’s, the Catalan way of saying “and.” They also spelled ejemplos exemplos, again a reference to Catalan. Considering we are nearly 3 months into our Barcelona stay and this is the FIRST time I’m seeing Catalan-castellano mistakes, it’s not bad. But obviously there are some flaws to this system. To me, mastering castellano is more important in a global sense. Who wants to only be able to do business correctly in Cataluña?
Also in that class, the other day I spotted a boy wearing a bracelet. But not just any bracelet. A Dolce & Gabbana bracelet. It gets better: it doubles as a bottle opener. Chic AND functional (not to mention effeminate)!
Anyway, I was in Lisbon two weekends ago, and Coruña after that. Those will be separate, later (but hopefully not much later) posts. What I want to write about is the place I was from Friday-Monday: Amsterdam.
First of all, Dutch is not a pretty language. It’s very German, and I don’t think German’s very pretty either. The good thing, though, is that everyone speaks English. I suppose that’s a necessity when you live in such a small country and have a mother-tongue that only the people in that country speak. So it was easy to get around. The other thing that was particularly exciting about Amsterdam for me is the fact that somewhere in that amalgam of European countries my ancestors came from is Holland. I’m Dutch, at least a little bit. This is the first time since I was 9 years old I’m going to a country I’m from.
But we all know what Amsterdam means. Sex, drugs, and Anne Frank. A strange combination, to be sure. But it delivered. Over the weekend there, we visited the Heineken Brewery, we went to the Van Gogh Museum, I went to Anne Frank’s house, we visited a million coffeeshops and cafes. We found the flower market on Singel, and the Friday secondhand book fair. Lots and lots.
So we arrived Friday mroning. Although we were cutting it super close with the flight, we made it (it left at 6:45, and the earliest train we could take from central Barcelona to the airport didn’t leave until 5:35 – first one. And from the airport RENFE station you have to take a bus to get you to Terminal 1). Smooth sailing. No issues. A rare good BCN experience.
First off, the Amsterdam airport is nuts. One of the first things that greeted us as we made our way off the plane were huge light-up faces, for example. But the airport’s gorgeous and looks like a shopping mall. Schiphol Plaza, where the trains leave from, is essentially an extension of the airport, and it is massive and well-lit and modern.
Another oddity: in the Amsterdam airport, they call passengers who have not yet made it on board a flight out by name. In their just slighty off British accents, the Dutch airport personnel say over the loudspeaker: “Passengers ____, _____, and _____, you are delaying the flight. Please board immediately or we will offload your luggage.” Blunt and super-embarassing. I guess that’s how the Dutch roll.
From there we took the train to Amsterdam Centraal Station, which is beautiful, at least from the outside. We walked down the Damrak, the main street in Amsterdam and got our first taste of how many bicycles, sex-related storefronts (the Sex Museum is right by the train station), and weird chain restaurants we would find here. Chipsy King, an excellent french fry stand was there. A million Kabab holes-in-the-wall. Places called “grills” where they have a whole bunch of pre-made food in the window that they’ll heat up for you. It feels a lot like an amusement park. Crossing Dam Square with the imposing national monument, we finally found our hostel: The Bulldog Hotel, aka the first official coffeeshop in Amsterdam. Before the trip, we were very excited about their website’s description in the About Us section: “Nothing is normal, everything is comfortable.” Paled in comparison to the Lisbon hostel (more on that later), but it was a fine place to be. It was my first time sharing the room with strangers…there were 14 people in there. Also, Dan Long Name and I shared a bed (but not blankets and pillows), which was an experience.
Check-in time at the hostel wasn’t until 3, so we decided to explore a little. We found a coffeeshop called Sheeba nearby, after crossing a church with a large installation made out of plastic bottles in front of it. Sheeba is like many Amsterdam coffeeshops: highly-decorated, mostly with trippy paintings, a long bar, a smaller desk where they sell weed, free rolling papers and filters, ashtrays on every table, and a very good ventilation system. After that, we got pitas at a kebab place and found our way to what many consider to be the best Amsterdam coffee shop – Grey Area. The walls are covered with bumper stickers, many from the United States. It’s teeny, and even the guy behind the counter had dreads and was smoking a joint. We got a table from some guys who were leaving (and who we subsequently ran into all over the Red Light district) and chilled for a while. My favorite thing that happened while we were there was a middle-aged couple of tourists who came in and bought space cakes and looked sheepish on their way out. Relving their glory days in college, I suppose.
The rest of the day is basically a blur. We went to a chocolate shop right across the street called Puccini, highly recommended, where I bought a cinnamon truffle. Dan Long Name, as we were wandering, was told by Elena to knock on wood about something, and he chose – rather judiciously, I might add – a door. Problem with knocking on a door is it usually means someone should come and open it, which we certainly didn’t want, so we had to keep walking in the opposite direction after he did that. We found a café called Bagels and Beans, where we all got some form of beverage, enjoyed the presence of a painting of an interracial couple astride a vertical bagel (so politically correct), and ogled the free postcards. Then the items we had bought at Grey Area kicked in, and we got out of that respectable instituation quickly, opting for an underground coffee shop with a juice bar next door, where we sat for goodness knows how long.
Following that experience, which involved a philosophical discussion on the practicality of tins, we tried to find our way back to the hostel to check in, as that time was approaching. This was more difficult than it seemed, particularly since this was our first day. We got very very lost. I know we ran into Zach from Northwestern (3rd country that’s happened in), and I know we came upon that secondhand book fair, where Staci found an abridged Jewish prayer book for people in the army that she believes she bought and then lost, and then, by the grace of God we found the hostel and checked in.
We all proceeded to nap for a good 3 or 4 hours, at which point we headed out for some dinner, which turned out to be a slice of pizza, and some good old-fashioned Red Light District prowling. I don’t think I would ever be able to get used to having prostitutes in the red windows tapping on the glass like that. It’s good that they can get help legally if something happens and that it’s all regulated, but it clearly objectifies women. It’s also very strange seeing them look so bored and unhappy, even talking on their cell phones while standing in the window hoping to get a customer.
So now it’s Thanksgiving (these take a long time for me to write). Note: on the way to the Metro between Literatura Castellana (or what we have deemed “literatura” “castellana”) at UPF and Cultura de Masas y Sociedad at UAB, I overheard some Americans: “There’s got to be a baster somewhere in Barcelona.”
Oh, turkey, I’m going to miss it this year. I’m off to Paris tonight. Ironic, I think, to fly to what is arguably the most anti-American EU country on Thanksgiving.
Anyway, to cap off that first day, we went to the Sex Museum. It’s nothing special, to be sure, but it’s only 3 euros and it’s an experience. You know, giant inflatable penises and such. It kind of reminded me of the haunted house on the Santa Cruz boardwalk at times, cause there would be these mechanical scenes like those you would find in a dark ride. Lots of straight up pornographic pictures too, which was also just weird. But somehow, in that city, it just feels more normal. Looking back is when you start to realize how completely ridiculous it is.
Day 2: We started off our day wandering to Dampkring, the Alice-in-Wonderland style coffee shop where they shot part of Ocean’s 12 that Trevor had recommended. It was an interesting place, as promised, with some delicious tea. There were also free posters, but as they were rolled up in the box by the door, you couldn’t see which one you were getting. Where Trevor had obtained a cool one of a guy’s head with smoke coming out of it, I got a pregnant woman’s belly.
We meandered our way to the Museum Mile, stopping in antique stores, candy stores, etc. We also happened upon the floating flower market at Singel, which is peculiar since it is not actually floating. Only one was on an actual ship-like vessel. It was a feast for the eyes, though, as my numerous pictures of it on Facebook can attest. There is also a street right by the Museum Mile where we ended up having lunch later, at this super cheap Italian place with delicious food (unlimited free bread! Delicious orange liqueur or something that Elena had! Penne arabbiata as it should be done!). There was also the elusive Royal Thai and a place that advertised having “Sherpa Food.”
The Rijksmuseum had a crazy line and wasn’t as interesting to us as our other options, so we skipped it. The Van Gogh Museum, however, was a must-see. Van Gogh is one of my favorite painters, and the museum is actually one of the most well-organized ones I’ve seen. It tells a true story of how Van Gogh’s life influenced his work. It’s an experience. And Van Gogh’s style is just amazing. So we spent a few hours there admiring.
Following lunch, we made our way to the Heineken Brewery, on Staci’s must-see list, and which Danielle had said was awesome and she wanted to live there. I think a Heineken Hostel is a logical next step for the company, actually. Staci and I ended up meeting up with a bunch of Northwestern boys we keep running into on our European adventures, including Zach from the other day. There was a beer tasting, a virtual screen telling the history of the company (sadly no holograms), the brewery, a virtual “Brew You” ride where you are “made” into beer, and yes, even horses. A ceiling made of Heineken bottles, a million international advertisements, and oh yeah, 2 more beers, included with your ticket. It’s a very worthwhile experience, if a bit expensive.
And after that, I got us back home in record time without getting lost. At night. I’ve figured out Amsterdam. Success!
Following that, we made our way to Barney’s Lounge to “wait” for a huge Northwestern crowd who never actually ended up making it, or at least not while we were there. So we hung out, had issues figuring out the bathroom system (they had to buzz you in but, of course, my “buzz” was taken by some guy and I just looked like a confused tourist tugging at the door for a while), and we asked if pot lollipops actually get you high (answer: no). We then wandered some more to get back to our hostel, coming upon some geese/swans that actually wanted to jump our of the water and attack me. Later I would discover that neither Trevor nor Dan, the boys who should be there to protect me, would be brave enough to save me had the militant swan actually been able to fly. They are still working on making this fact up to me.
We ran into another Northwestern guy and discovered that our planned reunion with the NU crowd would not in fact pan out that night. So we ended up at Hill Street Blues near the hostel for a bit before calling it a (kind of) early night.
Day 3: I woke up early to go to the Anne Frank House. This is the weird thing about this city: there’s the prostitutes and drugs and sex museums (and vodka museums and hash museums) and all of this strangeness, and then you have this incredibly sobering experience with deep spiritual and personal significance. The House was another incredible museum (Amsterdam knows how to do its cultural institutions), displaying objects that belonged to the family, the rooms as they were at the time, but without the furniture, explanatory videos and interviews with survivors, including Anne’s father, and of course, the actual diary, on display, with Anne’s handwriting. It was beautiful and heartwrenching, and I’m glad I ended up doing it alone. It was an affecting experience for me.
On the way home, Damm Square was curiously blocked off, and I noticed what I thought were some African-Americans in weird, colorful Renaissance-style costumes entertaining little children in front of some sort of stage. I just passed it off as a mere annoyance and moved on, taking an alleyway back to the Bulldog and coming across a bar that was actually called Wynand Fockink. Really, Amsterdam?
Meeting up with everyone else, we decided to do a free, no-strings-attached walking tour. While we were waiting by the National Monument for it to start, however, Elena and I figured out what was going on in the Square. David Sedaris’ “Six to Eight Black Men” had come to life before our eyes. It was true: Santa’s Dutch helpers are former slaves who are now “good friends.” Seeing so many people in blackface was actually the trippiest experience I’ve ever had. It just wouldn’t fly in America, no matter how quaint the tradition.
Anyhow, in Dutch-speak, Santa docks in Amsterdam in late November (in this case, November 15th) to hang out and figure out what the kiddies want. He comes with all of his black men cum elves. (Note: there is a woman actually screaming on the other side of this train. I don’t know if she’s on the phone or not. I think she’s crying. This is a mystery.) They receive him with a large parade that basically goes from Centraal Station to Damm Square, the heart of the city (and the red light district). Santa proudly wears his XXX, the very fitting symbol of Amsterdam, and rides in on horseback. Meanwhile, large quantities gingerbread, Lays chips, and strangely hardened gummy snacks are given to the children by white people in blackface. Also included in this spectacle are “black men” rapelling from the big clock tower on the Damrak and “black men” on unicycles. It’s like the Civil Rights Movement’s worst nightmare.
Let me just say that experiencing that right after Anne Frank’s house was an interesting, paradoxical experience. Santa touched me, actually, from atop his horse. I decided this meant he had deemed me one of the bad ones and would be taking me back to Spain, where he is purported to live, not that that wasn’t already in my plans. He just knew I was Spanish and therefore belonged in the bad group. My response to this contact with Santa right after my close encounter with Anne Frank: “I am all religions today.” Later, I would wander into the Jewish quarter and find the monument to Jews and the Jewish Historical Museum. I was just missing a good Buddhist or Hindu encounter, but I suppose those would be hard to find in the Netherlands.
Needless to say, we forgot all about the walking tour.
We kind of split up for lunch, at which point I was super Amsterdam/American and got a hot dog from one of the ubiquitous stands on one of the bridges near Damm Square, manned by very friendly men who spoke good English, and then got myself some fries from Chipsy King. Amsterdam loves its french fries. They were delicious, incidentally.
I went on a solo adventure on a quest, following the David Sedaris Christmas spectacle, to prove that this was in fact a real place. In the surrounding areas, I discovered just that. I wandered all through the city, meaning to end up in Vondelpark but never actually making it. I got to Newmarket, which is actually just a plaza; this random Church through an archway off a main street that just happened to be houing a trippy 3-D documentary exhibit (various short films, in thumbnail form, flying around you until you choose one) about urbanization; the Magere Brug, which is the most photographed bridge in Amsterdam; the Jewish quarter, completely by accident; and Rembrandt Square. I also stumbled upon a pickup soccer game in this random plaza, which was the ultimate way to decide this was in fact a real city. However, my newfound certainty that this place was legit – a cross between New England (some would say London, but I can’t really decide) and the brownstones of New York’s Upper East side – was soon dashed. I saw a tram line – line 25 – called “President Kennedylein.” How far are we from the United States? What did “President Kennedy” (hey, he wasn’t their president) ever do for the Netherlands? Bizarre.
So, Amsterdam, a city of paradoxes.
After Staci left, we ended up hanging in the Bulldog playing cards and drinking Happy Hour beers. It was a good way to end. I think the Red Light District kind of overwhelmed us after three days.
There’s a lot of cultural value to Amsterdam, not to mention a much better Christmas story than ours. You just have to get out of that Red Light District and see the rest of the city. Conclusion: I liked it a lot. More than I thought I would, as a city proper.
I’ll let you know how Paris is. You can’t get much more different (within Western Europe) than that.
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