Quaint-O-Rama in Montmarte!

Montmarte has more quaint streets per square mile than just about anywhere on earth. The little village on the hill overlooking Paris has been a favorite of artists, actors, philosophers, writers and the folks who love to drink with them for centuries.

Topped by the imposing Sacre Couer, Montmarte offers some of the best views of Paris as well as a dizzying maze of narrow cobble stone streets that wander into open squares where you weave through an endless array of portrait artists who will gladly turn your Euros into a caricature that you will treasure all the way back to the hotel.

As you stroll through these little winding streets, and really, that’s the only way to travel these kinds of streets, its easy to both imagine what it might have been like 200 years ago, staggering up to one of the café’s to drink and talk with local intellectuals and bohemians; as well as forget that these ancient feeling streets are also part of a modern city.

We wove our way downward off of Montmarte and suddenly found ourselves in … a modern city, with traffic, grimy buildings, regular shops and noise. People were walking with purpose and direction. The spell of Montmarte, while not broken, was simply replaced.

The Angelina Drip

Angelina’s is a restaurant on the Rue de Rivoli that is famous for its hot chocolate. It also is famous for its desserts, tarts and confections including something called the Mont Blanc which resembles a cupcake with cornrows (and will send Diabetics running from the contact sugar high).

We arrived for lunch on a Saturday and the place was packed with tourists enjoying the cuisine. It is a large and elegant feeling restaurant with molded sconces and marble tables. It is easy to imagine the social set of old Paris lunching here in the glory days when the Louvre was still a palace.

Well, easy if you squint out the tourists with “J’Aime Paris” t-shirts sitting at all the tables.
But don’t squint too hard because you will miss something that is uniquely Angelina. You see, everyone who comes here does so because of the hot chocolate. It doesn’t matter what time of day, or how hot it is outside, if you come to Angelina’s then you have to get the hot chocolate.

The hot chocolate served here is served in small white pitchers along with a little ramekin of whipped cream. You then pour the chocolate into your cup and add a dollop of cream, stir until the cream is dissolved and then sip. It takes a moment to get used to the thickness of the drink, which is close to gravy in texture, American’s used to packaged Swiss Miss are going to be surprised. But the flavor is incredible and so much worth the effort of getting there.

I noticed, however, that because of the thick viscosity of the chocolate that it is virtually impossible to pour it without a thin line of the stuff running down the pure white pitcher from the lip. The chocolate is so thick that it does not even run down the full length of the pitcher, rather it makes it as far as the pitcher’s fat belly.

I was embarrassed to see this obviously messy occurrence in such an elegant surrounding, until I noticed that every other table was graced with a pitcher that had the same telltale drip. In fact, upon closer examination, my own pitcher had the ghosts of numerous such previous drips that had been washed off over the years.

The Angelina Drip is a badge of having enjoyed something truly sublime, and uniquely Parisian.

Long Island to the Rue de Rivoli

The Rue de Rivoli is the street that borders the north side of the Tuileries and the Louvre. It is lined with a long series of arches that open to a sidewalk that fronts many souvenir shops, café’s and, of course, Angelina, the restaurant famous for it’s hot chocolate.

We had gone there specifically to visit Angelina’s and bring K****’s sister a bag of the precious hot chocolate mix. We had had our lunch and purchased the mix and were just strolling along looking for postcards when we were treated to that most American of American sounds, the classic Long Island Honk of a woman calling out to her husband, “Michael…They’re Jewish in here!”
She wasn’t content with just that, as she insisted on loudly repeating her call several more times, letting all of the tourists walking the street know that the proprietors of that specific shop were in fact Jewish.

I actually suspect that Michael has long since become deaf to that particular Long Island honk tonal range, or at least he wishes that it were so.

Oh Look, it’s the Eiffel Tower…again

K**** really is very wise. She kicked me out this afternoon. She is still not feeling well and I was hanging around the room brooding and basically I think it was kind of driving her crazy, so she kicked me out.

I decided to take a loop back through the Eiffel Tower and then down along the Seine toward the Concorde. It was sunny and fresh and the walk did me a world of good.

But sitting there in the shadow of the Eiffel Tower I started wondering how the French really feel about the big old thing. I mean yes, it is very impressive and tall and attracts millions of people every year and has come to be THE symbol of Paris, worked into every type of logo and t-shirt and gee-gaw that you see in the tourist shops…but really, it is just a big fancy erector set project that is always …THERE.

You can’t really go anywhere in Paris without seeing the damned thing. You’re on the Champs-Elysees and there it is; you are at the Louvre and look, there it is over there; you’re at the freaking Laundromat and there it is peaking over the rooftops like some big awkward cousin at Christmas…nice kid, grew really fast in the last year and now he never seems to go away.

I haven’t asked any French whether it bothers them or not, mainly because my French is a bit spotty and I may end up actually telling them that their socks are adorable or something else that will cause them to give me the classic blank French stare of miscomprehension.

Suffice it to say that the thing is really big and always there. Its not like they can fold the thing up and tuck it away for winter, or just haul it out on Bastille Day or something like that. No, they have to deal with it all the time…sometimes they can dress it up with lights and such, but that’s about it.

So be a nice boy and take your cousin outside, its just too close in here for such a big boy. C’mon cousin…watch your head there.

Paris Walk

I strolled this afternoon. K**** wasn’t feeling well, and encouraged me to go see Paris. I strolled down past L’Eglise du Dome and the through the gardens behind the Invalids to the Seine where I lingered a long time at the Pont d’Alexander. Then on along the Seine toward the Tuilleries where I say and watched the sunset in one of the most comfortable metal chairs I have ever encountered.

After the sunset I wandered back through the streets of the Left Bank, cutting down narrow side streets with small specialized shops and tucked away restaurants.

I know that we will be leaving Paris soon, and I suppose I am ready to do it. My excitement about coming here has dimmed somewhat and I find the rigors of trying to make myself understood tiring. The Parisiens that I have encountered have all been pleasant and helpful and very tolerant of my fractured attempts at conversation, but beyond the most rudimentary phrases, I am woefully ill-equipped to carry on any type of substantial exchange.

I think that I was caught up in the magic of my first visit to Paris 22 years ago, and have lived on that memory ever since. My imagination took me on long romantic walks along the Seine, afternoons spent sipping café in small bistros watching the people pass by.

But the reality of my return is now tempered with my own 22 years of experience which colors my view so that it tamps down to muted tones. I see it as a city now, beautiful yes, but still just a place where many people live their lives, conduct their business, drive, shout, laugh, talk, eat and play…and then fall into bed to rest until they get up to do it again.

There is no magic spell here, save in the eyes of romantic young men far from home. I do see ghosts of the young man I was. He is there standing at the Seine eyes wide before the fountain; there sipping wine at the corner bistro; there strolling in the bustling streets; there in the galleries of the Louvre. He has a smile that he is unaware of, glistening eyes and breath that is taken away.

He is a lucky young man and I envy him his birth of a dream.

Statues are Bored

I noticed something today as I walked around Paris. Statues are, for the most part, bored. Not boring, as their beauty and the skill needed to create them is clearly evident, rather, if you look at their faces you see that they are exquisitely bored.

Their eyes are almost always dull and flat, and sit in a face that is the picture of bland ennui. It makes sense really because what has a statue to do to keep it entertained? After the first several thousand people walk by and point a camera at it, or the millionth gallon of water cascades off of it there just isn’t that much to do.

You sit or stand in some odd pose and then you…um, sit and stand in some odd pose some more. Even Rodin’s Lovers must really be getting tired of kissing each other. I can imagine them thinking, “Boy, it sure would be nice to put on some cloths and go get a ham and cheese sandwich”.

Is Existentialism Catching?

I just spent some time sitting and sipping café in a little café around the corner from our hotel. K**** is really not feeling well and needed to sleep, so I figured that I would just go and give her some peace. Besides our room is much too small to simply hang out in.

As I sipped the café and was bathed in the Gauloise smoke and deep musings of the old Frenchmen sitting at the table next to me, I started to scribble thoughts in my journal. I was pensive and probably a bit disappointed that our health and various other things have limited our stay here in Paris. We will still do as many of the things that we had intended, but not nearly what we had hoped.

So sitting there, letting the busy street and café wash through me, my thoughts wove through a random stream of personal insights and reflections. I ignored the cliché that this presented, of the solitary American, trying to scribble deep thoughts in a Paris café…and instead just let the thoughts flow as they should.

I will not share (or bore you with) these reflections, aside to say that there is real truth to the cliché. Sitting in a little Paris café sipping espresso,  one can easily slip into a pensive mood, especially when surrounded by the leisurely French.

But as for the deep thoughts, well, they come in their own way I suppose.

So excuse me, I think that I need to go buy a beret now.

First Day in Paris: Metro to the Hotel

We arrived in the afternoon after the 4 hour train ride from Amsterdam. The train was comfortable and peaceful, but that ended the moment we arrived. Gare de Nord was packed and crazy with travelers and commuters alike.  We hurried through the crowds first to the ticket machine to purchase Metro tickets, which didn’t work as the machine only seemed to accept French credit and atm cards. So, I had to dive right into using my very rusty French with a ticket agent. He seemed to understand my request and we now have two Metro passes for our time here.

The next challenge was to get to the correct Metro stop. I had already plotted out our route and, at least on paper, it seemed easy.

Don’t you love how paper can do that?

But what paper doesn’t tell you is that it is necessary to walk a long ways through crowds of rush hour Parisians, dragging suitcases and trying to interpret the multitude of directional signs within the huge Gare du Nord train station.

Of course, then we got to the platform for the first train and it was easy from there on out…except if you count the 942 flights of stairs we had to climb or descend to get to the actual platform.

But we made it to the first train, and after swiftly discovering that we were headed in the wrong direction, and making the ever-so-easy switch to the correct platform (leave train, go down two flights of stairs, up two other flights…with suitcases in tow) we settled into the correct train and were on our way.

To the transfer station where we had to get off, and hike through 765 more stairwells, up and down until we reached our correct train.

We made it on and settled in for the long ride to the stop near our hotel.

Now, Parisians are renown for a certain style, a certain je ne sais quoi? A certain flair. And it was evident on the train. The people, even coming home from work on a train all had a look and style that seemed almost second nature.

I suspected that my current state of profusely sweating, bedraggled, slightly wild-eyed determination fit right in.

That must have been why they gave me so much room on the train.

Leaving Amsterdam

We’re on the train to Paris and we are a little sad about leaving Amsterdam. Funny that we should be missing a place where so many things went wrong, the weather, the hospital, never seeing E***, the rail strike stranding us for another day…you’d think that we would be glad to be rid of the place, but K**** told me this morning that she could live here for a year.., .and I could see why.

The city is beautiful and interesting with many parts that we didn’t get to see, or only saw fleetingly through a tram or canal bus window. Each canal bridge we crossed provided a sublime view of peaceful water, trees, boats and bikes…always the bikes.

While the city is busy, with people always riding their black and white bikes somewhere, there is not the hurried and frantic feel that we feel back home. The shopkeepers, waiters and tour guides we met were all friendly, helpful and patient. Perhaps it has something to do with the fact that they know that so few people speak Dutch., or perhaps it is just that they are more relaxed and less focused on money and status and wealth.

Perhaps I am romanticizing them because I am on vacation and relaxed myself. But this is a welcoming city for us, and we have already decided to come back somehow, perhaps for the marathon next year…perhaps as just a dream because it took us so long to get here this time…but it is a dream that is so wonderfully real.

Its Monday, the Belgian's Must Be On Strike

We arrived at the train station early, all ready to take the Thalys bullet train to Paris, only to find out that the rail workers in Belgium had called a general strike which shut down any outgoing train service from Holland to France...because all trains have to pass through Belgium. The station agent was tired, having answered endless inquiries since 3, but she was cheerful in a sort of fatalistic way.

So we shrugged and headed back to the hotel, got our same room back and then spent the afternoon writing postcards and catching up on rest. I also hopped on the internet to see if I could find out more about the strike.

I Googled "Belgium, Rail strike" and waited tensely for the results. I received many hits and I figured that "Well, this is a big thing, look at all the articles!" that is until I started checking the dates of the articles...October 6, Jun 10, May 14, April, February...the Belgians seem to go on strike quite a bit, and while it causes a great deal of disruption, they never seem to actually achieve anything with their strikes, aside from perhaps getting an extra three day weekend on a fairly regular basis. (Hopefully they haven't planned to travel that weekend).

I scanned the rest of the news to find that CNN, BBC and the rest of the international news sources were very uninterested in the latest Belgian trainworkers little tantrum.

My friend had since told me "Now you have really experienced European travel."

We will leave today without disruption I am sure, because as far as I can see, the strikers seemed to have failed to bring he European Union to its knees. 

From The ER to Flinckx – A Good Bad Day in Amsterdam (Part 1)

I woke uo and knew that my cold had decided to follow its usual course and slipped down from my nose, to me throat to my lungs. I get such colds at home and know how they run, so while it was expected, it was also disappointing. At least at home I knew what to do, and where to go. But here it was in Amsterdam on a rainy Sunday and I knew that unless I got to the doctor, I would be spending much of the upcoming week in Paris, coughing and feeling miserable.

I was supposed to meet Herman today so that he could give us a personal tour, instead I called him to tell him that I would be late as I was going to go to the hospital ER that the hotel clerk told me about. A few minutes after I hung up with Herman, he called me back and said that he would drive me to the hospital. I was very grateful.

The Oosterpark Hospital is very modern with an ER waiting room that is right out of the Jetsen’s. Cheery green walls and smoothly rounded glass walls provide a calm and non-threatening waiting area. I was triaged by a nice nurse and then K**, Herman and I waited for the doctor. There were several people ahead of me, so we waited bout an hour.

The doctor who saw me was a young woman who explained that the Dutch medical philosophy is to wait and see what develops in the body, because in many cases the body is able to heal itself better without the intervention of needless medical treatment. She examined me and said that she was reluctant to prescribe anything as I had no fever and my lungs were clear. But she also paid attention to my symptoms and accepted that I was aware of my own health patterns, and so, based on the strength of my prognosis, she prescribed me some antibiotic and wished me luck in Paris.

Herman then drove us to a Pharmacy that was open on Sunday.  In Holland, Pharmacies only dispense drugs, a Chemist is where you will go to get over-the-counter medicines. The Pharmacy I went to was run by two Muslim women. I entered the door and was separated from the drugs and the women by a clear glass wall with a slide through slot that I could place my prescription in and the pharmacist would pull the drawer through to her side to refill it.

I suppose the partition served the dual purpose of preventing drug thieves from getting easy access to narcotics as well as protecting the Pharmacists in side form getting any germs that the customers may have…a thought that worried me a bit being on the narrow germ-ridden side of the partition.

After a few moments my prescription as pushed back to me through the little drawer and I was on my way.

From the ER to Flinckx – A Good Bad Day in Amsterdam (part 2)

It has been raining steadily all morning and afternoon. After we pick up the antibiotic, Herman suggests that we go to the new library to have some lunch. We agree, but I feel bad for Herman as he is forced to drive the confusing streets of Amsterdam. He is very used to riding his bike and knows exactly how and where to go to get to the library by bike, but in the car there are an endless array of one way streets that tease and torment him.

Finally we reach the dock areas of Amsterdam and are treated to a soggy view of the harbor. The large green Nemo museum, an interactive museum, much like the Exploratorium in San Francisco, that is housed in a large green building that is shaped like the prow of a ship. Herman tells us, that on nice days, it is very pleasant to sit on the steps atop the museum and have lunch.

It would not be so pleasant to do so today.

The parking garage beneath the library is large, clean and well lit. We take the elevator up to the main floor and then have to dash across the open walk to the library entrance, getting mildly soaked along the way.

 

The library is very new and wonderfully modern, with 5 floors of open bookshelves and unique reading/study areas laid out at various points, each study area sporting its own unique seats and design. Herman shows us his favorite, some totally enclosed study cubes in which someone can sit alone and undisturbed. Kiss marks on the little window in the cube indicate that sometimes the cubes may be used for something more than reading books.

We reach the top level which houses the cafeteria. It is nicely laid out with an impressive array of pre-made and quick cooking choices. My favorite is a stir-fry counter where you can select your own choices and then hand it to the cook who cooks it up for you.

After lunch we briefly stepped out onto the observation deck to take in the great view of the harbor and the oldest part of Amsterdam. We would have stayed out there longer but for the unrelenting rain.

Later Herman tells me that on this day, more rain has fallen than normally falls during the entire month of October.

From the ER to Flinckx – A Good Bad Day in Amsterdam (part 3)

Later that evening, we arrange with Herman to meet at a little restaurant around the corner from our hotel. Flinckx is a very small restaurant run by a very expressive woman who teases and flirts equally well in Dutch and in English. K** and I arrived a bit before Herman and his family and this woman asked us if we happen to be meeting “Someone named Van Gessel, who wants a party for 6?” I say yes, then she turns down her mouth in a classic moue and says, “I don’t know anything about that.”

Herman and his family arrive soon after and we sit. Herman’s son, G***, sits across from me and soon devours most of the bowl of bread as well as some Chocolate Milk which A*****, Herman’s wife, informs me is his favorite. Herman’s daughter B***** sits across from K** and she is soon engaged in conversation with K***. B*** has only been studying English for a short time, but she is quite fluent and really seems to enjoy speaking with native speakers like us.

The dinner is quite good, though A***** is mad with herself because she had bought us some Strope Waffle cookies and forgotten to bring them for us. She had served them the night before when we had dinner at their house and we liked them very much.

K*** has hare, and I tried some as well. It was good, a bit denser than chicken and more rich, with a slight gamey quality. I have lamb in a rich basilica sauce. The meal is wonderful, but it is Sunday night and I am aware that they must work in the morning and the children need to get up for school. Also, it is G***’s birthday tomorrow (he will be 9) and A**** informs me that he will be up at 4 AM wanting to get started on all his presents. The woman who runs Flinckx brings G*** a special ice-cream treat with a sparkler in it, and we all sing Happy Birthday in English, which I find a little odd, especially when the other patrons join in.

We walk out into the cool night and walk a short ways to where Herman has parked his car. It is sad, but I am so glad to have reconnected with him after so many years. I am also glad that he has such a nice family. Hopefully it won’t be so long before I see him again.

 

Epilogue:

The next morning K*** and I are rushing around packing and readying ourselves to leave for Paris. We eat early and while K*** goes back up to the room, I head outside to hit the ATM once again. As I step outside the hotel, I hear “Hey Scott”.

Herman is riding up on his bike and he has a bag with him. I know immediately that it is the cookies that A*** forgot to bring. She is a very organized person and I know that she wouldn’t tolerate such an oversite, so she had Herman deliver them on his way to work. We say good-bye again, a bit more personally this time.

My bad day in Amsterdam, turning into a very wonderful experience in the end.

Vrolic Medical Museum: Fascination and Sadness

The Vrolic Medical Museum is a vast collection of medical specimens collected primarily by Dr. Anton Vrolic in the 1900s. The museum is part of the vast Amsterdam Medical Facility that serves as the primary hospital and medical center for the city of Amsterdam.

While housing a large number of medical specimens, by far the largest portion of the museum is focused on preserved fetuses of babies born (or nearly born) with horrendous physical malformations. There are babies with twisted limbs, grossly expanded hydrocephalic skulls, external organ growth and various permutations of undivided twins.

There were also certain samples that basically defy description, aside from saying that they resembled a human only so far as there had recognizable flesh, and the semblance of other features. Essentially, these were monsters and though fascinating from a purely medical oddity point of view, it is hard to ignore the devastating effect that giving birth to such a child would have on the mother and father, and the physicians, nurses and any other attendees.

Was Dr. Vrolic a ghoul for collecting these specific types of specimens, or was he driven by pure scientific curiosity for the ways that the human form can go tragically wrong in its earliest development? Am I a ghoul for been drawn on in looking at these specimens, despite my visceral and emotional revulsion?

Perhaps the answer is yes to all these questions.

Tapas At The Van Gogh

The Van Gogh Museum is open late on Friday night. It houses the largest collection of Van Gogh’s work in the world and is arranged in galleries that progress through the artist’s life according to where he lived and how his work developed, I didn’t know much about Van Gogh aside from the ear incident and that he was supported by his brother. This progression through his life was facinating.

 

What we didn’t expect was that the museum was such a happening place to be on Friday night. The main lobby acts as a casual meeting area that is decked out with deep blue furniture that sits on a carpet of the same deep blue. There is a bar where you can buy wine, mixed drinks and a fruit smash that was very good. A DJ spun 45s of jazzy pop from the 60s to add a very ironic, retro hip feel to the place.

 

People lounged and ate and drank, while others explored the galleries to the fun music. The second floor houses the main collection and while we wandered through we noticed the reason for the lovely blue carpet in the main lounging area. Using the same blue screen technology that is commonly used on newscasts, the lounge area was filmed and projected onto the blank walls of the upper part of the museum, the blue replaced with a rotating display of Van Gogh’s paintings so that the people sitting in the chairs appeared to be sitting, drinking and walking through the paintings themselves. It was a very cool effect.

 

After strolling the galleries, K** and I sat and had tapas of various cheeses, nuts, and bread along with a glass of wine and a fruit smash. It was definitely the way to go to this Museum.

Dutch Stairs

Amsterdam is called one of the first and best “planned cities” in the world, and it is clear why this is so. Every street and canal is laid out in a series of concentric semi-circles that radiate outward from the central district (Centrum). All the streets are lined brick-to-shoulder with narrow multi-story “canal-houses” which are a marvel of optimizing usable space. Rooms are small, but livable with every nook and cranny of possible space utilized in some type of fashion.

 

As I said, no wasted space, so when it comes to getting people to move between floors these Amsterdammers don’t hesitate to cram the most amount of utility into the least amount of space. The result is a harrowing spiral climb up narrow wedges of steps that climb steeply up (and down), almost as if a ladder had somehow been twisted and fooled into believing that it no longer belonged in the yard, but rather had been civilized into indoor duty.

 

These stairways are seriously challenging to walk up or down, and probably are a large reason(along with the bike riding everyone does) why most Amsterdam residents appear thin and fit. 

The Red Light District…Meh

We made the trek to the Red Light District mainly because everyone who knows we are going to Amsterdam has asked “Are you going to see the Red Light District?”. Well, that and if we are going to go into one of “those” cafes…you know, wink wink. There’s a lot of “wink-winking” that goes on when you mention Amsterdam I’ve found.

We arrived at the Red Light District via a Canalbus that let us off right at the Central Train Station. It was raining pretty heavily and it was also right around 5:30 so the streets were filled with a soggy mix of business people rushing home and tourists thronging toward the district. The streets were packed, and about half the people had umbrellas, whose stays seemed to hover right at my eye level making navigation hazardous, if not nearly blinding.

As we entered the district the crowds thinned a bit and we were able to walk a bit more freely. We spent a little time in several of the Dutch souvenir shops, and actually considered buying some “wink-wink” related t-shirt for our friend Jonathan, but we relented and moved on.

There are many narrow alleys that lead off the main street and in the rain and gathering dusk, it is easy to see how this area is well suited for skulking and seemy exploration.

We were intrigued by one alleyway mainly because at the end of it was a church. We headed down the narrow walk and came out upon a winding walkway lined with a few offices, and then several of the display rooms. I’m sure that they have a more official term, but the feeling that I had was of looking at a human sized version of a vending machine. Each small cubicle had a woman in it, dressed in some variation of red underwear and lingerie. The women were all foreign born, dark skinned and well fed. They also looked bored as they watched us watching them. Toward the end of this little block was a day care center that must have served the women in the windows. Quite a clever little business opportunity actually, if you think about it. None of the offices where I have worked had day care right there where I worked.

We circled on around the alley that encircled the church we had seen. The church was closed, and I suspected that the women in this little area may have done quite well simply because they could tap into the “doing-it-in-the-shadow-of-the-church” crowd.

The rain was coming harder and it was getting darker, so we headed back to the train station to catch the canalbus back to the hotel.

So we saw it, but Meh it really didn’t do much for me.

 

 

The Ubiquitous Dutch Bike

Everyone rides bikes here in Amsterdam, and it seems, they are all riding the same bike.  It is a black cruiser style with curved handlebars, black and white fenders and a single utilitarian light poking out in the front. They are the epitome of  basic street transportation, and they are everywhere. Filling the narrow, flagstoned streets, overflowing racks; casually locked against trees, poles or special curved pipes…or leaned against walls, railings and each other.

They all seem to be of an indeterminate age, somewhere between 10 and 50 years old. Some have been customized so that they can cart children in wheelbarrow-like appendages lashed to the front, or sporting some other type of portage device in front or over the rear wheel.

Perhaps the most heartening thing about seeing so many of these unglamorous, utilitarian vehicles everywhere is the attitude that the riders have about them. You see men and women, young, old, black, white, professional, working class and funky, fathers, mothers and children…none of whom are wearing brightly colored spandex togs with slick racing helmets and sleek I’m-so-very-serious sunglasses. No, these are people who remember that a bike is just a very handy way to get from here to there. 

Early The First Morning

We are really here. It is early morning, the clouds are sort of scattering and the city is waking up, like every city in the world wakes up. Cars hissing along wet streets, trucks banging and wheezing. I peak out our window, pulling the curtain aside only a little so as not to let in too much light because K***** is still sleeping. Across the street from our Hotel, I can see into the cupola room of an apartment…a Dutch apartment in Amsterdam! I am excited and scared and eager to get out and see everything.

But there is time.

Yesterday was a long blur of planes, airports and then a long taxi ride through the Amsterdam rush hour talking with our Pakistani driver, Pas. His English difficult to understand, we talked of Pakistani’s problems in policing the borders with Afghanistan and how he has a friend in San Francisco. He then spoke proudly of his daughter, the doctor who will be moving to England to practice gynecology, and his son the MBA. He had one other daughter who was 12 and he shared as how it is expensive to send your children to college. When we arrived at the hotel I paid him with a 50 Euro bill and told him to give me back 5, he said “No, that is too much” and handed me back 7. I thanked him.

We travelled for 16 hours all told, and slept almost as much. I am not certain of the date and have a little fear that somehow I will lose track of what day it is and then miss the train to Paris and fall into a domino effect of missed connections. It’s a silly fear I know.

We are really here, I wonder when I will start to believe it.