Sunday

I have known for a while that I would meet Cindy and Ronan in Amsterdam. A few months ago I told her that this whole thing might happen. She assured me that if it did we would spend some time together in Holland. When I got here, she immediately arranged a “Sunday brunch” for me. What I thought would happen was not what actually happened. Let me tell you…

About eight o’clock on Sunday morning I realized that I didn’t know how to get to the Van Gogh Museum where Cindy told me we would meet. OK, here’s a geography lesson: I live in Amstelveen (pronounced like a weather vane), which is the next area over from Amsterdam. It’s definitely close enough to say, “Yeah, that’s right, I moved to Amsterdam” but, as Cindy knows, that is not exactly correct.

It was about nine when I realized it would take about and hour to get to the Van Gogh Museum using the metro/tram system. At that point, I wasn’t quite as panicky as I became about an hour later when I realized that my brain was processing “Oranjebaan” “Van Baerlestraat” and “Museumplein” as “yergonnagetlost” “goodluckcharley” and “ohmanthisoughtabegood.”

One phone call to Ev and Jim clarified the entire trip. (Funny, once something is clear in your mind, it’ll be clear when you make it happen. There’s a lot of things like that.) See, I had it all wrong. I took the 51 metro to Oranjebaan where I transferred to the 5 tram (just like Jim said). Cindy found me at Museumplein (park by the museum) where I met Cindy’s companion, Chelsey—the Energizer Bunny Husky. After a delicious brunch at Cindy and Ronan’s apartment, the four of us set off for a walking tour of old Amsterdam.

Cindy, Ronan, and Chelsey the wonder dog

When you think about it, many, many people know stuff about Amsterdam; even if they don’t stop to think about it. Anne Frank hid here. Red lights prevail in a small district. Canals make it the “Venice of the West.” Rembrandt lived and painted here, and just like his art, Amsterdam is stunning.

The Anne Frank House

We walked for parts of four hours. (I appreciate that Ronan failed to realize that I am, in fact, not a 30-something Irish footballer, as he is. I was embarrassed to admit how exhausted I was.) We saw it all (although I don’t quite understand the red light bulb area; perhaps a return trip will be important); like I said, the architecture, the canals, the houseboats, the bicycles, the churches, the squares, the people—awesome.

Sunday could not have been much better. As I reached the Oranjebaan metro stop on the return trip, my phone rang. One delicious dinner later, Jim was dropping me off at the luxury digs I call “home.” Witnessing first-hand the demise of the Bengals and (the next day) reading the travails of you-know-who made Sunday a day to remember!