P.G.C. Hajenius

The day I found Hajenius I was window-shopping like I sometimes do when I see a store that sells cigars. See, it’s like this: I’m a one-a-day guy, weather permitting. (I know, I know.) Back home, I average 25 a month in warm weather. (OK I said I know.) I am certainly not the first person to fall victim to Cuba’s gift to the world. Mark Twain once remarked, “If smoking (cigars) is not allowed in heaven, I shall not go.” See? It aine just me. But when I came to this place, my daily consumption dropped by exactly one hundred percent.

P.G.C. Hajenius

In the world’s most liberal country (believe that and I have a bridge for sale in Brooklyn), you can hardly smoke—indoors. Come here and you will see many, many people smoking cigarettes. Like back home, you can see crowds of smokers huddled near door fronts near where they work. They smoke on bikes, they smoke while walking, and they smoke at tram stops. You’ll see them everywhere, except indoors. (Get this: they take their dogs anywhere and by “anywhere” I mean “everywhere” but you can’t smoke. Help me. And the French. Do not get me started—in Paris recently it seemed like every person, everywhere had a cigarette hanging from their mouths. French people eat with one hand and smoke with the other. I could almost hear Robin Williams’s classic parody of the French preoccupation with cigarettes: Oui, I smock! You see, I geeve zee cigarette to zee bay-bay!)

Anyway, I’m wandering along when I came to Het Huis Hajenius. Jackpot. Great, inexpensive (as see-gars go) Cubans, a fabulous smoke room, coffee, port, and wine by the bottle or glass, and except for the direct link to mouth and throat cancer, Hajenius is perfect. (I was gonna ask if they had rooms to let, but I figured they already knew I was American.)

No caption necessary

Today my plan was pretty simple—a morning stroll through the Albert Cuypmarkt, a smoke at Hajenius, lunch and back to reality—grocery shopping and laundry. After my smoke I went back to the market for a delicious lunch at one of the many food stalls. Afterward I stopped in for a quick visit with Jim and Ev and was soon back home.

Lunch (with a smile?)

I told you before: het leven goed is

Bayeux

I’ve decided that traveling without my better half isn’t nearly as much fun as it is with her. Oh, don’t get me wrong. It’s not that she wouldn’t’ve gone with me to Omaha Beach; it’s just that she would rather not. I get that part. And, I might as well clarify one other point: when I contracted food poisoning on my second full day (I’m blaming the ice cubes I ordered at dinner the night before—can’t ever tell what’s in the water!) I sure coulda used my personal nursemaid of 39 years to hold my hand. I settled for a long-distance consultation via Skype and about 19 hours in bed!

Notre Dame Cathedral, Bayeux, western facade, at night

No, it’s not that. I miss Gwaz because I know how much she would have loved Bayeux. Bayeux is medieval. Some of the structures including the Notre Dame Cathedral of Bayeux are over 1000 years old. Bayeux was the home base of William the Conqueror; and it is from there he launched his fabled conquest of England in 1066. Bayeux is a living museum. It is the only town left virtually unscathed by either side during WWII, which is a modern miracle in and of itself. (Consider, for example, that towns like Caen and St. Lo were literally reduced to rubble by allied bombers during the breakout from the Normandy beaches, and the repeated German protocol of destroying any abandoned properties, and the fact the Bayeux was not attacked is astounding.)

The cathedral chevet, considered a masterpiece of Norman Gothic art

Bayeux’s Notre Dame Cathedral is one of the most remarkable buildings—anywhere. I mean that. It is jaw-droppingly beautiful from every angle. Perhaps the contributions of countless architects, designers, benefactors, and holy men account for the awesome beauty of the cathedral. It stands on the ancient site of a Romanesque church, and as it looks today, the cathedral was begun in the early 13^th century. It reached its present day appearance in the 19^th century.

It is hard to decide which aspects of the cathedral are the most stunning. Certainly the central tower (15^th-19^th centuries) is the most easily identifiable. It can be seen from many miles away, which, of course, is its purpose. The western façade with its five gothic porches is a study in metaphor. A little research goes a long way in understanding the symbolism depicted on the exterior. From the passion of Christ to the gates of Hell guarded by the Devil himself, from the last supper to the dead rising from their graves to meet their reward, the western façade is amazingly complex.

The view from the nave

The interior is no less dramatic. For me, nothing compared to the majesty of the pulpit dating from 1786, designed by Bayeux sculptor Jean-Louis Mangin. The symbolism is easy to comprehend, the imagination it takes to conceive and construct such a masterwork is not.

The pulpit

This is one of the parts Gwaz would have liked the most. Yep, traveling with her is whole lot more fun.

I couldn't help but consider how many hands it took to wear down this marble holywater bowl this much. (About 1000 years worth!)

The American Cemetery at Omaha Beach

I’m a guy who gets worked up. Do you know that expression? As in Now, don’t go gettin’ yerself all worked up. That’s me. I get worked up when I hear children sing. Almost anything sentimental or touching will get me worked up. So, today I prepared myself because I planned to visit the American Cemetery at Omaha Beach in Normandy.

I knew it wouldn’t take much, and sure enough it started when I watched a movie at the visitor’s center at the cemetery. Actually it started days ago when I started watching D-Day videos in preparation for my visit. I am not sure there is anything as moving as listening to survivors of the D-Day invasion in 1944.

In memorial of the 50^th anniversary of the invasion, Lt. Al Astorsoll sat for a video interview. His recollection of details related to the Normandy invasion was photographic. As he told his story, he recalled his then best friend, Joseph “Punchy” Zettwich. On that day, Al learned that Pvt. Zettwich had been shot. Al assured him that he would be OK.

“I don’t think so,” Punchy told Al.

Lt. Astorsoll continued his story: anyway, Punchy died in the half-track on the way back to the division collecting company. In 1994 when we visitied Eau Chappell, I found Punchy (referring to the grave marker which read: Joseph P. Zettwich Pvt 506 101 Airbourne Division Pennsylvania 12/22/1944) (Pvt. Zettwich died in Bastogne, at the Battle of the Bulge).

Lt. Astorsoll tried unsuccessfully to continue his story; so he did what any old soldier does best—he steeled himself. He drew his breath and said: We talked.

One of many markers for unknown warriors

Like I said, I braced myself. The story of D-Day has 175,000 chapters. Of the 34,250 attackers, 9,387 lie in repose at the American Cemetery, 6603 of whom died at Omaha Beach. While walking among the markers, I remembered something I heard in one of the testimonials I saw. A widow was describing her reasoning for not bringing her husband’s body home when given the choice. She said, “He earned that little piece of ground, so I decided to leave him right there.”

The cemetery isn’t a sad place. The markers are testimony to courage in the face of terror. Viewed in its entirety, the cemetery is itself a proud army of warriors; warriors who, in the words of a surviving comrade, are forever young.

View of Omaha Beach from one of the many defensive positions

The cemetery isn’t a sad place; the beach is. As I stood on Omaha Beach I couldn’t help but think that life is timing. Sixty-eight years ago the very same beach was a place of carnage; ravaged by an enemy with the tactical advantage of high ground. Sixth-eight years ago thousands of men died where I stood. Standing alone, imagining that day many, many years ago, I cried.

One of the many inscriptions throughout the cemetery

D-Day

Sowing, we are planting the wheat seeds this autumn.

We hope that when the summer comes,

In the magnificent heat of our cloudless skies

We will harvest freedom.

--Thiery Hollier Larouse, French resistance agent

Omaha Beach 2012

The plans for the invasion of Normandy, also known as Operation Overlord, began in 1942. For the next two years, under the leadership of Dwight Eisenhower, the combined forces of the United States, Great Britain, Canada, Australia, France, Belgium, and Holland planned the invasion of the Normandy coast. The day the invasion began, June 6, 1944, is now known to all as D-Day.

According to noted historian Stephen Ambrose, Time magazine reported on June 12 (1944) that "as far as the U.S. Army can determine, the first use of D for Day, H for Hour was in Field Order No. 8, of the First Army, A.E.F., issued on Sept. 20, 1918, which read 'The First Army will attack at H-Hour on D-Day with the object of forcing the evacuation of St. Mihiel salient." (p.491)

All that said, up until the attack on 6 June ’44, the use of the letter “D” to mark the start of an operation was not reserved for the invasion of Normandy. Since 6 June ’44 it stands for nothing else but.

Because of an elaborate ruse with all apparent evidence indicating that Gen. George Patton would lead the inevitable charge, the Germans were prepared for just such a thing to occur at Calais, further north than the eventual attack. The German miscalculation left them unprepared for the orchestrated attack of paratroopers, troops in gliders, resistance fighters, and a landing force of over 175,000 men. The five beaches—code names: Utah, Omaha, Gold, Sword, and Juno—became the setting of military history. Never before or since has an attack of such epic proportions been attempted. On June 6, 1944 Hell opened its gates and the free world marched in.

Eisenhower speaking to the troops

The battle began with the command order from Gen. Eisenhower, which included the immortal words: We are about to embark on a great crusade…the eyes of the world are upon you. The hopes and prayers of liberty-loving people everywhere march with you.

Normandy

I am about to change my thinking with regards to divine intervention. I’m starting to think that despite my best efforts, God just wants me to see Normandy. Here’s the evidence: Three train rides including one missed connection, no rental car reservation in Caen, and travelling who-knows-how-far in the wrong direction with enough toll money in my pocket, and I made it to my hotel in Bayeux, France before the owner closed for the evening! If that aine divine, I’m outta examples!

The 9:31 to Paris Nord was to be five minutes late (still no track though)

I’m not shy (and believe me, anyone who is oughta get over it quick when travelling in foreign countries.) When my trip started, I knew I was on the right platform in Schiphol train station in Holland, but get this, the nice man at the information desk told me “five or six” meaning the train could arrive on track five or it could be track six. There was a rising anxiety in me as we got closer and closer to the time the train was due to arrive. So what did I do? I picked out the person who looked the least likely to want to help me (they are always the friendliest!) and asked my favorite question. “Yes, little bit,” he responded. He told me that the stationmaster decides at the last minute which track is preferred and it is posted on a public information board overhead.

The high speed Thalys to Paris, France

As it turned out (as it always seems to turn out) there was no problem, at all…until…we approached Paris and the voice on the intercom announced in French (of course) that there would be a delay. Believe it or not, I understood that there was a delay without understanding all the words. The same announcement was repeated in Dutch (the train came from Holland, right?) so I knew (or hoped) the next version would be in English; but by that time everyone was talking to each other about the delay and the consequences, I’m sure; so I couldn’t understand the English announcement.

Again, not shy. My seatmate explained that we would be delayed thirty minutes. Just long enough for me to miss my connection; I was sure. I was right. Once in Paris Nord, I asked a cab driver how much to get me to Gare St. Lazare. “35,” she said. “Three-five?” I replied. “Oui, 35 euros,” she assured me. I took the metro. (It cost one euro seventy cents.)

Hurry up and wait...missed my connection; oh well

Hopelessly late for my connection, the person at the information desk spoke a tiny bit more English than I speak French. It was an interesting conversation, to say the least. Here’s the skinny: if I took the train to Cherbourg I could get off in Caen (instead of taking the train that terminated in Caen.) Ooohhh, yeah, I getcha. I follow your meaning!

Once in Caen, there was a little matter of a rental car reservation which didn’t process properly. I knew it hadn’t but after three tries, I gave up and just hoped for the best. No worries, there were several rental car companies, some with the names we all recognize. (What I didn’t ask for though was a GPS; more on that later.)

In these medieval towns, the streets are narrow and a tiny bit tricky for guys from Essex who are used to a shotgun navigator. After an impromptu tour of downtown Caen (featuring the use of the same traffic circle three separate times!) I got to a place I was sure was somewhere on the original set of directions. Um…yeah…most people are aware that highways run in two directions. I knew I needed the “N13” toward Bayeux (problem was it also runs toward Paris; yeah, see the problem?) No kidding, I knew I was headed in the exact opposite direction, and I couldn’t get off. Seriously…there were no exits. I drove about eight kilometers in the wrong direction and couldn’t fix the problem. Finally, I saw an exit so I got off only to discover that the N13 is toll road—free to get on, seventy cents to get off. (I’m going with God again on this one. I had some change in my pocket. All’s well; right? Wrong.

I traveled far enough without the opportunity to turn around that I started to get panicky. Instead of enjoying the French countryside, I started imagining myself lost in Normandy! Just when I figured I was right about God to begin with, He showed me a traffic circle! Easy peasy, zip around, back to the toll booth—on the other side this time—(had another seventy cents, again God), and off to Bayeux I went.

Seems like every little town has a magnificent old church!

Here’s the problem. I never saw I sign for Bayeux. Seriously. I saw plenty for Cherborough so I figured I was headed in the right direction. Without a clear mental picture of where I was or where I was headed, I was truly driving blind. After about thirty kilometers, I got off. I figured that I had screwed something up and things whuttent workin’ out for me. I was sincerely regretting the GPS snafu. Got off, immediately found a traffic circle and before I could get to the correct turn I passed the sign that said “Bayeux”. Once more around the traffic circle (no kidding, I go these traffic circles figured out) and I was on the right road to Bayeux—the same road I had been on before I got off.

The Bayeux Cathedral

Shortly thereafter plenty of road signs counted down the distance to Bayeux. I even pulled out my Google directions and found a direction that actually matched the road signs (rare, believe me). Who knows what happened next? Two traffic circles, and a bunch of snap decisions, and I saw the Bayeux cathedral. I wasn’t lost, but I had no idea where my hotel was in relation to where I was. Just as I turned into the cathedral parking lot to study my maps and Google directions, I noticed a beautiful little sign, which, I guessing, you-know-who had conveniently placed for me:

Sounds simple, doesn’t it? Hey, I’m here.

Dinner was a true reward!

Zaanse Schans

According to the tour book, Zaanse Schans is a “don’t miss.” Actually, I went on a recon mission. In a little over one month, my “unofficial” duties as a Holland Tour Guide will “officially” begin. I wanted to find out if this is one of the trips Gwaz and I or Gwaz, Jess, Marissa, and I will take in April when they visit.

Such a quaint, beautiful village

Truth be told, after an extremely productive Saturday the thought occurred to me that it was high time to see some wind mills; so off to Zaanse Schans I went.

This is why I came!

The day started with brilliant sunshine. It turned pretty cold and was snowing when we left Centraal Station as I settled in for a fifty-minute bus ride to Zaanse Schans. Those of you who know me remember me as a patient, loving, tolerant, world traveler dedicated to internationalness; right? OK not so much, but you try sitting in front of three i-talians who talked non-stop throughout the bus ride—often over each other. No kidding, I thought about borrowing their i-talian/'merican phrase book long enough to learn how to say “sssshhhhh” in Italian.

Zaanse Schans is a recreated 17^th century Dutch village on the Zaan River in the town of Zaandijk. It has a little of everything. It is all about depicting life as it used to be when windmills lined the river. (Well, that and tourist dollars. The village featured any number of souvenir shops and restaurants.) Open this day was a sawmill powered by…you guessed it…a windmill. From pay toilets to entrance fees for every attraction that was open, this little village makes its money a little at a time from the busloads of tourists who visit every day.

Despite the economics of their situation, Zaanse Schans was awesome. For a little over two hours I got an authentic glimpse of life in historic Holland.

Life is Good; Yes?

If anyone tells you that Dutch cuisine is less than awesome, I’m guessing’ they don’t like the same stuff I like. (Then again, I like everything. Not too bad for a kid who ate little else than tuna fish growing up.) I already told you about erwtensoep. OK I’m on record as saying that erwtensoep is the best soup ever—bar none! I don’t care which culture, which era, which grandmother—erwtensoep is simply one of the best things I have ever eaten.

Recently I had another Dutch specialty. I’ve been here for six weeks and have yet to try Dutch apple cake, or Dutch apple pie, or Dutch apple anything. All I can I say is…what in the world took me so long?

Life is good

On Saturday, before I got on the #5 tram to Amstelveen, I decided to have an Irish dessert. When I looked at the menu, I added Dutch apple pie to my Guinness.

Het leven goed is; ja?

Hurray, Hurray

With apologies to the Berenstein Bears, “Hurray, Hurray, Crocus Break begins today!” Crocus Break is week-long vacation! (Hey, call it any silly thing you want; all I know is I'm off for a week!) Um, well…for me it almost began Friday at 3:25:01. I guess it was a sense of relief or I was approaching exhaustion because I was asleep by seven-something Friday evening; at least I think I was.

I had all good intentions when I left school at 3:25:02. I hurried home to drop off my stuff because the plan was to bust a move to Centraal Station in old Amsterdam (btw, I’m the only person who actually calls it “old” Amsterdam. That’s tantamount to saying something like a “tall” basketball player. Amsterdam is old; there aine no “new” part unless you’re countin’ the parts built after 1700. Tough, I like the sound of “old Amsterdam.”)

Centraal Station in Old Amsterdam

OK back to the story…I woke up at 2:00 a.m. I knew I was “up” so to speak; so I watched Sky News and CNN till 4:00. Yeah, OK I also stared at my laptop while the internet provider “worked on the network.” (Who knew such things happen while you should be sleeping? Certainly not me.) No problems though; back to sleep at four and up again at eight. So all things considered, I figure 8:00 a.m. is the official start to my vacation.

Two train rides and thirty minutes later I was in the Centraal Station buying my tickets for next week’s adventure. I’m going to Normandy. Actually when Jesse gets here with Marissa, we are all going to Paris and then Jess and I are going to Normandy together. I’m going now to scope it out.

My lunch spot on Saturday!

My first “official” day of vacation kept getting better and better. A great walk with a stop at the American Book Center ended at a cool little Indonesian restaurant for my lunch. OK so there I am at an Indonesian restaurant in 2012—of all the places I could have picked—and the background music was a fabulous collection of 1980’s American rhythm and blues, soul, and hip-hop classics.

Don't ask me what I had, but I can tell you it was really good!

I knew vacation had started when Rapper’s Delight was followed by Jungle Love—Jerome, bring me my hat!

You never really know who you’re talking to; do you?

When I met the different women on my team at ISA I couldn’t know (but would soon find out) just how different and just how talented they are.

Lisa V, Heidi, Helena, Jay, and Lisa vM

Helena. Helena’s my favorite, but don’t tell the others. I think it’s her very British habit of asking a question at the end of statements. (It’s cool but you have to be British to pull it off. If you’re southern or Canadian, it’s just irritating. Need examples? He’s a good one; isn’t he? That’s the one; don’t you think? It’s British. Just watch House Hunters International; all them Brits do it. I think the government makes 'em do it or something.) Anyway, Helena is my age and you know what they say about misery loving company. Besides that, she has the most difficult assignment on the team. As a teacher of students for whom English is a second language, Helena earns her money. Gotta love ‘em, some of her students have the toughest row to hoe. Take my Kouhei for example; here’s a guy from Japan who spoke his first word of English last August! Thanks to Helena, Kouhei is flourishing!

Heidi. I wonder if Heidi knows how talented she is. Younger than the others, and although Heidi is in her second year at ISA, this is not her second year in education; and it shows. She's energetic. She's bold. She's awesome. Her orchestration of reading and writing workshops is the foundation of her contributions to grade five. What I appreciate though is her candor. Heidi’ll tell you the straight dirt. I like that.

Helena, Heidi, and Lisa V

Lisa V. You never really know who you’re talking to; do you? Did I know when I met Lisa that she is ISA’s resident expert on visible thinking? No, but it didn’t take long to find out. Did you ever meet anyone and think “I should be more like that person”? Lisa’s like that. She is kind and conscientious. She's generous; and she cares. When I speak to Lisa, I know she's listening; really listening. There is something to be said for people who genuinely care. When Lisa checks on me, I just feel better.

With Lisa vM

Lisa vM. The least conspicuous of the bunch is most aptly described as the most apt. The longer I work near this woman, the more I wonder why she’s there at all. I am incredulous that she hasn’t been snatched up by the school’s administration because there is not a job from top to bottom that Lisa vM couldn’t do; and do very well. Organized and forward-thinking is a fabulous combination. Because that most appropriately describes her, Lisa keeps our team surging forward. Thank goodness for Lisa vM.

Global Village Day

U-S-A! U-S-A!

Can I be honest? The first time I heard the phrase “Global Village Day” I didn’t pay much mind. Seriously, what is that? "Global Village" sounds waaay too much like something Hilary Clinton would say, so I shutter instinctively.

Belgian Crazies!

I was wrong. Today was Global Village Day at ISA. OK, no kidding, it was great. GVD was a masterpiece of scheduling, infastructure, and dedication; but let me start with the basics. According to the 2010-11 annual report The International School of Amsterdam is home to students from more than 20 nations. GVD is an annual celebration of those cultures.

Well over 1000 people in attendance!

A festive combination of native customs, dance, dress, food, and legend, GVD is a collaborative effort of school officials, students, and parents. The day started with an assembly of both the upper and lower schools and included students, staff, and community members. For most of the first hour, groups of students and parents performed ethnic songs and dances. It was awesome.

Bonsai!

Each performance had merit, not the least of which was the verve required to stand and deliver in front of more than 1000 people. From kindergardeners to high school seniors they demonstrated the heritage of which they are made. The show started with the eclectic group of performers from Israel. (If the producers of Glee don’t call the girl in the front, it’s their loss.) Dance after dance demonstrated the pride our children and their families possess. The choreographed performance of Japanese students was nothing short of magnificent.

It was nice of the Queen and Prince Phillip to drop by

The dance portion was followed by the parade of nations. From face paint to ethnic costumes, the paraders strutted their heritage in an rousing display. I must say that the crowd reaction to the contingent from the good ole USA was downright heart-warming. I contributed my part, that’s for sure.

Painting in Portugal

The afternoon featured dozens and dozens of classroom presentations. As you might imagine, it was literally impossible to see them all (although the administrators tried their level best). My class was scheduled to visit presentations from Great Britain, Japan, Poland/Ukraine, and Portugal/Brazil. The classroom presentations were all very different, but extremely engaging as well. My boys and girls did everything from “the Olympic games” in Great Britain to “origami sumo wrestling” in Japan. We listened to a national legend in Portugal and played “football” in Poland.

Origami Sumo Wrestling!

When my time at ISA ends, I will not soon forget the Global Village Day.

Sonya

Sonya Willson is cool. At least that’s what I’ve decided. The daughter of Jamaican parents, Sonya is British by birth. She grew up in London—shucks that there makes’er cool; don’t it? She lives with her husband and 15-year old son here in Amsterdam.

With Sonya at school

Sonya works at ISA; actually she works on the fifth grade team as a teacher’s assistant. Two weeks ago, one of my teammates asked me to sign a greeting card for the woman I replaced, and I couldn’t help but notice the illustration on the card.

It didn’t take too long to figure out that the painting of ISA on the front was one of Sonya’s paintings. Last week I asked her about her art. Put it this way…I had no idea.

Last Friday she brought a dozen or more of her paintings to school to show me her work. Like I told you—Sonya’s cool.

Albert Cuypmarkt

I spent last weekend in “De Pijp” (pronounced like what the drunken tourists use to smoke what they can’t buy legally back home.) “The Pipe” is a neighborhood, the neighborhood where Cindy and Ronan live with Chelsea, the energetic husky. It is the neighborhood that Chels and I, het man die spreekt tot honden,” explored on our two-a-day walks. (Hey, Cesar Millan’ll tell you—you gotta bleed some of that dog’s energy out somehow.)

Chelsea

Friday evening we walked to Museumplein, the huge plaza where both the Van Gogh Museum and the Rijksmuseum are located. Chelsea has a nasty habit of being nasty whenever she sees another dog, and there were simply too many dogs out there to suit me. So, Saturday morning we headed in the opposite direction in search of Sarphatipark, which turned out to be a beautiful little park replete with a pond and statuary and plenty of goodies to sniff and explore.

Monument to Dr. Samuel Sarphati, social activist (1813-1866)

On the way home we took (for me) the road less traveled into the surrounding neighborhood. That’s where we found the Albert Cuypmarkt, the largest open-air, street market in Amsterdam. (The locals can still remember back in 2005 when the queen herself shopped among the hundreds of stalls—and ran out of money!)

The Albert Cuypmarkt

The Cuypmarkt stretches for several blocks and features almost anything you can imagine. From clothes to bikes, from shoes to freshly made stroopwafels, the market is the place to be on most mornings.

Fresh-made stroopwafels!

I wasn’t worried about of running out of euros; more like it, I was worried how I would carry home the worthless crap I started collecting. (I shoulda got another bike chain!)

Best two euros I spent all day

To say the very least, the Cuypmarkt was downright cool.