Rembrandtplein

Rembrandtplein 

Last week I was introduced to Rembrandtplein, so this weekend I tried it on my own. I found it right where I left it (as if I can remember any of that thanks to my Irish tour guide) conveniently close to Hajenuis, where I often enjoy delicious Cuban see-gars. 

Rembrandt Harmenszoon van Rijn 1606-1669

Rembrandtplein, named for the Dutch master, is a public square (as the name plein implies). Surrounded quite literally by nearly every form of Dutch entertainment, this is one happening place.

Theater Tuschinski

A mere fifty yards eastward is the magnificent Theater Tuschinski. Built in 1921 at a cost of four million guilders, Theater Tuschinski is considered one of the most beautiful cinemas in the world. (Although my plan for the day included a flick, that didn’t happen thanks to some sort of gathering—too many people for me).

St. James’s Gate looked like the perfect site for my afternoon sustenance, and as you might imagine, Guiness was the beverage of choice. (Hey Jess, this one might be on the short list!)

Gypsy

Not many people know this, but there are four breeds of Sennenhund, known as Swiss Mountain dogs. Some people know of or at least have heard of the Bernese Mountain dog (the largest of the four). Fewer are familiar with the Greater Swiss Sennenhund, the Appenzeller, and my favorite, the Entlebucher (pronounced "entley-boo-ker"). Got all that?

Gypsy

I’ve done my homework on these guys and have myself convinced that if (and when) Gwaz blinks, I’ll get to know my very own Entlebucher up close and personal. They are rare in the USA and not real prevelant in Europe where they were first bred in 1889. By 1926 the breed was deemed extinct until the last 26 dogs could be found. Slowly but surely, Entleys are back!

Lo and behold. Although I’ve never met one, I knew what I was seeing the second I laid eyes on Gypsy, who was waiting patiently for her (other) human outside a McDonald’s. Gentle, alert, and gorgeous, Gypsy was one of the prettiest girls I saw all day!

Because He’s British?

(Images from Global Village Day at ISA)

You’d have to be there to really get it, but my kids come from all over the world. It’s cool. No, seriously, it’s really cool. One way or the next their families started in or came from places like Japan, France, Vietnam, India, Belgium, Israel, Ireland, Czech Republic, Germany, Australia, the United States of America, Canada, Pakistan, Great Britain, and of course the Netherlands. At ISA we celebrate what the school calls “internationalism.” I do my best.

Recently when I couldn’t help but notice that Celeste (French, Belgian, Dutch) wasn’t terribly happy with Will (English) I intervened. To break the tension of their disagreement I said, “Celeste, for all time France and England have hated each other. Is this (referring to their argument) because you’re French and he’s British?”

“No, not at all,” Celeste explained. “It’s because he’s British and I’m normal!”

You Think I’d Admit It By Now

Every time; every single time I agree to attend social events, I eventually rethink the decision and don’t want to go. Don’t get me wrong—I want to go when I agree to it, but as the time draws nearer, I change my mind. Then, and again I mean every single time, I wind up enjoying myself. You’d think I’d admit it by now.

Take last Friday for example. I went to the faculty party…and…I enjoyed it; but let me start at the beginning. I think it was two weeks ago I got an email announcing the party. I remember seeing the email, but for reasons that probably have everything to do with agreeing, regretting, and enjoying I kinda ignored it. I remember it; I just didn’t really read it; and I certainly didn’t take note of the date or think I might attend.

The party, as it turned out was held at a bar, which as it turns out was three tram rides and an hour and fifteen minutes from my apartment. (See why I don’t want to go to these things?) In school on Friday, several people asked me if I was going. (People like me; what can I say? Winning personality, young, thin, and handsome—yep, people like me.) I told all of them I wasn’t, until I grew tired of answering the follow-up question—why?

Sonya cuttin' the rug

I considered telling them the real answer: because I don’t enjoy cocktail parties. (Oh don’t get me wrong. I love cocktails; I just don’t like the idea of wandering from conversation to conversation, repeating: yes, the weather is beautiful, and no, I don’t live right in Amsterdam; or worse, searching hopelessly for any cogent thought to verbalize thus avoiding the onset of the insufferable silence that invariably follows the insufferable small-talk made by two people who are simutaneously wondering how they wound up in each other’s company. See why I hate these things?)

As I left the cafeteria on Friday, Sonya, my artist buddy asked me if I was going. Although Sonya might be one of the few people in Holland who would understand the real answer, I avoided the inevitable. “I don’t know,” I told her. Oh crap, that was worse. Why didn’t I just own up to my social intolerance? Why didn’t I just take my medicine? Instead I wound up explaining the whole story starting with ignoring emails. She waited until I finished and said, “You’re going.”

I went. I left home that evening at seven. I took the 51 to the 16 and saw the 10 approaching when I reached Leidseplein. I raced across the plaza and hopped on board. Man I’m getting pretty darn good at this! Um, see what had happened…the 10 goes both directions. Fifteen minutes in the wrong direction prompted me to ask the driver if he knew of Lloyd’s Hotel. “Other way,” he said. (He opened the doors and left me off.)

At the stop, my phone rang and I knew it was Sonya even before I looked. “Yeah, no worries, look for the big tables,” she told me. (My good friend Jim says there are two kinds of people in the world, ones who use street names and ones who use landmarks. Good thing really.) When I asked the driver if he knew where the big tables were, he did! Twenty minutes and a great conversation in the cockpit and I found Sonya waiting at the stop.

Heidi and Kate

One short walk later, I was waist deep in a room full of school teachers. Not so much awkwardness thanks to my new chums. Besides, free booze and techno music is the perfect combination to dissolve regret. You think I’d admit it by now.

Saturday

Springtime! The willows are blooming!

Saturday broke beautifully and during my morning walk with Chelsea, it looked like a perfect day to go exploring. After a stroll through the Albert Cuypmarkt (hey, I was right there; I couldn’t not go; right?) I was off in search of the Noordermarkt. I took the #24 tram to Centraal Station and walked east from there. Amsterdam is easily navigated (no pun intended) as it was created over a long period of time by reclaiming the land through the construction of a series of concentric semi-circular canals. (Think of Amsterdam it as a huge semi-circle; try mentally drawing a line through a clock-face from nine to three. Now disregard the top half. Centraal Station is like being at the center of the straight line. Noordermarkt is near the eight. I was staying at the five.) Suffice it to say, it’s a bit of a hike from one side of the city to the other. It can certainly be done; it just takes a while.

A tiny example of the vegetables available at the Noordermarkt

The Noordermarkt has been a market square since the 1600’s. Nowadays it is home to several different markets specializing in everything from a boerenmarkt (farmer’s market) featuring organic fruit and vegetables (Saturdays), to flea market (Mondays), to birds (in cages, a holdover to the livestock market once on this site)! Although I didn’t see any caged birds, I did notice a unique collection of aging hippies, hippies-in-training, and vendors who seem never to notice the very people who shop at their stalls. I must admit that there was an awesome selection of everything from seafood to produce.

Ev and Jim on Amateur Night

As it turned out, my day was far from over. I walked for about an hour to get back to Ronan’s with a short stop near Leidseplein. (One does need a beverage to strengthen one’s resolve; doesn’t one?) I was looking for the right dinner spot because Jim and Eveline planned to meet me later that evening. Knowing that Saturday was International Amateur’s Night (a.k.a. St. Patrick’s Day) we readied ourselves for the theatre-of-the-absurd we might find. We found it. After a wonderful dinner away from the crowd, we found a bit of solitude at the Cafe Americain, in the Amsterdam American Hotel. Built by the architect, CAA Steineweg who studied his craft in the USA, Amsterdam American Hotel originally featured many icons of Americana (life-sized Indian chiefs and their squaws and a huge eagle at the main entrance.) The hotel was demolished in 1900 but rebuilt to appear very similar to the original.

A delicious Irish coffee in honor of the day!

Can't You Read?

When I had dinner with Ronan last week he convinced me that I should allow Chelsea to run once we were in Sarphatipark. He assured me that off the lead Chelsea becomes a friend to all. Um, yeah...experience taught me that on the leash she is anything but friendly. Unhooking that leash and setting her free was a true leap of faith.

Off the leash, a tale of two dogs!

Um, there was one more thing...see, what had happened...

Sarphatipark is rectangular in design. A long, thin lake divides the park into two sides: one for dogs and one for um, well, let's just say that dogs are supposed to stay on the one side. I wish Chelsea knew that. I cut her loose and she did exactly what Ronan predicted: she'll check out her favorite spots. She'll mark the territory, and she'll do her business. Yeah, see it was the do her business part that was a tiny bit unclear (to me; the dog didn't seem to care about rules regarding where dogs should and shouldn't be.)

It was at about mid-field of the pee-wee soccer game that Chelsea did her business. I did feel a little sorry for the guy walking by who caught the ire of the parents on the sidelines. I don't understand much Dutch, but believe me, I swear I almost understood him as he explained, "That aine my dog!

Like cute kids everywhere, this one gets away with murder!

What did I do? I grabbed a handful of leaves from the wooded section and removed the problem. OK, it was kinda funny (especially when they started yelling at the poor man minding his own business!)

Mauritshuis

Mauritshuis, Den Haag

The Mauritshuis is one of the most visited museums in Holland. Once you visit, you’ll know why. Mauritshuis, built in The Hague on the shore of the Hofvijver (the Court's Pond) between 1636 and 1641, was the home of the Governor of Dutch Brazil, John Maurice (thus Mauritshuis). It became the Royal Cabinet of Painting (and Rarities) in 1822. By 1875 the building, owned by the Dutch government, became a museum solely for paintings. (The museum, but not the building, was privatized in 1995.) Over the years countless visitors (including Vincent Van Gogh) have stood witness to the ever-increasing collection. (The Mauritshuis closes in April 2012 for two years as the building is renovated and enlarged.)

One of only two landscapes painted by Johannes Vermeer, View of Delft (1660-61)

(Called by Van Gogh the greatest example of brushwork he'd ever seen.)

With over 800 paintings, the Mauritshuis is home to many, many works by the Dutch masters including Rembrandt van Rijn, Pieter Paul Reubens, and Johannes Vermeer. For me the main reason to visit (in fact, one of the main reasons to live and work in the Netherlands) is the opportunity to see The Girl with the Pearl Earring. Little is known about the “Mona Lisa of the North.” Painted during the short life of Vermeer (1632-1675), Het Meisje met de Parel is a “tronie”—a 17^th century Dutch description of a “head” not meant to be a portrait, which would indicate that the girl is a composite, not a sitting model (despite the recent fictionalized account by Tracey Chevalier in her novel by the same name).

Het Meisje met de Parel, Johannes Vermeer

It is believed that Vermeer was apprenticed at an early age to Carel Fabritius, although no one is sure. Fabritius's painting of a captive goldfinch was among my personal favorites in the entire collection.

Het Puttertje (The Goldfinch), Carel Fabritius, 1654

Conveniently lending his name and legacy to everything from toothpaste to art supplies, Rembrandt van Rijn (1606-1669) is the greatest of the great Dutch masters. His work is mesmerizing. Looking at any of Rembrandt’s fifty self-portraits is looking into his soul. The paintings seem to stare back.

When my time in Holland is over, I won’t soon forget my day at the Mauritshuis or the girl who lives there.

Payin’ It Forward

I am starting to get used to a particular brand of kindness. I don’t have a name for it because kindness is kindness; right? But through two recent examples, I think you’ll know what I mean.

On Saturday my plan was to travel to The Hague to meet my long-time friend and ex-colleague who lives there. Something happened on the way that reminded me of an experience I had on my trip to Normandy. As I have told you, there is a certain anxiety that comes with an approaching train. Let’s face it, either you have it right or you’re about to make a really big mistake. On my travels back to Holland, I felt that growing fear in the Paris St. Lazare metro station as I tried to remember which train and which stop would get me to the train station I needed for the Thayls train north.

I stood staring at the bulletin board at the top of the escalator trying to convince myself I was at the right place. Standing near me, doing something that appeared quite similar was a very old woman. I asked her what I ask anyone in that situation and she replied, “No,” with an undeniable French accent. I held out my train ticket to show her the words “Paris Nord,” which was the name of the station I needed.

Despite her answer and the fact that she wasn’t kidding about not speaking English she took the ticket from my hand. She slowly opened her purse, rather deliberately really; old people don’t rush when rushing doesn’t help. She put on her spectacles and focused on the words to which I was pointing. She began describing in great detail, I presumed, what I needed to do. When she finally took a breath and looked up at me, it was crystal clear to her that I hadn’t understood a single syllable of what she said.

Sooo, she motioned me toward the escalator which led to the platform. Once there she indicated where I should stand and in which direction the train would proceed (or from which it would arrive; I wasn’t sure.) She then sat down on the nearest bench. I remember thinking how fortunate I had been to ask someone who happened to be going the same way as I; or so it seemed. After a full five minutes, she got up and approached me. She touched my arm and pointed to the track and said, “One-two.” She looked up at me and said, “Comprendez vous?” and she repeated, “One-two. Oui?”

“Oui!” I said, and I did. She was telling me with the only English she could muster that we were at “one” (stop) and should I get off the metro at “two” (the next stop.) She patted my arm the way old people do to make you feel better, walked to the escalator—and was gone. You see my point? She had taken me to the platform, waited as long enough as she could then bid me farewell. I think they call that payin’ it forward.

On Saturday as I entered the train destined for the The Hague I sensed that my second-class ticket meant I was in the wrong car. To no one in particular I said, “Is this second-class?” The man closest to me told me that I was in first-class (it did seem nice). He explained that I could sit on the lower level or in another car. No problem, I thanked him and went downstairs. It seemed just as nice, so should have known, but before I was settled, the same man approached me and said, “I am sorry, but what I told you is wrong. You must look for the green seats” (and pointed to the adjoining car.) He then added, “I was afraid they would give you a fine.” (Believe me, stuff like riding local transports without paying and sitting in first-class when you haven’t paid for it never result in warnings!)

Not so long ago as I got off the tram at my local stop there stood two young people staring intently at their map (as I have done many, many times.) When I got close enough I said, “May I help you?” The fellow looked up and explained that they wanted to go to Amsterdam Centraal Station and he wasn’t sure how they wound up 30 minutes south in Amstelveen City Centrum. I was; but the explanation wasn’t nearly as important as the solution. After a very brief explanation of what they should do, I hung around the platform long enough to watch them board the #5 and be off.

Payin’ it forward.

It Aine Gwaz’s but It'll Do

Gwaz’ll tell you what has proven to be my number one rule for survival: Take care of Jay and let everyone else fend for himself (or something similar). Nowhere does this rule apply more aptly than as it pertains to my daily sustenance. I am on record (repeatedly) as bemoaning the reality that living alone means doing absolutely everything alone, which is code for doing everything for myself.

Two-egg omelet with bacon and young gouda cheese

That includes cooking. A few weeks ago, a colleague asked me what I eat, you know, on a regular basis. I had to think. Breakfast is one thing or another. Either I go muesli, crunchy granola, or I make eggs. Ah yes, the eggs. The eggs here are, um, different. Seriously, the shells are harder and the yolks are richer, creamier. To say the least, I like the eggs. For a few weeks I couldn’t get enough. Actually I still can’t. I’ve moved from fried eggs to omelets. Toss in some spek and some yong belegen, fold it over, flip it, zout en peper and some red pepper flakes, and, yeah, Jay’s pretty happy. (I’d be downright ecstatic if I didn’t have to make it myself.)

Easy, right?

During the week, lunch is easy—George’s. That’s what the folks at ISA call the school cafeteria. George’s (yes, there really is a guy named George) is privatized. In essence, George runs a restaurant at our school. It’s good. Actually, it’s great for me.

Fetticini in curry sauce (the peas were undercooked!)

Then there’re dinners. OK, it's never real fancy, but I’m sayin’ Gwaz might be proud of me. Although I haven’t mastered the grocery store, I do well enough to get what I need. My formula is fairly simple; or should I say, my formula is to make it simply. Besides eating in restaurants which is my preference, I've managed a few things a long the way.

Chicken soup!

Heat n Serve pea soup!

North Sea white fish with beans and potatoes!

Welcome. I Guess That Says It All.

For a guy from Essex by way of little, ole Wake Forest, Amsterdam is a far piece. It’s old. It’s cosmopolitan. It’s diverse (and by diverse I mean you won’t have too much trouble finding the stuff you like.) Amsterdam seems to have it all. So last week when I got it in my head to look for one of my favorite things, I knew the answer was hidden somewhere in town.

Menu photo album--very Asian

Thanks to an eight-week stop over in Phnom Penh and a side-trip to Saigon, this Essex boy is life-long fan of pho. You know what that is? Me either until I asked my tour guide in Vietnam. “Beef nuda suit,” he answered. “May I recommend it to you?” He may. He did. I been hooked ever since.

Deep-fried prawn dumplings

I continue to be thankful I asked. Yes, pho is beef noodle soup, but I prefer pho ga, the chicken noodle version. Once back in NC, Gwaz and I found several pho restaurants; and meals out including pho became a regular thing.

pho ga

I have been without my pho-fix since January (it was one of the last meals Gwaz and I shared before I left.) Yesterday, I changed that. Welcome Vietnamese Restaurant is located at Geldersekade 56, just about a six-minute walk from Centraal Station, where I started my day. After buying four train tickets to and from Paris in anticipation of Jess and Marissa’s visit next month, I set out in search of Welcome.

Hey, it certainly wasn’t Ho Chi Min City pho—it wasn’t even Raleigh, NC pho—but it was darn tasty.