Amsterdam, Holland, The Netherlands to Vienna, Austria
I get up and head out. Venkat and I walk to the tram, take the tram to the Metro, and the Metro to the train station. All of this took maybe 10 minutes, so we possibly could have walked, but what’s the fun in that?
Venkat heads to work, and I head to the train station. For some reason, I decided that I’d buy my Amsterdam ticket to save a Eurail slot (I only get 15). So we go to the ticket counter, and the guy asks “26 or under?” “Um, sure,” I respond craftily. He sells me the ticket for $20. I had already purchased a reservation for $10 when I had planned to use the Eurail, but this was still less than the 50 Euro price. Of course, once I got on the train, they checked my passport, and busted me for being over 26, so I had to pay the difference, which was 35 Euros. So I screwed myself out of 10 Euros. And then later that night, as I was leaving Amsterdam, I realized I had to use today as one of my days anyway on my Eurail ticket, so I should have just kept my original Eurail reservation to start out with. So I actually screwed myself out of 50 Euros. All of which leads to the moral of the story: Don’t try to cheat the system. The system is Master. I did not win.
So anyway, I’m on the train to Amsterdam, and I forget what I said to the woman next to me, but I must’ve startled her by speaking, because she jumped about a mile. In doing so, I noticed she was clutching a long strand of dark brown, wooden beads. I wonder if they were religious and I caught her mid-prayer?
Today I’m wearing my “Toro Beso” shirt, featuring a (cartoon) bull kissing a cow. Naturally, I start to overanalyze it. The toro is black (as one might expect) and the cow is black and white spotted (also as one might expect.) However. Kristin, who lives on a milk farm and therefore ought to know about such things, told me that the color represents the type of cow, meaning that there are all-black cows and bulls that are black-and-white spotted, and that generally like sticks with like. In other words, my cow and toro are doin’ the mixed-race thang, which is funny (for me) on many levels.
Sooner or later, the train arrives and I discontinue contemplating the jungle fever of spanish cows. I detrain (or whatever the rail word for “deplane” is) and immediately head off in search of the Monday Morning Market, which I learned about from the lady next to me on the train. (And with whom I did *not* share my cow musings, else she might have strangled me with the prayer beads.)
First, let me give you some background info. Relevant, I swear. If you know nothing about the topography of Amsterdam (much like myself before I showed up on the train) then what you ought to realize is this.
Amsterdam is mostly water.
It is a city lined along the banks of several horseshoe-shaped canals, each nestled inside the other, so that the outermost canal is very long indeed. The train station is in the middle of this Chinese box. The market is on the outermost canal. Luckily, it is possible to weave your way across the canals through a series of (unconnected) bridges.
Amsterdam is also singular because for every person you see, you see at least twenty bikes. There were multi-level parking garages, all of which were packed with bikes. 10-speed type bikes, not motorcycles.
Each traffic light has a car light, a pedestrial light, and a bike light. The bridges are lined with bikes. The lamps and signposts are tethered with bikes. The streets are strewn with bikes. And you’re likely to get taken down when crossing the street if you don’t keep your eye on the bike lane. It’s absolutely crazy, but in a very cool way.
So anyway, where was I? Ah yes, the market. I was directed to the right location by a very nice gentleman sporting dreadlocks and the traditional Amsterdam Scent. He said he was on his way there himself and I would be welcome to follow him. He made it about three blocks before stopping by the canal for a smoke break (yes, a “smoke break”) but by that point, I could see the next bridge and the market across the water, so I went on ahead.
The market was very cool. The first part was ultra flea-market-esque. My mom would’ve really liked it because most of the tents were true flea market material. (In her words, “I want to see other people’s junk, not tables of beanie babies.”)
Toward the other side were tents with food. I don’t know what it was that I ate, but it was a hot, fresh, bread-ish thing, and very tasty. (I didn’t recognize anything in any tent, but as long as it was vegetarian, I was game to try it. Although, with the pastry, they asked me if I preferred hot sauce only, or sweet and sour sauce (???) and they stared at me like I didn’t know good eats when I said, “Um… neither?”
Next, I went to the Anne Frank house. There was a sign posting “No Bags Allowed”, so I couldn’t go in since I was backpacking. I probably wouldn’t have made it in anyway, since the line wrapped down the block, turned the corner, and kept on going. (I’m told this is the usual way of it.)
Next I went by the Westerkirk Church. I am assuming “kirk” means “church”, since I think “kirsche” means chirch in German. But who knows.
Besides lots of signs for Heineken, Amstel, and various herbal cafes (including the “Energy” cafe, which at first seemed to be a bit of an oxymoron, until I learned that in addition to the usual marijuana options, they also served their own brand of energy drink, and for this reason posted a large sign with a can of Red Bull in an red circle with a line through it.)
Anyway, in addition to all this, I noticed that Amsterdam was very gay and lesbian friendly. Many European cities are gay and lesbian friendly, which is nice, but Amsterdam *especially*. There were souvenir kiosks that catered to this demographic, and lots of streets with buildings titled things like “Hotel Rainbow Palace”.
Speaking of palaces, I did see the Palais in Amsterdam as well as the Nieuwe Kirk, and the National Monument, Waag, and Mme Tussauds. I also saw a cop cruise by on a bike. Not a motorcycle, as I mentioned, but your ordinary, pedal-pumping bike. I actually never saw any cops *not* on bikes… none on foot and none in cars.
A public restroom was very difficult to locate, and I ended up banking on KFC on the supposition that all American fast food chains have bathrooms. I was not disappointed. (Where else can teenagers express their angst in magic marker graffiti?) This bathroom cost 50 cents and I had to check my bag before I could go in. Shockingly (although pleasingly) this just might be the nicest and cleanest bathroom of my European experience thus far.
After this little side trip, I wandered around some more, and came across a tall, old church. Only in Amsterdam would the other side of the street contain a coffee shop and a sex shop, side by side, facing the church. (I guess that makes it more convenient. Head into the sex shop, and when you wake up the next morning, stumble next door for some coffee, then across the street to repent your wicked ways.)
Back to the bathrooms. (I apologize for all the toilet talk in this particular post.) Near this church is also where I came across a guy urinating in the street. I couldn’t exactly see him (although I could unfortunately smell him) because he was inside some kind of spiral shaped metal wall. The wall extended from about knee level to shoulder level–covering the necessities, I suppose–and the opening overlapped enough that you wouldn’t accidently glimpse the genitalia of the person inside. From the nonchalant way other people were standing around (and from the smell of the street) I can only assume he really was supposed to be peeing on the sidewalk, and that that is what the metal circle was for.
Another thing I noticed about Amsterdam (I swear this has nothing to do with bodily functions) is that in general, prices are not posted. When cruising past a souvenir stand, if I see a postcard I like, I have to go in and specifically ask. Likewise with the Internet cafe and anything else.
I ducked into a soup kitchen and ordered some soup. They asked if I preferred white or brown bread (brown) and if I wanted butter or pesto (um…pesto?) and then they served up a steamy cup of spinach soup, but not before putting a healthy scoopful of tomato soup in the middle of it. It turned out to be really good, although halfway through the soup I felt my cheeks and forehead heating up (sigh… add pesto to my ever-growing list of food sensitivities.)
So I headed on down the street and decided what I really needed was some coffee. I go into a coffee shop and order a caramel mocha. The guy behind the counter says, “Where are you from?” “Florida,” I answer. He then says, “You don’t look like you’re from the States. Your eyes are like chocolate and your skin is like caramel. I can’t look at you too much or I’ll want to eat you.” I bared my teeth in a smile, said, “We’re all colors there,” and asked, “How much is the coffee?” Two other women came in shortly after, and as soon as his attention was diverted, I escaped.
Amsterdam, I might add, is not as fashion forward as France, for example. I saw many bizarre outfits such as jean miniskirts with moon boots. (Guess they didn’t go out with the 80s here) or knee-high fur boots complete with furball tassels (???) and lots of clunky cowboy boots with otherwise trendy dresses. (Also not having died with the 80s here is the colored mascara. I saw many a woman with bright blue eyelashes. And like in France and Spain, Manic Panic is making a mint–women of all ages sport hair in unnatural shades, especially cherry, magenta, rust, and grape.) I later met someone from Holland who said you can always tell an American because he’s wearing tennis shoes, rather than some flavor of boot.
I know what you’re thinking. You’re asking yourself, “So what do they speak in Holland? Hollandaise?” No, my friend! What they speak is Dutch. And I don’t understand a word of it. The same guy who informed me about the boots also said, “In Amsterdam, we don’t say ‘Cheers’. We say, ‘Cheese’.” Or something like that. I told you I can’t understand Dutch.
I sat on the waist-high stone bank of a sidewalk flower bed for about an hour, trying to will my cell phone to work (no luck, then or ever) and pretending I could feel the sun on my (idiotically) bare legs. Naturally, Florida girl only packed one pair of khakis and loaded the rest of her suitcase with shorts. It’s August! How can people live in a country that’s cold in August???
All that sitting around (and failed mind-control) worked up an appetite. I have no idea what they eat in Amsterdam, so I slipped into an Indian restaurant. (No, I don’t think Amsterdam is in India. I just like the food.)
The waiter came up to me with a huge grin, and I was immediately wary. “Let me guess,” he says, and closes his eyes. “You are from… Florida. And your name… starts with… an E.”
Humph. As if I didn’t know that i’m lugging around a bright blue bag with a name tag the size of Texas. Single women, beware. Amsterdam men live to flirt. And they’re not very clever at it.
Once again, I flash a tolerant smile (which kills him–he’s dying for me to ask how he knows, and I’m not even going to mention it) and I order the vegi biryani.
Every time I bit into a white raisin, it surprised me. It was kind of funny. Mine also had maybe cashews or almonds in it. I’m not sure because I’m not very nutty (no comments please) so I admit I ate around those bits. I know, I know, vegetable biryani clearly indicates that I fell off my “I’ll only eat European food in Europe” high horse. What can I say. It was next door to Tio Pepe’s Mexican Restaurant, but I wasn’t too sure about Mexican food in Holland. This place at least had employees that could conceivably be from India. Plus the meal came with free aloo mater. What more could you ask for?
So that night I take the train to Vienna. The train station bathroom costs 50 cents (here I go again with my bathroom diatribes) and there was a man in it, which confused me. Come to find out, he was manning the station, which at the time I found to be odd. (But, as my travels continued, I realized this was the norm.) This is also where I got yelled at for my shoddy German. “Sprechen sie Englisch?” I asked, wanting to find out what he was doing in the ladies room. “No, I don’t speak English!” he screams at me in rapid-fire German. “If you want to speak English, go to England!” He glares, then adds, “Or America!” as if it’s some horrible insult beyond all imagining. “You are here, and here we speak German! So speak German!” At this point, he stops to catch his breath, red-faced, hands on hips.
“Um, okay,” I answer brilliantly. “Uh… danke.”