Bikes, Boats, Dijks and Smokes.

So it is the end of my first two weeks in Europe, and so the end of my time in Holland (for the time being at least) and only now, during my flight to Bergen, have I found time to pay proper attention to this blog (somebody with a poorly developed sense of either humour or shame might say that my down time is, ironically, also my up time).  I suppose this gives an impression of how much there is to do here and how busy I’ve been in this city of bikes, boats, dijks and smokes.

My arrival into Schiphol Airport was one of the better choreographed moments of my life, the thud of the landing was met with Edith Piaf reaching the immense final climax of Mon Dieu from my ear phones, and immediately I began scouring the surrounding tarmac and anything else I could see for any minute differences in language, convention, uniform, plant or bird life,  weather conditions, behaviour, colour schemes, cars driving the wrong way… anything that might hint at the fact that I had actually made it out of Australia and into this amazing country which I had previously only heard and read and dreamt about. Annoyingly enough, there was really barely anything to see until I got into the actual airport, and even then I got used to signs saying things like ingang and gestolten with relative snelness.

There are two pieces of advice I can give to anybody experiencing Holland for the first time; 1.  the maps you will be given are utterly useless unless you want to find out which tram you need to catch, and even then its better just to ask a conductor… as the layout of the streets is paralysingly confusing but the tram lines are not, and 2. It is most definitely a good idea to spend your first night on a boat, not because the rooms or service were exceptionally good, or because its conveniently located (quite the opposite on both counts, actually), but because you’re in Amsterdam and on a goddam boat, so there’s not really anything to complain about. As it happened the aptly named Botel (an ingenious coupling of the words boat and hotel) was just across the pier from the Greenpeace boat, Sirius, and in the background were a couple of factory chimneys pouring out a great deal of pollution-y looking smoke. I took a few photos of this sight and immediately hated myself for trying to be poignant.

I would not recommend staying at Bob’s Youth Hostel, which is where I moved to after my stay at the Botel, and which I eventually discovered was right in the middle of the red light district. Red lights and dancing window girls on either side of me. The front door that is only exposed halfway from the outside, the four flights of stairs lined in hot pink painted walls that are narrow and winding enough to produce an optical illusion, the sign at the reception telling you that you can rent used towels and bed sheets for 10 euros, and the fact that one day I came back to find two small zip-lock bags, one filled with weed, the other containing a drop of some dark red liquid which I’m assuming was blood, resting on my bed. I immediately suspected that somebody had planted them there to frame me for possession, until I realized that none of it was actually illegal, which was just confusing. I mostly didn’t speak to any of my roommates, as I was out during the day and asleep during the night, and they were out during the night and asleep during the day time. I tried to stay there for the duration of my time in Amsterdam but I just couldn’t, so I moved to a hotel two doors down (once you get used to the red light district it’s not easy to leave).

See what I mean about the staircase?

This town is rather like a version of Melbourne designed with a great deal more imagination. The buildings with their absurdly high gables and treacherously narrow and winding staircases which twist and writhe around the buildings’ innards like overgrown worms, their exteriors sloping outwards onto the street as though their architect had drawn his plans in a half popped pop-out book. Occasionally poking their heads above the mostly triangular canopy are the lavishly, exquisitely, decadently designed cathedrals and palaces and museums, and in the undergrowth lie windows lighted either red or green, denoting either brothels or coffee shops (incidentally, I find it really pleasing that in this province the phrase ‘coffee shop’ is a euphemism for something quite… else). Even the language sounds as though it has come from the mind of a child who, in a fit of silliness, invents his own version of the English, shifting and altering the vowel sounds and changing ‘c’s into ‘k’s and other such things to create a sort of vaguely familiar gobbledygook, occasionally choosing to throw in the occasional subtly placed swear word, like kunt, or sluit (pronounced without the ‘i’). Being here makes me feel as though I’m in a Leuning cartoon, where all the buildings and people are essentially the same save for a little curly apex, which makes them just that bit more interesting.

"Remember who you are", a philosophical statement
or just a useful piece of advice for confused stoners?

It’s hard to know how far the reaches of human decency extend, even in a place as liberal and debauched as Amsterdam. It may be that the locals accept the culture of sexual deviance and use of drugs soft to hardcore that this city is so renowned for as a normal aspect of life, or that these are just aspects of Amsterdamnative culture that are really only fuelled by exploitative tourists. Is the distrust of indulgence and pleasurable excess which we enjoy in Australia ingrained even in the citizens of a country where such indulgence is legal? There isn’t a lot in the city’s history that lends itself specifically towards a particularly liberal and permissive cultural mindset, the fact that Calvinism was such a strong force in Amsterdam would suggest a much more conservative society. But, it was also a major centre of Catholicism, which might explain the prostitutes. I did speak to one local about the general opinion of drug users (he happened to be a user himself), and what I got was the same moderate, unremarkable response I’ve come to expect from the average Australian; ‘most things are fine in moderation, and therefore it’s better not to forbid too much, as suppression only increases temptation.’ Fair enough, I suppose. But I was hoping for some more remarkable insight, given his close relation to the subject. I suppose I shouldn’t have implied that I wanted such an honest answer.

I am yet to get write about the most impressive part of being in this city, the museums. Amsterdam contains more museums than any other city in the world, from torture to tulips, Van Gough to Vermeer, bibles to bags and purses. Too many to see all that I wanted to, so in the end I visited the Van Gough Museum, the Diamond Museum, the Museum of Torture, the Nieuwe Kerk, the Rembrandtshuis, the Amsterdam Historical Museum and, of course, the Rijksmuseum.

I, with Erinn, began with the Rembrandtshuis Museum which I had pretty mixed feelings for. There were some really remarkable works of art, some by Rembrandt and lots by his students and those artists whose work he dealt, but it felt like the main point of the museum was not to be impressed by the art but to be impressed by the fact that you were in Rembrandt’s house… which, I have to admit, actually was pretty impressive. There were no captions relating to the works so instead we were given audio tours which were presented in adorably cheesy American accents, that kind of monumentous presentation style that you hear at events like the Olympic games or the finals of American Idol. As much as I don’t want to buy in to the stereotypical view of American tourists and Americanised tourism, keeping an unprejudiced opinion was pretty difficult when I overheard one lady of the States asking a guide if this is where they kept the Mona Lisa… she was surprised to learn that arguably the most famous work of all time was not painted by Rembrandt and was therefore not kept in his old house. I had to supress the urge to grind sandpaper into her face (which, as I mentioned earlier, only increased the temptation). The two most notable rooms in the house were his studio, which was filled to the brim with lavishly coloured taxidermed tropical birds, hands and feet and heads from enormous stone statues, spices and grasses and flowers from exotic destinations, sea shells, armadillo shells, turtle and tortoise shells… an enormous and enormously diverse collection of the most interesting trinkets one could ever hope to acquire. In the room next door to the studio was hung one of the three last works of the great Caravaggio, an image of a young John the Baptist. In the words of Van Gough speaking about Rembrandt’s ‘Isaac and Rebecca’, I could have stayed looking at it for days with only a crust of bread to eat. Caravaggio’s work has a greater effect on me than just about any other artist of any genre in any field, the sober, sinister darkness, his baffling synthesis of the poetically simple and the infinitely complex in both subject matter and execution, the perfect placement and arrangement of every single detail, and his delicate handling of the pious, the profound and the profane. I could have just burst, standing in front of it. I could have exploded everywhere onto it so I could then subsume myself in the canvass and become part of the master work (alright that might be a slight exaggeration, but I thought it was pretty great)

John the Baptist Reclining, Caravaggio

In logical progression from Caravaggio and Rembrandt the next stop was the Van Gough museum. Erinn and I assumed that the best way to go about getting there was via a canal cruise… a poor choice, given that it took probably twice as long that way than if we’d taken a tram, giving us only two or three hours at the museum, which was really not enough time to get through the three floors of mouth-wateringly, mind-numbingly, loin-frothingly beautiful works by not only Van Gough, but also his influences, followers and contemporaries… Cezanne, Manet, Toulouse-Lautrec… Monet… Pissarro… gahhh! Though I try I really can’t think how to adequately describe the contents of that glorious building, but for the fact that I was literally pushed out of the last room by a security guard when it came to closing time. I do have to make sure I go back there, as next month they are exhibiting the works of Picasso. Van Gough seems like the most remarkable type of person, completely consumed with love for nature, beauty, truth, art and the world as a whole, and obsessed by his need to express and share his love for these things. It’s such a dreadful tragedy that this almost messianic dedication to beauty and goodness resulted in poverty, his being despised by art lovers and critics, and his eventual madness and suicide. Recognising the extent of his greatness and influence really is a testimony to the intelligence of the modern age. The sun was setting as we left the museum and on our way back we decided that it was the perfect time to try out the ice skating rink that we had passed on our way there, which was a lot of fun. The sky line actually does look better when you’re viewing it while gliding along on a pair of skates, though it was slightly embarrassing to be fumbling by at less than half the speed of children half your age who zoom past you. It is not an experience that will leave me soon, as the results of it can be seen in the pair of pants I ripped straight down the middle from belt line to fly and the bruises on my hips.

Once Erinn had selfishly abandoned me to be back home in the warmth of Australia I filled the lonely void she had left in my heart and schedule with a visit to the Nieuwe Kerk, which was exhibiting a huge collection of Islamic art and artefacts. There was some really exquisite and beautiful work in there, ranging from Qur’anic illustrations to extremely old and surprisingly well preserved pottery from every corner of the Islamic world, gratuitously decorated weaponry, clothing, armour, tools, and a room dedicated entirely to examples of calligraphy. The meticulous detail and precision in most of the works was just staggering, and I don’t think the Moghul Empire could possibly have created designs that were any more detailed and spectacular. It was slightly frustrating, though that there was barely any insight to the works in their captions, but seeing them was really almost more than I could take in anyway.

The Rijksmuseum did not disappoint either, though entering it was a slightly daunting experience, given the size of it and the greatness and importance of its contents, it almost felt like looking into the sun. The first few rooms guided you through the history and growth of Amsterdam in its golden age (around the 17^th century) and was filled with beautiful examples of furniture, pottery and earthenware, weaponry and paintings chronicling this period (I won’t go into the details of this as if you, reader, are genuinely interested you should probably look it up yourself). Upstairs was filled entirely with paintings and sculptures by some of the worlds- and all of The Netherlands’- greatest artists. I was obviously excited about seeing the famous paintings by Vermeer and Rembrandt and Hals and the really famous masters like those, but part of me really didn’t want their works to be my favourites, I wanted to find some more obscure artist whose work I hadn’t seen before and with whom I could fall in love. But the fact is that those artists are the masters of Dutch art for a very good reason, their work is fantastically and indisputably genius. I know that art is subjective and the merit of anything that we call art should be able to be disputed, but I defy anybody with working eyes and soul to not be entranced by Vermeer’s ‘Milk Maid’, or Rembrandts ‘Isaac and Rebecca’. Thankfully there was a special exhibition of the works of Gabriel Metsu, an artist of, in my opinion, approximately equal greatness but whose work I had never seen before. For anybody else reading this I strongly suggest researching his work, because he is so amazingly good at capturing expression, subtlety and humour. At the gift shop I bought a small copy of his ‘Man Writing a Letter’ to hang on my wall at home, and also made it my profile picture on facebook.

Man Writing a Letter, Gabriel Metsu

I realise how much I have written about museums, which is not at all an ideal subject to write about and an even worse one to read, so I won’t say much about the Amsterdam Historical Museum, the Torture Museum or the Diamond Museum. Only that the Historical Museum was comprised largely of Dutch men’s fashion, which was generally very interesting but occasionally repulsive, the diamond museum was rather like reading from a text book but with spectacular and very life-like illustrations, and the torture museum was not worth the 8 euros I paid for it… all it contained was some rather dull reproductions of torture instruments and captions that really weren’t worth putting up, I felt disgustingly touristy being there.  Being a tourist in Amsterdam is a bit like being an impertinent child who wants to be treated like an adult. You want all the freedom and respect that comes from being an adult but at the same time you want the comfort of being taken care of and entertained by those who know better.

I’ve only been in Amsterdam for about two weeks but as I got on the plane to Bergen I realised that I’m actually really going to miss it. I felt comfortable being in Amsterdam and enjoyed just about every moment of it. I almost hope that I don’t find a city I like better, because if I do I think I’ll probably die. I’ll just melt into a sticky mess of adoration and gratitude on the airport floor as I’m about to leave.