The Discovery of Amsterdam
Dear All Easter 1992
Relaxed on the plane with plenty of leg room, the advantage of taking a scheduled flight instead of the cramped conditions of a more habitual charter flight. Anne-Marie’s suggestion that we meet and explore Amsterdam had arrived late leaving me with only this comfortable option.
Since I’m flying not only at a civilised price but also at a civilised hour, I’d planned to have a leisurely lunch at the airport. Alas, just as I was getting on the tube at Turnpike Lane, two stops down the line at Finsbury Park someone was planting a ‘package’, a bomb scare! It was discovered as the train arrived at the preceding station. “EVERYBODY OFF!!”
Roused from my reverie, cursing and swearing, I dragged my suitcase back up to street level and looked for a bus going to King’s Cross, the next major junction with the Piccadilly Line.
A very slow journey later arrived there and discovered, with relief, that the tube was again functioning, with many apologies for the delays etc, etc. A few stations later it was announced that the train wouldn’t go to Heathrow after all! More delay, finally arrived at the airport an hour late.
At the airport salad bar discovered that the anticipated choice had been devoured by the large number of Easter holiday travellers. Just had time to snatch the most exorbitantly expensive lettuce leaves and a bottle of Perrier water to settle my frazzled nerves.
I was welcomed on board the British Airways plane BY NAME! And am now being instructed in airline safety regulations in a language I’ve never heard before. Must be Dutch. I’m on my way to Amsterdam!
Flew like a bird up into the clouds and out into blue sky. Wonderful how it’s always there no matter what changes go on down below on earth.
It was when hunting in vain for a resting place for my chilled stuffed croissant and iced orange juice that I registered the reality of my spacious seating location. I’m sitting in mid-plane highway alongside the EXIT. I’d be trampled if there was an escape bid.
After just over an hour the plane began to nose downwards. Islands off the coast of Holland emerged through the haze, whisps of purple clouds slowly parting to reveal a long strip of yellow. Holland bulging out into the sea, not a rock in sight, guess you could walk the length of the Dutch coastline on a sandy beach
Small shoe box-like settlements began to appear, brown and red rooftops amidst a sea of green surrounded by water. Suddenly it was like being back in Finland, water everywhere but not the wild lakes of the north, here it’s as though delicate fishbones of water are dividing slim bamboo-like books waiting to be read by birds and passing jumbo jets. It’s rather like being back in Indonesia, so many neatly divided fields but no splashes of colour, can’t be tulip fields.
Then suddenly a powerful curve of water slicing inland, A river carrying ships from the coast, maybe towards Amsterdam?
Suddenly we’d arrived at Schipol Airport, a welcome from giant bowls of red tulips.
Nichts an te Geven (Nothing to give us), a quaint way of saying Pass through the Green Door.
Followed the picture signs to a plum and yellow coloured train which was just as crowded as any local London train at 6.00pm. It chugged along past waterways large and small, large birds, cranes, paddling in them, bicycles abandoned in quantity on bridges. ‘Nicht openen voor de train stil staad’ written on a door in Dutch, German and French.
Brown brick blocks of flats of different heights stood alongside quiet canals amidst spring greenery, changing to four lane highways heading for tall cranes peering above factory roofs, docks in the middle of wasteland, balconies, awnings, lace curtains, Amsterdam Central Station.
The area infront of the busy station was littered with buskers and groups of young people watched over by one police car. “It’s the end of the Easter Holidays,” said the taxi driver.
Passed a shop selling brightly painted clogs to fit any foot in any family. “For the tourists,” said my driver, “you only find people wearing clogs in the Provinces now.”
I complimented him on his excellent English since my Dutch is limited to the above-mentioned phrases. He said that most of the programmes on television are bought from England and America and subtitled, hence everyone who watches television speaks English. A useful hint for a Language Teacher.
On this first taxi ride through Amsterdam was aware of a clean, green city with rolling trams and, of course, a great many canals. Altogether very impressive.
Anne-Marie had booked us into a more upmarket hotel than usual, necessitated by the influx of tourists during this Easter holiday period. At the Hotel Park Lane I was welcomed by Ricardo (from Indonesia?) and led to a huge front room with view onto the Park and also,unfortunately, the Lane, terminus of the noisy Number 7 tram. It’s redeeming feature, it chugs directly into the Art Gallery Quarter.
Speaking of Art, above the twin beds is a giant mural depicting an idyllic mural of rural folk. I hope I don’t awaken during the night with pangs of hunger, it could feel like a living nightmare of envy!
At this point I crashed out soothe my fractured nerves from the unexpected change to the tempo of life, and to await the arrival of Anne-Marie, flying in from Paris two hours later.
A while later, revived, explore the channels of our hug TV set. Italian opera with Dutch subtitles, an Italian discussion programme direct, Dutch pop songs, Dutch sit com, Dutch discussion programme, totally incomprehensible, Eurosport – tennis from Monte Carlo in Dutch, an Arts programme in Dutch, a music phone-in programme in English with an English speaking DJ from somewhere in Europe, a Dutch discussion programme, an English sit com, a Dutch Quiz game, BBC2!!, an English Financial programme from Media Europe, a French programme from a stately home – OOOOF!
There’s a lot of throat scratching in Dutch and a certain ii sound which exists not in English but in German, and a surplus of ch and vv…..
Further analysis of the Dutch language was halted by a knock on the door. Ricardo ushering in Anne-Marie looking ‘en forme’ hair shorter, tossed around making her look infinitely younger than last summer.
We pick up where we left off exchanging ‘news’ until eyes begin to close. Slept ‘comme une cloche en repos’. DING, DING, trundle, trundle, alarm clock of the tram below at 7.30.
The Hotel Dutch breakfast equalled a minimal version of a German breakfast. A boiled egg, slice of ham, slice of cheese, toast various, bread, butter, jam, honey served by a ‘typical’ tousle-haired blonde Dutch girl in crumpled back satin dress with shiny black tights. From London?
Took our first ride on the Number 7 tram direct to the Rijksmuseum, ‘800 years of history with the great Dutch masters of painting’. The huge brown building in Renaissance style was impressive alongside a canal lined with equally beautiful buildings, fringed by fresh green leaves emerging from the surrounding trees.
Spent four hours admiring more black satin, intricate lace collars and pearl necklaces on the wealthy women of earlier eras, followed by still lives, half-peeled lemons, oysters and glasses of wine before entering a room of Vermeer’s quiet domestic scenes.
Recognise one as a painting I loved back at school and suddenly remember how the main corridor of the girls’ Penarth Grammar School was lined with colourful paintings, many I now realise were Impressionist paintings.
Still lives, old lives, many Rembrandt’s including his mother, painted in her home in Amsterdam. We hastened through thee History Section, fleeting views of magnificent old sailing ships and details of Dutch colonies in distant lands.
Exhausted we found a pavement café and sat in the sunshine sipping coffee, eating cinnamon flavoured apple tarts with cream, watching the world go by.
Energy regained we strolled towards the Central Station passing dozens and dozens of restaurants squeezed between shops and tall narrow houses reaching high to the sky. The stairs inside from floor to floor must be very steep, one wonders how Dutch old folk manage to climb them.
We were searching for a phone booth since Anne-Marie wanted to contact Frans, a Dutch contact made fleetingly in France a few months earlier. Discovered a community spirit around the phone. If someone had finished their call but the money hadn’t run out they just passed the phone to the next person in the queue. Eventually sorted out the local code and made contact with Frans and followed his instructions to meet at a bus stop just down the road.
Meet a tall, slim, tousled hair casually dressed man with a welcoming smile who invited us to his ‘small’, actually quite spacious for a one half parent family. Frans shares the upbringing of his small daughter with his ex partner. Rents in Amsterdam are much cheaper than in London.
Spent a relaxed evening speaking in French with just occasional digressions into English. Like many Dutch people Frans speaks Dutch, French, English and German. He can work in any of these languages as a psychologist. Just imagine that in England.
We drank coffee and nibbled biscuits but dinner? No sign of it at 7.30 as in France, the Dutch must eat earlier for they finish work and the shops shut at 5.30, surprising to a French person.
Nibbled at fish rolls and drank coca cola when discovered a café decorated in Art Nouveau style en route home. Relaxed into its comfort and caught up on more recent history.
The following day we set off again on Number 7 tram, the now familiar route to the Rijksmuseum. strolled beyond it to the modern Van Gogh Museum, large, light and airy to accommodate the thousands of people who visit annually.
The first galleries gave an overview of his predecessors and then, his many paintings. Rediscovered the famous yellow chair, another version of which I saw in London last week, and his well-known old boots, besides many, many other paIntings so filled with colour, texture and feeling. These were followed by an exhibition of Japanese prints which Van Gogh had so admired. There was an older in-house collection of paintings but we were too tired to appreciate them.
Revived on lettuce leaves we moved on to the Modern Art Gallery close by. A hugely light, wide spacious interior, an unexpected delight giving a creative male view of the world over two centuries, not one creation by a female artist, sculptor in sight.
Relaxed in a busy typical brown bar filled with Dutch tourists and English business men, the latter waving off a passing compatriot to the red light area, with loud comments about premature erections.
We returned confidently to Frans’ bus stop but today, without him as a guide, we became totally confused in the maze of streets. The previous day we’d talked as we walked and registered nothing of the scenery, the street names. We were rescued by a taxi driver and returned to Frans’ home.
We spent the evening in his favourite local pizzeria, ‘self-sharing’ like old friends reliving family pain. On our return to Park Lane, Anne-Marie dug deep into our personal hotel room fridge for a ‘digestif’ of whisky.
Friday already. Distances already seeming shorter as we become familiar with our local streets. Stroll to the Central Station Tourist Office in search of a tour to the famous bulb fields lying beyond Amsterdam. Too late, we opt for a rural tour the following day and head instead to the red lantern district.
Find it just as surprising as described in the guide books. Small streets tucked away just off the main shopping area, lined with small shop windows each filled with one or two women dressed in scanty black or white underwear. They leaned towards the glass flaunting their bodies in the hope of attracting some hungry-for-sex passerby. Some of the women were beautiful, others older and ugly, many Asians amongst them. Business at lunchtime was poor, men were in search of hamburgers only.
Rounded a busy corner out of the red lantern district and found ourselves infront of the oldest church in Amsterdam. Inside found a huge cavernous structure with dozens of tunnels under its grey tiled floor. The central core of the church was filled with self-contained roofed pews each donated by or intended for a bank. There was no obvious sign of an altar. Protestantism in Holland is obviously different from that in England.
Moved on to a small café, where I was captivated by the red check tablecloths and matching lampshades. (Had a sudden flash back to a photograph of myself aged about eight, dressed in a long blue and white check skirt, a blue velvet laced bodice over a puffed sleeve white blouse and white lace mob cap.‘ A Dutch girl dressed for a fancy dress gathering.) We were less captivated by the soup, Knoor packer variety, but were sufficiently rested to walk back to the waterfront. We joined the queues of tourists descending from coaches to climb onto boats for a tour of the canals of Amsterdam.
The boat was comfortable its glass roof permitting view of the old, calm, narrow houses reaching to the sky, each with its allocation of three windows wide, three high plus a small attic with huge hook attached to its wall, a practical device for lifting in the furniture.
Brick cobbled streets lined either side of the canal, a lone cyclist peddled past, a wandering dog leading a sleepy owner, a far cry from the noisy world just a block away. A sudden surprise to find the canal leading into the large, main harbour area with unexpected view of a tall, old, three-masted ship which had once brought back treasures from Dutch colonies in the Far East, alongside the Maritime Museum. A running commentary was given in Dutch, German, French and English by which time the point of interest had long since gone!
The tour over we shakily climbed off the boat and took time to find our land- feet again before strolling in search of the quiet square of the Begijnhof. The Begijins were a religious group of women who lived in these tall, slim adjoining houses around a triangle of green, with trees in blossom over an old church which was given to the English-speaking worshippers of Amsterdam, just a stone’s throw from a clandestine Roman Catholic church. Our knowledge of Dutch history was rather superficial.
We stopped and watched the world go by in a busy square. So many middle-aged male couples in evidence, women less so, except for us of course!
Our feet were becoming frail. A direct route back to our familiar area was impossible due to the necessity at intervals to find a bridge to cross a canal and then rediscover our direction. We finally reached familiar landmarks and the corner cafe of home, smoke-filled but the steak and chips were good although a request for vinegar brought forth salad cream.
Next day we were up at the crack of dawn to hear the sound of cars sloshing past, rain and us taking to the water. Fortunately it had stopped by the time we reached the boat holding two middle-aged Dutch couples, two French Canadian business men, ourselves and very many empty seats. We admired the pink roses on the white paper tablecloths.
Promptly at ten o’clock the boat took off motoring alongside the right hand industrial side of the now familiar harbour when suddenly it stopped, and began to change direction, back to where we’d just come from! Discovered and irate cook/waitress standing on the quayside with a large tureen of soup to feed the passengers.
We took off again in the same direction but soon took a right turn from the harbour into the large Amsel canal. A long peaceful motor ride away from industry and into the countryside. Dutch cows and sheep, not unlike those in England grazed in fields we were passing, finally tulips appeared in some of the gardens but this was definitely not the area of tulip production.
Masses of huge wooden houseboats, like comfortable floating caravans, were anchored along the canal bank, permanent rather than holiday homes. At last, some working windmills, very imposing and majestic as we motored by.
On past pretty cottages and a closed bridge, which had to be opened to let us pass through. The boat ground to a halt. It was the bridge keeper’s lunchtime, a forty-five minutes wait. In the sunshine on top of the boat we chatted to the French Canadians who had come to buy environmental technology from the Dutch.
The bridge opened, we chugged on slowly, moorhens, coots and other unknown birds and their offspring frantically flapping out of our way. Smaller pleasure craft were moving out of our way, this is obviously an important ‘highway’. All details of interest were commented on by our guide in Dutch and English, and then into French by me for Anne-Marie.
We finally reached our destination, Loewen. A pretty village of seventeenth and eighteenth century houses costing thousands of guilders according to our guide, owned by wealthy business men from Amsterdam.
The unexpected highlight was a guided tour of a windmill in the process of conservation. It was a lovely experience though wasn’t too keen on the steep narrow steps which are a feature of old Dutch buildings. It was owned by the equivalent of an old car fanatic at home. He’s hoping to restore it completely in four years with some State help.
During the return trip we alternated between sunshine on the upper deck and refreshments indoors. The soup which had made the journey with us was tasty but being charged twice for the same teabag in two cups of hot water I found a bit much.
Back at our starting point we landed but still felt very much at sea after seven hours afloat. Took the tram straight home in order to recover.
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And there the letter ended.
From memory , I flew back to London the following day to prepare for work.
Anne-Marie’s flight to Paris was two days later, Frans had offered to show her some of the less touristy parts of Amsterdam. She also intended staying with a friend in Paris before taking the train back to Besancon.
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Several days later, Anne-Marie rang,
“Peni, je me marie. Je veux que tu soit ma femme d’honneur!”
“Peni, I’m getting married. I want you to be my maid of honor!”
SHOCK!!
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14 July 1992 Anne-Marie and Frans were married in the Jura in France.
A joyous wedding filled with family and friends, and me as maid of honor.
Monsieur et Madame / Heer en Mevrouw Brouns drove home to Amsterdam.
I took the train back to London.
Our friendship continued.
Welsh, French, Dutch, European.
Love Pen
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Next Week : For those of you interested in Art :
‘ Drawing for the Devoted, Painting for the Petrified’ led by Richard Box.
A week’s course at Missenden Abbey, England.
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