Rue Rude

First-class on the Thalys: Bonjour, hello, goed dag!

Between Amsterdam and Paris, the pleasantest way to travel is on the high-speed Thalys train, even though every time I've been on it, it's been badly delayed, "Hélas!" ["Alas!"] as the loudspeaker announcer always says. Once the air-conditioning was broken on one of the hottest days of the year, and of course the windows don't open. People were panting and pouring water over their heads. And usually, the wifi, which costs €13, works for less than half the trip.

This time someone else was paying, so I got to travel in first class. Aside from the servers coming by to offer you sandwiches and drinks, instead of your having to go to the bar to get them, the best thing about the Thalys first class is that they arrange your taxi. When you arrive at the Gare du Nord, instead of waiting for up to 45 minutes in a long and not always orderly taxi queue (see photo below), you merely waltz over to the Taxi Réservé stand and hand over your slip of paper from the train. Et voilà! Your driver then takes your suitcase and leads you to  your taxi! I had several suitcases,  so it was awfully nice.

This photo, by Hatsa at flickr, was entitled "Longest taxi queue in the world, Gare du Nord"

A paean to Amsterdam

Westerkerk, the Western Church. Anne Frank's hiding house is one block north of here

I love Amsterdam. You're supposed to-- it's one of the easiest cities for us Americans to visit, since it's safe and civilized and everyone speaks English, not to mention the fact that the Dutch tend to be tall, blond, and good-looking. I also have been living in central Amsterdam surrounded by canals-- that's like loving New York when you live on Central Park South, I suppose. Who wouldn't?

I like it because of the silence of the streets in the mornings and evenings. At nine o'clock in the morning the loudest noises are the bicycles whizzing by, the seagulls crying, the wind in the trees, or more likely, the rain in the trees. (I know a young Dutch woman who told me that during her year teaching in India, the things she missed the most were her family, Dutch cheese, and the cold rain.) I like it because the Dutch turn out to be whimsical and sophisticated and fun to be around. I like the tolerance and the good restaurants of so many different cuisines. There is a big Chinatown here, and in spite of all the "Eurabia" headlines back home, many Dutch Muslims seem well assimilated and very Dutch. I love the way the Dutch leave their curtains open at night. I love the way even blue-collar workers who wouldn't necessarily be educated in the U.S., like hairdressers or waiters, are smart and well-traveled.

Most of all I love the books. I'm a booklover, and I've never seen a city with so many books. Every apartment in this part of town seems to be lined with them. The public library is the best I've ever seen (and has a great café on the top floor overlooking the whole city). There are bookstores everywhere. And almost all of them sell English, French and German books right along with the Dutch ones. 

Amsterdam's Public Library

Evenaar, a travel bookstore in my neighborhood

My favorite bookstore in Amsterdam, the Athenaeum

The ABC, American Book Center, is across the street from the Athenaeum and they are both across the street from the weekly book market

I think this is Selexyz, the largest bookstore in Amsterdam

Another wonderful Amsterdam bookstore

Architectura & Natura is sixty years old and one of the largest specialty bookshops in Europe

Bad news and good news

Yesterday was pretty stressful. My family is spread out this summer in five different countries, and yesterday my daughter went missing for seven hours after speaking to another family member from an airport taxi. We were actually dealing with police, who were very concerned. All's well that ends well, and I received the good news that she was all right... seven minutes before the end of the Netherlands-Brazil game. 

I hadn't needed to watch television to know that the Netherlands had scored two goals and Brazil only one. Anyone with ears in Amsterdam could have heard the same thing.

 

"Come in the prostitute cabin!" in Amsterdam Museum

Oranje

Diana Vreeland, legendary editor of Vogue, once famously said that pink was the navy blue of India. (Navy blue is the navy blue of France.)

Well, orange is the navy blue of Holland. Here, orange is a neutral color. At first I thought of it as simply a color for soccer/football fans. But literally everyone who lives here seems to own some item of orange clothing, or at the very least a wearable orange accessory. There are more orange bicycles, trucks, shoes than can be explained by mere coincidence. On Queen's Day, April 30th, the entire city turned orange. I think the orange is really a symbol of Dutch cohesion and nationality more than anything else. Today, the Dutch team qualified for the quarter-finals in World Cup soccer. Just as the first goal was scored, a large open boat floated by my window (I live on one of the picturesque Nine Streets canals). Everyone on the boat was wearing orange, and mostly drinking champagne. They all began to sing, shout and cheer. After the game the cheers and noise went on in the streets until well after midnight. 

Did you know that the orange came originally from a French town? Ah ben oui!

Police, Policiers, and Politie

I lived in New York City for five years when it wasn't as safe as it is now, and had too many police encounters. Once two cops ran up to my fifth-floor walkup, arriving less than three minutes after I called. They stood on either side of my vacationing neighbors' door, held their guns ready at shoulder level, banged on the door and yelled, "Police! Open up!" They were relieved and happy when it turned out that the loud noise I had heard was a high stack of boxes that had fallen over. But I'll never forget the intense look on their faces when they thought they might be confronted by a gunman.

Another time I was walking on upper Broadway, not far from Columbia University, and came across a sting operation on the subway. The cops were arresting turnstile jumpers. The "perps" being frog-marched upstairs into squad cars were all very young black boys from the ghetto, but it was the cops who were a surprise. There was a "young black prostitute," a "homeless old white drunk," a "strung-out black junkie," a "Japanese businessman," a "Yuppie mom," a "foreign student," a "little old lady," a "hot girl," and an amazing variety of the endless parade of human types that is New York City. 

My experience of Paris policemen over the years has been less than overwhelming. They mostly seem to be very young, skinny kids from the provinces. It always makes me laugh to see tourists ask them for directions. The next step is always to watch them puzzle over the map together with the tourists.

The Dutch policemen I've seen since I've been in the Netherlands are mostly tall, fair-haired, good-looking. They ride Segways, bicycles, horses, and rollerblades. They have "polite" in their name. A few days ago I witnessed a mugging and had to go to the police station with the victim. The policemen and -women treated us witnesses with respect, all spoke excellent English, and served us coffee as if we were in a restaurant.

 

Amsterdam has World Cup fever!

The Netherlands is playing Denmark this afternoon. I have painted my fingernails orange to fit in at the pub.

The tilted houses of Amsterdam

Sometimes they have to be held up

The prodigal duckling

We saved a duckling! I was walking down Raadhuisstraat ("City-Hall Street") in central Amsterdam, and A said, "Look!" and pointed down to the sidewalk, where a fistful of down was cowering near some steps. At first I thought it was a squashed bird, but it was just a tiny duckling. I picked it up and it looked like a healthy little bird. It nestled trustingly in my hands, just occasionally sticking out its head to look around. It was so soft and warm.

The canals in Amsterdam mostly have steep sides and you can't get down to the water easily. So we walked over to the Homo-monument (a monument to the Dutch homosexuals killed by the Nazis during World War II) where there were steps over a little bridge, down to a monument at the level of the Keizersgracht canal, and put the duckling into the water. It looked very alone and small in the big, empty canal, and I wondered how it would ever survive. It went and hid under the monument behind us. I feared for its little life.

Just then the cavalry came to the rescue! I heard honking and loud quacking, and six Mallard ducks came sailing under the canal bridge toward me: two males, and a mother duck with three little ducklings. She was the one who was honking, turning her head in all directions as if searching. Without hesitating she came straight for where we were standing, and went under the monument with her ducklings.

 

What a happy ending! When they came out on the other side, she was leading four ducklings.

 

She looked at me as if to say "Thank you" (or maybe "Stay away from my baby!") and then with a flash of her tail she and the ducklings were gone.

 

It was so sweet.

 

The ancient Chinese sage Mencius said that men were born good. He pointed out that anyone who saw a child fall into a well would be alarmed and would try to save the child. Maybe it's that way with ducklings, too.

Survival of vespasiennes

The Vespasians (vespasiennes in French) are old-fashioned public urinals that you still see around Amsterdam. During big public holidays the authorities put up temporary ones all around the central city, sometimes right next to tourist maps! 

There are one or two left in Paris that look like this-- one on boulevard Arago, and last I was there, one at Pont Mirabeau in the 16th arrondissement. 

Here's a funny "list of places of easement" I found while looking up vespasienne. Check out the Seoul headquarters (so to speak) of the World Toilet Association!