My Quick Take on Amsterdam

Amsterdam was to be our jumping off point. That’s where we’d meet Frank’s stepsister Susie before boarding a ship to Iceland. “We might want to spend a few days in Amsterdam,” Frank said, recalling his long-ago student tour stopover. Booked into a boutique hotel in the center of Amsterdam, I looked forward to four days exploring the city in late June.

Highlights:
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Water! Architecture!
A population of nearly one million lives on and between more than 160 canals, home to houseboats, barges and boatloads of sightseeing tourists. Arcing over these watery roadways, bridges of stone connect cobblestone streets where people live and work. On the narrow street beside our hotel, pots of green shrubs and blooming flowers burst from doorways fronting narrow three-story stone buildings smacked up against each other. Protruding from the highest window on most buildings is a large hook for pulleys to hoist furniture through an open window. “No elevators,” Hellene said, pointing to her third-floor apartment. From her window, she had seen us pausing to take photos and came down to offer to take a photo of us together in front of the nearby canal.

Bicycles everywhere!
​Standing upright, more or less, in the early morning or late evening, scores of bicycles crush together in front of residential buildings. Cycling is how a lot of Dutch people navigate through the city, but pedestrians beware! In front of our hotel, Frank missed by seconds being mowed down by a cyclist. Stepping from a parked car into the bike lane, it behooves one to look both ways, as bike lanes are two-way and bikes have the right of way.
One morning, after breakfast in The Hendrick’s hotel – a delicious open-faced omelette for me – we walked to the famed Red Light District, crossing several canals on the way.
Amsterdam takes pride in being a very open and tolerant city. Leaving Frank to enjoy a late-morning beer under a red umbrella at Ziggy’s outdoor bar, I set out to explore. Behind the cathedral, which dominates the area, I spotted the Cannabis Museum. This sign was in the window: “Staff Needed with a Knowledge of Cannabis.” Almost next door, a red high-heeled shoe hung aloft in front of the Prostitution Information Center. In the window was a picture of a red camera with a black glove across the lens: No Photos or Filming of the Sex Workers and in red letters: RESPECT SEX WORKERS.

In this city of canals and labyrinthian streets, we had a terrible time trying to get Uber or a taxi on a Sunday afternoon. After crossing a couple of canals, we walked into the five-star Grand Hotel where staff generously offered to order a taxi for us. We arrived at the Van Gogh Museum within minutes of our reservation. Susie had secured our museum reservations online before leaving home.
For lovers of Van Gogh, The Van Gogh Museum is a visual and, with earphones, auditory treat. I learned that troubled Van Gogh was prolific for just ten years (1880-1890) before he shot himself in the chest and died. In the Rijksmuseum, we hung out on the second floor, enjoying works by Rembrandt and a couple of Vermeers. Regrettably, the big Vermeer exhibition, which brought together 28 works, the largest-ever assemblage of luminous masterpieces by this 17th century Dutch painter, closed a few weeks before our arrival despite Frank’s email pleading for an extension of the show.

Tulips!
​Arriving too late in the year for tulip season, the only tulips I saw were in pots in front of The Tulip Museum where I learned:
(1) a prized tulip in the 17th century was a feathery red streaked with white. Turns out the white streaks and feathery petals were caused by a virus, which weakens and eventually kills the bulb.
(2) In 1637, speculation and frenzied trade elevated the price of tulips to dizzying heights, driving the cost of a single bulb to equal the cost of a townhouse in Amsterdam. Fortunes and reputations were lost when the tulip market collapsed in 1637.

​One morning after an early breakfast – another open-faced omelet – we walked to Dam Boys Boat Tours (described in Steve Reeve’s guide as a quirky tour). Our boat of six passengers with Max at the helm went under many bridges and passed a variety of houseboats and interesting buildings. Weather, cooler than day before, was perfect for the 90-minute canal tour.

After The Hendrick’s Hotel introduced us to The Hendrick’s gin and tonic, we ordered this drink with every dinner in Amsterdam. We enjoyed a superb dinner at the Fish Bar and another at Hemelse Modder near our hotel. I especially enjoyed the parsley or other veggie mousse with fig preserve and crema, quail stuffed with butternut squash and a chocolate mousse dessert. Our only disappointing meal was rijsttafel (rice table): dozens of shareable dishes ranging from mild to spicy served with rice. Our table was covered with dishes of indistinguishable condiments surrounding larger dishes of curried lamb, beef and chicken. My taste buds longed for what, at home, I call rijsttafel: curried rice served with assorted condiments that include coconut, chopped peanuts, golden raisins and chutney.
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Alongside the canal across from the Anne Frank House is where we stopped for lunch our last day in Amsterdam. Frank had the most delicious ham and melted Swiss cheese sandwich (panini style) and I ordered deep-fried goat cheese (looked like chicken nuggets) with honey.

At the Anne Frank House, where we met Susie, we were invited in 45 minutes ahead of our scheduled 5 p.m. reservation. Frank’s daughter Maggie, who has a special connection with the Anne Frank House, secured the reservation. On the tour we wore audio phones, triggered by numbers posted in each room. Quotations from Anne’s diary, which I purchased (I read it long ago but can’t find it in my library), and her father Otto, were very moving. During the tour of the house, we proceeded up two flights of stairs but not into the attic. The museum was filled with historical context – before, during and after WWII with emphasis on Jews and the persecution they endured beginning in 1932. Anne was born in Frankfurt, which her family left for Amsterdam when she was about 5 years old. To be so very close to where they hid for two years took my breath away – no flushing of the single toilet in daytime because it would have been heard in the warehouse below. No talking, only whispering. Somebody ratted them out mere weeks before allied troops arrived. Of the family taken to prison, only Otto survived. He died in 1979! After reading Anne’s diary, he commented: “I’m convinced that no parent really knows his child.”