Weekend 37: Queen's Day, The Fun Makers

Street DJs: Music was down every street and around every corner with temporary stages and set ups.

Eggs Throw: A game where contestants pay money to throw eggs at the faces of others. I did not play, but almost got hit taking this photo. 

Hula Hooping: These kids in Vondelpark are way better than I am at hula hooping. See End of Week 23: Goals of an Overachiever for further explanation.

End of Week 37: Night Ride Begins

Late, I’m already an hour late. Even with this acknowledgment my pace remained placid, unruffled by my mistaken sense of the hour and time still needed to travel to the celebrations. They started too early anyways. Arriving late to an event that started too early, I thought before grabbing my oversized tassel keychain, in a distorted sense, will result in an on time appearance. Somewhere on the right side of my brain this knotted up in a satisfying bow of resolution, so I clattered down the stairs, passing other apartment doors with residents who for certain could hear my rush out onto the street. While unlocking my bike, the advice of a colleague still sat in my left ear, the one that happened to face the required direction to receive those wise words, as I shuffled through my purse, checking to make sure my oversized tassel keychain was restored to its rightful compartment before departing.

“Don’t make the same mistake that I made.”

We all make these, mistakes, some we share and others we withhold either in fear of embarrassment or swayed feelings that others too should experience this stubble of circumstance. My complete greenness to the upcoming events, Queen’s Night to then Queen’s Day, invited the enthusiasts to submit their brief sound bite from their one, or was it two, Queen’s Days, as the seasoned, anyone with five plus Queen’s Days, shrugged with shrouded apathy toward the entire hullabaloo – some even old enough to still use that word in their everyday vernacular. Every email or spoken token I took to heart as my last crowded celebration, New Year’s Eve in Museumplein, started with a pick pocketed IPhone and visit to the seemingly unoccupied police station; my stolen IPhone was probably the least of their concerns that night. I kept complete attention this time around, enacting almost a little too much caution as a result of my previous fumble…

The black luggage lock clicked on contact, locking my purse shut by holding together the two interlinked hardware pieces, this little security device an addition that remained inconspicuously on the chain of my purse for such events. Leading my bike around to head in the right direction, or should I say my right direction, not a second thought passed over how a different route would actually be the most efficient option. Google Maps recommended taking the roads past Museumplein, along the Singelgracht, to then cut over on Rozengracht, a path that would not only be quicker, but also smoother with designated biking lanes under blooming trees, absent of pedestrians or impatient cars. My right direction however, up Ferdinand Bolstraat and then Vijzelgracht with a final left turn onto the Prinsengracht, resulted in a fifteen-minute bumpy ride down narrow roads along the canal, cobblestones lined up like crooked teeth that chattered city bike barley held together by rusty frames. A jostle with cars and taxis, especially on Queen’s Night, inevitability lingered.

Mid-Week Moment 37: Usually Reliable Tracks

Amsterdam Centraal: Workers lay down new tracks at the main station. A usually dependable, and safe, form of transportation, even in light of last week's events.

End of Week 36: Taller is Better

Many riddle the supreme height of the Dutch. Economists, anthropologists, and historians manufacture theories around years of collected data analyzed with first-rate methods to answer the question that every country with a volleyball or basketball team secretly entertains. The question that beats even stronger as the most celebrated, and consequently most crowded, day for the Netherlands quickly approaches, one that will surely be colored with swimming crowds and endless orange, supposedly. Supposedly speaking, as I cannot talk from experience. This will be my first Queens Day.

The Dutch did not always hold their height distinction. Centuries ago they stood shorter than their continental brethren, whom were even surpassed by the newly formed and free United States of America with its open land and breadth of possibilities. A status that sustained over the 18^th and early 19^th century to only plateau after World War II, allowing for other populations to catch up and surpass the young, yet sizable, democracy. With an impressive growth spurt around this time, the Dutch propelled to, excuse the pun that so easily slipped in, new heights with an average of 6 foot, 0.4 inches (1.84 meters) for men and 5 foot, 7.2 inches (1.71 meters) for women, a solid 2.0 to 3.5 inches (5.1 – 8.9 centimeters) over the current American averages. If it’s something in the food I should be ordering more bitterballen.

Consequently, a high calcium and protein diet composed of cheese, yogurt, cheese, milk, and simple meats does account for part of the Dutch's progress. Proper nutritional selections habitually consumed over a lifetime are especially impactful during the key ages in human growth: infancy, age six through eight, and adolescence. Supplementing an individual’s usually beneficial choices in food, the universal Dutch health care system provides the needed services to care for its sprouting population. Regardless of sex, age, or current health conditions, an individual can purchase a basic, and obligatory, package that allows for equal access to resources, and the cost can even be subsidize if needed. With this, every part of the social and economic scale can participate in programs offering advice for prenatal and newborn care, the most significant stage of human development, which can in turn affect the health of an overall population.

Since the establishment of a liberal democracy in the mid-18^th century, the wealth distribution in the Netherlands evened out and continued to be maintained through programs such as the tiered income tax structure, low-rent housing, and already discussed universal health care system. Equality, a stronghold in both Dutch and American Calvinistic values, executed differently over time in each cultural and political arena. The gap between the rich and poor in America increased, while in the Netherlands, the distribution of wealth allowed for most to maintain a healthy lifestyle with adequate food, care, and even living conditions, thus allowing for the height average to remain stable over the entire population, not decrease by a particular group.

Of course the population size of each country in question should be recognized: America ranks third in the world, while the Netherlands comes in at sixty-one. At the time before America’s decline in height, the population was more manageable, land more open. Crowded living conditions, especially in urban areas, contribute to the spread of disease and limited access to proper food or healthcare, and as space and time shorten, quicker options for meals gain attraction. In America diets are affected by this trend, where the need nutrient is replaced by fast food options, especially during infancy and adolescence. Those tater tots, French bread pizzas, and taco salads in school cafeterias, paired with the McDonalds down the street, only increased waistlines, not height. And yes, the debate rages on in America surrounding universal health care while many in America, including millions of children and soon-to-be mothers, are without coverage. The summation of these factors stunts America’s overall height, and more importantly, general health.

Before I continue painting my home country as a wasteland and the Netherlands as a sunny field of tulips, let’s consider my theory behind the Dutch’s supreme height. Since 1885, the Dutch have been celebrating Queen’s Day, or Koninginnendag, to recognize the birthday of their queen, which first commenced as Princess’s Day, or Prinsessedag, for Princess Wilhelmina. As she took the throne, it continued as Queen’s Day for her and her successors, Queen Juliana and the current queen, Queen Beatrix. The enthusiastic and patriotic jubilee year after year on April 30^th, in actuality the birthday of Queen Juliana, creates a scene in Amsterdam that transcends explanation, where the city is so thick with people that it takes almost an hour to cross one block. Height at an event like this works for anyone’s advantage, especially when trying to find friends amongst a crowd wearing the same color, or avoiding trash and smells below. Crowded party conditions, in addition to open living conditions, increased the need for height in the Netherlands. Clearly it’s a survival thing.

Whatever the reason may be behind the Dutch’s towering stature, it does have its benefits in life, love, health, and partying. As Queen’s Day lingers on the horizon, all I honestly wonder is if I will survive, and if so, whether a couple centimeters will be gained in the process. Centimeters acquired from stretching to see above the shoulders of others or standing on my tiptoes to wave over a friend. 5 foot, 1 inch (1.55 meters) now, 5 foot, 4 inches (1.64 meters) after? I only hope so.

Weekend 36: A Look Back at the Old and New of Brussels

Stefantiek: This antique store in Brussels has piles of everything imaginable, from signs to kayaks, creating interesting still lives in dimly lit rooms.

L'Atelier en Ville: A home furnishing store for the design conscious on Rue Haute with a cafe included adding to the modern, yet warm environment. 

Outdoor Markets: In a number of squares through Brussels, vendors set up with tables and grounds full of some gems, but lots of items without value.

End of Week 35: Albert Heijn Versus Shaws

(Continued from End of Week 35: Shaws Versus Albert Heijn)

Scene: 7:30 pm Sunday, Amsterdam, Netherlands

Okay, I had a half an hour before the Albert Heijn, the chain grocery store down the street, closed. The list in my notebook actually referenced this time, knowing that priority had a place in the twenty minutes remaining before queuing with the other last minute shoppers. Ten minutes allocated for getting everything scanned and paid for before the deadline, as when 8 pm hit, there was no compromise. Though never witnessing this first-hand, stories from colleagues described groceries on the check out conveyor belt denied after closing time, shoppers leaving with Euros instead of conveniences, clerks unapologetic as their schedule dictated the action.

Already three times that week I walked through the tight aisles of the Albert Heijn. Consciously making room for others to pass, I held my grocery basket in front of me as an aisle barely allowed for two lines of foot traffic. Restocking hours made this shuffle even more difficult, resembling the tedious driving required through streets reduced to one lane from two as a result of construction. Shoppers from the opposite direction passed by as we waited behind crates of ready-to-be-shelved cereal boxes, looking for an opportunistic let up in the flow to then take our deserved turn. Politeness only existed in a particular shade, where everyone’s idea of helping others was to get their shopping done quickly as to reduce the number of people in the store. Helpful I guess, only until ten minutes remained until closing, and that every-shopper-for-themselves mentality heightened. Something that could affect the end of this shopping trip story, however in this instance, it all ended well; I left with the Albert Heijn with the groceries that I could carry, and headed home.

Only so many things could fit into my heavy canvas bags, and only so much weight tolerated over the three blocks and up the three flights of stairs. My trips to the grocery store more frequent without the use of a car, and in smaller loads, not only in anticipation of the trek home, but the limited space awaiting in my Amsterdam refrigerator. More than enough space for this single citizen, but probably a different story if the same was allocated to a household of three, plus a cat. Luckily, garbage operations recognized the constricted quarters, and finite space, of Amsterdam living, where instead of one trash day per week as in the States, two allowed for apartment’s to discard their goods more frequently. A small, but respectfully noted, variance indoctrinated in this particular grocery shopping experience that included more trips to the Albert Heijn in a week than in a month to Shaws in Somerville, Massachusetts.

Though I found a strange satisfaction in early, early morning shopping at Shaws, like arriving first to a café on a lazy Sunday morning with seventy potential pages to read and all the options of seating available, it is something that can be done without. Hours of grocery stores forced habits to change, and carless months actually allowed for, in a way, more freedom. After 8 pm on a Sunday evening, so many things could be done or enjoyed, however grocery shopping at the Albert Heijn, fortunately, was not one of them.

Mid-Week Moment 36: That's It?

Manneken Pis: This statue is a tourist destination and pride of Brussels. Though I was underwhelmed, others were excited enough to take photos.

End of Week 35: Shaws Versus Albert Heijn

Scene: 2am Sunday, Somerville, MA, USA

In the time the escalator crawled from the train platform somewhere below the earth’s crust to surface in Porter Square, my grocery list actualized. Honestly, questions still arise around why this list needed to be revisited week after week as the same items lined up, only in differing qualities: two hummus containers this week instead of one, three apples as opposed to one apple and two bananas, or honey wheat bread over the bleached white variety. A healthier week it seemed. After completing this exercise, I shoved my notebook back into my jacket pocket, never to be looked at again, even when standing amid the fruit aisles wondering how many apples I intended to buy. When in the store, grocery shopping operated on instinct. Done, three apples.

At 2am in the morning, the escalator appeared to take longer and the light more acutely reflected off of the white tiles in the grocery store as my eyes adjusted from a night in dimly lit environments, slackened thoughts. The Shaws in Porter Square remained open twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, outstretched hours allowing for grocery store runs at even these uncustomary times. Passing by another early, early morning shopper, I eyed them with the same suspicions they probably harbored: what are you doing grocery shopping at this hour? Surveying the picked through bread offerings in the left corner of the store, a hooded twenty-something-year-old; examining the expiration dates around the cups of peach yogurt, someone I did not get a good look at, so cannot describe; buying the bags of kitty litter for her herd of cats in aisle eleven, a native Somervillian; and sneezing in front of the wall of tissue boxes, an alone, forty-year old man. All traipsing around a hollow store, thinly staffed with only two blue, collar shirt donned employees, one a manager I suspected.

We all bought the same items as any day shopper, and considered the same 2-for-1 deals as we slowly rolled through wide-open aisle with our carts, calculating whether or not another milk would be used throughout the week. Taking our time as if in an apocalyptic world where only we remained and could do anything during anytime of the day, like grocery shopping at 2am before sleeping in until noon, we nonchalantly picked out our conveniences. However, honestly, if the world depended on this sampling of stereotypical Somervillians – the local, the college youth, the alien, and the alone - the human race might have a slight problem.

With two brown paper bags filled with the items I would need for the next week and a half, I walked to my car, strategically parked near Shaws as the night’s relaxed activities allowed for an additional stop at the grocery store on the way home. 

Weekend 35: A Little Bit of Fun in Brussels

Comic Cut Outs: Whimsical illustrations, both officially and individually installed, were visible in Brussels. Most people just walk on passed this homemade one.

Comics Outside: Murals of comic strips commemorating the historical craft of Belgium included Tintin and other beloved characters. 

Belgium Comic Strip Center: Kids, and youthful adults, admired the comics in the extensive museum and library.

End of Week 34: On the Way, Le Grand Sablon

(Continued from End of Week 34: On the Way, Roosendaal)

Roosendaal, I could say with confidence, allowed inhabitants to enjoy a four-day weekend for Easter with a day off for Good Friday and Easter Monday, essentially the sequel to Easter Sunday.  A majority of shops either posted limited hours or closed completely over one or all of those days. Time permitted to enjoy festivities, family, or even catch up on housework put off until the weekend, as I usually do as well. Would Roosendaal be more like Amsterdam or Brussels, however, with regard to bikes? As we walked toward Le Grand Sablon, not a single two-wheeler to avoid or bike lane to cautiously cross. My legs, as my nose, noticed the difference from the usual terrain of Amsterdam, tensing from climbing ascending streets. And then we reached Le Grand Sablon.

With such a name, and enthusiastic recommendation from a friend to visit this particular area, expectations leveled with Dam Square in Amsterdam. Le Grand Sablon, once an area that housed festivities and competitions, a place where history could assure recognition in this popular neighborhood, now resembled a suburban parking lot mistakenly located by a historic landmark. Overlooking the square, the church of Notre Dame sat at a far end, becoming one of the only buildings visible over the roofs of cars as we kept ascending the Brussels terrain.  We looked at each other with disappointment, “it would be better without all of these cars” my Blackberry carrying companion remarked as we decided to weave up through the middle of the parked cars to then veer to the left as I spotted my hotel.

Unlike Amsterdam, which, if it could, would eradicate the use of cars in the city center and similarly makes it nearly impossible to obtain a parking permit in that area, Brussels accepted the increased use of the car. Roads swelled in width while areas such as Le Grand Sablon filled its open space with parking. As I surveyed the square, wondering how a car would even escape this urban sand trap, a small Fiat nearly ran us over as it rounded a corner created by a standing car and nearby sidewalk. With restaurants spilling onto sidewalks and pedestrians temporarily walking on streets to avoid picture happy tourists, the delineation between a walkway and roadway blurred in an area forced to put a square block through a round hole: I learned at age seven that does not work no matter how many different ways I tried.

Even with these distractions and obstacles, it was not hard to find my hotel to drop off my turtle shell of a backpack, stuffed with two potential shirts and a pair of jeans for the next day. With a hotel map in hand, and phone still switched off, we headed toward somewhere without cars, Brussels Park, or Parc de Bruxelles, or Warandepark, before taking to the streets in search of waffles, beer, comics, art deco decor, cathedrals, and everything that makes Brussels, or Bruxelles, two times the fun, and in two different languages, than my projected vision of Roosendaal. A city, or town, only noted by most travelers such as myself as the last stop in the Netherlands on the way to this delightful Belgium capital.

Mid-Week Moment 35: Up the Stairs

Clear Day: A clear Friday and overcast Saturday in Brussels. Could not ask for more in unpredictable Spring. 

End of Week 34: On the Way, Roosendaal

The sign came into view as the train approached the platform. Roosendaal. The last city, or could even be a town, in the Netherlands on the way to Brussels. Its only importance for this traveler: my phone should be off. Of course, somewhere in iPhone Setting, under Network, buttons could be slid to “off” to prevent international charges, however, sometimes killing the entire entity eases the mind. For two days, texts, calls, or the use of Google maps to see that my destination really did lie around the corner could be forfeited for a hotel city map and chasing free wireless to check email. Even after a day without looking in Gmail, did I feel cut off from peers and website notifications as if Brussels stood in the middle of the Sahara, which it does not. Though an American, a population typically accused of poor familiarity with geography outside our part of the continent, I do know that Roosendaal sits near the southern edge of the Netherlands and that a rock thrown to Brussels from that city, or town, should be directed due south, over the Netherlands-Belgium border, past Antwerp, and into a territory where that rock should consider taking dual names upon landing, une pierre and de steen.

Did anyone get off at Roosendaal that day? The platform, empty, and like it approached, easily slid by until its abrupt end, freeing the train as a dog just let off its leash into the expanse of a sun-speckled park, released to traverse dangerous Benelux-ruled grounds until reaching, like the rock, a city with two names. Brussels, or Bruxelles, officially takes French and Flemish as its two languages. The latter a Dutch dialect written just as it would be in the Netherlands but spoken with different emphases and heavily influenced by French; laced with words not used in, or committed with altered meanings than, Netherlands Dutch.  Bumbling my way through a degraded high school level of French, or leaning on my English crutch, served as a better form of communication than looking completely confused by a Flemish response after my basic Netherlands Dutch question.

One dialect at a time.

For all I know, Roosendaal could look like Brussels. A roundabout right outside of the central train station in Brussels presented probably the worst form of a directional indicator as we interpreted our location on a Blackberry to plot our path toward Le Grand Sablon. Off of a main road and down the stairs, the foul smells surprised noses accustomed to the cleanliness of Amsterdam maintained by hydro powered cleaners, frequent trash pickups, and workmen sweeping with brooms from medieval witch illustrations, a bundle of, what it looked like, sticks. The rubbish and smells of a bacchanal night possessed by both locals and tourist erased by the morning, and not by just throwing it all into the canals with the other discarded items from the past four to five centuries. Mainly bikes rest at canal’s mud bottoms, probably thousands of them.

The stairs let out onto an open plane of eighty nine yellow flag poles topped with blue and white flags, placed in an orderly grid, and though occupying a slanted surface, all appeared the same height. Right, we could pass under the road we just descended from; then left our path toward Le Grand Sablon could continue to be realized. Left and up a street lined with brownstone buildings facing a contemporary, and in comparison, lifeless façade, we passed by morning strollers on that late Good Friday morning who stopped to look into a gallery across the way, arm in arm. 

Weekend 34: It's 9PM & Your Train is Cancelled

Negotiate: It might get you so far, but there is no changing a cancelled train.

Call: "I'll be home a little later than expected."

Alternative Route: There might be another way to Amsterdam, but it will cost you.

Mid-Week Moment 34: You Wish

Museumplein: "They're making out and I'm just sitting here with my friend."

End of Week 33: 10 Excuses

1.         I live here, and the attractions are not going anywhere.

2.         I have been waiting for someone to visit.

3.         Honestly, I just started not looking like a tourist.

4.         It costs like twelve euro.

5.         It's been damn cold, so leave me alone.

6.         After a long week, I would rather sleep in.

7.         Laundry takes forever with a washing machine the size of a breadbox.

8.         I live on Vincent van Goghstraat, isn’t that enough?

At a certain point in life, excuses sustain. I think it is around about this age. They drift through filters of logic only to arrive on the other end untouched, but at least acknowledged for their function as an easy vector for, take your pick: unwillingness, laziness, or supposedly busy days. We all participate in the exercise to some degree, overriding activities with weather contingencies or errands loaded with the same priority as a sister’s wedding. Latent enthusiasm rests under their weight sometimes revealed by casual epiphanies. After walking up late on a Sunday morning, pushing the sleep out of both eyes with the dig of a knuckle, I wrestled with the fact that the restful, productive, and then social weekend nearly resembled the last. Pow, awareness overtook habit in an easy one-handed fight.

Until the weekend that my Philly visitor arrived, key Amsterdam attractions regularly listed in guidebooks, online reference sites, or top 10 lists remained unvisited. The Van Gogh Museum, Anne Frank House, Heineken Experience, and De Waag in Nieuwmarkt assembled on the list. All within a twenty-minute walk or bike ride from my apartment, close, as it is Amsterdam after all. For those two days she visited, I looked at the city as a tourist; enamored by the canals I usually avoided photographing and entertained by the shops with Amsterdam knickknacks. When opportunities surfaced to take our photo in front of a typically picturesque backdrop, I chased someone down. No dinner went undocumented and even I was surprised by my shameless actions. During our walks from attraction to attraction and my moments surrounded by miniature windmills and Red Light District themed shot glass, ten reasons - or ten excuses - surfaced explaining why, after months and months in the city, these main attractions lingered on my to do list.

The first eight, well excluding Vincent van Goghstraat, should resonate with many city dwellers who prefer discovering the best little restaurant ensconced within a residential neighborhood than revisiting their favorite painting for the fourth time in a local fine arts museum. Taking a left instead of a right in order to knock around streets unseen, of course with the secret hopes of discovering the next bar or restaurant, sways my sensibilities as it does with others. It is the way that I found a local, go-to bookstore on the corner, Inkt&Olie; my favorite pizza place down a quiet street, De Pizzakamer; a small guitar shop with a welcoming owner, The Strings; and my next potential dinner takeaway spot, Foodies. Places with quirky, straightforward names better described over a beer or coffee than though the type of an Amsterdam guidebook.

I have my own guidebook to the city actually. A nine by fourteen centimeters red notebook with off-white lined pages, a folder attached to the back cover, and an elastic band to hold it all together. My second in fact, the previous one now between two actual guidebooks, France and Spain, on the shelf beneath my kitchen counter. My new, little red notebook comes out of my purse so frequently that one of my friends sighs after my “wait a minute,” followed by the shuffle to gather my notebook and pen out of my purse, to then ask if he could spell that one more time. Bothered, he once even took the little red notebook from my eager hands to write it all down himself.  Don’t do that again. When colleagues at work started to discuss a recommended Turkish restaurant or a potential sushi place, the only thing that came out of my mouth was, “wait a minute, let me get my notebook,” and the same scramble occurred.

I have good intentions really. In shops where clothes are my actual pursuit, I ended up going to the cashier to ask about something over the speakers, be it a song, Familiar Feeling by Moloko in one case, or a band, Pranatricks, on a separate occasion. Easily caught up in dinner conversations by book recommendations - I still need to pick up a book by Tucker Max  - or preferred Belgium music stations, I sometimes forget to actually look at the menu. “Yes, we need a couple more minutes to decide,” I sheepishly admitted to a waiter, something actually required for my own benefit than my acquaintance’s. Trinkets of information gathered that justified the extra fifteen minutes waiting for our waiter to return or the other ten dedicated to a random conversation around interesting websites with a storeowner on Utrechtsestraat.

Those random, little things excite me the most. I could talk about them for minutes  upon minutes before even trying to recount the actual task I was trying to achieve that moment. Hidden amongst the everyday, they cannot be found on a white wall and usually do not have a placard next to them describing their importance. If they did, however, I would not complain. That new favorite song or next Turkish restaurant usually slips out into the open unexpectedly, and if undocumented, will continue to slip on by.  My little, red notebook – my guidebook – keeps them as references for either local nights or visits by an out-of-towner. Of the ten excuses, or ten reasons, I had for not going to those top Amsterdam attractions, it is really the last two that kept me out of the museums, exploring the streets:

9.         I am easily distracted.

10.       I want to find what you can’t.

Weekend 33: No Photos Please

From the Top: Many interested visitors make their way around the multiple floors of the museum.

Rock Picture: Rocks were arranged to resemble a Van Gogh painting from above. 

The Sign: This could be the museum that does not allow photos, but I cannot confirm that.