So once upon a time Jennifer Richard (from high school who’s teaching in Strasbourg through the same program) asked me what I was doing for the upcoming holiday and I told her I didn’t believe that there was a holiday and that I thought she was lying to me so that I’d miss school and have to make up the hours so that it wouldn’t be reflected in my paycheck. Then I went to Lyon to visit Katelin and found out that it was the truth. So, that Sunday night, I booked my EasyJet flights to and from Amsterdam. Since it’s easiest to go from Geneva, I made arrangements to go from that airport (crossing my fingers that the grève, which I believe is still ongoing, wouldn’t interrupt anything aka the train schedule). My flight would leave at about 6:30 in the morning on Thursday, which would be impossible to access were I to sleep in Belley Wednesday. (We’re not in London anymore where transport at any time of day/night is plus ou moins a dream.)
So, I emailed Flo to ask if I could lay my head down on Wednesday night and then on Saturday night (since my flight would get back at 8pm). I didn’t hear back until Tuesday afternoon just after I had started looking up hostels to crash at for the night before. Luckily, Flo called just after I had started looking at the first one and told me that she had been diving in Egypt and had just arrived back home, but would be delighted to have me stay for those days. Sweet, sweet success.
And so I found a train to get me to Geneva around 7pm on Thursday night. I took the bus to the train station and was surprised to find the station closed at 4pm on a Wednesday. I shouldn’t have been, though. I looked at the opening hours for the gare and found that it’s closed far more often than it is open. I actually doubt that I’ll see it open again before the close of this year. So, I had to wait outside from 4:20 until 5:56 until my train arrived. Naturally, as always happens when I am waiting at Virieu le Grand, a small troupe of philandering teenage boys showed up to do whatever it is that they do for a while. What it is they do is smoke and, this time (because I was in for a holiday treat) was pee on the platform. I guess it was alright since it had been raining so you couldn’t tell what liquid was what. But I’ll know forevermore.
5:56 rolled around and no train. Tick tock tick tock until 6:56 when the train decides to show up. But since it’s so late at this point, I don’t know if it’s the train I want to Genève or the train that everyone else on the platform wants to Chambéry. I frantically asked someone coming off and he told me it was Geneva. Hopped on and let the show begin. I looked at the display once on the train and saw that it said that the train was en route to Annemasse. Hmmm. Not right. So I asked what about Geneva and some lady was like, way way way at the front of the train. So I walked to the very front of the car and it still said Annemasse. I stopped some people sitting on the train to ask what the dealio was and they said it was the first car of the train. Naturally, I was antsy because, who knew where the trains would diverge? So at the next stop (Culoz), I hot-footed it to the next car up in the train, where one of the controlleurs was looking at me like I was a hot mess, which I was. He asked where I was going and I told him and he said I could make the real switcheroo at Bellegarde. Which was good since I had gotten on one of the middle cars, which was going to Évian. And so I waited 2 more stops and switched at Bellegarde. Foolishly, I switched to the car with the rowdy French teenagers including the boy who answered every phone call with, “Oui, chèrie?” At one point, he was outraged that the girl on the other end of the call said she had found one of his mates more attractive. Or attractive in general. Of course I wasn’t eavesdropping, though, so I didn’t get the full histoire (story).
Did I mention that I had wanted to buy a ticket at Virieu before getting on the train? Well, since the station wasn’t open, obvio I was foiled. So I was riding to Geneva in fear of being found out. I got off no problem at the downtown Geneva stop, following a group of Model UN Americans where one girl was bragging about having been “here” before. I don’t usually brag about having been at train stations before, but that’s just me. So I bought a ticket to the airport in Geneva (because it’s closer to Flo’s) and thought the price of 10CHF was a little steep, but since Livia had been telling me how expensive everything in Switzerland is, I took it in stride.
It wasn’t until I got off the train and into Flo’s car that I found out that there is actually a 3CHF ticket that would have taken me betwixt the two stops. Lesson learned. Flo asked which flight I was taking back to Geneva from Amsterdam because she thought that her sisters (Véro and Marionne) would be on the same flight. We would be. We got back to her place and had a lovely meal with Gregoire, Antoine, and Marionne (who stays with Flo on Wednesdays). Marionne informed me that she and Véro had been planning on going into Amsterdam for three months now. Because they are half Dutch (mixed!), they miss some of the foods and so occasionally go shopping in Amsterdam. They’d be on the first flight to Amsterdam and the last flight back. Can you imagine? Gotta love Europe.
After dinner, we watched La France a Un Incroyable Talent.
The next morning, Olivier drove me to the airport bright and early before he was off to go swimming. I got in and on the plane without issue (except when security took my lotion because it was 200mL, even though I’ve been traveling with that bottle for about 2 years now. So sad I nearly cried. You think I’m joking, but I’m not.). I took the first available seat I saw, which is the real trick with Southwest-style boarding. I don’t know why people always want to sit in the back. It means being on the plane longer. This fellow asked to sit next to me IN FRENCH. I denied him. Jokes. Do people do that? Deny someone the seat next to them because of looks? Something to ponder. Anyway, on EasyJet, they say everything in 2-3 languages. When I laughed at the joke made in English, dude totally double-took me (double-taked me?) because he thought I was French. Ooooh yeah.
Anyway, I closed my eyes and when I opened them, we were about to land. After years of flying back and forth between St. Louis, it is such a treat to constantly have 1-1.5 hour flights here. I got off the plane to see this:
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| Too soon. |
I then took the train to the main station in Amsterdam where dear Jen met me. We walked around on the way to the hostel to get some grub. She got a chocolate muffin while I got some apple thing. I got apple because I know that apples are big in German dishes so I decided to make a huge generalization and guess that they were important to Dutch dessert culture (because dessert culture is the only kind that matters to me.) Then we went back to the hostel so I could drop off my junk and so that we could pick up Jen’s friend, Sarah, with whom she had come to Amsterdam.
We set off nearly immediately to Anne Frank’s House. Or, as its called in Dutch, “Anne Frank Huis.” On the way over, Jen and I recounted the story of Anne Frank to Sarah, who didn’t recall it. It was a really lovely museum, set up in the actual house where she and her family lived for nearly 2 years. Sadly, photos aren’t allowed, so you’ll have to find time to get there on your own. In one room, though, they have a model of the secret annex and its layout. It looks quite large and you kind of think, “Yeah, two years is long and all, but it doesn’t look too turrible.” Then you get into the actual rooms and realize, “Holy moly. This is tiny.” It was quite unbelievable how small everything was and how many people lived there for so long without anyone knowing it. The museum also has pages from her journals and letters from her father while he was searching for signs of his family after being released from the concentration camp. It’s really heartbreaking, but it’s so wonderful that Otto Frank was able to do something so beautiful with the remains of those two years. There was a video of him, taken 50 years ago where he’s talking about how he felt after he received her saved diary from Miep Gies. In it, he talks about how surprised he was to see her self-doubt; the clip ends with him saying, “You never really know your children.”
After going through the house and the front business rooms, you see pieces from the history of the Huis. Bill Gates wrote a letter that made him sound quite pompous—shock? He basically said how he recently visited with a sculptor friend and was moved. Then his last line was something like, “You might be interested to know that my this friend’s aunt did the English translation of the Diary of Anne Frank.” Way to make this all about you, Bill. I was touched to see that Otto Frank replied to every piece of mail sent to the museum.
After Anne Frank’s, we went down the road to a pancake place that calls itself the most famous pancake place in Amsterdam. Jen and Sarah split a caprese pancake complete with mozzarella, mushrooms, tomato, and basil. Forget that. I got the Autumn Special with poached pears, chocolate, whipped cream, sliced almonds, and (most importantly) cinnamon ice cream.
When we went outside, it was naturally raining super hard and the wind was blowing like it was going out of style. Jennifer broke an umbrella. I honestly wish I had taken a picture of her hunched underneath her umbrella that still only worked on one half. The other flap, she was using to try to shield her face. I swear that I tried to take a picture, but I was laughing too hard.
Afterwards we stopped into a coffeeshop to satiate certain people’s habits. Because some people go to Amsterdam for the culture and some go for the lifestyle. ‘Nuff said.
We hustled to the Van Gogh museum, which Flo had recommended to me. Even though we’d only have about 1.5 hours at it, we made our way over. It really is a lovely museum, full of paintings by Van Gogh as well as those who inspired him. I didn’t take any pictures because I wasn’t really sure if I was allowed to or not. As the museum closed, we bounced and went to the market to get dinner: bread and cheese. I got Oude while Jen and Sarah stuck with camembert and brie. (French amateurs.) This is where this traveler fails: we went upstairs to have a bit of a lie in (before going out) around 8:30. Then we fell asleep and didn’t wake up until 11 the next morning.
For breakfast, we had more bread and cheese. We set off to walk around because, shock, the weather was actually nice. So we went to the national monument in Dam Square, which was just a short walk from our hostel:
The national monument was erected in 1956 in memory of the World War II veterans. As we stood in its shadow, I looked up, and I swear to Bob it looked like it was going to fall over and crush us! It was kind of trippy. I’m guessing it’s because of the particular angle at which I looked at it and because of the clouds moving behind it? I’m not a scientist, just a girl with a dream.
The national monument was erected in 1956 in memory of the World War II veterans. As we stood in its shadow, I looked up, and I swear to Bob it looked like it was going to fall over and crush us! It was kind of trippy. I’m guessing it’s because of the particular angle at which I looked at it and because of the clouds moving behind it? I’m not a scientist, just a girl with a dream.
We stopped to take pictures in a shoe:
On our way to take a canal cruise, I insisted that we stop at Oude Kerk, which is Amsterdam’s oldest parish church. Erected in 1306, and now it’s the church of the red-light district. We paid the 3€ to get in (quite a bargain in Amsterdam!) and were surprised to see that it wasn’t an ordinary church inside. |
| A shoe too big for even my pa! |
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| Massive organ? I took a picture of a woman wearing a fur coat under it. |
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| Pretty inside with wooden roof. |
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| Art from junk mail. One man's trash.... Same man's treasure! |
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| Roxanne, put on the reeeed light! |
After wandering about for a hit, Jen and I managed to find Escape, the club we were looking for. (It seemed like everyone/all tourists were going there as we heard several people mention it at the hostel.) We were walking towards the line when someone came out the back door, so I said we should just go on inside through that door. I’m such a rebel. But it didn’t matter since you paid once you were inside the building to get into the “club” part. Bummerde. Blah blah blah danced for a bit and went home.
The next day, we schlepped our bags downstairs to pick up after we walked about for a bit. We went across the street to get waffles and smoothies for breakfast. I got mine with dulce de leche. Jen got powdered sugar. Sarah got plain. Quite good. We walked basically wherever the street signs with arrows pointed us, so we passed the stock market, saw some open air markets (one with a guy that was an orange juice making MACHINE), some graffiti, and eventually arrived at Waterlooplein, which is Amsterdam’s oldest market with over 300 stands.
After perusing for a bit, I made my way across town to Begijnhof. (Please note that I have no idea how to say 98% of the names of any places in Amsterdam.) But not without stopping to take some photos:
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Falling houses! |
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| Perfect for seeing all modes of transport in Amsterdam! (I'm clever.) Begijnhof is this square that’s essentially untouched from olden days. Beguines were pious Catholic single women who performed good works but did not want to live in a convent and so did not take vows, and so this courtyard is surrounded by homes for these women. Great fires destroyed the original houses in 1421 and 1452, so the remaining courtyard dates from the 1600s and 1700s. There’s one house still standing (“Houten Huys”/Wooden House) that was built in the second half of the 15th century. |
Until outside there was this crazy intermittent drumming and whistling. I thought it was a parade except that it never really went away. So I went outside to investigate and take video:
Also, here is Rembrandt’s bed:
People in those times slept in box beds sitting up because they thought blood would rush to your head and you’d DIE if you slept lying down. Makes sense, right?
I missed a demonstration of how Rembrandt made prints. But I didn't miss the prints hanging to dry:
I watched a man make paint:
Then I hot-footed it to the hostel to get my bag and leave. But certainly not before stopping to take photos of the man making massive bubbles outside of the museum:
I made it onto the train no problem. Except that I stuck my arm out trying to open the doors for these two other guys and, newsflash, the doors on the Amsterdam trains are not motion sensitive. So when I stuck my arm out, the doors kept closing. They closed with my hand still waving outside. I managed to squeeze my hand back through, but the metal part of the bracelet my mom had brought me back from Aruba was caught in between the rubber door jam. So I rode along with my arm attached to the doors hoping that the next stop would have that side’s doors opening again. But alas! (And alack.) They didn’t. So when we got to my stop, I had to maneuver the bracelet out. Good thing it’s made out of elastic. So now it’s a bit stretched out. But it’s still in France with me!
When I got to the airport, I went to the supermarket that’s inside, which is totally crazy crazy. I mean, it sells a ton of stuff like Pop Tarts, cake mix(!!), and many other treasures. I got a banana and chocolate covered ginger. Then I realized I had accidentally gotten to the airport about 40 minutes too early for my flight. So I went through to wait, but only after being patted down in a manner that I can really only describe as "intimately."
I was reading my book when Véro and Marion showed up. We got on the flight all together and went back to Flo’s to unload all of their Dutch goodies and enjoy some cheese and bread. The next morning, Olivier took me to the train station, but since I was running a tad bit late and so didn’t have time to get a ticket before getting on the train. Since I was only taking it one stop before changing in Geneva downtown, I figured I’d be able to get by no problem. Mistake! I got on and went upstairs and sat down. Immediately after, the train woman came up to ask me for my ticket. I told her I didn’t have enough time to get one and she was all, “Do you realize you’re in first class?” Naturally, I didn’t. She asked if I was going just to Geneva. I said no since I was going to Virieu. Then she asked for my destination. It didn’t come up on her machine since it’s in France. Then she asked again, “Just to Geneva?” and I still was saying no no no. Then she clarified that I was just on that specific train until Geneva. Then she charged me 15CHF for the ticket, which she said wasn’t a first class price since she’d let me slide, but I need to open my big fat eyes when I’m walking around. Not exactly what she said, but maybe similar.
Then I got off in Geneva and went to buy a ticket. I waited patiently in line only to find out that I was at the help desk and not in the ticket line. When I went to the ticket line, I had about 4 minutes left until my train was leaving. So I didn’t get in it and figured I’d wing it again. (Some people never learn.) I was super nerveuse as I went through the “To France” entrance to get to my voie/platform because it says to have your ticket ready as you go through customs. I just smiled and sailed through without anyone stopping me. I tensely sat on the train the whole way to my stop. SNCF (the train company) men walked up and down the train, but didn’t stop to see my ticket at all. As they announced Culoz (the stop before mine), the controlleur entered my car. I freaked out until we pulled into Virieu, when the controlleur was literally 3 people away from asking for my ticket. Got off and waited 2 hours for my bus to come for me. Then flounced back to my dorm where the heat had been turned off.
By the skin of my teeth,
Jess
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