Rose Garden (Amsterdam day 5)

Good morning dear reader. This Saturday morning saw Amsterdammers walking, jogging, cycling, playing netball, volleyball and soccer, doing yoga and any number of other unseen activities. That's not quite true. We did witness all of those activities in Vondelpark but it was closer to lunch than to breakfast. The locals we spotted this morning were all working, cleaning up from last night's festivities. The summer holiday is coming to an end this weekend apparently.

No reason and out of context. I just like birds.

Today is our first true lay-day of the trip because we have nothing organised except dinner at Momo. Why there? Well, Amex offered me money back on an overseas dining experience and Momo is all of 5 minutes walk from our hotel.

We slept late, well a little later and walked back to Café Luxembourg for breakfast. A walk through one of the bar/restaurant areas in the morning before it has re-opened, or before the street cleaners have through, can be confronting. I'm always amused that Paris is constantly criticised for being "dirty" and yet we have found Amsterdam to be less clean. Perhaps the street cleaning squads that work tirelessly have made the population complacent, but the morning detritus of broken bottles, discarded cans, fast food packaging, cigarette butts and more could not be missed by anyone who was out and about before 9am.

Random picture to break up the text. It's in Vondelpark. Nope. No idea.

Anyway, on to Café Luxembourg because I espied on their menu, when we were there yesterday, croque monsieur et madame. Who can resist ham and cheese and bechamel sauce? Not this little black duck as Daffy used to say. 

As you might imagine, dear reader, there was no trouble getting a table at this time of day. We were seated under the awning directly in front of the restaurant window in Paris style seating. The espresso shot to commence the day was welcome. My croque monsieur was as enjoyable as Jayne's croque madame. Ick. Egg. And the second coffee, a long espresso, capped a great breakfast.

The traffic and passing parade was commensurately reduced, given the time of day. But there were still the amusing antics of bike riders and pedestrians. A local homeless person walked unsteadily toward us, approached our table and leaned in, mumbling something in French I think, before being scared away by one of the wait staff. That was about as exciting as it got. Then off to Vondelpark to find the rose garden. Unlike the 1970 song by Lynn Anderson, we were promised a rose garden and I was determined to find it.

The man after whom the park is named.

The walk to the garden is a common path for us. However, the sights today were not. It's Saturday and all those bucks and hens parties from the UK had arrived over night and were wandering the streets of Amsterdam in hormone fuelled packs. Or were merely attempting to find their accommodation. It rekindled memories of Budapest. I can't imagine too many people on the continent are sad about Brexit. I don't know where this tradition commenced or how it has grown to what it is today, but cheap, trashy and tawdry is all I see. No pictures. I don't wish to encourage them.

Not a rose garden in sight

Did you guess? It's a fountain.

A home for the bees.

We walked one complete side of the park and refused to yield a rose garden. We paused for a few kodak moments, like the cat in the shrub. 

What are you doing puss? There are no birds there.

I watched it and I still have no idea what it was doing. Around the bottom of the park and heading for home, there were fountains and flowers and statues and finally a rose garden. It was well past its best, but you get the concept from the pictures. It would have looked quite spectacular a couple of weeks ago.

The other aspect of today was a new spectator sport. Our room overlooks a rent-a-bike establishment. I'm not sure who has the most fun, the people that work there or Jayne and me. Watching people observing the ruling, "it's like riding a bike" and then find that riding a bike is not so easy 40 years later has been a hoot. This morning, child gets on bike and rides off. Dad gets on bike, pedals, gets the death wobbles (at low speed) and falls over. Gets up, squares his shoulders, looks at his wife and wheels away very unsteadily. I've seen drunks negotiate a better line. Then mum, feeling superior and smirking away at her husband's indignity rides off with the stand down. She almost comes a cropper too, stops, kicks up the stand and pedals away. I'm just sad I can't see these people hit the cycleways of Amsterdam, the most unforgiving of paths. This scene, or something similar, was repeated with monotonous regularity. If only the hotel had a café or bar looking out onto this area. I'd be there as much as possible.

And so to dinner and Momo. Conceptually not our gig. It is certainly aimed at a demographic from which we have graduated. That said the food was amazing. We appreciated everything we ate, loved some, enjoyed some, thought some was next level. We didn't agree on every dish because we have different tastes. The sushi tempura prawn was next level, I could eat it all night. Jayne's favourite was the beef skewer. Service was attentive and helpful. If only we could transport this to a restaurant where there wasn't another hen's night party in the room or a DJ playing mindless music ... yeah, ok, I'll go to bed now.

Until tomorrow.

Roxanne (Amsterdam day 4)

Good morning, dear reader. We are still here in Amsterdam and we have a few more days before we leave for home. It is an easy city to like and enjoy, except for the cyclists, they are demons. Maybe not all of them, but the majority.

The weather turned last night, so today was grey and significantly colder than yesterday. When you're walking the city, however, 22° is a much better option than 31°, even if you sacrifice a little colour in the photos. Despite the proliferation of puffy jackets this morning, we were attired as usual. 

We braved the crossings, watching out for kamikaze cyclists and made our way to the croissanterie where we had breakfast yesterday. And in an absolute show of imagination, ordered exactly the same food and coffee. When you're on a good thing ...

The walk to Anne Frank House was unremarkable. It was punctuated by ringwraiths on bicycles, road works, scaffolding, cars/trucks parked on the footpath, more people than than the footpath could handle - nothing unusual. We arrived early, also not unusual, and parked ourselves on a nearby bench until the appointed time came to join the queue for our English speaking tour. We were the only Australians amongst the 36 or so in the group.

A statue of Anne Frank not far from the famed annexe.

We were ushered inside where we paid the price for not lining up early and couldn't sit together. The Americans to my left who'd left one seat vacant were thrilled to have me sit next to them and immediately shifted their seats to right. Tempted as I was to cough and splutter in their direction, I refrained.

The guy giving the introductory talk was Dutch and found his way into this career because he attended the same school as Anne Frank, albeit many years apart. His 30 minute talk provided a potted history of the museum as well as the Anne Frank story and a very broad brush cover of the rise of Hitler and the Second World War. Unsurprisingly, it was delivered for a specific purpose which became evident when he asserted Hitler's sweep across Europe was solely to rid the world of Jews. My studies at university would suggest there were other plausible interpretations.

The view of the annexe form the briefing room.

After the talk, we joined the slow moving throng of people climbing up through the 'secret annexe' itself. Any possibility of social distancing evaporated as the heat rose and the crush of bodies became more intense. If ever I was going to get 'the corona', as it is called over here, it would be today. Masks were superfluous. As the heat intensified and the oxygen thinned, my mind wandered back to the Sistine Chapel and the unsatisfactory experience we endured there one summer. Jayne was on a similar wavelength and, as we stalled, just beyond a set of ladder-like steps she whispered, "What happens if you're claustrophobic?"

That question was answered a few minutes later as a woman was escorted into a vacant space by one of the guides. Once she had re-oxygenated her body and calmed a little, she was escorted past the patiently waiting crowd. It wouldn't have been a good place for a panic attack.

It is difficult to describe the annexe, not because it was unfurnished, just as as Otto Frank found it on returning from Auschwitz - the only surviving member of his immediate family. Moreso because of the emotion sewn into the experience. It is still hard to understand how people could stand by and watch their friends and neighbours persecuted. It is even more problematic to comprehend when you know the parliament of the nation enacted laws to enshrine such barbaric treatment. I know, dear reader, that this moment in time can't be looked at, out of its historic context (only religion must not be considered in context, otherwise...) but, but ... to paraphrase John Stuart Mill, bad things happen when good people do nothing. Or as Australian, David Morrison said, "The standard you walk past is the standard you accept".

Out of respect for the space and also, no doubt, as a logistical decision, no photos were allowed. (Although given the lack of appreciation for the solemnity of other memorials, one can only imagine what would have occurred here if cameras were permitted). Suffice to say it is difficult to imagine having to co-exist with 7 other people, in such dark and cramped conditions for years, with no opportunity to go outside or make any noise throughout the daylight hours. 

The annexe is generally in its original condition, from the bookcase that hid its entrance, to the kitchen and bathroom fittings, down to the pencil marks on the wall paper that the Frank parents made each year to record the growth of their two daughters.

The sobering thought was ever present, throughout the tour, that this unthinkable hardship was preferable to the fate that befell the Frank family and the others in hiding, once they were betrayed and arrested in August 1944.

It was a relief to be able to go outside into the daylight and fresh air after being in the grim, dark tightness of the house - and we were only in there for two hours!

From the austerity of the annexe we walked to the understated opulence of the Royal Palace. I say understated because of the excess we saw in the places of worship, and parliament, in Hungary. We had booked online and yet still had to join the queue of people purchasing tickets to have our QR coded passes scanned. Not terribly efficient. Mind you, as part of the booking, we had been required to select an entry time slot of 1pm, however, when we inquired about our early arrival, we were waved through to the line which was not long and we were soon hooked up with our audio guide and moving upstairs.

The back of the Palace

The front of the Palace - it needs a good scrub.

The Palace is closed when it is being used for official purposes, but the King and Queen are elsewhere at present. Like most Europeans, the summer turns them nomadic. Anyway, the palace is, well, palatial, as one might expect. Rooms and furnishings date back to the days of Louis Bonaparte and the first king, Willem in the early 1800s.

Who doesn't love a good chandelier?

Atlas in the citizen's hall. Too much?

This is till used on formal occasions.

Biblical paintings of biblical proportions.

There are many stories to be told around the palace and the people that lived there, but it was the downstairs space, the Chamber of Justice, that mesmerised us. This was for two reasons. One: it was an echo chamber. All stone and statues with impossibly high ceilings. When we entered there were twins in a pram enjoying the echo effect, trying to capture the attention of their disinterested parents. It was ear splitting. Two: it was the chamber where 'justice' was dispensed. The audio guide described the fate of one woman who was tried for the murder of her landlady. She was found guilty by the 'wise' tribunal and sentenced to death by strangulation. This occurred on the verandah outside of the chamber in full view of the public. Her body and the murder weapon, an axe, were then displayed as a lesson to all who passed the area.

The relief on the wall depicted scenes of the wise dispensing justice to those brought before them.

Look closely. Killing babies is always a 'wise' thing.

From the Palace, we walked to the red light district. And obviously today's title, Roxanne, by The Police. Classic stuff from 1979.

We were certainly hitting all the heights today. Aside from the sex shops and their amusing window displays of 'marital aids' as they were once called, the area was underwhelming. There were more windows for rent than those that were occupied. I know it was the afternoon but you are allowed to have sex in the afternoon, I did once, so I thought there may have been more action.

Mind you, I saw more than Jayne, who kept saying she could not see any ladies on display at all - the windows through which the ladies advertise themselves are tinted and Jayne was wearing polarised sunglasses... like her, you will have to use your imagination about this - it is illegal to take any photos in the red light district.

The day was wearing on so it was time to have a beer and look back on where we had been and what we had seen and done. In other words, it was beer o'clock. Café Luxembourg, in the Spui district, looked the ticket. They had an annexe (no, not that sort) on an island pavement across the road from the main establishment so we took up residence there and enjoyed a couple of local Pilsners and watched cyclists trying to kill pedestrians.

A quick trip to the hotel to drop our gear and refresh before dinner found us wandering the restaurant lined streets on the other side of the canal. We've attempted to eat local cuisine a couple of times but the restaurants are uncrowded, not a good sign, and I feel you need to be with someone who knows the food. 

So after wandering the eat streets for a while, we settled on true Dutch cuisine and went Italian. Seriously, there are more Italian restaurants here than in Rome. Ristorante Peppino was where we settled and what an excellent choice. Light fluffy arancini, tasty bruschetta, superb risotto with generous helpings of seafood and pizza, mmmmm, pizza. And a bottle of Italian Sangiovese. It was the best. I'm not sure we have time to get back there on this trip, but if we do ...

Then of course it was home to blog.

Until tomorrow.

Amsterdam (Amsterdam day 3)

No, dear reader, I'm not repeating myself - it's another post about Amsterdam, this time accompanied by a song of the same name. Amsterdam by Crowded House, that great Australian (oh, alright, Kiwi) band from 2010. Why? Well, because today we visited the Van Gogh Museum, something our Neil didn't manage to do in the song.

[Interjection - this is a long post, get a drink.]

On our fact finding mission yesterday, we discovered a little shop that sold French style pastries and Segafredo coffee. Now, dear reader, any country that translates the word 'latte', you know, coffee with milk, into, "wrong coffee" is a winner in my eyes. So we assumed the coffee would also be good. That was our first destination for the day. Happily, we were not disappointed, aside from the coffee being served in disposable cups.

The ham and cheese croissant was a slight departure from the norm, but then a ham and cheese croissant is a slight departure from a croissant. Here the croissant is not sliced, with the ham and cheese inserted and then toasted/grilled. In Holland, the ham and cheese sit on top of the croissant and it is grilled. Whatever. It hit the spot, on top of an excellent shot of espresso and provided enough sustenance for us to make it to dinner (yes we are back to our 2 meal a day travel regime, after the culinary excesses of the cruise).

Juxtaposition of old and new.

On the way to meeting our guide we made a slight, but free of charge, deviation through the gardens of the Rijksmuseum. The carefully manicured gardens contain sculptures, old and new, as well as fountains and places just to rest and enjoy the surroundings. And people watch of course.

Cool fountain.

The meeting place for our guide, Jacopo, was outside a toilet block, between the Rijksmuseum and the Van Gogh museum. Now, dear reader, please stop smirking, you know that is not a usual haunt of mine. Stop laughing. Anyway, the building also houses a café (that's a pub over here), so it is a respectable meeting point. Isn't it?

No, this was not our meeting a place. I just liked the concept.

Jacopo was punctual and identified himself and we did the usual introductions, quickly establishing we were not American or British. I really must change the way I speak, it's embarrassing. We chatted as we walked the few minutes to the entry of the museum, skipped the line and deposited my backpack into a locker.

Self-portrait - Vincent, not me.

By the time we had reached the entrance hall, we had discussed the pronunciation of Van Gogh, nope, not going there, and the brutalist architectural style of the building that houses the permanent collection. As opposed to the more recent light and airy entrance hall, designed by a Japanese architect.

Another self-portrait - no, he's not left handed. It's a mirror image.

From this point, it becomes a situation of where too much information is barely enough, to paraphrase H.G. Nelson (no? Google it with Rampaging Roy Slaven). Don't get me wrong, we loved every minute of the tour. Jacopo was brilliant and passionate and knowledgeable, but we can't synthesise so much information into such a small space.

Vincent painted by contemporary and friend John Peter Russell

That said, I'll give Jayne the keyboard and she can provide what information she feels relevant. I'm pretty sure I have enough photos to illustrate her words.

Not a Van Gogh, but an inspiration to him.

We very quickly established that the master signed his paintings 'Vincent' because nobody could pronounce his surname  correctly. After that, we headed into the exhibition that commences with a series of self-portraits that illustrated his tortured view of himself. This was accompanied by a discussion of various possible underlying diagnoses that have been postulated to contextualise the diversity of his own facial representations. Regardless of how he was feeling about himself at any given time, his eyes were always, to say the least, portrayed as unsettling.

Loved this, one of his early works.

His childhood was framed by a religious, disciplinarian father and a mother who constantly reminded him of the fact that he was a 'replacement child'. That is, he was named Vincent after his older brother, who was still-born, and just to make sure he never forgot it, she regularly took him to the cemetery to visit the grave of his constantly eulogised namesake. Cool and normal.

Unknown. Nah, it's a self-portrait.

Some health issues (mental and physical) arose from lifestyle choices - smoking like a chimney, drinking absinthe like water and living on stale crusts of bread, the logical order of expenditure priority for an impoverished painter on a limited budget, after art material costs came out.

The Japanese influence was easy to see in the gold paint.

The myth of Vincent lies in his meteoric maturation as an artist, over less than 10 years as an active painter; a man who started off selling art with his younger brother, Theo, but instead advised clients what not to buy because he thought what was on offer was rubbish. He decided to paint because he thought he could do a better job, refused to take instruction from experts and, through prolific production of paintings, steered his own short course to artistic immortality.

Vincent's bedroom in Arles.

Through only a small sample of his works, the exhibition traces Vincent's development of his distinctive technique and style. It includes, apart from the frequently disturbing self portraits, iconic works like The Irises, The Sunflowers and The Potato Eaters.

The Irises.

This catalogue chronicles the physical and mental decline of the artist as he lurches through unrequited loves, rejection by his peers, self-imposed isolation, a fraught friendship with Paul Gauguin that ends in the infamous slicing off of his own ear and the development of a condition, akin to epilepsy, that may or may not have been caused by lead poisoning, as he was known to lick his paintbrush while he applied lead based paints to his creations.

A painting from the asylum.

In Vincent's last 2 years of life, he was hospitalised due to increasingly erratic behaviour and mental health concerns and, in this time of enforced rehabilitation, he produced over 200 works in 365 days!

His final work.

He finally died from a gunshot wound to the abdomen, sustained in a wheat field, which is generally considered to have been a case of suicide, although the method of shooting was highly unusual. There is an unverified alternative version that he was accidentally shot by 2 boys who found their father's pistol and were playing around with it in the field.

After listening to Jacopo we decided that, in our world, Vincent would have been diagnosed as being on the spectrum. Perhaps the last word should go to Don MacLean and his song about the artist, Vincent.

Goodness, I'm exhausted after reading that. Maybe Jayne should write the blog all the time and I will look after the pictures.

Anyway, after looking at the gift shop offerings and knowing Vincent would not approve of any purchase, we left the museum in search of another landmark park, the Vondelpark. It wasn't really a search, we knew where it was, we just didn't know what to expect. It was lunchtime(ish) so there were lots of rabid cyclists trying to kill pedestrians, but aside from that, it looked like a regular park. That last part isn't true either, there is still much to explore, but we decided to have a beer instead and contemplate the afternoon, or what remained of it.

As expected the service was, well, not service. You needed to QR the menu to discover there was no table service. To the bar I go where the beer taps are all in Dutch. Not criticising. Why would they be in any other language? However, assistance from the staff? Nope. "I'd like to get a couple of beers," was met with a blank look. Not giving me anything. So, I ordered the first tap. It was an ale, not pale, and was presented, not served, with a head bigger than a cabbage. I walked, with the frothy beers in hand while the POS machine was yet to confirm my purchase.

The beer was good, the shade better, the spectacle of watching people interpret, understand and use the unisex toilet was priceless.

It's a canal cruise, so here is a canal bridge.

Then it was onto a canal cruise. So I could comment on the European tourists who have no manners, I'm looking at you Germany, but I won't. It was blisteringly hot and there was precious little air flow, despite being on the water. We kept a watchful eye for children with water balloons. Otherwise it was an overpriced, must do, Amsterdam event.

That is actually a swing on top of that building.

Once we stepped aside from the German stampede to leave the boat (seriously, you'd think they'd won the war - too soon?), we navigate our way to a restaurant recommended by our Lonely Planet guide book. First fail for the Amsterdam edition. The restaurant in question was not open from 10am until whenever as the guide had said. It wasn't opening until 5:30pm.

Not all the barges were in peak condition.

Slightly miffed, we sidled back out into the scorching afternoon sun, walked to friendly terrain and found a Greek restaurant. A bottle of Italian wine - seriously, you expected retsina? And a series of starter plates later, it was time to cross the canal back to the hotel.

Willow trees are big over here.

Until tomorrow.

ps: Jayne added to her Pandora collection yesterday but it was such a mundane event we forgot to comment on it. It is a windmill. Who'd have thought.

Wintertime in Amsterdam (Amsterdam)

It most certainly is not wintertime in Amsterdam dear reader, but I love Richard Clapton and it does have Amsterdam in the title and we're still here. It's from his classic 1977 album, Goodbye Tiger, one of my absolute favourites. In fact, the weather is anything but wintry. The usual jokes about Holland's one week of summer have disappeared and apparently snow is not common in Amsterdam anymore. The weather forecast today: hot. They nailed it.

Our group was the last to leave the Hilton this morning and there are four us staying at the Marriott. It is closer to the Old Town and the attractions. Aside from that it is a mystery.

It was our first full day under our own recognisance. Exciting. We enjoyed the cruise, but we prefer to move at our own pace and in our own direction, which today meant wandering the streets of Amsterdam. Literally.

The Rijksmuseum from across the canal.

We did have a vague plan. And a map. We wanted to scope out where we were, in relation to the tours we have booked: the Van Gogh Museum and Anne Frank House; and get a sense of the city itself and its layout. There is nothing like getting to know a place by walking its streets. We liked it. A lot. Despite it being the last week of the summer holidays for the locals and many others from the Northern hemisphere.

The atmosphere is relaxed. If you exclude the cyclists, the sweetest looking of whom can burst into a steroid-style rage, should you step in front of them. On a pedestrian crossing. Where you have right of way. Legally. They are crazy, with no regard for traffic laws, lights, crossings, your safety ... whatever. I've learnt to say some choice things in Dutch, so I can respond in kind.

The 650m long market

First stop was to check out the meeting place for the Van Gogh tour and from there, we navigated to one of the plethora of flea markets, dotted around Amsterdam. Actually, that's a bit harsh. Albert Cuypmarkt also does produce; vegetables, fruit, fish, cheeses and some meat. We purchased a stroopwaffle because that's a thing to do. Ours had the added enjoyment of a layer of nutella (not a fan). The whole experience was underwhelming, but, tick that box. We also purchased a couple of t-shirts.

Picturesque? Not so much.

The most visited park in Amsterdam is Sarphatipark. Who are we to argue? We went there next but we are still not sure why it is so popular. There was a really cool statue, but it was fenced off and the grass in the enclosed section looked very welcoming - the locals looked at its green lushness with wistful faces.

Off limits.

We then set off to explore a few shopping, café and bar areas, looking for a place in the shade where we could enjoy some food and alcohol. There were many, many options. After a reconnoître of the area known as Leidseplein, across the canal from our hotel, we stopped for the regulation beer with people watching, despite the fact that the spruiker identified us as American, then Canadian, then English and finally Kiwi before I dropped into a nasal, "Strewth mate". He was lucky I was hot, tired and thirsty otherwise there would have been no sale. After a refreshing pint of Heineken, we headed off up the main street towards the centre of Amsterdam, also known as Old Town.

A random find in a side street

By now, the whole of Amsterdam, and quite a few tourists, had converged on this area and we wove our way through the crowds, the killer bikes and the trams to reach an inner canal that is lined with a vast array of flower markets. Not the florist kind - bags and bags of seeds and bulbs, with some cacti and all kinds of souvenirs of tulips and other flowers.

Not quite what I was expecting.

We decided that it was time to seriously think about a late lunch/early dinner but, rather than try to navigate the crowds along the main street, we took a parallel backstreet and the cut back into the throng, further away from Old Town.

At one point, I thought we were in Italy. I've seen bigger streets in Italy with less Italian restaurants. Confronted by such choice, we did the obvious and selected an Italian restaurant. Part of the charm of a city like Amsterdam is people watching and Jayne scored gold on this round. Behind me, a gentleman arrived, sat and ordered his pizza. The crusts were authentic excellence, but not to his liking and he assiduously cut around the base, removing the crust and then ate the centre of his pizza, using the same knife and fork. His crust still ringed the plate as he departed. Ironically, he actually had curly hair...

The performance enhanced our enjoyment of dinner and some bruschetta, calamari, a pizza and a bottle of Montepulciano later, we walked home to the air conditioning of our hotel.

Our first day concluded with some serious rehydration, water and tea only, blogging and processing photos.

Until tomorrow.

Windmill in old Amsterdam (Amsterdam)

Well, dear reader, what a classic song we have for today's title. It's by that international superstar, Ronnie Hilton. What? You haven't heard of him or the song? Well here it is all the from 1965. Enjoy, if that's the word for it. You get extra points for making it all the way to the end. Disclaimer: I didn't.

Today we left the ship for the final time. No, really, it happened. We had to be awake early, with bags in the corridor by 6:45. In the morning, one passenger clarified for the rest of us, after registering the shock on so many faces. Breakfast followed shortly thereafter and then it was into the lounge by 8am and onto the coaches by 8:15am. As has become our schtick, everything went smoothly and the ship was rid of all of us at the appointed time.

We waved a sad farewell to the crew but we had made it further than we thought possible. Once again, well done to the APT staff for making it happen. The road journey had to be punctuated by two stops for the driver, which meant the 4 hours or so would stretch beyond 5. All good, many of us were hoping for some extra sleep.

Some flowers to brighten the story.

About 30 minutes into the journey, I began to feel unwell. A strange feeling in my stomach was accompanied by cold sweats. Psychologically, the fact that I was trapped on a bus did not improve the situation mentally or physically. My agitated state increased, as did my discomfort, with the sweat coming from every pore. Jayne had been side-eyeing me, Grace Tame style, for quite a while. It was time to alert the tour guide.

Chris was supportive and said he'd do whatever was necessary. I headed for the toilet. Now here was a virgin experience, dear reader. I had never been inside a toilet cubicle on a coach. While I'm sure many a gymnastic feat has been performed in this limited space, it was not a happy place for me. I shall spare you the graphic details by time lapse writing ... Jayne was waiting for me when I opened the door. The sweat was still pouring from me as I stumbled back to my seat, strapped myself back in and slept fitfully until the authorised stop along the Autobahn.

Now I had thought I managed all of this very quietly, without notice. However, given the questions about how I was feeling and the comments about my pallor, clearly I was mistaken. It was nice to know people cared. Trip resumed, sleep back in the frame, I awoke as we were rolling into Amsterdam.

We are staying, tonight only, at the Amsterdam Hilton, where John and Yoko stayed when they held their peace protest. Our rooms were ready but our bags weren't unloaded, so it was a quick refresh and we were off to see the windmills of old Amsterdam (see what I did there?).

Imagine (not our room - they stayed on the floor below us).

Zaanse Schans is an historic village somewhere on the North Western outskirts of Amsterdam. I have no idea where, the one-way roads, loops and tunnels made it difficult to follow. And yes, I was not at the top of my game.

Quite amazing to see how they work

Pauline, our guide, talked all the way to the village and then all the way around the village, except for a 15 minute break for free time to allow us to explore the place ourselves. It was insufficient to do much more than look at the souvenir shops. Then she talked all the way home. Yay. It may well have been interesting. It may well have been relevant, but I just wanted some down time.

Grinding limestone for paint

The village itself was very crowded - a big tourist attraction which contains the usual shops and eateries but it is also the site of 4 working windmills. You can actually go inside to hear about their workings and then climb up to the top to see the whole precinct from that vantage point. 

The windmill we went into is still operating by traditional methods to grind limestone and also red wood to make dyes for fabrics and paints. We watched a demonstration of the pulverisation of a block of redwood but there was not enough wind to operate the main mill to grind the limestone.

The site is also home to many people who choose to rent the period houses that create an authentic village. The people who rent there, do so, understanding that while they may be sitting on their front porch, there might be a steady stream of tourists wandering past. The houses and their gardens are off limits to tourists but it hardly makes for a quiet life.

People really live there.

The most fascinating part of the tour was a demonstration of how wooden shoes are now made. The craftsman clearly enjoyed performing for a crowd and transformed a block of willow or poplar wood into a wooden shoe in about 5 minutes. 

Well worth seeing if the opportunity arises.

The process is now shortened by the use of some machinery to rough cut the outline of the shoe and then drill out the inside, both using a last as a guide to automate the process. In 5 minutes, instead of the previously required 5 hours, he had produced a rough shoe whose toe and heel were then refined by hand tools. The shoe is then set aside to dry out for several days, before it can finally be polished and decorated. The craftsman showed us how much liquid was still in the wood by blowing into the shoe and forcing an astonishing spray of fluid out of the toe. 

The wooden shoes are still very much in common use in the Netherlands, requiring 2 pairs of socks, to be worn in, for wearing across many spheres of life, including industrial and agricultural areas, where they are the Dutch version of a steel capped boot.

Wooden shoes for sale.

Other random sights around the village included a woman, who looked very much like she was shoplifting a scarf from a souvenir shop and then paused outside to show her husband her new acquisition. We also saw a teenaged girl who was sporting 2 very badly scabbed knees as she hobbled around the exhibits. Perhaps a victim of trying, unsuccessfully, to adopt the local transportation method of bicycling around the cut-throat bike lanes of Amsterdam?

I say cut-throat because one piece of information that our tour guide repeated several times, was that we must be careful when walking around the city, because the cyclists here are referred to as 'killer bikes'. They have designated bike lanes everywhere which are heavily patronised by cyclists, motor cyclists, mini smart cars, in fact any vehicle that is not technically a full sized car or truck.

The cyclists rule the roads here and the official road rules are mere suggestions or annoying inconveniences - they take no prisoners if you inadvertently get in their way, even if you have right of way.  Every cyclist seems to be on a serious mission to get somewhere and they ride in endless streams, without helmets, at quite a pace. Not for the faint hearted or out-of-towners, in my humble opinion. Anyone who hesitates or falls off will undoubtedly cause carnage in a major pile up!

While we were touring the windmill village, others from our group chose to experience a canal cruise. Something we will do later in the week. It is the last week of school holidays here and one of the pastimes of the naughtier children involves balloons, water, bridges and canal boats. It really is a test of their grasp of physics. Fill a balloon with water, tie off the top and then wait for a passing canal boat with an open top. As the boat passes under the bridge drop the balloon so that it explodes in the open section of the boat drenching those nearby, as well as scaring or scarring them. It was a test of nerves for the passengers and the bomb throwers.

Take your umbrella in school holidays.

Back at the hotel, it was time for a hard earned rest. Truth be told, I was exhausted but there was no time for sleep because tonight was the final cruise dinner - even though we were on land. Tomorrow our group would be heading for all parts of the compass. Some, like us, were staying in Amsterdam at other hotels, a group were heading for Paris, others for England to join an ocean cruise, or to Scotland to catch up with family. Some were even returning home.

I know I've commented on the concept of service in Europe previously dear reader, but the dinner was next level. It was a buffet style meal and all three courses were put out at the one time in 'choose your own adventure' fashion. The way the food was arranged did not lead to the formation of an organised line. The wine, it was announced to applause, was a continual pour - if you could attract the attention of the wait staff. Their role appeared to be to stand at the wall, dressed smartly, looking superior, demonstrating their ability to ignore anyone who wanted something from them. There was no risk of over indulging on alcohol, not that that was on my list anyway.

Despite the logistical challenges, it was a lovely evening and we got to spend time with all the people who had become a part of our lives over the last two weeks. Andrew organised a sneaky farewell speech to thank Hedleigh, our cruise director, and then it was time for bed. A number of people were flying out early in the morning and those that weren't would see each other at breakfast.

Until tomorrow.