Tonight's the Night (Amsterdam to Narvik, Norway)

And so, dear reader, we sat at port in Amsterdam. We could have spent the entire time at the Rijksmuseum had we known. The benefit was we had the ship to ourselves, almost, while everyone was off touristing. The afternoon was a lazy one, lunch, drinks and time in the cabin reading.

The coast outside the sheltered harbour where we waited for spare parts is lined with wind turbines. The kind that Dutton said will kill the whales if we install them off the coast of Australia. There are turbines a plenty but not one dead whale that I can see. Another piece of scaremongering from the naysayer. As I tap away at the keys, we are now on the move, as is the weather. Heavy rain is coming in from the North Sea.

Turbines are everywhere off the coast of The Netherlands and Norway.

The Restaurant

There are four restaurants on board, three of which have a dress code. The Restaurant is one of those, so not wishing to break the rules like I did on a previous cruise when I wore shorts to the dining room, I changed my joggers and jeans for chinos and shoes. While there were people dressed far more formally than I (wankers), there was a lot of denim as well as sneakers from the aged American crowd.

First sunset at sea (first visible sunset since leaving home).

We eat early. By way of explanation, Jayne is from the country. We arrived at the restaurant around 6:15pm and it was already quite well populated. The window tables were all gone. Not that there was much to see anyway. Rain and the North Sea swell. The tables were situated much closer together than they were in the The World Café.

The food was very good and the menu changes daily. The level of noise made it difficult for me to hear Jayne across the table, although I could have easily joined in the conversation four tables away. It was that sort of loud. Perhaps given the age of the clientele, it was a case of hard of hearing, speak louder. Or not. Some nationalities are just loud, as was explained to me in China. They added thoughtfully, it might be accepted but it is still unnecessary.

The pool deck. The roof retracts - in good weather.

There was a table of four women next to us. Loud, denim clad, sneaker wearing women. Next to them, as Jayne later told me, was a table of four men. So quiet I didn't even know they were there. The women's partners. The men at one table, the women at another. "It's like an Aussie BBQ," quipped Jayne. As the cruise continues, perhaps they'll opt for separate restaurants.

Following dinner, we adjourned to the Explorers' Lounge for a nightcap before being rocked to sleep by the rolling swell.

Saturday

The time lost in Amsterdam, waiting for the parts to arrive, has been made up over night and we are back on schedule. The rain is coming in bursts and the swell is around 2 metres but it is choppy. There is quite a bit of lateral movement which can facilitate unexpected meetings with fixed objects like walls.

The clouds has cleared long enough to allow a post-breakfast wander around the deck. The infinity pool at the back of the ship is heated, of course, but it is no less inviting. The indoor pool has continuous wave motion, courtesy of the sea swell.

The Wintergarden.

We attended a lecture in the afternoon on seabirds. As a bird nerd, I was excited. As someone who desperately longs to see a Puffin, I was beyond excitement. There is a real possibility that we will see an Atlantic Puffin. That would be another box ticked.

We dined at The Restaurant again. Same story, the food was very good but the tables being so close is not an enjoyable experience if you have a loud group nearby. I smashed the dress code, jeans, joggers and long sleeved T without a collar. And I was not alone.

The swell was unchanged through most of the day and sea sick bags suddenly appeared, placed discreetly all over the ship. We weren't even remotely uncomfortable. The wind had begun to abate late in the day which reduced the chop and the movement of the ship a little. Another night of being rocked to sleep.

The first sight of Norway.

Sunday

Sometimes in the early hours of the morning the rocking motion of the ship disappeared. I'm sure this made many people happy. We had reached Norway's inside passage. The water was calm and the cloud had gone. It was the best weather we'd had since leaving home. I went out onto the balcony to take a couple of shots of Norway. It was about 4° but it didn't feel that cold.

It looks like a toy boat.

The Inside Passage is created by a vast archipelago stretching along the coast of the mainland. Some of the islands are large enough to support habitation, many are not and are barren. Although this is where the sea birds breed. Some of the more distant islands are populated by wind turbines. The Australian LNP would be apoplectic about all this coal free power being generated.

The coastal villages are all so colourful

Several of the islands are breeding grounds for the Atlantic Puffin. Sadly, they are too remote for us to get to once the cruise is over. But, if I see one, you'll certainly read about it. This morning before breakfast, I spotted Kittiwake and Fulmar, pelagic birds of this area, flying alongside the ship.

The Inside Passage is dotted with islands.

Port Talk

We ditched the afternoon lecture and watched a movie in our cabin, sorry stateroom. Barbie. Yep. Jayne has been hoping to see it and to date, it hasn't been available on any planes we've been on. Sadly. I could have lived without it. (Patriarchal perspective clearly on display here... editor's note).

The steeple caught my eye.

Following Barbie was Ken. Actually, it was a Spanish rosé as we whiled away the time before the port talk. If ever, dear reader, you wanted a defining difference between generations, the port talk captured it. There are 900 people on board the ship and most of them will be disembarking at Narvik for a shore excursion. Or at least to walk on solid ground after 3 days at sea. 

A lighthouse.

The talk would be crowded. It was to commence at 4:30pm. We walked into the theatre at 4:15pm and it was already packed. There were very few seats - and that is a generational difference. I could make jokes about lack of mobility and people needing to get seated early, or suggest hearing issues were the cause of over-punctuality, wanting a seat near the speaker. Or, as you age, just that mentality that develops to be early to ensure the best seat or being first. Whatever.

Environmentally farmed fish. Hey Tasmania check it out.

The Cruise Director and his assistant provided almost 90 minutes of information on the excursions scheduled in Narvik tomorrow as well as a brief history of the area. It was quite a significant port early on in WWII and was home to a sea battle between German and Allied ships, a number of which ended up on the bottom of the harbour.

We were told the possibility of seeing the lights commences tonight as we cross the line into the Arctic Circle. This will occur around 2:30am when we are, hopefully, sleeping soundly. Clothes and cameras need to be at the ready when we go to bed this evening. There will not be an announcement if the lights are sighted, but those fools, like me, who want to see them, no matter what the time, have a cabin call arranged.

The ship John West rejected. We opted for Viking.

Which brings us inexorably to today's title, a Rod Stewart hit from 1977, remember? No. Well, have a listen. Unlike the lyrics direct, I won't stay away from the window because I want to see the lights and tonight is the night we cross into the Arctic Circle.

Until next time.

Wintertime in Amsterdam (London to Amsterdam aboard the Viking Venus)

And London is almost a memory, dear reader. It is our last day here and we will be joining our fellow cruise travellers later today. I must say I have enjoyed our time here much more than I expected. I suspect we will be back if for no other reason than to visit Zoë en route to Scotland and Wales. Both countries are still on our list. Although I imagine we will be here at a warmer time of year. That said, the cold weather is easily endured with the right clothes.

The morning was unremarkable. Grey, light drizzle and hot, 10°. Well, comparatively hot for the time of day. Not that the temperature was going much higher, but it meant we could dispense with gloves and beanies. Breakfast today was at the Refectory at Southwark Cathedral. They serve the baked goods of Le Comptoir, one of the purveyors from the Borough Market next door. The bonus was it is a much more salubrious setting. Indoors, out of the wind.

Bridget Jones' house.

Sorry, meant to include this photo in the last post. Anyway, the door to Bridget Jones' house from the famed movie. Ah, no. I haven't seen it, but apparently everyone else has.

The Refectory

We weren't the first patrons of the day but the café chairs were still turned up against the tables. No problem. Order placed, coffee made we sat and enjoyed the triple shot long blacks. Until some random worker turned up. She waltzed in, placed a tray in the rack and, without removing her backpack or putting her bag down, proceeded to set the chairs right. What does that mean exactly? She righted every chair in the café by dragging the legs across the stone floor. It created quite a racket, to the extent where we had to stop talking to each other while her 'work' was in progress. Not sure what her job description was but after creating enough ruckus to raise the dead in the crypts below the Cathedral, she greeted a couple of other workers and then turned, headed outside and back onto the street, still in firm possession of the backpack and bag, never to be seen (or thankfully heard) again by us.

Just breaking up the text. I love the Shard.

The drizzle had increased slightly as we left so we detoured through the market. Out the other side it had lightened again and we walked the short distance back to the hotel to finish packing. There was some reorganisation to be done to accommodate Jayne's new snow boots and the other items we had purchased at Mountain Warehouse. Easily done. Bags packed.

The journey to Tilbury docks had seemed a little problematic because it involved some level of walking, bag dragging, and train changing and the weather was not being cooperative. However, as we were deciding how best to get to the docks, Uber sent me a 30% discount voucher. Too easy. Uber it is.

Uber

Ah Uber. So the original quote for the trip from the hotel to the passenger terminal in Tilbury was £68.25. The discount and the weather forecast of rain made the 30% discount an attractive proposition. It looked even more attractive on the day as the rain increased. The thought of lugging bags through the streets of London and the industrial dockside of Tilbury was not to be contemplated.

The car tuned up on time, we loaded the bags and drove from the shelter of the hotel driveway into the London traffic and rain. The driver ignoring the first couple of red lights indicated this would be an interesting journey. Although to be fair, dear reader, I'm not much of a passenger and much prefer to be behind the wheel.

The trip was supposed to take just over an hour and while admiring the black fungal spores all over the roof of the car I wondered how long I could hold my breath. However, it was the drive on the motorway that had me most on edge. Conditions had deteriorated significantly and there was no sign of slowing down to suit the intermittent torrential rain. I could see our driver continually glancing down at his lap. Curious behaviour I did not wish to speculate about. 

Jayne later cleared up what he was doing and I was glad I was ignorant at the time. He was watching a movie on his smartphone.

We reached the Tilbury dock area after an hour or so, whereupon he turned, against the obvious road sign directing us to the passenger terminal, into the industrial area. A brief conversation with a worker saw us turn around and head back to the main road.

With the Viking Venus in sight we entered a roundabout to see a huge blue sign stating No Entry Police access Only. Below in smaller print it permitted entry on legitimate grounds. Boarding a cruise ship moored at the dock seemed legitimate.

Inside the car park the signs were all for the other ship. We unpacked the car and bid Bilal farewell and headed for the shelter of the terminal. Viking staff were as rare as hen's teeth because they were all sheltering out of the rain. Sensible, but not helpful.

We were redirected to the Viking terminal after we dropped our bags, passed through security, collected our boarding passes and excursion tickets and went in search of our cabin. At some point in this search, my invoice from Uber arrived. It was not the £68.25 as promised but an eye watering £98.68.

The reasons provided were all spurious. The journey was longer than expected. We added more stops. We changed our destination. I complained. The end result? They refunded the difference between the charges plus £5 for the mouldy state of the car. No mention of watching a movie while driving.

Of course the refund was in Uber credits. Bastards. Still, I suppose it's a win.

The Viking Venus

The ship can accommodate 900 passengers. Somewhat larger than what we have experienced previously. It is a young ship having been commissioned in 2021 so everything looks and feels new. Finding our cabin proved a challenge so the offer of an orientation walk through was eagerly accepted. Judging by the number of other people who signed up, we weren't the only ones struggling to find things.

The deluxe verandah stateroom, I call it a cabin, is quite spacious. A king size bed, 42 inch TV, desk, 2 lounge chairs, coffee table, en suite and of course a balcony with table and chairs. I'm not sure how much use that will get once we get to Norway.

From the inside looking out.

We set sail at 5:45pm while we were sipping on a most delightful Tuscan Vermentino watching the rain continue to fall on the docks. There are four restaurants on board, the World Café, which happens to be on our level, is the casual dining venue. Jeans are permitted! How avante garde. They have a special menu of the day and regular pizza, sushi and grill options. We dined here. The sushi was good and the Vermentino followed us from the bar.

From the outside looking in. Realistic colours.

The staff are, naturally, delightfully friendly and aim to meet your every need. In some cases the needs are anticipated. I know that is how it is meant to be on a cruise such as this, but full marks to them. Harold, our steward, is from Jakarta and is away from his family for six months at a time.

Unpacking was interesting, especially since now was the time for releasing the vacuum bags so the clothes could be restored to their full size. Here's a before and after shot with my gloves there for size perspective. Quite amazing really.

After packing

Before packing

Amsterdam

We discussed the Amsterdam options with one of the customer service team. Our intention was to visit the Rijksmuseum but not with the Venus group. They were doing a canal cruise prior to the museum and we thought, having done the canals last time, we would use the extra time in the museum.

The rain returned. Amsterdam industrial area.

When we discovered we had to be back on board the ship by 1pm we decided to stay on board. When travel time was excluded we would have had 3 hours at the museum. Not enough for us. Besides domesticity and washing called.

The scene from our balcony. At least there is sunshine.

Those that ventured ashore had good weather. We experienced the first sunstained moments of sunshine since leaving home. Washing on, we adjourned to the lounge where we chatted with a couple of American/Kiwis. Academics from the University of Otago who have been in NZ for 20 years.

Today's title was too easy really. Wintertime in Amsterdam is an absolute classic from one of my favourite albums Richard Clapton's 1977 Goodbye Tiger. Technically today is the first day of spring, but let's not be picky.

The North Sea

Currently we are still in port at Amsterdam awaiting spare parts - whatever that means. We are also awaiting champagne which, disappointingly, has yet to be loaded. When we sail tonight we have two days at sea, which I'm certain will be interesting.

Until next time.

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.