“We don’t care where you come from, who you preach to, or what you do in your bedroom. All we ask is that you are discrete on our streets, that you are good for business, and that you bring harm to no one.”
Although I grew up in a US state that boasts a motto of “Live Free or Die,” no place I’ve ever been to lives by these words moreso than Amsterdam. It is a place void of judgment, prejudice, and restriction. My Sandeman’s Tour Guide kept reminding us of this, repeatedly delivering the pledge quoted above.
Amsterdam’s tolerance is known everywhere, many times paving the way for progressivism to plant its roots worldwide. It was one of the first places to accept gay marriage and view prostitution as a business venture, and it is still one of the few places to have effectively decriminalized marijuana while admonishing the use of more harmful drugs. But its tolerance does not only extend to social practices, but racial, ethnic, and cultural identities as well. They say over 170 nationalities are represented in Amsterdam. I felt the truth in this; this was the first time since coming to Europe where I did not feel like an outsider, like I did not belong. I could have easily blended in with the locals were it not for my gigantic backpack, camera satchel, and the lost expression that persistently stained my face.
I reached Amsterdam late Friday night, near 22:00. On the way, I befriended a German girl during the second leg of the journey. Her name was Eileen and she is studying in the Netherlands. She, too, was on her way to Amsterdam, but to attend a conference hosted by a social activist group, whose name I now forget. The group promotes progressive ideas through literature and marketing campaigns. One booklet she had in her possession discussed the disparity of the ability for citizens of different nations to travel abroad. For instance, there are very few places Americans cannot go without much hassle, yet someone from North Korea may be subject to endless hurdles or else confined to her country’s borders. The difference between the two persons is nothing more than the passports each holds in their possession. It speaks largely to the amount of influence by our governments on the course of our lives. Are we really free? Or are we simply leashed by varying lengths of strings? You can see how my new friend’s purpose for travel allowed for an entire train ride of conversation. More than just an interesting discussion, she also offered a few suggestions for some of the more entertaining spots in Amsterdam.
This weekend was the first time I would not be staying in a hostel or hotel. My old friend Kelsey, someone I’ve known since kindergarten, connected me via email to her sister Kim who has been living in Amsterdam for some time. Without hesitation, Kim instructed that I would stay on her couch and accepted no other alternative. I was initially taken aback. Rarely do I see this type of unquestionable hospitality outside of my native culture. I grew up witnessing my parents and their network of fellow Indians open up their homes to any and all acquaintances that were visitors to our town. But outside of of this network, that kind of expectation was always considered an imposition. Apparently Kim didn’t get that memo, and without ever having met me, she took me in solely under the good faith of her sister’s judgment. The hospitality would not stop at the gesture. When I arrived at her place, conveniently located steps away from a tram station on a line that runs straight from Amsterdam Centraal, she was fully prepared to temporarily make her home mine. Blankets, pillows, shower towels, unrestricted food cabinets, a soon to be opened bottle of red wine, and even a set of spare keys were waiting for me. As icing on the cake, she also had a tram card filled with more than enough funds to last me through the weekend. Hosts, take note – you’ve just been introduced to one of the finest.
Kim and I stayed in on Friday night, sipping on wine and becoming fully acquainted. I learned of her very successful career, undoubtedly a product of her tireless efforts, and as a result was reinspired to fully pursue my own path. We let an episode of South Park close the night, and I sunk peacefully into her big, brown, probably Italian, leather sofa.
In the morning, I woke up with enough time to setup a home wireless network for Kim, my feeble attempt at expressing my gratitude. Feeling accomplished and a bit guilty for fulfilling my own stereotype, I headed for Anne Frank’s House, starting my day on a very bright note. Computers need a sarcasm button. To my surprise, even at 09:00 when the museum had just opened, the line was already around the corner. While waiting, I noticed a poster advertising Museum Night and was pleasantly reminded of my plans for the evening ahead. I paid my 8.50€ and started walking through the self-guided tour.
I have to admit, it was a bit lackluster compared to its notoriety. The Anne Frank museum is the most visited museum in Amsterdam, and I’m beginning to think it is partly a self fulfilling statistic. Her hiding place was partly renovated, partly restored, and partly maintained. The mix of preservation took away from the effect of tasting a small part of the world she experienced. The most powerful part of the museums was the excerpts from her diary that were painted in large print on the walls throughout the house. Reading these, I regretted not having remembered any of her diary before coming into the museum. I realize that I may have appreciated the walk-through a bit more had my memory served me better. The only reason why I think I’ve actually read her diary because I assume it would have been required reading in grade school, it being the third most published novel in history. Then again, I did go through a public schooling system where essential literature was never guaranteed.
The one unexpectedly unexpected feature about the museum was its display of Anne’s original red diary and her other journals containing her re-writes. To see the original artifacts that catalyzed one of contemporary literature’s most legendary pieces and seeing the words in Anne’s original writing made the events and feelings she described all the more real. It was as if she were in the room next to you, whispering the tale of her two years into your ear.
I left the museum with enough time to catch a small breakfast before meeting up with some Sandeman strangers. I found a Coffee Company located near the center of town, and opted for the local coffee shop across the street instead. More times than not, I’d rather local fare than a chain any day. But after spending almost 10€ on three pieces of toast, some jam, and a cappuccino, I think Coffee Company may have been the better choice on this occasion.
While waiting for the Sandeman tour to begin, now my third round with this company, I made friends with an Israeli girl and a girl from St. Louis. The Israeli was coming off of a business trip, extending her stay to see the sights. St. Louis was in a very similar situation to me. She works in Seville during the week and travels on the weekend. The three of us spent most of the tour together. Our tour guide Michael was from Indonesia, or close to it. Like the other guides, Michael was extremely well informed, very passionate about and loyal to Amsterdam, but noticeably more arrogant than the ones I’ve had in the past. Granted I thought this after he chastised me for taking too many pictures of him in an effort to get one good shot, but I’m sure the others in my group would agree.
Our tour started in the Red Light district, almost as a way to affirm and move past all the rumors about Amsterdam as quickly as possible. He walked us through alley ways lined with coffee shops, mushroom shops, sex shops, sex workers, and a public urinal station that was not as private as one would expect. His job was to give us a glimpse, but not actually experience the various iconic Amsterdam activities. Sandeman’s has another tour dedicated to that.
We then made our way through Old Town and into New Town, navigating about the numerous canals that segmented the city. Fall ran uncharacteristically late, and the yellow leaves of the trees that lined the canals were still clinging onto their branches. It made for some nice photos, and at the very least, gorgeous scenic walking. In between, we had our intermission coffee break. No, we did not opt for one of Amsterdam’s coffee houses, but a normal café nearby. I did discover that St. Louis had been high the entire time, and part of me was jealous that she was able to fully experience her trip in this city (the threat of losing my job was enough to keep me operating within the bounds of American legality).
The tour ended in Leidseplein at Boom Chicago, and I remembered Train Eileen’s suggestion to visit Brouwerij ‘t IJ, a windmill-turned-pub. Michael gave me some directions, and then Boom Chicago’s hostess gave me more accurate directions. Maybe the 10€ tip to Michael was a little too generous.
Irregardlessly, I found the windmill and sat down inside for a few Dutch-brewed beers. Over the next couple hours, I made note of how much more bitter Dutch beer is compared to German beer, and made some new friends who were in the middle of their weekly Saturday afternoon Windmill drink. They were both much older than I, each with kids as old as me. I engaged in a great conversation with one of them ranging from the relationship between parents and their kin, to religion and the lack of such a thing in our own lives, to tolerance of other lifestyles, and just life in general. If I’ll remember one thing from that conversation, it will be this analogy:
Four men stand next to a car, each at his own door. All four stare at the car, and describe to one another what they see. Between the responses of some of the men there are similarities – groups of them can see some of the same parts; between all the men there are only a few instances where their observations coincide; but between none of them are their observations exactly the same. And not one of the four could detail every aspect of the object in front of them, not without positioning themselves in place of one of their colleagues. There was no observation that was more fully descriptive, no definition that was more accurate than the rest. Each recalled their own perspective, but all of them were describing the same exact thing.
It was in this way my new friend described his tolerance for the world’s differing beliefs, and it was in this way that I felt deeply connected to a stranger I had just met in a bar shaped like a windmill.
As the sun dropped behind the skyline, I met up with Kim and her friend Richard at an Irish bar close to her house. We had a couple drinks there and made our way to dinner nearby. It was a good dinner and I was having a great time in their company.
The dinner satisfied our hunger for the rest of the night as we made our way in and out of the various Museums participating for Museum Night. As I alluded above, once a year the museums of Amsterdam leave their doors open until the early hours of the morning. This gives guests, both veterans and rookies, a chance to experience the various museums in a completely different way. Inside the museums, many forms of entertainment can be found that keep the crowds engaged and enthused: DJ’s, bars, live bands, and interactive art are just some of these one-night-only features. Kim, Richard, myself, and another of Kim’s friends made our way through the Rijks, the Van Gogh, and finally FOAM.
The Rijks offered many works from Rembrandt. I was not very familiar with the artist outside of knowing his name. The master of portraits did not really produce anything that really stood out to me. I guess this is because I live in a time where I can see the people of the world exactly how they are in a simple photograph. Realistic portraits are only a novelty to me when they are of historic legends that have never been before depicted. In other words, it is only when a portrait brings to life a figure I’ve only heard about that I appreciate it.
On the contrary, Van Gogh was an artist that was talked about much more as I grew up. I was familiar with a few of his paintings, mainly his self portrait and “Starry Night,” and well-versed in the tale of his self maimed ear. Walking through the museum, whose interior design in itself was worth seeing, I was extremely impressed by his iconic painting style, this style a result of his constant pursuit to produce something of worth and never being satisfied. To this day, even the common man void of any artistic depth only needs to see one Van Gogh piece to identify them all. Ok, not necessarily true – not all of his paintings feature his thick, accented brush strokes, but when they do, it is easy to tell that the work was his.
My favorite of the three was FOAM – the Fotografiemuseum Amsterdam. I can relate to photography much better than I can relate to paintings or drawings. When I see photographic exhibits, I’m constantly inspired by the different ways accomplished photographers capture an instance in time, the picture giving full sense of the emotion the artist was feeling at that exact moment. I am always humbled and always moved when I observe a quality photographic presentation.
There was one exhibit, Kemal’s Dream, which did just that. It was a photographic culture analysis by Ahmet Polat, a Dutch-born Turk who lived in Turkey for five years trying to capture the culture of the country’s people. He took photographs that depicted everyday life, including its struggles, highlights, and mundane routine. I absolutely love this particular subject – portraying how people from other communities carry out their lives. There is always a history embedded within the human element of a photograph, and it does not take much to weed it out. With just a few less than several walls of pictures, I was able to become fully immersed in the Turkish way of life.
Kim parted ways shortly after, driven by the temptation of a good night’s sleep. The rest of us made it back to Leidseplein to catch a few drinks at another Irish pub. We closed out the night around 04:00 and I made my way back. Turns out Kim’s set of spare keys came in handy.
I slept in the next morning, not making it out of the house until closer to noon. Kim also took the opportunity to catch some extra hours of rest, and made it down her stairs just as I was walking out the door. Luckily I was able to say goodbye and thank her in person.
My Sunday agenda was not nearly as rigorous as the day before. My plan consisted of only the Heineken Museum and a pancake house. Beer and pancakes, breakfast of champions. Kim lives a short walk away from the Heineken Museum, dubbed by the company as “The Heineken Experience.” I spent the better part of the morning fighting off the effects of Heineken’s extremely well-constructed marketing ploy. The museum is more of an amusement park ride rather than a brewery, with a different interactive activity with each turn of the corner. As I journeyed through, I posed in my own Heineken poster, stirred malted barley to make wurt, greeted Heineken’s horses, had the brewery bottle and cap a personalized Heineken beer direct from the barrel, made myself a brewing ingredient through an actual amusement ride, tasted a Heineken while answering beer brewing trivia questions, watched Heineken’s advertisement campaign from the 60’s to the present, starred in my very own Heineken music video, and capped it all off by enjoying two 250mL Heineken beers, fresh from the tap. Indeed, 15€ that did not go to waste.
Coming out of the brewery, I noticed a circular building with a coned roof across the street. I sat down in the pancake house and spent a good quarter-hour deliberating between a Kiwi with whipped cream and a mushroom with cheese – sweet or salty. I’ve only experienced sweet, so I delved into the unknown. To keep with the theme, I had the waitress bring me a Heineken dark brew to accompany my meal. I’ve only had their pilsner, and was interested to see how their only other original would compare. I was completely satisfied by both – the pancake tasting like a crepe on drugs and the dark Heineken restoring my fondness for the brewer’s beer.
On the way home, I was forced to sit on the floor of the train from start to finish. While initially it was an unfavorable situation, it actually turned out fruitful. Both trains were packed to the point where the crowd acted as an insurmountable hurdle for the conductor to check and stamp everyone’s ticket. I was in the group that was missed. In my defense, I actually tried to hand him the Eurail when he came looking for tickets, but by the time I got it out of my bag, he had vanished. I walked out of the train that night with an extra day of traveling on my Eurail pass.
A fitting end to a weekend in which everything went my way.
