But AmsterDAMN.
Our next city is contained within a snow-globe, brimming with
peace and timelessness.
With permission from my professors (and a wild week before in
getting three weeks’ worth of work done), I was able to miss a few classes to
spend time with my family. From London, we flew to Amsterdam: sweet land of
canals, bicycles, and big pancakes.
Mom booked a stay in a canal house, comprising of four levels
and steep, narrow staircases. When these homes were built in the eighteenth
century, the stairways were made small in order to save room and pay less
taxes. They must have had to crawl their way up by the time they made it to the
top level, as we all were. Our host and is partner had revamped the setup,
keeping intact an authentic atmosphere. Vlad, the host, was very welcoming, as
was one of his employees (who made a spread
for breakfast).
We didn’t arrive to the house until close to three in the
afternoon, so we took the rest of the day to just be and explore. Vlad
installed an app on Kaylee’s and my phones, where he had a profile and
suggestions for things to do or see and places to eat. We took his advice in
stopping at Winkle (pronounced Vinkle)
for a slice of apple pie. It was reminiscent of Austrian apfelstrudel in its
thick slices of apple, not drenched in its cinnamon mixture. The crust was
pie-ish, perfectly crisp and sugary. We sat at the bar among fairy lights, late
afternoon dates, and hushed music, Kaylee and I watching as a new pie arrived
in a little elevator food box, set in the wall, every so often.
Our time in Amsterdam saw more bikes than cars—and, for that
matter, probably more bikes than people. There aren’t many stop signs, and most
won’t stop as you stand on a corner, so it’s a matter of running across the
street when it seems the safest. So a
lot of our moving around was done in the form of a quick trot.
We had dinner in a small restaurant that we chose after my
dad led us to a restaurant he found online that was now permanently closed. This
place offered inexpensive burgers and an occasional breeze with the door
swinging open, announcing new patrons.
It was clear in Amsterdam just how low tourism was then. The
streets were quiet with the exception of bicycle tires whirring past, and the
Van Gogh Museum was the most crowded spot during our time.
After a filling breakfast at our house, we went to the museum
to be left in two hours of awe. A day of rain, it was the perfect time to be
there. Van Gogh is one of, if not my first, favorite painter; his work is
bright with color and saddening with knowledge of the artist holding the brush.
He made up for the colorless world around him in his work, with thick dabs of
paint, detail within impression, and a wide range of emotions. Being here made
me fall in love with his artistry all over again.
We had lunch in a sandwich shop just off of our metro stop, devouring
grilled sandwiches and fries. There was an hour and a half block of time before
our scheduled ticket time for the Anne Frank House, so we gathered ourselves at
the house and walked over fifteen minutes before three.
I have to say this was my favorite thing to do in Amsterdam,
and one of my favorite places visited throughout the semester. I’ve always
enjoyed learning about World War II, and have been struck many times by
horrific accounts of prisoners under the Third Reich. It is one thing to read
about and watch documentaries or listen to interviews on, and another entirely
for it to be in your tangible grip. We worked our way up through the business
on the lower floors, and the annex above. The bookcase still stands, and it is
tear-inducing to imagine the soldiers ripping it away from the door it hid and
rushing upstairs to the eight members of the annex. The rooms are narrower than
I’d imagined, and Anne’s newspaper and magazine clippings are still tacked to
the wall, yellowed and curling at the edges behind glass. In each window stands
a blackout sheet, making it simultaneously easier and more difficult to wrap my
head around the weight of those two years. There were times that I caught
myself holding my breath and keeping track of my footfalls on the wood. And by
the time we were descending to another section of the museum, it was palpable
the relief that they must have felt on feeling sunshine and summer wind on
their faces.
On leaving, the canal outside seemed changed. Seventy years
shifted into one, history rushing through my lens.
“Some tourists
think Amsterdam is a city of sin, but in truth it is a city of freedom.”
– John Greene
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