High Art and A New Neighborhood

 Goededag!

I’m nicely settled in my new studio apartment in my new Amsterdam neighborhood in a district called Oud Zuid or old south just beyond the inner ring of canals.  The place is smaller but still has a lot of light and is on a quiet canal.  If you want to find me the best thing to do is find the Rijksmuseum.  Then there’s a big canal, and I’m on the smaller one behind the big one, and I’m pretty much opposite the museum.  It is by no means impossible to get lost in Amsterdam, but in the center of the city, one can always just follow a canal and get to where one is going with less confusion than Paris or London.

So this morning I packed up and set out for my new neighborhood.  I walked along Princesgracht and turned south down Nieuwe Spiegelstraat, crossed the canal and visited the Rijksmuseum.  It’s currently undergoing renovation so only a fraction of the collection is on display, but oh what a fraction!
They presented a brilliant exhibition of Dutch Golden Age artists, lesser known but remarkable flowering comparable to the Italian Renaissance.  You know—or you had jolly well better know if you were ever one of my students!—such luminous names as Rembrandt and Vermeer, but dozens of other brilliant artists also painted wonderful works.  I especially like Judith Leyster, whose work has a humor and liveliness reminiscent of Frans Hals.  But when one views the works side by side, it’s easy to understand why the rest are overshadowed by Rembrandt.  His works have subtle light and modeling although he could glitter when he was in the mood, but there’s more to him than technique.  All the artists possessed supreme technical skills, but while most portraits look a bit wooden for all their naturalism, Rembrandt reveals the inner life of his figures so gently, so compellingly. None of them postures or indulges in the dramatic gesture.  It’s all in the tilt of a head or a furrow of the brow or even a slight smile.  Rembrandt’s subtlety extends to earthy colors and dim light, but he makes you look.

I contemplated the poor saps waiting in line at the Van Gogh Museum as I breezed past then brandishing my Museum Karte.  In three days it’s paid for itself, but then I am a pretty determined museum goer.

Vincent would have been most gratified to know how popular his work and how crowded the museum is.  Rembrandt whispers to us. Van Gogh shoves color and emotion into our faces.  His pigments are glaring and often clashing yet at other times surprisingly harmonious.  Van Gogh’s purpose was to express the feeling inherent in the objects and nature he saw and portrayed, and Rembrandt's was the same.  Both succeeded brilliantly, and both ended tragically.  If there's a lesson in that, I don't know what it is.

Don’t call them “French” fries.  Call them frites or chips. Fried potatoes were invented in Belgium and heartily embraced by the Dutch who call them Vlammese Frites or Flemish fries.  As a part of my cultural research—not to mention my obligations to my readers to try things, I had a cone of these for lunch.  The young man made them fresh for me, salted them up, heaped them in the paper cone and squirted globs of mayonnaise on them.
Stop that gagging!  Whimps can ask for catsup or other sauces, but mayo is the way they do them in the Low Countries.  Good, you ask?  Oooooh.  Best frites I ever had.  So hot, so crisp and yet with a meaty potato substance.  And the unctuous richness of the mayonnaise was perfect with them.  Even despite all the walking I did today, I’m still not hungry after that, but never fear, I am thirsty and I have some Belgian “white beer.”

What’s white beer, Pil? Is it the same as blond?

I have no idea.  It’s something I pulled off the shelf in a supermarket.  It’s very light—too light for me today and lacks that bitter-sweet grain-hop taste I seem to like.  Second sip is better.  Now I can taste more subtle complex flavors.  It’s fine.  I just like the darker ones better.

Dag!

Some Art and Raw--Yes Raw!--Fish

Goededag!
A cool, wet morning, but at this time of year rain is rather a treat for me.  As I walked down my street I inhaled deeply—of the scent of fresh baked bread from the bakeries.  What did you think I meant?

Time for some art!  Three museums are on the agenda.  I took the scenic route down Herrengracht with (ahem) a few side trips to poke around street markets. I use the term scenic route advisedly.  As I proceeded down the street—and I was nowhere near the Red Light District—my eye caught a basement apartment lit in red with the “working girl” in the window--covering the day shift, I guess.  Taken aback hardly describes my reaction especially since she was using the same name as one of my former students.

I was well armed with my umbrella and stout shoes not to mention my Museum Karte.  I paid not a penny further in admission fees.  The card I got covers the whole of the Netherlands and is good for one year.  A specific Amsterdam card exists as well, which will also give the holder a public transport pass and other city discounts.
When you come to Amsterdam please note that bicycles usually have the right of way.  They often do not even stop at red lights.  Sometimes motorcycles don’t either.  Stay alert!

Tourists have started asking me for directions.  As I carry a map, sometimes I can actually be helpful.

The first stop was the Bible Museum.  I mostly went to see the interior of a ritzy canal house but ended up being impressed by the some of the exhibits and the lovely garden.  The antiquities on offer are very interesting and there are also some recreated period rooms, which I always like.  An exhibit of biblical herbs and spices will let the visitor experience the scents prevalent in biblical times. I continued down Herrengracht and crossed the river Amstel to the Amsterdam Hermitage.  The great Russian museum loans the Amsterdam branch some of its excess.  You have to like Russian art, which I do, and the presentation is excellent.  Walking back down Herrensgracht, I dropped in to the Museum Willet-Holthusysen.  This was a patrician mansion owned by a husband and wife who were notable art collectors.  The house and garden are worth seeing just on their own account, but I also enjoyed the collection of furniture and paintings.  The lady of the house liked dogs and cats, which feature prominently in the artwork.  I especially liked the semi circular room at the back of the house over looking the garden.  What a nice place had I the power to entertain my readers to tea!

As your senior appetite correspondent I hold it my duty to taste and report.  Ice cream, chocolate, cheese are all on my agenda.  Raw fish?  Er not so much. Apparently one of the highlights of the Dutch year is the appearance of new herring in June.  New as in raw.  Trying it is one of those ultimate Amsterdam experiences, but  although I have a pilgrim soul, I also have a squeamish stomach.  Nevertheless, I like fish, and I am willing to try things, so I went to a stand where a motherly Dutch lady took my order for a Haring Brodje or herring sandwich.  Two fillets come on a hot dog bun with pickles and onions.  This is herring for the timid of tongue. The Dutch take their fish straight and lower it into their gullets with no messing around with feeble buns etc.  Smells ok.  Let’s take a bite.  Hey!  It’s mild and not fishy at all.  Yes, there’s a bit of raw fish texture, but it’s good or Lekker as we Dutch say—tasty.  I’ll have another some time.  The pickles and onion suit me just fine washed down with my new favorite Grolsch Kanon.  The Netherlands beats Belgium this time!  It’s very rich tasting with the sweetness of wheat beer but deeper hops?  Is that what I’m tasting?  It’s good anyway.

Dag!

In Search of Culture

Goededag!

When I came to the Netherlands many years ago, we did not stay in Amsterdam but near The Hague in Scheveningen.  So my first Amsterdam neighborhood is the Jordaan.  I’ll be moving in a couple of days, but if you wish to find me start at the Central Station and move west to Haarlemmerstrat and cross the Singel, the Herrengracht and the Princesgracht. These are major canals. I’m just past the Princesgracht on Haarlemmersdijk.  The Jordaan used to be a purely working class neighborhood.  Like many others it’s become a bit gentrified but retains a traditional character of small shops.  It’s a great place to stay because it’s a short walk to the station, a grocery store, bakery, and cheese shop are right across the street, and down a bit sits an ice cream shop which I will have to investigate.  And I’m sure the only question in your mind is why I haven’t already.

As I strolled down the street this morning, I passed an open “Coffee Shop” and can attest that they are still in business as a scent familiar from my college days wafted out into the street.  I cruised past being careful not to inhale and went over the bridge to my first stop—the atm.  My bank has no foreign partners in the Netherlands so I am going to patronize RaboBank.

Why that particular one, Pil?

They sponsor a cycling team.

We might have known.  Sigh.

A lot of financial institutions in Europe sponsor pro cycling.  If you are ever in Denmark say hi to SaxoBank.  Contador rides for them.

My destination was the Amsterdam History Museum.  I walked up to the plaza where the Central Station is and turned down Warmoesstraat where I made my way to The Dam.  If there is a center to the city, this is it.  It’s the site—long since filled in—of the original dam on the river, and apparently the Dutch like to send ignorant tourists in search of an actual Dam.  What one will find instead is the palace.  Her majesty Queen Beatrix is probably not there.  She lives at the Hague.

I walked down a bit further to the museum where I obtained a Museum Karte that will get me free admission to most of the museums around the country.  Now I call that a good investment.

I spent several hours in the history museum, which exhibits objects and paintings from Amsterdam’s past as well as my favorite, the reconstructed rooms.  Then I strolled back toward the station taking various side trips into interesting looking streets where I licked a few windows.  I took a longish walk down Herrengracht and then walked back along Princesgracht to my street.  My guidebook claims the Dutch are flattered when you stare into their living quarters. It’s a matter of pride apparently, so I kept my eyes busy with both the land and boat houses.  Back at Haarlemmersdijk I popped into the grocery and came home to watch the Tour de France.

Dinner was some salad, sausage, and far too much butter.  To wash it down I tried the Belgian version of blond beer, which I liked better.  Many of the Dutch would join me in preferring Belgian beer.  Heineken is much bigger abroad than it is here.

Dag!

Welkom in Amsterdam

 Goededag!
 I suffered some technical difficulties which delayed my posts.  I wrote them and will post one each day until I catch up!

Don’t come to Amsterdam looking for grandeur.  This was a merchants’ city even in the days when it was the capital of an empire, and even the palace was once the city hall.  Unlike many other European capitals Amsterdam does not have Roman origins.  The story is that two fisherman fetched up at an island in the Amstel River.  Their dog jumped out of the boat on to dry land and promptly barfed.  “Aha!” cried the fisher folk, “A good omen” (I’m not grasping this myself) so they founded a settlement.  Eventually they built a dam—hence Amstelledam which became Amsterdam.

I am very glad to be here, and it is worth the long flight.  The night before, trying hard to look on the bright side, I muttered “Maybe this means I’ll sleep on the plane,” as the illegal fireworks on my street when on and on into the wee hours.  Note to self: Spend the fourth elsewhere from now on.

My trip went smoothly.  I experienced the x-ray machine and pat down, but no one was interested in my baggie full of toiletries. The plane left an hour late and no sooner had we reached cruising altitude, when the pilot called for a doctor to attend a sick passenger.  Uh oh.  I had visions of us having to return to LAX, but fortunately for everyone involved we did not.  We get meals on these long haul flights, but if the dinner has to label itself “Delicious Meal” then naturally I am skeptical about the taste.  Rightly so in the case of dinner.  I think it was meant to be chicken parmesan with pasta.  I think that red substance was tomato something.  Breakfast was better—a nice hearty Northern European breakfast: omelet, sausage, roasted potatoes, fruit.  My theory was that the white stuff that tasted so odd was yogurt.  After that one taste, I took a pass on it.

Once on the ground at Schipol, I breezed through passport control, collected my bags, had an easy trip into the city on the train.  The directions to the apartment were very clear and easy to follow, but I fretted the whole way, because I’d arranged to meet the proprietor, and I was more than an hour late.

As I walked along with my luggage scanning the numbers, I heard someone call my name in a questioning way.  It was Ton the proprietor.  He’d had the foresight to ask for my flight number when I booked the room, so he knew I was delayed.

The place I have is large for an Amsterdam apartment.  It’s reached by a narrow steep stairway—typically Dutch, and when one enters the apartment there’s another steep narrow stairway up to the living area.  One side has a street view, the other has a little balcony over looking the backs of houses and their gardens.  Charming!

I unpacked and set out for a stroll. The sun came out for me as I strolled the tree-lined canals.  The atmosphere was peaceful and the air soft and cool.  Delightful!  One does have to be more aware of bikes than cars, but people were out and about and no one seemed frantic or in a hurry.

I decided to do the cliché tourist thing and take a canal tour.  As I was last on the boat I did not have a good seat, but the view was fine and was a relaxing introduction to the city.  Many companies run these tours.  The normal ones take about an hour and go across the harbor, through the main canals and on to the Amstel River with commentary pointing out the sights.

By the time the tour was over jet lag had caught up with me, and the clouds looked ominous.  I headed home by way of the grocery story across the street.  When I emerged, it had begun to rain, and I had not brought my umbrella, but all I had to do is dash across the narrow road to my door where I enjoyed the Tour de France and my meal.  I had some olives and a roasted vegetable salad along with some Amstel Blond beer, which was slightly sweet, light. and refreshing as I watched the race and listened to the gentle rain pattering on my windows.  Probably Alberto Contador wished he could share it with me.  He’s having a miserable Tour, but we’ll see what happens when the race reaches the mountains.

Dag!

High Times in the Low Countries

I took part in the following conversation more times than I can remember.
Hey, Pil, where are you going this summer?
Amsterdam!
Ooooh, Pil. [followed by suggestive laughter] So how about those "coffee shops"  and the Red Light District?  Eh?  Eh?
So let's clear these two issues out of the way now.  A couple years ago I wanted to go to Amsterdam, but the guide books all seemed to assume anyone who so wanted was a drug tourist.  I was so put off, I went to Vienna instead.  Drugs are NOT legal in the Netherlands, which is part of the European Union, and a recent law prohibits sale of cannabis to non Dutch citizens even in licensed coffee shops.  Drug seeking foreigners crossed the borders, got high, forgot they were guests in another country, and made destructive nuisances of themselves.  Organized crime is taking an interest in trade.  Proprietors of coffee shops in Amsterdam hope to overturn the law or at least have Amsterdam made an exception.  The Dutch aren't interested in drugs.  They make their money off stoned foreigners.
But in a city that offers Rembrandt and Gouda, why would anyone bother with hashish?
As for the Red Light District--the first time I visited Amsterdam I went.  We took a tour one night under the guidance of a Dutchman, and I think people should go if only to eradicate any idea that the sex trade is glamorous.  It's a joyless place full of furtive customers most of whom are British.  The sex workers are immigrants and despite the regulations, etc., I think they are exploited.
Nevertheless the Red Light District is one of the oldest parts of the city, and there are some notable sights to be found there, so I will return--early one morning when business is not on.
Why do you call Holland the Low Countries?
I am merely translating Nederlands into English, and Nederlands or Netherlands is the name of the country.  Holland is one state in the country.  "Low" in this case refers to elevation or rather lack of it.  A fair portion of the nation is below sea level and one fifth of the country's area has been created by humans draining the North Sea, a process that is still going on.  Those windmills and dykes?  Not just for show.  This is a country that takes global warming and the consequent rise in sea level personally.
So even though there will be no drugs or prostitution, I hope you will share my trip with me.  I will sample substances.  Stay tuned for tastings of Dutch beer.  I'm also trying to psych myself up to try the raw herring.
Dag!

Arrivederci, Milano!

I opened my shutters at daybreak to enjoy the last lingering view of the Duomo.  I doubt I'll ever have this view again although I hope I return to Milan.  There was endless fascination in the play of light across the facade--rose in early morning to golden in the afternoon.  But next time if I want to experience it I'll be down in the piazza with the rest of the tourists.
Let me sum up if I can.  Spring was a great time to come.  The weather was terrific!  I spent most of  my days under serene, blue Canaletto skies.  Ironically the only gloomy days were the ones when I left the city.  In the summer Italy tends to be steamy.
The Milanese mostly wait for the green crossing signal before crossing the street in contrast to the constant and cheerful jaywalking of London and Paris.  I still don't know how the woman manage to walk in those shoes what with the cobbles and tram rails and all.
This year was the 150th anniversary of Italy's uniting as a nation, so their tricolor red, white, and green was much in evidence.
Milan is an easy city for tourists with most sites concentrated in the historic center.  I walked most places and didn't get lost too often and never seriously.  The place is remarkably flat for easy roaming.  The metro is easy to use as well.  If I were going to stay longer I'd try out the trams.  Milan makes a great base for exploring the surrounding area although I did not get to do enough of this.
The food is good, which one does expect in Italy, but I really enjoyed trying the hearty Lombard specialties.
Italy (or at least Lombardy) has a greater proportion of Really Good Looking Men than any place I have ever been, and I include Southern California.  Honestly some of these guys look like movie stars and no one seems to notice them.  Obviously this subject needs further research.
But beware the young man lurking at tourist sites handing out "friendship" bracelets.  The friendship will cost you.
A tradition which I had not mentioned earlier is to go to the Galleria Vittorio Emmanuele and find mosaic bull representing Tuscany.  Milan's symbol is a red cross on white and is much in evidence, but the story is that if a visitor grinds a heel on the bull's--er--parts, said visitor will have good luck.  This might be simply a jab by the Lombardians at the Tuscans, but you will always find a crowd there and the "parts" have long been worn away.  Yes, I ground my heel along with the rest, but the real luck in the first place was getting to come to and get to know Milano.

The Ghost of a Masterpiece

Disclaimer:  I am no longer in Milan but I wrote the posts each day.  Feel free to ask questions and comment as if I were still in Italy.

Even damaged as it is Leonardo's Last Supper is astoundingly beautiful and compelling.  Seeing it was heart breaking.  Although I have seen it in reproduction over and over, when I looked up at the refectory wall at Santa Maria delle Grazie I nearly burst into tears.
Open another tab and look up the Mona Lisa.  You can probably find it on google images.  Go ahead.  I'll wait.  (hums)
So you found it?  Note the gentle changes of light and shade that create such a naturalistic image and the wonderful expression.  Do you see the color?  The detail?  The subtlety?  That's Leonardo, and no one--ever--EVER--has done it better.  Soak in its beauty.
Now search the Last Supper.  Imagine it the way Leonardo conceived--executed like the Mona Lisa with all its detail with that wonderful chiaroscuro.   He did not use the usual buon or wet fresco technique because that would have meant rapid painting and no revision.  He wanted to contemplate, edit, smooth, and create an unprecedented depth of expression.  So he used tempura on the wall, but within a few years the work began to flake.
The richness of the color and most of the detail he painted is gone and gone forever.  Nevertheless, the power is still there to see.  "One of you will betray me," the statement from the central figure of Christ ripples out.  The apostles are grouped symmetrically in four groups of three each and two groups on each side.  Each man has his own individual reaction of astonishment, bewilderment, despair.  Philip is the best preserved, his hands poignantly gesturing towards his breast with the question burning eleven of the twelve's mind.  "Is it I, Lord?  Is it I?"  Only Judas--his face in darkness and his hand clutching the bag holding the thirty pieces of silver--knows the truth.
One of the things that struck me seeing it in person was the beauty and harmony of the colors even as faded as they are. So when you come and see it--and you MUST!--you will see a wonderful work full of psychological depth, emotion and beauty most of all, but it will be a mere ghost of the artist's intention.
Each session is limited to twenty people, and we had to pass through a series of air locks.  Visits last fifteen minutes, and the time passed quickly.  I had a hard time tearing my eyes away.
And by the way . . . Please do not bother me with the Da Vinci Code.  Yes, John is beardless and swooning.  It is a convention of representation.  It's the apostle John.  Seriously.  Not anyone else.
And I discovered that if you weren't able to reserve a viewing, there is a scalper on site.  I don't know how much she charges but she does offer a last chance for those not able to reserve.
I spent the rest of the day wandering around looking for chances to stop merely licking windows and buy some things.  I returned to Amorino for my favorite flavors:  Amarena, Nicciola, and some chocolate from Ecuador that was So Good it nearly Killed Me.
For dinner I had some salad and some pasta with herbs washed down with the last of the Lambrusco.
Ciao!