Wednesday, December 11th 2012

             We decided to visit the Vincent Van Gogh museum today.  We took a tram all the way out to the museum only to find out it was closed. Sigh.  There were signs that certain pictures were being showcased at another museum…but it didn’t clarify which museum. 

            We walked to a man in a hot dog stand and I asked him if the Van Gogh Museum was definitely closed.

            “He nodded.”

            “Are they viewable anywhere else?”

            “Follow the red line in the trees.”  He said. 

            Hmm okay.  We followed a red line in the trees that danced between buildings and trees and streetlights and after twenty minutes we came upon the Hermitage Amsterdam museum where they were temporarily displaying Van Gogh paintings while the Van Gogh Museum was being refurbished.

            The exhibits were nice and it was incredible to see, up close, the individual brush strokes of some of Van Gogh’s works.  I found something new out about Van Gogh – he showed no talent for art as a youth and didn’t really start painting until he was twenty-seven when, after failing as a preacher and an art dealer he, “decided to become an artist.”

            It took him years of toiling and struggling but he was eventually able to master the craft.  An adage was written on the wall, "getting better must come through doing it and through trying."

            I have a lot of respect for the guy.

            Afterwards we ate at a shady (and kinda gross) shwarma place and headed back to our hotel feelings we’d experienced most that Amsterdam had to offer.  Once we got back we realized it was too early to retire so we set out for the Heineken Brewery Museum.  The museum was really well done and it was a lot of fun, albeit cliché and touristy.  Mena drank her first whole beer so that was cool.  :)

            We went to a Thai restaurant for dinner.  At the end I tried to pay, but apparently the card doesn’t work if it doesn’t have a ‘chip’ in it.  (Which American cards don’t).

            The man kept saying, over and over again, “There is nothing wrong with your card.  There is nothing wrong with your card.”

            “Okay then. How can I pay? Do you have another way to enter my credit card information.”

            He shook his head. He directed me to an ATM machine down the street but the place was closing down and I didn't want to leave Mena there by herself so I told her to come with me.

            “Sir do you mind leaving a card if both of you are leaving?”

            Really dude? Your machine is broken and now you're insinuating we're a flight risk?

            I shrugged.  “Sure.”

            I gave him a card, got the Euros, paid him and left him a very nice tip.

            “Just to make him feel bad for doubting us.”  I joked to Mena as we walked through the streets back to our hotel.

            Goodnight Amsterdam!

No More Pictures

Unfortunately I've used up all the memory on my computer.  I cant upload any more pictures without deleting some.  Sorry!

Tuesday, December 11th 2012

            We stayed out late on Monday night so waking up Tuesday morning wasn't fun.  The alarm went off at 5:15 and we were both up shortly thereafter showering, packing and preparing for our journey to Amsterdam.  As we were leaving Mena's backpack hit a picture on the wall and the picture fell and the glass broke.  Oh well.  We took the broken picture and pieces of glass off the floor and wall and threw it in the trash outside.

            The walk to Paris Nord station was 1.5 miles.  It was most definitely a good / painful way to wake up…slugging through the pre-dawn streets of Paris with forty pounds of gear on your back.  Mena was a real trooper and did her part to carry bags that were (seemingly) bigger than her.

            Paris Nord station, like all the train stations I’ve seen in Europe, was big and grand and elegant.  It’s the busiest train terminal in Europe with 190 million travelers passing through the concourse each year.  The interior and exterior of the train station are recognizable as they have been featured in countless films (as of late the Bourne Identity, The Bourne Ultimatum and Ocean’s Twelve) and books (DaVinci Code).

            Mena and I arrived a half hour before our train departed.  We ate pastries and drank coffee as we waited underneath the massive screen telling us which track we’d be travelling on.

            The high speed Thalys train from Paris to Amsterdam was nice.  Aside from a girl across the aisle that kept sneezing it was a quiet and smooth ride.  It’s hard to believe it reached speeds of 186 MPH…it felt like we were barely moving save for the entire train leaning gently from side to side as we hit the turns.

            Mena passed out and I became completely engrossed in Ernest Hemingway’s posthumous novel, “A Moveable Feast” which detailed his time in Paris between 1921 – 1926 when he was rendezvousing with the likes of F. Scott Fitzgerald, James Joyce, Gertrude Stein, Ezra Pound and Pablo Picasso.  The book is fascinating as it gives you a behind the scenes look at the struggles that Ernest and Scott faced as young writers.  It’s also interesting because it provides specific addresses of cafés, bars and hotel which still exist in Paris.

"If you are lucky enough to have lived in Paris as a young man, then wherever you go for the rest of your life, it stays with you, for Paris is a moveable feast.”

            Our hotel was a ten-minute walk from Centraal Station.  We had lunch, changed and walked to (Momma Singh close your eyes) the red light district.  As we wandered through the incredibly confusing streets of Amsterdam with our tourist-issued map we came behind a man walking down the street in a garbage-green hood.  Judging by his struggling, awkward gate I thought he was old.  I watched as he picked up a half-smoked cigarette from the floor and put in his mouth.  When we walked in front of him I was shocked to find he was a young kid.  A 25-year-old in a 55-year-old body.  His face had been ravaged by whatever his vice was – alcohol, drugs...whatever.  Scary to see someone so young and lost.  He was anywhere but Amsterdam.

            We just did a casual walk through of the red light district.  Women behind glass paneled booths accosted men walking down the street.  It was pretty weird to see it out in the open like that. 

            After the red light district we did a complete 180 and went to the Anne Frank Museum.  I remember reading Ann Frank’s diary as a child.  As my mother can attest I didn't like it...it was, literally, my least favorite book as an adolescent.  But it resonates more now that I was able to sit in the room she wrote it in.  The whole thing was tragic and touching.  She was an incredibly precocious and talented writer (and person) and it’s a shame she had to die.  At least she died for something and her legacy continues.

            After the Anne Frank museum we walked past the posh neighborhoods of Amsterdam.  My biggest take away from the trip to Amsterdam thus far is that the city gets a bad rap for the red light district but not enough credit for everything surrounding it – it is a profoundly beautiful, progressive and cultured city.  Not all about weed and prostitutes.

            Afterwards we went to Leidse Square and Mena ate bratwurst for the first time.

            “What’s in this?”  She asked me.

            I smiled.  "Sometimes it's better not to know."

            We took the tram back to our hotel and napped and read and wrote.  Later we took the tram out to an Indonesian Restaurant where we ate various 'rice plates' which I'd never heard of before but which are small amuse-bouche servings of various Indonesian foods – a lot of coconut milk, stewed meats and vegetables.  It was Mena’s idea and decision and it was excellent.

            We took the tram back with young kids looking for red light district.

            “They all look so young.”  Mena said.

            ‘They are.”

            I guess some of the appeal of going to these places fades as you get older.

Or maybe not.  I guess it all depends. 

            :)

Pictures - Amsterdam day 1

Amsterdam - Day 1

Monday, December 10th 2012

            I woke up and was surprised to see our street alive and blossoming.  The shuttered storefronts opened to reveal pharmacies, restaurants and bakeries that had been concealed beneath banal protective shells.  I walked from our flat in search of a bakery.  I got a mini croissant and double espresso and retired back to the flat to do some writing.  I wrote for two hours.  Mena woke up and we walked to the same bakery I bought a pastry from earlier.  Then we walked to another place near our apartment and got coffee.  We sat there eating pastries and drinking cafe au lait and just enjoying being alive.

            Mena and I have elected to walk everywhere we travel in Paris.  We chose to walk the city (as opposed to taking the subway, bus, regional train…etcetera) because you get a good amount of exercise and you see all the wonderful sights of Paris.  To simply get on a subway and shuttle underneath the city in darkened tunnels is to miss what makes Paris so wonderful. The smells. The sounds.  We calculated we are averaging between seven to nine miles a day.

            Even knowing where you want to walk it’s still hard.  Walking around the city and it's hard because there is so much.  It's actually overbearing.  I feel like you could spend a week on one block, much less a whole city.  You have to be very selective.  Today we selected the Saint Chapelle we didn't see yesterday.  Then to the Eiffel Tower and then to Bar Hemingway.

            The Saint Chapelle was consecrated in 1248 and is a prime example of Gothic architecture style called “Rayonnant” marked by its sense of weightless and strong vertical emphasis.  This was at once discernible as the upper echelons of the church reached into the sky and the space underneath was filled with the most beautiful stained glass windows I have ever seen.  The windows captured different scenes from the Old and New Testament and had I the attention span to read about all the colorful representations I am sure I would have been even more astounded.  Alas, we did not and after soaking in the bright colors we set off for the Eiffel Tower.

            We set out walking for the Eiffel Tower.  I checked on Google maps and the distance between the Chapelle Church and the Eiffel tower is almost four miles…yeesh.  We spent the next hour or two walking there.  We stopped at a café for tea along the way…we watched as the French adolescents smoked hand-rolled cigarettes while conversing with a waiter in suede oxfords and skinny jeans who was hanging Christmas garlands on the outside of the café.  The people here smoke and drink.  And drink and smoke.  Its more than a cultural phenomenon…its seems to be a rite of passage.  Smoking to them seems to be as natural as breathing air is to me.  Often times I watched people with a cigarette hanging limply from their mouth as they went about their business.  They didn’t even smoke it – they just let the cherry on the cigarette grow until it crumbled on their jacket or their boot.

            The Eiffel Tower was much bigger than I expected.  I was expecting some old rickety frame that had become outsized because of its prominence in movies and pictures.  It is a truly monolithic piece of architecture and it was surreal to actually see it up close.  Not on a postcard.  Not in a movie.  With my own eyes.

            Mena and I rode to the observation deck in a rickety funicular that clung to the forty-five degree base of the tower.  We changed to an elevator that brought us to the top of the tower.  As the elevator climbed there were very audible clicks, as if clicking you back into reality and reminding you that you were indeed climbing to the top of one of the world’s most recognized structure.  The view from the top was incredible.  The city is very flat and large and white.  It stretched all the way into the distance until it blended with the grey clouds circling around us.  The city looked very much like Tel Aviv, where every building is built out of white Jerusalem stone.  The effect in Tel Aviv is stunning and the view of Paris was equally amazing.

            Afterwards we took the RER back to Musée d'Orsay, got baguettes and hot chocolate and wandered over to the Louvre.  We took pictures of the iconic glass pyramid hanging over the Louvre and walked down to the information desk.

            “What time is the LouvRe open till?”

            “It’s already closed.”

            Sweet.  We took a few more pictures and then headed to Bar Hemingway.

            Bar Hemingway, located in arrondisement 1 was the favorite bar of Ernest Hemingway who vowed to, “drink there once a week as long as he was in Paris.”  The bar has been featured in Ernest Hemingway’s novel The Sun Also Rises and F. Scott Fitzgerald’s novel Tender is the Night.  We walked to the spot the bar was located.  It was in a very ritzy area.  In fact, we discovered, the bar was located in the Ritz Paris!  I was disappointed.  I thought Ernest would have been hanging out in a dive bar with grizzled men that caught fish in the Seine River…but apparently he was hanging in the Ritz.  Regardless of what I thought…the bar was closed for renovations…bummer.

             We walked back to our flat, relaxed and then decided to head to La Cantoche to say goodbye to the waitress / bartended that welcomed us our first day.  Tara welcomed us warmly and introduced us to another bartender, Thomas, that had been in Paris for fourteen months.  They were both nice, almost to the point of officious, in making sure Mena and I were taken care of.  We got the best table, they waited on us hand and foot.  They were both really sweet.

            After we’d eaten and drank a little I asked Tara if she’s ever going back to America.

            “Oh f*** yeah.  I’d kill myself if I had to stay in Paris forever.”

            “Really?  Why?”

            “Have you seen the people here?  They are all miserable.  Every single Parisian hates Paris.  In New York City everyone is excited and full of life.  In Paris they are draining and vapid.”

            “See that’s the thing people don’t know.”  Thomas added.  “Paris is beautiful, it’s the city of love but it’s because of the tourists that visit and bring all those good feelings.  The people that live here are miserable.”  He mimicked shooting himself in the head with a gun.

            I shook my head in amazement.  “Do you have any idea how bizarre this sounds to me?”  I asked them.  “You are living the fantasy that countless American’s have had.  To drop everything, learn to speak French and become a bartender in Paris just living a carefree, epicurean life?”

            “Yes, its good as a fantasy.”  Tara said.  “But fantasy is just that – a fantasy.  It should remain a fantasy.  You shouldn’t ruin it by coming here.”

            The rest of the night Mena and I drank a little more and watched as a group of French women celebrated a birthday party.  They requested American songs and we watched as they danced to Michael Jackson, Wham, Madonna and Cyndi Lauper.  We laughed when they confused Thriller’s dance moves with the dance moves from Saturday Night Fever.  They were having fun and that’s all that mattered.

            I leaned over to Mena, “This band of women will have a wonderful Monday night but a horrible Tuesday morning.”

            She chuckled.

            When we signed our check I turned to Thomas.

            “So if you are so miserable here why don’t you leave?”

            He handed me the credit card back and smiled.  “What else - a woman.”

Pictures - Monday, December 10th 2012

Paris - Day 3

Sunday, December 9th 2012

            Our first night in the flat at 37 Rue des Jeuneurs was interesting to say the least.  There was a lot of noise.  Women who sounded like caricatures of 1940's French girls getting drunk for the first time, giggling and squealing as they struggled to climb the circular staircase.  A man outside our window revving his engine and yelling, "Let's go! Let's go! Let's go!"  Over and over.  Later – a loud crash right underneath our window.  When I heard the noise I got out of bed and poked my head out of the window.  A motorcycle was strewn across the street.  Two men were laughing.  Another man, on the other side of the street, was urinating into a corner.  This was all underlined by the heavy bass drums of a bar down the street.  Ahh…Paris at night!

            We woke at noon.  What?!  We never sleep that late.  But when in Paris do as the Parisians do, right?  :)

            We went back to La Cantoche since we still owed our waitress a tip from the previous day’s meal (we didn’t know you can only tip in cash and we didn’t have any Euros the first time we went in).  After we finished brunch we tipped our waitress from the prior day.  She was so touched that she gave me a shot.  That woke me up real quick!

            After brunch we walked to Cathédrale Notre Dame de Paris.  The Cathedral was completed in 1345 and is widely considered one of the most prominent examples of French Gothic architecture in the world.  It was staggeringly ornate, beautiful and large.  It reminded me of the Sagrada Familia Chapel in Barcelona, Spain.  It’s almost hard to comprehend the amount of work that it took to erect such a massive structure…back at a time when an abacus was a mind-blowing emergence of technology.

            Inside Mena and I lit candles…her hair caught on fire while taking a picture of me lighting my candle.  We caught the fire quickly so it only got a few strands…phew.  Could have turned out a lot worse.

            After the Cathedral we were going to see the La Sainte-Chapelle church but it was getting dark and we decided to set out for the Champs Elysees with our ultimate destination being the Arc de Triomphe.  We walked along the Port des Tuileries, Paris – the narrow walkway that lines the Seine River.  We watched as huge barges navigated between the many bridges connecting Paris.  We took pictures of graffiti and landscape shots of all the beautiful architecture and bridges.  I carved our initials into a tree.  We walked past the Louvre, through the Jardin des Tuileries and down Champs-Elysees towards the Arc de Triomphe.

            As we walked down the Champs-Elysees Mena said her stomach was bothering her.  I got her a Sprite to help calm her stomach.  I could tell she wasn’t feeling well because she had been excitable and talkative all day and suddenly was quiet and withdrawn.  The further we walked the worse she seemed. 

            By the time we got to the Arc de Triomphe she had to sit down.  We were supposed to walk back to our flat and stop at Bar Hemingway on the way back, but she wasn’t feeling up to it.  We ended up at, of all places, Starbucks.  We sat there for five minutes and Mena drank tea.  All of a sudden she told me she had to go outside.  I collected all our stuff and found her vomiting in the street.

            Food poisoning.  Oh no.

            I flagged a cab, which took us in the wrong direction for ten minutes, but whatever.  At one point Mena said she had to throw up.  She leaned over me, stuck her head out the door and vomited again.  And again.  The cab driver naturally assumed we were drunk and rolled his eyes.  After another ten minutes I walked Mena up to our flat.  She jumped in the shower and I went out in search of soda, crackers and bread.  I brought her the soda and bread but she immediately threw up everything she ate and drank.  I was worried about her and assumed she was going to be out of commission for the rest of the night and probably all of the following day.  After an hour she had settled down and seemed alright.  I told her I was going to grab a quick bite to eat since I’d only had one meal that day.

            “I’ll come.”  She said.

            “Really?”

            She nodded.  What a tough girl!

            We went to a fancy-pants restaurant in our neighborhood called Le Grand Colbert.  Our waiter was nasty and he openly mocked us when we didn’t order wine with dinner (I had a beer, Mena had water).  The people next to us kept staring at us.  One guy in particular kept staring at Mena.

            “Each time he looks at you tap my leg underneath the table and I’ll turn around and stare at him.”

            She tapped my leg, I turned and stared at him. 

            She tapped my leg again, again I turned and stared.

            I was pissed off.

            Eventually I just started staring at him, so when he looked up I was already looking at him.  When his dinner party was done he walked away with his tail between his legs.

            The food at Le Grand Colbert was delicious but it was also the first place we noticed the snobbery and elitism that some denizens of Paris are famous for.  Regardless, I was really happy Mena was able to eat.  After dinner she declared she was '94%' healthy again!  Pretty good, eh?!  We walked back to our flat and passed out.