Where The Streets Have No Name

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Well, okay. They have names. But pronouncing every one of them sounds like an ostrich gargling glass shards. (I can only picture what they have to say about pronouncing "Mississippi.") My apologies to John, who's reading this blog and who speaks Dutch. I'm sure it's a lovely language once you get over the strep throat infection it takes to learn it.

Kinda rainy on and off in a drown you instantly and then disappear just as fast kind of way. It's one of the ways that being accustomed to San Francisco weather helps. No matter where you go, cloudy skies and cool, drab, wet days never get you down.

I think there's a Carpenter's song in there somewhere. (In the immortal words of Bette Midler, "Great band. But the drummer sucked.")

So we took off on a little stroll around the West Canal and the Jordaan area, (A name possibly derived from the Dutch word for "Jew" or a bastardization of the River Jordan.) winding up at the steps of the Anne Frank house. Or rather the three-hour queue for the Anne Frank house. We opted out on that fun, as the people in line looked like they were off to the camps themselves. (It's a joke, people. Don't get uptight, or this whole thing won't go well.)

Instead, we went off to the Tourist Office by Central Station, where we snagged tix for tomorrow that will allow us to bypass the line. Spunky American ingenuity that is.

We went from there to the Van Gogh museum. Funky architecture. But like the Moma in SF (and I kinda have to say New York as well since the new construction), the art on the inside far outshines the architecture outside.

What an amazing thing to see, though, as his work in one section was put chronologically, and you started off with these incredibly dark portraits, then rounded a corner where there was a sudden explosion of color. And so incredibly sad to realize that some of his greats ... Irises and Crows in a Corn Field, for example ... were painted in the insane asylum he'd committed himself to the same year that he killed himself.

And he killed himself because he was convinced that his artistic ability had drained from him. Right while he was creating work that would later be seen as one of the great masterpieces of its time. That came after Van Gogh's death, however. (Much like Seurat's ... and you know how I am about that guy.)

Tomorrow it's the Rijksmuseum with a big bunch o' Rembrandt, Anne Frank's house and some shopping at the Albert Cuypsmarkt. Or something like that.

And coming soon? Norway. Grab yer kippers!

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Photos

Pancake or Hubcap?
The Dutch know how to trot out a pancake, kids. This one was a doughy concoction full of cheese and mushrooms and ham. My arteries hardened before I could completely finish.

Cultural Exchange
A tip to the stomach-sensitive globe trotter: Upon arriving, grab a bottle or cup of the local yogurt and ingest it immediately. And ye will have smooth culinary sailing henceforth. (With thanks to Martha Stewart for the original tip.)

European Influence
San Francisco is just like Amsterdam. Except San Francisco has hills. And Amsterdam has canals ... pretty much all of which have a serious postcard vibe going on.

Needed: A 12-Step (Pedal?) Program
An open letter to Amsterdam: Okay, you fun-loving, reefer tokers. There's a point where a good thing goes too far. It's time to step away from your insane love of bicycles.

Automat!
I'm posting this for Don, as I know the sight of an automat will warm his heart.

Kenneth at the Van Gogh Museum
In case you thought I was just snagging pictures from other people and posting them. I realize it's possible that I'd spend two weeks on my couch watching TiVo ... but I really am in Europe this time.

Rusty at the Van Gogh Museum
And the same goes for Rusty. Isn't he the cutest damn thing?

Is it Soup or Art?
Somewhere between an unlabeled soup can and a tin oyster. It's ... odd.

Comments

[Ronda]

Okay People Around Me are Scared
Mostly because I laughed outloud, FREQUENTLY with this post. The dog boys continue to mope around the house, looking for their dads, Camp Ronda is a sullen place. You, of course, are missing a stretch of SPECTACULAR weather in the Bay Area... glad you took it with you. Love, Ronda

[Matt]

Probiotic Yoghurt Thickie???
Digestive wonder though it is, I do believe some work needs to be done on either the translation or the marketing. I don't think I want to drink something called a "thickie." AWESOME blog!

[deleted_42325]

It's pronounced like Y
Just remember 'ij' is really a 'y', and you'll do mostly OK. It may help you to know that even the Dutch are amused by their language. Avoid the Chicken Krokets in the Automaat -- if, that is, they are really chicken. And, please promise me that you won't have your patatjes oorlog experience at Febo. Just remember that Biologisch (on food) means organic not crawling with bugs. I'm kind of a weird person about museums. I was in Amsterdam 11 times before JohnJohn dragged in into the Rijksmuseum. I think the Rembrandts are just big dark pictures. I was however obsessed with Vermeer's "Little Street" My favorite museum in Holland is Madurodam in The Hague.