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| For more of Vincent's work (we ARE on a first-name basis), see my travel website images: aboutJoanneMiller.com |
“Avoid the
lines, purchase your ticket in advance” just isn’t true. I had a 9AM ticket
entry (the first of the day), and I waited outside with 200 other people for
more than 30 minutes. Then we were all admitted at once. Initially, it was
really difficult to get near any of the paintings because there were so many
people, but the way the new modern museum is laid out on several floors,
visitors spread out in a few minutes.
I realized
it’s not just the extraordinary colors and unique brushwork that draw me to Van
Gogh (which the Dutch pronounce van hockh)—I actually had a crush on him, based on his many
self-portraits. If I had met him in my younger days, I probably would have
fallen for his intensity and manic energy and excused away the depression and
pyschotic episodes as artistic temperment. One thing for sure: painting was his
life. It’s sad that it enriches us, but made him a wandering pauper during his
brief life. I wonder what he would think nowadays, as his face and work have
become a brand to sell T-shirts and mouse pads. He’d probably cut off the other
ear.
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| One of Vincent's experiment with pointillism |
I planned
to go to the Rijksmuseum in the afternoon, but even with my prepaid ticket, it
was a three-hour wait (yes, three hours). I didn’t find out until later that
May 9 is Ascension Day, a national holiday; locals and tourists were all vying
for a spot. The city’s most famous museums surround a three-block long plaza
called Museumplein (pronounced museum plane—Dutch translates fairly easily); a massive lunch place on
Museumplein was full of merry, beer-swilling tourists.
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| The Museumplein's block-long fountain |
I opted instead for a
hearty sandwich at a nearby cafe recomended to me by one of the museum guides:
Vrolyk, on the corner of Hobbesmustraat and the canal, just down the street
from the Rijksmuseum.
After
lunch, I wandered around in circles, thinking I was moving towards the de Cuyp
market in the section of town called di Pijp, and discovered that I ended up
back at the Rijksmuseum at 2:15. The wait had dwindled to one hour. I decided
to try again on Friday morning, since my ticket wasn’t for a particular time. I
had bought a 48-hour chipkaart for the metro, which enabled me to ride anywhere
on Metro transportation during that time period at no extra charge—a really
good deal for $17.
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| Buildings near my hostel |
The
architecture of Amsterdam is modern, creative, innovative. Of course, so much
of the city suffered bombing in WWII that it rose almost from whole cloth in
many areas. The layout is in a series of semi-circular canals fanning out from
Central Station; I don’t think I’ve ever had so many opportunities to get lost.
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| Main Library interior |
It was too
late to visit Rembrandt’s home, so I rode up to Cental Station and saw the
incredible main library with a citywide view from the restaurant on the top
floor. Then I wandered down to Waterlooplein, the old Jewish neighborhood, and
walked around ...the streets were very crowded and the shops were interesting—a
bit of hippie flair here and there, a hand-made candy shop, a few second-hand
stores, and a few “coffee shops”—no, I didn’t sample the merchandise. I was
already lost in Amsterdam. Not only is marijuana legal here, there were a
wallful of herbal “trips”—legal chemical mixtures that mimic LSD, MDMA, and a
lot of things that didn’t exist in my experimental days.
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| View from the top floor of the library |
As I
prepared to enter the Metro station, I realized my Metro chipkaart was gone
right out of my pocket where I had put it when I began walking to the station.
Fortunately, that was the only thing IN my pocket. I remembered getting bumped
by a short man on one of the busy streets. Or, it could have fallen out when I
was reaching for my camera, or when I went to the bathroom, but I think I would have noticed...still,
it was gone and I was upset, attached to the insignificant money value--about
$7 left on the card—but really mad at myself for being careless.
I ended up
getting lost again, ate a a truly terrible Argentinian restauant (out of fish
soup, she offered chicken soup of a sort...almost all broth and teensy pieces
of chicken with tortilas).
I walked
back to Central Station and bought a new 25-hour card that expired 7:30 Friday
night. When I told the policeman at the station my pocket had been picked, he
made a wry face, especially when I demonstrated the bumping part. He hears this
all the time. I usually pride myself on how careful I am with things I don’t
want to lose, and wouldn’t have even had the card in my pocket normally. Its a
lession learned, pretty cheaply.
For more of Vincent's extraordinary work, see my travel website images: aboutJoanneMiller.com
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