"Some tourists think Amsterdam is a city of sin, but in truth it is a city of freedom. And in freedom, most people find sin." -John Green
Before I even knew I was taking this trip, my parents had booked their flight to Amsterdam. "Get an apartment near the canal belt," I told them. "That's the really pretty old part of the city." My mother took my advice, and the apartment we rented for the few days we were in Amsterdam was a charming canal house with very step stairs. Old wood floors massaged my feet each morning when I woke up. I met my family in Amsterdam on Saturday morning.
While I found the old canal house charming, my grandparents thought otherwise. They said that the showers were not working right, the closet doors were unhinged, and the rooms were not well lit. Admittedly, the bathroom door came unhinged, which was a problem that needed to be fixed immediately. The apartment owner, however, dealt with the problem promptly. I had a very pleasent stay at the apartment, but my grandparents would likely not give the same positive review. I love traveling with my family. They pick the best restaurants, and the constant companionship is nice. When I do , however, I understand that I give up a few freedoms I have when I'm traveling on my own. The walking pace slows and I am not always the one deciding what I do each day.
The apartment we stayed in was right on was right on the Prinsengracht canal. Since we were only steps from the Anne Frank House, that was the evening activity on the first night. It was interesting to see the famed bookcase and the annex inside what would otherwise have been an old canal house, had a diary and World War II not immortalized the home. Most intersting of all, however, was that Anne Frank was revealed as a teenager, rather than a Holocaust victim. There was a wall of movie star pictures that Anne collected. One day, towards the end of the war, an announcement on the radio asked people to hold on to any writings or pictures related to the German occupation of The Netherlands, as these would someday be historical documents that could be published. Anne, excited by the thought of her journal being published, asked her father to make sure that her writing reached a publisher if she did not survive the war. Her diary was, in part, published as part of a teenage girls' desire to be remembered. While we remember Anne Frank as a Holocaust victim, she was also a teenager with her own personality, hobbies, and interests. This humanization of history, I think, is often forgotten when discussing wars, politics, and international relations.
Outside our apartment, tour boats floated lazily on the canals. The Dutch pedaled their single-speed bikes quickly along the quiet canals. The next morning, we toured the huge Rijksmuseum. I noticed that, based on his self-portrait, Vincent van Gogh would fit right into Portland or Bushwick or any other American hipster mecca. With his beard, felt hat, and vacant stare, he'd fit right in with the oft-mocked urban uppies of North America.
My mother asked a few times to go to the Red Light District. When we finally went last night after dinner, my parents and grandparents were more uncomfortable than I was. I'm not sure what to make of this, but it was certainly interesting to watch their reactions as we strolled through the rows of ladies posing seductively in the tall windows.
Today we're leaving Amsterdam together for Paris. With all the Gouda I ate in The Netherlands and all the Brie I'll eat in Paris, I sometimes feel like I'm on a cheese tour of Europe.
Before I even knew I was taking this trip, my parents had booked their flight to Amsterdam. "Get an apartment near the canal belt," I told them. "That's the really pretty old part of the city." My mother took my advice, and the apartment we rented for the few days we were in Amsterdam was a charming canal house with very step stairs. Old wood floors massaged my feet each morning when I woke up. I met my family in Amsterdam on Saturday morning.
While I found the old canal house charming, my grandparents thought otherwise. They said that the showers were not working right, the closet doors were unhinged, and the rooms were not well lit. Admittedly, the bathroom door came unhinged, which was a problem that needed to be fixed immediately. The apartment owner, however, dealt with the problem promptly. I had a very pleasent stay at the apartment, but my grandparents would likely not give the same positive review. I love traveling with my family. They pick the best restaurants, and the constant companionship is nice. When I do , however, I understand that I give up a few freedoms I have when I'm traveling on my own. The walking pace slows and I am not always the one deciding what I do each day.
The apartment we stayed in was right on was right on the Prinsengracht canal. Since we were only steps from the Anne Frank House, that was the evening activity on the first night. It was interesting to see the famed bookcase and the annex inside what would otherwise have been an old canal house, had a diary and World War II not immortalized the home. Most intersting of all, however, was that Anne Frank was revealed as a teenager, rather than a Holocaust victim. There was a wall of movie star pictures that Anne collected. One day, towards the end of the war, an announcement on the radio asked people to hold on to any writings or pictures related to the German occupation of The Netherlands, as these would someday be historical documents that could be published. Anne, excited by the thought of her journal being published, asked her father to make sure that her writing reached a publisher if she did not survive the war. Her diary was, in part, published as part of a teenage girls' desire to be remembered. While we remember Anne Frank as a Holocaust victim, she was also a teenager with her own personality, hobbies, and interests. This humanization of history, I think, is often forgotten when discussing wars, politics, and international relations.
Outside our apartment, tour boats floated lazily on the canals. The Dutch pedaled their single-speed bikes quickly along the quiet canals. The next morning, we toured the huge Rijksmuseum. I noticed that, based on his self-portrait, Vincent van Gogh would fit right into Portland or Bushwick or any other American hipster mecca. With his beard, felt hat, and vacant stare, he'd fit right in with the oft-mocked urban uppies of North America.
My mother asked a few times to go to the Red Light District. When we finally went last night after dinner, my parents and grandparents were more uncomfortable than I was. I'm not sure what to make of this, but it was certainly interesting to watch their reactions as we strolled through the rows of ladies posing seductively in the tall windows.
Today we're leaving Amsterdam together for Paris. With all the Gouda I ate in The Netherlands and all the Brie I'll eat in Paris, I sometimes feel like I'm on a cheese tour of Europe.
Hi Nathaniel,
ReplyDeleteI am so glad that you started blogging again for this trip. Keep the posts coming. And say hi to everyone for me.