Amsterdam Part I: Getting There is Half the Journey (Literally)!

Let’s talk about Amsterdam a bit, shall we? Or rather, the trip to get there.

You see, my holiday as a whole was four days long, but two of those days were spent purely in transit between London and Amsterdam. This is because I decided to use MegaBus to facilitate my journey.

Now, I know what you’re thinking:  

Brett, you hate the bus! You would rather walk a mile (or more) than take the bus somewhere local. Why on Earth would you subject yourself to a 13 hour bus ride?

Me on the bus, on the return journey.

In short, the answer is because it’s cheap (round-trip tickets were only £20). But even that low, low pricetag wasn’t the sole reason why I went this route: I also wanted to get a sense of some other European locales, even if it was from the highway. After all, it’s taken me 30 years to make it to Europe—who knows when I’ll be back?

So, on the morning of Sunday, 13 May, I set off for Victoria Coach Station at o’Dark early. (Seriously, I left the house at like 5:30 AM!) We got a bit of a late start, and didn’t actually leave until about 9:15 AM, but the bus wasn’t crowded—I had an entire row to myself—and everyone was half-asleep, so no one seemed to care too much.

After crossing out of the London city limits, I started reading my book (Game of Thrones) since I was already familiar with the sights between there and the Channel Tunnel. Imagine my surprise, then, when I looked up and realized that we were actually headed for the ferry rather than the Chunnel! Suddenly my excitement doubled, and I hurriedly stashed my book and started soaking up the 'new' surrounding coastline.

With Dover Castle looming above us, itself atop the towering White Cliffs, we passed through the Port Authority and boarded the giant ship that would take us across the English Channel.   

Dover Castle as seen from the ferry

I made my way onto the deck, and watched as we left England behind, with seagulls gliding along in our wake. The ferry crossing itself was quite nice. I spent the entire time just traveling back and forth along the ship, staring at the shrinking English coast one minute and the growing French coast the next. I confess to being surprised by how close they actually are—I expected it to be kind of like Lake Michigan (where there’s just enough distance between Illinois and Michigan that you can’t quite see the opposite coast), but for most of the trip I could make out both bodies just fine!

The White Cliffs of Dover

Calais and the French coast

 The ferry docked in Calais, France, which—much as when I went to Paris—I found myself wanting to explore further. It seems like a charming seaside town, dotted with dozens of gorgeous steeples. Sadly, the bus wasn’t scheduled to stop in Calais, so I didn’t have the chance. 

We continued onward courtesy of the A16, cutting across northern France by way of Dunkerque. (Notwithstanding Dunkerque's significant place in the WWII context, I was again reminded of my earlier trip to France, when I was generally unimpressed by the passing scenery between Calais and Paris.)

Eventually we crossed into Belgium, which was a great thrill for me as it was another country I could cross off my list as having seen! Now, there are some who might argue this point—for instance, Nic doesn’t think it counts unless you stop to eat or sleep. I see the logic in this argument, but for my own selfish purposes I’m going to ignore said-logic and say that I’ve been there. It’s also worth noting that we didn’t stop at any kind of border patrol point. This made me kind of sad because I was looking forward to having a Belgian stamp in my passport, but I guess it just doesn’t make sense to have checkpoints across all of the roads that cross European borders.

Upon crossing into Belgium, we started heading east. Though not listed on the manifest, we stopped briefly in Gent so that the bus driver could trade with another. We were given about 10 minutes to get off the coach and stretch our legs—so now I can say that I have not only driven through, but also set foot on Belgian soil—but since we were in a hotel parking lot there wasn’t much to see or do.

My only photo of Gent--just something to remember that I was there, however briefly, LOL!

Eventually we loaded back on, and continued onward. About an hour or so later, we arrived in Bruxelles. Excepting the traffic, which was atrocious, I thought the capital of Belgium (and the de facto capital of the EU) looked to be a beautiful old city. We passed the gorgeous Nationale Basiliek van het Helig-Hart (Basilica of the Sacred Heart), and I even caught a glimpse of the Atomium sculpture before stopping at Bruxelles’ main bus hub for those passengers switching there. 

As in Gent we were given the opportunity to get off the coach and stretch our legs, but this time we had a full 30 minutes and there was much more to see. (Mostly, however, I just walked around the terminal and surrounding area, as I was terrified of missing the bus.)

Out and about in Belgium...sort of.

All too soon we were on our way again, cutting through Antwerpen before crossing into The Netherlands proper. Much like the non-city parts of Belgium, The Netherlandian regions known as Brabant and South Holland seemed to be mostly farmlands, though gorgeous nonetheless. 

Sadly, I didn’t see a single tulip along the way, and I only saw a handful of windmills (though the latter grew more frequent as we neared North Holland).

We finally arrived at our final destination—Zeeburg P&R Coach Park at Zuiderzeeweg—at about 9:50 PM local time, from whence I hopped on one of the trams and headed to Amsterdam Centraal Station, and then on another that would take me to my hostel in-time for my 11 PM check-in.

Amsterdam Centraal Station (taken 15 May 2012)

My hostel (taken on 15 May 2012)

I actually missed my stop on the second tram because I didn’t realize you had to both press a buzzer to let the driver know you want off (as on a bus) and then a second buzzer to actually open the tram doors (like on the DLR). 

Fortunately, it was only a short walk back to the Prinsengracht stop from where I was, and I still made it to check-in in time—and, somehow, even at that late hour it only seemed like dusk! There was plenty of natural light to see by as I found my way back to Prinsengracht and then on to a street called Leidsegracht, where my hostel was located overlooking a canal.

After checking-in, I realized how hungry I was. And, since the sun still hadn’t completely disappeared—again, it was about 11 PM at this point—I made my way out to find food. I quickly found a place serving vlaamse frites (i.e., fries/chips drowning in mayo) and made a fast, cheap meal out of that!

Having found a quick meal and drink, I returned to the hostel and hit the hay in preparation for the next day’s adventures—but more on that later!

[NB: Unless I remember something significant that I forgot here, I probably won't post anything about the return-trip, as it's pretty much the same here but in reverse. The only exception is that on the way home I packed a chocolate-covered waffle (bought in Amsterdam the day before), which I wanted to eat until I was in Belgium—get it?]

Paris: Endings and Things

So, I figure: what better way to get everything off of my ‘To Do’ list than by taking time out to write one last blog entry about my Parisian experience? I mean, doing so has been looming over my head—sure, it’s not as important as my midterm essays, but… 

Aww, screw it!  

Who am I kidding? I just want to put the academics away for a bit and focus on some of the fun things I’ve done recently. Plus, I want to blog about my Moroccan adventure, but can’t until I finish with France.

With that said, let’s get right down to it:

On 20 February 2012, after leaving the Eiffel Tower, I made my way to Père Lachaise Cemetery. That’s right, I spent part of my holiday in the world’s (ostensibly) most romantic city in a cemetery—in fact, it’s such a big cemetery, and there were so many people to ‘visit’ that I wound up going back on the 21^st prior to boarding the bus back to London. (In all fairness, the second trip was more the result of logistics—Père Lachaise is only one metro stop away from the bus station.)

Amongst the 1,000,000 bodies who are interred at Père Lachaise are some of the world’s most notable authors and artists. Since I don’t personally know anyone buried there, it was obviously these famous figures that I was interested in.

So who’d I see, you ask? Well, let’s see…

The first one I found was Isadora Duncan. Now, I confess that I don’t really know much about Ms. Duncan beyond the fact that she was a famous dancer. However, I had heard Nic talk about her before, and so I knew she was someone important to him. With that in mind, I crossed my fingers and tried the camera again, hoping there would be enough ‘juice’ left in the battery to get at least a photo for him—miraculously, not only did it give me enough power to snag the photo of Ms. Duncan’s burial spot, but also all of the others that followed over the next two days! Success!

NB: This is not my photo!

After Ms. Duncan, I made my way to the next ‘big’ name on my list: that queer, literary mastermind Oscar Wilde. Now, you’ll notice that there’s a plastic casing surrounding his marker. That’s because there was a tradition of people donning lipstick and kissing/writing messages on the stone. After a while, this began to take its toll on the gravesite, and so they’ve enclosed it within said-protective plastic. I didn’t have any lipstick on me (and had no clue how to ask for some in French), so I just took a quick self-photo alongside the resting place of Dorian Gray’s creator.

NB: This is not my photo!

Exhausted and praying the camera doesn't die!

 Next up: Edith Piaf. Most Americans only know of Ms. Piaf through her famous song ‘La Vie En Rose’ (and admittedly, that was my first exposure to her). But she also led an incredibly fascinating and tragic life. Also, for the record, I like ‘Jezebel’ a bit more than the earlier mentioned song.

The lyrics to 'Le Vie En Rose' are on the green sheet.

Sarah Bernhardt was next. As with Isadora Duncan, my connection to Ms. Bernhardt is a bit more tangential. I knew that she was a silent-movie era actress known for being overly dramatic, but the main draw here (for me) was that we used to refer to my little sister as ‘little Miss Sarah Bernhardt’ when she would throw temper-tantrums and whatnot. (Although, according to my Mom, she called my sister that because her own grandparents had called her that at the same age.)

The other two graves I visited on the 20^th—Jim Morrison and Frederic Chopin—weren’t ones that I necessarily ‘cared’ about per se. I just felt like I should since I was there.

NB: This is not my photo!

NB: This is not my photo!

Shortly after finding Mr. Chopin’s grave, I was kicked out of the cemetery because it was closing time. This was done by a creepy guy who just appeared out of nowhere while I was walking between some graves and told me that the sun was setting and I would have to leave. Not totally convinced that he wasn’t part of the walking dead himself, I did as instructed, returning to the hostel on painfully sore feet—there was certainly no going back out that night because I could barely stand, and so I just watched the French version of ‘Cops’ (which focuses on firefighters instead). 

As I mentioned before, I didn’t have much time on the 21^st to do anything, and so I returned to Père Lachaise for my last hour or two in Paris. This enabled me to snag some of the interred folks I had looked for but was unable to find the day before. That day’s batch included:

The world’s most famous mime—Marcel Marceau—who I remember mostly from I Love Lucy (though I can’t find any record of him ever appearing on there, so maybe they just talked about him?)

NB: This is not my photo!

Mr. Marceau was followed by Richard Wright, the author of Native Son. I actually just read Native Son last semester for my Fiction I class, and it’s an amazing book (albeit very difficult to get through—but then, that’s part of what makes it so amazing). Mr. Wright also shared a friendship (for a time) with another American author living in Paris whose work I read last semester: James Baldwin. (Still more interesting is that Mr. Baldwin wrote Giovanni’s Room, after which my Parisian hostel was named.) Sadly, Mr. Wright’s ashes are interred in a very inaccessible, easy to overlook spot beside a staircase.

NB: This is not my photo!

Quite by accident, I stumbled upon the painter Max Ernst’s resting place as I was walking away from Mr. Wright’s.

NB: This is not my photo!

And finally, I found the frustratingly elusive last two on my list: Gertrude Stein and Alice B. Toklas, the world’s most famous literary lesbians—

Sorry, I have to interrupt for a moment to do this: 

“They were quite regularly gay there, Helen Furr and Georgine Skeene, they were regularly gay there where they were gay. They were very regularly gay. To be regularly gay was to do every day the gay thing that they did every day. To be regularly gay was to end every day at the same time after they had been regularly gay. They were regularly gay. They were gay every day. They ended every day in the same way, at the same time, and they had been every day regularly gay…” ~ Stein, “Miss Furr and Miss Skeene”

—Now, admittedly, I’m not a fan of Stein’s work (which I quoted above). But, I cannot detract from the headway she made in the world in terms of living an openly gay life.

In that vein, I was surprised at first to find Ms. Stein buried by herself. It was well known, even while they were living, that she and Ms. Toklas were living together as partners-in-life. And yet, Ms. Toklas was nowhere to be found. 

 

At first I was very upset—how could they have separated them at the end?

But then, as I was walking away, something caught my eye: Ms. Toklas’ information actually was listed on the stone (albeit on the back), meaning that they were buried together. Crisis solved, and now I could have my Awwww moment, followed by my professing my sincerest thanks for my predecessors’ (including Wilde’s and Baldwin’s) efforts to make my life today a little easier.

Stein (l) and Toklas (r). [NB: This is not my photo!]

Stein's Side

Toklas' Side

Also worth noting at Père Lachaise were the memorials seen below. I found them to be incredibly striking in their grotesqueness, especially when hit by the setting sun.

And so, for all intents and purposes, my trip to Paris comes to a close. Fitting, I think, to do so with an entry dedicated to a cemetery. In case you were wondering (which you probably weren’t), nothing all that interesting happened on the ride back to London. There was a bit of drama at the border (one guy was detained, and I almost missed the bus because I was stuck at the back of the line), but in the end I made it!

Will I ever return? I wouldn’t necessarily rush back, but I wouldn’t turn down the opportunity either. However, I did fall in love with Montmartre, and I really enjoyed the Louvre and what I saw of the Pompidou—ooh, and the crepes!—and so I would definitely return to those parts of Paris!

Paris: Eiffel Tower

Clearly I have failed in my mission to post all about my Parisian experience before my Moroccan one. So, despite the fact that I’m dying to talk about Marrakech, I’m going to take a minute to chat about 20 February 2012 (my second full day)—don’t worry, this won’t take too long.

I had 12:00 PM tickets to the top of the Eiffel Tower, which gave me a great deal of free time in the morning. My original plan was to visit Hôtel National des Invalides properly, so that I could also see le tombeau de Napoléon (Napoleon’s tomb). What I didn’t reckon with was the cost, which would have put me a bit more over my budget than I was aiming for. Instead, I merely walked away with a couple of fun photos from the outside…

Since I didn’t make it in to Bonaparte’s tomb, I was left with three hours of ‘down-time,’ which I spent purposefully losing myself in the streets of Paris en route to the Eiffel Tower. And then, finally, there it was—just looming above me.

After failing to find signs of Lois Lane and/or men in white overalls I made my way over. Unfortunately, I wasn’t allowed to go to the very top floor (despite having paid for it), and they instead took us to the next-highest level. 

They did so in this boxy, yellow elevator that moved along ball bearings—at least that’s what it felt and sounded like—and which carried us up the northeastern ‘leg’ of the tower. And, since the elevator’s walls were mostly glass, you could see just how fast and far from the ground you were moving!

Think Lois Lane is under there?

 On that note, let me just say that the Eiffel Tower is a lot higher than one might think. In my case, I always think of those posters you see at other tall sites like the Sears Tower—I’m sorry, ‘Big Willie’—which give you a visual approximation of how much taller each site is in comparison to the others. On such graphics the tower always seems so tiny by comparison. But once you’re on your way up, I can assure you that it doesn’t feel so small.

When we finally reached as high as they would let us go, I hopped out and did a quick walk-around (followed by a second, slower and more studious tour). I managed to snag a photo of from each side, and then one final picture of myself standing over Paris’ touristy heart…and then the camera died. 

Le sigh. 

Looking east(ish).

I tried to jury-rig some battery power using a spare potato and one of the antenna wires running from the top (a.k.a. some AA batteries I bought at the souvenir shop) but no such luck.

 Despite a few hiccups, it was still a very pleasant morning—next up: Père Lachaise Cemetery…

Paris: From Churches to Gay Bars (With a Bit of Bohemia In-Between)

So, in a little over 24 hours I will be boarding a plane for Marrakech, Morocco. Yes, this li’l bird’s going to Africa, courtesy of my amazing and brilliant and thoughtful hubby!

But, this means that I really need to get my butt in gear in terms of finishing up my blog entries about Paris. So, here goes…

19 February (still):

As I left Notre Dame, it was late afternoon—but my time in Paris was limited, and so I hopped on the Paris Metro and made my way north! A short while later, I found myself emerging from the Anvers metro stop, and to my right—atop a steep hill—sat the magnificent Basilique du Sacré-Cœur.

This gorgeous building (the Basilica of the Sacred Heart of Paris) sits atop the butte Montmartre, and offers an unparalleled view of Paris—but I’ll come to that in a moment. First, I have to tell you about my adventure en route from the metro to the hilltop. 

So, it’s almost a completely vertical climb from the street to the top of the butte, and along the way—starting at the basilica’s gates, unfortunately—are small groups of hustlers looking for money, and they stand in tight knots so that you cannot avoid them entirely.

But I’m savvy, right? 

I recognized them right off the bat as hustlers, and wasn’t interested in playing their reindeer games. 

So, as I’m walking by, one of them gets in my face and starts asking if I wanted a trinket to remember my visit. Without stopping, I held up my hand and politely said, “No thanks.”

Well, the problem was that I held up my hand, because as soon as I did so he slipped a loop of red thread over my index finger and tightened it so that I couldn’t pull my hand free. I immediately protested, telling him to take it off and that I wasn’t interested (nor was I paying for what he was trying to sell me—one of those ‘friendship bracelet’ things that we all made in elementary and middle school). But, my new-found friend and kidnapper of my finger wouldn’t budge, and vowed that he would never charge me for something like this, that it was just a gesture of good will, blah blah blah…

Using my own treasonous finger as a weapon against me, the man proceeded to twine the offending red thread with additional white and black threads, making a bracelet which he eventually removed from my finger long enough to affix to my wrist...

And then the cheeky bastard had the nerve to demand 5€ for it!

I laughed in his face, told him he was dreaming, and chucked him a penny (I figured that was even more offensive than not giving anything) as I pushed past him. 

Suffice to say, he was not thrilled. But neither was I.

Then, not fifteen feet away, another one from the same group accosted me. This time I kept my hands in my pocket as I scoffed and said that I had already been caught by one of his other con-artists friends and that I wasn’t about to be caught again. 

Unfortunately (again), this one wouldn’t take no for an answer—he physically grabbed me by the forearm as he still (ostensibly politely) told me that I should stay and talk with him. I promptly took out both hands, gave him a mighty shove, and told him to bugger off. (And then I ran the rest of the way up the hill, where I was finally safe.)

So, now that I’m safe, I can tell you about the view. 

Truly, the vista from the Basilique du Sacré-Cœur was even more incredible than the one from the Eiffel Tower (which I’ll discuss in a later entry). The only thing you couldn’t really see properly was the Eiffel Tower itself—it was there, of course, just blocked by some trees.

Playing with the panoramic setting...

The bad hair day continues...

Peek-A-Boo...I see you!

After leaving this magnificent building, I headed slightly west and deeper into Montmartre. Now, let me just take a moment to talk about this amazing district. In many ways, my all-too-brief time spent here was my favorite part of the French excursion. 

Beginning in the late 1800s, the area became a favorite for party-goers and artists. At various times Montmartre has played host to nightclubs like the (in)famous Moulin Rouge and artists such as van Gogh and Picasso. And I can tell you that its role has not changed much in the subsequent years: the Moulin Rouge still stands, and (according to the owner of my hostel) it is still possible for starving, homeless artists to find temporary and free lodging within the district’s limits.

I was never able to find any proof of it, but I’d also like to think—and to a certain degree I simply feel as if—one of my favorite musical artists, the legendary Eartha Kitt, was a frequent visitor to Montmartre during her European 'exile' years. This fantasy is (falsely) bolstered by one of my favorite songs of hers, ‘Everything Changes’ from the much-maligned Mimi Le Duck. 

One of my favorite lines within that song goes, ‘One time at Montmartre / I drank gin with Sartre”...

So, in honor of Eartha Kitt’s character’s drink with Sartre—and for all of the talented men and women (known and unknown) who have called this stunning area ‘home’ over the years—I settled down to enjoy a glass of wine (I don’t do gin). 

I did so in a lovely little square called the Place du Tertre, at an equally charming, friendly restaurant called Chez la Mère Catherine, surrounded by paintings undoubtedly meant to attract the eye of unsuspecting tourists. (In fact, I was reminded of the scene from that old episode of I Love Lucy where Lucy, Ricky, and the Mertzes all wind up buying the replicas of the same painting from a ‘street artist’ who sells them to the foolish American tourists.)

I love the random older woman (who looks a bit like my paternal grandmother) who's totally crashed the photo!

As I mentioned earlier, in many regards this was the highlight of my trip. The air was both relaxed and excited in the same moment, and the people—from my server, to the manager (who made a special trip out to see how I was doing), to the couple at the table next to me—were all so friendly! Similarly, the weather was perfect. Sitting outside and drinking wine, all while surrounded by lovely old buildings and attractive paintings…it was tres magnifique!

Sadly, I knew I had to leave Chez la Mère Catherine eventually, and so with a heavy heart I settled the bill and was on my way once more. With help from a local business owner, I found my way along winding, twisting streets (passing, as it happens, the actual Café des 2 Moulins, where the title-character in the film Amélie worked—unfortunately, I didn’t find that out until it was too late, so no pictures).

After losing myself once or twice, I finally found myself standing before the famous windmill belonging to the Moulin Rouge:

She let me know they were 'bout the cake, straight out th' gate!

Now, I’d love to say that I got tickets to see a show at the Moulin Rouge…but tickets were between 100-200€. No way was I paying that much to see a bunch of scantily clad women. (Hell, I’m not even that keen on seeing that sight for free!) So, instead, I just snapped a photo or two and was then on my way again…

I wasn’t sure where to head next—the other big things on my list were going to happen the next day—so I just started walking.

And walking.

And walking.

A little over 3 miles later, I found myself (at dark) standing in front of Notre Dame—by way of the Louvre—once more. Circle complete.

And, since I was near le Marais once more, I decided to stop and have a drink (or two) amongst mes collègues hommes gais. But since I hadn’t eaten recently I got some food at Caffe Vito first—foolishly accepting Nic’s encouragement to order the steak tartare. Don’t get me wrong, if it was just the raw meat I would have been fine…but, I swear, it was the onions and green peppers(?) that did me in! Why people insist on putting those damnable things in everything is beyond me! 

(Ah well, at least the waiter was hot—oh-so-hot: slim, tight gray jeans, early- to mid-twenties, with curly dark hair, green eyes, and just the tiniest patch of black chest hair peeking through his low-cut white shirt!—and so was the guy at the table across from me, who kept eying me flirtatiously and ordering extra items while I struggled to eat my own dinner...not that I noticed either of them of course.)

So, with my belly (more or less) full, I circled the area a couple of times, trying to decide which bar I was going to work my nerve up to entering… In the end, I hit-up three of them (shockingly, each one was easier to enter after an additional drink): The Tropic Cafe, L’Open Cafe, and eventually Raidd Bar (which, I swear, was not nearly as scandalous and seedy when I was there as their website makes it seem…then again, I never went downstairs!).

Thus (finally) concludes my first full day in Paris.

*Whew*

Paris: Notre Dame

Back to Paris again, and the 19^th of February:

After leaving the Louvre, I started making my way east toward the Notre Dame de Paris. But, I made one additional stop on the way: the Pont des Arts. Here I admired the thousands of ‘love locks’ affixed to the bridge for quite some time. If only Nic had been with me. Alas, since he wasn’t, after about twenty minutes of ruminating on mushy things, I continued on my way to Notre Dame.

Some of the 'love locks' on the Pont des Arts.

After carrying my backpack all day, I'm the new Hunchback!

The bells, the bells!

'You who seek help: Enter'

 Now, I have to say that—for me—there’s not too much to say about the famous cathedral. It’s a beautiful building, don’t get me wrong, but I was not able to see what constitutes its most noted area: namely, the bell towers. (They offered tours of it—but the line was far too long, and I was starving!) 

Instead I stuck to the interior, which featured beautiful stained glass windows!

After my abbreviated trip to Notre Dame—don't judge, I told you I was starving!—I crossed the road toward Aux Tours de Notre Dame, an indoor and outdoor café, where I picked up one of the most amazing crepes I’ve ever had! Seriously, the woman made the crepe in front of me, and then added (at my request) Nutella and a banana. Tres magnifique!

(NB: This is not my photo!)

Stay tuuned, 'cause there's still more to come!