The Good, The Bad, and The Dirty
A story about our trip to Belgium just to attend a dance.
We picked up a car at Schiphol Airport in Amsterdam for the short 200 kilometer drive down to Antwerp. It only took an hour to walk across this massive airport to car rentals, but we needed to stretch our legs. Cheryl entered our destination, the Radisson Blu Astrid in Antwerp, and we headed for the freeway….and stopped. The traffic getting out of Amsterdam was the most congested I have ever seen. Worse than rush hour in Kansas City, worse even than July 26 vacation traffic heading east out of Munich. I thought, this will ease up surely as we get out of the city. The four-lane highway was bumper to bumper and 5 kilometers per hour. We edged our way east for a while then turned south. No let up. The Germans have a word for this, ‘Stau gefar’. This was not an auspicious beginning to our short trip. Eventually we got to Utrecht and turned toward Antwerp. It took 3 hours to get this far, 54 kilometers. Only another 130 kilometers to Antwerp, but the traffic momentarily thinned. I could drive maybe 50 Kilometers per hour, but not for long. The navi abruptly warned of cued traffic ahead and advised a detour route. This route was directly through an older city with traffic lights every block and heavy traffic. The detour took an hour. Maybe the cued traffic would have been better, but no help for it. We were at the mercy of the navi and had to stick it out.
After 6 hours of driving in horrible congestion, we morphed into Antwerp. Joy of joys, the navi said we only had 15 minutes to go, and then we ran into a barricade. The navi did not warn us of this and did not offer a detour, but hey, we had to be close. All I could do was try to negotiate around the closed street, so I pulled into the medieval maze of narrow one-way streets, and promptly ran into another barricade. I did a u-turn and drove back out the wrong way on the one-way. I continued driving along the medieval alley streets at random until the navi told me to turn left on the same street we had originally come in on, going back the way we came. Now, however, I had gotten us past the hotel and had to go back.
Abruptly we were going down a street car street and about to get into serious trouble with rail traffic. I noticed an auto street paralleling us, determined it was two way, and saw a cut through from the tracks. I took it. The navi said your destination is just ahead on the left. About that time Cheryl saw the hotel sign and screamed we made it., except there was no unloading or check in lane in front. I slowly drove by looking for a wide spot, or even a vacant spot, on the sidewalk. None. In desperation I turned left at the end of the hotel onto another one-way, this one in our favor. In a hundred feet I saw the closed door to a parking garage with a tiny sign saying Radisson Blu. I pulled onto the sidewalk with my front bumper just touching the closed door preparing to call the hotel to ask them to open it, and it opened by itself. Of course, there was a car trying to get out. He backed down the steep ramp and let us go by, and there at the bottom was a vacant parking slip the other car had just abandoned. I promptly took it and checked my watch. It had taken 60 minutes to detour about from only 5 or so blocks away, but we made it. The trip down from Amsterdam had taken 7 hours, not the original two that Google and the navi claimed it would be. My calves were sore from constantly working the clutch. This first stage of our trip can only be described as-
BAD.
I must insert here that I have driven in scores of European cities and declare they are all like Antwerp. Medieval streets going in random directions with random street names that change from block to block. I think they are like this to confuse invaders. My word of wisdom is, one cannot go around the block as one can in normal American cities. There are no blocks. Don’t try.
We found an elevator to take us up to the ‘0’ floor, remember we are in Europe and the primary floor that we foreigners designate the 1st floor is not correct. It is the ‘0’ floor with a star next to it. The Radisson Blu hotels are a ‘B’ grade. That is, they are well appointed but not fancy. The desk was undermanned and we were a bit dizzy with driving fatigue, but Cheryl got us checked in and up-graded to the best room they had. She has a gold Radisson card that guarantees us an up-grade. She does, in fact, have gold, platinum, diamond or titanium cards for all the major hotel chains which has stood us in good stead around the world. Our assigned room was on the 8th floor with a large round porthole type window facing west across the Astrid square toward the train station. Satisfied, we made our way back to the parking level to get our luggage and discuss dinner. Back to the room, we unpacked our fancy 1800 vintage dance clothing and hung it up to dewrinkle, then went for a short walk to find a restaurant on the square.
We ate, I don’t remember what, and staggered back to the hotel past a China Town gate to go to bed. This was Friday, and tomorrow we had to first drive down to the Kasteel d’Ursel for a practice dance session in the afternoon. The dance was to be the Quadrille, an early version of square dancing. When I was first invited to this dance back in May, I had to research the Quadrille and decide if we could do it. I was in a square dance club back in the 70’s and figured I could, but Cheryl, while a good modern dancer, had never square danced. I watched the Quadrille on U-Tube and then looked for a local square dance club offering lessons. Hens teeth, but I did find beginners lessons from the Swinging Singles Dance Club in Mission, Kansas. The first lesson started the next day, and Cheryl was out of town, so I went alone. I was immediately hit on by several older ladies who, seeing I was alone, figured I must be single, and had more hair than the numerous octogenarian single men milling about. The first lesson went well, and I explained I was in fact married, with a live wife, who would be with me for the next lesson, but was currently out of town on business. Cheryl missed the second lesson as well, and it was explained to me that one must attend at least one of the first 3 lessons or one could not continue. There would be 12 more lesson nights starting in June and continuing through October.
Cheryl committed to learn to square dance, but would never watch the Quadrille on U-Tube. The Quadrille is the precursor to modern square dancing and many of the movements are the same only done slow. I downloaded a 72 page booklet containing instructions complete with sketches, unfortunately it was written around 1800 and was virtually indecipherable. More on proper etiquette for gentlemen dancing with strange ladies than the actual process of the dance. I tried to enlist the aid of some dancers in our local YSA ward, Young Single Adults ward, who claimed to know the Quadrille, with no success. So, I watched dances on U-Tube. Women wearing hoop skirts and promenading at arm’s length because the hoops would not let one get close. But we persevered and eventually graduated. Cheryl liked square dancing and all the octogenarian men loved to partner with her. By anyone’s standard, Cheryl is a beautiful woman, and was 20 years younger than any of the other women.
Cheryl had left all the enthusiasm for the Kasteel d’Ursel Quadrille Dance up to me. With considerable effort, I got a live person at the Kasteel to talk to me very long distance and exchanged several emails. The dance was 80 euros each but included an ‘a la carte’ smorgasbord prepared by a couple of French chefs and various wines. We don’t drink wine. The Kasteel did not accept credit cards, and the cost of wiring the money was onerous, but they finally agreed we could pay when we got there. We were, after all, traveling 5000 miles to attend their dance.
We had left home on Thanksgiving Thursday, arrived in Antwerp on Friday, and had the dance scheduled for Saturday. Why do that, you may ask. Well, Thanksgiving was Thursday, and we have an enormous family, so we had our dinner on Wednesday, and flew out on Thursday. At least there was no traffic going to the airport and none in the airport. By Friday night we were in Antwerp somewhat jet-lagged. The practice session was at 2:30 and google said it was only 32 minutes away. This was, of course, another lie, but we weren’t excessively late.
The ballroom had about 16 people practicing. We introduced ourselves and paired up in lines and squares. I, unfortunately, paired up with a very buxom 20 something pretty girl with considerable décolletage to distract, but I persevered. The dance moves were simple and the caller was using English. We practiced for one and a half hours. I had a brief discussion with the caller, mentioned we were square dancers and had purchased costumes, 1800 vintage Victorian costumes, a dress with hoop skirts, elaborate jacket for me. He told me we couldn’t wear Victorian costumes. We had to wear Regency costumes. No hoops allowed. No sleeves on dresses. Regency period dresses only. Cheryl was appalled. Her elegant dress I insisted she get would be out of place, not in the style. My jacket might just get by, although it did look like something from Bran Stoker’s Dracula. After considerable cross discussion later, she decided she could dispense with the hoops and hike her dress up, pin it in place, and it would have to work.
MORE BAD
We got dressed and started back to the Kasteel at 6:45. The dance was to start at 7:30 so we should have plenty of time, right? Wrong. The route out of Antwerp passed through a mile-long tunnel. At the entrance to the tunnel, the road split. To the right was an overland street that appeared to parallel the tunnel. Just as I had to make a lane change to the tunnel, I was forced onto the parallel road by typical obnoxious traffic. Cheryl urged me to turn back to the tunnel entrance, but I was sure we could get there just as well the way we were going. After all, we were paralleling the tunnel. I was SO wrong. The Navi started winding us around on a variety of streets generally going east. We needed to go south. After 30 minutes we were discharged onto a freeway and headed back west. Eventually, we turned south on the road to Ursel, but we were clearly going to be very very late. If this was happening to me at some more normal event back home I probably would have just given up. But, we persevered, something we were doing entirely too much of. After an hour and fifteen minutes, we arrived at 8:00 pm with the dance well underway.
After an eighth mile trudge up the wet gravel driveway, dodging puddles since it would simply not stop raining, we entered the ballroom, which is really the grand entry hall to the Kasteel. It was a squeeze. People were packed in right up to and literally against the doors. There were at least twice as many dancers as the hall could comfortably accommodate. There were two long double line dances going on, and we were promptly dragged into one. The caller was at the other end probably 75 feet away. He was calling steps in, I think, French, although it may have been Dutch, but for sure it wasn’t recognizable. You recall, he was supposed to be using English. The speakers were at the other end as well, set on the floor, with whatever sound there was muffled by the hordes of dancers. The acoustics were terrible. We tried dancing by watching the steps of the people nearby. This never works well in square dancing, and it didn’t work well here. The people were, in a friendly way, pushing us in the right directions for the most part, but the beat was fast. All the Quadrille I had watched was very slow and gentile. An aristocratic looking gentleman asked me at one point, “You speak German, yes?” And promptly started explaining the steps in German. This didn’t work as he was promptly whirled away, and I couldn’t hear him anyway, and how did he know I spoke German? Later I found we were a novelty and already known to the crowd, although we did not know any of them. Perhaps we were introduced before the dance started, when we weren’t there. After all, who travels 5000 miles to attend an antiquated dance in Belgium? Eccentric Americans. It was fortunate that Cheryl is such a beautiful woman, particularly when all made up in her inappropriate red and black Victorian gown. I am sure that made up for her mis-steps, but probably not mine.
So, we careened through that dance, and after a short pause were into the next. In this dance, we lined up in lines of eight facing another line of eight. On the crowded dance floor, this meant we were literally touching the facing line, chest to chest. The line behind was also touching, butt to butt. Now, without any explanation, the lines split and started sashaying in short lines of four back and forth, quick step. There was no room for this. Women’s breasts kept scraping across my chest threatening to remove my jacket buttons. Women’s derrières from the row behind kept pushing me into them. This was not enjoyable. There seemed to be no point to this move, but soon enough we were reorganized into two long parallel lines again. This was some sort of promenade move, again in fast time. It was recognizable as a square dance partners chain promenade, but very long, like the entire length of the dance floor, from the stage at one end to the wall at the other.
Dancing was wearing me out, so we took a break to scout out the other rooms and investigate the food buffet. Some other couples were also breaking out and we talked with them for a bit. Mostly to a French couple where the pretty wife spoke no English, at all, or so she said, I didn’t believe her, and a British couple from the Midlands. I tried my French language skills on the Frenchy and met with typical French distain. The Brits were easier as they spoke a recognizable variety of English. The Brits explained they attended this sort of dance all over Europe, set in different time frames with different dance styles and different period clothing. It started to dawn on me that we were in fact attending a dance club dance where virtually everybody knew the dance steps and each other. About this time a tall young man came up to me to remind me we hadn’t paid for the dance and dinner. Obviously, he knew everyone in attendance, so we must be the Obermillers. I told him we would settle up before we left. Now we had a little singing by a baritone, and the dancers were advised to get in line for the food, all prepared by a French chef. We lined up and selected a few delicacies, retrieved our table, and ate with the Brits and another man of undisclosed nationality. The two Frenchie’s had disappeared. Then the dance started again.
The people were warmed up with fine champagne and wine and snacks, and were ready to really hit it. We tried to get back into it, but now the beat was even faster and we were quickly loosing our places. After another half hour of effort, I suggested we sit and watch for a while, and we did, until it ended at 12:30. With the dance over, I looked for the young man, Koen De Vlieger-De Wilde, who needed our money, eventually finding him and paying up. The young man then took to the mic to announce the countries in attendance. That was pretty much all of Europe, and of course, this year, a couple of Americans. I felt we should bow when everyone looked at us, but we didn’t, instead making our way to the door and on the to car. The dance was not a waste, we still had a few days to shop and tourist around, but I was disappointed. I had looked forward to this event for half a year. It was not what I expected.
We got back to Antwerp, fumbled around the medieval alley streets for a half hour, and eventually found the hotel parking garage. Pulling into the sublevel parking, and looking hard, I found one parking space. It was empty because it was nearly impossible to get into. I scraped the fender of the rental car on a concrete wall and completely disgusted, made my way to bed.
THE DIRTY
Sunday we planned to go to services at the Cathedral of Our Lady of Antwerp. We like to visit the ancient European cathedrals whenever we are over here on a Sunday. We slept in until noonish and went down to inquire with the concierge about walking to the cathedral. He showed us on a map where it was and how easy it was to walk there. We would simply take the street that ended at the train station, turn north and start walking. We made our way across the Astrid Square to get our train tickets to Brugge for Monday. We checked the track location for the Brugge train and made our way out of the building. The cathedral was a mile to the north at the end of the nicest shopping street in the city. We had the tourist map to help us find the way, but as is typical of tourist maps everywhere, it was obscure. Couldn’t these people hire professionals, like cartographers , to produce city maps? The street we wanted appeared to actually end at the train station. The station is very long so we walked along the north side from street to street looking for the correct name, and, of course, not finding it. The sidewalk was littered with blowing trash and dirt, and vagrants. We stopped and studied the map for a while and we got it. We had exited the station through the north side door a hundred feet west of the front of the building which was past the intersection of the street we wanted. We backtracked through the trash and vagrants and turned north on the next intersection. This street angled to the northeast and appeared to intersect the street we wanted in a few hundred feet. The street was narrow, dark, and trashy, with more dark and trashy people hanging around. We walked along for a while until we did, indeed intersect the street we wanted. The name wasn’t correct, but this had to be it because it was cleaner and cars were prohibited. The name wasn’t correct because this actually was not the correct street as we found out later.
We stopped in a shop and I bought some gloves, not having any for some reason, and broke the sabbath. We walked north window shopping. There wasn’t much trash on this street and the vagrants had vanished. The shops weren’t particularly appealing. The area vaguely resembled the Karntner Strasse in Vienna. The street ended at what appeared to be a large traffic circle by the canal. The map seemed to indicate the cathedral was off to the east a short way, so we turned that way. Abruptly, the cathedral spire came into view and the five o’clock bell started chiming. We hurried, but the streets turned into a spaghetti mess and the spire disappeared. We followed the sound of the bell until it stopped, and we stopped. Looking around, there was no sign of the cathedral at all, just twisted streets. We crossed the street and peered around and, lo, there was the spire behind us. We had somehow walked right by the cathedral so we went back. Still no cathedral and the spire was gone again. We reversed back to the intersection and turned left for a couple of hundred feet. We turned left again and in another hundred feet a small plaza opened up on our left and there was the cathedral, spire and all, neatly hidden away from all but the most devout.
Inside the services had started. We sat in the very back next to a small dais manned by a woman and listened to the priest talk in Dutch. After a few minutes, the woman apparently noticed we weren’t understanding and gave us a couple of headphones to wear. This was better. The translation was practically instantaneous. Soon there were a series of women giving short talks, all translated. The talks were the most left wing politically correct gibberish imaginable. All about forgiving all the prisoners held in, apparently, American prisons and releasing them. And forgiving all our American transgressions on the LGBT community. And saving us from drowning from the rise of the oceans due to American induced global warming. Etc., etc., etc. After each little PC homily, the audience chanted ‘Hear O Lord our Prayer’. I was squirming around and checking the distance to the exit doors when the plate was passed for donations. When it came to me I dropped in a five euro bill which was considerable more than anyone else had dropped in, hoping this would pass muster that we appreciated the PC homilies about disgusting Americans and they would let us go. So as soon as the last Amens were offered we stood up and scooted out the door. I like the German speaking services much better.
We tried to backtrack to the street we came in on, but now it was dark, and we apparently couldn’t do it. After wandering for a while, we came to an open store and dropped in to inquire where we were. We hesitantly walked in the direction indicated by the store clerk, it now being too dark to see the map, and came upon the large traffic circle and a large well-lit pedestrian street. It wasn’t familiar, but we turned left and headed south, my inherent sense of direction still worked now that we were out of the spaghetti streets. As we walked along, we looked at the street name. Definitely not the one we arrived on, but this one had the correct name for the one we were supposed to arrive on. In a few blocks Cheryl wanted to take a photo of Flat Stanley. I reached into my pocket, but Flat Stanley was not there. I know it was there in my infamous right pocket when we went into the cathedral, so it must have fallen out when I hurriedly pulled out my glove. Cheryl wanted to go back and get it. I demurred. The cathedral was probably locked up by now, and I wasn’t sure we could find it again anyway. I was in serious trouble.
I have to explain about Flat Stanley. Flat Stanley is a card board doll made by third grade classes and sent around the world so the children can experience travelling to foreign places….somehow. My eldest daughter’s class down in Fairhope, Alabama, had made this Flat Stanley and Brooke had sent it to Cheryl for this trip. I took several photos of Cheryl holding Flat Stanley at the dance, but now it had escaped from my infamous right coat pocket. This pocket routinely looses gloves at different stops in Europe, and now it ditched Flat Stanley. I collect left hand gloves. I abjectly apologized over and over and eventually was at least partially forgiven.
We stopped at an open café just north of the Astrid Station and drank some hot chocolate. Refreshed, we went on to the square and turned left. Just across the square was the ornate entrance to Antwerp China Town. It was just like the one in San Francisco. Cheryl insisted we walk down the China Gate street and see what there was to buy, having already broken the sabbath by purchasing gloves, so we did. Decidedly dark and dirty. We went to the end without being impressed and turned back on the other side of the street. This was better. We came to a Chinese grocery store that was open and went in to look at weird Chinese food. Cheryl bought various sweets and cookies and was satisfied.
THE GOOD
Monday morning we made our way to the station at the appropriate time and found the train to Brugge. (The French call it Bruges, but I am German) The plan was to meet Soline at the Brugge station around noon. The ride was uneventful and on time, getting us there about an hour before Soline. We consulted a map, again, and decided to walk the apparently short distance to the old city. Of course, the map was drawn up by city planners and was thus a mystery. We couldn’t find the old town although we had been to Brugge several years ago, so we stopped at a gas station for directions. Turns out we were going exactly the wrong direction, and we needed to go back through the train station and exit the other side. Rather than do that, we stopped at a little eatery in the station and had a waffle snack. Soon enough, I walked out to find our girl and there she was, walking toward me, looking exactly the same as she did eight years ago. It was wonderful seeing Soline again, and arms around each other we went into the café to get Cheryl, and then on to old town Brugge. This time we were on the same path we took 8 years ago, crossing the bridge where she took the photo of Cheryl and me that I feature on my facebook page. The walk was delightful, making up somewhat for the trip so far. Brugge is an incredibly picturesque city hanging on to the good old days of the Dutch East Indies Company. We stopped at a sidewalk café to have Belgian waffles, I video taped the waffles, the same café we had stopped at before with Soline and her mother and father. It would be very easy to get fat here.
After the snack, we wandered on to the central plaza to shop, or rather, the girls Christmas shopped. I did not find much of interest at the booths. The girls did, and soon I was carrying the game sack from Cheryl’s hunting trip, a regular occupation of mine when Christmas shopping in Europe. We had fun, but eventually it was time for Soline to go and we headed back. I should mention that somewhere between her year with us and today, Soline had become a doctor. She was doing her residency and had barely gotten off to come to Brugge. How could this pretty child be a doctor? We got on our trains with promises to meet again, which we will keep. We love Soline Watrelot.
We got back to Antwerp and wearily made our way across the square to the Astrid. We had a bite to eat and went up to pack and go to bed. Early the next morning we paid our bill and headed down to the car crammed into the really tight parking space. Leaving the sublevel garage via the steep ramp, I squeezed to the side to reach the garage door button. As it came up, someone in a hurry started down, stopping an inch or so from my bumper. I stared, not interested in backing down the ramp, and forced him to back out into the street instead. We got out, turned left on the one-way, and turned on the navi. Getting out of Antwerp was just as difficult as getting in, but at least we knew what to expect. I was praying it did not take the entire day to reach Amsterdam.
THE GOOD
Traffic was actually light on the autobahn, now that we weren’t in too much of a hurry. Closer to Amsterdam there is a Schloss I wanted to see if we had time. We did. This is Schloss de Haar, or Castle of Sand, a huge castle with beautiful grounds built on sand. We pulled right in, bought tickets, and meandered through the gardens to the entrance. The entrance hall was enormous, four stories high, tons of stained glass, and completely empty. After a while, a nice gentleman about my age, which is to say old, appeared to take our tickets and lead us on our tour. Just us. It is always fun to be the only people on a tour. The gentleman walked with Cheryl in front, of course. Why talk to me when you have a beautiful woman at hand. Our hour-long tour took two hours, way past closing time, but the gentleman was not going to let this opportunity go to waste. I love watching this. It happens all the time. The gentleman was enamored with Cheryl, who displayed her erudite language skills and considerable knowledge of aristocratic Europe, family connections in Bavaria, dear friends in Cologne and Lille, as well as her business skills and her engineer husband. Engineers are really respected in Germany, and I suppose Belgium. As he solicitously handed her up and down short flights of stairs, he explained the schloss was a product of the Rothschilds and their considerable wealth. They never actually lived there but did entertaining for three months of the year.
Eventually, we had to move on. We still had to find our way to the Hilton at the airport, and it is best to do this in the daytime. The gentleman pressed some small memento on Cheryl as we left to express his appreciation of her beauty and amiable nature. We said protracted goodbyes, and were on our way. Traffic to the airport continued to be reasonable and we drove straight to the Hilton. Pulling up in front, we asked the doorman where we could return our car. He helpfully directed us on down the road a quarter of a mile and to watch for the sign, see there, right where the cars were turning in. Off we went, finding no cars turning anywhere and no sign. Eventually, the road left the airport. I had Cheryl enter the parking garage on the navi. It wanted us to drive on some 70 kilometers to another city. We drove for a while and I told Cheryl to enter the parking garage for rental car return at the airport. It wanted us to turn around, of course. We did, finally driving right by the hotel on the back side and there was a sign for the parking garage, with cars turning in. Insane. Same building, but the entrance was around back. Well, we got the car turned in and the attendant didn’t notice the fore-inch scuff mark on the right front fender left by the parking garage in Antwerp. What luck. I had a four-scratch on a rental car in Geneva that I did not put on it. The Swiss autobody shop wanted $700 to repair it and it took me seven months and numerous angry letters to American Express Platinum to get them to pay it. The card has automatic insurance coverage. We are Platinum members for crying out loud. But I digress.
All was ok and we trucked across the walkway to the hotel and, because we are diamond Hilton members, got our usual upgrade to their best room, and relaxed for a few minutes. But only for a few minutes, because Cheryl wanted to take a walking tour the next day in the city to Anne Frank sites. You should know about Anne Frank, the Jewish girl who hid from the Nazis during the first part of the war. The Nazis eventually found her and killed her. She wrote a famous diary which later became a famous book and movie called ‘The Diary of Anne Frank’. We went down to the concierge to get this arranged.
THE BAD
A hotel cab was arranged for the next morning that would take us directly to the Jewish museum for the start of the tour, and got directions to take Bus 352 from the stop at the end of the tour at the Rijk Museum and the Van Go Museum. Van Go lived in Amsterdam and many of his original paintings are displayed in his museum. Off we went, tour tickets and museum tickets in hand.
Schiphol Airport is located at the far west edge of Amsterdam. It was going to be a long ride to the tour in the central city. A really long ride. An 80 euro ride. We rode for 45 minutes, getting close to the tour start time. Finally the driver stopped at an intersection and told us we were there. We had noticed the driver seemed somewhat confused as to the location of the museum, and he was a foreigner who spoke Turkish and basically nothing else. Cheryl said , `Where?`. He gestured, just across the intersection under those patio umbrellas. It was time for the tour now, so we jumped out and ran across the street. I lost my right hand new glove in the cab in my hurry. I told you about this peculiar problem earlier. That glove lasted a whole day. I lost one in the Munich airport that didn’t even make it across the concourse. We looked for the museum from under the umbrellas, or any group of people. Nothing.
The Bad was striking again. Where were we? The cell phones didn’t help since we didn’t know where we were at the moment. In desperation, we stopped a young man and asked where the Jewish Museum might be. He pointed down the street. A kilometer that way, and we took off. What the Hell was that cabby about, anyway. We reached the museum a good 15 minutes late for our tour, and no one was about. The museum was closed, so no help there. We walked west for a block to a little park, this being a likely place for a tour to start. No tour in sight. Cheryl had made the arrangements for the tour and for a bit of good luck, still had their number in recent calls. She called. The lady on the other end was very sorry we had missed our designated tour as Cheryl angrily explained about our incompetent cab driver. But not to worry, another tour was getting ready to start at that very moment. We could tag onto that one. She would call and tell the guide to expect us. We would find it gathering on the east side on the park where we happened to be. Look for a bright orange umbrella. Running across the park, we spied the orange umbrella and our tour group.
So, off we went, walking north across old town Amsterdam with our guide and 10 other people., getting a running account of the history of the city. Amsterdam was built on a mudflat and numerous canals, arranged primarily in concentric rings, drained the water and provided fill material for building foundations and numerous dikes intended to hold back sea water. The buildings appeared to be mostly stone, thus having continual settlement issues. As we marched north through clouds of Marijuana smoke, getting a little stoned on secondhand smoke, several sites were viewed that were important to the Anne Frank saga. We saw the Rembrandt Museum, a tiny commemorative cemetery, and eventually, the house where Anne hid out. It was explained how Anne’s clever father walled off a room on the top floor that the entire family lived in, but we could only look from the sidewalk. The house was now a museum and it was closed. The residential buildings were very narrow, but very deep, ending in little courtyards inaccessible from the street. Thus prying Nazi eyes didn’t get an opportunity to observe the occasionally lit up windows in the hidden room.
A semi-hidden door was used for access to the room so the Jews could carry in supplies and carry out waste. I gathered they were eventually disclosed by neighbors or helpers and the SS came and routed them out in 1944 and sent them to Auschwitz. In 1945 Anne and her sister were removed to Bergen- Belsen concentration camp. Both contracted Typhus and died in February 1945. So close to the end of the war.
Well, the Anne Frank tour was done. What happened to Anne and her family was terribly sad. Only her father Otto survived, probably because he was from Frankfurt am Main and spoke perfect German. I have read the book and watched the movie. The story of the Jews during WW2 is heart wrenching. Cheryl and I have travelled all over Germany for several years. We never visit the preserved concentration camps. We have seen the commemorative plaques placed in sidewalks all over Europe that identify where a Jewish family was taken from a home and killed. We have seen the bronze shoes on the bank of the Danube in Budapest where the surviving Jews were lined up, stripped naked in December, and shot into the river. The Nazis were the epitome of evil. They got my German family killed off as well.
Our group crossed over one more canal to a small restaurant for a snack and a drink. It had been a long two-mile walk on narrow cobblestone sidewalks and we needed reviving. Several of the group were going back to the famous red-light district for some more arousal. They had been there the day before. We did not go to this attraction, being responsible adults. We did want to go to the Van Gogh Museum which did not look to be too far. We just had to follow the canal. We also wanted to take a canal tour boat ride. So, saying goodbye to all, off we went.
Eventually, we arrived at the boat tour dock and bought tickets. The boat followed the canal clear around the city with the pilot busy explaining the sites as we passed. One cannot see a lot from a canal boat, but it was interesting none- the- less. The boat landing was only a few hundred feet from the museums, so, watching the time, we went to find the Van Gogh Museum of truly bizarre art. Getting into the building was difficult and we were now past the admittance time printed on our tickets. The lady punching tickets had no problem with that. Go on in and enjoy. These are definitely not punctual or else Germans.
So, we wandered around looking at original Van Gogh art. I had some trouble classifying this stuff as art, but Cheryl pretended to love it. In a couple of hours, the museum kicked everyone out on account it was closing time, and we left, wandering down a pleasant sidewalk until my automatic north arrow kicked in and we had to turn around and head back to and around the museum. We had scoped an Indonesian restaurant right across the street from our bus stop and Cheryl thought we should eat there. I think the name is Amusee, but I am not sure.
In spite of it being dinner time, we got right into a table surrounded by ancillary tables. I noticed a couple of men in a similar arrangement that were surrounded by 15 or 20 bowls and plates of food items. I mentioned to Cheryl that we could not possibly eat that much food, but soon enough, it came, much to Cheryl’s delight. They precariously stacked bowls on top of bowls on tables and shelves and identified each. We ate. And ate. And ate some more. I had to stop for a moment here and watch the two videos I made of this dinner. When I am done with this story, I will try to include some of the videos and photos of the trip. Well, all good things, and this classified as ‘Good’, come to an end. We crossed the street to the bus stop and actually caught the right bus for the 45-minute ride back to the Hilton.
I think the bus was free with tokens from the Hilton. Just as well. Cheryl’s brewing anger over the taxi ride was starting to boil over. She declared she would not pay for it and went straight for the desk to have it out. Soon the night manager was involved. He decided he could credit at least some of the fare to our credit card. I would be satisfied with that, Cheryl would not, threatening calls to corporate. The next morning we came down to check out to find the day clerk had an envelope for us. I opened it to find the hotel had issued a check for the full amount of the taxi ride. I protested. The ‘Good’ strikes again. We really don’t need a refund. We just want you to hang, draw, and quarter the driver, or at least issue him a reprimand and write up a negative report in his file, which we would do in your place. No, no. The day manager had checked our file to find we paid for our very expensive suite with our diamond status Hilton card. It doesn’t get any higher with Hilton, and I am sure the manager did not want us to register a complaint with corporate. I accepted the check.
We walked across the concourse and checked in to the 1st / Business Lounge for some breakfast and to wait for our flight. After a time, the desk informed us it was time to make our way to the gate and the tunnel out to the 1st / Business Class cabin. In a few pampered hours we arrived in Chicago and transferred to a Kansas City flight and home. It was a less than satisfactory trip. Some parts were Good, Some were Bad, and a lot was Dirty. I have spent some time trying to grade it, but I have given up. I will put it down as an Experience. Perhaps we will try another period dance in Europe some day.
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