Amsterdam, Monster and Delft.
Yesterday I was in Amsterdam. When we left the airport at six in the morning the first thing I smelt was, in fact, the smoky sweet smell of cannabis. A couple of unsavory sorts were sitting across from us, cackling like mad, stoned hyenas. We had to wait a while to get picked up and it was a lot colder than Bangkok- probably about 20 degrees on that morning with an ever present wind. As I sat in waiting I saw a raven trying to eat a live finch by biting at its neck. An omen?
Once we left the airport miles of green came into view, disfigured with the odd road and leaning set of buildings. We got to the city center and were flanked by century old buildings, cobble stoned streets, canals and bridges. It was… simply put, beautiful. Being here is like watching a film, so many of the aspects of life in Europe seem almost unreal. Too quaint. Too green. Too structurally astounding. Old men sitting in front of cafes reading the morning news; interested in the prospects of the world but quite content to remain untouched by conflict in their own little town. Bicycles with whicker baskets carrying terriers. Women with flowers wrapped in brown paper.
We went to the Anne Frank museum on a whim- early morning and already the crowds had arrived. It was… I don’t suppose I can describe the feeling of standing in a room where, not but a few decades ago, real human beings characterized by literature hid from persecution. From torture and death. I ran my fingers across the pealing wallpaper. Their wallpaper.
We took a trip down the canals and ended up at the Van Gogh museum. Once again I find myself at a loss. I thought being in the presence of the originals wouldn’t be that different from looking at the replicas. Once you’ve seen one sunflower you’ve seen them all. But I could see the thickness of the oil paints he used; I could follow the motions of the paint and clearly envision the strokes of his hand. Follow his progression in style and talent. It was worth the crippling entry fee of ten euro.
Monster is a small town near the sea. This afternoon I walked over, letting the water of the Arctic Ocean drench the bottoms of my jeans and wash over my feet. The beach was overrun with German tourists escaping the landlocked confines of their homeland, sunning themselves to cancer riddled leather crisps. Tomorrow I’m going to one of those old barns with the giant thatched roofs. Should be…quaint.
Once we left the airport miles of green came into view, disfigured with the odd road and leaning set of buildings. We got to the city center and were flanked by century old buildings, cobble stoned streets, canals and bridges. It was… simply put, beautiful. Being here is like watching a film, so many of the aspects of life in Europe seem almost unreal. Too quaint. Too green. Too structurally astounding. Old men sitting in front of cafes reading the morning news; interested in the prospects of the world but quite content to remain untouched by conflict in their own little town. Bicycles with whicker baskets carrying terriers. Women with flowers wrapped in brown paper.
We went to the Anne Frank museum on a whim- early morning and already the crowds had arrived. It was… I don’t suppose I can describe the feeling of standing in a room where, not but a few decades ago, real human beings characterized by literature hid from persecution. From torture and death. I ran my fingers across the pealing wallpaper. Their wallpaper.
We took a trip down the canals and ended up at the Van Gogh museum. Once again I find myself at a loss. I thought being in the presence of the originals wouldn’t be that different from looking at the replicas. Once you’ve seen one sunflower you’ve seen them all. But I could see the thickness of the oil paints he used; I could follow the motions of the paint and clearly envision the strokes of his hand. Follow his progression in style and talent. It was worth the crippling entry fee of ten euro.
Monster is a small town near the sea. This afternoon I walked over, letting the water of the Arctic Ocean drench the bottoms of my jeans and wash over my feet. The beach was overrun with German tourists escaping the landlocked confines of their homeland, sunning themselves to cancer riddled leather crisps. Tomorrow I’m going to one of those old barns with the giant thatched roofs. Should be…quaint.