(Wednesday, Sept. 30) With one last day to spent in London, we pondered our choices: Go to Windsor to see the Queen (who is probably hanging out in Buckingham Palace)?; visit the Tate Modern, one of many art galleries we failed to get to during past stays?; go to a matinee performance of a Broadway musical? Too many choices, too little time.
Being devout disciples of Rich Steves, and knowing that we’d be sitting on a plane for 10-11 hours tomorrow, we opted to do his “Oxford Circus to Piccadilly Walk” since we’d not spent any time in that part of the city before. We would end up finding Gesus (pronounced “Jesus”) who would liberate us (unfortunately not from our sins of gluttony committed over the last month) from shopping boredom and show us the way (to getting a good Chinese lunch at a reasonable price).
After leaving our hotel around 10 am, we walked the two-three blocks to the Marble Arch Tube station and rode east on the Central Line two stops to Oxford Circus. (There is no circus there unless you count the menagerie of people, buses, taxis, and road workers tearing up the street). I turned on the “Location Services” of my (sometimes) trusty iPhone in order to use its Compass feature to orientate us, but interference coming from someplace (probably all of the steel in the cars and buses on Oxford and Regent Streets), caused it to spin aimlessly. With no sun in the sky, we couldn’t easily get our bearings, and set off in the wrong direction, then asked if we were headed toward Piccadilly (“Sorry, go back the way you came”).
One of the first stops on Rick Steves’ walking tour is the Liberty store, started in 1875 by a Mr. Liberty and still going strong. The store was rebuilt in the 1920’s in the half-timbered Tudor Revival style popular at that time. Remnants of two British warships from the Age of Sail were used in the construction. It was here that we met the charming Gesus, Concierge of the Liberty store. Cindy had been admiring scarves on the first floor when he approached us to see if we had any questions. We spent the better part of an hour chatting with him about our travels and his in Europe, the history of the store (he gave us a three-page handout on that topic), how Liberty compares with the better known stores such as Selfridge’s (“hot stuff” for the “younger set”) and Harrod’s (way high-end), and the current collaboration between Hermes (the French fashion house) and Liberty to create a collection of special scarves, several of which had been made into a fabric “chandelier” which hung in the store’s central section. After initially wishing us a pleasant day, he decided to take us on a tour of the store. He showed us a bolt of cloth similar to the material used to make the Hermes scarves, took us through the Christmas Shop which just opened about a week ago, and tried to show us the former office of Mr. Liberty which is now Asused for special events (and was unfortunately booked for today).
We roamed around the Liberty store for a while longer, than set out to find “Cha Cha Moon”, the restaurant he had recommended. We thought it was just down Carnaby Street, asked (and were given incorrect) directions from two other people, then stumbled upon it ourselves. Inside were long wooden tables and an open kitchen were a half-dozen worked away in a kitchen open at the front to the dining room.
After lunch we continued our walk toward Piccadilly where we browsed the selection in Waterstone’s, Europe’s largest bookstore, caught the tail end of a fantastic free lunchtime piano recital at St. James Church, had tea and cake at Fortnum and Mason and browsed their famous selections of food and wine gift baskets (sorry, we would have brought back the “Windsor Basket” of goodies to share with you --- what’s 1,000 Pounds Sterling among friends --- but it was marked “Not Suitable for Export”).
After considering a final window shopping foray at Harrod’s, two stops on the Tube away from where we were, and five stops and two line changes to get back to our hotel during the rush hour madness in the Underground, we decided to end our last day in London this trip in the same way as we ended our first day in London on our first visit three years ago: We took a walk through Hyde Park.
Since it was 4:30 pm, the bike was alive with bicyclists (although far, far few than we encountered at any time of day in Amsterdam), a few joggers, and a fair number of walkers. As we neared our hotel, we checked out the pub around the corner (drinkers spilling out on to the sidewalk), the fishmongery and restaurant in the same block (half the restaurant was set up for a big party), considered going out for Indian food, and finally decided to just “do Italian” again tonight at the same restaurant where we’d eaten last night.
Wednesday, September 30, 2009
Tuesday, September 29, 2009
On the (Rail) Road Again
(Tuesday, Sept. 29) After breakfast, we hopped in a taxi that Hotel Fita had arranged to take us to the Amsterdam train station on the beginning of our return to our first stop on the trip, London. Thousands of bicycles (how does anyone find theirs?) were stacked up at the station when we arrived just before 9:30 a.m.
As luck would have it, our train to Brussels (where we’d transfer to the Eurostar to London) left on a platform not served by an elevator or escalator. Great. Lug one heavy bag up one flight of stairs, pause and breathe, lug the other heavy bag up to meet it, pause and breathe, lug the first bag up the final flight, pause and breathe, and haul its partner up to the top of the platform.
Although trains on this line had been running late during the Winter, our train arrived and departed on time. The First Class coach we rode in was largely empty at Amsterdam, but got quite full as we headed south towards Brussels.
We passed fields with cows and sheep grazing, then cities with tall buildings, then countryside farms, then industrial parks, then more cities, than more farms. We hit Rotterdam, but passed through a long tunnel and didn’t see its large commercial port.
After a couple of hours on the train our stomachs, filled at an early morning breakfast, were growling, and we bought a “Suikerwafle” (sugar waffle) from the snack cart to tide us over until we got to Brussels. After failing to find a working locker to stow our luggage in that city’s station, we drug our bags behind us to the “WC”, then wolfed down a quick sandwich before checking in for our Eurostar trip.
Just before 3 pm Continental Time, the Eurostar train pulled out of the Brussels-Midi station and headed for Lille, France, a half hour away. The clouds that had persisted from Amsterdam south gave way to sunshine and shortly after leaving Lille we were offered a three-course (1960’s airline style) lunch as the train hit its stride, probably traveling close to 200 MPH.
At around 3:00 pm we reached Calais (where we’d stopped briefly on our 2006 Paris-London Eurostar trip) and entered the “Chunnel” that connects France to England. Twenty-three minutes after diving beneath the waves of the English Channel, we came up for air and continued on to London.
Although the skies over southern England were much cloudier than those canopying France, it was quite sunny and warm when the train reached London just before 4 pm local time. A short cab ride later we were back to where our trip had begun, The Sumner Hotel near Marble Arch, a couple of blocks from London’s Hype Park. On our past three stays, we’ve been in Room 109 at the top of the hotel, but this time we’re in 203, which has some pluses (Internet connection works in the room) and some minuses (guests on the floor above clomping about in their heavy boots).
After eating at least half of the cows and pigs, and a couple of sheep or two, that used to graze in the Czech Republic, Germany, Austria, and the Alsace, we decided that Italian food sounded really good, so we had pasta for dinner at one of the eleven “Spaghetti House” restaurants in the London area which is open a block and a half from our hotel. Although it’s a chain eatery, the food was quite good, and we got a big kick out of our Portuguese waitress who was obviously new to working at this restaurant.
It’s now a little after 10 pm London time (11 pm, in Europe), so we’re calling it a day for today. Tomorrow over breakfast we’ll decide how to spend our last day of vacation¸ and hopefully quit early, return to the hotel, pack up for our return flight home, and enjoy a last evening without cooking or dishwashing before flying home to reality.
As luck would have it, our train to Brussels (where we’d transfer to the Eurostar to London) left on a platform not served by an elevator or escalator. Great. Lug one heavy bag up one flight of stairs, pause and breathe, lug the other heavy bag up to meet it, pause and breathe, lug the first bag up the final flight, pause and breathe, and haul its partner up to the top of the platform.
Although trains on this line had been running late during the Winter, our train arrived and departed on time. The First Class coach we rode in was largely empty at Amsterdam, but got quite full as we headed south towards Brussels.
We passed fields with cows and sheep grazing, then cities with tall buildings, then countryside farms, then industrial parks, then more cities, than more farms. We hit Rotterdam, but passed through a long tunnel and didn’t see its large commercial port.
After a couple of hours on the train our stomachs, filled at an early morning breakfast, were growling, and we bought a “Suikerwafle” (sugar waffle) from the snack cart to tide us over until we got to Brussels. After failing to find a working locker to stow our luggage in that city’s station, we drug our bags behind us to the “WC”, then wolfed down a quick sandwich before checking in for our Eurostar trip.
Just before 3 pm Continental Time, the Eurostar train pulled out of the Brussels-Midi station and headed for Lille, France, a half hour away. The clouds that had persisted from Amsterdam south gave way to sunshine and shortly after leaving Lille we were offered a three-course (1960’s airline style) lunch as the train hit its stride, probably traveling close to 200 MPH.
At around 3:00 pm we reached Calais (where we’d stopped briefly on our 2006 Paris-London Eurostar trip) and entered the “Chunnel” that connects France to England. Twenty-three minutes after diving beneath the waves of the English Channel, we came up for air and continued on to London.
Although the skies over southern England were much cloudier than those canopying France, it was quite sunny and warm when the train reached London just before 4 pm local time. A short cab ride later we were back to where our trip had begun, The Sumner Hotel near Marble Arch, a couple of blocks from London’s Hype Park. On our past three stays, we’ve been in Room 109 at the top of the hotel, but this time we’re in 203, which has some pluses (Internet connection works in the room) and some minuses (guests on the floor above clomping about in their heavy boots).
After eating at least half of the cows and pigs, and a couple of sheep or two, that used to graze in the Czech Republic, Germany, Austria, and the Alsace, we decided that Italian food sounded really good, so we had pasta for dinner at one of the eleven “Spaghetti House” restaurants in the London area which is open a block and a half from our hotel. Although it’s a chain eatery, the food was quite good, and we got a big kick out of our Portuguese waitress who was obviously new to working at this restaurant.
It’s now a little after 10 pm London time (11 pm, in Europe), so we’re calling it a day for today. Tomorrow over breakfast we’ll decide how to spend our last day of vacation¸ and hopefully quit early, return to the hotel, pack up for our return flight home, and enjoy a last evening without cooking or dishwashing before flying home to reality.
Tech Troubles
(Tuesday, Sept. 29) Just as I was about to close the document with my blog posts for Monday and today, the Eurostar train lurched and the impossible happened: Not only did my notes typed in the last few minutes disappear, but everything I'd typed on the train from Brussels to England bit the dust, along with 28 pages of posts I'd written over the last month. It simply isn't possible, but it apparently has happened.
The good news is that even though I must re-write everything I wrote today, all of my earlier posts are up on the blog and I have a copy of the e-mails forwarding those posts to you.
Nothing is ever simple, and in the Train vs. Technology department, the train always wins.
The good news is that even though I must re-write everything I wrote today, all of my earlier posts are up on the blog and I have a copy of the e-mails forwarding those posts to you.
Nothing is ever simple, and in the Train vs. Technology department, the train always wins.
Monday, September 28, 2009
Big Mistake, But No Big Deal
(Monday, Sept. 28) Since our hotel was only a block away from Amsterdam’s famous Van Gogh museum, we felt we ought to make the short pilgrimage this morning before the place got too crowded. Big mistake.
Just before we reached the museum’s door, a large tour group beat us to the punch. It took a while for the museum to sort out the group’s entry while we standing behind them in line twiddling our thumbs.
Van Gogh’s most important works are hung on one floor of the museum beginning with his earliest paintings through his last. Good news and bad. The good news is that this allows one to see how his work evolved over time as me moved from Holland, to Paris, to Provence, and finally, to the north of France where he committed suicide by shooting himself in the chest. The bad news is that most of these paintings are relatively small and one has to stand quite close to them to view and study them, a difficult task when the museum is stuffed to the rafters with visitors.
In fits of exasperation, we jumped the time-line forward and back, then finally gave up and took an early lunch in the museum’s café to see if the crowds would thin out by 12:30 or so. This proved to be a wise move as the tour groups had apparently left to dine elsewhere, and even though patrons were still arriving, it became much easier to linger in front of a particular painting and imagine the effort Van Gogh put into producing it. Although Van Gogh produced something like 800 or so paintings (plus sketches and etchings) during his relatively brief time as a full-time painter (1884-1890), the Amsterdam museums’ collection on display does not appear to be that large.
The top floor of the museum displays correspondence between Van Gogh and his artist friends, as well as paintings they did of each other. To me, this was actually a more interesting part of the Van Gogh presentation that the major works done by the artist himself.
Later in the afternoon we took in the exhibit of work done by one of Van Gogh’s contemporaries, Alfred Stevens, who painted ladies of Parisian society in settings such as their boudoirs and with their children. In the past, women had been chiefly portrayed in paintings based on Biblical or mythological stories, so Stevens’ work was somewhat radical. Yet he became a famous and success painter at an early age, and outlived Van Gogh by many years.
Although the day began with an abundance of sunshine, clouds filled the sky by the time we left the Van Gogh museum in mid-afternoon to return to the street market we’d visited with our tour guide, Albert, on Saturday, so I could take some photos of that “locals mainly” scene. The market was less crowded than on the weekend, and some of the merchants looked quite bored since sales were probably slow.
After leaving the market, we caught Tram #3 and got off a few blocks from our hotel to check out restaurants that our innkeeper, Hans, had recommended. We made a reservation at “Bouf” to dine at 7:30, and then walked back to the hotel to relax a bit before returning for dinner.
For the first time during our trip, we enjoyed dishes in the “California Cuisine” genre¸ and the first course of pumpkin soup reminded us that Summer ended a week ago and that Winter wouldn’t be long in coming to Amsterdam.
Just before we reached the museum’s door, a large tour group beat us to the punch. It took a while for the museum to sort out the group’s entry while we standing behind them in line twiddling our thumbs.
Van Gogh’s most important works are hung on one floor of the museum beginning with his earliest paintings through his last. Good news and bad. The good news is that this allows one to see how his work evolved over time as me moved from Holland, to Paris, to Provence, and finally, to the north of France where he committed suicide by shooting himself in the chest. The bad news is that most of these paintings are relatively small and one has to stand quite close to them to view and study them, a difficult task when the museum is stuffed to the rafters with visitors.
In fits of exasperation, we jumped the time-line forward and back, then finally gave up and took an early lunch in the museum’s café to see if the crowds would thin out by 12:30 or so. This proved to be a wise move as the tour groups had apparently left to dine elsewhere, and even though patrons were still arriving, it became much easier to linger in front of a particular painting and imagine the effort Van Gogh put into producing it. Although Van Gogh produced something like 800 or so paintings (plus sketches and etchings) during his relatively brief time as a full-time painter (1884-1890), the Amsterdam museums’ collection on display does not appear to be that large.
The top floor of the museum displays correspondence between Van Gogh and his artist friends, as well as paintings they did of each other. To me, this was actually a more interesting part of the Van Gogh presentation that the major works done by the artist himself.
Later in the afternoon we took in the exhibit of work done by one of Van Gogh’s contemporaries, Alfred Stevens, who painted ladies of Parisian society in settings such as their boudoirs and with their children. In the past, women had been chiefly portrayed in paintings based on Biblical or mythological stories, so Stevens’ work was somewhat radical. Yet he became a famous and success painter at an early age, and outlived Van Gogh by many years.
Although the day began with an abundance of sunshine, clouds filled the sky by the time we left the Van Gogh museum in mid-afternoon to return to the street market we’d visited with our tour guide, Albert, on Saturday, so I could take some photos of that “locals mainly” scene. The market was less crowded than on the weekend, and some of the merchants looked quite bored since sales were probably slow.
After leaving the market, we caught Tram #3 and got off a few blocks from our hotel to check out restaurants that our innkeeper, Hans, had recommended. We made a reservation at “Bouf” to dine at 7:30, and then walked back to the hotel to relax a bit before returning for dinner.
For the first time during our trip, we enjoyed dishes in the “California Cuisine” genre¸ and the first course of pumpkin soup reminded us that Summer ended a week ago and that Winter wouldn’t be long in coming to Amsterdam.
Sunday, September 27, 2009
Gettin' Outta Dodge
(Sunday, Sept. 27) So, there are 25 million bikes, 10 million cars, 5 million trams and buses, and 172 million pedestrians vying for space in Amsterdam.
So today we decided to leave the Big City and go off to Haarlem, a much smaller town, only 20 minutes’ train ride (but about an hour door-to-door from our hotel) away. All was quiet in the block between our hotel and the tram stop. But there were plenty of passengers when we hopped on the #5 tram on its way to the main train station, and by the time we’d reached cheap-backpacker-hotel-and-tourist-restaurant-haven around Leidsplein, the tram was like one fully packed sardine can of riders and their luggage. Just taking a deep breath was hard, and the 70ish local sitting across from Cindy wondered if he’d even be able to fight his way through the Wall of Living Flesh to get off at the next stop.
When we reached the Central Station, the tram emptied out like a 30-gallon can being dumped into a garbage truck on pick-up day. We tried without success to use our credit and debit cards to buy tickets to Haarlem, but the quick, efficient and friendly train station staff promptly issued 2nd class (hey, why ride in First for 20 minutes and many more Euros?) tickets to us for our trip.\
When we reached platform #1, we asked the train guy (he turned out to be the engineer) if his train was going to Haarlem (“Yes”), and then asked if our tickets were really for 2nd class (“I can’t tell, you’ve got them upside down”; yes, they were 2nd class). Within a few minutes after leaving Amsterdam we saw a windmill and were into the countryside. Not long after that we reached Haarlem’s turn of the century Art Deco station.
It seemed like the entire town was still in bed when we walked the first few blocks from the station towards the “Zentrum" (town center). We saw a few joggers, but didn’t pay them much heed. Then about a block away from the main town square we saw clouds of balloons floating far up in the sky, and heard excited announcements being made over a PA system. What the heck was going on?
As we turned the corner into the square, we discovered that a big-time 21 km footrace was afoot. Runners flashed by “live and in person” in front of the crowd and “live” on a big Jumbo-Tron TV screen. Kids as well as adults were in the race. I tried without much luck to find a good vantage point to shoot photos, but when I finally got to the edge of the racecourse, the winners were appearing on the Jumbo-Tron to claim their prizes, and the racing seemed to be over. Nevertheless, over the next hour or so we saw runners doing stretches, pining number badges on their T-shirts, and running in both directions in a circuit around the large church that predominates the central part of the old town, suggesting that events were still taking place.
We retired to a ring-sided seat on the far side of the racecourse to have an al fresco lunch, enjoying the mostly sunny, high 60’s weather, along with a crowd that seemed to be almost entirely Dutch. (As has been the case throughout our trip, every once in a while we here the familiar twang of American English, but not often, especially today).
After lunch we walked to the main canal surrounding Haarlem, but discovered that the tour boats were fully booked for Sunday afternoon “tea” cruises, so we sought out a venue that we’d seldom visited this trip: An art museum. Most of us think of Rembrandt as the foremost Dutch portrait painter, but Frans Hals was “The Guy to Go To” for your likeness during the 17th century. The small museum which features his work, as well as that of earlier and later painters, is a little gem tucked away in a Haarlem side street. It was a quiet and thoughtful place to spend part of the afternoon, and we were so intrigued by the interesting (although longish) video about Hals and his contemporaries, that we almost bought it to take home.
The streets that we strolled through before and after our visit to the museum were full of closed shops, art galleries, and restaurants. Unlike Amsterdam, which still teems like a mad beast on Sundays, Haarlem almost completely shuts down. It was a great place to “chill out”, even if only for a few hours, before he headed back to Gotham-City-Netherlands to end our day.
Amsterdam’s Central Station was jammed with travelers returning to or leaving town when we got back there at 5:20 pm. And the city’s tourist Meccas were still crowded as we rode the tram back to our hotel.
When we travel and find a decent restaurant for dinner, we tend to return to it, especially if we’re foot-weary from a hard day of sightseeing. Se tonight we went back to “Orient”, just five minutes’ walk or less from our hotel, for another big helping of various Indonesian dishes before turning in for the night.
So today we decided to leave the Big City and go off to Haarlem, a much smaller town, only 20 minutes’ train ride (but about an hour door-to-door from our hotel) away. All was quiet in the block between our hotel and the tram stop. But there were plenty of passengers when we hopped on the #5 tram on its way to the main train station, and by the time we’d reached cheap-backpacker-hotel-and-tourist-restaurant-haven around Leidsplein, the tram was like one fully packed sardine can of riders and their luggage. Just taking a deep breath was hard, and the 70ish local sitting across from Cindy wondered if he’d even be able to fight his way through the Wall of Living Flesh to get off at the next stop.
When we reached the Central Station, the tram emptied out like a 30-gallon can being dumped into a garbage truck on pick-up day. We tried without success to use our credit and debit cards to buy tickets to Haarlem, but the quick, efficient and friendly train station staff promptly issued 2nd class (hey, why ride in First for 20 minutes and many more Euros?) tickets to us for our trip.\
When we reached platform #1, we asked the train guy (he turned out to be the engineer) if his train was going to Haarlem (“Yes”), and then asked if our tickets were really for 2nd class (“I can’t tell, you’ve got them upside down”; yes, they were 2nd class). Within a few minutes after leaving Amsterdam we saw a windmill and were into the countryside. Not long after that we reached Haarlem’s turn of the century Art Deco station.
It seemed like the entire town was still in bed when we walked the first few blocks from the station towards the “Zentrum" (town center). We saw a few joggers, but didn’t pay them much heed. Then about a block away from the main town square we saw clouds of balloons floating far up in the sky, and heard excited announcements being made over a PA system. What the heck was going on?
As we turned the corner into the square, we discovered that a big-time 21 km footrace was afoot. Runners flashed by “live and in person” in front of the crowd and “live” on a big Jumbo-Tron TV screen. Kids as well as adults were in the race. I tried without much luck to find a good vantage point to shoot photos, but when I finally got to the edge of the racecourse, the winners were appearing on the Jumbo-Tron to claim their prizes, and the racing seemed to be over. Nevertheless, over the next hour or so we saw runners doing stretches, pining number badges on their T-shirts, and running in both directions in a circuit around the large church that predominates the central part of the old town, suggesting that events were still taking place.
We retired to a ring-sided seat on the far side of the racecourse to have an al fresco lunch, enjoying the mostly sunny, high 60’s weather, along with a crowd that seemed to be almost entirely Dutch. (As has been the case throughout our trip, every once in a while we here the familiar twang of American English, but not often, especially today).
After lunch we walked to the main canal surrounding Haarlem, but discovered that the tour boats were fully booked for Sunday afternoon “tea” cruises, so we sought out a venue that we’d seldom visited this trip: An art museum. Most of us think of Rembrandt as the foremost Dutch portrait painter, but Frans Hals was “The Guy to Go To” for your likeness during the 17th century. The small museum which features his work, as well as that of earlier and later painters, is a little gem tucked away in a Haarlem side street. It was a quiet and thoughtful place to spend part of the afternoon, and we were so intrigued by the interesting (although longish) video about Hals and his contemporaries, that we almost bought it to take home.
The streets that we strolled through before and after our visit to the museum were full of closed shops, art galleries, and restaurants. Unlike Amsterdam, which still teems like a mad beast on Sundays, Haarlem almost completely shuts down. It was a great place to “chill out”, even if only for a few hours, before he headed back to Gotham-City-Netherlands to end our day.
Amsterdam’s Central Station was jammed with travelers returning to or leaving town when we got back there at 5:20 pm. And the city’s tourist Meccas were still crowded as we rode the tram back to our hotel.
When we travel and find a decent restaurant for dinner, we tend to return to it, especially if we’re foot-weary from a hard day of sightseeing. Se tonight we went back to “Orient”, just five minutes’ walk or less from our hotel, for another big helping of various Indonesian dishes before turning in for the night.
Four Weeks Gone, Four Days to Go
(Sunday, Sept. 27) We've now been on the road for four weeks, one day in the air between San Francisco and London, and 27 days in Europe. We've got four days to go.
Tomorrow will be spent sightseeing in Amsterdam where the weather has apparently been unseasonably warm and dry (and even if that doesn't continue, we have a "Plan B" to stay warm and dry indoors at the two major museums just a block from our hotel). Tuesday we'll be on the train or in train stations for a good part of the day as we travel from Amsterdam to London. Wednesday will be our last day "on tour" --- we may go up to Windsor for a final "castle" day, or just check out sights we still haven't gotten around to visiting during our previous stays in London.
We'll be out the door of our London hotel around 6:30 am Thursday, October 1st (10:30 pm Pacific Daylight Time, Wednesday evening, September 30th) on our way to Heathrow to catch an 10:50 am (London time, 1:50 am PDT) flight home (where we should finally drop our bags sometime around 4-5 pm PDT Thursday afternoon.
Later tonight I'll write about today's day trip out of Amsterdam to the town of Haarlem and the big footrace that we stumbled upon when he got there at mid-day. Right now I've got to put a boulder under Sleeping Beauty, Princess Cindy, since the pea I used earlier didn';t work, and wake her from her end of the afternoon nap so we can go to dinner.
Tomorrow will be spent sightseeing in Amsterdam where the weather has apparently been unseasonably warm and dry (and even if that doesn't continue, we have a "Plan B" to stay warm and dry indoors at the two major museums just a block from our hotel). Tuesday we'll be on the train or in train stations for a good part of the day as we travel from Amsterdam to London. Wednesday will be our last day "on tour" --- we may go up to Windsor for a final "castle" day, or just check out sights we still haven't gotten around to visiting during our previous stays in London.
We'll be out the door of our London hotel around 6:30 am Thursday, October 1st (10:30 pm Pacific Daylight Time, Wednesday evening, September 30th) on our way to Heathrow to catch an 10:50 am (London time, 1:50 am PDT) flight home (where we should finally drop our bags sometime around 4-5 pm PDT Thursday afternoon.
Later tonight I'll write about today's day trip out of Amsterdam to the town of Haarlem and the big footrace that we stumbled upon when he got there at mid-day. Right now I've got to put a boulder under Sleeping Beauty, Princess Cindy, since the pea I used earlier didn';t work, and wake her from her end of the afternoon nap so we can go to dinner.
Saturday, September 26, 2009
On Tour in Amsterdam
(Saturday, Sept. 26) Our innkeepers, Hans The Incorrigible Joker, and his lovely wife, Loes, have gone to Switzerland for a week to visit their daughter, so our Hostess with the Mostest this morning was Queenie, who made sure that we had a “pancake” (crepe to the French and Americans, blintz-sort-of-to-deli-owners) in addition to the croissants, other pastries, fruit, cereal, and juices offered from breakfast.
Today, Albert “Ab” Walet, our more-French-Than-Dutch, local tour guide was at our hotel at 10:00 am to take us on a personal tour of the part of Amsterdam most familiar to its inhabitants, but less visited by tourists. We went by the two most famous museums (both just a block or so from our hotel), the Van Gough (pretty obvious whose works you’ll find there) and the Rijksmuseum (the Old Masters of Dutch painting, such as Rembrandt and Vermeer), the latter covered with scaffolding (why is Europe always “under repair” wherever we go?) in the area known as the Museum Plein. The weather was beautifully sun and probably in the high 50’s or low 60’s as we started out, a perfect day to go on a walking tour of a major city.
Albert explained that the Netherlands, a staunching Calvinist-Protestant country, placed a high value on saving, rather than spending, money, and so its people developed into a pragmatic, and a rather outspoken (some might say “opinionated”) society. As a result, the Dutch had a lot of “street smarts”. Why try to physical expand your land area by fighting wars to expand your borders, when you could just drain the sea and create more dry land? Why fight your neighbors and expend your assets, when you could play them off against each other? Why kick out the commerce-savvy Moors as the silly Spanish did, when you could welcome them and their “networking” connections which would profit your trading empire?
As a result, tiny little Holland became a major player on the world stage with colonies scattered here and there, particularly in the area between what we think of today as South East Asia and Australia. The influence of this empire, and the success of the Dutch East Indies Company, is apparent today when you stroll through the Albert Cuyp Markt fifteen or so minutes walk from our hotel. Fresh poultry, fish, and produce is on sale, along with spices from the East and Mediterranean, incense, clothing, watches (“knock off” Rolexes?), food to go (Satay and French Fries --- what a combo!). A former Catholic church in the market area has been converted into a casual restaurant with Moorish motifs on one side and Hebrew lettering along the ceiling on the other side in the Dutch spirit of “Why don’t we get along and prosper instead of killing each other?” approach to life).
Albert, a sociologist by training, admitted that the Dutch have conflicted views on “illegal” immigration, civil rights, and a multitude of issues, just as do other members of the European Community and the U.S. and other parts of the world. But people here tend to be more tolerant of other points of view, and even though regulations and laws have multiplied as elsewhere, enforcement of these laws tends to be more relaxed in the Netherlands. For example, you can smoke marijuana here even though in at least some U.S. states doing so might land you in jail. The Dutch attitude is that if it’s okay to be a drunken sot at a U.S. college, what’s wrong with a little MJ shared between friends?
In the U.S., you can buy Amstel Light Beer, but few Americans are probably aware that the major river that runs through Amsterdam is the Amstel. Ship locks still exist on the river and can easily be seen by walking over the pedestrian-only “skinny bridge”, but after a major inundation of the city in the early 1950’s, tidal flow from the ocean up the river has been virtually eliminated and the locks are now a historical oddity.
We passed by the Hermitage Museum and Albert said it was too bad that a special exhibition was being displayed because the usual collection of important paintings assembled by the Tsarists was not on display. Not far after than we came across a controversial memorial to the victims of the Holocaust, a rather ordinary looking stone monument that most tourists would probably bypass without a second glance. Although the Dutch pride themselves on supporting the Jews during WWII, some think that no enough was done to protect them from being carted off to the Nazi death camps. As Albert said, in the Netherlands, as in other countries, as least two perspectives are taken on any important political or social issue.
While in the U.S. we tend to equate new buildings and land development with “Progress”, the Dutch have another take on land use. In the 1970’s, they experiment with modern government buildings along broad boulevards in Amsterdam, but quickly decided these projects were not in the public interest. Today, much of the city looks as it did 200-300 years ago, partly because economic decline meant fewer dollars for replacing the old with the new, and partly because the Dutch were smart enough to relocate new 20th and 21st century office buildings and commercial development to highway areas outside of the central city, something we noticed when we came into the old town area by train from Frankfurt on Thursday.
After spending three hours walking from the 19th century “outer city” to the heart of the old town with Albert we reached “Dam Square, the focal point of Amsterdam. He went off to meet his next tour group, we looked at the size of the crowd (10 million or more --- too many to mingle with at any rate), turned tail, and headed back to a calmer neighborhood. We took a right at the first canal, the Oudejizids Voorburgwal, walked its end, took a right, and plopped down at a canal-side table on the smaller, intersecting Grimburgwal canal. We discovered this was a prime spot for “boat people” watching.
After using the café’s “WC”, I saw guests for a wedding carrying gifts march up the street past our dining spot. A man in a cut-away “morning coat” (presumably the Best Man) stepped into an open “captain’s brig” or dory type vessel tied to the canal wall, followed by a young lass (no doubt the Flower Girl) and a lovely woman in a blue dress (which she hike up to her navel in order to board the boat, cast off the bow line, and hoist the fenders aboard, exposing, to Cindy’s observations, must more of her femininity that I saw) and broad-brimmed “Easter hat”. My guess is that they were either to ferry the bridge and her father to the church, or to carry the “Happy Couple” away following the ceremony. Tour boats and locals in their own vessels, out enjoying the fine weather, passed up and down the canal while we leisurely finished our meal.
Consulting our map, we plotted a course back to our hotel, were swept along with a tide of humanity near the edge of the Flower Market, swam to safety on an adjacent main thoroughfare, then found ourselves walking past art galleries and high-end shops Newe Spiegel Straat, turning into a intersecting street full of pizza and “Grieke” restaurants and other eateries serving bad food to tourists, before reaching the heavily traveled Leidsestratt where we took a rest and snack break at a Ben & Jerry’s ice cream parlor. We spent a little time at the plaza at Leidse Plein listening to a brass marching band play, then strolled through have of the Vondel Park in order to get back to our hotel.
Cindy took a nap while I caught up on my trip notes. We did a brief Skype video call to our friend Mary back home, and then headed off in search of dinner. Thursday night we spotted a little bistro-brasserie on the “Gucci” shopping street a block from our hotel, and decided to give our weary feet a rest by dining there. The food wasn’t good, but we had a quiet table with “Peeny” the pussycat as our table mate, the liquor was good and plentiful (more Dutch gin and French wine and cognac), then ambled the block back to our room.
While typing up today’s adventures around 11 PM, I heard loud popping noises. The Netherlands was being invaded, terrorists were attacking Hotel Fita, or fireworks were being shot off (the most likely explanation, either though I couldn’t see any pyrotechnics looking out of our hotel room window).
As I finish this post, the weather forecast for Amsterdam on Sunday is for fair skies and temperatures in the high 60’s. If that holds, we’ll probably hop a train and head to Haarlem or one of the other nearby communities and look for a calmer, more restful and unpopulated place to spend part of our last Sunday in Europe.
Today, Albert “Ab” Walet, our more-French-Than-Dutch, local tour guide was at our hotel at 10:00 am to take us on a personal tour of the part of Amsterdam most familiar to its inhabitants, but less visited by tourists. We went by the two most famous museums (both just a block or so from our hotel), the Van Gough (pretty obvious whose works you’ll find there) and the Rijksmuseum (the Old Masters of Dutch painting, such as Rembrandt and Vermeer), the latter covered with scaffolding (why is Europe always “under repair” wherever we go?) in the area known as the Museum Plein. The weather was beautifully sun and probably in the high 50’s or low 60’s as we started out, a perfect day to go on a walking tour of a major city.
Albert explained that the Netherlands, a staunching Calvinist-Protestant country, placed a high value on saving, rather than spending, money, and so its people developed into a pragmatic, and a rather outspoken (some might say “opinionated”) society. As a result, the Dutch had a lot of “street smarts”. Why try to physical expand your land area by fighting wars to expand your borders, when you could just drain the sea and create more dry land? Why fight your neighbors and expend your assets, when you could play them off against each other? Why kick out the commerce-savvy Moors as the silly Spanish did, when you could welcome them and their “networking” connections which would profit your trading empire?
As a result, tiny little Holland became a major player on the world stage with colonies scattered here and there, particularly in the area between what we think of today as South East Asia and Australia. The influence of this empire, and the success of the Dutch East Indies Company, is apparent today when you stroll through the Albert Cuyp Markt fifteen or so minutes walk from our hotel. Fresh poultry, fish, and produce is on sale, along with spices from the East and Mediterranean, incense, clothing, watches (“knock off” Rolexes?), food to go (Satay and French Fries --- what a combo!). A former Catholic church in the market area has been converted into a casual restaurant with Moorish motifs on one side and Hebrew lettering along the ceiling on the other side in the Dutch spirit of “Why don’t we get along and prosper instead of killing each other?” approach to life).
Albert, a sociologist by training, admitted that the Dutch have conflicted views on “illegal” immigration, civil rights, and a multitude of issues, just as do other members of the European Community and the U.S. and other parts of the world. But people here tend to be more tolerant of other points of view, and even though regulations and laws have multiplied as elsewhere, enforcement of these laws tends to be more relaxed in the Netherlands. For example, you can smoke marijuana here even though in at least some U.S. states doing so might land you in jail. The Dutch attitude is that if it’s okay to be a drunken sot at a U.S. college, what’s wrong with a little MJ shared between friends?
In the U.S., you can buy Amstel Light Beer, but few Americans are probably aware that the major river that runs through Amsterdam is the Amstel. Ship locks still exist on the river and can easily be seen by walking over the pedestrian-only “skinny bridge”, but after a major inundation of the city in the early 1950’s, tidal flow from the ocean up the river has been virtually eliminated and the locks are now a historical oddity.
We passed by the Hermitage Museum and Albert said it was too bad that a special exhibition was being displayed because the usual collection of important paintings assembled by the Tsarists was not on display. Not far after than we came across a controversial memorial to the victims of the Holocaust, a rather ordinary looking stone monument that most tourists would probably bypass without a second glance. Although the Dutch pride themselves on supporting the Jews during WWII, some think that no enough was done to protect them from being carted off to the Nazi death camps. As Albert said, in the Netherlands, as in other countries, as least two perspectives are taken on any important political or social issue.
While in the U.S. we tend to equate new buildings and land development with “Progress”, the Dutch have another take on land use. In the 1970’s, they experiment with modern government buildings along broad boulevards in Amsterdam, but quickly decided these projects were not in the public interest. Today, much of the city looks as it did 200-300 years ago, partly because economic decline meant fewer dollars for replacing the old with the new, and partly because the Dutch were smart enough to relocate new 20th and 21st century office buildings and commercial development to highway areas outside of the central city, something we noticed when we came into the old town area by train from Frankfurt on Thursday.
After spending three hours walking from the 19th century “outer city” to the heart of the old town with Albert we reached “Dam Square, the focal point of Amsterdam. He went off to meet his next tour group, we looked at the size of the crowd (10 million or more --- too many to mingle with at any rate), turned tail, and headed back to a calmer neighborhood. We took a right at the first canal, the Oudejizids Voorburgwal, walked its end, took a right, and plopped down at a canal-side table on the smaller, intersecting Grimburgwal canal. We discovered this was a prime spot for “boat people” watching.
After using the café’s “WC”, I saw guests for a wedding carrying gifts march up the street past our dining spot. A man in a cut-away “morning coat” (presumably the Best Man) stepped into an open “captain’s brig” or dory type vessel tied to the canal wall, followed by a young lass (no doubt the Flower Girl) and a lovely woman in a blue dress (which she hike up to her navel in order to board the boat, cast off the bow line, and hoist the fenders aboard, exposing, to Cindy’s observations, must more of her femininity that I saw) and broad-brimmed “Easter hat”. My guess is that they were either to ferry the bridge and her father to the church, or to carry the “Happy Couple” away following the ceremony. Tour boats and locals in their own vessels, out enjoying the fine weather, passed up and down the canal while we leisurely finished our meal.
Consulting our map, we plotted a course back to our hotel, were swept along with a tide of humanity near the edge of the Flower Market, swam to safety on an adjacent main thoroughfare, then found ourselves walking past art galleries and high-end shops Newe Spiegel Straat, turning into a intersecting street full of pizza and “Grieke” restaurants and other eateries serving bad food to tourists, before reaching the heavily traveled Leidsestratt where we took a rest and snack break at a Ben & Jerry’s ice cream parlor. We spent a little time at the plaza at Leidse Plein listening to a brass marching band play, then strolled through have of the Vondel Park in order to get back to our hotel.
Cindy took a nap while I caught up on my trip notes. We did a brief Skype video call to our friend Mary back home, and then headed off in search of dinner. Thursday night we spotted a little bistro-brasserie on the “Gucci” shopping street a block from our hotel, and decided to give our weary feet a rest by dining there. The food wasn’t good, but we had a quiet table with “Peeny” the pussycat as our table mate, the liquor was good and plentiful (more Dutch gin and French wine and cognac), then ambled the block back to our room.
While typing up today’s adventures around 11 PM, I heard loud popping noises. The Netherlands was being invaded, terrorists were attacking Hotel Fita, or fireworks were being shot off (the most likely explanation, either though I couldn’t see any pyrotechnics looking out of our hotel room window).
As I finish this post, the weather forecast for Amsterdam on Sunday is for fair skies and temperatures in the high 60’s. If that holds, we’ll probably hop a train and head to Haarlem or one of the other nearby communities and look for a calmer, more restful and unpopulated place to spend part of our last Sunday in Europe.
Friday, September 25, 2009
In The Dutch East Indies
(Friday, Sept. 25) Holland was a small country, made larger not by extending its borders within Europe, but by pumping out the sea and replacing it with land, and by become a world trading power with far-flung colonies.
The period of colonization is obvious when you look at the multi-cultural nature of Amsterdam. Faces of varying hues of white and brown, dark eyes, and blues eyes looking into your eyes. Our cab driver, or his forebears, probably came from the part of the world once known as the Dutch East Indies. The owner of “Orient”, and Indonesian restaurant where we dined last night clearly did.
Thai restaurants are as common in Marin as Italian ones. We have at least two Indian restaurants in the county. But if there are any Indonesian eateries in the Bay Area, they must be in San Francisco, Berkeley, or elsewhere.
We’d never had Indonesian food before, so we asked the owner, as well as the woman who served us, what to order. They suggested a small “Rice Table” order of several different beef, chicken, and vegetable dishes. The food was brought to the table in small rectangular bowls and placed on a long warming tray between us, along with a type of “coleslaw”, some fried coconut (a condiment) and a big bowl of white rice.
At first the food didn’t seem overly spicy, but as we continued to eat, our tongues and mouths became hotter and hotter. We polished off a large bottle of water and a full bottle of Pinot Blanc (Albert, out tour guide, would later explain that both of these liquids intensify the “heat”, and that sugar “puts out the fire). The food wasn’t quite Indian, and it wasn’t quite Thai, and it wasn’t quite Chinese, but it was quite good and we left with full stomachs and with thoughts of paying another visit to the “Orient” before leaving for London on Tuesday.
The period of colonization is obvious when you look at the multi-cultural nature of Amsterdam. Faces of varying hues of white and brown, dark eyes, and blues eyes looking into your eyes. Our cab driver, or his forebears, probably came from the part of the world once known as the Dutch East Indies. The owner of “Orient”, and Indonesian restaurant where we dined last night clearly did.
Thai restaurants are as common in Marin as Italian ones. We have at least two Indian restaurants in the county. But if there are any Indonesian eateries in the Bay Area, they must be in San Francisco, Berkeley, or elsewhere.
We’d never had Indonesian food before, so we asked the owner, as well as the woman who served us, what to order. They suggested a small “Rice Table” order of several different beef, chicken, and vegetable dishes. The food was brought to the table in small rectangular bowls and placed on a long warming tray between us, along with a type of “coleslaw”, some fried coconut (a condiment) and a big bowl of white rice.
At first the food didn’t seem overly spicy, but as we continued to eat, our tongues and mouths became hotter and hotter. We polished off a large bottle of water and a full bottle of Pinot Blanc (Albert, out tour guide, would later explain that both of these liquids intensify the “heat”, and that sugar “puts out the fire). The food wasn’t quite Indian, and it wasn’t quite Thai, and it wasn’t quite Chinese, but it was quite good and we left with full stomachs and with thoughts of paying another visit to the “Orient” before leaving for London on Tuesday.
Putting A Face on The Holocaust
(Friday, Sept. 25) When we visited the Jewish Museum in Berlin, I learned, much to my surprise, that German Jews did not comprise the largest contingent of those carted off to labor and concentration camps by the Nazis during World War II. Our Amsterdam guide, Albert, would later tell us that percentage-wise, it was the Jewish population of the Netherlands who had the highest number deported to those camps. Anne Frank, the young girl from Amsterdam, is probably the most famous victim of the Holocaust, and the portion of her father’s commercial building where she and family hid from the Nazis for two years has been preserved as a museum visited by a million or more people from around the world each year.
Anne’s family left Germany in 1933 as the Nazis came to power. They moved to Amsterdam and led a normal life until the Germans occupied Holland and when, like other Jews, their ability to work in certain occupations, to engage in certain sporting or other social activities, were curtailed, and they were forced to wear a yellow “Star of David” on their clothing. Anne’s father had a business that made pectin products (used for jams and jellies). In the summer of 1942, he convinced the non-Jewish employees of his small company to help his family, and four other Jews, live in secrecy in the rear of the building. Ultimately, they were betrayed by a person or persons unknown, deported, and separated.
Seven of those who hid in the back of Otto Frank’s warehouse ultimately died, including Anne, who succumbed to typhus in March of 1945, shortly after her sister died in the same camp from the same disease, and unaware that her father was still alive in another camp. A month later, Bergen-Belsen, where Anne was incarcerated, was liberated by the Allies.
After WW II ended, Otto Frank finally made it back to Amsterdam, learning to his dismay, that his wife and children would never be reunited with him. He knew that Anne had written a diary during their two years of hiding out in his building, but he did not read it at time. By a miracle, the diary had been found and saved by one of his employee who helped the family escape deportation during 1942-44. Otto read it, had it published, and eventually The Diary of Anne Frank was being sold in American bookstores and became the basis for a Hollywood movie of the same name.
Today, the “Anne Frank Huis” sits along the Prinsengracht canal, a memorial to the victims of the Holocaust. Anne’s journal entries are etched into the walls in Dutch and English, and the original diary was on display during our visit. But the building remains eerily unfurnished, at the request of Otto Frank. But the spaces feel confining, particularly where “blackout” curtains such as those used by the Franks shut out all daylight, and it is difficult to imagine spending a single day, let alone two years, locked up here.
Throughout the museum you continually find a charming photo of Anne Frank smiling back at you, even though it is doubtful that she smiled often during the two years she lived in the building, or at all, after being sent to the death camps. But without that face smiling back at the world now and forever, would the Holocaust simply become a footnote to a story in which over 50 million lives were lost?
Anne’s family left Germany in 1933 as the Nazis came to power. They moved to Amsterdam and led a normal life until the Germans occupied Holland and when, like other Jews, their ability to work in certain occupations, to engage in certain sporting or other social activities, were curtailed, and they were forced to wear a yellow “Star of David” on their clothing. Anne’s father had a business that made pectin products (used for jams and jellies). In the summer of 1942, he convinced the non-Jewish employees of his small company to help his family, and four other Jews, live in secrecy in the rear of the building. Ultimately, they were betrayed by a person or persons unknown, deported, and separated.
Seven of those who hid in the back of Otto Frank’s warehouse ultimately died, including Anne, who succumbed to typhus in March of 1945, shortly after her sister died in the same camp from the same disease, and unaware that her father was still alive in another camp. A month later, Bergen-Belsen, where Anne was incarcerated, was liberated by the Allies.
After WW II ended, Otto Frank finally made it back to Amsterdam, learning to his dismay, that his wife and children would never be reunited with him. He knew that Anne had written a diary during their two years of hiding out in his building, but he did not read it at time. By a miracle, the diary had been found and saved by one of his employee who helped the family escape deportation during 1942-44. Otto read it, had it published, and eventually The Diary of Anne Frank was being sold in American bookstores and became the basis for a Hollywood movie of the same name.
Today, the “Anne Frank Huis” sits along the Prinsengracht canal, a memorial to the victims of the Holocaust. Anne’s journal entries are etched into the walls in Dutch and English, and the original diary was on display during our visit. But the building remains eerily unfurnished, at the request of Otto Frank. But the spaces feel confining, particularly where “blackout” curtains such as those used by the Franks shut out all daylight, and it is difficult to imagine spending a single day, let alone two years, locked up here.
Throughout the museum you continually find a charming photo of Anne Frank smiling back at you, even though it is doubtful that she smiled often during the two years she lived in the building, or at all, after being sent to the death camps. But without that face smiling back at the world now and forever, would the Holocaust simply become a footnote to a story in which over 50 million lives were lost?
Weird Buildings
(Friday, Sept. 25) Amsterdam, of course, shouldn’t be here, since it lies below sea level. But like Venice, Italy, enterprising Dutch drove millions of wooden (and later steel) pilings down through the mud and underlying peat layers into more “solid” ground and created a place to live. Space was, and is, at a premium, and property taxes were (at least historically) based in part on the width of buildings. As a result, you find many tall, skinny houses and commercial structures built alongside the canals; entry steps and interior stairways are often quite steep, with very narrow steps, almost like the “ladders” that serve as stairs on ships.
A sixty square meter (about 600 square foot) apartment is considered to be relatively spacious. Our hotel room, curiously enough, is quite large by European standards (probably double the size of the one we had in Munich), and it has a large bathroom (maybe three times as large as the one in our London hotel) with a full-sized tub/shower. On the other hand, the “WC” in some of the cafes we’ve eaten in, and which are in older buildings along the canals, are so small you almost have to stand on the edge of the toilet seat, drop your drawers, and their parachute down on to the seat, or leave to door open to undress enough to “do your business”, close the door, then open it again to get redressed. I thought that Amsterdamers were skinny because they either ride bikes or walk everywhere, but now I see that if you were obese, you’d have to leave town and go to Paris to use the toilette.
A sixty square meter (about 600 square foot) apartment is considered to be relatively spacious. Our hotel room, curiously enough, is quite large by European standards (probably double the size of the one we had in Munich), and it has a large bathroom (maybe three times as large as the one in our London hotel) with a full-sized tub/shower. On the other hand, the “WC” in some of the cafes we’ve eaten in, and which are in older buildings along the canals, are so small you almost have to stand on the edge of the toilet seat, drop your drawers, and their parachute down on to the seat, or leave to door open to undress enough to “do your business”, close the door, then open it again to get redressed. I thought that Amsterdamers were skinny because they either ride bikes or walk everywhere, but now I see that if you were obese, you’d have to leave town and go to Paris to use the toilette.
Death By Bike
(Friday, Sept. 25) Rick Steves says Amsterdam has 750,000 people and almost as many bikes. It’s more like 10 million people, 15 million bikes, half the bikes in big parking areas as at the train station, or locked to light poles or railings on bridges over the canals, and the other half being constantly ridden, day and night, by 7.5 million people (not counting kids riding on the rear fender, or in some type of box on the front of the bike), some smoking pot, many talking on cell phones (illegal to do without a Bluetooth device when behind the while of car) held to the ear with one hand while holding on to one side of the handlebars with the other hand, and all going hell-bent-for-leather, in specially marked bike lanes, in the middle of the street, or down the sidewalk, oblivious to the peril they create for pedestrians (“It’s every man, woman and child, for his or herself!”, Albert, our tour guide would tell us). And then there are the Vespas, other brands of motor scooters, Harley’s, trams, buses, taxis, big and little cars made everywhere from Asia, the Czech Republic or Romania, Volvos from Sweden, BMWS and Mercedes from Germany, and even the odd big American car, like Buicks, ready to turn you into Dutch Roadkill on Brood (bread).
Tourists (who live to tell about their visit to Amsterdam), quickly learn to walk on cobblestone surfaces (where the bikes normally don’t venture), and to cross the bike lanes and streets as quickly as possible. If you stop in the middle of a bike lane for 5 seconds to gawk at a church spire and take a photo of someone coming the other direction on a bike with a dog riding in a plastic milk carton in front of the handlebars, you’ll end up in the emergency room of one of the city’s hospital.
After visiting the Houseboat Museum today, we continued along the Prinsengracht and sat down to have a cup of coffee at a canal-side café. When I went in to use “the facilities”, I looked to my left, then to my right, before crossing the street, saw it was clear, but only got halfway across the lane before a bicyclist practically shined the toes of my shoes with his bike tires as he sped by in front of me.
Tourists (who live to tell about their visit to Amsterdam), quickly learn to walk on cobblestone surfaces (where the bikes normally don’t venture), and to cross the bike lanes and streets as quickly as possible. If you stop in the middle of a bike lane for 5 seconds to gawk at a church spire and take a photo of someone coming the other direction on a bike with a dog riding in a plastic milk carton in front of the handlebars, you’ll end up in the emergency room of one of the city’s hospital.
After visiting the Houseboat Museum today, we continued along the Prinsengracht and sat down to have a cup of coffee at a canal-side café. When I went in to use “the facilities”, I looked to my left, then to my right, before crossing the street, saw it was clear, but only got halfway across the lane before a bicyclist practically shined the toes of my shoes with his bike tires as he sped by in front of me.
A Wrong-Footed Start in Amsterdam
(Friday, Sept. 25) Cindy and I had both overslept, and then rushed to shower, dress, eat breakfast and get ready for our walking tour we’d arranged with local guide, Albert Walet, to show us around Amsterdam. Our three guided tours (Prague, Berlin, and Munich) all took place on the morning of the first full day we were in town. so I had this tour down in my iPhone calendar for today. When Albert still hadn’t showed up at our hotel 15 minutes after the scheduled start time for the tour, I called him on his cell phone. As it turned out, I’d screwed up and put the tour down for today instead of tomorrow as our exchange of e-mail clearly showed.
So we went back to our room, and asked the maid to hold off for twenty minutes or so on cleaning it while we came up with a sightseeing “Plan B”. Before leaving the hotel we had used the computer made available to guests to book a timed admission to the Anne Frank House museum for 4:30 pm to avoid having to stand in a long, slow moving line of tourists just to get tickets.
By the time we headed out of the hotel’s front door just before 11 am, the bright sunshine that started the day had disappeared behind a layer of clouds, so we tossed our umbrellas into our day pack along with my sweater, maps, brochures for boat tours, and our Rick Steves guidebook.
Our first stop was a few blocks away at the Tourist Information Office where we picked up a map that showed all of the tram lines and bought ourselves a strippenkaart of fifteen tickets good on all forms of public transportation. Originally we thought about taking a tram to the Hermitage Museum (a sister entity that swaps art treasures back and forth with its Tsarist-created namesake in St. Petersburg), but the “TI lady” said we could easily walk there, and indeed all around the central part of the city, in twenty minutes or so.
Our second stop was the Bloemenmarkt (flower market), a block long string of flower stalls running along one side of the Singel Canal. Patronized largely by tourists, the market sells some cut flowers, but also offers –pre-packaged bags of tulip bulbs (some of which can be imported to the U.S. and Canada pursuant to an official Phytosanitary Certificate issued by the Plant Protection Service of the Netherlands), as well as a “Cannabis Starter Kit” (forget about bringing these back to the States).
I guess that just looking at the marijuana seed packets gave us a case of the munchies, so we walked into a little café and sat at a counter next to the window giving us a view of the flower market scene while we downed our omelets. This wasn’t a “coffee shop” (where Mary Jane is sold and smoked), but we did see a woman on a bicycle sail by with a joint between her lips.
After lunch we did a circuit around the Singel Canal, stopped to get a “Secret Swirl” cone (“Sorry”, said the lady in the ice cream store, “but if I tell you what’s in it, I’ll have to kill you, and that’s bad for business.”), and then cut across town to the Prinsengracht canal to visit the Houseboat Museum. Twenty-five hundred cargo vessels of different types and sizes have been converted into floating homes tied up along the city’s canals. Some look quite spiffy with flower boxes on deck and on the quays, others are a bit down at the heel. The museum vessel is quite tidy and cozy, and the on-board host told us that although he lives elsewhere, he will stay aboard for a few days with his girlfriend once in a while.
The Amsterdam houseboat community is much like the one in Sausalito, with the landowners of expensive “waterfront” property sometimes looking down (figuratively, as well as literally) on the houseboaters. . Homes are more expensive than the houseboats by about 20% per square meter, and the houseboaters probably pay less in property taxes (about 1,000 Euros a year). But just as has happened in Marin, the character of the houseboat community in Amsterdam is different today, when the liveaboards are mainly “Yuppies”, than in the past, when houseboat denizens were mainly “Hippies.”
So we went back to our room, and asked the maid to hold off for twenty minutes or so on cleaning it while we came up with a sightseeing “Plan B”. Before leaving the hotel we had used the computer made available to guests to book a timed admission to the Anne Frank House museum for 4:30 pm to avoid having to stand in a long, slow moving line of tourists just to get tickets.
By the time we headed out of the hotel’s front door just before 11 am, the bright sunshine that started the day had disappeared behind a layer of clouds, so we tossed our umbrellas into our day pack along with my sweater, maps, brochures for boat tours, and our Rick Steves guidebook.
Our first stop was a few blocks away at the Tourist Information Office where we picked up a map that showed all of the tram lines and bought ourselves a strippenkaart of fifteen tickets good on all forms of public transportation. Originally we thought about taking a tram to the Hermitage Museum (a sister entity that swaps art treasures back and forth with its Tsarist-created namesake in St. Petersburg), but the “TI lady” said we could easily walk there, and indeed all around the central part of the city, in twenty minutes or so.
Our second stop was the Bloemenmarkt (flower market), a block long string of flower stalls running along one side of the Singel Canal. Patronized largely by tourists, the market sells some cut flowers, but also offers –pre-packaged bags of tulip bulbs (some of which can be imported to the U.S. and Canada pursuant to an official Phytosanitary Certificate issued by the Plant Protection Service of the Netherlands), as well as a “Cannabis Starter Kit” (forget about bringing these back to the States).
I guess that just looking at the marijuana seed packets gave us a case of the munchies, so we walked into a little café and sat at a counter next to the window giving us a view of the flower market scene while we downed our omelets. This wasn’t a “coffee shop” (where Mary Jane is sold and smoked), but we did see a woman on a bicycle sail by with a joint between her lips.
After lunch we did a circuit around the Singel Canal, stopped to get a “Secret Swirl” cone (“Sorry”, said the lady in the ice cream store, “but if I tell you what’s in it, I’ll have to kill you, and that’s bad for business.”), and then cut across town to the Prinsengracht canal to visit the Houseboat Museum. Twenty-five hundred cargo vessels of different types and sizes have been converted into floating homes tied up along the city’s canals. Some look quite spiffy with flower boxes on deck and on the quays, others are a bit down at the heel. The museum vessel is quite tidy and cozy, and the on-board host told us that although he lives elsewhere, he will stay aboard for a few days with his girlfriend once in a while.
The Amsterdam houseboat community is much like the one in Sausalito, with the landowners of expensive “waterfront” property sometimes looking down (figuratively, as well as literally) on the houseboaters. . Homes are more expensive than the houseboats by about 20% per square meter, and the houseboaters probably pay less in property taxes (about 1,000 Euros a year). But just as has happened in Marin, the character of the houseboat community in Amsterdam is different today, when the liveaboards are mainly “Yuppies”, than in the past, when houseboat denizens were mainly “Hippies.”
In Amsterdam, and Back On-Line
(Friday, Sept. 25) We arrived in Amsterdam last night and for the first time in nearly a week we have reliable access to the Internet from in our hotel room. I've written up notes covering some of our travels since the last post about "Mad" King Ludwig's castles, but I'm at least two days behind on those write-ups. If we're ever in our hotel room long enough (we'll probably be off to dinner soon) for me to do so, I'll get those updates posted as soon as I can.
Thursday, September 24, 2009
Amsterdam, Here We Come!
(Thursday, Sept. 24) After a quick breakfast at Hotel Etol, we hauled our bags down to the lobby and jumped into a taxi for a fifteen minute ride to the Baden-Baden train station. We had learned that Mikel Gorbachev had purchased property in Baden-Baden and that many Russians lived and visited there. Our friendly cab driver told us he had lived in Russian, but (big surprise) liked living in Baden-Baden much better.
The trains of the Deutschebahn German National Railway generally run right on time and usually only spend two-five minutes at any stop along their routes. Train number 76 had left Zurich, Switzerland about 8:00 am, pulled into Baden-Baden at 10:31, left promptly at 10:33, and arrived in Frankfurt and hour and twenty minutes later.
We had an hour and half layover at Frankfurt’s busy main train station, giving us time to stow our luggage in a locker, wander around and check out the dining options (mostly fast food or cafeteria style dining), discover that our First Class Railpass didn’t entitle us to use the DB First Class passenger lounge, and then sit out in the station platform area with the hoipoloi and munch on curry wraps for lunch before boarding train 124 bound for Amsterdam.
After a brief stop at the Frankfurt airport, the train headed west through rolling farmland, at times hitting speeds of around 267 KPH (about 165 MPH), or just a little faster than the Porsches and Mercedes 500 class sedans rocketing down the Autobahn that paralleled the rail line. But we ran into some sort of snag at Koln, got stuck there for 19 minutes, and never made up the time, even though we still had around three hours left of rail travel left before reaching Amsterdam. I guess the train controllers wouldn’t let the engineer put the throttle all of the way down, because our average speed during the rest of the journey didn’t match that during the first hour of so after leaving Frankfurt.
The ride was originally quite smooth out of Frankfurt even though we were flying along the rails so fast that the train appeared to levitate, so I was able to type up some notes of our adventures over the past few days. But later the train swayed and lurched so much that the word-processing program would suddenly close, reformat the document, or cause typos. Finally about 4 pm I threw in the towel, and left it to Cindy try to figure out how to close the multiple copies of the document that somehow had been opened during the last frustrating over of pounding away on the netbook.
We arrived in Amsterdam at rush hour, discovered that the rather old and outdated station was a madhouse of commuters, and had to walk a long way to get around a barricade surrounding construction of a new subway north-south subway line in order to find the taxi queue. Our taxi driver wasn’t from Eastern Europe, but probably hailed instead from one of the areas in which the Dutch East Indies Company operated.
When we got to our hotel, he had to drag our bags up a short, steep set of steps, and repeatedly press the buzzer to be let into the lobby where no one was manning the desk. Finally, Hans, our landlord, came down to the lobby from some higher floor in the hotel, grousing about the damn demanding hotel guests. We quickly learned that his off-putting mannerisms was just part of the quirky sense of humor he’s developed over his forty-years in the hotel business to help him keep a sensible perspective on what is important in life while having to deal with the occasional total pain in the butt customer.
Hans showed us to our room, and then came back a few minutes later with a bowl of cashews and two glasses of delicious peach-flavored French sparkling wine to welcome us to Amsterdam and his hotel. After unpacking and showering, we walked a half-dozen blocks or so to a “restaurant row”, opted not to eat at the Hard Rock Café, and instead had a nice dinner of steak (and a hamburger for Cindy) and fries with great service at another place in the same general area. I preceded dinner with a shot of very smooth local Dutch gin, and had a warm class of French cognac as a digestive, all to celebrate having a five night and four day break from traveling.
The trains of the Deutschebahn German National Railway generally run right on time and usually only spend two-five minutes at any stop along their routes. Train number 76 had left Zurich, Switzerland about 8:00 am, pulled into Baden-Baden at 10:31, left promptly at 10:33, and arrived in Frankfurt and hour and twenty minutes later.
We had an hour and half layover at Frankfurt’s busy main train station, giving us time to stow our luggage in a locker, wander around and check out the dining options (mostly fast food or cafeteria style dining), discover that our First Class Railpass didn’t entitle us to use the DB First Class passenger lounge, and then sit out in the station platform area with the hoipoloi and munch on curry wraps for lunch before boarding train 124 bound for Amsterdam.
After a brief stop at the Frankfurt airport, the train headed west through rolling farmland, at times hitting speeds of around 267 KPH (about 165 MPH), or just a little faster than the Porsches and Mercedes 500 class sedans rocketing down the Autobahn that paralleled the rail line. But we ran into some sort of snag at Koln, got stuck there for 19 minutes, and never made up the time, even though we still had around three hours left of rail travel left before reaching Amsterdam. I guess the train controllers wouldn’t let the engineer put the throttle all of the way down, because our average speed during the rest of the journey didn’t match that during the first hour of so after leaving Frankfurt.
The ride was originally quite smooth out of Frankfurt even though we were flying along the rails so fast that the train appeared to levitate, so I was able to type up some notes of our adventures over the past few days. But later the train swayed and lurched so much that the word-processing program would suddenly close, reformat the document, or cause typos. Finally about 4 pm I threw in the towel, and left it to Cindy try to figure out how to close the multiple copies of the document that somehow had been opened during the last frustrating over of pounding away on the netbook.
We arrived in Amsterdam at rush hour, discovered that the rather old and outdated station was a madhouse of commuters, and had to walk a long way to get around a barricade surrounding construction of a new subway north-south subway line in order to find the taxi queue. Our taxi driver wasn’t from Eastern Europe, but probably hailed instead from one of the areas in which the Dutch East Indies Company operated.
When we got to our hotel, he had to drag our bags up a short, steep set of steps, and repeatedly press the buzzer to be let into the lobby where no one was manning the desk. Finally, Hans, our landlord, came down to the lobby from some higher floor in the hotel, grousing about the damn demanding hotel guests. We quickly learned that his off-putting mannerisms was just part of the quirky sense of humor he’s developed over his forty-years in the hotel business to help him keep a sensible perspective on what is important in life while having to deal with the occasional total pain in the butt customer.
Hans showed us to our room, and then came back a few minutes later with a bowl of cashews and two glasses of delicious peach-flavored French sparkling wine to welcome us to Amsterdam and his hotel. After unpacking and showering, we walked a half-dozen blocks or so to a “restaurant row”, opted not to eat at the Hard Rock Café, and instead had a nice dinner of steak (and a hamburger for Cindy) and fries with great service at another place in the same general area. I preceded dinner with a shot of very smooth local Dutch gin, and had a warm class of French cognac as a digestive, all to celebrate having a five night and four day break from traveling.
Wednesday, September 23, 2009
Back Across The Rhine
(Wednesday, Sept. 23) We hated to leave Ribeauville. The town had just the right amount of tourist attractions and services, with little foot or auto traffic, great weather, and a terrific scenic setting amount the vineyards of Alsace. Staying with our innkeepers, the Two Sisters Marie, was likely vacationing at the home of your favorite aunties. They ran out laundry down to the cleaners for us, shared some great personal stories with us, and sent us off to fun days of sightseeing and good places to fill out stomachs at the end of the day.
With regret, we finally headed off to Germany late Wednesday morning, on our way to the spa town of Baden-Baden to meet up with our friends Agnes and Leon, who were stopping there for town nights on their way south to the Swiss Alps with a Rick Steves tour group.
The Two Sisters Marie sent on a scenic, although somewhat slow route, down out of the foothills of Les Vosages and across the Rhine back into Germany. When we hit the At Autobahn heading north toward Stuttgart, the slow lane of this two-lane stretch of freeway was almost filled bumper to bumper with big rigs. As a result, we were either screaming by them at 140-150 KPH, or hitting the brakes and slowing down to 80 as smaller trucks and other vehicles pulled out in the fast lane to creep by the large trucks.
Around mid-day we pulled into one of the mini-market gas station/rest stop/cafeterias that dot the European expressways. We filled up the Beemer, filled up ourselves with a quick lunch, and then got back onto the A5. Just as the highway widened into three lanes each way allowing us to put the pedal to the metal, we reached the Baden-Baden exit. Less than fifteen minutes later we had reached the town and Miss Moneypenny saved the day again by leading us through a long-tunnel that takes traffic off surface streets, then out into the sun, a quick turn up a narrow lane, a left down a yet narrower street, and right to our hotel.
After checking into the hotel, we followed directions from the hotel staff to find the Avis rental office to drop off our car. No taxis were available to run us back uptown to rendezvous with Agnes and Leon at their hotel, so the Avis manager kindly had her driver take us there in the Beemer.
We spent an hour chatting with our friends at their hotel, then the four of us walked over to the town’s casino and enjoyed an hour long classical music concert. The weather was once again in the 80’s, so I left Cindy to have a cool drink at a local café with Agnes and Leon, while I walked three minutes back to our hotel to take a shower and change for dinner.
We all had a fine dinner together under the stars in a courtyard of a local restaurant, and after a pleasant three hour repast, said our goodbyes and returned to our respective hotels to prepare for departure from Baden-Baden the next morning.
With regret, we finally headed off to Germany late Wednesday morning, on our way to the spa town of Baden-Baden to meet up with our friends Agnes and Leon, who were stopping there for town nights on their way south to the Swiss Alps with a Rick Steves tour group.
The Two Sisters Marie sent on a scenic, although somewhat slow route, down out of the foothills of Les Vosages and across the Rhine back into Germany. When we hit the At Autobahn heading north toward Stuttgart, the slow lane of this two-lane stretch of freeway was almost filled bumper to bumper with big rigs. As a result, we were either screaming by them at 140-150 KPH, or hitting the brakes and slowing down to 80 as smaller trucks and other vehicles pulled out in the fast lane to creep by the large trucks.
Around mid-day we pulled into one of the mini-market gas station/rest stop/cafeterias that dot the European expressways. We filled up the Beemer, filled up ourselves with a quick lunch, and then got back onto the A5. Just as the highway widened into three lanes each way allowing us to put the pedal to the metal, we reached the Baden-Baden exit. Less than fifteen minutes later we had reached the town and Miss Moneypenny saved the day again by leading us through a long-tunnel that takes traffic off surface streets, then out into the sun, a quick turn up a narrow lane, a left down a yet narrower street, and right to our hotel.
After checking into the hotel, we followed directions from the hotel staff to find the Avis rental office to drop off our car. No taxis were available to run us back uptown to rendezvous with Agnes and Leon at their hotel, so the Avis manager kindly had her driver take us there in the Beemer.
We spent an hour chatting with our friends at their hotel, then the four of us walked over to the town’s casino and enjoyed an hour long classical music concert. The weather was once again in the 80’s, so I left Cindy to have a cool drink at a local café with Agnes and Leon, while I walked three minutes back to our hotel to take a shower and change for dinner.
We all had a fine dinner together under the stars in a courtyard of a local restaurant, and after a pleasant three hour repast, said our goodbyes and returned to our respective hotels to prepare for departure from Baden-Baden the next morning.
Tuesday, September 22, 2009
Off to The Big City
(Tuesday, Sept. 22) Colmar is a major city located about a half south of Ribeauville. It has a car-free pedestrian zone in the heart of the old city, a large cathedral, and many half-timbered style popular in this region It also has at least two of the fake steam train tram which are continually circling the old center of town, filled with bored tourists too lazy to walk around town on their own locomotion.
We enjoyed a local specialty called “Tarte Flambé” (a type of thin-crust pizza) during an al fresco lunch at a café on the main platz, then picked up some brochures at the local Tourist Office to take back to our innkeepers¸ and set off on a walking tour of the town. Like many German cities, Colmar has its share of high-end clothing boutiques, and the usual collection of shops selling tourist schlock. The Gothic cathedral wasn’t very interesting, but the smaller, plainer Dominican church with its splendid Madonna of the Rose altarpiece framed in gilded wood was worth the 1.5 Euro price of admission.
Small canals run along the edge of the old section of Colmar. Small “dugout canoes” powered by electric motors are yet another way the Colmarians separate tourists from their hard-earned Euros. The day was quite warm, so we sat at a canal side cafe and had a cold drink while watching these little barques ferry the tourists up and downstream. Around 4 pm we decided we that we had enough of this touristic place and headed back to Ribeauville.
At the end of our vineyard walk yesterday, I saw a sign outside of Au Cheval Blanc advertising “Vin Nouveau”. Fortunately, we didn’t stop there for a glass of that libation since Sister Marie the Younger would later tell us it was very potent wine and that after a consuming a single glass the high alcohol content would leave us disorientated..However, tonight before we headed off to dinner, Marie the Younger brought out a carafe of the potent juice made from grapes her brother had cut from the vines just five days earlier and joined us in the salon for a glass of the high-test stuff. It was cloudy and didn’t burn as it went down, but she sent us on our way toddling down the Grand Rue wishing us good luck in finding the restaurant where we were to dine, and in making our way all of the way to the top of the town and bed at the end of the evening.
When we passed up to offer of an aperitif of local sparkling wine, telling our hostess that we’d had some vin noveau, the chef’s wife wrinkled her nose and said “Oooh, I never drink that stuff!” We had an excellent meal featuring a local specialty, “Bäkeoff”, a sort of stew made with two kinds of meat, potatoes, leeks, and carrots, slow cooked, and then served hot in individual casserole dishes.
As we trudged uphill to the hotel after dinner, the Gran Rue was quiet, with only a few folks walking around, a small crowed of happy revelers hanging out at the hotel about a block downhill from our digs, and three pussycats roaming about.
We enjoyed a local specialty called “Tarte Flambé” (a type of thin-crust pizza) during an al fresco lunch at a café on the main platz, then picked up some brochures at the local Tourist Office to take back to our innkeepers¸ and set off on a walking tour of the town. Like many German cities, Colmar has its share of high-end clothing boutiques, and the usual collection of shops selling tourist schlock. The Gothic cathedral wasn’t very interesting, but the smaller, plainer Dominican church with its splendid Madonna of the Rose altarpiece framed in gilded wood was worth the 1.5 Euro price of admission.
Small canals run along the edge of the old section of Colmar. Small “dugout canoes” powered by electric motors are yet another way the Colmarians separate tourists from their hard-earned Euros. The day was quite warm, so we sat at a canal side cafe and had a cold drink while watching these little barques ferry the tourists up and downstream. Around 4 pm we decided we that we had enough of this touristic place and headed back to Ribeauville.
At the end of our vineyard walk yesterday, I saw a sign outside of Au Cheval Blanc advertising “Vin Nouveau”. Fortunately, we didn’t stop there for a glass of that libation since Sister Marie the Younger would later tell us it was very potent wine and that after a consuming a single glass the high alcohol content would leave us disorientated..However, tonight before we headed off to dinner, Marie the Younger brought out a carafe of the potent juice made from grapes her brother had cut from the vines just five days earlier and joined us in the salon for a glass of the high-test stuff. It was cloudy and didn’t burn as it went down, but she sent us on our way toddling down the Grand Rue wishing us good luck in finding the restaurant where we were to dine, and in making our way all of the way to the top of the town and bed at the end of the evening.
When we passed up to offer of an aperitif of local sparkling wine, telling our hostess that we’d had some vin noveau, the chef’s wife wrinkled her nose and said “Oooh, I never drink that stuff!” We had an excellent meal featuring a local specialty, “Bäkeoff”, a sort of stew made with two kinds of meat, potatoes, leeks, and carrots, slow cooked, and then served hot in individual casserole dishes.
As we trudged uphill to the hotel after dinner, the Gran Rue was quiet, with only a few folks walking around, a small crowed of happy revelers hanging out at the hotel about a block downhill from our digs, and three pussycats roaming about.
Monday, September 21, 2009
A Walk Through Alsatian Vineyards
(Monday, Sept. 21) Our Ribeauville Hotel is very civilized. Breakfast begins at 8:30 am and continues until 11 am, so we had a “lie in” after our long day on the road yesterday. (As I type this three days later¸ we are rocketing along another road --- “Die Bahn” (railroad line) --- at 267 KPH a bit faster than a Porsche Carrera roaring down the Autobahn, on our way from Frankfurt to Amsterdam).
We opted for a car-free and carefree day and set off later morning down the Gran Rue¸ the main street which runs from the top to the bottom of Ribeauville which sits at the foot of the 4,000+ foot high Les Vosages mountains. Last night we only walked a short distance traversing the upper part of the town in order to reach the restaurant where we dined, and that gave us the impression that Ribeauville was a fairly tiny little village. But in the light of day, and with tourist rising like the tide up the Gran Rue as we flowed down it, we realized that although relatively small, Ribeauville is much larger than we originally estimated.
Storks that build huge nests on rooftops here (although we only saw two that were bereft of these large avians) are an iconic symbol of the Alsace and shops sell many stork-themed gifts such as children’s mobiles, mugs, backpacks for toddlers, and what has become my favorite symbol of European souvenir kitsch, the snow globes (avec stork). We wandered into a bucherie/charcuterie just to smell the wonderful aromas of giant quiches, roast chickens, and thick pork chops waiting in glass cases for some lucky person to snatch them up and wolf them down. A local biscuiterie offered samples of macaroons, gratis, enticing us to buy a bag to insure no afternoon would go snackless.
Finally around 12:45 pm, the satiations from the macaroons wore off and we had an omelet and pork and veal tart lunch at Chez Marie on the Gran Rue. A cocker spaniel sort of small dog wandered around the tables and off towards the “WC”. Later he flopped down under one of the tables so he obviously was a resident of the restaurant.
Fortified with food, we set off back uphill towards our hotel, but then veered left and headed south to walk to Hunawir, the next village along the “Wine Road”. One of our Two Sisters Named Marie innkeepers told us that we’d be strolling through vineyards and that we’d get to Hunawir in a half hour or so. But after walking steadily uphill through a residential neighborhood under a warm sun we were almost ready to turn back when we reached the crest of a hill, felt a cooling breeze, and reached the beginning of the vineyards which run up the mountain and down along the narrow paved road connecting the two towns.
We ambled along, walked up steps carved into the stone wall supporting the uphill embankment, stopped to looked at the ripening grapes and take some photos, then descend to the roadway to continue southward. Some of the grapes were light green, others pinkish, and still others dark purple. A half dozen men and women hand cutting the grape clusters told us the lightest color grapes were Pinot Blanc, not Riesling as I had guessed, and that the pink ones were Pinot Gris.
After about an hour of easy walking we reached Hunawir where everyone appeared to be taking a mid-afternoon nap. We saw a handful of other tourists when we visited the local church. When it was built centuries ago the town was so poor that both that the Protestant and Catholics had to share the sanctuary for their services, as they continue to do so today. A fortified wall around the church was built with narrow slights so archers (and maybe later musketeers) could lose their missiles at approaching enemy forces. But perhaps only the Catholics allowed within the walls during war and the Protestants were left to fend for themselves outside, since today only the Catholic graveyard lies inside the wall and the heretics are buried outside of its protective circle.
We saw a couple enjoy an afternoon treat on the patio of a little café, but we unwisely continued on to the church, planning to have a glace (ice cream) on our way back. Unfortunately, the café was closed when we returned and we had to be content with munching on macarons on a log bench on the edge of Hunawir.
The grape harvest was still continuing as we walked back to Ribeauville in mid-afternoon. Incongruously, a Japanese family sat at a picnic table next to one of the vineyards having lunch while the French fieldworkers toiled away nearby.
Ken and Christina Waldeck, our friends who had recommended staying in Ribeauville, had been hiking in the hills when Ken fell and severely injured his leg. When we asked our innkeeper, Sister Marie the Elder, if Ken’s surgery had taken place at the hospital directly across the street from the hotel, she laughed out loud, explaining that it was an “Old Folks Home” for elderly patients that were immobile. She laughed even louder when I suggested that Cindy and I should probably be incarcerated there.
When we returned from our walk to Hunawihr we sat on a bench by the stream that runs through the top of the town, saw the “mobile” retirees (the ones with canes and “walkers”) and figured that we’d fit right in with that group. A half dozen tourists and a single dog passed by riding in the fake steam-train tram that runs up and down the Gran Rue. The tourists wore headsets listening to a tape recorded sightseeing monologue, eyes glazed over. Only the dog looked happy.
We opted for a car-free and carefree day and set off later morning down the Gran Rue¸ the main street which runs from the top to the bottom of Ribeauville which sits at the foot of the 4,000+ foot high Les Vosages mountains. Last night we only walked a short distance traversing the upper part of the town in order to reach the restaurant where we dined, and that gave us the impression that Ribeauville was a fairly tiny little village. But in the light of day, and with tourist rising like the tide up the Gran Rue as we flowed down it, we realized that although relatively small, Ribeauville is much larger than we originally estimated.
Storks that build huge nests on rooftops here (although we only saw two that were bereft of these large avians) are an iconic symbol of the Alsace and shops sell many stork-themed gifts such as children’s mobiles, mugs, backpacks for toddlers, and what has become my favorite symbol of European souvenir kitsch, the snow globes (avec stork). We wandered into a bucherie/charcuterie just to smell the wonderful aromas of giant quiches, roast chickens, and thick pork chops waiting in glass cases for some lucky person to snatch them up and wolf them down. A local biscuiterie offered samples of macaroons, gratis, enticing us to buy a bag to insure no afternoon would go snackless.
Finally around 12:45 pm, the satiations from the macaroons wore off and we had an omelet and pork and veal tart lunch at Chez Marie on the Gran Rue. A cocker spaniel sort of small dog wandered around the tables and off towards the “WC”. Later he flopped down under one of the tables so he obviously was a resident of the restaurant.
Fortified with food, we set off back uphill towards our hotel, but then veered left and headed south to walk to Hunawir, the next village along the “Wine Road”. One of our Two Sisters Named Marie innkeepers told us that we’d be strolling through vineyards and that we’d get to Hunawir in a half hour or so. But after walking steadily uphill through a residential neighborhood under a warm sun we were almost ready to turn back when we reached the crest of a hill, felt a cooling breeze, and reached the beginning of the vineyards which run up the mountain and down along the narrow paved road connecting the two towns.
We ambled along, walked up steps carved into the stone wall supporting the uphill embankment, stopped to looked at the ripening grapes and take some photos, then descend to the roadway to continue southward. Some of the grapes were light green, others pinkish, and still others dark purple. A half dozen men and women hand cutting the grape clusters told us the lightest color grapes were Pinot Blanc, not Riesling as I had guessed, and that the pink ones were Pinot Gris.
After about an hour of easy walking we reached Hunawir where everyone appeared to be taking a mid-afternoon nap. We saw a handful of other tourists when we visited the local church. When it was built centuries ago the town was so poor that both that the Protestant and Catholics had to share the sanctuary for their services, as they continue to do so today. A fortified wall around the church was built with narrow slights so archers (and maybe later musketeers) could lose their missiles at approaching enemy forces. But perhaps only the Catholics allowed within the walls during war and the Protestants were left to fend for themselves outside, since today only the Catholic graveyard lies inside the wall and the heretics are buried outside of its protective circle.
We saw a couple enjoy an afternoon treat on the patio of a little café, but we unwisely continued on to the church, planning to have a glace (ice cream) on our way back. Unfortunately, the café was closed when we returned and we had to be content with munching on macarons on a log bench on the edge of Hunawir.
The grape harvest was still continuing as we walked back to Ribeauville in mid-afternoon. Incongruously, a Japanese family sat at a picnic table next to one of the vineyards having lunch while the French fieldworkers toiled away nearby.
Ken and Christina Waldeck, our friends who had recommended staying in Ribeauville, had been hiking in the hills when Ken fell and severely injured his leg. When we asked our innkeeper, Sister Marie the Elder, if Ken’s surgery had taken place at the hospital directly across the street from the hotel, she laughed out loud, explaining that it was an “Old Folks Home” for elderly patients that were immobile. She laughed even louder when I suggested that Cindy and I should probably be incarcerated there.
When we returned from our walk to Hunawihr we sat on a bench by the stream that runs through the top of the town, saw the “mobile” retirees (the ones with canes and “walkers”) and figured that we’d fit right in with that group. A half dozen tourists and a single dog passed by riding in the fake steam-train tram that runs up and down the Gran Rue. The tourists wore headsets listening to a tape recorded sightseeing monologue, eyes glazed over. Only the dog looked happy.
Sunday, September 20, 2009
Miss Moneypenny Earns Her Keep
(Sunday, Sept. 20) Once back on the open road, we were making good time towards the Rhine, but clouds were forming off to the west and we could tell that the sun would be setting behind those nimbo-cumuli towers either just before or just after we reached Ribeauville.
Espaliered apple trees and grape vines covered much of the hillsides leading down to the highway above the Bodensee and exception for resort development nearer the lake this area seems to have remained quite rural. A little over two hours after leaving Lindau we came down off the rolling farmland and descended on a steep, winding road into a canyon whose sides appeared to be made of black shale type rock. Around 5:30 pm we stopped in Freiburg on the German side of the Rhine to fill up the BMW with gas (and empty our pockets of Euros).
We figured we had about an hour to go until reaching Ribeauville and that would have been the case, but the Beemer seemed to have cast a spell over Miss Moneypenny so she would not let enter France. While it looked like a straight shot from Freiburg to Colmar on the west side of the Rhine, Miss Moneypenny sent us onto the A5 Autobahn north toward Stuttgart. After roaring along at 130-140 KPH for a few miles, we decided to get off the Autobahn and consult our Michelin maps. We concluded that we now needed to head south towards Switzerland, go past Freiburg, then get off the Autobahn and go northwest on secondary roads to reach the Rhine. We called the hotel in Ribeauville, were told it should take us another hour to get them, and set off once again.
We hit a big traffic backup near the river and Cindy rightly guessed it was because bridge repairs were being done and there was only one lane open across the bridge. We only got a brief look at the river as we crossed it as fast as we could, then turned north towards Colmar once we were in France.
Ribeauville is a small, and quite old town, with narrow streets snaking their way up the side of the mountains. We had neither a map of the town nor specific directions to the hotel, but Miss Moneypenny led us right to the door of the hotel. After dumping our bags in the lobby and parking the car, Marie-Madeline (one of two sisters who run the hotel) showed us to our room and made a dinner reservation for us.
Around 8:30 we walked a little over five minutes to the Hotel and Restaurant Au Cheval Blanc near the top of the Grand Rue, the main street the runs from the bottom to the top of the town. The only other diners were a young French couple in their twenties, a lone Japanese tourist, and a thirty-something husband and wife and their two young kids. Because France and Germany have traded “ownership” of this area, many towns have Germany names, and the cuisine has French and German influences. So our Coq au Vin dinner was made not with a red wine from Burgundy, but an Alsatian Riesling, and the side dish was not potatoes, but Spaetzle.
It was a quiet evening out, even though the little toddler at the table next to us kept running gleefully back and forth between her parents and the toy box the restaurant maintains at the rear of the dining room, carting back various treasures to show off.
We were happy to see this day come to a close and went to bed looking forwarded to a day without driving on Monday.
Espaliered apple trees and grape vines covered much of the hillsides leading down to the highway above the Bodensee and exception for resort development nearer the lake this area seems to have remained quite rural. A little over two hours after leaving Lindau we came down off the rolling farmland and descended on a steep, winding road into a canyon whose sides appeared to be made of black shale type rock. Around 5:30 pm we stopped in Freiburg on the German side of the Rhine to fill up the BMW with gas (and empty our pockets of Euros).
We figured we had about an hour to go until reaching Ribeauville and that would have been the case, but the Beemer seemed to have cast a spell over Miss Moneypenny so she would not let enter France. While it looked like a straight shot from Freiburg to Colmar on the west side of the Rhine, Miss Moneypenny sent us onto the A5 Autobahn north toward Stuttgart. After roaring along at 130-140 KPH for a few miles, we decided to get off the Autobahn and consult our Michelin maps. We concluded that we now needed to head south towards Switzerland, go past Freiburg, then get off the Autobahn and go northwest on secondary roads to reach the Rhine. We called the hotel in Ribeauville, were told it should take us another hour to get them, and set off once again.
We hit a big traffic backup near the river and Cindy rightly guessed it was because bridge repairs were being done and there was only one lane open across the bridge. We only got a brief look at the river as we crossed it as fast as we could, then turned north towards Colmar once we were in France.
Ribeauville is a small, and quite old town, with narrow streets snaking their way up the side of the mountains. We had neither a map of the town nor specific directions to the hotel, but Miss Moneypenny led us right to the door of the hotel. After dumping our bags in the lobby and parking the car, Marie-Madeline (one of two sisters who run the hotel) showed us to our room and made a dinner reservation for us.
Around 8:30 we walked a little over five minutes to the Hotel and Restaurant Au Cheval Blanc near the top of the Grand Rue, the main street the runs from the bottom to the top of the town. The only other diners were a young French couple in their twenties, a lone Japanese tourist, and a thirty-something husband and wife and their two young kids. Because France and Germany have traded “ownership” of this area, many towns have Germany names, and the cuisine has French and German influences. So our Coq au Vin dinner was made not with a red wine from Burgundy, but an Alsatian Riesling, and the side dish was not potatoes, but Spaetzle.
It was a quiet evening out, even though the little toddler at the table next to us kept running gleefully back and forth between her parents and the toy box the restaurant maintains at the rear of the dining room, carting back various treasures to show off.
We were happy to see this day come to a close and went to bed looking forwarded to a day without driving on Monday.
Getting Involved in German Politics
(Sunday, Sept. 20) As well bid adieu to Reutte about 10:15 am, a local bicycle race to the top of a local ruined castle was about to begin and the sun was shining brightly through a “blue hole” in the clouds. But shortly after we left town, the clouds got lower and light rain showers began to fall: A portent of what the rest of the day had in store for us as we traveled across three countries (Austria, Germany, and France) to reach Ribeauville in the Alsace region west of the Rhine River.
Google Maps had suggested that we go straight north on the A7 Autobahn to Stuttgart, then head west until we reached France, then drive south to Ribeauville. But our friend, Ben Woythaler (an American married to a lovely French woman, Anne-Sophie), had suggested that we stop at Lindau on the Bodensee (aka Lake Constance) if we had time, and our innkeeper at Reutte said that would be a much more scenic route. (Michelin’s on-line mapping service had suggested going that way, as well).
Traffic heading to the A7 Autobahn was heavy in both directions with weekend travelers heading home, and it picked up in volume and speed once we hit the A7. After turning off the A7 to the A980 autobahn heading west to the Bodensee, traffic disappeared almost completely. Even when that “freeway” became a two-lane road, there weren’t that many cars headed east or west.
But as we entered Lindau around noon, we saw lots of people walking along the main street, police stationed at every street leading into the old town, and full parking lots. We pulled into one lot that appeared hopelessly full, were elated when a friendly guy waved that he was leaving, then were exasperated when another car coming down the adjacent lane of parked cars pulled right in front of us and into the spot. We decided to leave town, but quickly discovered that there is just one way in and one way out. Lindau is on either a natural peninsula, or a man-made one connecting a former island to the mainland. The only way to get off this little land mass in the direction we were headed was by train, so we gave up, parked the car in the farthest lot from “downtown”, and went in search of lunch.
What we discovered were police everywhere, especially near one of the waterfront hotels, music playing, and someone making speeches or announcements over a PA system. We guessed that either a rock start was coming or, more likely, one of more candidates in the upcoming German national election.
Picking our way through the crowds and heading in the opposite direction from the big doings, we found our way to a konditorei, had a nice simple lunch, and then decided to leave town. Unfortunately, the political event (we later saw people carrying political banners, and a large plastic cow painted with the colors of the German flag and inscribed with some inscrutable slogan, confirming the nature of the goings-on) had ended, and everyone else was trying to get out of Dodge, too. Lucky for us, once we got out of the central part of town, most cars were headed east, and we were westward bound.
But our luck ran out a while later as we tried to get around the north side of the Bodensee and to the autobahn at the end of the lake. About midway, we hit a stream of cars creeping along like snails. This is a big resort area, and driving here on Sunday afternoon is like driving on the north shore of Lake Tahoe on a summer Sunday when everyone is headed home from the lake. |Traffic finally cleared, and we’re speeding on our way again, but well behind schedule, and with at least two to three more hours of traveling left to go before reaching Ribeauville.
Google Maps had suggested that we go straight north on the A7 Autobahn to Stuttgart, then head west until we reached France, then drive south to Ribeauville. But our friend, Ben Woythaler (an American married to a lovely French woman, Anne-Sophie), had suggested that we stop at Lindau on the Bodensee (aka Lake Constance) if we had time, and our innkeeper at Reutte said that would be a much more scenic route. (Michelin’s on-line mapping service had suggested going that way, as well).
Traffic heading to the A7 Autobahn was heavy in both directions with weekend travelers heading home, and it picked up in volume and speed once we hit the A7. After turning off the A7 to the A980 autobahn heading west to the Bodensee, traffic disappeared almost completely. Even when that “freeway” became a two-lane road, there weren’t that many cars headed east or west.
But as we entered Lindau around noon, we saw lots of people walking along the main street, police stationed at every street leading into the old town, and full parking lots. We pulled into one lot that appeared hopelessly full, were elated when a friendly guy waved that he was leaving, then were exasperated when another car coming down the adjacent lane of parked cars pulled right in front of us and into the spot. We decided to leave town, but quickly discovered that there is just one way in and one way out. Lindau is on either a natural peninsula, or a man-made one connecting a former island to the mainland. The only way to get off this little land mass in the direction we were headed was by train, so we gave up, parked the car in the farthest lot from “downtown”, and went in search of lunch.
What we discovered were police everywhere, especially near one of the waterfront hotels, music playing, and someone making speeches or announcements over a PA system. We guessed that either a rock start was coming or, more likely, one of more candidates in the upcoming German national election.
Picking our way through the crowds and heading in the opposite direction from the big doings, we found our way to a konditorei, had a nice simple lunch, and then decided to leave town. Unfortunately, the political event (we later saw people carrying political banners, and a large plastic cow painted with the colors of the German flag and inscribed with some inscrutable slogan, confirming the nature of the goings-on) had ended, and everyone else was trying to get out of Dodge, too. Lucky for us, once we got out of the central part of town, most cars were headed east, and we were westward bound.
But our luck ran out a while later as we tried to get around the north side of the Bodensee and to the autobahn at the end of the lake. About midway, we hit a stream of cars creeping along like snails. This is a big resort area, and driving here on Sunday afternoon is like driving on the north shore of Lake Tahoe on a summer Sunday when everyone is headed home from the lake. |Traffic finally cleared, and we’re speeding on our way again, but well behind schedule, and with at least two to three more hours of traveling left to go before reaching Ribeauville.
Saturday, September 19, 2009
Waitin' Til the Cows Come Home
(Saturday, Sept. 19) When we checked into Hotel Maximilian on Wednesday, Gabi (one of two sisters who run the place) told us that on Saturday there would be a festival in the town on the other side of the nearby Lech River to celebrate the return of the sheep and cows from their summer pastures up in the mountains. Her niece would be conducting the brass band, and her brother (who we saw at the hotel from time to time) would be playing in it, too.
So after breakfast this morning we drove ten minutes or so to Lechaschau, found the beer tent across from the Penny Markt on the Hauptbanhof Strasse, parked the Beemer on the edge of field a couple blocks away, and walked back to the festival grounds. It wasn’t yet 11 am, but the band was playing, kids were dancing and running around in front of the stage, and beer was already being swilled by a large crowd. Outside, pens full of sheep, sheared to the skin, or waiting for their Fall “haircuts”, were bleating and milling about, bells jangling.
One of the sheep wranglers had on a T-shirt bearing the exhortation: “Go White Sox!”. A young helper about 12 years old tried to single out sheep that didn’t outweigh him and wrestle them over to the shearing pen. Once he gave up and just jumped aboard a sheep and tried to ride it, cowboy-style.
There was a shooting gallery where you could win a prize, but it wasn’t getting many takers, and the woman running it spent most of her time starring into space a smoking a cigarette while little kids whose parents wouldn’t give them money to try their luck picked up the air rifles and toyed with them. A guy selling vacuum cleaners wasn’t finding any buyers, but the cotton-candy and balloon man was doing okay.
By mid-day the tables in the beer tent were pretty full. We got a couple of wurst und brot (roast sausages with buns, a sort of do-it-yourself hot dog) and listened to the band. A ten year old kid served me my beer, and small kids helped the adults bus the tables. One guy with a beer-gut, red T-shirt, and green baseball cap, helped clear tables while wearing a stud earring in one ear and a cell phone blue-tooth gizmo in the other.
The cow parade was supposed to start at 2 pm, so we decided to see if we could find the cows starting place by following a trail of dirt and manure off towards the mountains. After walking a few blocks up streets of neatly kept homes adorned with flower gardens, we came to a large meadow and saw a group of kids and adults in traditional Tirloean garb. They turned out to be the “goat” contingent that would bring up the tail-end of the parade. One of them spoke a little English and told us where to find the best vantage point to see the parade down on the main drag.
When we got to the Hauptbahnhof Strasse, a few people had gathered, and some were sitting atop a wall running between the sidewalk and homes on the west side of the street. But within half an hour the crowd stretched along about a three block section of the main road through town.
The parade started few minutes late, and couldn’t have lasted more than twenty minutes. The cowherds marched down the street, yodeling and yelling, and occasionally having to yank their reluctant beasts past the crowd. The goats and their handlers took up the rear. When the last animal and marcher had entered the festival grounds, traffic that had been stopped in both directions began to flow, jerkily at first, starting, and then stopping, to let onlookers head back to the beer tent.
Instead of searching for beer, we went looking for the cows. Most of the sheep had long since been loaded into small trailers and hauled away, so we thought the cows would take their place in the pens behind the tent. But nary a cow was to be found in that location. Tell-tale cow-plops continued on for about three blocks, then suddenly stopped, and there wasn’t either a cow or cow barn in sight. Maybe Scotty beamed them up to the Starship Enterprise.
That was the big activity for the day. We thought about wandering around Reutte (where we’d spent no time at all), but decided to go back to the hotel and loaf until dinner.
So after breakfast this morning we drove ten minutes or so to Lechaschau, found the beer tent across from the Penny Markt on the Hauptbanhof Strasse, parked the Beemer on the edge of field a couple blocks away, and walked back to the festival grounds. It wasn’t yet 11 am, but the band was playing, kids were dancing and running around in front of the stage, and beer was already being swilled by a large crowd. Outside, pens full of sheep, sheared to the skin, or waiting for their Fall “haircuts”, were bleating and milling about, bells jangling.
One of the sheep wranglers had on a T-shirt bearing the exhortation: “Go White Sox!”. A young helper about 12 years old tried to single out sheep that didn’t outweigh him and wrestle them over to the shearing pen. Once he gave up and just jumped aboard a sheep and tried to ride it, cowboy-style.
There was a shooting gallery where you could win a prize, but it wasn’t getting many takers, and the woman running it spent most of her time starring into space a smoking a cigarette while little kids whose parents wouldn’t give them money to try their luck picked up the air rifles and toyed with them. A guy selling vacuum cleaners wasn’t finding any buyers, but the cotton-candy and balloon man was doing okay.
By mid-day the tables in the beer tent were pretty full. We got a couple of wurst und brot (roast sausages with buns, a sort of do-it-yourself hot dog) and listened to the band. A ten year old kid served me my beer, and small kids helped the adults bus the tables. One guy with a beer-gut, red T-shirt, and green baseball cap, helped clear tables while wearing a stud earring in one ear and a cell phone blue-tooth gizmo in the other.
The cow parade was supposed to start at 2 pm, so we decided to see if we could find the cows starting place by following a trail of dirt and manure off towards the mountains. After walking a few blocks up streets of neatly kept homes adorned with flower gardens, we came to a large meadow and saw a group of kids and adults in traditional Tirloean garb. They turned out to be the “goat” contingent that would bring up the tail-end of the parade. One of them spoke a little English and told us where to find the best vantage point to see the parade down on the main drag.
When we got to the Hauptbahnhof Strasse, a few people had gathered, and some were sitting atop a wall running between the sidewalk and homes on the west side of the street. But within half an hour the crowd stretched along about a three block section of the main road through town.
The parade started few minutes late, and couldn’t have lasted more than twenty minutes. The cowherds marched down the street, yodeling and yelling, and occasionally having to yank their reluctant beasts past the crowd. The goats and their handlers took up the rear. When the last animal and marcher had entered the festival grounds, traffic that had been stopped in both directions began to flow, jerkily at first, starting, and then stopping, to let onlookers head back to the beer tent.
Instead of searching for beer, we went looking for the cows. Most of the sheep had long since been loaded into small trailers and hauled away, so we thought the cows would take their place in the pens behind the tent. But nary a cow was to be found in that location. Tell-tale cow-plops continued on for about three blocks, then suddenly stopped, and there wasn’t either a cow or cow barn in sight. Maybe Scotty beamed them up to the Starship Enterprise.
That was the big activity for the day. We thought about wandering around Reutte (where we’d spent no time at all), but decided to go back to the hotel and loaf until dinner.
Friday, September 18, 2009
Way Up High in Germany and Austria
(Friday, Sept. 18) Last night the fellow who served me a post-dinner glass of Metaxa brandy guaranteed that we'd have sunshine on Friday. His weather prediction was spot-on as the British say, so we headed off the Zugspitze, the highest peak in Germany (just under 10,000 feet, give or take), about 45 minutes from our hotel. A smooth cable car ride from the Austrian side of the mountain took us to the top in ten minutes. Air temperature was cool, but there was no wind, so it was pleasant strolling back and forth across the terraces that connect Austria and Germany. (Before the EU ended border crossing checks for citizens of its member countries, Germans and Austrians had to show their passports to make this walk. It’s a thing of the past for everyone, including us Yanks, these days).
We know from our 1999 European trip that Parisians low their dogs and are even allowed to bring them into restaurants. But for dog-adoration, Germans take the linzertorte: They even take them to the top of the Zugspitze (on leash, of course). While little “dust-mop” dogs seem popular, Germans are also found of Yellow and Black Labs, various kinds of spotted dogs, and probably any breed that goes “Arf!”
Clouds extended north and south, but all of the high peaks poked through the stratus. You can hike up and ride the gondola down, ride up and hike down (even into a country where you didn’t start out), or simply take the “elevator” up and down as we did. Locals were eating wurst and drinking beer and enjoying the view, but we were feeling a bit cold after an hour at the top of the mountain and decided that a warm bowl of minestrone soup partaken off in a glassed in restaurant with the same splendid view made more sense.
After riding the gondola to the bottom, we drove back into Germany. Near Garmish we found that the U.S Army still maintained a base there. Cindy remembers saying at a For U.S.-Officers-Only resort on a lake in that area; we probably we looking down at the lake from the top of the Zugspitze.
Although Reutte gets it share of tourists, it’s nothing like the Garmish area which with its McDonald’s and Pizza Hut is like Lake Tahoe without the casinos. After snaking our way through town, we drove for a few minutes up the Autobahn north towards Munich, then exited west and drove to the small town of Ettal to visit the magnificent Baroque church that is associated with a monastery there.
After a mid-afternoon cake treat at the konditorei, we drove back to Reutte along the road that skirts the Plansee, the biggest mountain lake in the region. In the middle of nowhere between Ettal and the lake, we passed (for the second time, the first being on our way to Reutte from Munich two days earlier) a big glass and steel box being built next to the narrow, two-lane, unstriped highway. It sticks out like a sore thumb, and doesn’t match the Swiss-chalet style architecture that is predominant in the area. We thought this must be some secret German (or Austrian --- we’re not sure what side of the border it is on) government building, maybe full of spies. We’d later learn that this monstrosity was built by BMW as a resort for employees and guests and which tore replaced a traditional hotel the company owned on the same site).
A couple of sailboats were racing each other on the Plansee, and two tour boats were plying the water of the lake as well. Twenty minutes later we were back at our hotel, glad to have had a least one beautiful sunny day in the Alps this trip.
We know from our 1999 European trip that Parisians low their dogs and are even allowed to bring them into restaurants. But for dog-adoration, Germans take the linzertorte: They even take them to the top of the Zugspitze (on leash, of course). While little “dust-mop” dogs seem popular, Germans are also found of Yellow and Black Labs, various kinds of spotted dogs, and probably any breed that goes “Arf!”
Clouds extended north and south, but all of the high peaks poked through the stratus. You can hike up and ride the gondola down, ride up and hike down (even into a country where you didn’t start out), or simply take the “elevator” up and down as we did. Locals were eating wurst and drinking beer and enjoying the view, but we were feeling a bit cold after an hour at the top of the mountain and decided that a warm bowl of minestrone soup partaken off in a glassed in restaurant with the same splendid view made more sense.
After riding the gondola to the bottom, we drove back into Germany. Near Garmish we found that the U.S Army still maintained a base there. Cindy remembers saying at a For U.S.-Officers-Only resort on a lake in that area; we probably we looking down at the lake from the top of the Zugspitze.
Although Reutte gets it share of tourists, it’s nothing like the Garmish area which with its McDonald’s and Pizza Hut is like Lake Tahoe without the casinos. After snaking our way through town, we drove for a few minutes up the Autobahn north towards Munich, then exited west and drove to the small town of Ettal to visit the magnificent Baroque church that is associated with a monastery there.
After a mid-afternoon cake treat at the konditorei, we drove back to Reutte along the road that skirts the Plansee, the biggest mountain lake in the region. In the middle of nowhere between Ettal and the lake, we passed (for the second time, the first being on our way to Reutte from Munich two days earlier) a big glass and steel box being built next to the narrow, two-lane, unstriped highway. It sticks out like a sore thumb, and doesn’t match the Swiss-chalet style architecture that is predominant in the area. We thought this must be some secret German (or Austrian --- we’re not sure what side of the border it is on) government building, maybe full of spies. We’d later learn that this monstrosity was built by BMW as a resort for employees and guests and which tore replaced a traditional hotel the company owned on the same site).
A couple of sailboats were racing each other on the Plansee, and two tour boats were plying the water of the lake as well. Twenty minutes later we were back at our hotel, glad to have had a least one beautiful sunny day in the Alps this trip.
Thursday, September 17, 2009
A Castle or Two, Fit for A King
One of the “must see” sightseeing stops in Southern Bavaria are the twin Wittlebach castles, Hohenschangau, and Neuschansteig, near Fussen, and about a forty-five minute drive from where we were staying just across the border in Reutte, Austria. Since the sky was cloudy, and the weather forecast called for rain later in the day, we figured spending part of the day indoors was a good idea.
We didn’t know that when Miss Money Penny, our BMW’s British-English speaking GPS says “turn right”, she sometimes means “bear right” (she seems to use the terms interchangeably and her choice of which term to use seems whimsical). So we ended up leaving the highway and driving onto a dead-end road into an industrial park as we left Reutte. Then, because we only knew the town near the castles, but not the exact address of the castles, she kept misdirecting us. And to make matters whose, we can’t figure out how to turn her off.
Anyway, we finally reach the castle complex, parked the car, and began one of many uphill and downhill walks. So many visitors come that guided tours are strictly time and only last about thirty-five minutes in each castle. Miss your entry time, and you can light your entry ticket on fire because it won’t operate the turnstile that let you in.
Neuschwansteig (“New Swan Stone”) was the model for the castle at Disneyland. It was under construction from 1869-1886, but never finished. It was the designed for “Mad” King Ludwig, whose parents had built that much more sedate Hohenschwangau farther down the hill. It took 14 carpenters four years just to build Ludwig’s bedroom. It reminded me of William Randolph Hearst’s Castle on the central California coast.
Ludwig only lived in the castle for 172 days before he and his psychiatrist were both found dead, floating in a lake near Munich. No one knows for sure how he met us end. The day before he died, royal counselors had him declared insane. Were they so upset over the cost of building Neuschwansteig that they went ballistic when they learned Ludwig wanted to build yet another, even more grandiose castle just up the road, and had him killed? Maybe he didn’t pay his general contractor who had connections with the Mafia? Did the Hapsburg from Austria “take out a contract” on him when he jilted one of their princesses after a ten-month engagement? Hitchcock should have made a movie about this guy.
We walked a half hour down the hill from Neuschwansteig to the parking area below the castles in an increasingly heavy rain, lonely to discover that we couldn’t find where we had parked. Then when we finally located the car, it wouldn’t start until I accidentally put my foot on the brake and discovered that there was an interlocking mechanism that requires the driver to touch the brake pedal to activate the ignition system. Fortunately, and despite Miss Money Penny’s commands, and with only one missed turn, we made it safely back to Reutte in time for dinner.
Arrival in Munich
(Saturday, Sept. 12) Our train arrived right on time at 4:40 pm, just under seven hours after we left Berlin. Unlike Berlin’s modern and efficient main station, Munich’s is much older and chaotic. Avoiding being run down and run into by others scurrying to catch trains is a problem.
Off to Munich (Part Three)
(Saturday, Sept. 12) Our new cubicle mate is about our age and a retired “information technology” worker of some sort. She’s got a rucksack and camera bag and is on her way south of Munchen to do some “vandering” (hiking) despite having to wear a splint to support her ankle. She told us that she’s been to San Francisco, Chicago, Utah, Wyoming, and gone camping in the fourth states of the U.S. Desert \Southwest. She grew up in the GDR (East Germany) and said some things are better, and some are worse, since the Berlin Wall fell and the both halves of the county were reunited.
Off to Munich (Part Two)
(Saturday, Sept. 12)
As we leave Leipzig, the weather was sunny with a few puffy clouds in the sky. The forecast for Sunday, when we will tour Munich with a private guide, looks good. But after that it may rain or shower for the next few days.
TERROR THEN, AND NOW
(Friday, Sept. 11) A TV in the breakfast room of our hotel was showing film clips of the destruction of the World Trade Center. At first we were perplexed, but then realized that it was the eighth anniversary of the terrorist attacks on the U.S.
Off to Munich (Part One)
(Saturday, Sept. 12) As I type this blog post, and the three previous ones, we are flying down the tracks towards Munich, about seven hours to the south of Berlin by ICE (“Inter City Express) train. The First Class car in which we are riding is much fancier than the ones in which we rode from Prague to Dresden, and Dresden to Berlin. Right now (as we pull into the Leipzig station) we have a four seat “cubicle” compartment (a sliding glass door can be shut to keep the “riff-raff” out, although they could toss tomatoes at us over the top of the “cubicle” walls) with leather seats.
BERLIN'S "NO TELL" HOTELS
(Friday, Sept. 11) “I’m ugly, but I glow at night” read the sign on the marquee of the Michelber Hotel located near the end of the U-Bahn #1 and just a block from the largest remaining section of the Berlin Wall. Tucked in between the hole-in-the-wall Kebab and Asian food cafes was the Exotixx (presumably spelled with a double “x to indicate the strength of the porn videos and “adult” books offered for sale).
Feeling fairly foot-tired at the end of the day, we decided to return to Ristorante Mario, just a block or so from our hotel, and were we enjoyed fine Italian cuisine two nights before. But it was Friday night, the tables were full of Berliners drinking and eating, the waiters were rushing about carrying four or five plates in both arms, shouting to each other for assistance, and the service we received was not even close to that given during our first visit. But the “people watching” experience was worth the price of admission. Lots of slim and finely dressed women (maybe they’d stopped at “Botox To Go” before going out for the evening), men in business suits, others not so clad (maybe it was “Dress Down Friday” for them), and wine and beer flowing in steady rivers to their tables
So about ten o’clock were returned to Hotel Astoria, its exterior lit up with red flood lights, a “Zimmer Frei” (room vacancy sign), making us wonder if it, too, would “glow at night" especially since Berlin's Erotic Art Museum is just around the corner.
Wednesday, September 16, 2009
Kuh Fly, Don't Bother Me!
(Wednesday, Sept. 16). Hotel Maximilian sits in a broad mountain valley just outside of Reutte. Across the road “kuhs” (cows to Americans) sat in a meadow chewing their cud and pondering deep, philosophical questions like “when am I going to get milked?” all the while using their tails and ears to swat away at pesky flies. Unfortunately for us, they’ve swatted them into the hotel and we’ve spent a good part of dinner trying to “off:” the little airborne pests. But the food was very good, and we had a quiet dinner with only a few other guests seated near us.
Except for the flies, the hotel is quite nice. We have a room about twice the size as the one we had in Munich (we could almost fall directly into bed and go to sleep after opening the door). Instead of 1.3 million Muencheners (plus tourists) racing back and forth in our “front yard”, we have only about 5,000-6,000 “neighbors” in our neighborhood. Regrettably, the weather was cloudy and damp today with the prospects for more of the same, probably the edge of a much larger storm was supposed to be knocking Italy on its ear.
Except for the flies, the hotel is quite nice. We have a room about twice the size as the one we had in Munich (we could almost fall directly into bed and go to sleep after opening the door). Instead of 1.3 million Muencheners (plus tourists) racing back and forth in our “front yard”, we have only about 5,000-6,000 “neighbors” in our neighborhood. Regrettably, the weather was cloudy and damp today with the prospects for more of the same, probably the edge of a much larger storm was supposed to be knocking Italy on its ear.
From Big City to Cow Country
(Wednesday, Sept. 16). After having a final breakfast at our usual café, “robbing” the “Geldbankomat’ (ATM) of yet more Euros, finishing packing our suitcases, and checking out of our hotel a little after 10 am, we took at taxi to the Munich train station where we had arranged to pick up the rental car we’ll be driving for the next eight days. Once again, we went round and round the streets of Munich, dodging traffic and construction zones. If we had little or no luggage we probably could have walked to the station faster than the cabbie drove us there.
Avis handed over the keys to a big BMW “5 Series” station wagon to us. After spending a while figuring out how to start it (it has an ignition system with a “Start/Stop” engine button similar to the one on the Toyota Prius) and operate the turn signals, seat controls, and other gizmos, Cindy drove us out of Munich while I navigated.
A half hour or so later we pulled off at a “Rasthaus” (rest stop) that had a small restaurant. Our meager German failed us: We ended up with bockwurst instead of bratwurst ---- basically a hot dog with a different weiner in the bun.
I took over the driving after lunch after programming our talking (in a females voice speaking “English UK”) GPS to lead us to our next stop in Reutte, Austria. We continued down the Autobahn A95 southbound at about 130-140 kph until we were approaching Garmisch-Partenkirchen and our English electronic navigator directed us on to a scenic, but very narrow road for the last 40 or so kilometers of the journey. (Several years ago we had one of the first generation talking GPS units in a car we rented in New Mexico. After it directed us to turn off a main highway on to a jeep road ---- the shortest, but hardly the safest route ---- we turned it off). Soon we were driving through lush green valley surrounded by high, alpine peaks with relatively little traffic going either with us or in the opposite direction.
The GPS got a little confused toward the end of the trip (probably because we didn’t enter the correct street address for the hotel), but we still managed to arrive about two and half hours after we set off from Munich. Our innkeeper suggested that we take an hour’s drive up the valley, then loop back over the mountains to Reutte, and then stop and check out the local church and its cemetery.
By 3:15 pm, the gray clouds that had hung over the mountains began dropping a steady, light rain. Villages and farm sheds are scattered across the meadows which descend from the Alps. Some of the communities have fair sized hotels, built in the Swiss-chalet style, while in other places there are merely “Zimmer Frei” (room available) signs hanging on posts near the road. Although the roads wind and twist their way up the glaciated valleys, we saw several large tour buses on the road or pulled off next to hotels.
Around 4:30 pm we were back in Reutte and had reached the rather plain looking Catholic church our host had told us to visit. Inside is a Baroque-era creation, a sort of “mini-cathedral” with paintings and other décor rivaling that of much larger churches in Munich to the north. More remarkable yet is the cemetery. Each and every plot is like a small garden with a small “lantern” containing a lit candle. Our innkeeper said that descendents either maintain the graves themselves or pay for a gardener to do so. Many plots have marble headstones similar to those found in American cemeteries, but others have wrought-iron and gilded markers instead
Avis handed over the keys to a big BMW “5 Series” station wagon to us. After spending a while figuring out how to start it (it has an ignition system with a “Start/Stop” engine button similar to the one on the Toyota Prius) and operate the turn signals, seat controls, and other gizmos, Cindy drove us out of Munich while I navigated.
A half hour or so later we pulled off at a “Rasthaus” (rest stop) that had a small restaurant. Our meager German failed us: We ended up with bockwurst instead of bratwurst ---- basically a hot dog with a different weiner in the bun.
I took over the driving after lunch after programming our talking (in a females voice speaking “English UK”) GPS to lead us to our next stop in Reutte, Austria. We continued down the Autobahn A95 southbound at about 130-140 kph until we were approaching Garmisch-Partenkirchen and our English electronic navigator directed us on to a scenic, but very narrow road for the last 40 or so kilometers of the journey. (Several years ago we had one of the first generation talking GPS units in a car we rented in New Mexico. After it directed us to turn off a main highway on to a jeep road ---- the shortest, but hardly the safest route ---- we turned it off). Soon we were driving through lush green valley surrounded by high, alpine peaks with relatively little traffic going either with us or in the opposite direction.
The GPS got a little confused toward the end of the trip (probably because we didn’t enter the correct street address for the hotel), but we still managed to arrive about two and half hours after we set off from Munich. Our innkeeper suggested that we take an hour’s drive up the valley, then loop back over the mountains to Reutte, and then stop and check out the local church and its cemetery.
By 3:15 pm, the gray clouds that had hung over the mountains began dropping a steady, light rain. Villages and farm sheds are scattered across the meadows which descend from the Alps. Some of the communities have fair sized hotels, built in the Swiss-chalet style, while in other places there are merely “Zimmer Frei” (room available) signs hanging on posts near the road. Although the roads wind and twist their way up the glaciated valleys, we saw several large tour buses on the road or pulled off next to hotels.
Around 4:30 pm we were back in Reutte and had reached the rather plain looking Catholic church our host had told us to visit. Inside is a Baroque-era creation, a sort of “mini-cathedral” with paintings and other décor rivaling that of much larger churches in Munich to the north. More remarkable yet is the cemetery. Each and every plot is like a small garden with a small “lantern” containing a lit candle. Our innkeeper said that descendents either maintain the graves themselves or pay for a gardener to do so. Many plots have marble headstones similar to those found in American cemeteries, but others have wrought-iron and gilded markers instead
Tuesday, September 15, 2009
Barbie Does A "Re-Lo" to Munich
(Tuesday, Sept. 16) The Glockenspiel in the Munich Town Hall is famous and when it runs its animated diorama of knights jousting and dancers dancing, it draws big crowds to Marienplatz. It plays at 11 am, noon, and 5 pm, but on Sunday and Monday, we always were in Marienplatz just a few minutes too late to catch the show. So today we made Marienplatz and the Glockenspiel Stop # 1 on our day’s touring of Munich, and enjoyed the ten minute or so mechanized entertainment along with a few hundred or more locals and tourists.
But Stop #2 was the highlight of the day. Prague’s Toy Museum was closed so we missed out on seeing its Barbie Doll collection. But the guy who started it moved to Munich several years ago and opened a Toy Museum there in a tower at the end of the main square, Marienplatz. Not only were there nearly 50 Barbies (clad in all sorts of attire), two Kens, and a slew of teddy bears, mechanical toys (one of my favorites is a woman that swats at a rat with a broom), and even Cowboys and Indians fighting it out in a 19th century Way-Out-West-in-The-U.S. cavalry fort. Both of us saw toys we had been given as kids. (I wanted to smash the glass cases and swipe some to take home and play with).
After spending the better part of an hour in this swell museum, we walked back to the Viktualienmarkt and grabbed a quick lunch in the biergarten. Since it was a sunny day, we decided to go three kilometers outside of the city center to the Nymphenburg Palace and give the Wittlebachs another chance to convince us that touring one of their “monster homes” was worth our time and money.
To get to the palace, we had to use the public transportation system which is slick, but at a tourist’s first glance, not quite as easy to navigate as the Paris Metro or London Tube. Lucky for us, we found a friendly guy working at the information booth who had a daughter living in El Paso and who had traveled to the Grand Canyon, Las Vegas and San Francisco, and who understood the problems associated with travelling in a place where the locals don’t speak your native tongue. He gave us the most direction route and the cheapest tickets to get to the palace, and we hopped on the U6 subway train, then transferred to Tram #17 and got to the Nymphenburg stop in twenty minutes.
Nyphenburg’s buildings seem to stretch as far to the left and right of the main entry as the eye can see, but only sixteen rooms are open to the public. We skipped the audio guide tour, took a quick run through this section of the palace (more paintings, sculptures, old furniture, tapestries, etc.) and spend the rest of our time wandering about the huge park in which the main palace and several other “mini-palaces” sit. The long green meadows lined with trees made the area look like a big golf course with unmown grass sprinkled with purple crocus-like wildflowers.
By the time we got back to our hotel, we were frazzled. On our first night we’d noticed a steakhouse located on the ground floor of the building housing the hotel, but we only saw a few diners, and figured it was there simply to vacuum Euros out of the pockets of business travelers arriving in mid to late evening. But since we were facing a fairly early start and a long train ride to Munich the next day, we threw caution to the window and decided to walk five minutes to dinner even if the food turned out to be crappy.
Much to our surprise, tables at the Asado Steakhouse were nearly full, and we learned that it had been in business for thirty five years serving Argentine-bred beef steaks. We shared a good ol’ ‘Merican dinner of steak, corn on the cob (harvested last summer somewhere far from Germany), and baked potatoes, washed down with a reasonable decent Argentine red wine. Overall, the meal was pretty good, and we were happy that we could just wander on off to bed immediately after paying the bill.
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