The Hermitage Amsterdam

Before a wealthy Dutch merchant, Barent Helleman died and left his entire fortune to the church, elderly, dependent women relied on expensive, private homes for shelter. Using some 90,000 guilders of the inheritance, the Deanery ordered the construction of the building now known as The Hermitage.

The Hermitage Amsterdam

 In 1681, the Diaconie Oude Vrouwen Huys (Deanery Home for Old Women) opened as home for 400 women. (Qualification for residency included strict guidelines: at least 50 years old, a member of the church for no fewer than 10 years, and a resident of Amsterdam for no fewer than 15 years.) Men were eligible for residency in 1817 and the name changed accordingly to Diaconie Oude Vrouwen- en Mannenhuis.

The home served its original purpose until the 1990’s when it was deemed unfit and new location for a modern facility was sought. The last residents left the Amstelhof (as it was known) in 2007. Afterward the historic structure was leased by the city of Amsterdam as an annex to the State Hermitage Museum in St. Petersburg, Russia. On June 20, 2009 the Netherlands’ Queen Beatrix and Russian President Dmitry Medvedev were present to open the Hermitage Amsterdam.

A view from the Amstel

Today the massive facility (138,270 sq. ft.) is home to priceless collections of Dutch art and artifacts. It also serves as safekeeping for travelling exhibitions such as the one we viewed yesterday: Impressionism: Sensation & Inspiration. Many years before the significance of these priceless works was realized, they were bought by agents of the Czar and taken to Russia. In the 200 years since then, they have lovingly survived, and for a few months (until yesterday) were on view at the Hermitage Amsterdam.

Also, because the Van Gogh Museum here in Amsterdam is in the last stages of a massive renovation, the Hermitage is the temporary home to many, many examples of Vincent Van Gogh’s art and personal effects.

Our building in the p.m. sunshine

A good day for a nap!

Yesterday broke nasty. Rain pelted the wind-blown houseboats, and from our vantage point on the second floor of Amstel 155,  (red roof, third floor) it looked like a great day to stay home. By noon all that changed. The rain stopped, and so did the wind. (By 4:00 p.m. the temperature had risen ten degrees and the sun was shining. Here’s what I say: if you don’t like the weather, wait a while.)

That’s when we decided that a short walk to the Hermitage was in order. We are glad we did. As it turned out, yesterday was the last day for the visiting Impressionists.

XXX

As ubiquitous as tulips, windmills and wooden clogs, the triple X logo is everywhere. Depending whom you ask, the meaning of the three white X’s on a black strip across a red background is open to debate.

To the thousands of British weekend stag-partiers, it represents the sex industry that thrives in Amsterdam, but the origins of the three X’s is not quite so obvious. The best interpretation has to do with the crosses of St. Andrew, who in the first century was crucified on a wooden cross in the shape of an X. It was probably in the early 1500’s that St. Andrew became the patron saint of Amsterdam’s fisherman, and the triple X logo flew first flew from the ships registered in Amsterdam.

Today, from t-shirts to street signs, the familiar XXX is easy to spot.

Today’s Lesson: Eggs

I like eggs. That works out well because, as I am on record as saying, the eggs are different here. Different from those to which I am used—generally larger by grade, the shells are harder, and the yolks are a deeper rich color and super creamy; the end result—better eggs; and the runny yolks are the best!

Take this morning for example. Gwaz flipped my two latest victims and dropped the bread in the toaster. Using the subtlety cultivated over forty years of marriage I suggested that the accumulated time spent on the second side would result in a less than exemplary runny yolk (as I prefer). She said something about her nearly fifty years experience with frying eggs, and I believe I responded by offering a fresh (and under-appreciated) perspective.

 

Her stare and raised spatula were the best indicators that she was not receiving the full benefit of my educative experience. I think that was when I said something like, “I would prefer the white a little runny rather than the yellow too hard.” (I was reminded then of an important principle that every teacher eventually realizes: some students are not ready to learn when the lesson is being delivered.)

When I suggested that the toast had, in fact, been left longer than I prefer—resulting in darkish edges—the eggs and the bread hit the table just slightly after the plate did. Sensing rather intuitively that more intensive measures were required, I said, “OK let’s summarize. What have you learned as a result of today’s lesson?”

She said after a moment's hesitation, “Jay’s an ass!”

But That Aine How We ‘mericans Do It

Here’s a rule to live by: Think Different. (I know, I know, Steve Jobs said it first; but it is darn sound advice for living here.) This place requires a flow, an acceptance of gezillig, which, as I told you, is not my nature nor the custom of my American heritage. We want it big, and we want it now.

There were two bulls at the top of a hill. 

The American bull said to the Dutch bull, “Hey, hey, look at all them cows down there! 

Let’s run down and get one of ‘em!”

Here is my best example of accepting the flow: grocery shopping. How often do you shop for groceries? OK, OK, how often does someone from your family go to the store for groceries? Once a week? Twice at most? It’s different for everyone but the answer is somewhere between once and not real often. Not here. Not us. First of all, we have a tiny refrigerator. Secondly—no freezer. Last and most significantly, toting an American-sized collection of groceries up the stairs to our apartment isn’t my notion of a good idea.

What’s the alternative? We shop every day—every, single day with very, very few exceptions. We have to. Instead of resenting it or even thinking of it as a chore, buying our daily food is actually an opportunity to have fresh food without storing huge amounts at home. Think different. Accept the flow. Gezillig.

(I know what you’re thinking… You’re still back a few paragraphs on “no freezer”; right? It is not the rule here, but it is certainly not unprecedented. We’re growly more and more used to it—slowly. A little bag of ice cubes lasts about three days in the frig—no worries; hey, we’re in the store anyway.)

“Nay,” replied the Dutch bull. “Let’s walk down and get them all.”

Gezillig.

40 (or She Knows I Mean It)

When my parents reached their 40^th wedding anniversary, my mother wanted a party. Why she wanted one said more about endurance than celebration, but nonetheless, a party she got. I didn’t think too much about it—then. On Sunday past, I did. Forty seems like a long time, and biggies like 10, 25 and 40 are celebration-worthy (as stepping stones to the true milestone of longevity—50!) Last Sunday, I thought of that day in 1988 for good reason. It was our turn.

January 20, 1973—40 years ago Sunday—was a Friday, and I remember it well. It was better suited to almost anything other than a wedding, but late on that rainy Friday afternoon at Mt. Carmel Catholic Church in Essex, MD that’s exactly what happened. Mine. Ummm, I mean ours—Gwaz and I got married.

Days like that aren’t easily forgotten. One day earlier my good friend, Mark travelled with me from Salisbury, MD so he could attend. I remember his reaction upon meeting my future mother-in-law. Mark took one good look at Debbie’s mother and as soon as she left the room, he turned on me, thrust his palms skyward and mouthed his incredulity: THAT’S YOUR MOTHER-IN-LAW?! (Yeah, no wonder where Gwaz gets those good looks; that’s for sure.)

Like I told you, Friday January 20, 1973 was raw. It had rained all day. By the time Mark and I drove to the church, it was a dark, shiny mess. The thing is, the ceremony almost didn’t happen thanks to the uniquely dangerous sense of humor of a young fellow walking next to the road. Here’s how it went: he and his buddy were trudging along the side of the road when Mark and I approached from behind. For reasons we will never know, one of the boys shoved the other into the road in front of my car. In what seemed at the time the split second before I took his life, the comedian pulled his friend to safety. The image of that joke-gone-wrong remains vivid to this day. In fact, I cannot remember my wedding day without it.

For some reason, 40 years for us seems different than 40 years for my parents. Maybe its this simple: parents are supposed to be married a long time and, for us, 40 years sneaked up on us faster than Jeff Gordon at Talladega. I used to work with a woman who claimed that if you throw a frog into boiling water, he’d jump out; but if you put him in cold water and turn the heat up, he’ll boil to death. Maybe marriage is like boiling to death. Wait, what? Nah…but it is like the frog in the cold water. The forty years came on so slow that, like Kermit, the water was already boiling before I knew what temperature it was. The years passed so unimaginably slowly that the total seems incomprehensible, at least to me.

Marriage is hard, or so I’m told. Mine isn’t. I tell Gwaz every single chance I get that I got the best woman. And, forty years down the road, she knows I mean it.

Stinking Rich

Het Grote Kerk, Haarlem

In Haarlem—one of my favorite places in the Netherlands—stands the massive St. Bavo Church, except no one calls it that. When the original structure was destroyed by fire in 1328, the church was rebuilt between 1390 and 1540. According to my tour book, the Catholic church was named after a local nobleman who was known to have frequented the Red Light District in his youth. (The details of his conversion include leaving a castle to live in a hollow tree. Go figure…I guess there is hope.) In the later 1500’s, Protestants claimed the church and removed all Catholic icons and adornments (including whitewashing the frescos). It has been known as the Grote Kerk (the Great Church) ever since.

The pipe organ

The Grote Kerk is home to a true national treasure—one the largest and most impressive pipe organs in the world. It is truly renowned. Even Herman Melville referenced the organ in the Grote Kerk in Moby Dick. To describe the bones in the whale’s mouth, he wrote: Seeing all these colonnades of bone so methodically ranged about, would you not think you were inside of the great Haarlem organ, and gazing upon its thousand pipes? The list of people who used this organ includes Mendelssohn, Handel and the ten-year old Mozart who played it in 1766. Still used today for concerts and special events, the organ has been tenderly cared for over the years. The latest refurbishment lasted thirteen years, 1987—2000.

Of particular interest to me was the floor of the cathedral. As the center of life in Haarlem, the Grote Kerk served as everything from refuge during seige to bad weather marketplace to cemetery for the well to do. The floor attests to the latter. It is a patchwork-quilt of black marble, each piece marking the grave of someone who undoubtedly could afford such privilege—among them such notables as Pieter Teyler and Frans Hals. (Teyler, amassed an amazing fortune estimated at a modern-day value of 80 million euros! A science buff, when died in 1778, he left his entire fortune as the trust fund for the museum that still boasts his name. It is reported that his fortune was exhausted in the 1980’s after which the Dutch government assumed operation of the museum. Hals was the greatest Dutch painter of the Golden Age.) 

The author and world traveler, Rick Steves wrote this about the thousands of graves in the Grote Kerk:

Only those with piles of money to give to the church could be buried in a way that gave them an advantage in the salvation derby. But even though the dead bodies were embalmed, they stunk. Imagine being a peasant sitting here, trying to think about God…and thinking only of the stench of the well-fed bodies below. Here is where the phrase “stinking rich” was born.

  

Peculiar Genius

In The Embarrassment of Riches: An Interpretation of Dutch Culture, Simon Schama gives credit to Henry James who wrote in 1874, "It is the peculiar genius of the Dutch to seem, at once, familiar and incomprehensible.” That, as I am prone to say, has been my experience. The Dutch exhibit a genuine mystery through a seemingly shared temperament that speaks mostly to social beliefs and personal behavior.

Here are two sides to the same coin: no one has ever objected to help me when I ask directions or need help, yet it is not unusual to hear some sort of qualifier. (Recently in a grocery store I approached an employee.)

            Excuse me. May I ask you a question?

            Ya, but I am off duty.

            Oh, sorry; no worries.

            No, no, I will help you. What do you need?

Seems trivial, right? Maybe I just look for it. Familiar and incomprehensible.

Here’s one that took me a little while to sort: the Dutch don’t queue. (That’s what they call it—stand in line.) I am not talking about lines like are formed at the grocery store check out or to buy movie tickets; I mean places like deli counters or other places that Americans perceive as first-come-first-served. Not here.

Don’t believe me? I learned real quick that if I approach the counter at the seafood market and the clerk makes eye contact, I should say what I want with no regard for anyone that might have been waiting longer. That is simply how it works. You do not have to like it, but you better understand it. 

If I am waiting for the traffic light to change in order to cross the street, it is not at all unusual for one or more persons to edge in front of me so as to be closer to the curb. See? They do not queue. 

The other day Gwaz and I were approaching an escalator, as were others. Instead of waiting for us to step on, a young man crowded between us. When I turned to speak to Gwaz, there he was. Without making too big a deal of it, I’ll tell you what Gwaz said when we got off. “Man, that guy was all up on you.” See?

Eating kibbeling at the Grote Markt

Last one—the best one. I  know of a place where food services is conducted by a guy who is an independent contractor. In effect he runs a restaurant. This restaurant looks like most American cafeterias (well…like the nicest ones anyway) with some very subtle differences, most of which are orchestrated by what I’ll call Dutch heritage. When the food is served, many people proceed to the hot food counter.

Let me set the scene. Try to remember when you were a kid. You slid your plastic tray along the tri-rail shelf as the kids received their grilled cheese and tomato soup one-at-a-time as a smiling, hair-netted lady placed them lovingly upon the service shelf; am I close?

Uhhh…yeah…OK. Imagine a bunch of people approaching the same lady as the gang they are inclined to become. All of them shouting and reaching and pushing their ways toward the front. (You're pretty sure I’m making this up; aren’t you?)

When I first saw this I was convinced that this outlandish behavior is created by what is allowed rather than by Dutch culture. I have changed my mind. It’s how it’s done. I think it’s rude, but then again so is squeezing between husband and wife to get on an escalator. So is leaving a full-sized shopping cart literally anywhere while you search the shelves for the things you might want to buy, even if it completely blocks the aisle. So is stopping on a crowded street or in the doorway to a restaurant or in front of the tram doors for personal reasons like conversation or to look in ones purse or pockets for something. So is taking your turn before someone who has waited longer for service. But, it is what it is; not liking it or sitting in judgment of it doesn’t change it. It only makes it seem bad; it’s not—to them.

Instead I struggle to remain who I am and how I was reared. So, when I approach the seafood counter and the clerk makes eye contact, I defer to the customer at the other end who was already there. Every once in a while, that person will even acknowledge the consideration.

It was Me—Again

            I’ma runnin’ down the road,

            Tryin’ to loosen my load…

During my last tour of duty at the International School of Amsterdam I lived in Amstelveen (pronounced like “weather vane”), a sprawling, residential section of Holland south of Amsterdam. Whereas the city of Amsterdam is old, replete with classic Dutch architecture with buildings older than the United States, Amstelveen is not. It’s not new, but it definitely is not old (by Dutch standards). All new employees at ISA are offered temporary housing at a local hotel that bills itself as “serviced apartments”. For me, by myself, it was darn near perfect; or should I say “comprehensive”? It has everything if not anything from Turkish steam baths to locked bike storage to a self-serve laundromat. Sweet huh? It was; but…as we say back home…”been there, done that!”

Amstel 155 (red roof)

Soon after I tricked Gwaz into joining me for ISA Redux, the decision was made to live in Amsterdam—old Amsterdam (which is about as redundant as saying “cold ice”). After an abbreviated association with a rental agent whom I knew from last year, I began searching on-line. (Try it. Seriously. In your free time between two and four a.m. Google words like “apartments Amsterdam” or “canal houses for rent in Amsterdam”. Any combination will work.) Before too long, I found one.

No, no, I didn’t find “one,” I found hundreds and hundreds. I should say that I found “the one.” I know me, and for those of you who know me, you know and I know what happened next…I obsessed. I wanted it. I found it, and I wasn’t about to let it go easily. Sound weird? Sound like it should be fairly straight-forward? Find an apartment, contact the agent, agree to terms, put down a deposit, sign the paperwork. Done…no worries; right? 

Yeah, you would think that.

The view from Amstel 155

From the second I saw photos of this place I knew it would be in high demand—the location, the view, the size, the price…pick one. (Like I said…obsessed.) Here’s how it went: I first laid eyes on Amstel 155-II the first week of December. I contacted the agent who was offering the apartment (not my acquaintance; different agency). A tour was scheduled—not by us, of course (we were still in America). Our friends, Eveline and Jim agreed to see it for us and share their impressions. They saw the on-line advertisement, and agreed it looked like a place worth seeing. An appointment was made, and they met the agent and were shown an apartment right on the Amstel River—ground floor, no walk-up (more on Dutch stairwells later)…perfect! Uh…check that…one little problem…uhhh…it was not the apartment I saw on line.

This should have been my first clue.

Allow me to digress. There is an ease to Dutch culture. They even have a word for it—gezellig. It took the Eagles an entire song to say the same thing:

            It’s a girl, my Lord, in a flat-bed Ford

            Slowing’ down to take a look at me…

The Dutch loooovvvve to take it e-e-e-easy. Hey, no worries. (Use your best Dutch accent.) This is the wrong apartment? No problem; yes? Maybe you would like this one instead? Uh?

Our neighborhood

Uhhh…nah. Did I mention I’m American? Uhhh, yeah…no. The right one please.

Room with a view!

I’ll digress even further. There was a darn good reason for my obsession (let’s call it an "overarching sense of urgency" on my part.) Yes, I did not want to lose the apartment to someone local who could do the necessary paperwork and transfer deposit money easily, but there was an added consideration for us. I know I can’t describe this adequately, but I'll try. To secure any apartment a deposit would be made in the form of a bank transfer. Because we were so far away, the business manager at the International School of Amsterdam would do that for us. Still sounds simple right? It was; or, at least, would have been but for one small thing—the business office planned to close for Christmas Holiday at 1:00 p.m. local time on 15 December.

Let me summarize. I found the apartment in early December with plenty of time for the business office to transfer money. The agency showed the “wrong” apartment causing a 10-day delay until the “right” apartment could be toured. By that time Jim and Ev were in the Canary Islands challenging the world’s record for consumption of Mai Tais in a single day.

No kidding, long before the 14^th I saw the handwriting on the wall. I mention the 14^th because that’s when we received video of the “right” apartment. (By 9 January, I had requested the apartment sight-unseen, which was not permitted. The video was nothing more than shaky film of the same angles captured by the still photos available on-line.) Do I sound unappreciative? Hang on…

I emailed immediately confirming our desire for the apartment and repeating once again the deadline for the transfer of money was fast approaching. I can remember the response as if I’m reading it now: there should be plenty of time to submit the invoice. (I felt like saying, “Hey Jack, the people in the business office are as Dutch as you are, and if you think they are worried whether or not they get the invoice before Sinterklaas leaves chocolate treats in their wooden shoes, you’re kidding yourself!”)

The deadline came and went faster than Kasey Kahne at the Daytona 500. That’s when it all slowed down for me. You can’t lose what you never had. I realized I was the object of a massive Dutch conspiracy to make me less anal-retentive. It worked. The intervention was a success. Not only was no invoice sent to the ISA business office before the deadline, neither was an email sent to me explaining why.

That’s when I got it.

            Don’t let the sound of your own wheels make you crazy…

I gave up. I remember telling Gwaz, “We’ll find a place when we get there.” Although Amstel 155 seemed perfect (which, in reality, it is not, but more on that later), it was gone; or so I thought.

I wrote and revised several times an email to the agent expressing regret that the timing “didn’t work out.” (That was code, of course, for my internal craziness that something that could have happened easily was frustratingly delayed by a mind-set that I do not share and frankly don’t appreciate.) I figured “why burn the bridges I might need to cross?” I thanked her for her “hard work” (more code) and asked her to keep me informed if similar apartments came available. (See, I can be nice when I want to.)

When the email did arrive, it assured me that all was well. The (German) landlords (Ben and Jacqueline—both very nice people) were content to wait until we arrived in January to finalize the arrangements and transfer money.

            Lighten up, while you still can

            Don’t even try to understand

See, it was me—again.