Koningin voor de Dag

     

Back in November as Gwaz was rummaging through the racks at Kohl’s and Stein Mart looking for orange-colored clothes she could wear on Queen’s Day, she had no idea how important her choices would become. And, when we moved into the apartment at Amstel 155 and Gwaz did her best Cinderelly imitation, the orangie-yellow hat she found didn’t seem as significant as it proved to be on 30 April. Even as she suited-up for our mega-walk around town, it wasn’t initially obvious that she was “Queen for the Day.” Soon after she hit the street, her coronation began.

It’s funny because neither of us recognized her resemblance to Queen Beatrix of the Netherlands, whose birthday we were celebrating. Known locally as Queen’s Day, this annual celebration attracts an estimated crowd over 1.5 million people to Amsterdam alone. This year, Queen’s Day (30 April) had the added significance of the transfer of the monarchy to her son, King Willem-Alexander. At first we thought the staring and finger pointing had more to do with Gwaz’s orange-haired bodyguard; but after a short while there was no confusion about the attention Queen Gwaz garnered. I think it was somewhere around Museumplein that the first of Gwaz’s loyal subjects approached her for a photo.

By the time we wandered through Vondel Park along with the better part of one hundred thousand people to see the sights, sample the street food, and mull over the hundreds of yard-sale vendors, it was clear that “her highness” was conspicuous among her subjects. In fact, all day we heard the shouts of “Koningin” or were greeted by people asking for a photo with the “queen”.

All those Hollywood types on the red carpet have nothing on Gwaz, who seemed to grow more and more comfortable throughout the day having her photo taken. Early in the afternoon, long after it was abundantly clear that a pattern had been established, an Asian woman excitedly approached de Koningin and not trusting her English, gestured her request for a photo. Using her camera, I snapped the picture. While handing the camera back to her I said, “I married the queen.”

Inadvertently choosing the most appropriate subheading possible for a great day, she replied, “You lucky bastard!”

         

     

Electrische Museumtramlijn

The tram line at the Electric Tram Line Museum begins at Harlemmermeerstation, so that’s where we went Sunday morning—the only day the museum is open. With every intention to ride a antique tram, we found our way to the museum. After a few pertinent questions, we were set for our 11:30 a.m. ride to somewhere past Amstelveen where I work. Cool; right? Uhhh, not so fast.

After about twenty-five minutes of waiting around and several questions to the various men in uniform, it was kinda, sorta clear that we would ride the “5” to the end of the line and return one and one-half hours later. At about 11:20 Gwaz found the necessary room and at about 11:28 she told me where to look. When I came back the tram was loaded, so I got on. One problem, Gwaz wasn’t on there. I stepped off. I called her name and somewhere in the distance I heard, “Yeah?”

“Come on,” I yelled; and she did. Now, if Gwaz heard me, so did the conductor. I say, so did the conductor. As Gwaz approached on the run, the car eased into motion. I say, the car eased into motion. That’s how they roll; no pun intended.

I know and he knows that he knew Gwaz was running to get on. I know and he knows that he could have waited ten seconds. Ten seconds; but…no. And…we weren’t alone. Several people, including a family with a baby strolled missed the tram because no indication was made that it was leaving. No part of me wanted to stay the extra half hour to get the next car. No part of me wanted to give our money to them. Hey, they aine the only ones who roll…

Who knew they'd leave without us?

Who knows? Maybe next time.

Bier

Just like the traditional icons of Dutch culture—windmills, clogs, tulips, ganja, and red lights—beer is a Dutch staple. Walking in just about every direction in Amsterdam, one doesn’t have to look very hard or for very long before noticing beer advertisements. Much like coffeeshops, souvenir joints, and houseboats, beer adverts are everywhere.

Of the “Big Three” (Heineken, Grolsch, and Bavaria) Heineken captures about 39% of the Dutch market, helping to maintain its international standing as the third largest brewer in the world (behind only Anheuser Busch and Miller). Heineken and Grolsch account for (by liberal estimation) 95% of the beer consumed in the Netherlands. Grolsch has the distinction as the leading imported beer to the United Kingdon. These pale lagers are the undisputed kings in a declining industry thanks in large part to factors such as amazingly diverse competition from microbrews to moderation, not to mention their Belgian neighbors—brewers of such popular brands as Jupiler and Duval.

Some estimates suggest that approximately 50% of the beer brewed in the Netherlands is exported—over two billion liters! Certainly Heineken, Amstel (a Heineken product) and Grolsch play major roles in this phenomenon.

To each his own, as they say. Whether it’s the seasonal witbier (white beer) brewed in autumn and spring, trappist brews such as La Trappe, or the international pale lagers, the Netherlands has something for every beer enthusiast.

What Were the Chances?

Earlier this week, I was reminded of my compulsion with which I am increasingly obsessed—the continued ownership of my wallet. As dinner ended at the Three Sisters Pub, we all stood to put on our coats and leave. In a New York minute we all realized that my cousin, Joe couldn’t locate his wallet. After the requisite amount of time spent squeezing pockets and digging through the backpack, we spotted it on the floor beneath his chair. All was well; but once again I was reminded of the reality that some people make their living by taking things from unsuspecting tourists.

Some statistician somewhere might love to know how many times per day I touch my front left pocket—the travel-home of my ultra thin wallet. While researching the topic for this entry I learned that highly skilled pickpockets look for this very behavior to ascertain the target of their efforts. Great…my OCD unintentionally helps the very people who are trying to steal from me! I tried to find an estimate of the number of pickpockets working in and around Amsterdam, but no such information was found. Instead I found loads of entries revealing the sad details of unhappy vacations in Holland.

Two weeks ago after three days in Brugge, Belgium, Gwaz and I found our way through the labyrinth called the train station in Brussels on our way back to Amsterdam. Somewhere between the food court and our platform, Gwaz spotted someone’s ID card on the ground; and after she picked it up, I gave it to the teller in the closest ticket kiosk.  We looked for our platform.

The “fast” train between Brussels and Amsterdam is called the Thalys (tal-eez), but by no means is it the only one. There are more than two dozen platforms, and after a short detour to play good Samaritan, we found our platform and a bench where we started the all-too-familiar ritual of unloading—backpacks, man purse, coats, hats, scarves… At about that time, Gwaz noticed the near panic of four Asian people. She interrupted by asking, “Excuse me, are you looking for an ID card?” They were, but we soon found out that that was not even the right question.

Instead of struggling to understand each other, I took the man to the kiosk where his ID was displayed in the window. After a quick check, the teller handed over his card; the man took it and asked, “But did anyone find my wallet?” That’s when I got the full picture. When pickpockets get what they steal, they cannot afford is to be found in possession of someone else’s identification card…thus the card Gwaz found. That’s why I am incessant about checking my front pocket. It never fails that each and every time I have for reasons closely related to carelessness placed my wallet somewhere besides where it belongs (and it does happen), I am immediately overcome by a burst of adrenalin as I begin patting wildly the rest of my pockets to find my misplaced wallet.

In a huge train station like the one in Brussels, in only one of the many, many avenues within, Gwaz found an ID card. Then, as if for no better reason than to reteach me of the importance of prudence, Gwaz spotted the owner searching frantically for what he knew was gone. What were the chances?

The Feral Parakeets of Amsterdam

In a city known for Rembrandt, canal houses, red lights, and marijuana, if you’re lucky you can find something that is quickly becoming just about as familiar—Rose-ringed parakeets!

A short while ago while Gwaz was Skyping with Anna, our granddaughter, she got proof-positive. Perched proudly on a branch in the tree nearest our kitchen window was one of the estimated 10,000 parakeets in or around town (more than double the amount in 2004).

Introduced during the 1970’s, opinions differ on how the birds first came to Europe. No matter because they seem to be here to stay. These hardy devils (found in the Himalayan foothills!) can also be found in Germany, Spain, Portugal, France, Belgium, and England (with an estimated flock of 20,000 birds in London alone!) Worldwide, Rose-ringed parakeets have been found in places such as South Africa, Florida in the United States, Tunisia and Iran. 

Gouda

Gouda

For as long as I’ve been in the Netherlands, I have wanted to go to Gouda (pronounced How-da). Known to Americans for no better reason than the cheese that is traded in town every Thursday at the cheese market, Gouda is better known by the mispronunciation “goo-da” (then again, that’s easier than the Dutch guttural noise created by the h-for-g sound). These days, Gouda is home to approximately 70,000 residents. In addition to the world famous cheese, Gouda has also been renowned for brewing and the production of smoking pipes.

Market Square

Like so many Dutch towns, Gouda is old. Heck, by American standards, it is ancient. In roughly 1139 the Bishop of Utrecht, probably in reference to the area nearest the creek called Gouwe, used the name Gouda. In 1225 the Gouwe was connected to the Oude Rijn (Old Rhine River) by means of a canal allowing the area to develop, and Gouda was granted city rights in 1272. It looks it. Poor Gouda. Repeatedly stricken with misery, Gouda has known the effects of the plague, arson, economic demise, and war. By the 1600’s Gouda was one of the poorest cities in Holland. The words Goudaner and beggar became synonyms.

City Hall

Gouda is home to one of the oldest Gothic city halls in the Netherlands. Built between 1448 and 1450, city hall stands amidst the market square, which features a huge daily collection of vendors offering everything from cheese to Muslim apparel (hey, those folks have to shop, too) to souvenirs. In fact, the square is not unlike those in most tourist destinations; restaurants, bars, and souvenir shops surround the square.

No mention of Gouda should be without a few words describing the magnificent Sint-Janskerk (Saint John’s Church), the longest church (123 meters) in the Netherlands. It features 70 glorious stained glass windows some of which are over 400 years old.

Sint-Janskerk

All things considered, Gouda was worth the wait.

Bloemenveiling Aalsmeer

Billing itself as the “global marketplace for flowers and plants”, the daily Bloemenveiling (flower auction) at FloraHolland is truly something to see. That’s just what we did early on Friday morning. (“Early” being the operative word. The auction begins in the wee hours so distributors can take possession and get the flowers to their final destinations as soon as possible.)

Waiting for distribution

Located in Aaalsmeer, south of Amsterdam, the Bloemenveiling has become a tourist destination, but

long before that it established itself as the largest flower auction in the world. Every day flowers arrive from all over including Kenya, Ethiopia, Israel, Ecuador, Germany, and, of course, the Netherlands; and every day some 20,000 varieties of plants are sold at auction and exported to world-wide destinations. (The FloraHolland website lists the following top five destinations: Germany, Great Britain, Italy, France and Russia. Germany made both lists? Seems odd!)

Let the bidding begin!

It moves fast...real fast!

I’ve seen the operation and I’m not sure I believe it! Under the fourth largest (by floor space) building in the world (10,600,000 square feet; 243 acres!) literally millions of flowers are delivered (a seemingly endless convoy of tractor-trailers), graded (30 separate inspections), packed on to multi-tiered palettes, and attached to a monorail. The endless stream of palettes wend their way in front of one of two auditoriums of hundreds of bidders who have literally seconds to decide and bid. Quickly tagged by auction employees, palettes are detached from the monorail and quickly retrieved by employees using electric trolleys and taken to designated areas (depending on the distributor) throughout the warehouse. From there, rows of similar varieties of flowers are arranged, and when a full caravan is collected, the palettes are attached to one another, and larger fork-lifts are used to pull the loads to waiting trucks on the premises. In what appears to be an incredibly complex process, the math is fairly simple, by virtue of the volume—(deliver, grade, auction, take possession, distribute) X millions = a daily routine that almost defies description.

Gwaz on the tourist catwalk

Later in the day on Friday as Gwaz and I wandered through a street market in Amstelveen, we noticed at one of the vendors the by-now familiar FloraHolland logo on the crates of flowers. Gwaz pointed it out to me, reached down to a bundle of tulips and said, “Oh hello; I think we saw you a couple of hours ago!”

Ant hills aren't this busy!