Van Gogh

The Van Gogh Museum

Is it Van Gock?  (Ask a Brit.)  is it Van Go? (Ask a Yank).  Or is it Fahn -- ?    (We don't make that sound in English unless there is something stuck in your throat.)  If you picked the third choice, you may be correct.  It is funny when you hear the actual names of paintings and artists in their native tongues.  it never occurs to you there is another name for that.

The last time I was there, the Van Gogh Museum was being renovated so the admission was half price.  (If you are Dutch, you can understand my excitement.)  It is a common joke that the Dutch are cheap.  In reality, it is part stereotype, part badge of honor. This time there was a huge pretty building with a small collection.   Believe it or not, it enhanced the experience. You could forget the nagging urge to see everything and take your time.  You were also not allowed to take photos.  My illegal pics look like shite.

My greatest complaint about Van Gogh is his stupid ear.  Tabloids sell.  Everyone loves to talk about his ear and there is an entire exhibit devoted to the incident. He became popular after at self-inflicted gun wound that took his life at 37.  If guns down kill people, perhaps sunflowers do?  I promise, no more politics here.  Message me in private.  I seldom share this, but I am dealing with depression and a few other niceties. Van Gogh's life evokes introspection.  Who would he have been without his illness?  Who would Stephen Hawking have been without all the down time?  We are creations of our blessings and our demons.  I often think, If I had only done that when I was younger and realize I would have never met Stu. Life does not work that way.  You don't get your cake and eat it too. Well, maybe a couple pieces but not the whole cake.

Van Gogh early pieces included The Potato Eaters.  I think it refers to the miners closer to where I an currently sitting in Belgium's coal country.  (My posts are never really up to date.)  Originally he was a fire and brimstone preacher before he became an artist.  The Potato Eaters is dark and gloomy with stylized faces huddled around a small light eating well, you already know.  He decided/was told he needed more training.  I look at the picture and think, Wow he just needed more exposure.  It was all there already.  David Gregar comes to mind.  The guy was brilliant in my kindergarten.  I still recall a drawing of two orange snakes intertwined. To my knowledge, David still has two intact ears.

There is an episode in the new Doctor Who! where the Doctor sees a sign that he needs to visit Vincent.  The episode does a great job of describing the man I've read about.  He is a pariah because he tries to constantly sell his unwelcome art for more drink and is unstable.  The episode adds the sci fi element that he is haunted by a monster than only he can see.  The man is vulnerable in a way we seldom get to see people.  You want to hug him.   In a cute plot twist, the Doctor's companion keeps filling the apartment with sunflowers as a less than subtle hint that she wants a painting.  From what I learned about Vincent, I can call him Vincent, can't I? Sunflowers were a religious expression for the man rather than just pretty paintings.  Personally, I prefer his irises which have apparently turned color over the years.  New paint creations did not always age as expected.

There is an intimate exhibit with letters between he and his brother Theo. None of them are in English but are in fine print.  I couldn't make out the characters. Fortunately, the exhibit had phones with narrators reading the letters.  His brother so deeply loved his brother.  Theo was his greatest fan. (My mother was mine.)  Theo believed in Vincent, cared for Vincent, and completely got Vincent.  Vincent's letters to Theo had a child-like quality about them.  For a man struggling with such deep and dark demons, the letters possessed a kind innocence that is replaced by cynicism as we age.  He was so excited about everything he was learning from color and light to his new friends in Paris including the misfits Toulouse Lautrec and Paul Gauguin.  Sidetrack.  Stu had an ex whom I dislike.  The man passed away before I met Stu. Stu never has had a harsh or unkind thing to say about the man. I dislike him for my impression of the way he treated Stu. I feel the same way about Gauguin.  To me, the man feels like he found a meal ticket in Theo's generosity.  I don't even like his Art. So there, Paul!

The other obnoxious thing about Vincent is the endless bantering about how he never sold a painting.  I heard this several times out of people trying to sound interesting.  Who cares? His art brought a suffering man great joy and his brother got to vicariously experience his brother's joie de vivre.  The story does not end there. Theo died soon after Vincent.  Theo's wife believed in his husband's brother.  She shrewdly marketed Vincent and created a persona and cache or cachet about the artist.  She is responsible for the artist we know today. Johanna van Gogh-Bonger, is the interesting story of Van Gogh, not some stupid ear.

I dedicate this post to spell check for without its help, nothing would have been typed correctly. 

The Potato Eaters

 Pink Peach Tree

Pieta Based upon Delecroix's

My Favorite Vincent Painting. Google thought it was Stu!

Musings on Amsterdam

Musings on Amsterdam

Oude Kerk

When you mention Amsterdam, inevitably people bring up drugs, the red light district, and 'the homosexual'.  People often confuse tolerance with acceptance. The true Dutch axiom is just because you can doesn't mean you should. And while we are at it, I won't say anything but I certainly will draw my own conclusion.

If this is all you think about when you consider Amsterdam, you are missing a lot. A whole lot.  Amsterdam invented the game Frogger with endless crowds of clueless and lost pedestrians looking for the Anne Frank House.  You also have to watch for wicked-witch-of-the-west raggedy-ass bikes that can give you tetanus on contact.  You were standing on a bike path.  Worse, a tour of bicyclists have circled you.

It can feel like that but it is not a fair description.  Cross a canal and look at the fresh flowers. Cross a canal at night at look at the cafes and lit bridges as you wander along on the cobblestones on streets with crazy names--even when translated.  (Nieuwezijds Voorburgwal, for example means, New Side Front Bastion Wall). Listen to the bells of a clock tower. Marvel at gingerbread houses.  Find a street with a crazier name.  As the rings of the city grew, they needed a name for the ever newer outside the new city wall and so on.  As a tourist, you would never notice some of these streets are written in old Dutch.  We used to stop on one canal, hug, and say, "We live here." with the lights reflecting off a nearby bridge.

When we were getting ready to move back to the States, we noticed the city was trying to make our street, the Warmoesstraat, more upscale.  The Warmoesstraat was infamously known for its cruise and fetish bars.  For added color, there were shops like Chiquita's Sex Paradijs with a bouncing golden male sex toy.  We found it odd that people took static pictures of a bouncing organ.  We truly noticed the window when Stu's niece was coming to visit.  Time for birds and bees--201. The pragmatic Dutch would herd the crazy, the drugged, and the drug selling to our street close to the Red Light District.  From motels that reeked of stale Crisco to piles of stoners (and puke) who couldn't handle the strength of the pot in Amsterdam, it was never a dull moment.  You would inevitably have your conversation interrupted by someone getting in your face and whispering COKE-X-CHARLEY.  I remember Stu yelling at the top of his lungs something to the effect of, Are you trying to sell drugs to me? I don't want any of your drugs! or telling the one-eyed woman, Look at the face, look at it.  You will never get any money from me! Ever! We looked American.  We were targets for the beggars and the entrepreneurs. Before we moved back, a smart vodka bar had opened at the end of the street and a few gay businesses had lost their licenses. Fast forward, the street now has a candy shop, a Dolce and Grabbana, a Dunkin' Donuts, and a hostel in the building where the oldest gay fetish bar in Europe had once stood.  I felt hurt and upset.  Look what they did to my street, I thought.  Stu told me it was ten years later but we came to the conclusion that it just did not feel as safe for our crowd with drunken Irish pubs surrounding our bars as it had in its colorful past. The big-ass sign for Chiquita's was also gone as was the vomit, the crazies, the junkies, the dealers, and crumbled bodies.  Around the corner, our green grocer and butcher were missing too.

All our gay friends go to these bars often to escape the cologne, the fancy, the 'doos, and the hopelessly pretty and fabulous.  They would not be caught dead in our bars.  We are the dirty, the scruffy, the old.  Basically, we are lil scary.  I will take that as a compliment.  We are a community onto itself.  I saw Stu at an event in Houston, met him at a party in Vermont through friends. We met a man in Cologne, Germany; saw him in Cape Town, South Africa; and are now staying with him in Belgium.  We met our Paris host in Amsterdam and the host after that, in Tenerife also in Amsterdam and then Berlin with the friends from Vermont.  If we were a family, it would be inbred.  I guess it is a good thing we don't breed.  My favorite line screamed at us while we were jay walking. Dressed in leather.  In Hamburg at 2 am.  Denk aan de Kinderen!  We hadn't waited for the crosswalk.  See? We are not a good influence.

I think I heard the city was 20% queer when we lived there?  A lesbian friend told us, the city is not so gay now.  On the flip side, the city is dealing with its own success.  Tourism has skyrocketed and is projected to continue to grow out of control.  The city is much cleaner and has been cleverly upgraded with nicer public spaces but it all comes with a cost.  Amsterdam is so protected, our friends had trouble relocating a gutter to prevent flooding.  The council decided the spouting must be consistent with the period of the dwelling.  The only problem was that spouting wasn't even introduced to the city yet.  In the city center (where all the tourists go), you can't build up and you cant build down.  Businesses that can make the most money per square meter have cropped up.  This is a true failure of the free market model.  The quality of life for residents has been strained by the decrease in day-to-day living establishments.  As a result, the city is putting its foot down on certain shops.  Perhaps its another gay shop, a cheese shop, or head shop.  Call it growing pains.

What is striking when you walk around the town is the explosion of growth wherever it is possible.  Amsterdam is a giant half-ring with Central Station at the center.  Behind the train station is a ferry that takes you to "North".  North is exploding.  Soon their will be an entire skyline of skyscrapers if the growth continues!  We walked around and marveled at the changes in the city.  It was already safe but even your bicycles are a bit safer now.

Not only gay or sex-related shops have been targeted.  I gather there are fewer windows in the Red Light District and the indoor smoking and building ordinances have forced coffee bars to move around the city.

We got to see some friends while in the city but we really wanted to spend time with Tim and Peter, our gracious hosts.  I hope we didn't disrupt their life too much.  Wherever, whenever you visit, there is never enough time.  Meeting people often means a coffee juggled around schedules. I am so grateful that we got to have a quick bite with our previous host, Julian.  Stu had worked with him in the past.  I can honestly say he is one of the most interesting people in the world. He is as colourful as he is intelligent.  Always the bobby-dazzler, his smile just lights me up.  Another visit was to see an old friend, Tineke.  Stu had lead seminars with her when we lived in the city.  There is a subtle charm about her where you just want to grab her and hug her.  I'm sure her wife does.  If not (Dutch people don't do that--spoken from her lips) she should. We were fortunate to be in Town for Sjur's partner Andrew's 60th birthday.  We had an amazing dinner with new friends and family.  I had met Sjur's mother about 15 years ago--at a birthday party,  She is absolutely delightful but a little soft spoken for a crowd of twenty or so.  It was so nice to see her again.  I also got to meet Andrew's mother.  She instantly reminds you of the Queen's Mum.  She is charming and great conversation.  I told Andrew that I wanted to take her out for high tea.  I know just the place where they have the best scones and clotted cream.  I'm sure they could find some cucumber sandwiches or something.  Good company is always better than good food--and the food was amazing.  We had Rijsttafel, an Indonesian Colonial meal where you get to taste everything.  Spoiler alert. The English and Norwegian mothers were both pushing the fish. Of course they were. We also sat around Andrew's family and friends.   Everyone was so nice.  I hope we get to spend a good amount of time with the two of them on a future trip.  And now back to our hosts.  We had brough ground Caribe chile with us on our last trip.  Although Tim had made wonderful, if not unusual, ;) tacos earlier in the week, we decided to make burritos with the chile. We gathered all the ingredients and simmered the sauce...........of death.  It wasn't that bad but I'm pretty sure Tim was politely suffering.

OK, I had to get some of that out of me.  Are you still considering going to Amsterdam?  I hope so.  We do have some advice.  Don't go for the weather. It will be hot, cold, rainy, or both.  Expect sunlight, mosquitos, high air fares, and too many people in the Summer and Darkness and rain in the Winter.  Go in the Spring, preferably the King's Birthday on the 27th of April.  Flowers will be in bloom and air fares are still cheap. You will see a crowded but Dutch country enjoying one big party from border-to-border.  The Fall is also a good time since the fares should be reasonable.  Stu will tell you more at some point...

Our Hosts' House

A Favorite Restaurant's Menu

Crest of the City Reimagined

Lovely Store Front

Canal at Night

Every Market Needs One of These

Because it's fun to say quickly!  (SOW'KER BAWK'R STAYG)  Sugar Baker's Alley

The Golden Age

De Gouden Eeuw, The Golden Age

The 17th Century in the Netherlands is known as the Golden Age.  Trade was booming and the city was rapidly expanding with riches coming and going to and from ports from all over the world. During this period, merchants had enough money to commission paintings of and for themselves.  Previously, patronage of the brush was almost exclusively of the Church. Collecting paintings became the rage and a sign of wealth.  The new wealth was a crucible for creativity in a country full of artists and wealthy patrons.  To say it succinctly, it was the perfect storm. In my opinion (only to stop anyone suggesting otherwise), the Dutch per head were the most prolific painters of masterpieces for the age.

We had not been to the Rijksmuseum in over 15 years so it was time to take another look.  The museum had had some major renovations since our past visits.  The entire courtyard of the museum had been converted into an atrium complete with a bigger gift shop (duh) and restaurant.  The museum had a free app download featuring the highlights of the collection.  The museum had decided to display its best works in the Great Hall.  Apparently everyone had downloaded the same free app. I could see the same information on everyone's phone. Together with the tours, we constantly ran into traffic jams as people went from the same paintings to the next.

I can understand why these particular paintings were in the same hall but it had some irony.  The celebrated master painter Vermeer had fallen out of fashion before being re-discovered with the invention of the camera.  Some of his works were attributed to Jan Steen even though Vermeer's signature was clearly visible on the canvas. Many of Steen's works hang next to Vermeers' masterpieces.  You can compare and contrast the artist kis but it still feels a bit odd to an art nerd to see Vermeer's work plagiarized.  If you know nothing about Vermeer, consider this.  He had enough children to have his own cable reality show and he sold paintings in exchange for bread.  How the man had time, peace, or even money for supplies is a mystery.  He had so many kids, we don't know all their names.  Ok, so I think they know 10 of 12 or so.  Vermeer is thought to have painted about 40 pictures.  We have quite a few in the US--as many as 13.  (Some are disputed, one is sadly missing.)  I often feel like the world's paintings should be redistributed to their homes.  Vermeer often falls into the category.  No picture can capture the brilliance of the Milk Maiden.  The yellow is intensely lemon and the blue is so pure, the kind rarely seen on the Virgin Mary.  The details of cracks on the walls and tiles only adds to the mesmerizing view.  It appears Vermeer may have taken a shortcut with his works.  There was an early version of the camera that captured images.  Imagine a master tracer and master painter creating a masterpiece.  All is forgiven.  She is worth the ordeal of flying KLM or maybe Ryanair.

Vermeer's The Love Letter

Also in the Great Hall is Rembrandt. Unlike many artists, he was popular in his day.  At the end of the great hall is his finest work, The Nightwatch. It is massive.  In fact, it was so big they chopped the end off to make it fit.  Fortunately? there is a maquette on the planned piece next to the finished work.  Paintings like this were commissioned to show everyone how rich you were with pomp and circumstance as honorary members of the city guard.  These were all posers, pun intended.  Many of the patrons--the people footing the bill were pissed off annoyed they were not prominently visible. The painting was not considered 'very good' and was relegated to a less desirable location.

What the hell were they thinking?  You know instantly this is one of the greatest paintings ever done. The lighting is dazzling, the composition looks like it is marching towards you. The colors come alive.  To be honest (blasphemy coming), I'm not a big fan of Rembrandt but it is virtually impossible to cast any doubt on this painting.  By itself, it is also worth a trip to Amsterdam.

Once you are done with the Great Hall, you can look around at the rest of the 'lesser works'  (HAH!).  There are recreations of boats and many examples of Delftware of glassware but my favorite curiosity are the doll houses.  Money was no object for some of these children.  Girls could play for hours on rainy days (about 217 per year!).  They are embarrassingly detailed snapshots of wealth.  In addition to the endless details, are ephemeral objects that no longer exist. Malibu Barbie never had it this good.

On a final note, The Netherlands is the densest country in Europe.  During the Protestant Reformation,  the country went cray.  People destroyed Catholic images.  It became illegal to be Papist so hidden churches were created from common houses (They are cool, seek them out.) in the city.  When the Spanish came to town, it was a balancing act to be Protestant yet not with too much enthusiasm.  Basically, they have lived through a holy war.  You can imagine why the people are tolerant today.

Die, Picture of a rich person pretending to be the image of a holy person during the Iconoclasm.

Ghent Altarpiece

The Ghent Altarpiece

Click on the Image to See a Massive Detailed View

Today we went to Ghent/Gent/Gand depending on your language preference.  As any Dutchman will tell you, Belgium is weird (To be honest, they say the same thing about the Dutch.).  Let me clarify a bit. Perhaps you are going to Liege.  You see signs for Liège.  No problem, you got this.  You make a wrong turn and see signs for Luik or if you really lost, Lüttich.  This city is called three different things in the three official languages.  Maybe you are driving to Antwerp and see a sign for Antwerpen and turn links. What the hell is Anvers?  Time to turn droit and head back to Antwerpen to see Antwerp. Some other great examples are De Haan – Le Coq, Zoutleeuw – Léau, or Soignies – Zinnik.

Ghent is the second largest city in Flanders.  Driving into the city, it looked like a regular city. Dull. Boring. Modern.  We parked in a garage and walked towards the center. TA DAH!  There was a old town and square.  Actually, it was an entire old village complete with a castle, canals, old houses, and churches.  To be honest, we went to Ghent for one thing: St.-Baafskathedral!  I can understand why you may not notice the name.  The church in English is called The Cathedral of Sint Baaf (or St. Bavo- it is Belgium, right?) Still blinking your eyes?  This church contains the polyptych, The Adoration of the Lamb of God completed in 1431.  It is a multi-panel scene painted by Jan and Hubert Van Eyck.  We walked around the church and discovered it was...being restored.  I checked the Google and every site said it was in the church.  I noticed the church was musty and we walked around taking verboden pictures of the amazing cathedral.  Builders of gothic cathedrals pride themselves on high ceilings.  This cathedral reached the heavens.  I was more impressed with the scale of the building than the artwork. I have been in a few gothic cathedrals where they have lighting akin to catacombs.  This church had a nice mix of light, incredible stained glass, and vertical lines.  Most of the paintings had old varnish and were quite dark.  The pulpit consisted of over-expressed rococo design.  By definition, rococo is waaay over the top.  It was a sight onto itself (I’m being kind. Jesus lives here.).  I started to notice the mustiness. On our way out, we decided to pay to see the stand-in faux masterpiece.  The guy at the ticket booth said the real painting was being restored behind him for about 5$!   Over the years, the painting has had a colorful past.  One of the panel of the painting has been stolen and never recovered. Many were sold to different owners and thus dispersed. During the iconoclasm, the period of time when Protestants were destroying graven images, the painting was under threat. Once, part of it caught on fire. On the eve of World War II, the painting was sent to the Vatican for safe keeping.  And then the Italians joined the Axis so Hitler got the panels anyway.  The reunion of the panels alone is a miracle in itself.

Why am I going on and on about this painting?  It is such an incredible masterpiece.   What is not obvious to most is that art often springs from technology.  Watchmaker-quality lenses appeared in Northern Europe.  The brushstrokes on the painting are finer than you can see with your nose seemingly touching the painting.  There is a Van Eyck in DC. To view closely, I lock my arms behind me and touch my eyelashes to the canvas. I still can’t see the brushstrokes. (Guards get uncomfortable when you get too close to a painting.)  Lapis lazuli had also arrived in Northern Europe.  It is an incredibly expensive blue rock from Afghanistan. The patrons through trade had the money to acquire it and the artists had the technology to apply it. 

The Adoration of the Lamb of God is securely kept behind glass with dim lighting.  It is displayed so you can see the back as well as the front of the panels.  At four feet, you can’t put your eyeballs on the canvas.  It was frustrating.  The painting is so valuable I can understand the security. I wish I had brought binoculars to study the panels.  If you choose to see the panels, consider them.  Remember I mentioned the musty smell?  A couple months ago, I was tested for a mold allergy.   I get very sick when I am around old stuff.  I cannot go into records shops for more than a couple minutes or spend anytime around documents, or the worst, touch cloth.  You know those Pentecostal scenes where people collapse when they touch the good book?  That was me when I ran across my dad’s yearbook. The mold tests came back negative. My doctor however described me as the canary in the coal mine.  No one should be around those things. You just notice it sooner.  Back to the painting.  I could not finish the audio tour.  I was just too sick.  I get cold sweats and my knees buckle.  It was time to go.  We walked around a few hours and I partially got my constitution back.  Would I do it again?  Hell yeah...but with a long sleeve shirt and one of those masks that you seen asians wearing in public.  As I am writing this hours later, I still feel run down.

After the church we walked around the old center of the town.  It has a mix of buildings spanning the ages. Some of the building hide their age by mimicking older designs while others have cake-iced tops worn down over the centuries. On the way back to the car, we stopped for coffee and cake.  I had a piece of hazelnut and dark chocolate cake.  Every bite tasted like eating a selection from a fancy box.  It was incredibly rich, dark, and smooth and made of Belgian chocolate.  If you do not know about Belgians and their chocolate, I’ll assume you are Swiss...

Everybody Poops

The WC AKA, the Water Closet

When Ya Gotta Go...

In French, toilette is feminine but the lingua franca word WC, or water closet is masculine in French.  In Spanish, bathrooms of all types seem to be masculine.  In Dutch, I believe WCs have gender (as opposed to not having gender) period.

Why am i subjecting your Puritan ears to talk of porcelain?  Everybody poops.  Actually, there is more to the subject that that.  ‘WC’ is a term devised so anyone from anywhere can recognize where to go.  Oddly, toilette always seems to work as well.  Perhaps Napoleon, like introducing the metric system, introduced the term ‘toilette’, and since the Brits are leaving the EU, adios to the term ‘WC’.

Why am I harping on bodily functions?  I’m told this is quite rude to do in French culture.  If you recall, I described the pissoir, an outdoor urinal, earlier.  Oddly, the Dutch still have a problem with wild pissing; whipping it out anywhere--including our old mail slot.  I thought about it in Venice but there are no quiet alleys.  You can be noticed from any angle. How to do you scream PERVERT in Italian.  I’m sure they have a word for it.

If you need a bathroom book (ironic) and are travelling to Holland, you should buy yourself a copy of The Undutchables.  It describes all the bizarre, frustrating, and downright lovable things about the Dutch.  I believe there is an entire chapter devoted to using a toilet.  Common ways to use the device include, pulling a cord up high or low, lifting a knob on the tank, pushing a small or large button on top of the toilette.  Pushing a panel on the wall.  And if you are lucky, the (traditional) American-thingy-on the side.  Our great friends, Tim and Peter, have a fabulous house with a fashionable bathroom.  You go to home depot and the choices of toilet seats are long or short, expensive or cheap, and perhaps a color.  Toilets I recall in the States can be white, white, white, off white, goldenrod, avocado, black, and our favorites, red and mushroom.  We had a mushroom colored toilet when we moved into our house.  Lord that color was hideous.  Fortunately, we broke the toilet (don’t ask) and the landlord replaced it with a white toilet from Big Lots and a seat from The Dollar Tree.  Anyways, our friends in Amsterdam opted for a square toilet.  It is chic and tres modern.  Pretty cool place to hold court, huh?  At some point, the cat broke the seat.  Square seats are not exactly ‘off the rack’.  I think it might cost more than a few kilos of cheese, pairs of wooden shoes, or tulips to find and replace one.

Why would I bring up such a personal subject? We are currently in Belgium.  Our host has a fashionable round toilet.  Same problem. Where do you exactly find a round seat for a Phillipe Starck designer toilet?  Mon Dieu.  I can only imagine how much lace, chocolate, and mussels he will forgo to replace the seat.

In Ravenna, we had a bidet and a room made for Leave It to Beaver or I love Lucy.  The room had two single beds to prevent any premarital hanky panky or cool off married lovers for a night.  At our stop in Ancona, we decided to eat at a sandwich shop before it was time to board The Love Boat. The bathroom had a standard toilet but no toilet paper.  Now I’m a seasoned traveler but the community spray-your-ass hose was a bit off putting if not downright disturbing.  Prissy Americans.  In one bathroom in Croatia, I found a squatting Turkish toilet that flushed.  How civilized. Turkish toilets are generally characterized by plates to denote where to  place your feet and good aim.

Unlike America, it is common to pay for a bathroom in Europe.  Carry change.  Prices and participation may vary.  Prices in Iceland and Finland may be higher.  At the Brussels North Station (le dump de train stations), there was an old lady collecting money but certainly not cleaning anything.  It brought back fond memories of the pissoir in Amsterdam for the cost of 50 Euro cents.  The smell was positively intoxicating.

In large American cities, you pretend to be interested in spending time in a cafe, use the bathroom, and then bolt.  The bathroom costs 2 cups of coffee and a danish.  In Amsterdam it makes sense to use the words, “I’ll pay ya!”, or do the danish thing.  Maneuvering the most common of daily rituals can be a thing in Europe.  On an bad day it can even be a little too exciting.  Isn’t going part of the adventure?

Back in Amsterdam

We Zijn Terug!  (We're Baaaack)

Arm's Length Selfies are so Flattering, Even if You Are Giving a Soldier Tongue- Rembrantplein

For the first few days we lazily flopped around our friends' apartment.  I was a best man in their wedding at least a year or so ago.  I'm getting old so I can't remember the exact date.  I love their pad.  It is an old warehouse converted into flats resembling lofts with a few extra rooms.  We overtook the computer room with bags and slept in bunk beds. Actually, we slept in a double bed above a couch.  With the ladder, it was still bunky.  I carefully tied my PAP hose and mask to the bed so it would not dangle below the machine.  Fun fact.  Did you know if you allow the mask to hang lower than the machine it will siphon water onto the floor.  If I were (notice the use of the subjunctive) using the correct water, it would leave no trace of minerals. Fortunately, I had learned this earlier thus saving Tim and Peter wooden floors.  We went from touring Europe to living again for a short time in Europe.  We went to the (evil) supermarket Albert Heijn and purchased a few of our favorites; cumin cheese (for Mark), peach yoghurt drink (for Mark), raspberry yoghurt drink (for Mark), light chocolate/vanilla pudding (for Mark), black currant pop (for Mark), raisin rolls (for Stu) Calve peanut butter (for Stu) and sparkling water.

Evil Albert Heijn owns most stores in the center of the city.  The charge extra for the convenience of having all the items in one place.  You know, a supermarket.  Evil.  Last year, they only took cash. More evil. They have opened up mini-stores throughout the city to cater to tourists with jacked-up prices. Even evil-er. Living in Holland, I remember they made sure they ran out of bread at night so none would go stale.  I also recall no eggs one Easter. On the other hand, Albert Heijn has amazing house brand products next to typically one name brand equivalent.  They own several American supermarket chains. There are more markets than ever, but Ahold sells a quality product at a premium price.  They are still evil.

We got home and I discovered in my excitement I had made a few mistakes in my purchases.  The peach yoghurt drink was yoghurt.  Yoghurt in Holland comes in milk cartons.  I miss buying it this way as it goes great on cereal.  The raspberry yoghurt was a drink---but diet.  A country full of emaciated tall people and they sell diet yoghurt.  By the way, I can't think of any synonyms for yoghurt.   Living in Holland we also developed a taste for cheese.  We know good cheese--or at least a lot better than we used to.  The cumin cheese was not strong enough.  My fault.  You really need to go to your cheesemonger.  Everyone has a favorite, natuurlijk (of course).  I also tend to judge sparkling water.  Is it bubbly enough? Is it salty?  What a whiny poof.  We left a lot of water in Venice behind.  my almost-50-year-old bladder wasn't up to hunting for bathrooms at a 1.80$ a pop.  I'll take dehydration over dancing to pee every time.  The Dutch have a solution to the problem.  They have outdoor urinals all over the city that smell amazing.  A mass-bathroom-accident left behind at a closed nursing home comes to mind.  Like I said, amazing. I read some ever-liberal San Franciscans were resisting pissoirs.  You can see men's legs when they are in use and I don't recall anyone ever being mugged or arrested using one. It is such a civilized invention.

Our Host

Nacionalni park Plitvička jezera

Nacionalni park Plitvička jezera

Is the oldest national park in Croatia.  Now you know. It was added to the UNESCO World Heritage Register.  You know, that thing we, as Americans, are not a part of.

The day started with Stu being mean.  Actually, Stu was cruel. The next time the doctor asks if I fall down a lot, perhaps yes may be the answer.  The crime? Waking up early. Due to the anxiety of getting up early, I woke up before he woke me up with anxiety about being woken up.  (This makes perfect sense to me.) It always means I get to sleep on the way. The best part of sleeping in the car is that you get there sooner.

We bought tickets to the park for 20 Euros or so.  OK, 20 euros times 1,000,000 visitors and you get a lot of Kunas (before you exchange them to something more useful).  The cheapo in me is like, "20 Euros to walk around a park?" We had several people tell us it was worth the drive, gas, rental car, insurance, and entrance fee.  It had an odd Disney feel with missing animatronics. We would point out what creature was missing where along the way. The guide reads, "arrive around 7 am" and "go out of season".  Screw that. We had a three hour drive to get there and rooms were expensive. Looking on the map Frontier Town (not really- just the biggest array of falls) was two boat rides away and a three hour walk. Right, three hours? No way would it take that long.  We soon discovered this no no ordinary nature walk. With bathrooms, souvenir and refreshment stops in the woods, it was hiking in comfort. What was the most remarkable thing about the park were the paths. Everything was planked timbers one after another for miles.  Every board was flat and in impeccable shape. Anyone could walk this path if they had the stamina--unless they needed a railing for support. There were none. You could literally drown anyone at any given moment and most would think they lost their balance. It crossed my mind a few times.  Perhaps they didn’t see where they were stepping with that selfie stick and Yankees cap.

Someone had vision for the forest.  The planks crisscrossed waterfalls, lakes and paths.  Occasionally, no constantly, we would run into tour groups of Asians (and others) clogging up the path either coming or going in our direction.  Cameras would appear near anything interesting and then it was shuffling at best. The greatest problem is that like the Palace, there were no bad pictures.  The water was a crystal clear magical shimmering blue-green color. The lake looked like it had diamonds dancing on the surface of the calm surface. Along the paths the water was so clear you could see fish everywhere swimming almost under your feet.  Like any theme park with water, you could hear rushing water ahead and you knew something good was right ahead. What we soon learned is that you couldn’t tell which water attraction you were listening to. Around every twist and turn there amazing views of lakes, cliffs, and waterfalls.  We decided to take the path to see the big waterfall. It sounded like it was up ahead the entire hike. Eventually we made to our destination to bask in the mist. Mist is great for camera lenses. We saw a different path climbing a hill and decided not to backtrack the entire way to the beginning.  It looked like a fire escape on a high rise weaving back and forth up a cliff. At the top was a bus that drove us back. We had spent three to get to the falls, as promised.

Bosnia Herzegovina

Bosnia Herzegovina

Mostar Bridge

We drove east to Bosnia Herzegovina and decide to stop at Medjugorje, a shrine where it is believed the Virgin Mary appeared.  If you are Catholic, you have heard of Medjugorje. No?  Maybe you have heard of Fatima or Lourdes?  OK.  You are beyond “Catholic help”.  Take my word, this is seriously valuable pilgrimage real estate for Catholics on the entire planet.  What the hell, it was only five minutes off the beaten path.  We took selfies in front of the Church and peeked in the windows.  Someone was not allowed into the Church wearing his inappropriate shorts.  Can you just believe some people?  On the way back to the car, like a good pilgrim, I took pictures of the cheap rosaries and Franklin Mint plates with depictions of a smiling Mary.  If you have seen the movie Pecker by John Waters, you can hear grandma's Mary say, "Full of grace!"

Stu's note: If the Klis Fortress WC had not shredded my convertible slacks, I might have gone into the shrine further. As it was, the meter was running on parking in downtown Medjugorje and I was wearing shorts.

St. James, Medjugorje

Local dress, Medjugorje

We were back in the car and off to Mostar.  Mostar is an exotic and creepy town.  Remember that war in the Balkans when Yugoslavia exploded?  You might not since the US didn’t really want to get involved. It was only mass genocide and there were no WMD’s nor oil--just a lot of suffering people and war crimes of future convicted war criminals.  I need to go back and read about the war and the politics.  The setting.  Some people were Muslim, some were Christian, some used the Cyrillic alphabet, others used the Roman Alphabet.  They pretty much all spoke some flavor of the same language.  Man were they different from each other, especially people like your next door neighbor. Croatia seemed to survive the war in pretty good shape.  This was not the case in Bosnia Herzegovina.  There are still pock marks all over the building and some are haunting unstable shells. We saw a man with one leg.  You immediately thought, was he a survivor? The Neretva River running through the city was where neighbors dumped neighbors’ bodies off the cliff into the river.  The river had a lot of neighbors floating in it.  The bridge across the Mostar river was built by the Ottomans in the 16th Century.  The structure was an architectural wonder for its time.  In November 1993, Croat forces blew it up.  After the war, 15 million dollars was quickly raised to rebuild the bridge.  They did a great job rebuilding the bridge.  Upon stepping on the slick stone, I nearly fell on my butt. The bridge would never pass accessibility muster.

On either side of the bridge were vendors selling more exotic goods with a Middle Eastern touch.  Just about all of it was cheaper and high quality.  Unlike Croatia, the Bosnians had no trouble taking Euros so we never needed to grab cash. We ate at a restaurant recommended by 3 bubbly blondes at the rental car agency.  The restaurant has a kitschy Middle Eastern flair with everything but a genie.  Their garb was a little over the Top.  We ordered an exotic plate that had several items that were very familiar but different including stuffed peppers and grape leaves.  The best part of the experience was the paparazzi.  We had five kitties carefully watching us for nibbles. One of them was friendly enough to give a nice pet and nuzzle whereas the others, including a tiger kitten, were a little skittish.  I would scrape my fork against the plate let the meat drop into my left hand.  I would then feed my favorite, the hungriest, or one of the other cats. I was careful to eat only with my right hand since I had been petting strays.  When you moved your legs under the table you could sense a kitty leaping out of the way.  Stu told me not to name them because we didn’t have kitty passports and the whole thing could get messy.  By the end of dinner we had named two of them.  One was Guido and the other was called Sneezy.  You hate to call a kitty less-than-cute, but Guido had a face made for kitty radio.  We never call felines “cats”.  They are all kitties to us.  When my parents neighborhood was heading downhill, people were leaving their guys behind. (Personally, I think you make a promise to your pets that you will be there for them until the end).  My parents kept a bag of cat food on the porch and when they would open the door announce how many cats had showed up for dinner.  It made my dad happy.  I think everyone should adopt a pet of the deceased since they were unable to fulfill on their promise.  Wow, I’m off track again.  It must be the kitties.  (By the way, I love dogs too.  They just require more work.)

Mostar

We walked down to the water to get a better view of the bridge.  Along the way were your ever-present desperate women holding babies working on their Academy Awards as well as old ladies with no teeth shakings cups for coins.  Their were also plenty of children frolicking in the water.  Stu whispered to me, “Watch your wallet”.  One step ahead of you big guy.  It is not completely unlikely that a group of kids can distract you while one grabs your valuables. Another scam is “help the old lady while a second is watching to see which pocket the money is located”.  My default when travelling is, I may look like an American (I love Red, Why, and Blue!) but the language English?  Never heard of it.  Upon moving back to the States, a panhandler in DC said, “man, yous cold” as we exited an escalator on the mall.  My internal voice said, “Thank you, That’s right, I still got it”.

The market had interesting fabric (always an easy way to get Stu’s cultural attention) and artwork as well as Thinks like hanging lanterns and Turkish Coffee sets.  I found shop/tent selling paintings of the bridge on planks of wood.  The smaller ones (that weren’t too small!) were selling for 5 Euros (6$ USD).  As we paid for one, all I could think about was the light, but sizable, mask from Venice.  Stu had bought an embroidered tablecloth for 35 Euros.  It was bulkier, bigger, and heavier.  Yeah! Only how many more places to schlep these items to?  We walked to the end of the market admiring the mosques and relaxes restaurants.  My favorite locale had a musician playing and singing Sultans of Swing.  OMG.  Now that is surreal in a Muslim majority country.

Dinner over, we returned to the rental car.  Let me step back to arriving in Bosnia.  We went down a tight street to discover the end was blocked off for repairs.  We turned right and went up the hill--to a dead end.  The space was so tight I had to carefully help Stu turn the stick-shift car around.  Stu can stress when driving stick.  He turned the car around like a champ.  Remember, the car was on a hill and barely had enough physical room to get through the parked cars to even turn back down the street.  Leaving the street, a cab came at us and we made him back up to let us out.  Good lord.  We could have wrecked the car several times.  Good think we took out insurance on the car costing more than the car’s rental price.

Riding back to Croatia, I blasted our favorite campy Eurovision Song from 2008 or so.  It is a crazy lost-in-the-translation performance of ladies knitting and people doing laundry and some dancing and running around on stage.  The lead woman looks like Magenta from Rocky Horror with a strange dress covered with massive strawberries and bow on the back.  It is a love song.  Seriously, it is a love song. Ask us to show it to you---we’d love to. You can sing any song in any language if you can create  nonsense syllables to the beat in tune.  The woman goes running crazily around the stage eventually throwing a bouquet to the crowd.  In the car we pounded our feet on the floorboards like she runs around the stage as we drove up incredibly tight hairpin turns during a pleasant evening.  We were having a ridiculously silly time on a memorable day.  We can still show you the video, make up some words in time and pound our feet to the floor for you.  Just ask.  No really, just ask.

Guido, feral kitty

A Bosnian platter

Aftermath, Balkan War, Mostar

By the river,  Mostar

Khaleesi!

Bon Voyage!

Klis Fortress

About 10 am Saturday we sat and decided what we were going to do for the weekend. We decided to rent a car at the last minute. Word to the wise, do your homework for car rentals in Split.  Each rental agency has different ways of getting more money from you. A border fee here, a monster drop off fee there is the norm. We drove a bit east to some major ruins where Game of Thrones was shot.  Remember that scene in the desert with the eunuchs and the pyramid and Khaleesi? It was shot there. No? The ruins were on a big cliff. Admission was $7 and there were a Dutch couple balking at the price in front of us.  I chuckled. On the way out, we used the restroom and Stu ripped his pants on an exposed nail. He had to remove his pants. This fact will soon become relevant.

a photo of a photo from Game of Thrones, shot on-site

From Klis toward Split

Klis, poppies and daisies

Non-eunuchs at the Fort

Klis, south side

Klis, from the parking lot