Perspective

"Wow, there's just so much history there." This sentence is often one of the first things you hear from your non-European friends when discussing plans to travel to Europe. And it's one of the first things you mention when you come back from your voyage.

Whether you live in Sydney, Australia or Sydney, Nova Scotia, Calgary or California, your homegrown claims to an interesting history, while valid, simply don't measure up to the Michelangelos, the Arc de Triomphes, the cathedrals built in the 1100's, the sheer story of Europe.

That story is not always a pleasant one.

Spending a very grey Monday morning at the Anne Frank house in Amsterdam this week quickly puts a massive amount of perspective into one's life; suddenly you feel like an idiot for even thinking about complaining about having to hang your clothes up instead of putting them in a dryer, or feeling hungry and cranky if you're running late in your daily grind and haven't had your third meal of the day yet.

The museum (it is in fact her house, but the first few levels are laid out as a museum) is very tastefully done. Winding your way through it, and slowly upwards, there are photos and short video clips of the people involved in keeping the Frank family hidden. In all, eight people (seven for a while, and an eighth arrived for the remaining 20 months) were sharing space in the Secret Annex of the multi-level home for just over two years.

The impression of Anne Frank herself as a thoughtful, energetic, trapped, fearful, and altogether normal teenage girl really emerges through the excerpts of her diary printed on the walls of the museum and shown in display cases.

The curtains, dark brown and completely blocking out daylight, save for the skylight in the attic, left a very strong impression. They could not be opened even an inch for fear of being discovered by neighbors or the authorities.

It's even more striking when you see the how nice the area is right outside the house, with the Prinsengracht canal just in front. And an even stronger contrast when you consider the ugliness that walked those streets and ultimately into that house on August 4, 1944.

Days Like This

As a very worthy counterpoint to the day of October 20th ("Days Like These" entry), Sunday November 8th was a banner day here.

It was spent mostly in the Vondelpark, Amsterdam's version of the great urban park (see Park, Central, Royal, Mount, and Domain, Auckland, as well as any number of other well-planned and inspiring city green spaces). "Vondel" means walk, just FYI.

During the summertime, it is packed with Amsterdammers and tourists alike, vegging, picknicking, running, tripping, cycling, or listening to an outdoor concert. And often doing all of the above simultaneously.

Now that fall has arrived, the ponds and pathways are limited to a few tai chi'ers and chai tea'ers, as well as a fair number of joggers and locals cutting through the park on their way home from downtown.

Although rain is prevalent here in November, and wind even more so, Sunday morning provided a perfectly clear, breathless, 10-14 degree day.

Below is a walking photo album... as always, click on each picture for a bigger image.

Wheely Cool

Not mine

In terms of commenting on the remarkable bicycle phenomenon here, I think I have been able to hold out longer than most people when first arriving in the Netherlands. I didn't want to sound trite - Amsterdam, and Holland as a whole, is way more than red lights and bikes.

But with an estimated 700,000 bikes in this city of about 740,000 people, to not say anything about it would be a little strange. The stats say Amsterdam citizens use their "fiets" even more than their car - using them .87 times per day, compared to .84 times per day where they use the four-wheeled mode of transportation. Environmentally-speaking, this is no small fiets.

I'll save the red-light stuff for later - maybe never - and just speak of the spokes. (The Dutch even have an expression that marries the two: "Op een oude fiets moet je leren" - "You need to learn on an old bike." And trust me, there are all kinds of old bikes available in the red light district, with many enthusiastic-looking groups of young, er, cyclists. But I digress.

Biking here is the preferred mode of transport - particularly in Amsterdam, with its narrow streets not suited for large amounts of vehicle traffic. And cyclists come first - as far as I can tell, it's bikes, then scooters, then cars, then pedestrians in the traffic pecking order.

And a word to the wise for my Western Canadian friends who are used to stepping off the sidewalk and having the world screech to a halt for you - doing so here, as in most international cities, will result in you getting brained by a truck's mirror or run over by a scooter.

A few more observations from 3 weeks in this wet, windy, and wheeled city:

• Bikes are incredibly silent, and bells are used sparingly. You need to keep your head up at all times - getting off the tram, crossing the street (including pedestrian-only streets), and jogging anywhere.

• Getting almost run over is not solely the domain of young punks. You are as likely to lose your toes or your nose to a cellphone-wielding supermodel as you are a 65-year-old grandmother.

• One of the more enjoyable activities? Watching tourists (I say so without derision - give me a few more weeks for that) on their rental bikes for the first time. Their expression - "Whee, look at me...yay, biking!" - quickly turns into shock, followed by hardened, street-wise savvy after the first tram turns the corner and almost takes off their front wheel along with their face. This is good - it builds character.

• Once the bars clear out in this almost taxi-less city, packs of people anywhere from 18-45 head home a little wobbly. Pedal Alcohol Syndrome, call it. They are still pretty adept at avoiding sober pedestrians though, so not to worry.

• Bike theft is apparently rampant here - so much so that a local friend tells me it has come full circle over the years; he's had 4 bikes stolen, including one the first day that it saw pavement. But, resolute and practical as most Dutchmen (and women) are, he has resigned himself to this and has bought two or three bikes of his own - even ordering a style of bike once - from, er, non-bike owners.

• With so many thousands of bikes on the road all the time, some people choose to customize them as much as an L.A. gang member tricks out his car. I should buy the rights to air "Pimp My Fiets". (More examples/photos hopefully on a future post).

• Singing cyclists are a very pleasant thing to see and to hear. Again, there is no age or race to classify the people in this group - a chubby African guy one morning, belting out a Dutch pop song; and a slender blonde female university student the next, humming pleasantly while biking past at Mach 3. And on my own rental the other day, apartment-hunting along the waterfront, I found it impossible to not quietly throw out a few lyrics of my own (I forget what song - something from Bichael Jackson? Bike and the Mechanics? Feel free to add your own suggestions in the comments field below). I'm not sure where the biking-breeds-singing link stems from, but it's real.

Days Like These

There are absolutely some travel days where you're better off hiding under the covers and starting again the next day.

And rather than merely present the good/interesting days all the time, perhaps it's more realistic to occasionally blog about the "other" days as well.

The "there will be days like this" axiom holds true even when you're at home, but there are frustrations and challenges on the road that make the bad days even more pronounced.

To balance it out, I suppose it can also be said that the ways to remove the stink of such days are more numerous and more enjoyable on the road too. So, allright October 20th, we'll call it a draw. But I don't need to see days like you again for a while.

En voyageant, everything is heightened - the good times can be really good, and the bad days can make you want to book the next flight home to mommy. (I didn't do the latter, I should add).

Rather than ramble on with a list of actually frustrations though, I will proffer some handy travel tips instead:

• When you are leaving your home country, it is best to notify your bank. If you don't and they see a number of foreign withdrawals from your account, they may freeze it. The bank however, doesn't tell you this. And this, oddly enough, leaves you unable to withdraw money and unable to do online banking. You simply get an error message stating "It looks like you're having trouble." Yes, no freaking kidding I'm having trouble. You just froze my account.

• When calling (more on that in a moment) your bank to get it sorted out, it helps to find a good customer service representative. This is luck of the draw, of course, but to have one scold you, actually scold you, for not having the foresight to notify them ahead of time that you are leaving, is really not helpful. (Who actually does the call-the-bank-before-leaving thing anyway? Who's even heard of this? You're lying).

• Before settling into a neighborhood, try to locate local call shops ("belcenters" in Holland) that you can use if you need to access a landline. And then do not use them. At least not if you need to try to dial a 1-800 number. I may as well have been in the jungles of Borneo, sending smoke signals, to get through to my bank. The call shops don't allow calls to 1-800 numbers in North America. This I found out after going to about 4 of them in a 20-block radius.

• What's that you say? Just use or get a cell phone? Ideally, your phone is equipped with GSM that works everywhere in the world pretty much, and it allows international dialling. If you have a CDMA phone, a slowly dying North American standard, you cannot use it in Europe. I knew this going in - so I figured, "I will buy a prepaid phone when I get to my country of choice, and simply swap out the SIM card when I get to another country." The latter part of this works just fine. Except when your SIM card provider does not allow you to call 1-800 numbers. (As an aside, the prepaid rates are fairly exorbitant, so only buy a prepaid phone if you think you really need it).

• Before you go, enlist a trusted relative (thanks sis) or friend back home who can get things done on your behalf if you are really stuck, and then call them. A conference call patched through them to the right agency/bank really helps.

• Don't do laundry, groceries, or attempt anything at all really when one of your days begins with wandering the streets for 2-3 hours looking for an ATM that will take your card or a call center to take your call. You will lose socks, buy the wrong food, and nearly break your toe on a wayward cobblestone. Just sit down at a local cafe or find the local stress-relieving method of choice - Amsterdam has abundant choices - and wake up tomorrow. My personal statisitics for travelling indicate that there are 23 great days for every one like this.

Short on Sports

Post-goal celebrations here are waaaay different

Before embarking on this extended trip, I was already curious as to how my brain would react without my usual cultural touchstones to rely upon.

There would be no Daily Show (although the Internet has helped out here), no "24" most likely, no So You Think You Can... ok, maybe I shouldn't make that one public. In general, there would be little to no TV at all, and what there was would be in a language that I can understand, but not at quick conversational speed.

There would also be a whole different ballgame in terms of sports. No golf, no ice hockey, no basketball, no football - at least in terms of the leagues I grew up following. And I can safely say this is the only area that I miss from a cultural standpoint.

Soccer - plain "football" in these parts, although using the term "soccer" does not raise eyebrows nor ire in Holland - is absolutely king here in Europe. It seems to even match or exceed Canadians' love of hockey, which is no small feat.

So I've traded Favre for Fabregas, Sidney for Cisse, and LeBron for le foot.

And having attended my first ever European soccer match Saturday, October 24th, I can say that so far my trades have been one-sided, and not in my favor.

The rain was coming down in a fine mist and the wind was gusting, but about 45,000 raucous fans were not daunted. Some great soccer songs were being belted out every few minutes, each one walking a very fine line between love/passion and malevolence/anger. I'm sure the possibility of violence breaking out at any second is what keeps most fans awake.

It was Feyenoord - the Rotterdam club - versus VVV-Venlo (no idea what the 3 V's mean, although after about the 39th minute, it could have been changed to ZZZ) from south Holland. After a 1-0 Feyenoord win, and maybe, maybe 2 shots on net after 90 minutes, it was time to head home. To be fair, my hosts told me it was in fact one of the worst games they've seen. But wow, that was some kind of boring.*

In search of a fix I scoured the Internet, which revealed a few spots in Amsterdam that broadcast NFL games on Sundays.

Fast forward 30 minutes later, and I'm sitting next to Rob the software salesman from Boston, eating a kangaroo burger in Coco's Outback, an Aussie bar. I went all out and ordered it "Oz" style - with a fried egg, a slice of cheese, and a beetroot.

To recap - a bar, in the Netherlands, run by Aussies, broadcasting American football, while being served by a Hungarian server. With a side of French fries, no less. It is truly enjoyable and it doesn't happen everywhere, that's for sure.

*Disclaimer: I realize there is a complete parallel here; the European visitor to North America would likely be bored stiff watching golf with its snail's pace, American football with all its stoppages, etc. So apologies to my European friends reading this - feel free to equally insult the North American sporting landscape.

P.S. The kangaroo burger? Tastes like chicken.

Work It

While jet-setting (or train-setting) the globe, dating women with foreign names, and eating dessert for breakfast all have undeniable charm, there is a rather unfortunate necessity that is rearing its head of late - work. Or rather, the need for money to gain access to more of the above, which usually involves work.

The self-actualization gurus often advise us to build on our strengths, and not spend so much time trying to shore up our weaknesses. So with 3 languages under my belt and English being the best of them (and giving up on the idea that I'll ever be remotely useful with a power drill or drywall), I am giving translation services a shot.

The Dutch are quite possibly the most skilled non-native English speakers you'll come across. It still amazes me in stores and restaurants just how effortless their English is, particularly those young'uns under 30, who have not only received formal education in the language since the age of 10-11 years old (roughly 3 hours per week), but who have also been raised under a global media culture that is largely English.

Despite this, however, their business materials and websites are still lacking in completely proper English, including humor that is cultural and simply doesn't translate well. Understandable of course (I imagine Bob and Doug Mackenzie or Seinfeld probably wouldn't make a lot of sense here either) - no matter how much education or exposure one gets, if it's not your native language you won't write it perfectly - but it does create an opportunity for, ahem, skilled wordsmiths.

So via a Dutch-Calgary connection, I met with the owner of MagStream, a very interesting company based in the Netherlands. They create and power online publications - newsletters, brochures, magazines. *(Note - if you go to their website prior to Nov.1 or so, the updated "clean" version may not be up yet... lest you mock my editing skills).

They are housed in a large, open-concept space in The Hague (Den Haag here in the native lexicon). Stepping into the building - a large converted tobacco factory called Caballero Fabriek - is a little like stepping into the future. If you've ever walked into an Apple store, the feeling is somewhat similar (although you feel less broke after walking out).

Inside the MagStream office

The modern .com office, complete with obligatory foosball table

The offices of design firm/gallery "Trapped in Suburbia"

The central lunch area, shared by all companies in Caballero Fabriek

The overall building houses over 50 companies, largely design, web, and creative small businesses. Some of the tenants refer to it as the Dutch "Silicon Valley".

Despite being the only dork who brought a camera to work... a workday spent speaking with the owner, putting my marketing and English skills to work and providing some suggestions and an overall website clean-up all meant for (cue angelic sound of "ahhh") billing in Euros.

After being, to put it delicately, bent over by various overpriced taxis, train rides, hotels, and bars, it is very nice to make even a small entry in the positive side of ledger. I will expand upon just how expensive Europe is in a future entry. Not news to many of you, I'm sure - but there is still sticker shock even when you are expecting it.

Another interesting and very appealing aspect to Dutch society - when taking the train home at the end of the day, the businesswoman across from me was enjoying a beer. Not from a paper bag either - complete with small plastic glass and mini-table bolted just below the window. This may not raise eyebrows on this side of the pond, I realize. But a capital idea that North American society needs to adopt.

Love handles, Actually

Today marks the one-month anniversary of my departure from Calgary, in search of a new adventure, a new beginning, and ultimately a new home. I am also in search of a new gym.

A month of living (quite happily, I hasten to add) on restaurant food and occasional home-cooking with various relatives, interspersed with about 4 half-baked workouts and approximately 3 vegetables, has taken its toll. As I type the big words, I can feel the love handles moving ever so slightly.

New York started out the adipose assault. With the classic American truck stops followed by all of NYC's assortment of restaurant and roadside choices, the game was over early in the first period. I knew it was trouble at our first roadside stop, when the vending machine happily ate my dollar, I punched D3, and the pizza-flavored Combos slid from their coiled prison down to the tray below.

I find the above "Real Cheese" claim highly dubious.

From that point on, with places like Stanton Social House and Bar Carrera (the latter - a wine/tapas bar - was an accident - we were starving after walking around for a hours looking for a place that had room), there was no looking back. Both spots were really cool and the food was excellent. Both were lively, filled with good music and good-looking people. Carrera was really affordable as well.

Paris, as anyone knows, is made for eating. Although it helps to have a local show you around as they do have a number of places that cater to tourists and are not necessarily the best quality.

Where the city catches you is in the small patisseries and boulangeries on every corner (mentioned in an earlier post). One of the deadliest was literally right next door to my apartment, where I was defenceless against the Viennoiserie aux Amandes (or in English, "crack"). An almond-paste-filled Danish, essentially. And having one of these, sometimes two, per day is simultaneously totally recommended and totally not recommended.

Metro stations advertising full-on, 4-day exhibitions devoted to chocolate

And here in Amsterdam, cheese and bread and cheese are staples of the diet. With occasional extra cheese.

Of course, virtually every meal is accompanied by wine in Paris (cheap and very good quality bottles can be had for 4-8 Euros), and beer in Holland (A glass of Amstel Bock, a new favorite, can be had for 2.50 Euros). I suspect this is not helping either.

The good news? I joined a gym yesterday here in Amsterdam just three minutes from home - Your Fitness Centre

The better news? Here at my local Coffee & Company, three feet away, behind the glass, I see My Chocolate Brownie.

Parisian Life Part Trois

Back after the aforementioned 3-day retreat to the Auvergne region and La Platriere, I found myself delaying my trip to Holland by a few days. This was mostly forced, as the Internet connection was severed by French workers digging up cable, thus making the much-needed Amsterdam train booking impossible for a few days. And I was informed by my hosts that this type of "work" - break it and then repair it slowly - is a pretty common ploy among the French blue-collar crowd.

But Paris has become increasingly tough to leave at any rate - I'm guessing the Eiffel Tower could double as the world's largest magnet.

Staying for 2 nights at the Best Western Mercedes (not nearly as tacky as it sounds - it was in a very French-ish building and came complete with the authentic shoebox-sized elevator), I spent most of the weekend in Parc Monceau and Montmartre, with a short time spent on the Champs Elysees.

Parc Monceau is in a much less touristy part of town - a solid 10-minute walk to the Champs Elysees. Here you'll see tons of locals, of all ages and with or without kids, just lounging in the grass or on the many benches places throughout. It also serves as a good example of another of Paris' great features - despite non-stop hustle and plenty of concrete, there is always a bench, a chair, or a square of grass to call your own.

Parc Monceau, above and below

The Champs Elysees is pretty much a massive collection of retail shops and a few restaurants, and really is only worthwhile for the die-hard tourist.

The quintessentially French village of Montmartre, despite being overrun with tourists, is a much more interesting place to spend the afternoon. We were there on a Sunday afternoon, and stopped by huge pots of hearty foods, artists doing potraits (some of them amazing, some less so) of passerby, and cafes and restaurants.

Chorizo sausage, potatoes, and other stuff - 5 Euros gets you a pretty good portion

I never sausage a dish as this

We saw people dancing in the street, Picasso's home, heard a jazz band with the world's oldest drummer, and witnessed a crazy lady belting out tunes, complete with a mechanical music box and a mechanical monkey.

The only drummer who keeps the beat with his pacemaker

If you can withstand the hordes (Sunday - the day of the above photos - is apparently the busiest) and make the climb up towards Sacre-Coeur, Montmartre is a must-see.

Parisian Life Part Deux

A few Tuesday nights ago it was off for a taste of Parisian nightlife. Now, many of the guidebooks for Paris talk about the odd contrast between the bustling cafe "joie de vivre" and its relatively stale late-night bar scene. And I can confirm that this is pretty much spot on. Ask any of your cafe neighbors what there is to do or what places are worth checking out post-dinner, and they are hard-pressed to come up with an answer.

Undaunted, and taking my own advice, I returned to a favorite place from a previous visit to Buddha Bar.

With 12 locations around the globe in places like London, Dubai, and New York, Buddha Bar is a marketing phenomenon as much as it is a really cool restaurant and lounge. Visitors can buy t-shirts and other branded gear at the front entrance, and their musical collection now sits at over 10 CDs. It's all a variation on the same theme - chillout/lounge music that speaks of exotic locations and hushed conversations.

Stepping into Buddha Bar Paris at about midnight on a Tuesday, one of those conversations may well have included the not-so-hushed phrase "29 Euros for 2 drinks?!?" Yes, it's that absurd - $45 Canadian dollars for a glass of red wine and a Ketel One vodka and lime. It's a neat marketing ploy actually - you need to drink more to ease the pain of what you are spending. It also explains the high degree of well-dressed sugar daddies and their much younger companions sprinkled around the place.

The setting and the music are tough to beat though, so you tell yourself that so long as you don't go every night (or every month), it's totally worth it. And it is. This is an absolutely cool place - perfect music (selon moi), perfect lighting, and a large restaurant below ringed by a lounge up top, with all kinds of dark corners to carry on those hushed conversations.

I can recall a dozen or so times in my travels throughout the years where I've suppressed the practical, rational money-saver in me with a full-throated "When am I going to be here again?"

And it has never failed me - the memories are almost always worth the gouging. And on those occasions when I've let frugality win the day, I've always regretted it afterwards (sitting in the nosebleeds at a Phoenix Suns game still smarts).