bon jour, Paris.

Ahhh, Switzerland in the fall: the air is cool and crisp, the trees are changing, and the weather outside is sunshine-y. Wait...something is clearly wrong here. I'm fairly positive that it should be colder and much, much rainier, which means we'll probably suffer greatly in the months to come for our current sunshine-y bliss. But there's still a ray of hope: at least there will be raclette.

And now, another quick swing back through Paris! We'd been promising Mikey and Jess that we'd go visit them in their new quasi-hometown for months, and we finally found a weekend that worked for all of us (let me tell you, those kids travel!), so off we went for a long weekend. But not, of course, before celebrating Switzerland's national holiday on August 1 with a giant barbecue (10? 12 people? who can even count?) and fireworks. It's the Swiss equivalent of July 4, but for unification instead of independence. And way older: it sorta roughly informally dates back to 1291. Most of the smaller towns along the lake host their own fireworks, but not Zürich: we're all left to our own devices, but since fireworks are legal here, the hordes descend upon the tents set up around town for a month or so beforehand to spend ridiculous amounts of cash on some major firepower, then head down to the lake to set them off--just, you know, wherever!--like a bunch of idiots. It's terrifying and awesome, all at the same time. This year, Mike and a few friends formed a purchasing coalition and did fairly well for themselves: we ended up with the requisite sparklers, plus a bunch of Roman candles, a gigantic fountain or two, several small individual rockets, two boxes that shot 25 decent-sized mortars one at a time, and one mortar that was probably four inches in diameter. I couldn't help but make fun of the sheer quantities they'd bought, but really, we all know how I feel about fireworks. I adore them. The closer, the louder, the longer the display, the better. This was a good holiday, friends.

Our kitchen table, pre-barbecue. The boxes were the most fun, but the giant mortar (on the long stick) was outstanding.

Here are some select videos from the event; yes, that's me you can hear commenting. And Dave that you hear laughing in the background. We all turned into cackling, sausage-stuffed, fire-crazed children. It was great.

One of the smaller rockets. That's Mike's evil laugh at the end. 

A box-o-mortars. These just kept going. Awesome.

The big guy. When Mike lit it, it made an entirely different noise than all the others: lower, kinda sluggish-sounding...it sounded like there was no possible way this thing was going to lift off. And then it did. BOOM. (Bonus audio: my sensible instructions to Mike.)

That was Wednesday night. Thursday was spent cleaning up the BBQ mess (me) and working (everyone else), and Friday afternoon we took the fancy-schmancy TGV (wooo, high-speed train!) to Paris. Turns out, the train is a little pricey, but it's quite lovely and takes roughly the same amount of time to get there as one would waste by flying (Charles de Gaulle airport is way, way outside the city, and not conveniently linked at all...you'd think a major world metropolis could do a little better, but whatever). And we got to ride through giant fields of sunflowers and watch the sun set over the green, rolling countryside between here and there. I love train travel.

Continuing on. We rolled into Paris a bit late, but that's not a problem 'cause it's a real city and things are open past 8:00 in the evening (but who's bitter...?). We headed over to the Rue Montorgueil to find some dinner, and ended up at Au Rocher de Cancale, where I had one of the most interesting and delicious salads of my life. We started with escargot (YUM! who would have ever guessed that I would love snails-in-garlic-and-butter so much??) and fried chevre (goat cheese, mmmm) covered with ground almonds, and then Mike had a ridiculously good tuna burger with onions, tomato, and pickles (and some good frites on the side). And for me, la salade. It was a nice bed of fresh, dark greens topped with strips of chicken drizzled with a light, but sweet, caramel sauce; cubes of feta (which I regret to say that I have only recently discovered...just think of all the feta I could have been eating!); strips of parmesan cheese; dried tomatoes; and a lovely vinaigrette dressing. My mouth is actually and legitimately watering, just writing about this meal. I know there are a bazillion awesome restaurants in Paris, and yet I find myself not really caring about that, knowing that I could go back and have this particular meal again. Is that weird? Yes.

Because it was August, we had two distinct problems: one, it was still tourist season, and two, August is the holiday month for the French themselves...which means that lots of places were closed.* So we spent most of the time letting Jess be our tour guide, through the not-so-heavily-touristed parts of town and her favorite neighborhoods, and it was really nice. (Despite the fact that no fewer than two crêperies, for which we'd traipsed across the city, were closed.**)

A new sight for me: Place de la Bastille. Our hotel was very near here.

Strolling down the Seine. Look at all the bridges...! The big domed building on the left is the Commercial Court of Paris, and the conical towers are the Palace of Justice.

A little Tour Eiffel for your viewing pleasure.

Crazy faces on Pont Neuf. Frankly, I find them a little unsettling.

The faces extend the entire length of the bridge...which, I just learned, is the oldest standing bridge across the Seine in Paris. Thanks, Wikipedia!

One completely unexpected bonus of our trip: apparently, for the last ten years, during July and August, the city actually trucks in tons of sand and builds a small beach along part of the Seine! It's supposedly to give a beachfront experience for people who can't or don't travel out of town during the August holidays, and we had to go see it. Turns out, it's adorable.

The wee beach.

A guy making sand sculptures for tips. (Does this count as busking...??)

The boules (a.k.a. bocce) courts. You can tell these guys are good 'cause they're genuinely arguing over which ball is closer.

And, under the arch of a bridge, a 12-person foosball table. Who knew such things existed?

Next, it was over to Canal St. Martin, which turned out to be equal parts pretty and seedy. And very interesting. Who knew this existed, too??

We got there just as this tourist boat was going through the locks.

Here, it's already gone down one level, and is going down one more, before heading under the city streets. I can only imagine that it's both gross and fascinating down there.

Then, a brief stroll through a few back streets and over to Julhès Paris, a surprisingly upscale food-and-beverage market in a sketchy, but bustling, neighborhood full of super interesting ethnic markets. 

On the way, we passed this little kitteh who had been napping in a bakery window. 

At Julhès: they had these pretty barrels outside.

 And on the inside, vodka wearing green fur coats! (But also heaps of gorgeous meats 'n cheeses, a large and interesting wine/bubbly/spirits section, and tons of interesting jams/conserves/things in jars.)

Super busy street with ethnic markets and a giant arch at the end. Seriously, this city is so gorgeous.

Finally, at the end of day 1, dinner at Chartier, a Paris institution, full of traditional French food, and probably one of the only places in the entire city where you can get decent food for a reasonable price. It's all very classic European dining hall-y on the inside...big mirrors, lots of polished wood, etc., but none of my photos came out. At least I got this one.

They don't take reservations, so you have to wait outside in line...but it moves pretty darn quickly. I had a sea bream with lemon, which was simple, but tasty. Not the fanciest food, but a fun experience.

Also, the waiters write your order on the paper tablecloth. In some sort of mystery script, apparently. (Those frites down at the bottom were tasty.)

After dinner, we roamed the streets in search of ice cream, and stumbled across the Hotel de Ville, which is Paris's town hall. It is HUGE and FANCY and I only wish we'd seen it in the daytime. As it was, they had a giant screen out front and were broadcasting the Olympics to the public, complete with a few tables and chairs and food and drink vendors. It was quite the charming atmosphere, especially when a Jamaican runner took the gold and a heretofore unnoticed group burst out chanting and cheering and waving their Jamaican flags around. No photos of the giant screen or the (presumed) Jamaicans, but here's the building...

Ridiculous, no? The screen was over to the right, which is why everyone's looking that direction. (It's all starting to make sense now, isn't it.)

We started Sunday (and Saturday, come to think of it) morning with a walk through the LARGE marché on the Boulevard Richard-Lenoir, which ran alongside our hotel. I'm not going to kid you, I'd kill to have a market this size, and of the we-sell-everything-fruit-cheese-bread-jams-housewares-clothing-art-etc. type in Zürich. Then it was off to coffee at La Caféothèque, which is a fantastic little coffee shop that's essentially tripled in size since the first time we went there. While that's good for them--if they have enough business to expand, it probably means they'll stay in business--it's a bit sad as well, 'cause it used to be just a little less visible. Oh well. The caliber of the coffee has certainly not suffered, and the new jungle room is a nice place to sit and drink said delicious coffee. 

Le marché. This picture does not even begin to show how gigantic this thing is.

Mmmmm, iced latte and cappuccino at Caféothèque. And they serve each coffee with a little square of single-origin chocolate. What's not to love?

Sadly, Mikey had had to fly off to Africa early Sunday morning, so after coffee, it was just Jess, Mike, and I, and I talked everyone into going to Montparnasse to satisfy my need for crêpes. (And yes, it was a need. You all should be impressed that I didn't make everyone trek still further around the city in search of the perfect Croque Madame, too. Next time, minions. Next time.) We wanted to try for Josselin again, but--also again--ended up at La Crêperie Bretonne. Which was not a problem: THEIR CRÊPES ARE WICKED GOOD. I believe mine was some variety with ham and cheese and egg, and Mike's was the same but with caramelized onions. Guess who was the winner there.***

The crêpe maker at Bretonne. Fun to watch, and mind-blowing how much butter was involved.

With only a little time left before we had to catch our train back to Zürich, we decided to stroll through the wee art market that was close by, and I actually ended up buying a small painting of flowers in a vase...YAAAAAAY, ART! It wasn't cheap, but I really like the bright orange in it, and I really liked a lot of the artist's other works too. (Plus, she was a really nice woman, which is probably the best way to sucker me in as a customer.) I wanted to go back and ask if she'd cut me a deal for a second one, but Mike vetoed...probably a wise choice, since if we'd gone back, I would most likely have ended up paying full price for a second painting. (Next time, minions...next time.) It was probably also good, in that we did manage to make our train back, but not by what I would call the largest of margins. Another lovely weekend in Paris, and I can only hope that we go back soon: my list of places to visit there isn't exactly getting shorter. So much to see there, and to eat.

What I'm reading: ACK, still that stupid The Rape of Europa book. I am now only about halfway through it, and seriously debating whether to continue reading. On the one hand, the author has managed to take what is a fascinating subject and make it extremely dry, boring, and hard to follow, while simultaneously name-dropping artists no one in the real world has ever heard of and generally maintaining a general air of pretension (seriously? who writes using "vis-à-vis"? there's no other way you could have chosen to express that particular thought??). On the other hand, I can't remember the last time I didn't finish reading a book that I'd actually chosen to read, so my inherent stubbornness might just win this round. However this plays out, it's been a true chore getting through this, and I've found that I have to back up a few pages each time I start reading it again because it is so hard to follow, and so dry, that it makes me drowsy insanely quickly...but I'm trying so hard to get through it that I just keep reading even when I know I should put it down and close my eyes, thus forgetting most of what I've just read anyway. This one's not a winner for the casual reader, my friends. Maybe for serious art-and-WWII freaks slash art and/or history majors, but even I can't recommend this one. 

My favorite things: RON SWANSON, KIDS! "You may have thought you heard me say I wanted a lot of bacon and eggs, but what I said was, 'Give me all the bacon and eggs you have.'" Yaaaaay, I am SO glad that Parks & Recreation is back. I feel like it really hit its stride last season, and can't wait for this one. More of Ron Swanson's genius here and here.

Next up: another quick weekend trip...this time to Italy. 

*P.S. - If you are a small business owner and are wondering why your business is perhaps failing, maybe it's 'cause you take the entire month of August off. Think about it.

**Stupid August.

***Mike. Mike was the big winner there. Those onions are like delicious, sweet, onion candy. YUM.

at long last, part two of two: Amsterdam...the conclusion.

So. When last we met, I believe I had just finished raving about dinner at Humphrey's...where we ate outside, on the ridiculously sloping sidewalk, 'cause it was really warm outside, but presumably even warmer inside, since Europeans deplore air conditioning (what environmentally-concerned jerks). After dinner, we meandered back to the hotel on foot, and I took the following picture (among many, many others...it's what I do).

Ooh, church spires on a canal! How very picturesque. (Don't you just love how it's still this light at 9:00 at night? Being this far north does have its advantages, sometimes.) Anyway, bear with me for the story here.

Warning: the following is heavy on the text and on church-related info...but boy. You couldn't make this stuff up. Or even plan for it all to happen, for that matter!

A weeny, woony bit of back story to the string of events that follow: while we were in Langnau, Dad had been doing a little research and discovered that there was a Mennonite collection at the University of Amsterdam. He contacted the head of the collection, just on a whim, but didn't hear back from the guy, so we all more-or-less wrote that connection off and went on our merry way. 

Back to the present: on our final day in the city, we really had no agenda other than to return to Our Lord in the Attic, to see whether they still had a little notebook that Dad had accidentally left behind, so we figured we'd head back there, then check out the Oude Kerk afterwards, since it was in the same neighborhood. We decided to take a different route than we had the day before, just to see a little more of the city, and so we sorta just struck off in the general direction of the Red Light District. At one point, we emerged from a tiny side street onto a major canal, and directly across from us was a building marked "University of Amsterdam." We all knew that most European universities are scattered throughout their respective cities, rather than being located in a single, central campus, so I said something stupid along the lines of "Hey, there's the University of Amsterdam. Wouldn't it be hilarious if that's the building with your Mennonite collection in it?" Five minutes later we came across another U of A building, where we found a gentleman stacking books in a narrow, covered passage, and on yet another whim, Dad asked him where the library was. The man told us that we were actually under it. He was kind enough to point us to an information desk nearby, and there Dad got instructions to the Mennonite collection, which was a short walk from where we were. Off we went again, and just a few minutes later, we were standing in front of the same building I'd spotted earlier across the canal...which turned out to be the building we were looking for. We went inside and found that the man Dad had e-mailed was actually present, and that the extremely pleasant woman at the desk near his office was more than happy to see if Mr. Plak had a few moments to talk with Dad.* As it turned out, he did...and so Mom and I went and sat in the building's cafe while Dad spoke with the head of the university's Mennonite studies department for an hour and a half. (What a gracious person, is what I say! And super helpful and informative, according to Dad.) As they were wrapping up, he suggested that we pay a visit to a hidden Mennonite church, which, in keeping with the theme of the day, was just a short walk from where we were. Um, yes, please.

Mr. Plak had an errand to run in roughly the same direction as the church, so he was kind enough to lead us there and to introduce us to the caretaker...and just to show you how hidden this church still is, it turned out to be literally around the corner from Humphrey's, where we'd eaten dinner the previous evening. In the photo above, it's the building on the far left, behind the tree. This building is practically invisible, even when you're standing right in front of it, and we'd probably been past it four times by now. Craziness. 

A slightly better angle: the spires are actually a small Catholic church, and the Mennonite church is the short red-brick building with the stepped roof, to the left of the spires and in between the trees.

Anyway. The caretaker (and apparent tour guide) was an absolutely delightful man named Marcel, who, although not a member of this particular church, was extremely familiar with its history and with the beliefs of the people who worship there. As we've seen, Mennonites come in all flavors, from modern and more liberal to extremely conservative and traditional, and, as one might expect from a church located this close to the most famous Red Light District in the western hemisphere, this one tended more towards the former. Once again, since Dad was smart enough to take notes, his blog entry on the hidden church is really complete and much better written than this one. However. Here's my summary.

The beliefs and practices: as with all Mennonites, the concept of adult (rather than infant) baptism and a definite separation of church and state are considered to be extremely important, defining principles. The church reports to no central governing association (which might otherwise determine denomination-wide doctrine); i.e., the church congregation governs itself. The church has an official pastor, but he is called "teacher" and gets exactly one hour per week on the pulpit. Additionally, they are a "free" church like the one we saw in Langnau, in the sense that they have no state or government ties at all. Church members must profess a belief in Jesus Christ; be baptized as adults (unless already baptized in another denomination), as the result of a conscious and independent decision made by themselves; and write their own personal confessions (i.e., defining, and taking responsibility for, their relationship with God). Church members are not expected to attend church every week, but to live their faith through service, and to attend church as more of a time for a spiritual recharge and for fellowship. This means that they have social ministries including a food bank and hosting public forums issues dealing with society and faith, and also that they are deeply involved in their local community...which, in this particular instance, means tolerance and welcome for all (e.g., they hosted a gay wedding last month...!).** 

The building: before the 17th century, Amsterdam's Mennonites met in private homes; during that century, as tolerance increased, Mennonites were allowed to meet in groups, although they could not advertise their churches in any form. (Marcel said that the state regulated Mennonite churches in the same way that it now regulates prostitution and the "coffee shops;" that is, they all exist within a legal framework, so that they can be supervised.) The church building on this site date to 1607, although it was enlarged in 1639, and an outdoor walkway was covered over sometime later. (What I find particularly fascinating is that this church building is directly across a very small courtyard from a Catholic church...which, as Marcel commented, given the history of animosity, must have led to some interesting interactions between congregations. [No kidding.]) The building itself eventually expanded to encompass two entire addresses on the street, and it now houses the church itself and associated offices/meeting rooms, as well as the General Mennonite Society, the Mennonite Centre for Congregational Building, and the Mennonite Seminary. All in this very understated, still mostly-hidden location.***

This building is deep: here's the enclosed walkway that used to be an open public thoroughfare. Through the window down towards the other end of the hallway, to the right, is where you can look across the courtyard to the Catholic church.

Look at this sanctuary! Marcel said it could hold as many as 900 people. Something about it felt very comfortable and worn-in...and maybe that's why this room felt to me like a historic church in America. Never having visited a historic Mennonite church in the US, I can't explain why I had this thought, other than I think this is actually more-or-less how I always envisioned those churches...simple decoration, lots of wood, a very pronounced historic feel, and a clear departure from the jeweled Gothic cathedrals and marble-filled Baroque churches of the old world. 

The installation on the pulpit is called "Flight." Yes, those are actually pages suspended in the air overhead. It was interesting to see something so modern in a space that felt so time-worn, but it made sense: the pages are supposed to represent the Word, going forth into the world.

The wee church sign outside the building...I'm guessing its size is a remnant of the laws of years past.

The front of the church building. 

The symbols of the three churches that united to form this one: the tower, the sun, and the lamb (the last of which has been the emblem of this particular hidden church since its inception, and which was adopted from the symbol of the brewery on the street's corner).

Also fascinating was the church copy of the Martyr's Mirror, the chronicle of stories of early Anabaptist martyrs--which was originally published in Dutch in 1660. Clearly, this copy was not that old, but we figured that it dated back at least to the early 19th century. When Marcel first arrived at the church, he wondered why they had this book displayed so prominently on the altar: were they worshipping it? Later, he learned that the book is brought out every Sunday morning to remind service attendees of their heritage, and of the sacrifices that were made by their ancestors for their faith. Pretty important stuff, in light of all that we've learned about the Anabaptists and their faith.  

The Martyr's Mirror.

"Doopsgesinde" (in modern Dutch it's "doopsgezinden") is the Dutch word for Mennonite. And also for Anabaptist.

I really appreciate that this book is kept so obvious and accessible: it's quite easy, for most of us, and lots of the time, to lose sight of the fact that our (i.e., American) religious freedom arose only as the result of great sacrifice...but for European Mennonites, we've seen twice now that their history is treasured and kept alive and nearby. Marcel also showed us a family tree of sorts for the church, which included several local groups of Amsterdam Mennonites, along with groups from Waterland (north of Amsterdam), Friesland (northern Holland), France, and--drum roll, please!--England. The nature of this Dutch-English connection was an important question for Dad at the outset of these travels, and here was the answer: John Smyth, considered one of the founders of the Baptist denomination, had spent four years here, in this church, as a pastor ("teacher," in the Dutch).

Ok, so this may have been the worst place ever to take pictures...a nice, dark hallway, but with a glass-covered board directly across from the only window in the space. This is the "Summary of the Mennonite Community in Amsterdam and the Names of her Teachers." Across the top of the chart you can almost make out the names of the groups that came together to eventually form this church. (The bottom half of this board demonstrates the eventual intermingling of all of these groups into the aforementioned three churches, which eventually became this church.)

This one's terrible, too, but more 'cause it's out of focus. There he is, right in the middle: John Smyth.

And there you have it, folks: the answer to Dad's Big Question, in a church we didn't even know existed, where we were taken by a man whose afternoon just happened to be free, whom we met in a building we found mainly by accident. I don't know how many coincidences you can string together and still call them coincidences, or at what point you might have to start believing that something bigger is at work...I can only report the facts, ma'am. (And seriously, read Dad's post. Seriously.)

After our completely unexpected, fascinating, and revelatory visit to the hidden church, and our utter adoration for Marcel (who has a seriously fantastic, and quite dry, sense of humor, and let us take up at least two unscheduled hours of his time), the Oude Kerk was a bit anticlimactic. Here it is, nonetheless.

Dramatic angle no. 1, and smack in the middle of the Red Light District. (As I was taking this photo, my right shoulder was towards a long wall full of prostitutes' windows, which are directly across this narrow little alley from the church. Craziness.)

(This is a different street, but this is roughly what the windows looked like. Not to be too indelicate, but there were some large ladies in a few of these.)

Dramatic angle no. 2, near the main entrance. This place is Amsterdam's oldest building, and parts of it date back to 1300.

Insanely high wooden staircase. Wonder where that open door halfway up the wall goes...?

Another all-gravestone floor. Over 10,000 people are buried here, with records of burials between 1523 and 1865 (the last burial) still in existence. 

Even Rembrandt's wife Saskia is buried here.

One of the misericords in the choir. There are 36 of them, and each one is unique. Most date to between 1480 and 1500 and survived the Reformation's iconoclastic riots 'cause the seats fold down. (Clever, thorough rioters.)

Wooden ceiling joint. You can see just a bit of frescoing here and there, which was rediscovered in 1956 (the vault paintings had been covered over with black paint during the iconoclastic riots in the late 16th century).

Wide-angle of the whole interior. It's still fairly spartan, even since the 16th century. 

The 1724 Vater-Müller organ.

Once we'd seen all there was to see at the Oude Kerk, it was time to start heading for the airport. But first, snacks back on the Leidseplein! One more round of Dutch deliciousness in the pleasant sunshine. Mom and Dad had some lovely sandwiches, and I went for some Dutch croquettes, which were essentially giant bitterballen. Mmmm.

Croquettes, mustard, and some nice grainy bread.

Ooh, I just realized that I've finally, finally come to the end of describing the month of July...and I feel like I should make some sort of profound statement. I'll try to keep it as short as possible, although I've proven time and again that that's an impossibility for me. At any rate, here goes.

In the course of my travels with Mom and Dad, I learned heaps more about the history of radical Protestantism than I ever would have on my own. I've come to appreciate, and consciously so, our religious freedoms, the prices paid by those who fought and died for their faith, and those aspects of my own faith which adhere to the original Anabaptist tenets. I marvel at the sheer improbability of the way in which all of that somehow survived the late Middle Ages, then came across the Atlantic to find its way into my family, and I am truly grateful that my parents saw fit not only to emphasize these ideas in my own upbringing, but to revisit them again, with me, as an adult. It was a powerful and educational journey, and I am so glad that we got to experience it all together.

Next up: brief trips to Paris to visit Mike and Jess, and then a weekend sojourn to Italy (say it with me: ahhhhh, Italy).

*She said, and I quote, "I can see that he's in his office, but he's not answering his phone. Let's go see if he has some time." Yet another administrative assistant who's clearly keeping the joint running, whatever her title. Respect your administrative professionals, people. Without them, phones go unanswered, problems remain unsolved, meetings unscheduled...regimes crumble. Just sayin'.

**If this church were in Zürich, I'd attend it, without question. I love that they welcome everyone, emphasize public service, govern themselves, and encourage open discussion. And incorporate adult baptism and a belief in the separation of church and state, which are things I've come to value highly. Sadly for me, this church is very clearly a product of both its particular history and its location, so it probably couldn't exist here. Sigh. It's nice to know it's there, though.

***Couldn't really fit this in anywhere else, so here goes. Other building-related anecdotes: 

• Marcel showed us a high-ceilinged, but very bare-bones, room which fronted the canal. He explained to us that it's both the room where the church would feed and entertain the homeless on Friday nights as well as the room where they hosted the queen a few years ago. (He explained also that the queen's retinue insisted that any room in which the queen was entertained had to have its own bathroom...so she got to use the same one as the Friday-night vagrants!) 
• There's a giant, and really fairly decent, painting in the stairwell, done by one of the church's sponsored orphans from times long past, that that was actually created in competition with another church. "Our orphans are better than your orphans," is how Marcel explained the circumstances surrounding its creation. Heh. 

i give up. part one of two: Amsterdam.

I hadn't noticed this the last time I wrote, but the tops of the trees across the street are very sneakily TURNING RED. Stupid fall, with your pretty leaf colors, which we all know is just a prelude to everything TURNING BROWN AND DYING. But we're looking on the bright side, aren't we: maybe this means my cats' ridiculous shedding will finally stop. I've said it before and I'll say it again: with the sheer amounts of hair they leave on the floor, the couch, and my clothes, I don't know how they're not bald.

Apologies, kids: this one's going to be lengthy. Amsterdam was action-packed.

But I digress. Amsterdam...that's where we were headed. The last time I was in Amsterdam was the year 2000, and it was the second-to-last stop on my epic solo backpacking adventure, and I was so relieved to be back in a place where people were nice and spoke plenty of English. (This was immediately after my sojourn in Berlin, which, as you may recall, was not the happiest moment of my trip.) I don't remember the red light district being particularly seedy, and I remember being entirely overwhelmed both by the sheer amount of stuff in the Rijksmuseum, and by the sheer awesomeness of the Van Gogh Museum. And also that I stayed in a hostel called the Flying Pig. Amsterdam was nice to me, the first time around, and I was excited to go back. I think it's a gorgeous and interesting city, full of all sorts of strange and interesting little things you only find by accident. And also, DOUBLE-FRIED FRENCH FRIES. Mmmmm. God bless the Dutch.

Driving into the city...insane row houses.

First view of the Rijksmuseum.

Interesting little Art Nouveau-y touches on Leidsestraat, near our hotel.

Our first evening in the city was spent finding dinner; Dad had seen this little Portuguese restaurant down a small alley near our hotel, and was very interested in it, so in we went. Portugalia turned out to be a fantastic choice; we got a table right by the big front window and ordered serious amounts of food. We shared a plate of Portuguese cheese and ham with melon, then Mike had (what looked like to me, anyway) a little copper spaceship full of pork cooked with peppers, onions, lemon, shrimp, and clams; Mom had grilled cod (bacalau) with fries; Dad had a whole grilled fish (dourada) with lemon, sea salt, and more of those tremendous fries; and I had a plate full of chopped cod in a creamy tomato sauce with vegetables. And more fries. We finished by splitting a piece of traditional almond cake, and Mike and I sampled (at our waiter's suggestion) the beirão liqueur, which tasted a little like licorice, but in a good way. (As do most sane people, I despise black licorice...so this liqueur came as a bit of a surprise.)

Just look at this gorgeous table! (Note Mike's copper spaceship on the far left. And our glasses of vinho verde...a first for us.) 

The goofy little carousel-themed Dutch pancake house where we had breakfast three of our four mornings in Amsterdam. (The first day I went for one with bacon, onions, and cheese, which was fantastic...but every day thereafter I opted for strawberries and lemon curd. So very tart. Mmmm. Dad had a bacon pancake every day, and Mom went for fresh strawberries with poffertjes--little super-puffy, bite-sized, buckwheat pancake-like things. Also tasty. And since I don't speak Dutch, it's fun to say that Mom had poverty for breakfast.)

Poverty with strawberries and whipped cream! Ok, I know, poverty's not funny...but the word "poffertjes" is.

This is what a bacon-and-syrup Dutch pancake looks like. Sadly, no photos exist of my strawberries 'n lemon curd pancakes, but they weren't too photogenic with globs of curd all over them. It's just too bad I can't post the flavor here for you all to enjoy...it was supremely tasty.

Since Mike only had a day with us in Amsterdam, we let him pick what he wanted to do first. After pancakes, we started at the Van Gogh museum, which was ridiculously crowded, but also just as awesome as I remember, if not even a little more so. Because I have a lot to say about this museum, but no photos 'cause they don't let you use a camera there, I will just say that it ROCKS and you should go. Everyone should go. And for a further treatment, see below.* 

Anyway...after the glorious Van Gogh Museum, Mike's second item of business was to visit the floating flower market (Bloemenmarkt), which turned out to be a fun, if touristy, time. It's a series of little open-front shops all in a row, the backs of which are floating on a canal...a little cheesy, maybe, but the shops which had actual flowers (and not just giant selections of bulbs or wooden tulips) were gorgeous.

Look at these calla lilies! 

Colors like I've never seen.

Bunches o' bulbs. I bought a couple of blue and one black tulip to plant mid-winter, so I can at least have some plant-y color during the winter doldrums. I do love me some blue flowers.

Like these delphiniums, for example.

I don't remember what these are called, but the purple and pale green was striking.

Ahh, blue hydrangea. I'm a huge sucker for these guys. I'm guessing it's because they remind me of candy. (I'm pretty sure I've said that before.)

Ok, so even the little wooden tulips were cute.

Immediately behind us, on the same street as the flower markets, were a couple of cheese shops. Which, naturally, we were immediately sucked into, as soon as we noticed them. We then spent about a half-hour cramming our faces with every type they were sampling, from aged goat cheese to a pepper-jack-like white cheese to a bright green pesto cheese (frighteningly colored, but yummy!) to all sorts of classic Dutch cheeses, which they thoughtfully served with their own delicious line of mustards. So. Much. Cheese. Naturally, we came home with several pounds of the stuff, along with a jar each of dill and honey mustards, and a box of gouda crackers. 

Ahhh, a whole wall of Gouda. I really appreciate how mild and inoffensive, but still flavorful and delicious, the Dutch cheeses are.** 

After cheese tasting, we didn't have a whole lot of time until Mike had to leave, so we stopped on the Leidseplein (giant, busy square absolutely packed with huge outdoor cafes and full of street performers) for some drinks and snackies. It was nice outside, so we sat and ate bitterballen and some fantastic little meat-filled spring rolls with a delicious spicy dipping sauce...a nice way to end a lovely day. 

Mom and Dad enjoying some nice, warm, outdoor weather, for once on this trip. I think Amsterdam was the warmest and sunniest place we visited.

Day 2 was our first trip to Haarlem, whereupon we discovered that the Corrie ten Boom house was not, in fact, open on Monday...so we toured a bit of the city and cathedral, then rushed back to Amsterdam to try for an hour or two in the Rijksmuseum. Which, as it turns out is under major construction. On the one hand, it was almost a good thing, 'cause they kept only the really famous and fascinating stuff on display, kinda like a condensed version of the collection; but on the other hand kinda sad, since I'm sure we missed actual zillions of interesting things. I have to admit that I was a little relieved, though, because I love museums and want to see everything, but I also suffer from museum saturation from time to time...and this was one of those times. We still got to see some Delft ceramics, Dutch silversmiths' masterworks, a handful of Rembrandts (thank goodness...!), several Vermeers, and lots of other amazing stuff. And they let me use my camera (no flash, of course). (For some reason, I was a complete idiot and chose not to photograph any of the Vermeers, which were, naturally, outstanding. My favorite was The Milkmaid. The guy was good.)

Delftware from 1695-1715.

A little more Delft. These things are flower vases and are roughly as tall as I am. 

Detail of an inlaid cabinet. Holy marquetry skills, Batman.***

Most. Amazing Still life. EVER. This is only about half of the painting. From 1635, by Willem Claesz Heda. The reflections and light details are outrageous.

Silver ewer from 1614, by Adam van Vianen.

A little Rembrandt for you: a portion of The Night Watch. 

Ok, so clearly this wasn't in the museum, but it was on the side of one of the little food booths (which were actually quite charming, and had shockingly good food and coffee, for being on a major tourist thoroughfare) in the giant square in front of the Rijksmuseum. It was calling my name, like they posted this 'cause they knew I was coming to visit...but I resisted its siren song. (Have I mentioned that this is one of my favorite websites...? And also, do not visit this website if you have any kind of food hang-ups at all.)

Day three was our second (and this time successful) trip to Haarlem, and upon our return to Amsterdam, since we had no other agenda, we decided to walk from the main train station to the Oude Kerk (old church)...which, as it turns out, is smack in the middle of the Red Light District. Let's face it: even if you're not going to Amsterdam for the legalized prostitution or pot, you've still got to visit the Red Light District. Not only is it a busy and interesting part of town and a functioning urban neighborhood (wherein families actually live, although I don't think I could take the crowds...!), but it's the place to see the quintessential Dutch canal architecture...and it's pretty. Really, really pretty, with all sorts of wonky alleys and old buildings and bridges and whatnot. 

On our way into the Red Light District, we decided to poke our heads into the rather impressive-looking Church of St. Nicholas, which about 2 minutes across the square from the station, is the primary Catholic church in the city, and is not old (late 19th century).

Very Orthodox interior.

See? I'm telling you...the seedier part of town is just lovely.

I love these super-narrow buildings. Yes, they really are all that wonky.

Row houses along the canal...bridges...

 What could possibly be more evocative of Amsterdam than this?

The next stop on our church-y itinerary was to be the Old Church, but then we saw this.

A museum consisting of a hidden Catholic church?? You know we are going in here.

The official transfer of Amsterdam into Protestant hands occurred in 1578, and as we've seen, no matter the denomination, the victors tended to persecute the vanquished...so the practice of Catholic mass was banned within the city. Our Lord in the Attic came into being in 1661, when Jan Hartman, a wealthy merchant who also happened to value his Catholic faith, purchased three row houses in what is now the heart of the Red Light District. From the street level, all appeared to be in order, but inside, Hartman converted the attics of all three houses into a single sanctuary, complete with grandly painted altarpiece, pipe organ, three levels of seating, a Virgin Mary chapel, a confessional booth, a sacristy, and a couple of tiny fonts for holy water set into the wall. Really, it was all there, just in a more compact form. Apparently, the ruling authorities soon discovered the presence of the church, but tolerated it nonetheless...and this weird little church-in-a-canal-house became city center's primary Catholic place of worship for 200 years. Ridiculously interesting history, that.

The Hartman family's parlor and reception room.

The attic church, apparently restored to its 19th-century color scheme, and with replica gas lanterns.

A closer look at the altar.

Looking towards the back of the sanctuary, where the pipe organ would be, if the place weren't under restoration (at least it was still open). 

Back side of the pipe organ. The maker's mark is the fancy, swirly symbol over the keyboard.

The confessional booth.

I loved this room...the tall windows and woodwork reminded me of some sort of grand old ship.

One of the 17th-century kitchens. The rear house of the three was occupied until 1952 (!), after which point they restored this room to its original appearance.

These amazing little Dutch tiles were all over the house...on the kitchen walls, serving as baseboards,  and little decorative touches along the stair cases. 

What a fascinating find, and totally worth a visit next time you're strolling through old-town Amsterdam.

Next up, we tried to visit the Oude Kerk, but it had just closed for the day, so instead we took a few exterior photos and meandered our way back towards the hotel. And then this happened.

We may have stumbled across a tiny storefront selling only french fries.

They had no fewer than ten sauces on offer, but why bother, with all of this glorious, hot, crunchy goodness? Just plain and salted and straight out of the second frying cycle, thank you. I burn my mouth every time, but it is so worth it.

We also walked back through Dam Square, which is one of the bigger and busier squares I've ever seen. It's pretty impressive for its size, and just packed with people on all sides. (And pigeons, apparently: there is no possible way I could have photographed this bird overhead on purpose.)

The Royal Palace is on the left, the Nieuwe Kerk is in the center, and the National Monument is just barely visible on the far right. This place is huge.

For dinner, we roamed the streets between Dam Square and our hotel, and were relatively unimpressed until we stumbled upon Humphrey's, a place recommended by a nice employee of our hotel. It, too, had sounded unimpressive, until we read the menu...and found that there was no a-la-carte, only a three-course menu on offer for 24 Euros. Sold. They gave us a basket of delicious wheaty bread with olive oil and fresh pesto butter, and we were off. I started with a salad including shrimp, fried calamari, a boiled egg, sun-dried tomatoes, and avocado, topped with a lovely sweet-tangy dressing; proceeded to an entreé of soba noodles with vegetables and miniature edamame-filled egg rolls with soy sauce; and finished with strawberries Romanoff with vanilla ice cream. 

My awesome salad. It's too bad you can't see deliciousness.

Soba noodles and edamame "egg rolls," accompanied by the ever-present Dutch mayonnaise. (These people love the mayonnaise. It's weird how much they love it.)

Dad started with a niçoise salad with tuna, French beans, fried breaded anchovies, black olives, and roasted tomatoes in a sweet pepper sauce; had a prawn pasta with mushrooms and roasted tomatoes as his entreé; and finished with a strawberry macaron with quark and raspberries. 

Cripes...this looks delicious even now.

Dad's pretty (and really tasty) macaron.

Mom had a really nice zucchini mascarpone soup and tomato focaccia for her starter; a grilled chicken, pork, and beef skewer with a sweet onion hash and a potato cake for her entreé; and a red fruit tiramisu for dessert. (Their website calls it "tiramisu of red fruit with red fruit sauce with lady biscuits." Heh, heh. Lady biscuits.) 

Mom's skewer and sides, with--naturally--more mayonnaise. (Why??)

Red fruit tiramisu with lady biscuits. This is what it looks like.

They also kindly provided us with a side of french fries and a lovely green salad for the whole table. Ok, so the place is a chain and wasn't the fanciest food I've ever consumed, but it was really a good meal and a fantastic value for Amsterdam! A good call by the nice lady at the Hotel American. 

And speaking of which...look at this crazy, rambling, huge Art Deco place. The hotel building is kinda awesome.

And on that note, I've decided that I will leave our final day in Amsterdam for another post. This one has gone on far too long, and if I don't at least start getting this beast up online I might just go a teensy bit more nuts. Although Blogger is not letting me preview this right now, which means you're getting it spelling mistakes and formatting errors and all. Lucky you.

Next up: Amsterdam...the revenge. No, wait, that doesn't sound quite right. How about "Amsterdam...the fascinating and serendipitous conclusion"? (I think the first option has more of a ring to it, but the second is a little more accurate. Stick with me...it's really interesting.)

*Here we go. I love that the Van Gogh Museum starts you on the main floor with a room full of paintings by obscure artists who influenced Van Gogh in some way . It's always a reminder for me of how big the world is, and how little I know, when I think about the fact that the painters we know by name are but a tiny fraction of the multitudes of artists who have existed, among whom there are so many others we've never heard of who had insane amounts of talent as well. For example, I found myself staring, rather slack-jawed, for a good 10 minutes, at this painting, by an artist whose name I've never heard. The online photo does not even begin to do it justice. Because one cannot take photos in the Van Gogh museum, I have no photos to post here...just recollections of how unique Van Gogh's paintings are, and how they were obviously created by someone a bit (and, later in life, a lot) unhinged. His use of color and crazy-thick application of the paint, especially in his later works, is just fascinating and almost revolutionary, and I love that you can actually get up to within a couple of feet or so of each painting, to really give it a good look. These paintings are something to behold, even if his bandaged-ear portrait is in London, and Starry Night is in New York. (Jerks.) However. We still got to see Sunflowers, Irises, the Bedroom (amazing colors!), several other self portraits (I liked this one), Wheatfield with Crows, this crazy thing, the Potato Eaters (which I really don't love, but it's famous and all), this interesting thing, and lots of other works (arranged in rough chronological order, which was brilliant). Sadly, Almond Blossom was on loan somewhere, but my other favorites were there. They aren't nearly as flashy, but are just fascinating in the technique and perspective he used, and in the way that you have to step back a ways and sort of focus for a minute or two, and then everything becomes clear (almost like Pointilism, but not quite): Undergrowth (I loved this one on my last visit, too) and Entrance to a Quarry, which, oddly enough, is not in the museum's official list, but was absolutely on their wall (in fact, in the same room as Undergrowth and Wheatfield with Crows). The permanent collection ends with a brief walk through works by artists whom Van Gogh influenced, or with whom he had some sort of connection during his life; my favorite was this one (somehow, I actually remembered the term "Fauvist" from my art appreciation class in college, even before I saw it on the wall here...and why I can pull that from the deep, dark recesses of my mind, but sometimes forget my own telephone number, is a topic for another time). There was also some sort of exhibit on fantasy/mysticism in Van Gogh-related artists, which I really enjoyed (maybe due to its Art Nouveau-y styles and lots of flowers...?), but perhaps it was too mystical in nature, as I can find zero information about it anywhere. Weird. And then almost as an afterthought--although fantastic, and I wish I'd paid better attention--was a temporary space set up dedicated to "Beauty in Abundance," an exhibit of etching/woodcuts/lithography prints from turn-of-the-century Paris (including even a few that I knew--like Toulouse-Lautrec and Steinlen). Pretty fantastic, all around.  (This was way more than I intended to write about this museum, especially without pictures, so if you've chosen to read this, I apologize and I thank you.)

**Maybe that's why I only like a handful of the Swiss cheeses: the rest smell a little too pungent for my delicate sensibilities. (Sorry, Switzerland, but your cheeses are smelly, and I think you're actually proud that some of your cheeses only appeal to those who really "get it" [i.e., can get past the stench]. All of this can be forgiven, however, in that you are the inventors of fondue.)

***Did everyone else see the new Batman movie? I was disappointed. Sigh.