Adventures in Amsterdam
Day 1 (Saturday, April 4th): Follow the Canal!
Party in Amsterdam, yo!
Yeah. I was in Amsterdam Saturday through Monday. And I really was there! I have pictures.
Unfortunately for you guys, I do not have any photos of me doing any illicit activities because A.) I am boring and did none of them and B.) I took way too many damn photos of canals for there to be any room for doing that shit.
Exhibit A
Anyway, I'll start from the very beginning--that's a very good place to start. (heh heh)
I could barely sleep the night before. I was leaving France for another European country! I had never been to the Netherlands! I follow one of my favorite author's interests way too closely! So yeah. Excitement overload.
Now, I Uber-ed to the airport, as it is impossible to catch a cab in my neighborhood at all, but especially at 6 am. It's hard to believe, but my apartment is near absolutely nothing. Anyway, the ride in and getting in the plane was unextraordinary, which is kind of what you want when you're leaving on a trip. I didn't need any crazy last minute flight changes or luggage mishaps.
As soon as I boarded the plane, I konked out, and when I woke up, I was in Amsterdam! Wh-hooooo! And exiting the plane was quite the experience. You see, we all have this expectation that getting off the plane will transport us to another world. But then it turns out all airports just look the same. However, Schipol turned out to be the exception.
I walked into a forest. Yeah, actually. There were trees in the airport, which isn't totally uncommon, but the really strange part was the incessant loop of birds chirping. They really put in the effort to make people believe they weren't cooped up in an airport, I suppose. It was nice. There were stationary bike stations and all sorts of cool little science activities courtesy of the Science Center in Amsterdam, Nemo. (After the captain, not the fish.)
I was worried about entering Amsterdam because I know absolutely zero Dutch. Luckily, the Dutch are very accommodating people: all of the signs were in English. Not Dutch and English--just English. It was very welcome. So unlike when I first arrived at Charles de Gaulle in January, I was able to locate the taxi stand without any trouble.
A man with an airport tag cornered me and had me fill out a survey. It was thankfully short, but I decided to participate because all the English had me in a good mood. I just asked at the end, "Is it that obvious that I'm American?" And he was like, "Well, I only know English and Dutch, so I've just been asking in only those languages." He passed the not-idiotically-racist test. Yay!
Outside, a sign informed me that the taxi stand was in front of me, but I should not feel obligated to take the first taxi in line. Well. The first cab didn't look sketchy, so I decided to go for it. And it was a good choice, as I proceeded the hound the poor driver the entire drive into Amsterdam.
"Is my hostel near anything? Can you walk everywhere? Are the people nice? Are the people in the city different than in the rest of the Netherlands? Is the Red Light District really that sketchy? Do most people speak English?"
He answered like a good sport. It was probably the first time in my life I was talking to the driver and not vice versa. I've had some terrible driver-wants-to-talk experiences, the worst of which was when the taxi driver taking me to the French Embassy for my visa interview decided to quiz me on my love life. Eeeeeek. And then we were late on top of that!
But that was America. And now I was in Amsterdam!
Now, it was not only my first time in Amsterdam but also my first time staying in a hostel. And if you know the Willards, you know that we don't do hostels. Yeah, we're snobs. But it's not our fault! My mother was a travel agent for a long time, which meant travels deals. So yeah, we've been to some awesome hotels.
Now the downside is when you're traveling alone and you have no travel agent mother with you, you have to learn to accept the lowest price: the hostel.
As soon as I entered the hostel, I was greeted with the most narrow set of stairs ever. No, not narrow as in width--narrow as in the stairs themselves barely had room for your foot to stay on even pushed up against its long side. So I was teetering up, trying to offset the weight of my suitcase with my upper body and failing. (If you've seen me on a windy day, I can actually get moved. It's awful to feel as if you're made of paper.)
When I reached the reception desk, I noticed a very distinct odor. This realization on my part reminded me of when my ex-friend's sister was on the back of the bus and she asked us, "Why does it smell like burnt toast?"
It's a fun story to tell, though I've been told by more learned college students that burnt toast is not what you should be smelling. I guess I have to agree.
The smell was originating from the Smoking Lounge. Like any normal (boring) person, I assumed this was a lounge for, you know, smoking tobacco. Then I saw the picture on the sign and was like, Ohhhh. Below the leaf was the WiFi password:
Which calls to mind what Sheldon says in the TBBT episode entitled "The Peanut Reaction." (Yes, I know the names of all the episodes. I'm already judged so much just for watching this show, so I have no shame at this point.)
When I checked in, I also noticed these at the front desk:
I was handed a map by the guy at the desk. I looked for the things I wanted to see: The Anne Frank House, the Flower Market, the Van Gogh Museum. Nope. Not on the useful side of the map. The other side, sure, but that one didn't have labeled streets.
What was labeled on the useful side? Well, the Red Light District. Then the Sex Museum. And the Torture Museum. Oy vey.
I had to pull my suitcase up one more floor. And so I entered a room full of bunk beds and lockers and I'm just thinking, Holy hell this is going to suck. Last time I shared a room of bunk beds was in Colorado, and those memories aren't particularly rosy.
Luckily, I had brought my lock by sheer coincidence, and so I was able to secure my suitcase. Because it turns out when you have your own hotel room you don't have to worry about other guests stealing your stuff. I also had to claim a bed, otherwise I'd be sleeping near NOT a plug. Being near a plug is prime real estate in a hostel room (and at Gelman Library).
I was still slightly fatigued, but I was going to explore! Since the cab driver had informed me that Amsterdam was a walking city, and I had my boots that were made for walking on (wow, I am so bad at jokes), I was going to explore. Plus I had a map.
Yeah, if any of the cell phone companies promise that your phone will work all over Europe, don't believe it. I'm sure it is possible, but everyone who's been taken in by that lie has not gotten their money's worth. I wasn't anticipating my phone to work in Amsterdam (and it didn't), but yeah, it's easy to forget. So no relying on Google Maps!
Now, I knew which street the Anne Frank Museum was on, but you know, Dutch is, well... The best way I can describe reading a sign is Dutch is that I feel like I'm looking at something my cat "typed" after snoozing on the keyboard. The letters make absolutely no sense to me. Then again, I know nothing about Dutch, so I can't just say these things as if they are gospel. But yeah. Knowing the street names don't help when you can't pronounce them--especially when you can't pronounce them, as you can't even tell someone where the hell you're going.
I was quite confident I was heading in the right direction--which can only mean that, of course, I was heading in the exact opposite way. I ended up by the Flower Market, which is certainly not heading in the right direction from the hostel. Luckily, as John Green observed, there are more English bookstores in Amsterdam than there are in many American towns (for example, my own, which has exactly zero), so it's pretty easy to find someone who speaks English in one of those places.
That's when I finally decided that the Amsterdam residents were very nice. Usually in Paris you get a hostile glare. I mean, I'm the one who says Parisians are nicer than they are made to appear, but they still can make me feel stupid. The woman at the bookshop did not make me feel stupid. She told me to follow the canal. I took that advice to heart. Kind of like these guys...
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Anyway...
And I did find the Anne Frank Museum and House! Success! But this success was short-lived. Incredibly short-lived, as when I saw the line, I thought, Hmmm... That doesn't look like the facade I've seen. And that's because it wasn't.
The Anne Frank Museum was not only NOT in front of me--nope, it wasn't even around the corner. I followed the line, and after a good five minutes of walking and dodging, I found the front of the building. But the front of the building has the entrance all the way on the other side. So this line was long.
At this point, it was about 2 pm. I had dinner reservations at Bloesem (we'll get there later) at 8 pm, so I figured no matter how long the line was, I had time to wait. Um, no. This line was ridiculous. I felt my heart sinking. What if I didn't get to see it at all? What if it was always this busy? I could brush off not seeing some things, but I couldn't brush off that.
Luckily, there was a little café just to the left of the door and the official sign that reads "Anne Frank Huis." Free WiFi! A wonderful sign to post on your door when you want business. So I went in and ordered an Earl Grey and a mozzarella and tomato sandwich. Yep, I'm still just as boring even in Amsterdam.
The best part was after I ordered:
"Where are you shitting?" the cashier asked me, not even taking his eyes off the machine.
Wait, WHAT?
"Excuse me?" I asked. I didn't know how affronted I should be. Was this a common question in the Netherlands? James Joyce certainly doesn't have a problem talking about shit (hahahahaha). He would've answered instantly.
Seriously. I actually should've been way more offended, but Ulysses is twisting my brain. Damn you, Joyce!
"Where are you shitting?" the cashier asked again, this time looking at me.
Suddenly it hit me.
"Where am I sitting? Over there." And I pointed to my seat. He nodded and probably rolled his eyes. Those Asians, man, they must be deaf.
Alyssa, of course, had the perfect response when I relayed the situation:
So while I was "shitting" at my table, my phone was dying, so I searched frantically for online tickets. I didn't have high hopes, as I recalled I wasn't able to purchase them previously because they had been sold out. But you really have to keep checking just as it says on the front page, as this time, I found several openings! This time I wasn't going to hem and haw over whether I would get a student discount: I was getting those tickets. I selected the ungodly 8:55 am time slot, as I figured I needed the day to do other things with other people (once again, we'll get to that).
Then I was suddenly in Broadway-ticket-buying mode, as the timer appeared at the top of my screen. I filled out my name and information as fast as possible, but just as I was entering my card information, the website crashed.
No!
I held my breath as I reloaded the page, and thankfully, it still had my place saved--but now I only had 6 minutes. And I had to refill out the information! This was more tense than any cross country race I'd ever run. (Sorry, Mr. Berard.) But even with a minute to spare, I had my Anne Frank ticket; I could sigh in relief.
I was so preoccupied with buying this ticket that it took me fifteen more minutes to realize I still hadn't received my sandwich. I had been in this place for 50 minutes at this point, so I went up to the counter to investigate.
"Where were you?" the cashier asked me accusingly.
"Uh, I'm sitting right in the front. Someone even gave me my Earl Grey tea." It's hard to be intimidated by someone who pronounces the word "sitting" like "shitting."
Luckily, another woman stepped in, apologized, and remade my sandwich. Then they refilled my Earl Grey tea on the house. You don't see that shit happen in DC. I didn't even have to assume a haughty demeanor.
Damn. The food was good. And they brought me a nice cracker to accompany the tea. And it was less expensive than Paris! So this was going well.
Still, even though I didn't have enough time to waste in line, I still had hours until my incredibly exciting dinner. I consulted the map.
The only other museums that interested me were the Rembrandt House and the Van Gogh Museum, and they were kind of out of the way. Especially since Bloesem was near where I was now. But I still had to go back to the hostel and change. And charge my stuff. Ugh. My head was starting to hurt.
Fortunately, a plan came to me when I looked at one of the museums listed above: KattenKabinet, with a picture of a black cat.
Wait...
A CAT MUSEUM?
Yeah, I was so going.
So I found myself once again at the Flower Market. I was wandering up and down the street desperately trying to find the place. I couldn't even duck into a Starbucks and check my phone because it was completely dead--same with my iPod. Ahhhhh. But a quick glance down saved me countless pacing back and forth, as it was one of those tricky places with a sublevel entrance.
And oh my Snowball. This place was amazing.
A cat museum doesn't sound interesting to most, I guess, and I wasn't really expecting much. You know, maybe some cutesy artwork that would never actually get picked up by an art museum, some fun statues. But I needed something to do.
But it turned out to be cool like a real museum. The rooms were crammed full of cat artwork, and the artwork featured more than just the standard cat showing its belly. I guess I just have to let it speak for itself:
But yeah, this place had artwork by Rembrandt and other famous artists. It was so great. And now I'm going to like their other art more because I've seen them with cats. That's the perfect way to gain fans.Now, I Uber-ed to the airport, as it is impossible to catch a cab in my neighborhood at all, but especially at 6 am. It's hard to believe, but my apartment is near absolutely nothing. Anyway, the ride in and getting in the plane was unextraordinary, which is kind of what you want when you're leaving on a trip. I didn't need any crazy last minute flight changes or luggage mishaps.
As soon as I boarded the plane, I konked out, and when I woke up, I was in Amsterdam! Wh-hooooo! And exiting the plane was quite the experience. You see, we all have this expectation that getting off the plane will transport us to another world. But then it turns out all airports just look the same. However, Schipol turned out to be the exception.
I walked into a forest. Yeah, actually. There were trees in the airport, which isn't totally uncommon, but the really strange part was the incessant loop of birds chirping. They really put in the effort to make people believe they weren't cooped up in an airport, I suppose. It was nice. There were stationary bike stations and all sorts of cool little science activities courtesy of the Science Center in Amsterdam, Nemo. (After the captain, not the fish.)
I was worried about entering Amsterdam because I know absolutely zero Dutch. Luckily, the Dutch are very accommodating people: all of the signs were in English. Not Dutch and English--just English. It was very welcome. So unlike when I first arrived at Charles de Gaulle in January, I was able to locate the taxi stand without any trouble.
A man with an airport tag cornered me and had me fill out a survey. It was thankfully short, but I decided to participate because all the English had me in a good mood. I just asked at the end, "Is it that obvious that I'm American?" And he was like, "Well, I only know English and Dutch, so I've just been asking in only those languages." He passed the not-idiotically-racist test. Yay!
Outside, a sign informed me that the taxi stand was in front of me, but I should not feel obligated to take the first taxi in line. Well. The first cab didn't look sketchy, so I decided to go for it. And it was a good choice, as I proceeded the hound the poor driver the entire drive into Amsterdam.
"Is my hostel near anything? Can you walk everywhere? Are the people nice? Are the people in the city different than in the rest of the Netherlands? Is the Red Light District really that sketchy? Do most people speak English?"
He answered like a good sport. It was probably the first time in my life I was talking to the driver and not vice versa. I've had some terrible driver-wants-to-talk experiences, the worst of which was when the taxi driver taking me to the French Embassy for my visa interview decided to quiz me on my love life. Eeeeeek. And then we were late on top of that!
But that was America. And now I was in Amsterdam!
Now, it was not only my first time in Amsterdam but also my first time staying in a hostel. And if you know the Willards, you know that we don't do hostels. Yeah, we're snobs. But it's not our fault! My mother was a travel agent for a long time, which meant travels deals. So yeah, we've been to some awesome hotels.
Now the downside is when you're traveling alone and you have no travel agent mother with you, you have to learn to accept the lowest price: the hostel.
As soon as I entered the hostel, I was greeted with the most narrow set of stairs ever. No, not narrow as in width--narrow as in the stairs themselves barely had room for your foot to stay on even pushed up against its long side. So I was teetering up, trying to offset the weight of my suitcase with my upper body and failing. (If you've seen me on a windy day, I can actually get moved. It's awful to feel as if you're made of paper.)
When I reached the reception desk, I noticed a very distinct odor. This realization on my part reminded me of when my ex-friend's sister was on the back of the bus and she asked us, "Why does it smell like burnt toast?"
It's a fun story to tell, though I've been told by more learned college students that burnt toast is not what you should be smelling. I guess I have to agree.
The smell was originating from the Smoking Lounge. Like any normal (boring) person, I assumed this was a lounge for, you know, smoking tobacco. Then I saw the picture on the sign and was like, Ohhhh. Below the leaf was the WiFi password:
Which calls to mind what Sheldon says in the TBBT episode entitled "The Peanut Reaction." (Yes, I know the names of all the episodes. I'm already judged so much just for watching this show, so I have no shame at this point.)
When I checked in, I also noticed these at the front desk:
That's a terrible name: I prefer Lolli-Pots. Phew. I should become this company's new Marketing Director.
I was handed a map by the guy at the desk. I looked for the things I wanted to see: The Anne Frank House, the Flower Market, the Van Gogh Museum. Nope. Not on the useful side of the map. The other side, sure, but that one didn't have labeled streets.
What was labeled on the useful side? Well, the Red Light District. Then the Sex Museum. And the Torture Museum. Oy vey.
Seeing is believing.
Yeah, just look at some of these museums.
I had to pull my suitcase up one more floor. And so I entered a room full of bunk beds and lockers and I'm just thinking, Holy hell this is going to suck. Last time I shared a room of bunk beds was in Colorado, and those memories aren't particularly rosy.
This mural greeted me upstairs. Oh no...
Luckily, I had brought my lock by sheer coincidence, and so I was able to secure my suitcase. Because it turns out when you have your own hotel room you don't have to worry about other guests stealing your stuff. I also had to claim a bed, otherwise I'd be sleeping near NOT a plug. Being near a plug is prime real estate in a hostel room (and at Gelman Library).
I was still slightly fatigued, but I was going to explore! Since the cab driver had informed me that Amsterdam was a walking city, and I had my boots that were made for walking on (wow, I am so bad at jokes), I was going to explore. Plus I had a map.
Instead of having a bridge practically sagging into the water from all the locks, people just put locks on random-ass things in Amsterdam. But I guess it keeps their bridges structurally sound, which is for all of our benefit.
These are the skinniest trains/trams/buses I've ever seen. I think it might actually be impossible to be obese in Amsterdam, as I have no idea how a normal-sized person even fits with a bunch of others on those things. Must be like living in a sardine can. Oh well, that's Europe.
The Eckleburg Eye Count continues!
First pigeon in Amsterdam. :)
Just beautiful.
Yeah, if any of the cell phone companies promise that your phone will work all over Europe, don't believe it. I'm sure it is possible, but everyone who's been taken in by that lie has not gotten their money's worth. I wasn't anticipating my phone to work in Amsterdam (and it didn't), but yeah, it's easy to forget. So no relying on Google Maps!
Now, I knew which street the Anne Frank Museum was on, but you know, Dutch is, well... The best way I can describe reading a sign is Dutch is that I feel like I'm looking at something my cat "typed" after snoozing on the keyboard. The letters make absolutely no sense to me. Then again, I know nothing about Dutch, so I can't just say these things as if they are gospel. But yeah. Knowing the street names don't help when you can't pronounce them--especially when you can't pronounce them, as you can't even tell someone where the hell you're going.
There are so many goddamn flowers. (I sound like Holden Caulfield. Maybe that's not a good thing.)
I was quite confident I was heading in the right direction--which can only mean that, of course, I was heading in the exact opposite way. I ended up by the Flower Market, which is certainly not heading in the right direction from the hostel. Luckily, as John Green observed, there are more English bookstores in Amsterdam than there are in many American towns (for example, my own, which has exactly zero), so it's pretty easy to find someone who speaks English in one of those places.
That's when I finally decided that the Amsterdam residents were very nice. Usually in Paris you get a hostile glare. I mean, I'm the one who says Parisians are nicer than they are made to appear, but they still can make me feel stupid. The woman at the bookshop did not make me feel stupid. She told me to follow the canal. I took that advice to heart. Kind of like these guys...
Anyway...
Bikes and flowers. Seriously. There's probably more bikes than people--and I'm barely exaggerating because there are actually as many bikes as there are people, it's estimated.
My quick aside on bikes: I am terrified of them. Cross country taught me how to become skilled at NOT getting run over (it's a real bonding moment when you almost get hit, though), but I have yet to earn that skill when it comes to bicycles. They're so silent!
Here's the lowdown (yes, I used that word) on how we feel in DC:
Pedestrians hate cars.
Drivers hate jaywalkers.
But everyone hates cyclists.
And don't even get me started on those segue tourists.
Unfortunately, although I nearly got hit A LOT in Amsterdam, I'm pretty sure no court would ever side with me--even if I was dead. The bikers are the majority here. You have to do what they say. It's like Beijing. Luckily, they seem to understand that people need to cross the street here, which they totally do not in China.
There's a tree that Hazel contemplates in The Fault in Our Stars, but I couldn't watch John Green's video and find the exact tree, so I just took pictures of pretty much every tree I saw.
These houses are all basically 12 Grimmauld Place. Except for real, which is unfortunate. They could really use some magic here to give these poor residents more room.
There are a lot of random statues here. All in interesting poses beyond the typical I'm-on-a-horse-and-pointing-at-nothing.
Do you see what I mean about the cat on the keyboard analogy?
Anyone who knows me knows that I prefer my green lights. :) I would've totally gone to the Red Light District if it had been a Green Light District. I should start one. I already told my parents that I am going to hang a green light outside my house so I can contemplate it every night before I go to bed, precisely like this.
Random Note: It turns out when you quote the last lines of The Great Gatsby and you say the word "orgastic," a member of the Board will lean over to your mother and gasp, "Did your daughter just use the word 'ORGASM'?" Because that's something every salutatorian wants to mention in their speech. :/
"Gatsby believed in the green light--" Okay, I have to stop myself before I get up on my soapbox and start reciting.
Horses!
Amsterdam is winning in the way that they have horses walking down the street and there is still much less crap on the street/sidewalk than in Paris.
So artsy-fartsy.
And I did find the Anne Frank Museum and House! Success! But this success was short-lived. Incredibly short-lived, as when I saw the line, I thought, Hmmm... That doesn't look like the facade I've seen. And that's because it wasn't.
The Anne Frank Museum was not only NOT in front of me--nope, it wasn't even around the corner. I followed the line, and after a good five minutes of walking and dodging, I found the front of the building. But the front of the building has the entrance all the way on the other side. So this line was long.
This was as close as I was going to get.
It took a good ten minutes to get a shot of this door without anyone in front of it. I would've shot a picture whether there was a person in front or not, but that would've been creepy, apparently.
At this point, it was about 2 pm. I had dinner reservations at Bloesem (we'll get there later) at 8 pm, so I figured no matter how long the line was, I had time to wait. Um, no. This line was ridiculous. I felt my heart sinking. What if I didn't get to see it at all? What if it was always this busy? I could brush off not seeing some things, but I couldn't brush off that.
If I wasn't already confused enough, now this house appears to be completely flat. I hope this is a recreation. I can't help but remember the commentary on the Love Actually DVD (I think my parents and I have watched that movie more times with the commentary) revealed that the 10 Downing Street they used was totally just a flat piece of cardboard. Movie magic! Cheap bastards, though.
Luckily, there was a little café just to the left of the door and the official sign that reads "Anne Frank Huis." Free WiFi! A wonderful sign to post on your door when you want business. So I went in and ordered an Earl Grey and a mozzarella and tomato sandwich. Yep, I'm still just as boring even in Amsterdam.
See, France? The Netherlands has got its shit together when it comes to supplying us with the nectar of gods: Snapple. However, they're still missing Peach. :( But they also have a mango flavor, so that may be even better!
The best part was after I ordered:
"Where are you shitting?" the cashier asked me, not even taking his eyes off the machine.
Wait, WHAT?
"Excuse me?" I asked. I didn't know how affronted I should be. Was this a common question in the Netherlands? James Joyce certainly doesn't have a problem talking about shit (hahahahaha). He would've answered instantly.
Seriously. I actually should've been way more offended, but Ulysses is twisting my brain. Damn you, Joyce!
"Where are you shitting?" the cashier asked again, this time looking at me.
Suddenly it hit me.
"Where am I sitting? Over there." And I pointed to my seat. He nodded and probably rolled his eyes. Those Asians, man, they must be deaf.
Alyssa, of course, had the perfect response when I relayed the situation:
So while I was "shitting" at my table, my phone was dying, so I searched frantically for online tickets. I didn't have high hopes, as I recalled I wasn't able to purchase them previously because they had been sold out. But you really have to keep checking just as it says on the front page, as this time, I found several openings! This time I wasn't going to hem and haw over whether I would get a student discount: I was getting those tickets. I selected the ungodly 8:55 am time slot, as I figured I needed the day to do other things with other people (once again, we'll get to that).
Then I was suddenly in Broadway-ticket-buying mode, as the timer appeared at the top of my screen. I filled out my name and information as fast as possible, but just as I was entering my card information, the website crashed.
No!
I held my breath as I reloaded the page, and thankfully, it still had my place saved--but now I only had 6 minutes. And I had to refill out the information! This was more tense than any cross country race I'd ever run. (Sorry, Mr. Berard.) But even with a minute to spare, I had my Anne Frank ticket; I could sigh in relief.
I was so preoccupied with buying this ticket that it took me fifteen more minutes to realize I still hadn't received my sandwich. I had been in this place for 50 minutes at this point, so I went up to the counter to investigate.
"Where were you?" the cashier asked me accusingly.
"Uh, I'm sitting right in the front. Someone even gave me my Earl Grey tea." It's hard to be intimidated by someone who pronounces the word "sitting" like "shitting."
Luckily, another woman stepped in, apologized, and remade my sandwich. Then they refilled my Earl Grey tea on the house. You don't see that shit happen in DC. I didn't even have to assume a haughty demeanor.
Damn. The food was good. And they brought me a nice cracker to accompany the tea. And it was less expensive than Paris! So this was going well.
Still, even though I didn't have enough time to waste in line, I still had hours until my incredibly exciting dinner. I consulted the map.
The only other museums that interested me were the Rembrandt House and the Van Gogh Museum, and they were kind of out of the way. Especially since Bloesem was near where I was now. But I still had to go back to the hostel and change. And charge my stuff. Ugh. My head was starting to hurt.
Fortunately, a plan came to me when I looked at one of the museums listed above: KattenKabinet, with a picture of a black cat.
Wait...
A CAT MUSEUM?
Yeah, I was so going.
So I found myself once again at the Flower Market. I was wandering up and down the street desperately trying to find the place. I couldn't even duck into a Starbucks and check my phone because it was completely dead--same with my iPod. Ahhhhh. But a quick glance down saved me countless pacing back and forth, as it was one of those tricky places with a sublevel entrance.
And oh my Snowball. This place was amazing.
A cat museum doesn't sound interesting to most, I guess, and I wasn't really expecting much. You know, maybe some cutesy artwork that would never actually get picked up by an art museum, some fun statues. But I needed something to do.
But it turned out to be cool like a real museum. The rooms were crammed full of cat artwork, and the artwork featured more than just the standard cat showing its belly. I guess I just have to let it speak for itself:
For some reason, when I look at this, I see the Cat Versions of me and Alyssa yowling at the moon together like cat BFFs. :)
Dining room!
Artwork from guests. This person obviously knows their Vonnegut.
Whoever added the moustache has taste.
And yep, that's a real cat above! Seeing him was a surprise, much like finding Kitty at Shakespeare & Co. But it was the best kind of surprise.
A lot of the art in the house featured Cat and Human role reversal. I thought it was hysterical.
This may be the greatest painting EVER.
Similarly, I was reading a list of wedding traditions, and the ending one was the best:
Copied from the Mental Floss article for those who don't want to read the whole thing. (Except you should. It's fucking hilarious.)
8. TRUTH
One thing you have to know, if you’re looking for a wife in the 19th century Netherlands. One thing. Remember this always, my son.
“Those who do not like cats will not get handsome wives.”
Amen.
—Northern Mythology: North German and Netherlandish Popular Traditions and Superstitions, E. Lumley
*
So I was in the perfect place. :)
This precious kitty especially brightened my day. He looked like Tigger, my mom's old cat who got hit by a car. :( Tigger was the rare cat who loved humans, and he was always good about snuggling and letting people pet him. I love Emma, but she is very skittish, and everyone in the family is afraid of her (they don't realize that she's even more scared of them). So seeing this grey tiger, my heart just melted. I wanted to take "Tigger" home with me, but I don't think this would clear customs...
Of course, calico cats are the best. :)
Fun (for Willard) Fact: Did you know that most calicos are female? I say "most" only because there was an adoption notice for a calico male last year online. The color gene in cats is sex-linked, specifically to the X-chromosome. And since females have two X's, they have the possibility for two different colors in addition to the standard white. Males, however, only have one X and therefore usually have only one color in addition to white. The exception to the rule, Louie (I think that was his name), had three chromosomes: XXY. Now, the presence of one Y turns a cat (or a human) into a male--kind of like how a group of "elles" becomes "ils" with just the addition of one dude.
Yeah, I was impressed they weren't just collecting random modern cat artwork. This is old school. Clearly the ancients knew the right things.
This sign contains everything I love.
A cat fan??? Maybe it's a good thing I didn't find these in China, or I may have just sold all my clothes and returned home with a suitcase full of fans with cat artwork.
Puss in Boots, much?
Even cat sculptures are precious.
Why hello there!
Yeah, the above photos are from J.P. Morgan's collection. Because hell yeah, I'd want money with a cat on it too. Sorry, George, but that cat is just cuter than you.
This movie needs to be remade. Immediately. Walt Disney, invest in more movies like this! Pretty sure Alyssa and I would pay $100 million just between ourselves for this movie.
MOM, I would like a new dresser.
On my second run through the dining room, I nearly tripped over something: it looked like Tigger, Jr.
Hell yeah, cats on the dinner table!
Just like every other cat, it's got to show its ass at least once.
Well, I guess this is still Amsterdam, whether you're in a cat museum or not. Though this photo is a lot less raunchy than the picture of actual lady bits in the Musée d'Orsay. (The picture in the Orsay doesn't bother me; what kind of weirds me out is that they made a postcard of it, and it just hangs casually alongside one of Van Gogh's "Starry Night" paintings. Oh jeez.)
What what what is that up above??? Thankfully that poster was not for sale.
So yeah. The bulk of my shopping was done at this place. Cats are awesome.
So the guy in this photo? He and his wife are from America, and she volunteers for a non-profit called Alley Cat Allies. And they're in DC! Well, Bethesda. I hope there is some kind of cat-sitting volunteer gig, as I'd be all up for that. I promised to check them out when I returned home to Washington.
This bridge had more love. Well, at least now I'm inspired to just buy a lock for Jamie and me and just stick it any damn place in Paris that I please. I'll try to find the most random location.
HA! See, it happens in Amsterdam as well. (As well? Yeah, well, on slow cross country days, sometimes we'd find chairs by the river and we'd chuck them in. What can I say? We were in high school. We were immature and stupid.)
This store has the best little trinkets.
I think this is every girl's dream come true.
Jonquilles are thriving even abroad! :D
GW is omnipresent. Unfortunately it's less in a "yay this is my school" way and more like a "you still have to pay your tuition bill" kind of way.
And dinner? Well, that requires its own entry...
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