Turkish Letters #12 part 2 -- Amsterdam (John)

We booked a Dolmush to take us to Ataturk airport at 6am, and were assured by the agent that we would be the last pick-up. The Dolmush arrived 20 minutes early and proceeded to careen about town picking up other befuddled travellers before driving back past our hotel on its way out of the city. We arrived at the airport with 50 minutes to spare. A quarter of an hour was spent waiting in a queue to pass through a metal detector. Another ten minutes were spent trying to find a ticketing desk marked ‘Amsterdam’. When we realised that none of the ticketing desks had the destinations displayed we joined the nearest queue. After about ten minutes the queue stopped moving. This was because the baggage conveyor had done likewise. No one bothered telling us this. As the crowd became increasingly restive two technicians turned up and began repairing a baggage label printer that would remain useless as the baggage could not be moved. All this occurred within sight of a row of perfectly good unoccupied ticketing booths across the way. Eventually, with minutes to spare, a harried official wandered past shouting something of which I could only understand ‘Amsterdam’. We put up our hands and were led to another row of booths only to get stuck behind someone having an argument with the operator. Finally we were processed through and then had to queue at the passport check. An eternity later we ran the entire length of the airport to our departure point only to be checked yet again for any bombs, guns or nail files they had missed the first time. The plane left an hour late. To highlight the stupidity of all the metal detectors they provided us with metal cutlery on the plane.

If leaving Turkey was the equivalent of trying to take off a honey-soaked hair shirt, entering Holland was like slipping into a silk-lined smoking jacket. Within minutes we were through customs and out on the taxi rank. The taxi driver not only knew there were road rules, he obeyed them. With one minor hiccough, easily rectified by reference to the taxi’s GPS, we were deposited outside the B&B.

The B&B was quite salubrious with comfortable beds, a well-appointed kitchen and, best of all, a bath. Half the television channels were English. The other half were Dutch. As Dutch just sounds like English spoken underwater this was not a problem. The layout of the building was quite bizarre. Dutch architectural planning was obviously the inspiration for Tetris. They take a plot big enough to house a Mini Minor and drop several floors of oddly shaped rooms on it until they achieve the desired height.

Our flatette was reached by entering a narrow hallway, climbing a ridiculously steep set of stairs (in reality a carpeted ladder), through a doorway and crossing a landing and down another set of stairs. Back out the bedroom door, up a different flight of stairs, through a door and ducking some beams got you into the bathroom. Back down the stairs, across the landing (avoiding a hatchway that would deposit you on the family living below) through a passageway, up some more stairs and you were in the kitchen. Across the kitchen out a door and up some steps and you were in the roof garden. It was like navigating your way around a submarine that had been thoughtlessly parked on its nose. Definitely not to be attempted while drunk. Even sober I normally failed to find the kitchen on the first try.

After indulging in our first real coffees in six weeks we went for a walk. Dutch buildings are not so strange on the outside as they are on the inside but they can still be a bit weird. Firstly, they are ridiculously narrow as though someone scaled them wrongly in Photoshop. Secondly, many have faces. This coupled with a propensity for ludicrously ornate sculptured copings on the roofs gives some buildings distinct personalities. Our favourites were painted black and capped with white wig-like stonework – we called them ‘judge buildings’. Some buildings lean forward which, I am assured, is intentional but is nonetheless disconcerting, and others are built on acute angles making many streetscapes proudly defiant of the laws of perspective. If you ignore the centre of town, which is a tad bland, modern and tourist-ridden, the weirdness of the architecture comes across as polite eccentricity.

Some may accuse the Dutch of being middle-class. This is a bit like accusing a whale of being big and wet. The Dutch invented the middle-class and do it with aplomb. Their intsy germanic fetish for neatness aside, the Dutch are the most civilised culture I have come across. Firstly, there are very few cars on the streets and those that are are treated with all the distain Neighbourhood Watch would show the local crack dealer. Secondly, many people ride or walk places, none of them jog, and there is scarcely a shred of lycra to blight the landscape. Thirdly, people display their bookcases in their front rooms. Fourthly, the place is awash with galleries. O.K. many are filled with crap but at least they are trying. I could go on but you get the drift.

We rambled about taking pictures of architectural details, streetscapes etc, and contravening the road rules. After several weeks in Turkey one tends to ignore road signs and traffic lights. We stared in amazement wondering what the little flashing lights on the corners of cars were. Luckily the Dutch don’t treat driving as a blood sport so we survived long enough to reacclimatize. In fact, it was the cyclists who gave us the most grief – you can’t hear them coming, and a bicycle bell doesn’t have the emphasis of a car horn.

On our way to the history museum we visited a tall ornate church dedicated to St Francis Xavier. They were working on the pipe organ and treated us to some very interesting noises. I just pretended it was a Schoenberg requiem and carried on taking blurry, under-lit photographs. The History Museum is quite good. Apart from some partially or pointlessly interactive displays and a confusing layout, it is full of marvellous paintings and objects. Many of the paintings are by second-rate artists, all the really good ones being elsewhere, so we spent our time photographing badly painted hands and really ugly children.

Heading back to the hotel we passed through the red-light district. It was a bit early and the windows were empty except for the furnishings. It looked like bizarre Ikearotica. ‘Whoa, look at the legs on that stool. I’d like to sit on that!’ Having dropped our cameras off we nipped around the corner to a bar for a quiet ale or two. It was what the locals call a ‘brown café’. This is for the obvious reason that they ae predominantly brown. The walls, floor, beer, and customers’ teeth are all beige. A group of young students sat in a corner playing Scrabble (don’t you love it!). They, and most European students, looked like they just came from the 1968 riots, except with better hair. The barman recommended a restaurant and we set off in search of anything that wasn’t a kebab or a pide. There is nothing wrong with Turkish food but after six weeks we were desperate for a change - especially pork products.

The restaurant was cosy, popular and well appointed. The food was delicious. The waitron who cleared our table was only slightly non-plussed by the speed with which we demolished our main courses, the tooth marks on the cutlery and the fact we had both eaten our napkins. After dinner we retired to a ‘green café’ called ‘Amnesia’ (‘nuff said). Very few distinct memories remain. We met two very relaxed, young Americans both of whom worked in the film industry. The young woman whose name I forget, as the result of a $17 cigarette, worked for the company that generated Aslan for the film ‘Narnia’.

The next morning I was out and about in search of cigarettes. It was a beautiful, still, misty morning. The only people about were a couple of cyclists, myself, and two Dutch policemen who were hassling some street-walkers. I don’t think they were hassling them for anything more serious than looking skanky. The place looked remarkably tidy and I noticed the absence of street people. On reflection I decided that given the cool climate and the fact that half the streets are canals this was probably a good thing.

On my return and after a huge and delicious breakfast we set off for the Reichsmuseum. Shiralee wanted to get some reference for 16th century costume, and to look at the wunderkamer. Unfortunately, but not unexpectedly given our run of luck with museums lately, it was closed for renovations. We took in an exhibition of Rembrandts and left cursing to look for a gallery/museum that was open. Eventually we found the Amsterdam Hermitage that was showing Byzantine artefacts. Many of these were brilliant and a couple were mind-boggling. We got to see about four linear feet worth of fragments of the true cross and a variety of rather morbid reliquies housing highly personal possessions of various saints – toes, fingers etc.

We spent the rest of the afternoon wandering about and by luck stumbled across a street of ‘nick-nack’ shops. These little shops are virtual museums – full of hourglasses, old microscopes, scientific models and equipment, astrolabes, and tons of baffling measuring devices. I was in heaven. I didn’t know heaven was so expensive. A rich man may have difficulty entering but he is the only person who can afford to stay.

All too soon we had to head off to England. When I grow up or win Tattslotto (whichever comes first) I am going to move to Amsterdam despite the lack of Ataturk statues.