Thirty-Six: Christmas, Dutch Style

The Netherlands are gearing up for Christmas. This means oliebollen and poffertje stands (yey!), lighting displays (yey! unless you're "green", in which case "booo!") and of course Sinterklaas and... Zwarte Piet. Last year Zwarte Piet totally freaked me out. I thought, "What??? How can this be OK?" There must be some sort of misunderstanding; I must be missing something.

Well, I've learned a bit more since last year's holiday season, and this year I'm thinking..... "WHAT??? How can this be OK???" Apparently I'm not missing anything. This is exactly what it looks like. And it's totally befuddling considering general cultural themes and policies. I can only stack this in the growing pile of evidence indicating that the Dutch are not so much liberal as they are practical. But this is a very touchy subject here; protests, death threats to protesters, etc. One camp says it's 'tradition' and therefore absolved of malfeasance. The other camp thinks the first camp is off their collective rocker.

In related news, researching the links contained herein has resulted in a 25-30% downtrend in my opinion of the Dutch...

Thirty-Five: And Sometimes it's Madrid...

Kim, Amanda and I went to Madrid for the weekend. Now we love Madrid.

They have the coolest airport ever.

We stayed in an apartment just north of Puerto del Sol (pretty much the heart of the city). The apartment manager, Juan, doesn't speak a lick of English. Miraculously I understood everything he said (from living in south Florida? Because mom used Spanish when she didn't want me to understand what was going on?) Juan advises us to eat next door at Gloria de Montera, but they don't open until 8:30. Oh, Spain. To kill time, we head to Puerto del Sol where the streetlife is exotic. And contagious.

Dinner is good (roast lamb and pork, what Madrid is known for) and very cheap; 7 Euros for a bottle of wine. After, we wander with the crowds down Grand Via, along radiating streets and back to Puerto del Sol.

On Saturday morning we start with churros, chocolate, and coffee at Valor. Then we shop. Street stalls, hipster rags, shoe shops. Madrid kicks Paris' butt in the leather boot department, and we take full advantage. Shoes are one of two primary themes (the other is of course food).

In the afternoon, our self-guided walking tour kicks off in Puerto del Sol (hosting the requisite morning protest) and meanders to Plaza Mayor. We stop for a satisfying street lunch - Bocata de Calamares - at Casa Rua. Then it's Mercado San Miguel for sangria, vermut rojo, cafe con leche and pastries. Along back streets to Plaza de la Villa, on to the Royal Palace, past Plaza Espana (yes, Madrid has a lot of plazas), and back along Grand Via to the apartment.

In the evening we do a satisfying tapas/pub crawl - though we only hit two (the Museo de Jambon and El Buscon) of about a thousand potential spots because we eat too much too soon. Then we wander to Santa Ana Plaza before hopping the metro to Chueca. And here's where we experience the one black spot on our weekend. It's infuriating to recount! As we get on the very crowded metro - Amanda and I first, Kim just behind us - three (possibly four) young guys start to jostle Kim. At first it seems normal considering the crowd, but then it starts to dawn on me. I've read about this. Amanda and I are looking right at them but we are unable to; a) formulate coherent thoughts; b) react to the thoughts we are formulating. Kim finally reaches us and I say, "check your bag" (which is strapped tightly across her chest to avoid exactly this). Her wallet is missing. She says it loudly. "My wallet is missing!" We look at the jostlers. Someone picks something up off the floor and hands it to Kim. It's her wallet. Our stop is announced. We exit in confusion as Kim checks inside the wallet. Yep, the money is gone (though all cards/i.d. remain). Between the three of us we cover the appropriate range of emotional responses - angry/vengeful, frustrated/mopey, thankful/optimistic.

We finally file it away as a 70 lesson in street smarts and head for a night cap. Strangely, it's at the decidedly... flamboyant establishment we select that a drunk man tries to "charm" us with escalating frequency and irksomeness.

When we rise to depart the man makes his final bid. Amanda raises a hand in his face and bellows the only Spanish she knows; "ADIOS, amigo!" Followed by sweeping exit (stage left).

On Sunday we visit the Prado. We see some masterpieces. Diego Velazquez, Goya, Bosch's Garden of Earthly Delights (Kim digs this the most). I like Boticelli's Story of Nastagio degli Onesti.

We stroll back to the apartment, stopping for a tapas lunch (more smoked meat and cheese). Then we take the metro back to the coolest airport ever. We have time to thoroughly admire its coolness, as our flight is delayed. If you're ever stuck in the airport in Madrid, don't buy tapas; €40 for plastic wrapped cold cuts and soggy fried unknowns.

Need I say "return to Madrid" has been added to the list? At this rate we'll be here 'till 2020...

Thirty-Four: Sometimes there are Weekends in Paris

In mid October we spent an easy going, non-itinerary weekend in Paris. We stayed near the Pantheon. Visited it (meh). Had breakfasts at Maison Kayser. Walked along Saint-Germain and through the Marais. Have I mentioned how much I love the Paris metro? A thing of beauty. Dinner at Kitchen Galleries Bis - asian-french fusion. Lunch at L'As du Fallafel in the Marais; the line is daunting but it moves fast and the fallafel is so worth it. Visited Galleries Lafayette. Stopped in Musee de l'Orangerie for Monet's Water Lillies, but also really liked their other impressionists/post impressionists (Cezanne in particular) and expressionists. I discovered twisted Chaim Soutine and have been thinking about him for weeks now...

Thirty-Three: Al and Judes

After galavanting around northern Italy and then Paris, Greg returned to Amsterdam bearing the gift of Francie. We start having fun immediately. We suss out a popular frites stand in the Jordaan. Greg and I soften Francie up for some big spending (which she is somewhat loath to do), then we hit the 9-Streets. Who can resist hand made leather boots from Spain? Not even Francie! She also springs for a vintage motorcycle jacket from Zipper.

Over the next three days we sit in some cafes. We dine at favorite restaurants (Quatfaas, 1900, La Vallade, De Oude Smidse). Greg and I ride bikes while Francie - maintaining her marathon training schedule despite all the fun - runs. We play Taboo; hilarious to the 10th degree.

On some days Francie has to work because her job is hectic. While she works, Greg and I play. We visit Van Gogh, wander aimlessly, eat.

We spend their last day shopping in Den Haag (Francie is totally off the thrift wagon by now). When Greg returns to Seattle Francie heads to Paris for unplanned business meetings. Happily she manages to schedule one more day in Amsterdam at the end of the week. Greg laments that what began as his European vacation has morphed into an extended holiday for Francie.

Francie gets the Parisian Microsofties back on track then returns via high speed train. En route she discovers an anti-snurking advertisement in a Dutch magazine. It provides her hours of entertainment.

We have a mellow one-day visit. Jogging, biking, grocery shopping. In the cereal aisle Francie falls in love with Honing Hoepels. She snaps photo after photo with her gigantic professional camera. For dinner, she makes fresh pasta from scratch and gooey chocolate pudding/cake. Afterwards Kim introduces her to 'Inky Pinky' - an old Landau family word game. The two word nerds play for hours, discarding one rule after the other until they have created a new game entirely.

The next morning Francie heads back to Seattle leaving Kim and I sans friends once again. On the bright side, I'm almost certain we could convince these two to return, or at least to meet up somewhere in the world for more travel adventures.

Thirty-Two: The Last Day of Fall

On what would turn out to be the last beautiful day of the season, I took a long bike ride out of town. It was sunny and 59. There were rivers, barges, villages, sailboats, farm animals and - surprisingly - a castle....

Thirty-one: I Love Lederhosen

Oktoberfest in Munich. Overall impression? A lot of people, a lot of food, a lot of beer, a lot of drunk.

Amanda, Jon - another expat - Kim and I flew in on Friday night, then took the train (adorned with the nicest graffiti) to town. Kim and I were staying just a few blocks from the festival grounds. We couldn't wait to partake in appropriate food and beverage, so we headed directly to the hotel restaurant for beer and Wiener Schnitzel.

The next morning at nine we braved the main event. The grounds were already packed, the beer halls turning people away. We met up with Amanda and Jon at an outdoor beer garden where they were busy downing steins with a group of complete strangers. There were dice games. There was singing. Shouts of "Prost!" at every table. After attempting to ingest a stein each (and failing, pawning our remainders off on Jon), Kim and I left the beer garden to walk the grounds and eat bratwurst. Wandering through the carnival atmosphere, we discovered the best thing about Oktoberfest. The outfits! Traditional Bavarian 'tracht'. Short lederhosen and long lederhosen, new lederhosen and 3rd generation lederhosen, fancy lederhosen and simple lederhosen, giant lederhosen and tiny lederhosen. And somehow, everyone's butt looks great in these things. Then of course there are the the dirndls. Colorful and drab, ornate and simple, conservative and not so much. Photographing outfits became my obsession.

Later we met back up with Amanda and Jon and their beer garden companions, who were no longer strangers. They were Pedro from Portugal, Alexis and Catherine from Brooklyn and Carlos from Ft. Lauderdale of all places. These new pals were headed to a beer hall where they had reservations. We tagged along hoping to weasel our way in somehow. Kim bought two tickets off a scalper of sorts, which still left us two short. Catherine said, "just say you have a reservation and drop any German name!" In the long and jostling line Jon and I - both without tickets - ended up far behind the others. When Jon reached the security guard and was stopped, he announced with great authority, "I have a reservation. Becker." The guard looked over his list, then waved Jon and I through. Everyone was very impressed with Jon. But soon thereafter we spotted a young guard sneaking a stream of bill-palming people through a side door; apparently there are a number of ways to skin the cat (though I later saw that same guard dressed down by his superior).

It was incredibly crowded, loud, smokey, and smelly in the beer hall. After about half a radler (beer mixed with sprite - we had to cut the alcohol content somehow) and a roast chicken, Kim and I fled; she was getting claustrophobic and I was getting sick of drunk Pedro stealing my hat. Amanda joined us and we wandered to a hill at the edge of the grounds where revelers go to 'rest' (re: pass out). We surveyed the scene. Things were definitely heading south. People were being carted away on gurneys. We layed around in the grass for a while, then sought out some fortifying carnival food before Kim and I returned to our hotel to recuperate. The party was by no means confined to the designated area - one guy was passed out in the street right in front of our hotel.

Later that night Kim and I walked to the historic city center for a civilized Bavarian meal (schnitzel, roast pork, spaetzle). Along the way we saw lots of tracht-clad Germans cycling along their fast-growing bike lane network. They seem to be embracing this transportation trend as well and quickly as they are wind turbines and solar panels.

On Sunday we wandered back downtown, sat in a park, then had a beer and pretzel lunch in Marienplatz. In the late afternoon we climbed St. Peter's tower with Amanda and Jon, then returned to Oktoberfest for the last hoorah - more bratwurst and a final stein.


Kim declared Oktoberfest a worthy spectacle, but is adamant; she never, ever has to do it again. While I'm in total agreement, I do owe my new found love of lederhosen to the experience...