The final leg of my trip to Europe provided a return to somewhere I had visited my freshman year of high school (in other words, a couple of decades ago!): Amsterdam. I have to tell you, visiting Amsterdam as a chaperone versus as a student is an entirely different experience! But that's another conversation.
During our two days in Amsterdam, we were able to see much of this beautiful city. We took a canal tour that provided us with history as well as a description of Amsterdam's modern buildings and contemporary way of life. I found the emphasis on bicycle riding particularly inspiring. Bicycles are everywhere in this city. In fact, whereas we were used to seeing car parks as we traveled throughout Europe, in Amsterdam, we saw bicycle parks!
The canals of Amsterdam, the architecture of the buildings, and the emphasis on flowers and greenery are what truly lend charm and beauty to this city. There's an interplay of natural and man-made elements--a harmony--that is unlike any other major city I have visited.
As you may recall from my earlier posts, I had several comical disappointments on the trip (and I write these words with full, authentic gratitude for the opportunity to travel abroad), beginning with my attempt to finally commune with Thomas Hardy in Poet's Corner. The trip began this way, and it ended with another "You've Got to Be Kidding Me" moment.
My favorite visual artist is Rembrandt. Since my first visit to Amsterdam in 1995, I have been entranced by his work, particularly his use of chiaroscuro. In high school, we studied him in my American Literature class as part of our Scarlet Letter unit (discussing Hawthorne as a painter with words). I even had a print of what is referred to as "Self Portrait with Disheveled Hair" (my favorite!) hanging on my wall as a teenager. So imagine my excitement when we walk up to the Rjiksmuseum and see a huge banner proclaiming the "Year of Rembrandt", a year in which every Rembrandt piece the museum holds will be on special display! Let's just say I was overcome.
So here's the scene:
We enter the museum and I am so giddy I'm like a kid on Christmas morning. I can barely stand still as we're given instructions and reminded of the time we're due back. At last, we're released, and I run--literally run--to the special exhibit where I learn I need a special ticket. No problem; this is absolutely worth the extra money. I go to the ticket counter where I see "Rembrandt Exhibit Sold Out Today." Our last day in Amsterdam.
But that's okay. Ever the optimist, I know that my favorite Rembrandt--"Self Portrait with Disheveled Hair" (I really love that title) is on permanent exhibit, so while this is disappointing, that's the way things go. And so I follow my terribly confusing map for the next half hour as I desperately seek the Rembrandt permanent exhibit. I see "The Night Watch", which is great and all, but I'm after the hair! Finally I find the room, tucked between two larger galleries (I also ran into Van Gogh on the way, which was utterly amazing!).
I enter the gallery, calm my breath (I've eaten way too many pastries on this trip), and leisurely walk about, playing it cool while freaking out inside.
I don't see a single Rembrandt.
I check the map again. I am definitely in the correct gallery.
And that is when I see the small, freshly printed sign: "The Rembrandt pieces usually on display have been moved to be part of 'The Year of Rembrandt Exhibit'".
Seriously, y'all. You have to decide: do you cry or do you laugh?
Trick question: you buy goat cheese pie and hot chocolate and throw yourself a pity party at the museum cafe.
But once fed and sugared, I made my way with an understanding friend to the museum library. This exists! And it's beautiful! It looks like the library in Beauty and the Beast with a second floor overlooking the research desks where scholars are reading about the artists whose works are on display inside the museum. I may not have gotten to gaze upon the brushstrokes of Rembrandt, but there's little in this life that standing in a beautiful library cannot (at least temporarily) fix.
Yet the most outstanding experience in Amsterdam--literary or otherwise--had to be our visit to the Anne Frank House. I had visited this site in high school as well, and it has certainly expanded since then with a large visitor's center in the building adjacent to the house.
I'm not sure how to convey the power of this place. It's somewhere you simply must enter for yourself. Walking up stairs tucked behind a bookcase, the same bookcase door and stairs that Anne and her family entered to take refuge in the secret annex, is a powerful experience. Gazing upon her postcards, the "stars" with which she adorned her walls and that are still there, though now behind plexi-glass, breaks the heart. Gazing upon the actual diary, the ink with which she wrote the words that have connected with so many fellow humans over these years, is almost unreal. I had to walk out when the video of her father began playing. The idea of this being my child was too much. I stood outside with a friend (and fellow mom) and wept.
I won't do it justice, so I will not try to describe the visit here. Yet I urge you to get there and experience it for yourself. You cannot go inside that building and come out without feeling compelled to do whatever it takes to prevent further atrocity in this world. We must--we must demand peace and kindness everywhere.
My literary travels complete, I flew home the following day, still processing everything I had seen and experienced. As we flew away from Europe, I saw a farm of solar turbines in the waters of the Atlantic, turning beautifully in the morning sun. There was something about that sight that touched me. Maybe you'll find this silly, but they brought me hope. Hope that we can do better. Hope that we can use our experiences to improve life for all of creation.
Words matter.
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