Showing posts with label Amsterdam. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Amsterdam. Show all posts
Wednesday, April 18, 2012
Swan
I saw many things while in Amsterdam last year, including this swan in a canal in the Red Light district one night. I like how the orange color in the swan's beak comes close (to my eye) to matching light reflected in the water.
Sunday, December 4, 2011
Dutch Treat
The next day, also early, I once again made my way to the Museum District, this time to the Rijksmuseum where Rembrandt rules. Not bad. Once while at the Art Institute in Chicago, I sat on a small chair and wondered if the disinterested security staff appreciated what surrounded them. And at the Rijksmuseum, surrounded by Rembrandt and the Dutch Masters, I thought that I'd be quite happy to sit there forever and let the art roll over me. Leaving Rembrandt behind,
That night would take me into a different culture, but before that I wandered, shopped for small gifts, and then got lost for several hours. The streets were full of more tourists than I could've imagined--hordes of people walking through a city geared indirectly to tourists. At one point I found and browsed a cheese shop, then left; hungry a couple hours later I managed to find my way back to that shop and bought some cheese and a small chocolate bar. I stuffed both into my backpack, took the tram back to the Easy Hotel, and there I rested and snacked on cheese and chocolate.
Toward dusk I retraced most of my steps but then detoured in the direction that I thought would take me to Amsterdam's Red Light District. The previous day I had been asked by a young, long-haired fellow, probably American from his voice, where the Red Light District was. "I have no idea," I'd said quite honestly, and I walked away. A minute later I saw him talk to someone else and then turn on his heels and trot away. So, seeking it out on my own and without a map or guidebook, I walked in the direction I'd seen him go. I have seen experienced many things in my travels overseas but other than what I'd read in guidebooks, I did not know what to expect from the Red Light District. I made my down dozens of windy, crowded streets as darkness fell, and at one point turned to my right to see a near-naked woman standing on the other side of a large glass door. Because I am an idiot, my first thought was, "That woman forgot to shut her curtains!" A few paces later I found another window and finally realized where I was.
I once had a college instructor who said that one defining characteristic of pornography is the lack of love. Neither prude nor judgmental about such things, I've nevertheless concluded that prostitution shares this characteristic. While sex and love certainly do not require each other, they do enhance each other. A former coworker who had given me hints on Amsterdam had also advised me not to make eye contact with the woman behind the glass. At one window or another, I found that when you do make eye contact, the women will tap on the glass and beckon you in--room after room of Sirens. Within each room that I did peer into was a display of simple furniture: a chair, a bed, perhaps some artwork on the walls. I couldn't help but think of Van Gogh's painting The Bedroom, which depicts a similar setup. I never saw anyone pass from one side of the glass to the other. I knew that even initiating a conversation--or negotiation--with one of the women had to be somewhat awkward, but I also figured that actually going through the door while so many people walked by would make things even more awkward. When I was in the Philippines many years ago, all you had to do was sit in a bar and wait; there were no doors. My first time there a woman named Narcie sat in a chair next to me and, in her fluent-enough English half an hour and a drink or two later, told me that her mother had been a prostitute, as well. I'm neither proud nor ashamed to say that I returned to the ship that night neither wiser nor more worldly. I have always been curious, though, as to why I remember her name.
Finally, I sat down in an uncrowded pub at the fringe of the Red Light District and enjoyed a couple glasses of Jupiler beer. Again, I was happy to rest for a time before, re-energized, I resumed walking before making my way back toward the tram stop, which in turn took me back to the Easy Hotel.
The day had been good, and as I cleaned up and organized my things for the next day's early trip back to the train station, the airport, and then London, I thought that I wish I had more time to explore not just Amsterdam but the rest of Holland. I felt that I was just starting to get my bearings and that my circle of exploration should be expanded outward. As I finished the remaining slices of cheese, I stood at the window, pulled the shade aside, stared into a dark Amsterdam, and for some peculiar reason contemplated how long a person can run from things.
That night would take me into a different culture, but before that I wandered, shopped for small gifts, and then got lost for several hours. The streets were full of more tourists than I could've imagined--hordes of people walking through a city geared indirectly to tourists. At one point I found and browsed a cheese shop, then left; hungry a couple hours later I managed to find my way back to that shop and bought some cheese and a small chocolate bar. I stuffed both into my backpack, took the tram back to the Easy Hotel, and there I rested and snacked on cheese and chocolate.
Toward dusk I retraced most of my steps but then detoured in the direction that I thought would take me to Amsterdam's Red Light District. The previous day I had been asked by a young, long-haired fellow, probably American from his voice, where the Red Light District was. "I have no idea," I'd said quite honestly, and I walked away. A minute later I saw him talk to someone else and then turn on his heels and trot away. So, seeking it out on my own and without a map or guidebook, I walked in the direction I'd seen him go. I have seen experienced many things in my travels overseas but other than what I'd read in guidebooks, I did not know what to expect from the Red Light District. I made my down dozens of windy, crowded streets as darkness fell, and at one point turned to my right to see a near-naked woman standing on the other side of a large glass door. Because I am an idiot, my first thought was, "That woman forgot to shut her curtains!" A few paces later I found another window and finally realized where I was.
I once had a college instructor who said that one defining characteristic of pornography is the lack of love. Neither prude nor judgmental about such things, I've nevertheless concluded that prostitution shares this characteristic. While sex and love certainly do not require each other, they do enhance each other. A former coworker who had given me hints on Amsterdam had also advised me not to make eye contact with the woman behind the glass. At one window or another, I found that when you do make eye contact, the women will tap on the glass and beckon you in--room after room of Sirens. Within each room that I did peer into was a display of simple furniture: a chair, a bed, perhaps some artwork on the walls. I couldn't help but think of Van Gogh's painting The Bedroom, which depicts a similar setup. I never saw anyone pass from one side of the glass to the other. I knew that even initiating a conversation--or negotiation--with one of the women had to be somewhat awkward, but I also figured that actually going through the door while so many people walked by would make things even more awkward. When I was in the Philippines many years ago, all you had to do was sit in a bar and wait; there were no doors. My first time there a woman named Narcie sat in a chair next to me and, in her fluent-enough English half an hour and a drink or two later, told me that her mother had been a prostitute, as well. I'm neither proud nor ashamed to say that I returned to the ship that night neither wiser nor more worldly. I have always been curious, though, as to why I remember her name.
Finally, I sat down in an uncrowded pub at the fringe of the Red Light District and enjoyed a couple glasses of Jupiler beer. Again, I was happy to rest for a time before, re-energized, I resumed walking before making my way back toward the tram stop, which in turn took me back to the Easy Hotel.
The day had been good, and as I cleaned up and organized my things for the next day's early trip back to the train station, the airport, and then London, I thought that I wish I had more time to explore not just Amsterdam but the rest of Holland. I felt that I was just starting to get my bearings and that my circle of exploration should be expanded outward. As I finished the remaining slices of cheese, I stood at the window, pulled the shade aside, stared into a dark Amsterdam, and for some peculiar reason contemplated how long a person can run from things.
Wednesday, November 30, 2011
Going Dutch
The weather on my second day in Amsterdam started out gray and misty. Not long after sunrise I left the Easy Hotel and finished an easy walk before it was time to...walk to the Van Gogh Museum in the Museum District. Though my map-reading skills would abandon me several times in the next couple of days, on this morning the map and I worked fairly well together as I pieced together my route: turn right, turn left, go over the canal, turn right, go straight for a bit, turn left, then do some squiggly stuff until I found the museum itself. On the way I also found the Concertgebou (concert building), which Paul McCartney mentions in one of his terrible songs (and, yes, I know that could be any song he wrote after about 1970).
Because we were smart tourists, those of us who were in line for tickets before the museum opened were proud of our "beat the crowd" mentality. We stood in what had become a light drizzle until opening time, and some of us were a bit deflated when those who had purchased tickets in advance got through the doors before we did. They were, I guess, the crowd that beat the crowd that beat the crowd.
Inside, of course, I was both overwhelmed and humbled, just as I have been while visiting art museums in London, Scotland, and Chicago. As someone with very little creative ability, I have always admired artists for their ability to, well, create. Beside each of the museum's pieces are brief descriptions of such things as where and when they were created, what Van Gogh was doing at the time, and where he was in his development. I enjoyed reading each description, though I also was further humbled when I read something such as "As is evident in the painting, Van Gogh had not yet mastered perspective," or, "Van Gogh was obviously still developing a style." I'd stare at the works and see nothing wrong with either the perspective or the style.
After nearly 3 hours of ambling from floor to floor and room to room, I headed to the exit and had to work my way through the main contingent of the daily pilgrimage: dozens and dozens of people lined up to get inside.
The day's hours of artistic Dutch high culture ended with a couple glasses of beer at a bar where the bartender pegged me as an American and then asked which team I wanted to wind the World Series. He was a Yankees fan, he said, and I told him there are worse things in life. We talked a bit about baseball and American hockey as he introduced me to a "genuine" Dutch beer that was also organic.
Outside, I sat at a small table and let the evening do what it had to do as I thought, "Damn--I'm in Amsterdam!" This wasn't an epiphany, by any means, but when I travel I sometimes get so caught up in movement I need to stay out of traffic and resettle myself. The night was cool. Bike riders jockeyed fearlessly and confidently down the street. Robert De Niro's character in The Deer Hunter repeats the line "This is this" when he's trying to make a point, and it's a good line to remember when you're trying to forget the past and future both.
The next day, also early, I once again made my way to the Museum District, this time to the Rijksmuseum where Rembrandt rules. Not bad. Once while at the Art Institute in Chicago, I sat on a small chair and wondered if the disinterested security staff appreciated what surrounded them. And at the Rijksmuseum, surrounded by Rembrandt and the Dutch Masters, I thought that I'd be quite happy to sit there forever and let the art roll over me.
And that night? A culture of a different sort.
Because we were smart tourists, those of us who were in line for tickets before the museum opened were proud of our "beat the crowd" mentality. We stood in what had become a light drizzle until opening time, and some of us were a bit deflated when those who had purchased tickets in advance got through the doors before we did. They were, I guess, the crowd that beat the crowd that beat the crowd.
Inside, of course, I was both overwhelmed and humbled, just as I have been while visiting art museums in London, Scotland, and Chicago. As someone with very little creative ability, I have always admired artists for their ability to, well, create. Beside each of the museum's pieces are brief descriptions of such things as where and when they were created, what Van Gogh was doing at the time, and where he was in his development. I enjoyed reading each description, though I also was further humbled when I read something such as "As is evident in the painting, Van Gogh had not yet mastered perspective," or, "Van Gogh was obviously still developing a style." I'd stare at the works and see nothing wrong with either the perspective or the style.
After nearly 3 hours of ambling from floor to floor and room to room, I headed to the exit and had to work my way through the main contingent of the daily pilgrimage: dozens and dozens of people lined up to get inside.
The day's hours of artistic Dutch high culture ended with a couple glasses of beer at a bar where the bartender pegged me as an American and then asked which team I wanted to wind the World Series. He was a Yankees fan, he said, and I told him there are worse things in life. We talked a bit about baseball and American hockey as he introduced me to a "genuine" Dutch beer that was also organic.
Outside, I sat at a small table and let the evening do what it had to do as I thought, "Damn--I'm in Amsterdam!" This wasn't an epiphany, by any means, but when I travel I sometimes get so caught up in movement I need to stay out of traffic and resettle myself. The night was cool. Bike riders jockeyed fearlessly and confidently down the street. Robert De Niro's character in The Deer Hunter repeats the line "This is this" when he's trying to make a point, and it's a good line to remember when you're trying to forget the past and future both.
The next day, also early, I once again made my way to the Museum District, this time to the Rijksmuseum where Rembrandt rules. Not bad. Once while at the Art Institute in Chicago, I sat on a small chair and wondered if the disinterested security staff appreciated what surrounded them. And at the Rijksmuseum, surrounded by Rembrandt and the Dutch Masters, I thought that I'd be quite happy to sit there forever and let the art roll over me.
And that night? A culture of a different sort.
Saturday, November 26, 2011
Easy Living in Amsterdam's Easy Hotel
For my most recent trip to Europe, I stayed in 3 versions of the Easy Hotel, a no-nonsense kind of place with the most basic of rooms that are suited to those who don't spend much time in hotel rooms while traveling. I'd stayed in an Easy Hotel in London once before, and I found it clean and inexpensive enough. You want to watch TV at an Easy Hotel, you rent the remote control. Wif-fi access? That'll cost you, too. You want extra towels or your bed made? You pay extra for that. But, how many solo travelers need more than 2 towels or care about their bed being made?
The Amsterdam version had been open only a week or so when I arrived and was met by Charlie, a young Englishman who was taking a "break from university because I wanted to work." He let me know that as a sort of welcoming gift from Easy Hotel, I would have free television and wi-fi access for my entire stay. A nice touch. I'd find out that night that some of the movie channels in Amsterdam aren't quite the same as the ones I was accustomed to back home--a bit more, oh, graphic. Then again, maybe those channels are available on TVs in hotels all over the world and I'm just dumb enough not to have noticed.
I was proud of myself for having found the hotel in the first place. From the train station I'd taken tram line 25 into a new city, but I managed to get off at the correct stop and after a few wrong turns made my way to the hotel itself. Good for me. So, I was happy to get the key to my room, and even slightly amused when the key opened the door to a room that was already occupied. I think Charlie and I were both lucky that nobody was in the room. Charlie was quite apologetic, and soon enough I was in the right room and busy cancelling the credit card I thought I'd lost but would find shortly after getting off the phone with my bank.
Settled and eager to get outside again, I bid Charlie goodbye and began walking around Amsterdam. I walked as much as I could, trying to get oriented, and just before dark I found a restaurant called Der Pizza Kamer. The waitress/bartender told me that the menu was in Dutch and that she would translate, but "lasagna" seems to work in nearly any language and I ordered that with a glass of wine. The lasagna was fair; the wine was average; but I was happy to have actually gotten food and drink in a new place, a somewhat major accomplishment given my aversion to going into any kind of dining establishment alone.
The first day had been a good one: I'd encountered and solved a few problems along the way, and I'd found shelter and food. I was looking forward to an early morning and getting to the Van Gogh Museum.
The Amsterdam version had been open only a week or so when I arrived and was met by Charlie, a young Englishman who was taking a "break from university because I wanted to work." He let me know that as a sort of welcoming gift from Easy Hotel, I would have free television and wi-fi access for my entire stay. A nice touch. I'd find out that night that some of the movie channels in Amsterdam aren't quite the same as the ones I was accustomed to back home--a bit more, oh, graphic. Then again, maybe those channels are available on TVs in hotels all over the world and I'm just dumb enough not to have noticed.
I was proud of myself for having found the hotel in the first place. From the train station I'd taken tram line 25 into a new city, but I managed to get off at the correct stop and after a few wrong turns made my way to the hotel itself. Good for me. So, I was happy to get the key to my room, and even slightly amused when the key opened the door to a room that was already occupied. I think Charlie and I were both lucky that nobody was in the room. Charlie was quite apologetic, and soon enough I was in the right room and busy cancelling the credit card I thought I'd lost but would find shortly after getting off the phone with my bank.
Settled and eager to get outside again, I bid Charlie goodbye and began walking around Amsterdam. I walked as much as I could, trying to get oriented, and just before dark I found a restaurant called Der Pizza Kamer. The waitress/bartender told me that the menu was in Dutch and that she would translate, but "lasagna" seems to work in nearly any language and I ordered that with a glass of wine. The lasagna was fair; the wine was average; but I was happy to have actually gotten food and drink in a new place, a somewhat major accomplishment given my aversion to going into any kind of dining establishment alone.
The first day had been a good one: I'd encountered and solved a few problems along the way, and I'd found shelter and food. I was looking forward to an early morning and getting to the Van Gogh Museum.
Friday, November 25, 2011
Holland Days
While listening to Yo-Yo Ma....
Flying over the North Sea from London to Amsterdam, I remembered how I felt the first time I truly traveled on my own from California to Pensacola, Florida. I'd end up doing a lot of foolish things in Pensacola, but the night I landed at the 4-gate airport on my way to the school the U.S. Navy had found fit to send me to, I walked out onto the tarmac, made my way into the terminal, and found that my official orders were missing a piece of information: just where that school was within Pensacola. Though I finally solved the riddle with the help of some people who must have pitied me as I stood alone and confused in my dress-blue uniform, I didn't feel comfortable until I'd gotten to the school itself and could fall back on the training I'd received in the previous 9 weeks of basic training: Do what you're told and shut up. The military is good for people who need the type of direction that prescribes what to wear, where to go, and when to eat, and though I'd eventually find I didn't need that direction, on that first night I found comfort in it.
I'd been to England 3 times over the years, but this was my first trip to Holland. I was apprehensive about what I would face after getting off the plane, not only as I was nervous when I landed in Pensacola, but also the first time I went to London and exited the train in London's Victoria Station. Up until that point everything was easy enough--a couple of airports, finding my way from Gatwick to London--but in the expanse of Victoria Station, I realized that I was now truly on my own and had to figure out how to get to my hotel. A gentleman at the information desk in Victoria Station suggested that I simply take a cab, but being both stubborn and frugal, I opted to walk. I had my map, after all, and the distance did not seem great. Very little of London, however, is constructed on grid--streets start, end, curve, swerve, and sometimes simply disappear. Street signs themselves are often attached to fences, but they are more often attached to the sides of buildings above our line of sight. (Knowing this has made navigating London much easier in subsequent visits.) After a couple hours of walking that were interrupted by a brief rest in Hyde Park, where I sat on a bench in a slight mist and ate a bread roll left over from the plane ride, I eventually found my hotel and felt much more comfortable.
On my second visit to Europe, I spent 2 days in Brussels, and there in search of my hotel I managed to get onto the right trolley but went in the wrong direction. The trolley stopped, everyone got off, and I was again alone and lost in a city until the trolley started up again and headed back the way it came. Once more I had to search for my hotel, but also once more things worked out as they should have.
In Amsterdam, then, getting through Customs and into the terminal itself was fairly easy since nearly all signage is in both Dutch and English. I knew I had to take a train from the airport to Amsterdam proper, but after spending 20 minutes trying to get a kiosk to accept my credit card or debit card, I gave up and went to stand in a long line of people who seemed to be buying tickets from real people. (Aside: I had lost one of my credit cards somewhere in London before heading to Amsterdam, and I wondered if that lost credit card would've worked at the kiosk.) The woman who ended up selling me a ticket also told me that neither my credit card nor my debit card would work at kiosks in Amsterdam because the cards did not have the requisite security built into them.
Then, in Amsterdam, I once again walked out of a large railway station and into a new city filled with large crowds and unfamiliar terrain. I felt, though, less nervous and lost than I had that night in Pensacola, the first morning in London, or when arriving in Brussels. Still, I had to figure out 2 more things: how and where to buy tickets for the tram to my hotel. Across the street from the station I located yet another ticket office, where I once again had to bypass a kiosk and speak to a person, a woman who was very helpful and patient. Since leaving London I tried to focus on one thing at a time, and this helped me solve the small problems I'd encountered. Not many years ago while traveling to the Midwest, I lost my wallet, which contained my money, my identification, and my debit/credit cards. As I sat in my hotel room and tried to reason things out, I knew that I had relatives not too far away who could lend me money, and I would soon be meeting coworkers for a training course we were attending, so they could pay for my hotel room and meals with their company credit cards. I also knew that my wife could FedEx my passport to me so I would have the identification I would need the following week when I was to fly home. I went to a local bank to see if there was any way to get money transferred from my bank in California, but the people there said it just wouldn't work out. I happened to say, "If there were a Bank of America around here, maybe I could get help there." I was lucky then that one of women I spoke with told me there was such a bank about 20 miles away. I found my way to the bank, and after proving that I was who I said I was by logging onto my bank account there, I was able to withdraw cash. The stupid thing? An hour later when I was back at my hotel, I once more searched through my luggage and found...my wallet. After I'd cancelled my debit card and credit card. I'd wanted to panic the entire time, but focusing on solving each problem (the money, the ID, the logistics) helped me stay fairly level-headed.
One of the first things I did at my hotel room in Amsterdam was call my credit card company to let them know that I'd lost my credit card in London. Then, not a minute later, I reached into my rucksack and found...the credit card I'd just cancelled. The problem I still faced, though, was how to pay for things using my debit card or remaining credit card to buy such things as food. I had enough Euros to get me through most of the trip as long as I didn't eat or do anything fancy. But, on a whim, I returned to the train station the next day to see if I could use my credit card to get a cash advance at one of the currency exchange windows. And, for a fee, I was indeed able to. So, money problem was solved.
Not much in this post, though, is especially meaningful, but I've been thinking about writing and writers lately, and even more than ever I'm convinced that anyone who calls him- or herself a writer needs to get into the world a little bit, that we can't be realistic unless we do. I think this might be why Dickens, Twain, and Hemingway resonate with so many people: They didn't simply write about what they knew, they wrote about what they lived. And if I were more of a writer, I'd probably be able to back that all up.
Flying over the North Sea from London to Amsterdam, I remembered how I felt the first time I truly traveled on my own from California to Pensacola, Florida. I'd end up doing a lot of foolish things in Pensacola, but the night I landed at the 4-gate airport on my way to the school the U.S. Navy had found fit to send me to, I walked out onto the tarmac, made my way into the terminal, and found that my official orders were missing a piece of information: just where that school was within Pensacola. Though I finally solved the riddle with the help of some people who must have pitied me as I stood alone and confused in my dress-blue uniform, I didn't feel comfortable until I'd gotten to the school itself and could fall back on the training I'd received in the previous 9 weeks of basic training: Do what you're told and shut up. The military is good for people who need the type of direction that prescribes what to wear, where to go, and when to eat, and though I'd eventually find I didn't need that direction, on that first night I found comfort in it.
I'd been to England 3 times over the years, but this was my first trip to Holland. I was apprehensive about what I would face after getting off the plane, not only as I was nervous when I landed in Pensacola, but also the first time I went to London and exited the train in London's Victoria Station. Up until that point everything was easy enough--a couple of airports, finding my way from Gatwick to London--but in the expanse of Victoria Station, I realized that I was now truly on my own and had to figure out how to get to my hotel. A gentleman at the information desk in Victoria Station suggested that I simply take a cab, but being both stubborn and frugal, I opted to walk. I had my map, after all, and the distance did not seem great. Very little of London, however, is constructed on grid--streets start, end, curve, swerve, and sometimes simply disappear. Street signs themselves are often attached to fences, but they are more often attached to the sides of buildings above our line of sight. (Knowing this has made navigating London much easier in subsequent visits.) After a couple hours of walking that were interrupted by a brief rest in Hyde Park, where I sat on a bench in a slight mist and ate a bread roll left over from the plane ride, I eventually found my hotel and felt much more comfortable.
On my second visit to Europe, I spent 2 days in Brussels, and there in search of my hotel I managed to get onto the right trolley but went in the wrong direction. The trolley stopped, everyone got off, and I was again alone and lost in a city until the trolley started up again and headed back the way it came. Once more I had to search for my hotel, but also once more things worked out as they should have.
In Amsterdam, then, getting through Customs and into the terminal itself was fairly easy since nearly all signage is in both Dutch and English. I knew I had to take a train from the airport to Amsterdam proper, but after spending 20 minutes trying to get a kiosk to accept my credit card or debit card, I gave up and went to stand in a long line of people who seemed to be buying tickets from real people. (Aside: I had lost one of my credit cards somewhere in London before heading to Amsterdam, and I wondered if that lost credit card would've worked at the kiosk.) The woman who ended up selling me a ticket also told me that neither my credit card nor my debit card would work at kiosks in Amsterdam because the cards did not have the requisite security built into them.
Then, in Amsterdam, I once again walked out of a large railway station and into a new city filled with large crowds and unfamiliar terrain. I felt, though, less nervous and lost than I had that night in Pensacola, the first morning in London, or when arriving in Brussels. Still, I had to figure out 2 more things: how and where to buy tickets for the tram to my hotel. Across the street from the station I located yet another ticket office, where I once again had to bypass a kiosk and speak to a person, a woman who was very helpful and patient. Since leaving London I tried to focus on one thing at a time, and this helped me solve the small problems I'd encountered. Not many years ago while traveling to the Midwest, I lost my wallet, which contained my money, my identification, and my debit/credit cards. As I sat in my hotel room and tried to reason things out, I knew that I had relatives not too far away who could lend me money, and I would soon be meeting coworkers for a training course we were attending, so they could pay for my hotel room and meals with their company credit cards. I also knew that my wife could FedEx my passport to me so I would have the identification I would need the following week when I was to fly home. I went to a local bank to see if there was any way to get money transferred from my bank in California, but the people there said it just wouldn't work out. I happened to say, "If there were a Bank of America around here, maybe I could get help there." I was lucky then that one of women I spoke with told me there was such a bank about 20 miles away. I found my way to the bank, and after proving that I was who I said I was by logging onto my bank account there, I was able to withdraw cash. The stupid thing? An hour later when I was back at my hotel, I once more searched through my luggage and found...my wallet. After I'd cancelled my debit card and credit card. I'd wanted to panic the entire time, but focusing on solving each problem (the money, the ID, the logistics) helped me stay fairly level-headed.
One of the first things I did at my hotel room in Amsterdam was call my credit card company to let them know that I'd lost my credit card in London. Then, not a minute later, I reached into my rucksack and found...the credit card I'd just cancelled. The problem I still faced, though, was how to pay for things using my debit card or remaining credit card to buy such things as food. I had enough Euros to get me through most of the trip as long as I didn't eat or do anything fancy. But, on a whim, I returned to the train station the next day to see if I could use my credit card to get a cash advance at one of the currency exchange windows. And, for a fee, I was indeed able to. So, money problem was solved.
Not much in this post, though, is especially meaningful, but I've been thinking about writing and writers lately, and even more than ever I'm convinced that anyone who calls him- or herself a writer needs to get into the world a little bit, that we can't be realistic unless we do. I think this might be why Dickens, Twain, and Hemingway resonate with so many people: They didn't simply write about what they knew, they wrote about what they lived. And if I were more of a writer, I'd probably be able to back that all up.
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