Amsterdam: Europe's Most Intimate City

We never visited Amsterdam until June, 2016.  The 800-year-old city is dubbed Europe's "most intimate" because it has less square mileage than other major cities and its flat landscape (filled with canals) makes it extremely walkable - if you don't mind taking your life in your hands.

In this city, the bicycle has the right of way.  That's right - NOT pedestrians, who have to look both ways four times, and NOT cars.  Bicycles outnumber cars two-to-one in Amsterdam and residents claim automobiles will never conquer their city. The many hump-backed bridges sporting narrow cobbled streets over picturesque canals are meant for pedestrians or two bikes abreast.  Rush hour brings bike grid-lock, as well as canal grid-lock ("lock-lock"), though trolley lines and bus routes are efficient.

It is a city of many roles - capital, world port, transportation hub, university and world banking center, world trade center (diamonds are still sold on every corner), venue for world-renowned concert halls, and gathering place for the avant-garde in the arts.  It is lively and high-spirited, with a laissez-faire attitude.  The Red Light District is a stop on walking tours. Legal cafes that cater to pot-smokers display a special decal in their windows.  Needles are dispensed to drug addicts at free clinics.

Cafe selling cannabis

The Netherlands has more museums per square mile than any other country in the world, and 92 of them are in Amsterdam.  They range from the fascinating Biblical Museum to the titillating Sex Museum, and from the huge Rijksmuseum to the grippingly preserved Anne Frank House. All but seven of the museums in Amsterdam are privately-owned and nearly all charge an entrance fee.

If you plan to visit at least 4-5 of them, there are options to save money:
- Museum Pass (allows you no entrance fee)
- Combination Canal Cruise and Museum Entrance or hop-on-hop-off bus and/or boat
- Museum Boat - provides up to 50% discount on entrance to museums on its route
- Amsterdam Card - comes with other benefits, such as discounts at
   attractions and restaurants and free use of public transport system

Most museums are closed on Mondays with the exception of the Rijksmuseum (Netherlands' National Museum with over 1,000,000 works of art), the Van Gogh Museum, and the Stedelijk Museum (National Museum of Modern Art).

We took a canal cruise and a half-day walking tour which covered most of the major landmarks in the city. Before our departure from the States we'd purchased tickets to the Rijksmuseum and Van Gogh Museum for specific days.  In both museums we purchased headphones for self-guided audio tours.

The crowds at both museums were enormous at 10:00 a.m. and also at 4:00 p.m. We chose to follow only highlighted items on the self-guided tours but couldn't follow the sequence in the Rijksmuseum.  We wound around bodies, trying to peer at numbers on the paintings to push our audio buttons.  Sometimes we could only get a glimpse, although the larger the painting (e.g., Rembrandt's "The Night Watch"), the easier it was to get up close. Because of the number of people, there was little room for them to step back so that others could step forward.

Hotel de l'Europe, Amsterdam

The experience that we will remember most from the city was our visit to the Anne Frank Museum (also prepaid for a specific date and time).  The house is preserved as the family left it when arrested in 1944, with the exception of display cases featuring Anne's diary.  It is an emotionally gripping journey to climb the stairs behind the hidden bookcase to the rooms eight people inhabited, including the sink where they prepared meals, the toilet that couldn't be flushed because of noise, the radio with news from the BBC, the attic that allowed a view of blue through a skylight (all windows were covered with blackout curtains), and the bedroom where Anne and her sister spent two years tacking posters of movie stars and phrases from books (still on the walls).

Facade and front door to Anne Frank House

We traveled to The Hague, the seat of government and official residence of Queen Beatrix, an hour outside Amsterdam.  It is home to diplomats and international organizations, including the International Court of Justice and prison that held Bin-Laden, with dozens of embassies and official residences.  The Binnenhof complex, facing a little lake, houses Holland's two-chamber parliament and elaborate Knight's Hall, used for state occasions.

The gem of The Hague is around the corner.  The Mauritshuis is small as museums go, situated in a 17th-century palace.  The paintings have been acquired since the 18th century by the princes of the House of Orange.  The works were seized by Napoleon in 1795 and taken to France, returned to the Netherlands in 1816 after Napoleon's defeat at Waterloo.  In 1821 they were transferred to the Mauritshuis and exhibited publicly the following year.  The collection is known for its enchanting Vermeers, its many Rembrandts, and a full panoply of Dutch and Flemish masters.  There were no crowds and we stood directly in front of Vermeer's "Girl with the Pearl Earring,"  his "The View of Delft," and Rembrandt's "Anatomical Lesson of Dr. Nicolaas Tulp," among others, as long as we liked.

Vermeer's "Girl with a Pearl Earring," courtesy of the Vermeer Foundation

One note of caution:  DO NOT let your limbs wander near any of the furniture on display! Charley's sleeve grazed a gilt Louis XIV desk as he jokingly declared what a nice touch that would add in his office.  Bells and alarms sounded as we back-pedaled away.  Two guards appeared at our sides. "His foot," our tour guide explained in Dutch, pointing to the base of the platform under the desk.  "It must have tripped a wire."

"Happens all the time," said one of the guards.

Flower market, Amsterdam

Snapshots from France II

It was drizzly but warm in Paris this mid-June.  We had a 7:00 p.m. reservation at Le Reminet,  a tiny restaurant on the Ile de la Cite, behind Notre Dame. Ile de la Cite sits in the middle of the River Seine, between the Right and Left Banks. Under our umbrellas we followed what looked like an alley but was a narrow street. The restaurant sat half-way down.

We pushed down on the brass levered handle in the middle of a stone facade.  The building must have been a fortress in the middle of the island at one time, but cafes and restaurants now occupied the narrow stone caverns. The interior was wide enough for only one table on either side of the door.  A bar sat at the rear of eight tables, and bright paintings punctuated the stone walls.  Behind the bar was a hall leading to a private dining room.

"Non, non, monsieur, not open!" was the greeting from the maitre d', who approached us in a striped button-down with rolled-up sleeves.

Our watches read 7:00, and since we were used to dinner reservations at home at 6:30, we were usually the first ones in a restaurant overseas. Technically it was 6:55 p.m., since Charley and I always kept out watches five minutes fast.  Two other couples came through the door behind us, happy to escape the drizzle.

"Not OK?" Charley said.

"Non, monsieur. Cinq (five) minutes!"

"It's raining," Charley protested.  "We have to stand outside in the rain?"

"There's awning, monsieur."

The six of us marched back outside and shivered under a three-foot awning.  Five minutes later we were readmitted.


             **********************************





We had a second 7:00 p.m. reservation at the Brasserie Closerie des Lilas in Paris. Brasseries are open all day and we really didn't need a reservation, but our hotel called to ensure a good table.

We arrived at 6:50 p.m., not having learned our lesson, and were shown to the bar because (one guess!) our table wasn't ready.  The restaurant was empty, with the exception of four tables of Parisians eating inside the glass enclosure facing the street.

Hemingway photo 1930

This was the same bar in the same brasserie that Hemingway called "one of the best cafes in Paris," a favorite of Gertrude Stein, Picasso, Lenin, and Trotsy.  We ordered Proseccos with a raspberry liqueur.  The bartender pointed to Hemingway's photo over his head.  Liquor bottles on glass shelves gleamed from celestial lights overhead.  Hemingway's face shone amber.

With his four words in English and my four words in French, the bartender
explained the name of the Brasserie.  The restaurant was a "closerie," or
greenhouse, with its glass walls and interior/exterior trees and flowering plants.
What I couldn't grasp was the "Lilas" part, since he kept pointing to a poster with the name of the restaurant and beautiful women in clothes from the Roaring 20's.
"Aura," he kept saying.  I guess the full name of the place meant "Greenhouse of Lilacs with Beautiful Atmosphere (Perfume?)."

At 7:20 we were shown to our table facing a wall of mirrors.  The concierge at our hotel must not have had much pull, if this was the best table in the place!  "May we sit facing the garden?" I asked.

Another famous Brasserie in Paris, Les Deux Magots

We were relocated to a row of windows inside the greenhouse facing the garden.  I ordered peppercorn steak "a la Hemingway."  Within fifteen minutes a group of ten American women on a tour sat at a table next to us.  They all ordered peppercorn steak "a la Hemingway" (the gravy was scrumptious and steak melted in my mouth!). Within thirty minutes a group of four Americans sat behind us.  The lineup of Americans reminded me of an experience at the famous restaurant Gundel in Budapest.  There, waiters in tuxes and gloves served traditional Hungarian meals from silver-covered platters while an orchestra played in the background.   The maitre d' seated all of us American diners together on a banquette with our backs along a wall, lined up like pigeons waiting to peck at their food.

Sacre Coeur, Paris

View from Sacre Coeur

Snapshots from France I

Luxembourg Gardens, Paris

We waited twenty minutes in drizzly rain in a line at Paris' Musee D'Orsay, a museum devoted to works from 1848 to 1914.  We had previously purchased our tickets, but those without tickets wound round and round stanchions under their umbrellas.

When we finally entered the building, we had to remove our sweaters and jackets and place our belongings through a security screen.  Everything backpack-size had to remain in lockers in the lobby.

We circumvented the mobs heading down the stairwell to ground floor exhibits of statues by 19th-century sculptors Rude, Barye, Carrier-Belleuse.  The statues sat where train tracks lay in the old Belle Epoch train station built for a 1900 exposition. A large, ornate gilt clock dominated the light-filled expanse.

Off to our left we found a counter renting headsets for self-guided audio tours.  We could stop or start our tour at numbered paintings anywhere or anytime we chose.  We were interested to see the French Impressionists on the top floor.

Class of students learning about Impressionism

The crowds were still manageable at 10:30 a.m. and moved aside politely after studying each masterpiece to allow other spectators to take their places - unlike the crowds in Amsterdam at the Rijksmuseum and Van Gogh Museum.  In room after room Monets, Sisleys, Manets, Van Goghs were just inches in front of us, while Degas' tiny ballerinas twirled for the crowds in another.  The twenty-four paintings highlighted on the audio tour took us 2 1/2 hours.

A budding Monet copying a Monet

On the facade of the last room on the top floor was a gigantic see-through clock that allowed views across the Seine (mimicking the one in the cafe on the other end of the floor).

View from of Tuileries Gardens across Seine from inside Musee D'Orsay 

We followed the crowd across a catwalk to a nearby elevator and squeezed on.  Since it didn't stop at "0" (the lobby), we all disembarked at -1 (the ground floor of statues).  However, we were at the furthermost wing on the floor.  We wound our way to a nearby stairwell but red tape blocked our access.  So we all turned around and found an escalator which we presumed would bring us one floor above, where we'd still have to walk the length of the museum to the lobby.

We presumed wrong!  One level up the escalator had no platform.  Instead there was a sign that read, "Impressionists, Floor 5," with an arrow which the mechanical caterpillar pursued up...and up...and up.  We were finally able to get off on Floor 5, where we'd started, and retraced our steps back over the catwalk.  It reminded me of Charlie on the MTA ("he never returned and his fate is still unlearned") in the song by the Kingston Trio.

We turned back through the crowds now viewing the masterpieces we'd just left and retraced our steps the length of the fifth floor to the cafe, where we'd entered the Impressionist exhibit. Twenty minutes after we'd finished our audio tour and glistening with perspiration, we joined a dozen others in an elevator to the lobby.

Sculptures on pedestrian bridge to Louvre

Fondation Louis Vitton

Sleep

This post is by Don Weiss, pharmacist, friend, and author of the murder mystery, Picture Perfect, available on Amazon.

Men of a certain age enter what is called the Age of Prostatism. Although it sounds vaguely religious, it has nothing to do with religion. Unlike the Age of Enlightenment or the Age of Reason, the Age of Prostatism refers to the time in a man’s life when the prostate gland begins to enlarge. This may lead toward the possibility of developing Prostate Cancer for some of us. For most of us, it means that we will be getting up in the middle of the night to use the bathroom (maybe two or three times a night), disrupting an otherwise peaceful night’s sleep.

History describes how young Indian braves were given water to drink on the eve of battle so that the would be up early ready for the fight ahead of them.

I’d be willing to bet that the young warriors had to stand in line behind the tribal elders to get to the bathroom.

An ever growing prostate is only one of the reasons for interrupted sleep. As we age our need for sleep seems to diminish. Maybe it’s God’s way of telling us that “Hey, you don't have that much time left, so don’t waste it!”

When I was a young man living in my bachelor apartment, I could sleep uninterrupted for eight, nine, or even ten hours. Once I slept through a fire alarm and when I was in college, I slept through an earthquake. Those were the days, my friends. Now it’s up at 3:30 a.m. on the dot to stumble to the bathroom and stumble back to bed. Sometimes I can go back to sleep, other nights I can’t. So what do I do?  I lie awake, thinking, looking back on my life (I recently turned 64), or I get up and write a blog post.

In the Moment

Happiness, not in another place, but this place...not for another hour, but this hour.
         Walt Whitman

     There have been moments in life when I have become totally immersed in absorbing the present. These moments don't occur often, but when they do, I become aware that I'm experiencing something above the realm of everyday survival mode - something to be cherished, something intuitive and inspirational that I must surrender to and enjoy. The senses - sight, touch, hearing, smell, and sometimes taste - are involved.  I lose track of time, obligations, and chores. I'm not referring to any kind of Zen moment that is drug-induced, since these moments are based entirely on real situations. Click goes my brain - remember this! Live this moment fully.

     One of these moments occurred on my wedding day, as I stepped out of my parents' front door to go to the church to begin a new life.  It was late June and the air outside crackled with undulating heat waves; the sky had been scrubbed spotless; my gardenia bouquet radiated almost sickening sweetness in the high temperature; the taste of champagne lingered on my tongue from early toasting.  As anxious as I was to get to the church, I clicked on that magical moment.  Its unabated joy lasted throughout the day.

     The two days (sixteen months apart) when our sons were born provided more surrender, not just because the rigors of natural childbirth were over and I was exhausted, but because unfathomable miracles of creation had just occurred. Each squiggly pink body found its place on my chest with closed eyes and perfect little fingers and toes, right down to the fingernails and one shapely bald head.  Salty tears and hungry squawks filled those moments with ineffable joy. Click.  The tears and cooing repeated themselves each time newborn grandchildren mingled their warmth against mine.

     The clicks have occurred more frequently in recent years.  And they've all involved our grandchildren.

     A tired grandchild climbed into my lap on a recliner, turned on her side, and fell asleep.  I pulled the throw over her, nestling her between my breasts.  One of my arms encircled her torso, another landed against her bum.  As she fell asleep, I watched a tendril of strawberry blond hair fly away from her forehead with each whistling exhale and fly back down with each inhale. I leaned my nose deep into the hair against her back and smelled "No More Tangles."  Her torso expanded and contracted with each breath under my arm while my other hand could feel the muscles of her bum so tight from gymnastics that I was envious.  "Cherish and remember this," I told myself. "Don't move."
     Click.

     Another granddaughter climbed into my lap to talk while her sister's team was playing a game.  Her head leaned back against my shoulder as I repositioned her legs to one side. Bending to kiss her neck, her curls got entangled in my teeth. "Do you think I could paint my room polka dots?" her voice chirped.
     "Maybe just one wall," I said, "if your mom and dad agree."
     "Would you help me move the furniture in my room?"
     "Of course.  We'll make a drawing first.  Now tell me about next year when your sister leaves your school."
     "Oh, I'll miss her!" she said.  "But I'll be fine."
     Click.

     

     Reading nighttime stories has always been a welcome ritual.  In the bed she inherited from my parents, a granddaughter squeezed against the wall to make room for me.  A dozen pillows partially submerged her shoulder-length hair. Flip Flop lay on her other side, a stuffed dog with long ears and floppy legs that somehow had survived ten years but like a real dog, was overdue for a bath.

     I pulled blankets and covers over us, as she pushed her pillow onto my shoulder.  Nursery rhymes and fairy tales had transformed

into chapter books telling of mysterious disappearances and mean kids at school.  I'd become a willing listener instead of a reader.  

     "Please slow down!" I requested in a whisper.  "I want to enjoy every minute."

     Click.

   
 

Flip Flop

  The twins, dressed in khakis, button-downs, and long ties with elastic behind their necks, attended their sister's first Holy Communion.  Seated in the third row of the bursting church, one twin sat between his mother and father.  He rose with each hymn and knelt with each prayer. The other grandma and a cousin sat between us. On my other side, the second twin contented himself by coloring superheroes he pulled from a backpack. Aside from the priest's intonations and the organ, the only sound was my wrist cracking, rotating the box of crayons from the cousin on my right to the twin on my left. A pillar blocked my view, so I focused on the music and the crayons.
     The twin between his parents needed a break. While they stood, he stretched out along the pew.  "Hi, grandma," he said, waving to me.
     Click.

     Be happy for this moment.  This moment is your life.
             Omar Khayyam

     

Even Horses Can Have Oddball Names

What's in a name?  We all know people whose names match their personalities, or perhaps their personalities became a function of their names.  There are also family names incorporated into the choice for newborns and names that follow a trend or names that set a trend.

And then there are the oddballs (to me), including in 2015, Atlas, Armani, Arrow, Chichi, Diem, Jedi, Pi, Sailor, Twinkle, and Tulip (at least three children received each of these names to be included in the survey results).

It got me thinking about the names for the entries in the Kentucky Derby this year.  I could guess at the inspiration for some of the horses' names, but needed explanations for others.  Here is a report by Pia Catton from The Wall Street Journal on May 4, 2016.

According to Ms. Catton, there are naming rules established by the Jockey Club, the organization that registers thoroughbred horses.  Names must be eighteen characters or less and must meet a long list of criteria (nothing commercial, vulgar, or rude).  And no copying the names of famous horses.

A horse's pedigree has traditionally been the greatest inspiration for names, but this year's racers demonstrated that the inspiration can come from just about anywhere.

Trojan Nation - Owner Julie Gilbert is a USC Trojan fan, and her father was class of '53.

Suddenbreakingnews - Owner Samuel Henderson was too late to claim "Breaking News" as his horse's name, but by adding a word and dropping the spaces he established a new identity.

Creator - It's obvious that the inspiration came from above, but racing manager Elliot Walden said he waited for the right horse to fit the name.  Twenty-nine other horses belonging to WinStar Farm didn't qualify.

Mo Tom (not Mo Town!!) - Sired by 2010 champion "Uncle Mo," this name combines pedigree and owner Tom Benson's name.  When the owner was going through health issues, the family needed "more Tom."

Gun Runner - Owner Ron Winchell wanted a strong name that others would be afraid to run against.

My Man Sam - This horse was named after one of the Sheep Pond Partner's sons.

Oscar Nominated - The mare of this horse is "Devine Actress," daughter of the sire "Theatrical and Devine Beauty."

Lani - Hawaiian for "sky," this colt's mare was "Heavenly Romance."

Destin - "Destiny" was already taken, so the owners at Twin Creeks Racing had to come up with another name relating to fate (the mare's name was "Dream of Summer").

Whitmore - Named for a talented athlete, Wilbur Whitmore, in trainer Ron Moquette's high school in Pocola, Oklahoma.

Exaggerator - Resulted from a discussion between owner Matt Bryan and trainer Keith Desormeaux about a few women in their lives who were prone to exaggerating.

Tom's Ready - Tom Benson, who also owns "Mo Tom," was asked if he was ready to spend $100,000 on a horse.  He answered, "I am ready."

Nyquist - Owner J. Paul Reddam loves the Detroit Red Wings and named this year's winner for forward Gustav Nyquist.

Mohaymen - This name is from an Arabic word meaning "dominant."

Outwork - Owner and entrepreneur Mike Repole said, "I always talk about outworking your competition."

Shagaf - Named after the Arabic word for "fond of."

Mor Spirit - "Mor" is "mother" in Danish, and owner Michael Petersen't mother is a spirited woman.  His wife suggested the name.

Majesto - This name combines the initials of two of the owner's sons, Mauro and Jesus.  The "TO" stands for "todos," representing all seven of the owner's children.  It also means "glory" in an ancient language.

Brody's Cause - "Brody" is the name of owner Dennis Albaugh's great nephew.  "Cause" came from the horse's sire, "Giant's Causeway."

Danzing Candy - This name is connected to the horse's pedigree.  His sire is "Twirling Candy," and the mare is "House of Danzing."

This is an Arabian thoroughbred, not Danzing Candy.

A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Funeral

The death of a loved one is perhaps the most traumatic event during a lifetime, particularly if it is the death of a parent in a close-knit family.

Solomon Wykoff was living in Rhode Island when his father passed away in Florida. Sol detested flying.  A dutiful son, he drove to Florida in his long silver Mercedes to claim the body that had been prepared for burial in Rhode Island.  He would be his father's guardian.

Sol was an attorney, so he knew what had to be done.  Body transport is governed on the state level, and a few states boast independent licensed body transportation, such as Virginia and Florida.  Sol wasn't going to trust his father's body to a transport company.  He was going to drive his father himself.

Embalming is almost never required, but in Florida, a body must be embalmed or refrigerated if disposition does not occur within twenty-four hours.  Obviously driving from Florida to Rhode Island would take more than twenty-four hours.  Refrigeration or dry ice can usually preserve a body for a short time.

A death certificate with the local registrar must be filed within five days of the death before final disposition. The deceased's doctor or medical examiner must supply the date, time, and cause of death.  Sol received the original certificate and copies within the allotted time and it was filed with the State (Florida now uses electronic as well as paper registrations).  Sol was good to go.

Or was he?  The county chief deputy registrar had to issue a burial-transit permit allowing Sol to move the body for purposes of burial or cremation.  This had to be obtained within five days after death.

And he needed a container to transport his father that would "prevent the seepage of fluids and escape of offensive odors" (Florida law).  Knowing that it would be less expensive to drive his father rather than to have the body flown north, Sol checked with all the states that he needed to cross so that he could learn what each state required to transport the body.  Sol was an attorney - he'd done his homework.

He carefully put his father's body bag in the trunk of his black Mercedes and started north. The first night he stopped just over the border of North Carolina to get a quick six hours of sleep.

In the morning the Mercedes was gone.  The car and the body were recovered in New Jersey, but Sol had to fly home.


This is a true story.  Names have been changed to protect the innocent.