Friday Fun: Rollende Keukens & Rijksmuseum

Looking up Museumplein toward the Rijksmuseum

I had an appointment today that took me partway to Amsterdam, and decided to use the opportunity to go the rest of the way. I spent a couple hours working via my laptop at Two for Joy, and when I couldn’t stand not having lunch any more (Note: they have lunch. I was holding out.), I walked to the Westergasfabriek.

Earlier this week, my ears perked up when my husband’s officemate mentioned some sort of food festival in Amsterdam: Rollende Keukens (Rolling Kitchens). Four days. 13:00-23:00. A field full of gourmet-ish food trucks.

Yes.

Arriving for a late lunch at 14:00, I was very happy and extremely hungry. A sea of food trucks sprawled before me: Converted VW buses. Campers. Airstream-type things. I couldn’t decide which way to walk first; nearly every stand made me curious. In mid-afternoon, there were people around, but it wasn’t very busy. I had a strong hunch this wouldn’t be the case in the evening.

I caved first at a colorful stall called Dirty Duck, advertising several different duck delicacies. I had the kerrie, a little paper boat of rice, pickle, and tasty duck curry. I only made it about ten feet farther before stopping a second time, for patatas bravas at a strange wooden truck called De Pieper Mobiel (which Google translates to “The Beeper Mobile”?). The duck curry had been good, but these potatoes were delicious. When the woman ladled the gooey sauce on them, I thought: Oh, I will never eat all that. I cleaned the bowl, and I tasted those potatoes all afternoon (in a good way).

I wandered around a little longer but was 1. full (the downside of being small) 2. concerned about the ambitious agenda I’d set for my day in the city, which included popping in to the Rijksmuseum. That adventure follows later. For now, let’s just say I returned to Rollende Keukens at 18:00, ready to eat some more.

It was obvious as I neared the park that for dinner, Rollende Keukens was going to be much busier. Groups of bikes and pedestrians were all drifting that way, clogging the crossings. Chairs and picnic tables that had been sparse at lunch were now packed. Live bands were playing on several stages. I walked in a different direction, and bought a vegetarian pita gyro. The stand advertised it as lekkere; the older guy in charge looked like he was Mediterranean and meant business; and the gyro was fantastic. Messy—but fantastic. (This was my favorite thing that I ate.)

I wished I had friends along—this was a perfect group activity. I also admired the vibrant cacophony of style. Not only were the individual vendors aesthetically different, they had each brought their own tables and chairs—everything from hay bales to beanbags to traditional picnic benches. The only downside (other than not having a bottomless stomach) was the weather. Today was chilly, cloudy, and very windy. Periodically I would have to turn my head as dust blew in my face (or food).

I was next drawn by the Gastrovan. Their chalkboard menu advertised homemade ginger ale with lime and mint. My eyes must have lit up when I read it, because the friendly guy started right up a conversation with me and I decided to order. While he made the drink, I may have misheard him, but if not he was telling me something about the soul of ginger. After that (this part I know is right), he told me how he and his friends spent six months in the van, driving around the Netherlands, France, and Spain, seeking great recipes and learning to cook. It turned out they were three young guys from Delft. He told me they have a cookbook coming out later this summer, chronicling their adventures.

The ginger ale was, in fact, delicious… but at €3 / glass, I thought the portions could have been a bit more generous. (Be warned: a food festival like this is a place where you can go through more money than you’re realizing, as most things seemed to be priced €4/5/6. It doesn’t seem like much… until you eat five things.) The Gastrovan guy told me that so far the day had been very slow for them—Thursday (Hemelvaart, a holiday here) had been so busy, they sold out of food and closed early. (“Today,” he told me, “I took a nap in the van.”)

I got on the train smelling like (wood) smoke—which was lovely. And in between having both lunch and dinner at the festival, I visited the Rijksmuseum.

The Rijksmuseum is one of Amsterdam’s top museums, with a substantial collection of Dutch Masters. Until this April, it had been closed or partially open for ten years while the building underwent a modernization and renovation. The buzz around the reopening was that the re-envisioned space was beautiful (and they have famous art, too). To be honest, the Dutch Golden Age isn’t my favorite period in art history (I prefer the van Gogh Museum down the street). But I was curious about the Rijksmuseum in all its redesigned glory.

I knew it was likely the museum would be crowded today. But as I have a Museumkaart (which is a fantastic investment—easily pays for itself in a year), I didn’t expect to wait in a queue. Following the late lunch, I hopped the 3 tram to Museumplein. It was 15:30 when I arrived, and I knew the museum closes at 17:00, but since I wasn’t going to be paying €15, that was fine with me.

Then I met a massive queue, nearly reaching the IAmsterdam letters. One unfortunate and kind girl was directing traffic, and it was hard not to be annoyed when she told me that Museumkaart holders also had to wait in this line, in this instance—because the museum was at capacity, and they could only let people in as people exited. “Thirty minutes,” she assured me. I walked in the door at 16:15, and only because a lot of people in front of me bailed, probably deciding the massive entrance fee wasn’t worth it for less than an hour.

Please hang on while I rant: I am not a fan of overcrowded museums. I nearly had a panic attack in the Vatican. The Louvre was quite peaceful in the “less popular” galleries, but mobbed wherever one of the “top ten” pieces was displayed. If someone tells you the Rijksmuseum is at capacity—you can be certain they mean it.

It is so hard to enjoy a piece of art, especially a relatively small one like the Mona Lisa (Louvre) or Vermeer’s Milkmaid (Rijksmuseum) while you are packed in, getting shoved by dozens of people, being reminded by signs (Louvre) to watch your wallet because pickpockets target these spots, and–for the love–having every visitor older than age seven holding up their cell phone / fancy camera / camera to take a photo of the painting.

I seriously, seriously prefer when photography is disallowed inside museums. Take away that distraction and I will gladly buy a postcard of the painting I admire. Both the Louvre and the Rijksmuseum allow photography, which honestly surprises me. The Rijksmuseum didn’t even seem to be actively preventing flash photography. I waited patiently to get before The Milkmaid, only to have people reaching all around my face holding out their iPhones to snap a picture.

In a word: NO.

Still [end rant], at 16:15 I was inside.

So. You’re in the Rijksmuseum. You’ve only got 45 minutes until closing. You grab a map. The place is huge. What do you make a beeline to see? Vermeer? Rembrandt? van Gogh?

Obviously, the library.

I wanted to see this library, and it didn’t disappoint. Quiet and dignified but not stuffy, exuding that mysterious unread-old-texts appeal, including the fancifully obligatory spiral staircase and multi-tiered bookcases rising to the ceiling. A few students were scattered at the tables working, and a friendly staff member answered a couple of my questions. (Yes, you can request to read the collection inside the library, catalogue online.) It was around this time that I decided to renew my Museumkaart for next year.

Satisfied and still with some time remaining, I went to see van Gogh (priority no. 2) (phone-camera hotspot) and then Vermeer (ditto). I wandered through a few rooms stopping briefly at things that caught my eye. My initial impression was that the renovation is lovely—I’d like to return on a very dull Tuesday morning… if there is such a thing.

The Last Queen’s Day

It’s a really good thing that today is not tomorrow.

I’m looking out the window watching pouring rain, and tourists intrepidly making their way to Delft centrum with only drugstore umbrellas as a shield, and locals biking in full rain gear (or not).

This would be terrible weather for a yard sale.

Tomorrow is Queen’s Day, a holiday I’ve written about before; but this year it’s different: on Koninginnedag 2013, the Dutch Queen Beatrix will abdicate, passing the throne of the Netherlands to her son, the about-to-be King Willem-Alexander, and his wife Maxima.

Politically this doesn’t mean a ton. The Dutch monarch is primarily ornamental, providing a good public image (one hopes) and meeting regularly with the Prime Minister. Beatrix is 75, and she’s been the Queen since 1980. I was surprised, after seeing her pleasant face everywhere for the past month, to learn that earlier in life she was quite the controversial figure here. In 1966, which for most people was not nearly enough distance from the occupation of WWII, she married a German diplomat who had served in the Wehrmacht (German armed forces) during the war. Her wedding in Amsterdam was marked by public protest, as was her investiture (the Dutch don’t do “crowning”) in 1980. She and her family survived a Queen’s Day assassination attempt in 2009, the motivation for which was never fully explained.

This weekend I asked a few Dutch friends how people feel about the whole changing-of-the-guard. It’s all over the shops and news and media. (There has even been a mild to-do about a song that was commissioned for the investiture of Willem-Alexander, released, generally disparaged, and revoked by the embarrassed artist—before it was decided the song will be used as planned.) But is there an emotion about the event, or just another excuse for parties and orange sunglasses?

The florist on our street, ready for tomorrow

My twenty-something Amsterdam friend told me that to her it is “the last thing” on her mind, but to her parents’ generation, the Queen is important. Another young friend shared a similar sentiment: he doesn’t feel any connection to the royal family. A third friend, a little older than the first two, told me it’s important that the royal family keeps up a respectable image. They are, after all, the face of the country, and so Willem-Alexander had better not be embarrassing anyone. Beatrix was a good figurehead, and so she won people over over time.

In comparison to the royal family of England, the House of Orange-Nassau mainly stays out of the tabloids. They have a reputation for living quietly and in a reasonably (for a royal family) down-t0-earth manner.

There is absolutely nothing down-to-earth about the commercial orange mania available in the stores right now, and so this weekend I tried to capture some of it.

Douwe Egbert’s coffee offering a koningsblend (king’s blend)

I have to admit I wondered who was buying all these commemorative books (there were even commemorative greeting cards you could send your friends)—and then I noticed the two women waiting in front of me in the stationery store each had two of them.

You might think this is a coincidence, but I’m certain it’s not.

“Abdication Beer” at Flink Gegist

Abdication Hagelslag (breakfast chocolate)

And last but not least: the item that, in my opinion, takes the orange cake:

Albert Heijn (grocery store) is selling a packet of ingredients that you can use to make a “King’s Soup.” Basically, it includes an assortment of orange food products:  a carrot, an orange pepper, an orange, curry powder, and I forget what else. There was a recipe printed on the back. I suppose it would be orange. I’m concerned it would be horrendous.

I’m not sure what we’re doing tomorrow—we’ve mentioned everything from going to Amsterdam to staying home to scouting the yard sales for a comfy chair. Last year the Queen somehow managed a sunny, warm day—let’s hope the King can call in a similar favor.

Just Let Me Run

The day before the bombings at the Boston Marathon, I was privileged to be a spectator at the Rotterdam Marathon & 10K in nearby Rotterdam, the Netherlands.

Marathoners! just starting out (note the grim determination and cautious optimism)

The full marathon began at 10:30, and the 10K followed from the same starting gate on a different route after a delay (to get all those marathoners on their long, long way). I don’t normally watch races, since I only started attending them around the time I began running them. But on Sunday, Tim was running the 10K, so after wishing him luck in startvak B, I set out to find a good viewing position.

And was promptly stuck in a suffocating, absolutely stationary crowd of fans.

I began to despair that I would ever get near the course, and even after I finally did—I realized that the course ran on a lot of divided roads (tram tracks or an underpass in the middle), making it very difficult to pick out a specific runner, unless you had predetermined on which side he intended to run (we had not). As the runners with B on their bibs faded to Cs and Ds, I realized I had missed him, and I was disappointed and frustrated. Together with an Israeli woman I had just met, I raced through more crowds to try and find a view of the back end of the course.

I finally saw Tim as he passed with about a mile to go. He ran right by with a big smile and thumbs up, as I pushed the button on my camera over and over again with no effect—I’d shut it off.

Passing under Rotterdam’s famous Cube Houses

Seriously, I was thinking, watching a race is so much more stressful than running it. Just let me run.

This was a day before spectators at Boston were blasted by explosives.

My sister (who ran a 3:31:40 in Boston’s heat-wave marathon of 2012) was a spectator at Boston on Monday. She wasn’t hurt. She would have been running, but for an injury. Yesterday she blogged her thoughts on the day, and I was so impressed that I wanted to share her reflections with you.

I’m pasting the entry below, but you can link to her original blog here:

One if by land, two if by sea.

I wandered the Boston Marathon expo on Saturday, picked up my packet and shirt, and shed a few tears about the race I wouldn’t run, thanks to continuing issues with my right hip. Thankfully it’s hard to stay sad at the Boston Marathon expo for long.

I watched what I can assume was a first-timer pick up his bib and just stare at it, as if it would bite him. I watched a mess of runners anxiously trying on their shirts, asking family members for advice on fit. I walked through the huge Adidas shop with the official marathon gear and saw excited runners purchasing their signature Boston Marathon jacket. I watched curious runners trying out The Stick (seriously, what runner hasn’t heard of The Stick by now?), and walked on to the pop-up shops of the big athletic companies.

One of my favorite things about the Boston Marathon expo is that several huge athletic brands make entire lines of clothing just for Boston every year, and every year each brand has a theme. These shops make us average runners feel like professionals, offering race gear tailored to our race, each with bigger and better slogans on the best new fabrics.

It may sound odd and a little tacky, but New Balance‘s Paul Revere theme brought me out of my funk, and reinforced my excitement to cheer.

from the Expo

I explained Paul Revere’s Midnight Ride to my boyfriend, not originally from the United States, as we wandered through the New Balance shop two days before the race:

The night of April 18th, 1775 Paul Revere eluded British patrol to alert church vestrymen to light two lanterns in the North Church of Charlestown, signifying that British troops were approaching Lexington via the Charles River. Revere then rode on horseback to Lexington to warn the Massachusetts Congress, alerting other riders and every house on his journey. The alarms enabled the militia to meet the British soldiers before they reached Lexington, who then retreated to Boston.

This day and the successes of the ensuing battles are celebrated in Massachusetts as Patriots’ Day, now a public holiday that includes the annual running of the Boston Marathon and a late morning Red Sox game.

Each brightly colored shirt, pair of shorts and tights, and even the shoes in the New Balance shop had a logo of Paul Revere riding to Lexington holding a glowing lantern, and the gear was loaded with reflective material. Super practical and so freaking cool. High five, New Balance.

One of the first solid facts to come out of the tragedy that occurred yesterday was that the police had no knowledge that this attack was coming. There was no warning, no one to light a lantern or ride through the streets. Boston did not have a modern-day Paul Revere to prevent the fatalities and injuries from the bombs on Boylston Street yesterday.

What Boston had was an enormous number of people with the same spirit Revere had in 1775, the spirit to help and protect friends, family, and total strangers, and minimize casualties. People from all over lit their own lanterns in Boston this Patriots’ Day.

Marathoners ran through the finish area straight to Mass General Hospital to donate blood. Race officials shut down the finish line immediately, preventing further injuries. Emergency personnel, law enforcement, marathon volunteers, and even off-duty army soldiers responded within seconds, running toward the blasts, ushering people to safety or getting them medical attention. Along the marathon course, spectators rushed into their houses to get blankets, water, and food for the thousands of marathoners stopped short of the city. Hundreds of Bostonians offered up their cell phones, cars, spare rooms, and even their living room couches to displaced runners and their families when hotels went on lockdown.

It’s impossible to count or name all of the heroes that lit their lanterns yesterday, and that’s what makes the aftermath of this atrocity bearable.

Ride on, Reveres.

You can follow my sister’s running blog at http://liannerunslikeagirl.wordpress.com and on twitter @runlikeagirl85 . She’s guest-blogged here once before about, of all things, kale.

Terugkomen is niet hetzelfde als blijven.

Cutting beneath an overpass to get back to Centraal Station in Amsterdam last week, I saw for the first time these letters. Coming back is not the same as staying. For a moment, I experienced that prickly joy that comes after realizing I read something with medium-sized words and understood it without help. Then the words sunk in. Maybe it’s just where things have been lately, and I know I’m not the only person to walk back to a train station— but the phrase rattled around my head for days.

My sister came to visit for four days, earning the coveted tied-first-place award for our most-frequent visitor (currently shared with my uncle). She went home yesterday. Going to Schiphol Departures and leaving by yourself is a sad way to start the day. (It’s almost cruel that you have to pass by Arrivals on the way out of the airport.) It’s fun when someone comes to visit who’s been here before, because there’s far less pressure to “Show Them Holland.” She’s already seen the highlights of Delft and was ready to rattle off her preferred list of establishments where we should procure food and drink (sandwiches from Il Tartufo, beers from ‘t Klooster, chocolate from De Lelie).

She remembers how to ride a bicycle.

On a day-trip to Amsterdam, we spent the better part of the afternoon at the Verzetsmuseum. It’s directly across from the zoo and tells the story of the Dutch Resistance (and in some cases lack of resistance) during WWII, mostly through personal stories. Things are well-captioned in English, but lack of Dutch will keep you from reading posters, letters, newspapers in the exhibits. We wandered engrossed through the maze-like space while a class of young teens zipped all around us, flirting and filling in the blanks on their papers and seeming ironically oblivious to the fact that many of the people whose stories we were reading were probably their age.

Verzetsmuseum, Amsterdam

It’s a good thing we didn’t have long touristy walks or bike rides on our minds, because Amsterdam and Delft were freezing and windy. I don’t usually mind Dutch weather, and I am at my end-point with the cold. I hate the idea that I have to go to the grocery store and the gym today. My sister came at exactly the same time two years ago—and in those photos, we are walking around with our jackets draped over our arms because the weather was so springy. This March, we passed cafe after cafe where tables with flowers and shakers and fleece blankets had been set optimistically in clusters on the pavement. They stood almost unequivocally empty.

Two for Joy, Haarlemmerdijk, Amsterdam

So we tried to appreciate all the (indoor) opportunities for hot tea and latte macchiatos and warm Chocomel. We sat and talked and talked. She got a haircut, and we got our feet munched by fish at Delft’s Fish Relax Spa. (The first thirty seconds feel really weird, and you laugh a lot, and then it’s fun.) We went out with friends, and discovered that while ‘t Klooster has started serving burgers, they don’t do so on Wednesdays.

This weekend is Easter. We’ll celebrate at our church in the morning, and then in the evening have some friends over for a potluck. One thing I’ve realized, when you’re an expat, is that it’s good to fill your home. Because it can be a long time before you return to the airport, to meet a friend or family. They go back, but your experience goes on.

Terugkomen is niet hetzelfde als blijven.

After all, it finally struck me, the words are in Dutch— they aren’t meant for tourists. They’re meant for residents.

Spring Break Needs a Copy Editor

(Even as I type that title, I can’t help thinking that it goes without saying.) Nevertheless: from the trenches of travel come the following signs.

This is with thanks to Kent, who smartly decided to avoid the Splash Pad until he learns how water is recalculated. The two images below come, respectively, from Japan and Ohio, and are both… clarifying.

Before I lived in Europe, I worked as a copy editor. I still enjoy a good sign.

CPC 10K 2013

All of you are in my personal race space.

Yesterday I ran for the second time the CPC 10k race in den Haag. The CPC event features a kids’ run, a 5k, 10k, and half marathon (all run at separate times). It’s the biggest race event in the Hague. The webpage rotates photos of red-cheeked girls in tank-tops… guys in short-shorts… thousands of runners with their bare arms raised in the air.

None of these pictures were taken yesterday. Yesterday the weather hovered around freezing, so that I could watch my breath while I ran (when I wasn’t watching the snow flurries that began around mile 3). Even though the earlier days of this week were downright springy, Saturday night had me making sure that my winter tights and warmest running top were clean.

After heavy rain on Saturday, the start/finish area at the Malieveld was an absolute mudpit. It was like Dutch Woodstock out there, except with less music and more runners. I slogged my way to a bank of porta-potties, then across the field to the bag drop. My stretching routine was compromised by the lack of any place to sit, barring inches-deep mud.

Still, I’d take mud over 1 degree temps. But it didn’t matter: I got both.

My recollection from 2011 was that this was a very crowded race. In 2013, I and my 7,399 closest friends set out in two waves staggered ten minutes apart (I was in the 2nd. I now think it would have been smarter to start at the very back of the first wave). Unfortunately, the staggering did absolutely nothing to reduce the congestion in the pack. CPC could take a lesson from the great and simple funneling system the Zevenheuvelenloop used, which ensured that every runner hit the start—well, running. For the first mile and beyond, there were so many runners in my personal space that we were constantly stepping on each other’s shoes, and I am certain I was not the only one who couldn’t settle into my normal pace. Even if you wanted to pass people—there was nowhere to go. I doubt I was the only person who finally had to throw an elbow or two to advance. (Also, my sincere apologies to the guy I snot-rocketed directly on around mile 3.)

In the second mile, people were running off-road on the sidewalks and tram tracks just to find space to get around. And on some of the residential streets (which are quite narrow to begin with), cars were parked! Come on—if this is such a big event for the Hague, clear the streets. That would help a little with the overcrowding.

Right around the halfway point of the 10k, there’s a hill. I knew the hill was coming and I was ready for it—because I knew that finally, the hill would force the pack to thin out a bit. There was also a water station (the only one on the course), and that drew a lot of runners to one side. From there on out, there were still a lot of people, but I had enough space to run comfortably.

This was the first race I have ever run with a GPS watch (Tim’s Garmin Forerunner 110). I have to confess: I liked it. I’ve never been a runner who obsesses about my time, usually telling myself that I know I’m not that fast and I just run for my health. More recently I started tracking my paces and realized that I was running half marathons at a very similar pace to 10ks and even shorter runs. (Warning bells.)

Never running with a watch meant that I usually had no idea of my time until I finished a race. Because I start late in the pack, the “official” clocks on the route don’t indicate my time. When we ran Edinburgh, for example, I didn’t see the official clock when I finally crossed the start line, so I wasn’t sure how off from it I was. It was something like 20 minutes. Anyway—then sometimes afterward I’m disappointed because I “thought I was faster.” Clearly, the Garmin takes the mystery out of that. Running my regular runs with the Garmin helped me realize that I run ridiculous, uneven splits: my first mile might be around 10:30 or even 11:00, but then my subsequent miles drop off by as much as a minute each time. For this race, I set out to start at my “normal” starting pace, and then decrease each mile not by minutes but by reasonable, comfortable increments for an average of 10-minute miles. Near the end, I realized I was very close to finishing in under an hour and tried to push for it, but came in at 1:00:45 (which was still a PR for me). I think without the congestion early in the race, I’d have done it.

“Take the picture; I’m freezing.”

After waiting in a huge swarm of people for my free sport drink and my medal, I slogged back through the mud field and was able to find Tim. I was SO COLD by the time the race-warmth wore off. Then I was just sweaty and freezing. We got on a train back to Delft with a group of other runners, one of whom tried to congratulate me by name (from my bib). My confusing name (see Zevenheuvelenloop post) stumped him, and someone else had to tell me it was my name he was attempting to pronounce.

I’m the sort of runner who needs some races on the calendar to help me keep motivated, and so I’m glad I did the 2013 CPC. It’s close to home, and it’s not an expensive race (I paid €19 no shirt, and it was cheaper earlier). The accessibility might tempt me again, but I’m going to reread this post and remember how I felt about the density of the race. I’m sure it’s a fine line, deciding how many people to allow in a race. You want that “race crowd” atmosphere, for sure. But for a mid-pack runner, an overcrowded race just doesn’t set you up for your best time.

Yet another “American” sandwich

I tell you: I never knew how much America was known for the sandwich until I moved overseas. I’m still pretty baffled by it. This is from a place in the Zurich airport, which was convincingly neither Italian, or American.

Click here for past “American”isms.