transit typing

I am sitting on the train going south from Amsterdam, after a weekend in the city. I still love it as much as before, even though the weather is just the kind that reminds me of why I like living in Iceland- a day that SEEMs cool and fresh because of the wind, but the humidity in the causes everyone to go limp and soggy. Still, the cafe living and the texture of the city is enough to make me overlook that, just for the weekend.

Yesterday I went back to Cahmen's favorite cafe, just for old time's sake. I chose a seat at a wicker chair with a thin-legged metal table under the yellow striped awning in the uncertain sunshine, watching the waiters cross the street with their full trays to the bridge seating. Another cafe on the opposite corner had pigeons plaguing the guests and tables, so the waiters there would come out with a supercharged water gun to chase them away every few rounds.

I ordered gazpacho to start, my second of the weekend. The one I'd had the night before contained apples and shrimp, but this one was just honest tomato-vegetable goodness, topped with crispy, flavorful homemade croutons. Accompanied by a citron pressé mixed just as I like, the combination made the most of the summery weekend and the relaxed afternoon there.

As I sat, bicycles, horse carriages, and delivery wagons passed occasionally- just enough activity to give a lone diner plenty to watch, but not so much that I couldn't appreciate each individual ping of a bell, clatter of horse hooves, and hum of Dutch from across the street. Tourist packs wandered by occasionally and moved on- all flavors of visitors, from the Sensibly Shod American types to some fierce Italian guys sporting waistpacks like it was the next Hot Trend (is it? They were the kind of Italian man that can wear whatever and make it look like the latest thing).

Sometimes I feel like this brand of tourism is not the most productive, since I have now been to Amsterdam twice and not been to the Rijksmuseum (in my defense, the line was discouraginly long when I went by yesterday and today, and there is a notice informing visitors of the construction that closes part of the museum). Still, whenever I'm sitting and having these lazy lunches or walks in the neighborhood, I am always fizzing with internal glee that I am HERE, in whatever legendary city it may be.

I found myself in a similar position this morning when I took a detour from my hotel on the way downtown. I ended up in what I will dub the South End of Amsterdam. Anyone who has been to the posh parts of the South End of Boston where all the gay couples are buying brownstones will know the vibe I am talking about. Astounding late Victorian to early Edwardian buildings with a few on the early side of Deco, the tree-lined streets were silent and rain-washed this morning. The wealthy, well-maintained feeling still exuded from the silent facades, and glimpses to the inside revealed sleek, book-lined interiors stocked with beautiful art.

After about twenty minutes of wandering I ended up on the edge of Vondel Park, a construction I think Olmsted would have approved of- networks of bike and walking paths, willow trees drooping into the ponds and meandering brooks, and wrought-iron humped bridges that crossed in convenient spots into willow-draped glens. In spite of the blustery weather that hinted at the changing season, people were out jogging and strolling, and I followed a mother and her two young children on puddle patrol around half a pond (this means going to the puddles and stomping in them a lot, to decide which is the "best" puddle. Important to wear rubber boots for this one).

I could wander all day just looking at buildings there. The architectural periods are among my favorites, and the detailing goes all the way to the font on the mail slots. I love spotting things like that. The activities in the neighborhoods are also much more interesting to witness- parents teaching children to ride bicycles, people coming home with their grocery shopping, peeks at people reading books curled up on their couches inside, and I even came upon the arrival of a bride in a vintage white VW convertible Beetle (top up due to the rain). I want to know how everyone lives here, not what I am directed to see by the sign posts, the stripe on the sidewalk, or the guidebook paraphernalia at the hotel desk. Sure, I miss a few things, but so do all the people who come just to stand in front of the Night Watch. Maybe next time for that. In the meantime, I'll remember the hand-knitted bike paniers and the guy with the two dozen green and purple balloons walking down the street.

Ship sighting: On the way out of town on the train, I passed the Amstel Botel, which looks like a joy of tackiness to stay at. The rooms are shipshape, and it even has a pool table. Neat!