A Walker in the Suburbs

You can stroll the canals and cruise the pedestrian zones, but when you’re tired of those, Amsterdam offers another option: hidden courtyards.

The first we discovered wasn’t all that hidden, given the quasi-bouncer guy who allowed us in. We quickly learned that only 50 people are allowed in the Begijnhof courtyard at a time because this quiet enclave of homes and churches (there are two of them, a Catholic and Protestant) is still occupied.

The Begijnhof began with a group of women who lived in community to help the needy. Women still live there, and when I visited the place its underlying calm was punctuated by the sound of workmen hammering away, keeping the place in repair. The oldest house in Amsterdam is located within this quiet space, built in 1528. (I’ll let that sink in a minute … a house, still standing, built almost five centuries ago.)

Yesterday, we saw another secret-seeming place — St. Andrew’s Courtyard, one of several hofjes (subsidized residences) around the city. To enter we pushed on what seemed like the door to a private home. But it opened to reveal a hallway lined in Delft tile leading to a sweet garden square.

Amsterdam is a busy, buzzing, captivating city. These quiet places provide contrast and sustenance. After visiting them, I felt calm, peaceful … and ready to roll again.

Photographs aren’t allowed inside the Anne Frank House, so I took notes. So many heartbreaking details: the movie star photos Anne tacked to the wall, including one of American actor Ray Milland. The growth chart in faint pencil, similar to the one on the inside of our pantry door back home. Anne was only 13 when her family went into hiding in the “secret annex” of a house near our hotel in Amsterdam.

And then there were the words themselves, Anne’s words. The tour focuses on them, as it should. It was through words that Anne became an icon of the Holocaust, the single individual we can mourn when the sheer number of victims — six million — overwhelms us. As someone who’s kept a journal since high school, I got goosebumps when I saw the diary with its red plaid pages.

“Lieve [Dear] Kitty,” Anne began every entry. Her penmanship was fluid and even, and her margins were small. She used every inch of paper, a girl after my own heart! On one of her journal pages, she wrote these words:

“I want to be useful or bring enjoyment to all people, even those I’ve never met. I want to go on living even after my death! And that’s why I’m so grateful to God for having given me this gift, which I can use to develop myself and to express all that’s inside me! When I write I can shake off all my cares. My sorrow disappears, my spirits are revived! But, and that’s a big question, will I ever be able to write something great, will I ever become a journalist or a writer?”

She did become a writer, of course, with a fame that far exceeds anything she might have dreamed of. But what a price she had to pay.

(An exterior shot of Anne Frank’s house, as noted on the small plaque to the right of the door.)

We’ve been in Amsterdam less than 24 hours but I’ve already realized that to be a walker here means you must be always on your guard. From cars, yes, sure, as with any city. From trucks, of course, there are the usual complement.

But mostly from bicycles. It’s hard to tell from the sweet photo above how quickly these two-wheelers glide along the street, how they appear from out of nowhere on bike lanes and sidewalks, and how quickly we must scurry to get out of their way.

Bicycles appear in every form here, outfitted with cunning child-carriers and big baskets. I saw a woman yesterday about to pedal away with a potted plant as tall as she was. Bicycles are the ride of choice in Amsterdam, and good for the Dutch that they have such a fun and healthy way to get around.

But for the visitors, they pose a small (okay, not a small) problem. All I want to do is wander the lanes and ogle the canals and houses, the parks and churches. But along with all that I must always look for a bicycle to come barreling around the corner. In Amsterdam, you must walk defensively.

We are leaving Paris today, and I’m feeling sad. I’m up for a new adventure, of course, but this part of the trip has special meaning because I’ve been visiting a dear friend. So on top of seeing the sights, we’re catching up on years’ worth of conversations.

To illustrate today’s post, I’ve chosen a clock that’s in an old train station, Gare D’Orsay, which is now the Museé D’Orsay, chock full of Impressionist paintings. It’s a beautiful clock, but like all clocks it’s a reminder of time passing … and passing … and passing.

Travel seems to slow the passage of time. But not enough. Not nearly enough.

Still, we’ll be back through this beautiful city briefly on our way home, so for now it’s “Au revoir, Paris!”

To be in Paris is to be immersed in beauty, not only because of the many fine museums (like the Marmottan, which we visited yesterday), but also because every view is a head-turning one. Whether it’s the Eiffel Tower, Claude Monet’s “Impression, Sunrise,” or an ordinary street corner, it’s worth a second glance.

What would it be like to live in a place optimized for style, from Metro signs to newspaper kiosks to national icons? Would it become humdrum? Knowing human nature, I’m afraid it might. But to the traveler, the city never loses its luster.

It’s been more than a year since the Olympics electrified France and the rest of the world. The French are keeping the Olympic spirit alive by sending the cauldron, known here as the Vasque, up into the night sky throughout the summer. They will do so for the next two summers, until the 2028 Los Angeles Olympics.

The cauldron rises as the sun sets, an alternative light, an unearthly sight floating above the Tuileries. When I first glimpsed it I thought of the UFOs I used to read about as a child — strange hovering craft.

The Vasque hovers too, because it’s tethered. But it is most decidedly of Earth. And of Paris. Stylish, elegant, no more nor less than it needs to be.

Built to promote sustainable energy, the Vasque creates a flame without combustion by projecting mist and light. It’s advertised as a “flame without fire.”

We found a front-row seat by slipping into a café on the Rue de Rivoli, where I sipped tea and snapped this shot. A perfect night for the Vasque. A perfect night, period.

Yesterday, the bells of Eglise St. Martin called worshippers to Mass. Dong, dong, dong, they sounded. From inside the church, where we were sitting, it felt like they were banging on my ribcage, pulsing with my blood. They rang briefly at the consecration and again at the end of the service, after a thrilling organ postlude (another auditory treat).

But I kept coming back to the bells, their clanging a poignant reminder of faith and time. I was remembering a book I read for class last year, Village Bells: Sound and Meaning by Alain Corbin, translated from French, so doubly appropriate to mention here.

“The bell was regarded as a support for collective memory, and with good reason,” Corbain writes. “The people long preserved the memory of its sonority.” Bells represented cohesion, community, the triumph of civilization over disorder.

For me, they are one more reason to love the European way of life, a life where (at least in the city of Colmar), bells mark the morning and the evening … and the magic of this place.