The Gyp

Often the journey to a destination is worthy of a mention but this time I shall skip by the early rise, the drive through to Ingliston in the dark and the entirely perfunctory flight. They just happened before my brain was awake enough of take notice of anything. I would however like to thank Clairwil's dad for driving us through at such an ungodly hour. I'm sure the bus journey's involved wouldn't have done us any harm, but it was great to get under way with only our check in to contend with. Flying isn't really my bag, though I do like the take off/landing. All that bumping about at thirty odd thousand feet you can keep though......

We took off in murky conditions and landed in the same. We then proceeded to get the wrong train from Schipol. A rather kind conductor let us know before we found ourselves in Vladivostok and pointed us in the right direction. She even marked our tickets in Dutch lest we encounter a more pedantic ticket puncher on the train back and incur a fine (thirty Euros being the going rate)



The Ibis was our first port of call in Amsterdam and to the relief of my not yet aching shoulders the hotel was mere yards away. Anyway, all booked in and having examined our digs, Clairwil and I set about a bit of mild exploring.......

The first thing you notice about Amsterdam is the traffic. Five lanes of it. Bicycles, then cars, then trams, then cars and bikes again. I was almost mown down by cyclists on a number of occasions and at least once unwittingly played chicken with a tram. We get very casual about our traffic signals in Britain but a tourist in a major Dutch city can very easily end up as roadkill by not adjusting themselves to the new environment and using the crossings. Part of the fun I reckon......

A wander through the side streets took us to the rather huge and impressive Dam Square. Cue the statue 'artists' (go on, punch them in the nuts for me!) and an old lad playing what looked like a Glockenspiel. I liked him, he seemed to be battling the odds and the elements with a determination I rarely see from any Glasgow buskers (punch them in the nuts too if you want) We soon found ourselves in a busy little bar and got some much needed food and drink. The seats we'd landed in were in a small conservatory in front of the main bar and afforded us an excellent view of the Amsterdam rush hour. Trams, cars, bikes and pedestrians gliding around each other like chaotic clockwork in the dimming light. I'll admit I've never been one for watching the world go by but I'd have happily stayed for the rest of the evening.



A pleasant Indian meal was followed by a jaunt around some local bars. We eventually stumbled across a small pub across from the hotel, the name of which evades me at this moment in time. It was run by a portly and slightly offhand gent who nonetheless patiently put up with my inept pronunciation with regard to the local beers. Clairwil directed my attention to the floor and asked if it was really sawdust on the floor. It looked to be. Failing that the cleaner hadn't turned up for a good week or so. That said, it was probably the best pub we were in throughout the whole week.

Day two in Amsterdam should have been one tackled with vigour and enthusiasm. It wasn't. Certainly not on my part. I awoke with sore legs and arms and a throat that felt like it had been scoured with a brillo pad. Theoretically I should have called off on it but since it was to be our only full day in the city, I think I made the right decision. A hearty breakfast across the road from the hotel and we were off. Our aim was the Museumplein and possibly Vondelpark. We wandered for a while in the general direction of our destination before becoming a smidge lost. We soon regained our bearings and found what we were looking for. At first we marvelled at the wonderful outdoor skating rink. Every so often a tractor would appear to smooth the ice and of course the local kids used this as a way to drag themselves around the rink for no extra effort on their part. In Glasgow the tractor would have been driven by an officious, red faced wee man shouting at the kids to "get away from the vehicle". The bloke on the tractor in this instance seemed unperturbed by the tomfoolery and just got on with it. He obviously realised the young 'uns knew their arses from their elbows and were perfectly capable of taking care of themselves.



An hour or so was spent wandering about looking for somewhere to put our feet up and have a few drinks. We somehow ended up in a completely dry part of the city. Nothing but expensive clothes shops and well heeled types in Chelsea Tractors. After a quick coffee in a posh hotel bar (very good it was too) I headed off to the Van Gogh museum whilst Clairwil retired to a nearby pub we had belatedly spotted. She had been to the museum twice before and saw little point in accompanying my man-flu ridden carcass on a third visit. The museum was mobbed and I wasn't really in a mood to fight my way through the hordes to get at the main attractions. I wandered up into the two other upstairs galleries which were less crowded. The old smoking skull painting was rather jolly. Not a patch on the bizarre self portraits that resided in the basement area though. I was also pleased to see a few Egon Scheile paintings.