Beggars and Gypsies and Pickpockets, Oh My!

So…! It’s been far, far, far too long since I’ve blogged. Too busy preparing, well, actually finally writing and finishing my keynote presentation about Vincent van Gogh's Symbolist art for Brighton last week. It went well and a video will be available on YouTube in a few weeks.

I’m on the train from Manchester to York, to Edinburgh, to Ladybank and then finally to Fife, where I'm staying in a little cottage in Lindores. About five and a half hours of traveling today... My god, so much has happened since I left you last in Belgium. I’ve lost not one, but two bloody cell phones. More on that later.

Here, I hope to recap, a bit, some of the adventures; getting you up to date with the amazing details of this incredible journey later.

But first, a pitch. Halfway through the journey of this quest, I find myself running low on money. While all of the travel, accommodations and various museum and activity tickets have been paid for well in advance; I’m afraid I won’t make it to the end of my pilgrimage and I’m hoping you (yes, you) can help.

So, I’d like to offer you (yes, you!) a signed, personalized copy of my first book. It’s called Plaits, which is a homonym. Plaits are braids but the word also sounds like the plates from which we eat our food. The book is a collection of poetry and recipes. I have entwined a crown of sonnets within a seven course meal. (Brilliant, I know… and wait until you read it!)

Recently, my friend Rachel attended a poetry seminar in the Hamptons. US poet laureate Billy Collins was teaching. When she told me this in Paris, I dedicated a book to him and asked her to pass it along. Well she did, and even got a photograph of Billy midway through my book. What a thrill to see that picture! One of the greatest poets of our time – of all time – was taking his time to read my words. Overwhelmed doesn’t begin to describe it and my eyes still swell just thinking of it.

Already have a copy? These make great gifts, especially at Christmas. It’s never too early to plan ahead (I’m one to talk) and how wonderful would it be for you, yes you, to gift a personalized copy and be able to say, “Yeah, I know this guy”? Pretty great, right? In fact, in the attempt to spread this little book far and wide, use the Promo code BOGO and I'll send two for the price of one.

Please click the link here and fill your life, and the lives of others, with poetry and gastronomy.

So... after visiting St. Andrew's in Antwerp, Connie, Margaret and I upgraded our AirBnB and checked into a two bedroom flat near the center of town. We had dinner, I'm almost sure, somewhere, but I'll have to touch base with them to blog about those details later. What I remember, is in the morning, we were going to head for Brussels. Somehow on the motorway we saw a sign that said we were on a road that would take us directly to Bruges. Margaret and I convinced Connie this was a must-see and so we headed to Bruges! It's a storybook village, you know and more importantly has this:

The only Michelangelo sculpture outside of Italy, his Madonna and Child. It's more beautiful than this picture could ever relate. After seeing this, and weeping, we took a cruise through the canals and found a seat outside of the bell tower famous for having 366 steps. Connie and I were game to climb it, until we had a couple of drinks. There went that motivation... It was on to Brussels!

Besides Amsterdam, Brussels was the first really big city I'd been in. I could tell the difference, even from Amsterdam, immediately. There was a heavy police and military presence. So many officers carrying assault rifles. It didn't bother me. Actually made me feel more safe. What idiot terrorist would mess with such a show of force? The other thing immediately apparent were all of the beggars. Don't really recall encountering any up until Brussels. They would become a theme through the big cities... so much poverty, but also, as an entrepreneur, I feel, so much laziness. Just go clean something, anything for someone, anyone and good things will come from it. At least, that's how it worked for me and my window cleaning company. But that's a story for another time.

I will say this about Brussels, the Grand Place is amazing, especially at night, even if it doesn't fall until 11:30 pm like it did the night we were there.

After this video was taken by Margaret, Connie wanted to see the peeing boy and the peeing girl. They're little statues around the Grand Place. The peeing boy was easy to find; the peeing girl, not so much. But eventually we did find her, next to a pub, spilling over with people. After taking a few shots, Margaret and Connie were ready to say goodbye and head to their hotel. They did Like a prat, I decided to stay and have another beer, not realizing my phone was about to die.

Long story short, my phone was all but dead and I met this guy. Seemed like a nice enough guy. He told me he could help me charge my phone. Like an idiot I gave him my phone and charger only to have him wander off with it. The next day I went to the police office, we had a good laugh. The phone was gone.

Bummer. I had the phone blocked into a paper weight. The next night I had a lovely dinner with Ioana and her boyfriend Yann. I blew out my flip-flops and Yann was good enough to give me a pair of his so I could make it back to my AirBnB in something other than bare feet. The rest of my time in Brussels was pretty uneventful. Depressed about my phone, I didn't feel like seeing any museums or doing much of anything besides moping in my room. I planned my train trip to Paris, did some laundry and likely smoked too many cigarettes in my state of high anxiety.

The trip to Paris was a snap. I met some Irish men, supporters of the national team as I realized the UEFA cup taking place throughout France was going to be a very big deal. When I arrived in Paris, the plan was to meet my friend Rachel at Sacre Coueur. I headed up those thousand steps, took in the amazing view, and found a pub so I could get online on my laptop and have some kind of communication with Rachel as she was flying into CDG and taking the train. Worried she might not be able to find Sacre Coueur, I agreed to walk back down to the train station and meet her. Rather than head back up to Sacre Coueur, we decided to try to find our apartment on the east side of Paris.

Within an hour, Rachel had had her purse snatched by a bloody pickpocket. Oh my.

Au revoir for now,
Jared

I’m on the bus from Marseilles to Nice, very close to Cannes. I should arrive at the airport bus station in about half an hour. Just long enough to jot down some thoughts and a story or two.

 

When I left you last, we had just met Ron Driven, Director of the Van GoghHuis. Again, thanks to Margaret, who can apparently sell ice to Eskimos; he agreed to have lunch with us. He took us down the street a hundred meters or so and we ate in the courtyard of what used to be a nunnery. I had the nun burger; so did Ron.

Not bad, but I’ll never understand why Europeans use filler in their burgers… tastes more like Salisbury Steak.

So we get to chatting about Vincent and his time in Arles, especially around the time he painted Café Terrace at Night. It turns out Ron knows quite a bit about this phase. One of the books he has written, available for sale at the Van GoghHuis is called Boch and Van Gogh There were two Bochs in fact, instrumental to his story. The first, Eugene, became a friend of Vincent’s while he was in Arles. They’d go for long walks through the countryside, to see the bullfights at the ancient, Roman collisseum, and sometimes they would visit a little café in the Place du Forum. Vincent immortalized Boch in this painting, which, he wrote was something like the face of Dante, the poet.

The second Boch, Anna, Eugene’s sister is famous for purchasing the only painting we know of for sure that was sold while he was still alive. The Red Vineyard.

 

As we’re chatting, Ron tells as that the road we’re on, the main road through town, the same one that passes by the little chapel where Vincent’s father used to preach was built by Napoleon. Fascinating. I don’t know what it is about me, maybe the beer was getting to me a little bit, but sometimes my mouth says things my brain gives it, before really thinking about it...

Trying to get some bearing of the age of the road, I ask “Was it built before or after Waterloo?”

Yeah, as soon as I said it, we all had a good laugh. I think it helps my character to be a bit foolish sometimes. Too often especially with my research, I become too convinced I know it all. I don’t know hardly anything. But I do know Vincent painted the Last Supper and it’s been hiding in plain sight for over a century…

After lunch, we drove to Antwerp. With a new travelling buddy, we needed to find other accommodations. Luckily, AirBnB, after I complained about getting eaten alive by the mosquitoes in Amsterdam, gave me a $30 gift certificate which help off-set the cost of the new place. A two bedroom apartment in downtown Antwerp.

The first place we went to was Saint Andreiskriek Chruch. Here’s another moment of my own foolishness. For some reason, I thought this was named after Saint James, when obviously the cognate is Saint Andrew. Que sera.

The retired couple in charge were very helpful and pretty good with English. They had spent two years in Michigan, near Detroit, I believe. So, yeah, they’ve seen a third world country. I ask the man if he could show me where the Stella Maris is. He takes me right to it. I tell him how it inspired Vincent. He remembers this story, returns to the gift shop, finds a book for sale there and shows me the passage that confirms my story.

I have arrived in Nice.

Au revoir for now!

Jared

Sunday, June 19^th, 2016. Father’s Day.

It’s nearly ten am and I’m on the metro with my great friend Rachel on the way to Auvers-sur-Oise; the place where Vincent painted for seventy days, before mysteriously dying. He is buried there. We are on our way to pay homage to him, and his brother, who happens to be buried beside him.

When I left you last... I honestly don’t recall. LOL. What a whirlwind the last few days have been! Let’s see, I will try to remember. I mentioned the bike, leaving the bike with Nathalie and Connie picking me up in Tilburg, I think. Ugh. There is no internet service on the metro so I cannot pull up my blog to check.

Connie and I drove from Tilburg to Breda, another important place in Vincent’s youth. His father preached there for a short time… Anyway, Connie and I made our way to the Centruum and found a nice place to sit and have a beer beside the canal. We overheard a young woman, eating lunch by herself, and realized she was a fellow American.

Kristina is in Breda studying for a semester abroad. She is about to earn her degree in hospitality and has the plan of more fully bringing hostels to the US. A great idea, I think. Especially with the way hostels have progressed in Europe. No longer merely dorms full of drunken university students, the new ones feature private rooms for couples or families, bars, restaurants and even night clubs. I think this could be replicated in the states. Families could find accommodations in the private rooms and maybe even settle for a smaller dorm if there is no availability.

So after a few drinks, Connie decides she wants a pannenkoken and we have to try it too. We begin our quest to find this traditional Dutch dish which is sort of a blend between a crepe and a pizza. We return to the rental car to find we have been awarded a parking ticket for 90 euro! This is utter bullshit. Originally, Connie believing 500 meters was not that far to walk, we paid for an hour and a half of parking. After a beer, Connie decided to move the car closer to where we actually were. She found FREE parking on a side street but left the paid parking receipt on the dash. Some officious meter maid likely saw the vehicle was a rental, noticed the expired ticket on the dash, and decided, hey, maybe these stupid tourists don’t even realize they’re parking in a free zone. I’ll go ahead and issue a ticket. If they pay it, great for the city; if not, what has the city really lost but a small piece of paper?

I took a number of photos to document our case: no Paid Parking signs anywhere on the street, none of the other vehicles parked around us had either paid parking receipts on the dash, or parking tickets tucked under the wiper blades. Connie flips out a bit, but I assure her, we’ll put together a convincing argument in an email and send it off to the city.

We drive to our next destination, less than a kilometer away, which was featuring a carnival, full of rides, games and barkers; and no parking. I convince Connie to park in a no parking zone, smartly replace her new ticket beneath the wiper blade and we’re off to find our pannenkoken. It wasn’t that good, but the company, Connie and Kristina was fantastic. Getting late, it’s time for Connie and I to find our AirBnB. We walk back to the car, which is luckily still there, our parking ticket successfully keeping it safe. And, no other tickets!

Kristina lives nearby so she journeys with us to Ger’s, an architect by day and musician by night. The room is very comfortable, with two beds, and in the back is a lovely terrace, perfect for enjoying a beer in the evening and a coffee in the morning; which we do.

We’re up early as we have to be at the train station by 9 am to collect Margaret; a family friend of Connie’s. Margaret speaks four languages and would prove to be an invaluable guide. I punch in the coordinates to the train station on the GPS and we promptly arrive at 9 am, at the wrong train station. This would seem to be a theme of this trip: getting lost. We quickly figure out where the train station is and pick up Margaret, a retired woman who has recently turned seventy, she doesn’t appear a day over fifty. Must be that good Dutch living. She lives in Haarlem and also Utah for half of the year. I met and briefly dated her daughter, Meike (Annemeika Okamura, which has such a therapeutic ring to it) back in 2004.

With Margaret in the car, we’re off to Zundert to find Vincent’s birthplace. On the way, I tell Margaret all about my research. Which was good because she then had a solid idea of what this pilgrimage is all about. We follow the signs into Zundert and find a parking place near what we think to be the Van GoghHuis; a small museum with all things Vincent’s birth and early childhood years. Exiting the car, I turn around and realized we have parked right next to the church where his father preached when Vincent was born. I was immediately overwhelmed. I have studied pictures of this church for years and now to be standing right in front of it!

Well, we couldn’t figure out how to pay for parking there so Connie and Margaret decided to find a place to park while I went directly to the church. I asked the groundskeepers, a knot welling up in my throat, “Where is the gravestone of Vincent’s older brother?” They nodded, took me around the corner and there it was. The grass had just been cut and there were clippings all over the plate. I bent down, and gently wiped away the freshly cut grass so I could take in the stone in its entirety. I wept. But just a little; not all that manly, you know. I dried my tears and thanked the couple whom had shown me the stone. I took its picture and a few more too. I had forgotten this statue of Vincent and Theo had been erected before the church so many years ago.

I waited for Connie and Margaret to return. When they did, Margaret spoke with the lead groundskeeper in Dutch. She told him about my research and about my pilgrimage. She asked if we might enter the church. He was adamant this was not allowed. This is a place of worship for their small community; not a place for tourists to take selfies. But Margaret did not give up. She told him, “You are a server, and Jared’s quest is to find the servant of God.” Essentially. It was in Dutch after all. He relented and allowed us into the little chapel.

What a feeling to sit in those same pews Vincent had sat growing up as a young boy; listening to his father preach every Sunday to the small congregation in Zundert. Zundert is very close to the Belgian border (in fact, we briefly crossed into Belgium arriving there as this is the way the freeway was designed). When Vincent’s father was a preacher here, the area was largely Catholic. Vincent’s grandfather, fairly high up in the Dutch Reformed church had sent his son, Theodorus (Vincent’s father) to Zundert in the hopes of maintaining a Protestant presence. Theodorus was a kind man. He didn’t care if you were Protestant or Catholic (if you were an atheist, however, which Vincent would later claim to be, well that is another story! And another story for another time). Theodorus would administer to the Catholic farmers as devoutly as his own flock. Later, Vincent would recall his father, with nothing but a lantern in hand, walking through the night to visit the sick and dying; anxious about his return, but so proud that his father would work so hard to bring some consolation to the suffering.

My train has arrived.

Au Revoir for now!
Jared

Where to begin? In media res.

It's been a week since I last checked in. I apologize for the delay. So much has happened. I hope I can faithfully recall the most salient details.

I left quite abruptly from the cafe in Tilburg because my friend Connie had finally arrived from the States. It was no easy task for her. The weather in Amsterdam was so hot, her original, Salt Lake flight had to dump a lot of weight before take off. Some thirty plus passengers were 86'd and she didn't get out. Determined, she flew to Seattle and from there caught the next plane to Amsterdam. She rented a car, bought a Dutch phone and drove about two hours to south central Holland to pick me up.

I was waiting for her, reminiscing about the damned bike and my travels so far. I had cycled, on just the shittiest bike, for the better part of eight hours over two days. Sore heiny? Absolutely. But it was a fantastic exercise, in more ways than just physical.

It took two trips from Eindhoven to Nuenen to finally visit the van Gogh Village. When I finally found it, I was amazed to see all of the streets were named after Vincent, his family and even failed love affairs. Not only is there a Margotstraat (the only woman whom Vincent left unrequited), there was also a Sienstraat, the prostitute he lived with for two years in The Hague. How curious she is now immortalized in Nuenen!

I parked my bike at Vincentre, a small museum that pays homage to Vincent. While they don't have any paintings, they do have canvasses by those whom Vincent was close to and inspired while he was there. Lovely little depictions by Anthon van Rappard, Antoon Hermans and others.

I told one of the curators of my quest. We sat outside, had a coffee and discussed Vincent in some lovely detail. A retired insurance salesman, Theo was well versed in Vincent's time in Nuenen. My expertise is some three years later when he was in Arles. We discussed my theory and The Potato Eaters; the pinnacle of Vincent's time in Nuenen. I don't think I convinced him. It seems to be the way... the more one has studied Vincent, the more resolute one becomes in his ideation of him.

So! From Nuenen, I returned on the borrowed bike from Vannesch. I arrived half an hour before our expected rendezvous. He was working on the bike when I entered his little shop. I thought he was just finishing up. I think he rushed it. I think he had another half an hour of work... but, not wanting to be rude and keep me waiting, exchanged bicycles with me.

With the new tune up, I asked, "Will this now get me to Antwerp?"

He quickly decided to give the bike another once-over. I should have guessed something was up at that point. As I shook his hand and bid adieu, I rode the bike back to my AirBnB. Carool Coraal. What a gal! She helped me a lot on this journey. The bike's seat, however, was not properly secured and quickly slanted backwards, pushing my scrotum through my bellybutton.

At Carool's, I grabbed my bags and went back to the shop, having Vannesch tighten up the seat. I should have had him tighten up the breaks too...

From there I was determined to ride two hours, about 40 kilometers to Tilburg; a town Vincent lived in as a high school student. Getting lost a bit on the way, it took three. Que sera. When I finally found my next AirBnB, with the fabulous Nathalie, she and about seven of her gorgeous friends were dining on the terrace above her apartment. A birthday celebration.

She let me in, showed me around and returned to her dinner. I was in need of a shower. After which, I communicated some business details with my son, Sam, who is running the shop while I'm away. Thirsty, I asked Nathalie where the best place to get a beer was. She was adamant the best place was a couple of miles away and offered to drop me off and pick me up as she and her girlfriends were going out for more celebrating anyway.

She chose well. The place had 300 beers, even three IPA's. The bartender was as knowledgeable as any I've found in Portland and took great care of me. I met a couple of locals, Marco and his ride. Marco is awesome. A laborer by trade, like me, he insisted on buying my beer. We're now friends on facebook... I have added a fair few friends since beginning this journey.

Nathalie picked me up and I slept well. In the morning, I rode the bike to the Centrum, getting lost along the way. Although, something I have discovered; you can't be found until you are lost. Well, that's Dante in a nutshell, isn't it?

There is so much more to tell. And I will. But now the Paris sun is streaming through my fourth floor's window and the museums are calling. I have made progress. More on that later. For now, I leave you with one picture; the apartment where Vincent and Theo lived for two years in Monmartre.

Au revoir for now,
Jared

Dao and the art of bicycle maintenance

Dao and the art of bicycle maintenance

It's 10:30 am. I'm sitting at a café in the center of Tilburg, a beautiful Dutch city with a giant neo-Gothic cathedral before me. Two stratospheric spires dwarf the golden statue of a saint, perched above a clock accented with the same gold. Below the clock is the date it was built, 1888. An important year in the life of Vincent van Gogh; the year he moved to Provence and finally found himself as an artist.

Two days ago I was in Arnhem, the closest AirBnB near Otterlo I could find. Just outside of Otterlo, within the confines of the picturesque Hoge Veluwe National Park, is the Kröller-Müller Museum. It was founded by Helene Kröller-Müller and her husband, a Dutch shipping and mining tycoon. Thanks to the advice of art critic Henk Bremmer, Helene bought many van Gogh's well before he was internationally recognized as an innovative genius. One collection in particular she purchased, included twelve paintings originally owned by French art critic Albert Aurier. Aurier was the first to publicly praise Vincent while Vincent was still a patient at the insane asylum in St. Remy. The article, Les Isoles: Vincent van Gogh appeared in the inaugural edition of the Mercure de France. Vincent was elated about the praise in letters to his family; though in his letter to Aurier, he deflected the praise heaped upon him, stating that many other artists, including Gauguin, surely deserved more credit.

Vincent subsequently gifted Cypresses to Aurier, in thanks for the article.

How Aurier came to own the other eleven remains a mystery. The most plausible answer is Vincent's brother, Theo gifted them to Aurier. He had asked Aurier to write a biography of Vincent's life. Unfortunately, Theo died just six months after his brother; and Aurier about a year after that. In addition to being an art critic, Aurier was a Symbolist poet. I'll discuss that in more detail later. What's important to understand is Aurier found in Vincent's letter and certain canvasses, Symbolist qualities. Aurier was the first to own Café Terrace at Night.

When Aurier's heir, who had inherited the collection needed money, he sold the collection to Helene. She would purchase several others until Theo wife, Jo, decided she had too many and would sell her no more. I believe Aurier recognized Café Terrace at Night to be a Symbolist Last Supper. I'm hoping to research his life when I arrive in Paris next week.

It had been a sixteen year pilgrimage for me to finally witness the painting. It's located at the end of a hallway, so as you enter the room, it's featured in the center; its allure unmistakable. I was there before anyone else and got to spend some serious one on one time with the canvas. My nose millimeters away, I discovered the central serving figure has a beard. This further lends to my theory Vincent intended this to be a symbolic image of Christ.

After taking in the other four rooms packed full of paintings I have only studied out of books and on line, I celebrated with a beer named in Vincent's honor.

From there, I spent the night in Arnhem at a different AirBnB, one that was less expensive and further south, along my supposed route to Eindhoven on the bike. With no bike, I took the train to Eindhoven and was able to arrange to meet Brad, who finally sold me a bike!

This is not Brad. This is Vannesch. More on that later...

Elated to finally have a bike, a very cheap, old and hammered bike, I strapped down my too heavy baggage, jumped on and headed for Nuenen. Originally, I was to travel through Nuenen on my way to Eindhoven. I sort of knew the general direction to go, got lost a couple of times, but eventually found the town from the south.

I cycled on hoping to find the Van Gogh Village. I didn't go far enough. Getting pretty tired after an hour and a half of solid cycling, it appeared there was a restaurant with a mill I thought looked familiar.

 

Sure enough, it was a mill Vincent had painted:

My picture, unfortunately is from the backside. Speaking of backsides, I climbed off my bike, saddle-sore and bow-legged and walked about the deserted beer garden. Feeling like a cowboy at an empty saloon, I peeked in the windows to try to see what was up. Sand bags. There must have been flooding because there were sand bags everywhere and people no where.

Uh-oh, have to run, more soon!

Jared

Dutch women are stunning and other obvious observations...

I'm in Arnhem, Holland now, watching an Ali retrospective on the BBC. He was a champion; larger than life. Or as my friend John Burns put it far more eloquently:

"America is deeply mourning the loss of a Muslim black power activist who opposed the draft, pointed out the flaws in our national story, conscientiously objected to war, and spoke out for freedom of religion and the rights of the oppressed.

As we should."

Tomorrow is an important day for me. I'll finally see in person and up close the painting that changed the course of my life. In the neighborhood I'm staying, all of the streets are named after great artists. I took this pic on my way home from eating some pizza, which was as good as any I've had in New York.

When I left you last, I was having trouble sleeping in a bug-infested room. I took some great advice, packed my bag and found a bus back into the center of Amsterdam. Arriving shortly after 4 am, I began exploring the city by foot. Some Friday revelers were still about and before I knew it, I found myself in Amsterdam's notorious Red Light District. The architecture, both man- and divinely-made was stunning.

From there I decided to walk to the museum district, mulling over some choices: give the bastards at the Van Gogh Museum another shot? See the Rembrandt's and Hal's at the Rijksmuseum? Maybe check out the Warhol/Banksy exhibit? I quickly ruled out the first option. Truth is, I didn't spend that much time there yesterday, seeing only the self-portraits near the entrance. I took no photos and I have no regrets. I won't be back at that museum until I'm invited to speak. So it goes.

A good hour early for the opening of the Rijks, I was the first in line to buy a ticket. I hadn't bought one online because I wasn't sure my schedule would allow for it. I'm glad I made time. They have an app you can download, avoiding the extra fee of the audio tour. Pretty awesome when you're the first one through the doors and have the guidance to go directly towards the masterpieces.

Like Vincent, a psychiatrist could have a field day (and has) with me on her couch: OCD, ADD, Bipolar, alcoholic? Sure. But another ailment Vincent and I share is Stendhal's Syndrome. Sometimes, when I'm in a museum, the floor gets wobbly, my blood pressure goes through their vaulted ceilings and I have to hold back the tears. Believe me, I'm more than a little terrified of visiting Florence next month!

So as I entered the great hall and encountered the Rembrandt's, Hal's and Vermeer's, I was overwhelmed. Luckily, there's always someplace to sit down and gather yourself.

After a few hours at the museum, I decided it was time to head back to Amsterdam Centraal and find my way to my next destination: Arnhem. Again, I'm in the suburbs, with not much close (except a pretty fine Italian restaurant). As the temperature peaked into the eighties, my 2.4 km walk culminated with me arriving at Saskia's BnB a sweaty mess. Luckily, she let me right in, showed me the room and the shower; which I took, with delight. Exhausted, I slept for the next six hours; my sleep pattern slowly making its way across the Americas towards the Continent.

I have to share one more picture I took today, a fabulous Dutch bridge at morning, with a barge gliding quietly below:

Fellow Vincent-aficionados will recognize this importance to his Langlois Bridge series.

Goede Nacht for now,

Jared

It's 2 am in Amsterdam and I can't sleep...

So the flight was pretty awesome. Nothing like flying first class across the Atlantic. Even the food is good! Started with an appetizer of Serrano ham, buffalo mozzarella, arugula and apricots. Tasted great at 30,000 feet. Cocktails, Verdejo, corn chowder, a great salad:

Followed up with beef tenderloin and polenta, a fruit and cheese plate and port for dessert. There's a reason the flight attendants close the curtain... people in the back of the plane do not want to see what's going on up there!

I couldn't sleep much; couldn't write at all. So I tried to watch some movies and drink gin and tonics. Hey, they're free!

When we landed, I was amazed at how easy it was to go through customs. I told the agents I'd be staying for 100 days. What I didn't know is you're only allowed to stay for 90 on the continent. Luckily my trip to England will break my stay into two halves. So, I'm good.

I took the train to Amsterdam Centraal, all the while trying to get a hold of Frank or anyone on Craigslist to sell me a bike. No luck. At. All. So, no bike. Instead, I took a rickshaw to the Van Gogh Museum and arrived a few minutes before my scheduled time of 11 am. I was able to walk right in, check my bag and relax before taking in the works. I was asked to fill out a questionnaire about my stay and I did. Hope they like my notes, signed Jared Baxter.

I didn't enjoy my time there. I tried to arrange an on the spot meeting with one of their researchers. Nope. No meeting for me. Left a bad taste in my mouth. I left. I had to get to my AirBnB by 3 anyway. So, with no bike, I ordered an uber that cost too much damned money.

My place in Amsterdam is nothing fancy. The host is very nice but we're in the suburbs not really next to any restaurants, sites or things to do. Worked out okay, I needed to sleep anyway. Partly why I'm still on West Coast time. So here's 2e Kekerstraat:

I did find a cool mosque nearby:

With no bike, I was able to find transportation to my next stop in Arnhem via three busses. I have to leave at 6:30 am, about four hours from now. Not sure I'll sleep till then... not sure I want to. I'm afraid this place has bedbugs. Ugh, glad I'm only staying here one night!

Ta Ta for now,

Jared