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Today is Mrs C's turn for working Saturday; that means cleaning and tidying for me. With the bathroom clean, the stairs vacuumed and all clothes washed that ought to be washed - I think - I hope, it's time for some housekeeping on my blog. There are a number of things that I've been meaning to do and been putting off.
Firstly you will have noticed the new header that shows Oldham in it's current and historical glory. I have neglected to mention that my friend and colleague Lisa is responsible for the, not inconsiderable, picture trickery that went into it so thank you Lisa. My gran, whenever I showed her holiday photographs used to say, as the highest praise, "Eeeee that's good enough to be on a postcard", Lisa is reet good wi't camera (as my gran would have said) herself and I remember saying the self same thing to Lisa when she showed me some of her work recently. I'm sure she won't mind if I show you one too; if she does mind I'll been in for a bol****ing on Monday!
Secondly, you may remember my post about eating out in Amsterdam, in the post I enthused about Wagamama the noodle bar chain. Well, Wagamama were so pleased with what I'd written they sent me a copy of the Wagama Cookbook; so thank you to Wagamama - who must think I have many more readers than I actually do who will flock to their noodliferous establishments in droves: don't tell and I won't either.
Finally, I've been neglecting the pages of my blog that tell you what I'm reading. I've just updated it with everything I've read since November (I think), click here to follow my trail from the Great War through psychiatry to murder. And before I go I ought to add that my friend and colleague Michele is a voracious reader - why am I telling you that? - because if she wasn't I wouldn't be able to borrow and read half of the fantastic books I do - thanks Michele.
This is my last word on Amsterdam, like all travel writers (snort!), I can't leave without saying something about what and where to eat. The starting point on the subject is easy; start from the here: DON'T EAT DUTCH FOOD; that is unless you like herring, and potato, and sometimes cabbage, and pea soup. Our Rough Guide to Amsterdam had pointed out the paucity of Dutch cuisine so were a little anxious about what we might eat; and true to form the guide was right. There were about three reasonably priced Dutch restaurants in Amsterdam and, temptingly emblazoned on their blackboards outside was: herring, potato, cabbage and pea soup - no lie.
But be not downhearted. I have already mentioned that the Dutch are a practical nation and their pragmatism extends to their attitude to eating. Faced with a native menu that is about as exciting as day time television, they do what any pragmatic nation would do: have restaurants from every other culture under the sun. In the area of the city that extends from the top of Vondelpark to the Prinsengracht, there are dozens of excellent, reasonably priced restaurants ranging from Italian to Indian and Indonesian to French - no English funnily enough.
My advice on where to eat is to ignore whatever it says in the Rough Guide. Simply take a stroll and check out which places look popular - menus and staff change too quickly, in my view, to be able to rely on a guide written twelve months ago. Before I tell you where we did eat though, I need to qualify something I said in an earlier post when I railed against the generic nature of Amsterdam's shopping centre: full of shops you might see in any other main city - McDonalds, H & M, Next etc. I am not entirely against global chains; at least not now at any rate. Whilst I would love every shopping centre and city to be full of unique shops and
local traders I cannot discount entirely our discovery of Wagamama, the casual worldwide noodle eating experience: it is fabulous. An eclectic clientèle sat on benches with long tables and just the right distance between you to be matey, if you like and absorbed in each other if you don't - there is probably a scientific formula for that distance. The menu is an imaginative mix of noodle dishes and other very reasonably priced oriental fare; and the service is friendly and refreshingly efficient. In the spirit of adventurous journalism, I was tempted to investigate a desert that consisted of a kebab of lychees and pineapple, dusted with grated coconut and - wait for it- fresh chilli; sounds so wrong but was oh so right, as the poet said. I can't wait for an excuse to investigate our Manchester Wagamama .
So that is Amsterdam done with; and not before time: yesterday was Pentecost Sunday, or Whit Sunday, as it is known around here. Why do I tell you this? Because that means Friday is Whit Friday one of the most important days of the year around here; but before I spoil it by telling you the plot, I'll sign off - you'll have to wait and see.
I'm beginning to wonder at the power of my blog; the post before last I mentioned the fabulous singer songwriter Loudon Wainwright III and next minute he pops up as a guest on the Radio 2 Acoustic and Traditional Music Show (I hesitate to call it folk music because of the stereotypical images of beardy wholefood Fair isle types). But that is the power of our art: in Amsterdam I was already musing on war and its effects thanks to the weaving of Spanish Civil War themes into the Case of the Missing Family by the excellent Thomas Hamburger, so it was only a short trip in my mental landscape to the Second World War and walk across the real landscape of Amsterdam to the house of Ann Frank, the daughter of the Jewish family forced into hiding when Holland was occupied by the German Army.
The tale of their hiding is told in the Diary of Anne Frank but is set in context in the preserved house in which the family hid; the fact that you know the end of the story makes the journey to the inevitable end even more poignant. The house is a big tourist draw and was full of people of all ages who started the morning chatting and pointing out things of interest to each other; by the end of the trip the crowded rooms were eerily silent as people mulled over the implications of what they had witnessed.
That's war then, but what about art and philosophy, I hear you cry. The Van Gough Museum was a disappointment to me, too full of people to fully appreciate the magnificent collection of his and his contemparies' paintings; however the exhibition of Max Beckman's war time paintings in the gallery annex was not full of people - if you've seen his paintings you will know why, you wouldn't want them on your bedroom wall unless you were ready for some pretty disturbed dreams. His war years in Amsterdam as a German were very different to that of the Frank family, but it was worth the mental and emotional effort to compare them.
Philosphy? Our hotel, De Hotel De Filosoof, is the home of the society of practical philosophers. This group attempt to apply philosophy to modern day ills in a similar way to a therapist might do - I guess it's a bit like cognitive therapy: learning to think about problems in a different way. And this philosophising brings me full circle back to Radio 2 and the (oh go on then, call a spade a spade) folk music show. It is hosted by Mike Harding a Lancashire comedy singer, made famous for his rendition on Top of the Pops of the single Rochdale Cowboy, sat upon a stuffed Alsation dog. But I bet you didn't know he was a philosopher too. I once heard him sharing an account of how he awoke in the middle of the night, threw back the curtains and stared up at the vast starry expanse above him asking the eternal question of himself:
"What is it all about?"
His responded in blunt Northern tones:
"It's got bugger all to do with me."
And went back to bed.
I'm going to have to write about our trip in instalments - there's a lot to write. But first - having read my heading - let's get the bit that everyone who knows us wants to know: yes we did investigate the red light district and no, the sex and the aching feet are not the result of some adventurous new position discovered as the result of our investigations.
Amsterdam is a fabulous city: easy to get around and easy to just be in; everyone speaks English - willingly; and the public transport system would make John Prescott blush (remember his cunning plan for a ten year integrated transport system? - the one he hastily dumped on Stephen Byers when he realised it couldn't be done). Famous for its liberal culture the city has a generally relaxed feel; Amsterdam's citizens are neither gushily friendly nor stand offish, more that they are simply happy to share their space with you no matter who or how you are.
I know you probably won't believe this, but our sojourn into the red light district was actually to visit a church. De Oude Kerk is Amsterdam's oldest and grandest church with burial records dating back to 1300 but, as if that wasn't enough, it also has a magnificent organ (that is not an invitation to skip ahead to the smut, by the way) and, at the moment, contains the World Press Photo of the Year exhibition. This is an international annual contest to do exactly what it says on the tin: find the best press photo of the year. The winning pictures in a variety of categories then go on a world tour.
It was stunning; I'd already seen the wining picture in The Independent, but the large scale photos really take your breath away. The subject matter is often grim and I take my hat off to the art of photographers who have the gift of composition and can use it under circumstances that would leave me diving for cover. If you get five minutes click on the link to see an on-line gallery of the winners; but, even better, if you get chance to go to the exhibition, do.
The irony of the juxtaposition of stark media images, a beautiful place of worship and window brothels not 15 metres from the rear wall of the the church, was not lost on me as we stepped out onto the Voorburgwal, the canal that bisects the dark alleys of the Red Light district. We had chosen our moment carefully, not wanting to get our pockets picked in the crowds of lascivious lads later in the day, mid afternoon was sufficiently daring for our sex tour. Even then though ladies in windows plied their trade to passing men - it's always men - who bargain shamelessly for a better deal on their desired method of having their snake milked. I'm sorry if that is a little blunt, but my overriding opinion is that that is all it amounts to; even our Rough Guide warns unwary young men not to expect the romantic encounter they hope for: it is an extremely practical service.
In the interests of journalism I assiduously studied the lady window occupants, though was made to suffer for my art with a hasty clip round the ear off Mrs C. She needn't have worried; the whole thing was unappealing and seedy. The alleyways are liberally peppered with live sex shows and DVD bars with private cabins: I had to explain why someone, who might not be able to afford the fifty Euro fee for a window visit, might opt for a cheaper private DVD cabin.
All that said, once we'd agreed on our joint moral stance, there was great fun to be had giggling and snorting at some of the more extreme sex aids offered for sale:
"Good Lord, you'd put your back out with that thing!"
Our moral stance? The other notable inclusion in this legalised leisure centre for the lonely, was a large number of sex health centres and other centres offering support for people involved in the sex industry. The Dutch view seems to be more pragmatic than liberal: deal with the world as it is rather than sweep the unseemly bits beneath the carpet and hope they will go away. I admire the Dutch approach.
OK, I'm over my introspective period now, you'll be glad to hear. In fact Mrs C and I have a bit of a spring in our step at the moment: we are going away - properly away, abroad, alone: sans sons - for the first time in nearly nineteen years. We have planned a trip to coincide with a special birthday for Val and because our sons were eighteen in the same period - expensive - we have saved Airmiles thanks to the true rulers of our fine land: Tesco.
The trip we planned was four nights in Rome, direct flights from Manchester in a hotel recommended to us by the well travelled Reverend Richard. The reality is that we are going to the equally interesting - I'm sure - Amsterdam. Here's why: despite the hype, you are very limited to where and how you can travel with your hard earned Airmiles, unless you live in London. Yes, I know that lots of airlines fly direct to Rome from Manchester but with your Airmiles you can only fly via Gatwick because Airmiles only deal with a limited number of companies. So, Amsterdam it is, leaving on Monday on a jet plane; and despite our initial disappointment we are very excited and currently spending evenings poring over our Rough Guide to Amsterdam.
So don't plan your world trip based on Airmiles before checking where you can go first.
While we are on the subject of travel I'm quite excited about the new Fuel My Blog competition which involves a blog post about my best weekend. The prize is a trip to Austria which might just compensate for the lack of a trip to Rome so watch out for my next post.
