So my temporary hiccup turned out to be five weeks at home with my parents, getting medical tests and recuperating.  The best case scenario happened and it turned out that my Dar es Salaam doctor’s fears of a more serious chronic condition were unfounded.  After consulting with a doctor in the United States, it looks like I was simply the victim of a severe viral infection, likely from bad food or water.  After A LOT of rest, I am much better than I was and incredibly excited to be back.  Even though the doc says it may be as long as six months before all of my symptoms go away, I feel quite grateful that this problem was not long-term.

I arrived back in Tanzania on April 29^th, after a short stopover in Amsterdam.  With a 22 hour layover there I decided I couldn’t pass up the opportunity to go into the city since I had never been before.   Fortunately, they make it easy to do so.  Lockers are located right next to the customs line at the airport, which is also connected to the train station, so it was simply a matter of dropping off everything but a small backpack in a locker, a five minute wait in the customs line, another five minute wait for a train ticket, and then I was sitting watching the Dutch countryside go by.

The one thing I have always wanted to see in Amsterdam is the Van Gogh museum.  When I was a kid, my family spent four months traveling through Western Europe because my father had a fellowship to study the architecture of new museums in the region.  Imagine two adults, three kids aged ten and under, two (yes, only two) suitcases, and a pet grasshopper in an old mint chocolate chip ice cream carton (R.I.P.), all packed into a small car on a four-month road trip.  During that time, we traveled through England, Scotland, Spain, France, Germany, Switzerland, and Italy.  As a result, I spent more time in museums before the age of eleven than most people do in a lifetime.  For me, life-long nerd and bookworm that I am, it was mostly great.  Sure I got bored or restless on occasion, but in general I was old enough to appreciate the art and history.  My poor baby sister who was only five at the time still gets slightly twitchy whenever anyone suggests a museum trip.

As a way to keep us engaged, our parents encouraged us to use sketchbooks, explore the galleries, and talk about our favorites.  As a kid, mine was always Van Gogh.  His works were the first I would seek out if the museum contained them, and I would always notice on the information signs when works were on loan from the museum in Amsterdam.  I asked my parents about it- a whole museum devoted to Van Gogh, they told me!  But, unfortunately, even though it seemed to me at the time that we were going to every city in Europe, Amsterdam wasn’t on our itinerary.  So this time, I was determined.  Twenty-two hours in Amsterdam?  PLENTY of time!

But fate has a funny sense of humor.  Twenty-one years I had been waiting for this opportunity.  I would no longer consider Van Gogh my biggest art-world crush, but I still have a strong affection for him.  So when I went online to book a ticket for the museum and avoid the lines, I was slightly devastated to learn that the Van Gogh museum was closed for one four-day stretch during 2013.  Guess when it fell?  But while I am occasionally one to complain when things don’t go my way, I am certainly not one to let it ruin a trip.  So I did a bit more research, picked up a little tourist map, and when my train arrived in Amsterdam I was ready for exploration.

I got into town around 3pm and, by sheer fluke, the hotel I had booked, The Bellevue, was right across the river from the train station.  I seriously had not even looked at a map until I was on the train; I just made sure the description online said that it was downtown.  So, I checked in and dropped off my bags in the efficiently designed Ikea-decorated room and twenty minutes later was sitting on the back of a tour boat in the river.  I couldn’t tell you anything historically interesting about the buildings or neighborhoods we went through because the guide was inside and we couldn’t hear him on the deck, but after the previous 24 hours spent either in airports or on planes there was no way I was going to spend another hour cooped up.  So despite the chill and the wind, I spent the next glorious hour soaking up sunshine and architecture and feeling very, very lucky.

The next day was to be a national holiday in the Netherlands- Queen’s Day- which promised to be an even bigger event than usual due to the fact that the current queen was stepping down to make way for her son.  I couldn’t stay for the big celebration since I would be flying out at 10am, but it was clear that Amsterdammers were starting the party early.  All over the city, as we made our way through the canals, we saw decorations being hung and boats being readied for the water.  Many people had finished their preparations and were lazily tooling down the canals with friends, music, and bottles of wine, just enjoying the day.  Nor were residents of the many houseboats that line the banks to be left out; deck tables and chairs were set out and greetings shouted down to us as we went by.

After a thoroughly enjoyable hour, I left the tour boat behind and walked towards the Dam, the large square downtown.   On the way, I stopped to buy a collectable spoon (yes, I collect spoons during my travels; yes, I am a senior citizen) and marveled at the sheer amount of nudity on Amsterdam postcards.  My little tourist map noted that there wasn’t much reason to hang out in the Dam, and sure enough, there wasn’t.  Other than one wonderful, delightful little trio of musicians, that is.  Now, in my lifetime, I have seen hundreds of street musicians.  If you live in New York, Chicago, San Francisco, or any number of cities, you’ve probably seen many too.  But never in my life, ever, have I seen (or thought I would want to see) a trio comprised of an accordion and two saxophones.  Perhaps this is perfectly normal in some places and I don’t know why I thought it was so funny, but I literally burst out laughing in the middle of the square.  They were actually lovely to listen to and completely fit the mood of the day.  Alas, I had limited time and a city to see, so after depositing a few euros in their hat, I moved on.

I was very interested in seeing the Anne Frank House, but knew it had a reputation for incredibly long lines (understandably).  Still, it was only 5pm and it was open until 9pm, so I decided to make my way over there.  When I arrived, true to what I’d read the line wrapped around the block.  It was a Sunday evening and I thought that perhaps the line would get shorter as it got later since people were likely working or traveling the next day.  So I spent a fantastic couple of hours just wandering.  Which is really the best thing to do in a new place, in my opinion.  Amsterdam is a beautiful city, and with the festive atmosphere, I could not have had a better day.  I didn’t want to waste daylight hours eating dinner, but I did feel that I would be remiss in not enjoying a half hour with a glass of wine at an outdoor café, so I checked that off my list and watched the bicycles roll by before heading back to the Ann Frank House at 7:30pm.  The line was still around the block when I returned, though not as far around the block as before.  I think it speaks to the impact that her story has still today that by 8:30pm on a very cold, windy Sunday night, there was still an hour’s wait to get in.  Even once they came out and said that most of us probably wouldn’t get in before the 8:30 cutoff, people stayed.  Luckily, I was made it in.

The Anne Frank House is one of those things that you should really see for yourself.  Perhaps it is partly that I grew up in a city with a large Jewish population and so the Holocaust loomed larger in the social mind. But for me, it was a very powerful experience and one I would recommend to any visitor to Amsterdam.  It’s hard to really describe the emotional impact and physical aspects of the house, so I will just say that we were able to go through the whole annex, which is fascinating for anyone who has read her diary or knows the story.  Below, in the newer part of the museum, we were able to see actual pages from Anne Frank’s diaries, as well as video recordings of her childhood friends talking about what they remembered of her.  It can be easy to feel disconnected from history at times, but these videos were a stark reminder that Anne Frank was not only a real person living through such atrocities, but a child too.

When I finally made my way back out to the street, it was nearly 9:30pm and I was pooped.  Between the two flights and walking around all day, plus jet lag, I could barely keep my eyes open.  I was also starving.  Knowing I would never have the energy to order a meal in a restaurant and stay awake long enough for it to arrive, I kept a look out as I strolled back and found a tiny to-go pizza place near my hotel.  Amsterdam was even more beautiful at night, and I was truly sorry to have to make my way up to my room.