Bent Words

Bent Words

December 02, 2004

11-25-04

John and I both woke up late after having such a long and eventful Wednesday. Breakfast was over downstairs and all that was left to do was pack and checkout of the hotel. We were ready and hit the streets by noon, heading to Montmarte and the Gare du Nord Metro station. We stopped at a busy cafe called La Tour and enjoyed a cafe au lait and a chocolat before tangling with other pedestrians on rue de Rennes. We passed a small kiosk in which a smiling Frenchman was making delicious smelling crepes on two little open sizzling grills. We checked the prices and agreed that this would be a lovely breakfast/lunch and thus ordered two jambon et fromage crepes at 3.50 Euro a piece. We stood on the corner opposite of the kiosk and munched on our warm meal while watching the Paris people pass by.

Making it all the way to the Louvre with our heavy packs, we decided to catch a taxi the rest of the way to Gare du Nord. We placed our bags in back of the taxi, I gave directions and off we went. John and the cab driver began talking about this and that and soon found that they both spoke Russian. This made for an interesting ride and I could not help but giggle as they conversed. At the station, the driver charged us extra for getting out of the cab and retrieving our bags for us. We looked at each other but did not protest and ventured forth to that enormous beautiful building.

We confirmed our tickets to Amsterdam for 4:15 p.m. and took a seat above the metros where we could watch the crowds flow through the station. John ordered a few beers and I watched a pigeon with two toes missing on his left foot hunt and peck for food at my feet. I was missing Paris already and we had not yet left. I tried to keep my mind occupied on other things, but the cold air of the station stung my fingers and made reading my books impossible. I put them away and listened to John talk about his son, Charles, for a long time and we pondered the game that we would see in Nijmegen in a couple of days. I went down to use the WCs that John had used days earlier when we first arrived. It simply felt strange to put a Euro dollar into a slot to use the facilities, but you also had a choice depending on how much money you put in. For 20 Euro cents you could just use the sinks to wash up and for 50 Euro cents you could wash up and take your time at the mirrors and for a dollar, you could use the toilette and the sinks. So I had paid for my bathroom privileges and, damn it, I took my time.

We boarded the second class train and stowed our bags in the middle of the cars. Falling in and out of sleep was so easy on those super smooth trains and I wondered how many people missed their stop. After the second stop we had made, I rose to use the bathrooms just to say I had used one on the train. It only took me about five minutes to figure out the water system (to wash my hands of three giant globs of soap) which was a foot pedal located on my right. The bathroom was bigger than most of the ones I encountered in the midst of Paris! The train began to move again and I made my exit back to my seat. I was so excited to have been 'train surfing' while it was moving that I even ventured three cars down to the 'Bar Car' to grab a soda. I was enthralled with lightly pushing each door handle and hearing the 'swoosh' of the air tight doors as I moved easily from one car to the next. On my way back, a small jolt from the train sent me sideways and into the newspaper of a young man and I knew not what to say - was he from Paris heading to Amsterdam or from Amsterdam and heading back? I just used English and said 'sorry.' Apparently it did not matter as he merely grunted in reply.

John pointed to my left as we passed the huge Ajax soccer stadium where Charles played not long ago and we knew we were close to our destination. We exited the station and were surprised at the severe cold that met us. I donned my hat, scarf and gloves as quickly as possible and we made our way to a kiosk which sold fries and mayo (now one of my favorite treats as you get the cutest little fork with every order). We also ordered a small cup of black and green olives which were better tasting than any I've eaten (probably just because I was in Europe!). We shivered as we ate and I looked around at all the people. There seemed to be more 'punks' here in Amsterdam than in Paris, for lack of better words. I conveyed these thoughts to John and he could not agree more. It was simply so much louder, with people yelling and trains running on tracks that cut right into the middle of streets and sidewalks. Even the stops lights were loud as they 'ticked' at different tempos signaling a stop or go for those poor of vision. But the architecture was still true to the old European way and this made me feel at 'home.' The stone buildings with their balconies and the cobblestone street made every square inch seem archaeic compared to the States. I also adored the several bridges crossing the multitude of parellel water channels - it helped one to find their way around easily, as we would soon find.

We wandered around for a short time in search of a hotel and finally found the Hotel Belga down the river on the outskirts of the Centrum on Hartenstraat 8. With an old fashioned little cafe for a lobby, we were immediately charmed. We inquired for a room and found that they had one left and thus we paid before even seeing our abode. It was so cold and we were extremely stiff and weary of carrying our bags. Room number 2 on the second floor had three single beds, a love seat and an unattached bathroom. I looked around and stated that 'the love seat would be a great place to have kids,' meaning if one had children, they could sleep there, but John took it in an entirely different light and thus became a running joke for the remainder of the trip. I had to point out several times that, no, I did not want children, John.

The both of us were tired and so began a short trip through the town looking for a place to eat and drink. We passed several small places which I adored but somehow ended up at the Damsteeg Restaurant one block down and on Reestraat street. We thought it to be just a bar until looking around the corner of the place to see a beautifully lit dining area with a grand chandelier hanging from its second story ceiling. I ordered a white wine spritzer and John had a Compari. We decided to stay and eat and soon our bartender, Bert, had a table all set up for us in the elegant dining room. We each ordered the steak filet, medium rare and were delighted by Berts perfection in hosting. He brought me a large, fancy bottle of water and would replenish my glass before I could look up. The toppings for the bread were absolutely delicious with oil, spicy tomatoes and salt. Then, a waitress brought out two tiny little plates with two small round pastries about the size of a quarter and dressed in a deep red cherry sauce. John and I looked up at each other and I leaned forward to whisper across the table,

"What is this?"

"I don't know."

"If this is our meal, you had better eat it slow."

"I don't think this is the meal, Laura."

"Oh, good."

These two plates were swept away and replaced by beautiful, much larger plates, filled with food. The waitress described our meal for us which included two generous steak filets, a layered serving of what tasted like creamy au gratin potatoes topped with baked apples and spinach mixed with alight sauce and mushrooms. It was a delectable dinner and at its end, John commented that this was a pretty damn good Thanksgiving meal. I had completely forgotten that it was Thanksgiving! We had missed saying grace and I had so desperately wanted to say what I was thankful for that we decided to do so before dessert. I said our family prayer and stated that I was extremely thankful for my wonderful family and their health and that I was able to be with John to experience Europe at this very moment. My eyes teared up and I thought of my mother who's tears must fall before commencing our Thanksgiving dinner. Soon, Bert interrupted to inquire of dessert. John did not know what to have and so he requested that Bert choose for him and ended up with a variety of delights. He was served a sorbet ice cream, a mixed fruit glass in sauce and a creme brulee. I told Bert to also choose for me but mentioned that I happened to really like chocolate. I had the most wonderful chocolate cake with cream and a orange sauce on top. I showed John how to indulge in his creme brulee by gently breaking the top and I took a small bite for myself. It was simply heaven - every single part of the meal.

We remained at our table and John ordered a Drambuie liqueur while I stayed with my white wine spritzers. I added more water to each glass to ensure an easy rise in the morning. John requested that Bert join us in a drink, if he were available, and in a short time, there he was at our table with a large full glass of red wine. He was a man of about 35 with short brown hair and a very handsome, boyish look about him. He was somewhat proper with a touch of nervousness, but always had a lighthearted smile. He made us smile with his slow English and the way his voice would rise at the end of each of his sentences. I watched him swirl the dark red contents of his glass just above that perfectly white table cloth as he spoke. He would talk about a recent trip he taken to the States in California and of how the service was very good everywhere he went. What he must have meant was that one is usually waited on right way, while in Europe, everyone takes their time and you may be seated for quite awhile before someone takes your order. He told us about taxes and how about 60% was taken out of his check each week. He told us about the Hague and spoke of transportation and mentioned his wife and how does not want to have kids. We told him about the traditions of Thanksgiving and explained their origination. He was soon partaking in a second glass of wine and we found ourselves with reservations (that we did not keep) for the following evening. By this time, we were all getting a bit tired and Bert had thrown on an apron to help the wait staff clean the dishes. He was such a gentleman and helped me into my coat before we left.

On our way back to the hotel, we laughed and praised our experience at the Damsteeg Restaurant. We were both very tired but I insisted upon calling my mother and father and thus we exchanged our thanks for that fine American holiday - the first of which I was away from home for. I felt badly that I had snapped at my mother who was only advising me not to spend my money and more tears came to my eyes as I hung up the phone. John was soon ready to escape my emotions by taking a long walk in the late Amsterdam night and told me to simply go to bed. I laid down on my single bed, thought of home and of Paris and of talking with Bert and softly cried myself to sleep.

*** To be Continued

Written at 10:26 a.m.