Category Archives: Travelling in Europe

Paris in Springtime – A day in Paris, Part 1

Adventures, France, Paris, , , ,

5am, coming in to land at Paris Charles de Gaulle Airport. Paris. I try to remember what I know about Paris. Beyond the fairytale romantic city, it’s not much. Charles De Gaulle turns out to be a rabbit warren of an airport – up escalators, down stairs, airport-train then suddenly, unexpectedly, customs. I pass smoothly, easily into France. Luggage in tow, I change into something a little warmer and head towards the Metro station. The airport isn’t hugely well sign-posted. Nor is the Metro. I eventually manage to figure out enough to buy a ticket. I have no French and early in the morning in a new country, I’m not feeling particularly confident.

Luckily I have directions. A pleasant train trip with just one change to the Bastille Metro station. I proceeded to get lost trying to find my exit. Rabbit-warren transport hubs appear to be a theme in Paris.

I walk out of the subway Metro into an overcast morning. I’m glad of my coat. I’m standing at an intersection. In the centre, on a traffic island, is a tall tower, topped with a winged, golden statue (Colonne de Juillet at Place de la Bastille – a monument to those killed in the July Revolution of 1830 and possibly others). A lovely landmark to navigate by.

I sit at a café near the Metro exit and order a café au lait. The waiter, thankfully, understands English and asks if I’d like a croissant with that. It’s 8am. I’m sitting in a cafe in Paris eating an excellent croissant, drinking hot coffee and people-watching. I wish I could describe the people. There were so many, in suits and coats and scarves and boots. Carrying cups of coffee and smoking cigarettes. Riding scooters and skateboards. Reading papers.

After a second coffee and a look at my guidebook, I head off to my hotel in the hopes of dropping off my bag. It’s still far too early for check-in but the person at the hotel reception takes pity on me (I later discover his family is originally from Senegal). I check in and go up a winding, narrow staircase to my room. The room looks out towards the back of the house, across rooftops and towards storey upon storey of old flats with wide, bay-windows, geraniums in pots and bicycles leaning against wooden doors.

The urge to collapse on my bed and fall asleep is powerful but I resist and instead pack the essentials into my daypack and set off exploring. The morning mist had burnt off and the sun is beginning to come out. I retrace my steps and then head across the intersection past the stunning Opera Bastille. A big sign advertises Bellini’s The Capulets and the Montagues. Sadly the dates are much later in April.

With a vague notion of heading towards the Eiffel Tower (because even one day in Paris should include a visit to its most famous landmark), I wander along the right bank of the canal (which I later discover is a marina). On the other side, trees are in full, pink blossom. Across a bridge, across a road, I catch a glimpse of a sign to the Notre Dame. As I am about to head in that direction, I noticed gardens up ahead. There is something special about gardens. I wander in.

I’ve accidentally found the Jardin des Plantes (a 24 hectare botanical garden). Did I mention it was spring? Rows and lines of flower-beds stretch away, bright with flowers of every colour, from tulips to poppies and daisies to lilac. The air is rich with the scent of flowers. I wander between the beds and stroll along tree-shaded avenues. Laughing children toss pink cherry-blossoms into the air, creating a snow of colour. On a bench, a woman sits, enjoying the sunshine and reading a book. Nearby, couple reads poetry to each other. I twist in and around, past greenhouses and signs showing the way to the Menagerie. Statues and old buildings sit amongst the trees and bushes. People sit sketching flowers and shuttered windows. It’s delightful – if I don’t leave now, I may never leave. I find an archway beneath a building and step out into the street, struggling for a moment with the idea that the last half-hour was real.

Up the road past university buildings, tripping through lilac blossoms scattered on the pavement, I reach the left bank of the Seine and head, again, in the direction of the Notre Dame. There are bits of Paris that are not pretty and romantic. I’m walking past university buildings and graffiti on the street. It’s gritty and real. This is why I walk – to see more than just the sanitised bits. Yet the river still sparkles and the trees rise gracefully. On the next corner I reach the Institut du Monde Arabe, where they are displaying the Orient Express. A modern glass and steel building, so different to most of the area around the river, but displaying an old, classic train.

I cross another of the beautiful bridges and find, half-way across, a clear view of the Notre Dame. I turn left and walk along the edge of the island, enjoying the pretty old multi-story buildings as I walk by; buildings that could come from novels and stories with their double-doors and their balconies and their attic rooms, with flowers growing in pots. As I reach the end of the island and prepare to cross to the next, a man is playing an accordion across the road from the Notre Dame and somewhere in the distance church bells are ringing noon, filling the air with the mingled sounds of the romantic accordion and the classic church-bells. The sounds of Paris.

The sun is shining and there is a gentle breeze scattering blossoms as I walk into the grounds of the Notre Dame. The Cathedral is stunning, from its gothic lines and gargoyles to its spring flowers and rose windows. I walked right around it, wanting to see it from every angle. I don’t try and go in – there isn’t time on this day but also the queues are ridiculous. As I pass the western end of the cathedral, with its majestic square towers, and walk towards the Charlemagne Memorial, the bells ring out from the towers above me. Behind me, birds are singing soaring melodies from the trees. I can only relish the moment. A little further along the side of the cathedral, pink and white blossoms artistically complement the grey stone.

By this stage, I have been won over by Paris, completely against my better judgement, and given up being sceptical of the clichés I seem to be walking through. As someone pointed out when I described the day, you reach the point where you have to wonder who is stage-managing this experience.

I cross the river, enjoying the relative quiet of side-streets after the tourist-crush at the Notre Dame. Across the river I find probably my favourite building in Paris, the Hôtel De Ville. Hôtel De Ville is the city hall of Paris. It is a vast, beautiful building, rebuilt, according to my guidebook, between 1874 and 1882 in neo-Renaissance style and decorated with 108 statues of notable Parisians around the outside. I stand on the square looking up at this incredible facade, with its statues, and right above me, below the clock, the words “Liberté. Egalite. Fraternité.”.

Fountains, Hotel de Ville, Paris

Red Light District, Churches and Canals

Adventures, Boats, The Netherlands, Travelling in Europe

I feel like so much happened in Amsterdam in such a very short space of time. After I visited Begijnhof, I contemplated going to the Amsterdam museum nearby, but it was starting to get late so I didn’t think I’d have time. Instead I set off by a round about route to go back to the hostel. On the way, I thought I’d stop into another of the many churches indicated on the map. I didn’t ever find that church, come to think of it. Instead, at the end of a canals I found the Amsterdam University Academic Club, complete with a list of public lectures and debates and a menu for the little restaurant. It wasn’t open at the time but someone I felt I’d found the Europe I’ve read about all those years – the continental intellectualism and engaged discussion,  down the street from old, old churches and stately traditions and between rows of neat red-brick buildings, under a steel-grey sky.

I walked along beside a small canal, along the street and past Bulldogs – apparently the first of the Amsterdam “coffee”-shops. One of many. I suppose because of the narrowness of the roads, all the chairs outside the coffee shops are set so that the patrons sit with their backs to the wall or canal looking at all the people walking past. Old men, couples, stoned people stare at you as you walk by. It’s a bit disconcerting

A little further up the street I came to the bulk of the Oude Kerk. This beautiful church is the original cathedral of Amsterdam. As I walked up, the hour struck four and the church bells rang out. I would hear the bells again many times in the next days in Amsterdam and they made me smile each time. The church is now used for many different purposes and remains an important part of the Catholic celebrations of the miracle of Amsterdam each March, which includes a silent procession through the old city. It is also a museum. I bought my ticket and went inside.

The first thing I noticed was the floor. The whole floor of this huge building is made up of large charcoal black stones – gravestones of generations of the people of Amsterdam. Under 2500 gravestones lie 10,000 people – rich, poor, ordinary, important – laid to rest beneath the floor of the church between 1300 and 1865, including, among many others, Rembrandt’s wife. Some of the stones are carved with intricate designs – crests, names, inscriptions in old Dutch. Some are plain and smooth. One is carved with the outline of skeleton.

Far above, the vaulted wooden ceiling rises in great sweeping arches. The ceiling is painted with crests and pictures. These pictures were only rediscovered during a restoration in 1956, because they were painted over with black paint when the city and the church became Protestant during the 1500s. On either side of the church, a wooden spiral staircase leads up to this ceiling roof.

Light streams in through stained glass windows, some dating from the 16th century, depicting stories from the religious to the patriotic. At the back of the church is a giant organ, decorated with cherubs and angels, above big wooden double doors. Past the wooden pews in the centre of the church, an intricately carved wooden screen separates the nave. Here the carved wooden seats of the choir stalls along either side depict a series of lessons and proverbs.

The building is cavernous and the ceiling rests on huge pillars. There are many plaques and remembrances, as well as examples of medieval and some more recent relics from churches around the country are have been brought here for safe-keeping as well. The only thing spoiling the visit was other tourists who were unfortunately a little noisy and limited real, social history explanations available.

From Oude Kerk, I walked a little further up the canal and passed the first red-light window I had seen, right opposite the wall of the church. It took me by surprise. As I walked back the hostel, the night began to fall. Sex shops opened their doors, the noise of pubs and coffee shops began to spill onto the street and crowds started to gather. I turned a corner, a few blocks from my hostel, and saw a young man staring longingly into a shop window. I sighed but as I got nearer I realised he was looking into a travel shop and thing that had caught his attention was little GoPro camera. It was so delightfully unexpected that I nearly burst out laughing.

I went out again later in search of dinner. Near the fun-fair, the crowds were growing and the noise and the lights were harsh. I headed down a street to escape the chaos but waitresses and restaurant owners kept leaping out and trying to convince me to patronise their establishments. The crowd seemed rougher than it had during the day. I broke away and re-found the lovely little canal I had walked along earlier. This time I walked along the other side and, before long, found an Argentinian Steakhouse with a little outside area right on the canal. I sat down at a table and watched the lights on the water and looked out at graceful bridges where cyclists and pedestrians went by. The waitress lit a candle and brought me a lovely dinner, followed by great coffee. The evening was warm and, tucked away at my little table, I felt like I’d found a little bit of old Europe.

After dinner, walking back, I could feel the frenetic, unsettled energy of the place. Everywhere was lights and glare and women in windows and men in black hoodies lurking outside certain establishments. I was glad to reach my hostel and feel like I could get a little bit of distance from this complicated city.

The first thing I heard in the morning was the churchbells from the Oude Kerk. Street cleaners and rubbish collectors were already on the move outside. I heard someone call out a greeting. It was early and the streets were calm again.

Downstairs, I had a good solid breakfast and then set off for a day of exploring. (Note to travellers, it appears most of central Amsterdam doesn’t open until after 10am.) First stop was the Amsterdam museum, which I managed to find after only one or two wrong turns. I had bought a ticket in advance at the hostel but there actually wasn’t any sort of queue. I wish I hadn’t. Not that I wish I hadn’t bought the ticket at the hostel; I wish I hadn’t bought it at all. I love museums. They’re one of my favourite parts of travel. And I have seen some that are not great and some that are absolutely fantastic. This was the first museum I think I’ve visited that has ever disappointed me so much.

When I arrived in the Netherlands, I was struck by how little I knew about the country, but one of the things I love about travel is learning about the places I visit, so I’d been reading and learning and finding out ever since. I had discovered a complex history of conflict, social upheaval, innovation and development, with threads of remarkable continuity and resolution and feats of invention and engineering. Instead of celebrating and recognising that, instead of telling stories, this museum could have been set up by a bad spin doctor. It was as if someone had gone through the history and picked out a few random moments when Amsterdam was somehow the best or biggest or most commercially important city in the Western world and simply ignored the rest. Most of the exhibitions were a few artefacts or famous paintings against a backdrop of cartoon drawings, quizzes and “did you know” factoids, mediated through carefully scripted video pieces.

There was no reflection on the meaning of empire, slavery, exploration, religious intolerance or subjugation by other nations. No exhibits depicted the great fires and the struggles to rebuild. Struggle was not a part of this narrative. Coming, as I do, from a “new world” perspective where struggle and fortitude and overcoming overwhelming odds are the very DNA of our societies, this seemed both strange and unnecessary – it made the history feel artificial. Also, of course, the social history trained student in me was cringing at the “great man” telling of history. The bits of history not confined to cartoons and slide show videos were show through famous paintings of famous people, along with some of those famous peoples’ possessions. The only mention of violence was a little bit about the guillotine being introduced and used just once, in a cartoon drawing of three headless street-sign style figures with three dots (heads) bouncing away.

By the time I got to the video showing the Dutch arriving at the Cape to a fully constructed castle and staying to build modern Cape Town before sailing on to Indonesia, I had had more than enough. I think it wasn’t the shortest time I’ve ever spent in any museum. I marched off up the road, no destination in mind and kept on walking until I found myself back at the station.

There I noticed the adverts for canal cruises. I’d been thinking about doing this and suddenly it looked like a great idea. It was. I found a reasonably priced option (don’t think about the exchange rate!), bought a ticket and headed for the boat. The cruise was magical. Through the old harbour, past the science centre and into the old, tree lined canals. Past the beautiful houses and the riches of Golden Bend. Past houseboats  – on one a toddler looking out from behind behind a glass door, so wishing to join the fun; on another, a full-blown garden of flowers and plants. Past the Lord Mayor’s residence and the narrowest house in Amsterdam (just 1.5m wide).

The cruise director pointed out the “dancing houses” – the buildings leaning slightly as the wooden poles on which they rest, begin, over centuries, to slide into the canal. We passed the beautiful Westerkerk and the Anne Frank House – the guide pointing out where the family had lived. It was a gentle cruise with many human stories – just the sort of history I had been hoping to find.

All too soon – but definitely worth the money – we passed again into the harbour, past the newly completed Palace of Justice and returned to the stately old Central Station. I seriously considered trying to find another cruise but decided I should stop while I was ahead.

The rest of the afternoon I spent walking, wandering. I left the city centre and walked in the direction of what was shown on my map as the Dutch East India Compound. I didn’t actually find it (I think I missed a turn) but I did get a chance to wander through what felt a little more like real Amsterdam with real people living in it. I still found the cyclists everywhere a little terrifying but it felt good to be out of the crowds – more peaceful and ordinary, more normal away from the tourists. On the way back, I stopped at the VOC café and sat on a balcony, overlooking a beautiful canal and had a glass of wine and some “warm traditional Dutch snacks”.

And that was it. Well, almost. I headed back to towards Dam Square in the late afternoon, to buy a few souvenirs of my visit. I was walking along, enjoying the houses and the streets and the slightly less crazy crowds. As I walked, I was idly looking into the windows of the shops I passed, window-shopping as I often do, when suddenly I found myself looking at a mostly naked woman. Of course, the evening was coming and the red lights were on – which I would of course have noticed had I been paying more attention – but it still came as a bit of a jolt, a bit unexpected when I wasn’t paying attention.

The next morning, early enough that the streets were almost deserted except for the cleaning crews and a few people cycling to work, I walked to the station, took a train to the airport and headed home. I’d been in the Netherlands only a few days but I felt like I’d seen so much on my very first trip to Europe.

A Sanctuary in Amsterdam: Falling in Love with Begijnhof

Adventures, The Netherlands, Travelling in Europe, Why,

I turn at the American Book Centre, following the guidebook instructions. There are several other tourists there, standing before a heavy wooden door. One of them steps forward and opens the door. We pass through a doorway and a passage passing under the houses, and emerge in the absolute peace and calm of a hidden, inner courtyard. Suddenly, it’s quiet. The noise and chaos and people of Amsterdam fall away.

I stop, with several others, to read the plaque. Some wander around quietly. On the lawn stands a statue of a woman, dark against the green grass, the autumn leaves and the brick of the church.

Begijnhof (800x451)

The plaque tells the stories of the Beguines. Beginning sometime in the twelfth century, groups of women in the Low Countries and later Germany and France chose to come together to live as a religious community, primarily to care for the sick. They were single, Catholic women who were not nuns but chose to live away from the roles they would probably have been expected to assume otherwise (wife, mother or cloistered nun) in this lay community of faith. They took temporary vows of chastity and obedience but were able to end those vows at any time and leave the community. They did not take vows of poverty and so were able to keep their own possessions, which (the guidebook suggests) helped to preserve the Begijnhof (Beguinage) in later years when the property of the Catholic Church in Amsterdam was seized by the state.

These women lived in the houses around this courtyard over hundreds of years. In the middle of the courtyard stands a stone church built in the 1400s. All the houses, rather than facing the busy streets, look down upon this church. The church, in its courtyard, would have been the centre of these women’s lives. The wooden houses and the original church building were mostly destroyed in the Amsterdam fires of 1421 and 1452 but the Beguines rebuilt, this time building brick homes for themselves – one of the old wooden houses has been restored to show what the original homes would have looked like. The Beguines also paid for the rebuilding and restoration of the church themselves.

In 1578, Roman Catholic Amsterdam was converted by the “Orangist Calvinists” to be a Protestant city. Catholic magistrates were dismissed and it was forbidden (until 1795) for Roman Catholics to openly profess their faith. All churches, monasteries and convents were confiscated by the authorities. The church in the courtyard of the Begijnhof was handed over and was given to the English speaking population of Amsterdam as their Protestant Church.

Although the Beguines had handed over the church they had built and rebuilt, the houses were the private property of the women, so the government did not try to confiscate them. The community around the courtyard remained and the Begijnhof remained a Roman Catholic enclave in Protestant Amsterdam for more than 200 years, an enclave where these women quietly practised their faith and cared for others in spite of the political upheaval and religious intolerance that raged beyond their walls.

The women now worshipped in a small “house-church” in two a-joining houses. One of many hidden churches in Amsterdam. In 1671, with the permission of the municipality, they were finally able to build a proper chapel on this spot. The current chapel opened in 1682. At the time, 150 Beguines and 12 widows or single women lived in the Beguinage.

The last member of the Beguine community or sisterhood at the Begijnhof in Amsterdam passed away in 1971, the last of many generations of women of this community over almost 800 years. Although the community no longer lives here, still only single women are allowed to live in the houses and both the protestant church in the centre of the courtyard and the Catholic chapel remain in use. A major renovation (and restoration) was carried out in the 1980s and the property handed over to the Beginjhof Foundation, who maintain the property and rent out homes to 93 single women.

It is one of the most peaceful places I have ever visited. Both the church and the chapel continuing to be places of worship, away from the bustle and noise of central Amsterdam. The chapel is part of the annual celebration of the Miracle of Amsterdam. Begijnhof is a sanctuary of peace. There were other tourists there when I visited, lighting a candle in the Catholic chapel, lingering in the Protestant church where the organist and the soprano were practicing hymns, praying, resting or just taking it all in.

Walking along the path around the church I came to the second doorway and stepped out into the street. It felt like I’d walked into a wall of sound. It felt so strange, so unnatural. I stepped back and went back into the courtyard. I wasn’t ready to leave this peace just yet. I wasn’t ready to step back into the world.

There are many wonderful things in Amsterdam and I loved visiting. But the reason I would go back, the reason I find myself drawn to the craziness of inner city Amsterdam, is Begijnhof.