At Christmas, at a loss for a gift that I could give to my husband, I endeavoured to kill two birds with one stone by buying a weekend for two to Amsterdam, travelling by Eurostar from London St Pancras to Amsterdam Central. I had the brilliant idea to book the weekend to cover our anniversary in May.
We set off at 5.30pm on the Wednesday evening and took an overland train into Kings Cross. We then proceeded to walk across the road from the station to Belgrove Street to our overnight stay at Hotel California. For those of you who might be interested this was an ideal, 60 room hotel with 24 hr reception and breakfast to order. Its location was excellent. Our room was tiny and cramped, but for a single night stay, I’d say it was excellent. It was clean, and comfortable and as long as you get a good nights sleep for a perceived arduous journey ahead, what else matters?
Leaving our luggage we headed to Dishoom, an Indian restaurant I had been meaning to take my husband to for some time. Situated behind Kings Cross Station we passed a parade of shops, observed people playing chess and arrived outside Dishoom. We stood in a queue for about 30 minutes, chatting to the door person and drinking hot desi chai (Indian tea). We were directed to a bar where we were encouraged to take a drink and not long afterwards we made it to our table for dinner. It was nice and what was nicer was the conversation about our trip ahead. Winding down from work and life stress, our sense of relaxation was made all the more easier because St Pancras was next door. We didn’t have to worry about driving, arriving or battling traffic. We didn’t have to consider how we were going to arrive to catch our transport for the start of our journey because we were already there.
The meal was enjoyed and we walked back through St Pancras station to get an idea of where we should head in the morning at 7.15am to catch the 8.15am Eurostar to Amsterdam. Once all that was done we returned to our hotel and slept. The alarm went off at 6am and we did what we needed to and made our way to the departure desk armed with our tickets.
Easy entry, no problem security, a short wait in the departure lounge and we were soon on the Eurostar. 5 hours later (Its normally a 4 hour journey, but an electrical fault on the train delayed us by an hour) we had arrived at our destination. An email to the hotel in advance of our arrival informed us that a tram from outside the station (number 12) would stop directly outside our hotel, the Okura.
We were given a bit of a VIP welcome by the tram assistant who ushered us to our seats, were told not to pay and as soon as we got to the right stop, we were directed to the hotel, which as indicated was across the road for the tram drop off point. Hotel Okura is a Japanese owned hotel tucked away from Ferdinand Bol Straat. It was beautiful, luxurious and convenient. I was looking forward to the next few days.
After checking in and chilling for an hour or so, we headed back to Amsterdam Centraal to get some city passes that would allow us discounted and free entry to exhibits and stuff and let us travel the metro and trams. By this time it was late afternoon, and we were hungry. Strangely for the length of journey the Eurostar has a a very basic restaurant car, and a sandwich was all that was available, which hubby had bought, but as I had slept for the best part of 5 hours I now needed something to eat. I went for familiarity and opted for a Turkish restaurant. It wasn’t particularly pleasant but it filled a hole and made it possible for us to walk around and appreciate our surroundings for a while, until we felt it necessary to return to the hotel. I hit the Gym, and got back to the room where Asgar had chilled out. I showered and it was sleep time in readiness for anniversary.
We had looked at a number of eatery’s in Amsterdam, wondering which would be the best place to try out for Breakfast. Trip Advisor showed us that a place called the restaurant Camelia had the best breakfast on offer in town. It turns out that restaurant was in our hotel. So for 35 euros per head, we ate like Kings. I asked one of the waiters to take a picture of us, since it was our anniversary and later on they presented us each with a mimosa. A blend of Champagne and pure orange juice. We of course thanked them and went on our way.
We had two destinations planned that day, Zaanse Schans and the Keukanhof. One place was famous for Windmills and the other for being a flower, predominantly tulip garden. Now when we set out for Amsterdam, the weather didn’t look like it would favour us, but it was glorious and warm. An over ground train ride took us to Zaanse Schans, a working museum town, with lots of areas to visit of industry and places of interest. Whilst we were there we visited a pendulum clock museum and the windmills. Before returning to Amsterdam Central we sampled Stroop waffles and hot chocolate.
Returning back into the city centre station we enquired how to get to the Keukanhof. We were directed to the ferry across town, which we shared with what felt like a million bikes and on the other side, ventured out to get tickets to take us to the gardens. We were very lucky and at 3.30pm managed to get onto the very last bus tour. It turns out that had we, when returning from Zaanse Schans, got off at Schipol Airport, the stop before re-entering Amsterdam Central, we could have taken a bus directly to the Keukanhof. But you live and learn. I fell asleep on the 45 minute bus journey and when we arrived at the gardens, both Asgar and I were reminded of Springfields garden. A place in our home town of Spalding. We hail from Lincolnshire, South Holland to be exact and the similarity between the countryside of the Netherlands and Spalding is identical and Tulip fields once surrounded our town, not so much nowadays, but this was a throwback. It was beautiful and tranquil and picturesque and made Asgar in particular feel very nostalgic.
By the time we returned into Amsterdam it was fairly late and as neither of us wanted to wait in a queue for their famous ‘chips’ we opted to go for a pancake supper. Once we finished, as we had planned to join a walking tour the following morning, we set off to look for the meeting point. The Dam. En-route I discovered one of the exhibits I wanted to see. The Bodyworld, happiness project.
On day 2, we did the walking tour, we did the Bodyworld exhibition and my intention was to visit both the Van Gogh and Rikhsmuseums, while Asgar went off to the Bols exhibit. It turns out we have to book the museum visits well in advance and I didn’t, so, I couldn’t do those. We went back to the Okura to chill for a bit and later on Asgar said he wanted to visit the Red Light District. We did, for about 5 minutes. The smells in the street made me feel sick and I needed to escape as quickly as possible.
The history of Amsterdam is a bit of a mixed bag. The canals unlike in Venice are manmade. The whole city was a strategic creation, which meant that despite being neutral during the second world war, Hitler still invaded, because he wanted to make the most of its location. The Netherlands is filled with plain speakers, abrupt but massively tolerant, hence all denominations, cultures, creeds and orientations are welcome. But they do have rules, some of which are questionable but they aren’t totally lawless and even though the sex workers of the Red Light district are now no longer Dutch in totality, its still, for someone like me, a sad thing to see women selling themselves in doorways. I suppose it would be hypocritical to claim tolerance, without making place for the oldest profession known to humanity. The smell of weed was so obnoxious for me and I was glad of it, so as not to have to stay in this part of the town a second longer than I needed to.
We headed back to the Dam where we found a lively restaurant opposite the war memorial.
Day 3, which was Sunday we did the customary river cruise and saw the city via the perspective of the canals. When we got off we wandered around the streets for ages and again tried pancakes at the Amsterdam pancake outlet. The servers were rushed off their feet, very young and clueless. It was not a nice experience but the sun was shining outside and there was still plenty to do. We wandered and walked and explored until it was time to return for the night.
Monday was the day we were due to return, but we had one final place to visit. This was the part I had most been looking forward to. The Ann Frank House, Walking westwards from Paliestraat, it was only three streets away from the tram stop. Walking by a row of buildings which in the past had been warehouses, we could see the queue for the 9.15am slot.
I can’t tell you why, but I walked in like I had a foot on my chest and a lump in my throat. There was silence from the entry point all the way through the exhibition to the exit. Respectful, sombre and in the final parts of the exhibit, the tragedy of the Ann Frank story was felt. We use the word audible, when we describe something we are hearing, but the word tangible doesn’t do the feeling justice. The rooms which we walked through, rooms occupied by Ann, her sister Margot, her mother and father and the other four people that included Peter, beginning from the bookcase seemed surreal. I have only heard her story and watched it depicted in film, but it was hard to concentrate on the explanations. The kitchen as was, is, the only aspect of the apartments that remains. After the Germans found them the furniture had been removed and the rooms laid bare, and that’s how they have stayed. The building has so many visitors and I suppose to make it safe, it has had to be reinforced. The facade isn’t the same. The wooden piles upon which so many buildings are mounted and have understandably moved, cannot be allowed to happen to this monument to man kinds courage, resilience, ingenuity, sense of humanity (thinking of people like Miep Gies and the others who protected the Franks) and cruelty.
The walkways are tiny and steep, the rooms rabbit hutches and for two years eight people survived, hiding in fear of their lives. I can remember the moans and groans of so many on Facebook during Covid and yet this is unimaginable. 3 months before Amsterdam was liberated, well after the Allies had landed in Europe, somehow the Germans found out and the 8 were removed to concentration camps. Ann and Margot were taken to Bergen Belson where they both died. Only Otto Frank, Ann’s father survived and returned and, it was through his zeal, his daughters dream to become an author came true. Her book was was to be called ‘The Attic’ survives as Ann Franks diary.
The rooms in the apartment were bare, but, the markings for how tall Ann and Margot grew, whilst there, are still visible. The pictures of film stars of that era and believe it or not two photo cuttings of our late Queen Elizabeth still adorn the walls of the room Ann slept in. The word tragic is so underwhelming, for such an overwhelming story.
I digress here and I probably shouldn’t, because this feeling is political and yet I have to express it, but I often ask myself how, as persecuted the Jews of this world have been, is it possible that Israel, is responsible for the atrocities it perpetrates over the Palistinians. This question of how those who have suffered can cause suffering has nothing to do with religion or race or colour and is more about an innate human flaw, where power craves power and possession at any cost. As a result history exists and teaches how not to be, but we choose to ignore it.
I confess that I didn’t find Amsterdam particularly interesting as a place. For me, being with my husband and exploring something new, was what truly captured me and that’s where I found my fun, but Ann Frank, her house, her story and the reflections it gave me pause to make, showed me that even in fear, with so much stress, each day they survived must have felt like something to be grateful for and though Ann didn’t survive, her story and that of the people with her did, and I am grateful for that. Grateful that we can be witness to history. Grateful for the monuments of yesterday that exist today to teach us how not to be. History has been preserved and we can learn so much from it. The only thing needed for us to learn positive messages from history is the desire within ourselves. It might not exist in the Netanyahu’s of today, but if it exists in you and in me, then the spirit of the resilient lives on.