Paris & Amsterdam Trip 2012 Day 4: A New Favourite Develops

I am getting a little behind with blogging, mostly because that cold I mentioned turned into a proper nasty sore throat, chesty cough, croaky voice, and blocked sinuses thing that has left me a bit out of action of late. I am still recovering, and although I am feeling much better, this is one of those things that has chosen to linger. But enough of that. Christmas is just round the corner, and I want to get back to blogging!

So here is Day 4 of our holiday - exploring Amsterdam!

We woke to a gorgeous morning - clear blue sky and sunshine, at last! We decided to get out and enjoy it straightaway, by walking down the pleasant cobbled streets alongside the canals in search of breakfast. So many people in Amsterdam cycle and there were far fewer cars than any other city I've ever been to. The only issue as a pedestrian was to ensure that you didn't get in the way of any cyclists, but that proved to be a lot easier than dodging cars and mopeds had been in Paris!

The morning was truly stunning, and we kept pausing to admire the views and take photos.

We soon found ourselves in the Western Canal Ring where we stumbled across a perfect little cafe for breakfast called Pancakes! which does what it says on the tin - pancakes! I ordered a Dutch pancake with chocolate, and my husband went for a deluxe Dutch pancake with chocolate and banana. They were scrumptious, as we had anticipated, as well as huge! The waitress was lovely and friendly so my husband took the opportunity practise some more Dutch by saying, "Heerlijk!" when she came to clear our table and asked us if we'd enjoyed our pancakes, which means "Delicious!" She was delighted and gave us a few other phrases to practise during our stay. She also gave us a little clog keyring with our receipt, which is now attached to my camera bag.

Such an indulgent breakfast meant that a long walk was on order, so we headed over to the Vondelpark. As soon as we walked through the park's gates we were greeted with the vibrant colours of autumn, the trees ablaze with oranges and reds. We meandered around the lakes, where my husband was delayed for several minutes taking pictures of a very photogenic heron. We continued along woodland paths, through flower gardens, over bridges, past lively fountains, and sat for awhile by a stage area that is presumably is abuzz with outdoor theatre on summer evenings. It was blissful, and the air felt so fresh.

Feeling thoroughly chilled we made our way back into the centre of the city, soon surrounded by the hustle and bustle of tourists. We were so busy admiring the beautiful buildings, many of which are old warehouses that have been converted into homes and businesses, that we hadn't realised we had reached the Medieval District, otherwise known as the Red Light District. We were soon affronted by the site of other Brits out in loud, rowdy groups on stag and hen parties, and groups of nervous but excited teenage boys looking for 'coffee shops' and possibly something else. I have to admit that I was more intimidated by the crowds than by anything else. It was a bit like a Saturday night out back at home gone slightly wrong and at odds with the very picturesque setting.

It probably didn't help that I was getting hungry again. It was with considerable relief that we found a bakery just on the outskirts of the district, where we bought some sandwiches for lunch. We found a bench to stop and eat, and to consult the map.

We decided to go back across to the Western Canal Ring and see Anne Frank Huis. It didn't take long for the morning's calmness to return as we made our way back along the canals to join a long queue waiting to get into the house, but thankfully we didn't have to wait too long to get inside the museum.

The original house is now contained inside another building which forms the start and finish of the museum tour. Almost immediately you walk into a room designed to emulate the warehouse that Otto Frank had worked in, and there are quotes from Anne's diary on the wall. This instantly changed the atmosphere from the entrance - which has a very classy, contemporary feel - to pulling you right back to the Amsterdam of the early 1940s. With each step the atmosphere became stronger, and before long you are in the offices, and then through the door into the Secret Annexe where the Franks lived with the Van Daans and Mr Van Dassel for two years, before they were discovered by the Nazis in 1944.

I can't really put into words how it felt walking through those rooms. They are unfurnished and have not been made into replicas of how they were once laid out, as Otto Frank requested that they remain empty. Even so, there was something tangible about the place, a strong sense that people had really lived there, more so than in many of the other historical buildings I've visited - and as you know, I've been to several. This had been their reality, and there was something about the space that made that hit home for me, more than the excellent TV dramatisations of Anne Frank's diary had done. It really helped to imagine what it must have been like living in that cramped space for so long, not being able to go outside at all, especially in the case of Anne, her sister Margot, and Peter Van Daan, growing up in there.

The last part of the exhibition within the old house was the most emotional. Firstly there were information panels on what had become of the Franks and Jews like them after they had been sent to the concentration and death camps. This was information I knew well from school, yet it still had the power to shock and anger me when I was confronted with it again. Then there was a video on repeat of Otto Frank talking about his daughter and the discovery of her diary that his old assistant, Miep, had kept just in case, and how he had not been able to read it immediately. I just could not imagine the grief Otto Frank must have gone through upon escaping the war alive but finding that none of the rest of his family had done.

Finally there was the diary itself. Again, it is strange to see something like that behind a glass case, but I still felt able to picture Anne writing in it. I remembered myself at 14 and thought how I would have coped in the same situation. The only thing I can say for sure is that I would have written too but I am not so sure I could have faced it so bravely or so philosophically.

There is a legacy in a place like the Anne Frank Huis that forces you to think about what oppression really means, how it can lead into some of the most devastating and evil acts in history, and that is why we must keep learning from the past and never give up on hope.

We were both in a particularly pensive mood after that, and quietly wandered back to our hotel to rest for a bit before deciding where to go for dinner.

We chose the easy option of the steak house down the street, called Piet de Leeuw. It was packed when we arrived, filled predominantly with Dutch people in large and small groups, their voices rising to the ceiling. We absorbed the jovial atmosphere as we sat and waited for the owner of the restaurant found a way to squeeze us in. We were seated at a large round table that was already occupied by an older American couple, who greeted us briskly and then continued their conversation. Nervously we looked at the menu and picked out our steaks - I went for one with extra mushrooms, and my husband chose one with extra onion. It was only then that we realised that we had been given the French menu! Both pleased and amused that we had been mistaken for French we couldn't believe how we hadn't noticed that it wasn't written in English or Dutch. We had just sat there and made our choices without giving it a second thought - obviously our brains were still a bit stuck in Paris mode!

The steaks were fantastic, as was the ice cream that followed. The menu was simple, with not too much choice, but it was obvious that the place is very popular with the locals, which was sign enough for us that it was somewhere worth eating at, and we were glad not to have been proven wrong.

We went for a brief walk around the nearest canal before heading back to the hotel and promptly falling asleep. As I closed my eyes I smiled at the thought that Amsterdam had already worked its way into my top three cities, just behind Rome and London.

Paris & Amsterdam Trip 2012 Day 3: From Paris to Amsterdam

Day 1 and Day 2 of the adventure can be found here and here.

The following morning we packed our bags and checked out of the hotel. We took the Metro to Anvers in Montmartre.

The place was heaving with tourists, backpackers, and traders. Traffic was zooming about everywhere. Our confidence of the previous night evaporated as we walked about in bewilderment, first searching for the Sacre Couer to orientate ourselves, and then looking for somewhere to buy some breakfast.

Eventually we found a small but inviting patisserie nestled amidst the madness. As we were both loaded up with bags we decided it was best if only one of us went into the shop, and as the one with the better French I had to step up to the challenge. My husband's only request was that I got him the creamiest, most ludicrous looking pastry I could find. The array of sweet treats in the patisserie was dazzling, and much of it looked excessively creamy. I was spoilt for choice. Eventually my eyes settled on a chocolate eclair, which I deemed good enough for me, and then I spotted the perfect pastry for my husband - a large choux bun with a smaller one on top of it, covered in chocolate sauce, purporting to be a religieuse. I ordered these in my broken French, along with two coffees, and then proceeded out of the shop clutching the two little cardboard cups, several sachets of sugar (the woman behind the counter obviously thought we must have a sweet tooth), and the paper bag containing our breakfast, my heavy rucksack wobbling on my back, my camera swinging around my neck. I couldn't have looked any more touristy if I'd tried! Well, maybe I could have worn a 'Paris' baseball cap on my head, but thankfully that's not my style!

My husband was delighted at the sight of the religieuse, and was even more pleased when he bit into it and rich chocolate cream oozed out of the middle. My eclair was equally tasty. I'm amazed we didn't spend the rest of the day with chocolate smeared all round our faces. Perhaps the rain washed it all off, for as on the previous days, the miserable drizzle continued to linger.

We considered taking the vernacular railway up to the Sacre Couer, but the queues were long and we hadn't bought Metro tickets that would cover the cost, so we chose to walk up the stairs of the Rue Foyatier. It was hard work with our luggage, but I suppose it was a good way to burn off those cream calories!

The Sacre Couer sits at the highest point in Paris. On a clear day the view must be fantastic, but fog once again sat like a veil over the city and we were unable to drink in much at that point in time, so we turned our attention to the basilica itself.

Like Notre Dame on the previous day, there were tourists absolutely everywhere, although there was much less of a queue to get in. There was also a bit more space to move around inside. There was a mass taking place, which you could join, or otherwise you were free to wander around as long as you didn't take photos or make noise. Of course we respected this, but I did see some excellent photo opportunities that I was disappointed that we had to miss. The art and architecture were simply breathtaking. The fact there was a mass taking place added to the very peaceful and solemn atmosphere. There was some beautiful singing, and I felt my mind instantly ease from the busyness of the city outside. It was also less stressful to wander around than Notre Dame had been as people were much less tightly packed together.

For a few euros you can buy a joint ticket to go up the tower and into the crypt, or just an individual ticket for one or the other. Although we would have loved to have seen the view from the tower, considering both the limited visibility outside and the weight of our bags, we thought it best not to go clambering up spiral stairs and instead opted just to go inside the crypt. This was even more tranquil, especially in the inner chapel, as very few tourists seemed to bother with this element.

Once we were back in the outside world, the fog had cleared enough for us to admire the view. The top of the Eiffel Tower was still hidden, and you couldn't see as far as you can on a clear day (I assume), but we stayed for several minutes gazing at the hundreds of rooftops, and pointing out famous landmarks that we recognised. It seemed to a fine way to finish off our stay in the city.

We then made our way towards the Gare du Nord for our journey north-east, stopping in a boulangerie to buy a couple of scrumptious filled baguettes for our lunch.

Before long we were settling into our comfortable red and purple seats on the Thalys train to Amsterdam. We spent the journey doing puzzles, practising snippets of Dutch from the phrase book we had, looking up places to go in our Lonely Planet guide, and admiring the view as the train zipped through the French countryside and on into Belgium where the sun was shining brightly. I inwardly shook my fist at it for its marked absence in Paris.

It was twilight by the time our train pulled into Amsterdam Centraal, but the sun had clearly been shining all day in Holland too. I hoped it would stay, at least for the next day. Although you don't really need good weather on a city break I have to admit that I was growing desperate for a little sunshine!

Stepping out of the station onto the cobbled pavement, people milling here and there, trams rumbling past, we both felt a little more relaxed. Amsterdam was definitely busy but it just seemed less frantic and more chilled than Paris had been.

We took a tram to the Southern Canal Ring in search of our hotel, which thankfully was very easy to find down a quiet side street off of Vijzelgracht. We walked up to the desk where we were met by a friendly woman. I took a deep breath and said, "Ik heb een reservatie," to which she replied in an explosion of Dutch, grinning broadly. I mumbled my name, hoping that's what she had asked for, and then I started to laugh and quickly explained that I actually knew very little Dutch. She laughed too and immediately switched to impeccable English. Amsterdam is often referred to as a bilingual city, so we knew that speaking in English wouldn't be a problem, but as with attempting to speak French in Paris, we wanted to have a go at Dutch in Amsterdam! We would later discover that if you spoke a bit of Dutch the assumption would be that you could speak a lot of Dutch, which led to some interesting conversations in restaurants!

Our room was on the top floor. It was lovely and spacious, set in the eaves of the roof, with a shuttered dormer window. The decor was an array of bright greens, purples, and pinks, and the inviting large double bed was covered in soft white linen with little sweets on each pillow. The room in Paris had been adequate for our needs, but we were both pleased to now be staying somewhere that felt a little more vibrant and luxurious - and it was the same price for three nights that the room in Paris had been for two nights!

We unpacked and freshened up before heading to the nearby Utrechtestraat in search of one of the Lonely Planet Guide's recommended Indonesian restaurants, Tujuh Maret, where we were lucky enough to nab a table as another couple were leaving. We went for the rijstaffel - 'rice table' or Indonesian Banquet. A selection of tiny bowls was laid out across two food warmers, with the dishes organised in order of hotness. We started eating at the milder end, making our way to the hottest, by which time our taste buds had become accustomed to more spice! There was also lots of rice and some delicious side dishes that unfortunately I can't remember the names of. The meal was very tasty. We'd never tried Indonesian cuisine before but were eager to as Indonesian restaurants to the Dutch are what Indian restaurants are to the British! It was also another type of cuisine for my husband to tick off of his foodie list!

After dinner we took a slow walk back to our hotel via the canals. The arches of the bridges were lit up beautifully, and whilst my husband stopped to take some fancy photography I lent on one of the railings breathing in the still night air, and watching as a barge sailed past. This was relaxation. Paris had been great, but I had a feeling that I was going to like Amsterdam that little bit more.

Photo my own.

Paris & Amsterdam Trip Day 1: Newhaven to Paris

Last month, courtesy of a generous tax refund, my husband and I took a short holiday to Paris and Amsterdam. We've both needed a holiday for a little while, and as we don't currently have a car we set our sights on Europe for this year's adventure seeing as public transport over there seems to be altogether cheaper and better connected.

So because it was a fab little adventure, I wanted to share it on my blog over a selection of posts starting, of course, at the beginning:

We woke bright and early to get the train down to Newhaven where we hopped on the ferry to Dieppe. The sky was grey and gloomy and it was drizzling miserably. Just the send off one needs for a trip abroad, although we left under the knowledge that this kind of weather front would most likely be dominating northern France and Holland as well. That's what you get for holidaying in October.

Feeling bleurgh

Anyway despite the fact it was somewhat breezy the sea was only slightly choppy. I enjoy travelling by ferry, and I've sailed in very stormy conditions before and never once been ill so I knew I would be fine. Except this time I wasn't. I felt incredibly nauseous for the entire four hour journey. I tried everything from standing out on deck in the chilly wind and rain to sucking on sweets to wearing those stupid travel bands - nothing worked.

Although I wasn't actually sick at any point it was a great relief to finally arrive in Dieppe where the rain was coming down in buckets. Thankfully my sea sickness faded as we battled through the hostile weather under the shelter of my new umbrella that the wind kept trying to steal, to the town centre in search of a cafe to hide in, as we still had a couple of hours before the next leg of our journey.

Despite the foul weather we were still able to admire Dieppe's picturesque historical buildings. The town was lovely and quiet and we were able to let the remaining elements of tension disappear because we were finally on holiday, and come rain or shine we were going to enjoy it!

We were innocently wandering across the road at a pedestrian crossing when a musical yet alarming sound screeched into our ears. Both unsure of French crossings we thought that the traffic lights were emitting some strange alert but then we turned to see a fire engine bombing up the road towards us. We quickly got to the other side and watched, bemused, as this vaguely farcical yet serious sight tunefully zoomed past us. Because I work for the emergency services these bizarre sirens became a fascination of mine for the remainder of our trip, as we heard them frequently in Paris. My favourite comedian, Bill Bailey, describes it so well. We were in fits re-watching this when we returned home:

Anyway, after locating the station we found a nearby cafe and dived in for a coffee.* I nervously tried out my GCSE level French and realised that I remembered more than I thought, and that I could speak it correctly enough to be understood, huzzah!

Shortly after this we went back to the station to catch our train to Rouen, a rumbling monster complete with 80s style curtains at the window, and a slightly odd conductor who, whilst very jolly, would make loud train noises at random intervals throughout the journey. We sat back to admire the beautiful Normandy countryside. Stretches of fields, and numerous large farmhouses with shuttered windows flashed before us, making me nostalgic for my school French Exchange trips. I thought of Marie, who I had exchanged with, and the mildly terrifying but fascinating introduction to French life her family had given me. It was actually on one of these exchanges, when I was 13, that I first went on a trip to Paris, and I remember that I was distinctly unimpressed with this alleged "most romantic city in the world." I had found it grey and dull. And it was this that had made me want to return as an adult, convinced that I would appreciate it so much more through mature eyes and without being forced to visit the places my school teachers deemed the most interesting (translate: boring). This desire for me, combined with my husband's new interest in French cookery, helped us select Paris as one of our destinations for this holiday.

By the time we boarded our train from Rouen to Paris it was getting dark so there was far less to see but it wasn't too long before the bright lights of the capital city were before us and we alighted at St Lazare.

By this point we were both tired and hungry, and although we were glad to have finally arrived in Paris, we were a little overwhelmed by how busy the pavements and roads were. In essence it was just like London, but cars were driving on the other side of the road and we didn't know exactly where we were in relation to our hotel.

Clinging to each other, we got our bearings, and made our way through the busy streets. Even though all the shops were now closed there were still people milling about everywhere. It was with great relief that we found our hotel, a small place tucked away down a side street. My husband, who had been building up to this moment having never spoken French before, burst through the doors and bellowed, "J'ai une reservation!" causing the man seated behind the desk to leap up in surprise.

I nudged him for forgetting to say, "Bonsoir" first, but the man didn't seem to mind, and handed us our key card with a polite smile.

Our room was small but clean, comfy, and just right for what we needed. We quickly offloaded our luggage, freshened up, and then made our way back onto the busy streets in search of a restaurant.

We walked along a street of eateries, determined to find somewhere French, not somewhere British or American or Italian - there were a considerable number of recognisable chains, although as we were in a capital city I guess we shouldn't really have been surprised.

We eventually found a reasonable looking place that was busy enough to show it wasn't terrible yet quiet enough to hear ourselves think. We were able to practise more of our broken French, and let our brains stop whirring so we could plan our next day's excursions. After our delicious meals - duck confit for me, and steak tartare for him - we went for a wander along the streets, feeling much calmer once again and ready to face the rest of our trip.

We slept well that night ready for a big day of exploring ahead of us.

*I know I frequently blabber on about not being able to drink coffee. As a general rule this is true, but to be perfectly frank, the rest of Europe just has no idea how to make good tea, so when in Rome...