Atlantica - 01.09.2004, Blaðsíða 30

28 A T L A N T I C A
getting a chance to see the texture I had
always read about in his 1889 and 1890
paintings etched the works into my mind.
Even if thousands of prints are sold of it,
“Wheat Field Under Threatening Skies
with Crows” still feels immediate and
emotionally bare.
Best viewed on a separate day – and per-
haps best viewed in a couple days on its
own, is the Rijksmuseum. This museum
of Dutch masters is almost empty when I
visit, despite the fact that the Van Gogh
was overflowing. At the Rijksmuseum,
artwork completely overcomes the walls,
the fine art equivalent of a Red Bull ener-
gy drink. I try to take in one Vermeer and
Rembrandt at a time, but the other large
dozen masterworks in each room at the
time are distracting.
A sentence on the wall next to “Night
Watch” explains that this is Rembrandt’s
most famous painting, so that we won’t
pass it by. I take a break from the museum
to have Dutch pancakes at nearby
Leidesplein, then return for one last look
at the paintings I usually see in books.
This time, on immediately entering the
museum, I am stopped in my tracks by a
quote in the first room explaining the
Dutch masters were able to succeed
because of 17th Century trade in “gold,
sugar and slaves.”
FREE JAZZ, CHEAP STEAK
Locals and expatriates alike all recom-
mend one area when I ask about
Amsterdam nightlife: Leidseplein, or Blind
Square, blocks from the museums. There I
find two blocks of large, moderately priced
restaurants jutted up against the square
with large amounts of outdoor seating.
The locals all station themselves in almost
stadium seating, drinking Dutch beer and
watching the crowd. To my surprise,
nobody at all eats, even those sitting at the
steak house. In the row of six restaurants,
I count more than 90 patrons, but only
four have plates, and they speak French.
So I drink a beer on an empty stomach and
walk in the direction of the English-speak-
ers until I find a steak restaurant where
people are actually consuming food.
Here, I come full circle. The man who
fled Deuce Bigelow now sits with glee to
consume a ten-euro steak dinner in an
alleyway just off of the square, with a per-
fect view of a large, neon phallus. When
the steak doesn’t make me physically ill,
and in fact tastes good, I experience some-
thing approaching bliss. I’m not alone in
this. In my half hour of dining, I watch
eight ecstatic patrons shake hands with the
host. Three pose for pictures next to the
menu.
What is more, next door to another ten-
euro steak house in Leidseplein is Alto
Jazz. I follow a cast of twentysomething
sober Dutchmen into Alto Jazz and enjoy
two hours of frenetic, up-tempo swing. A
far cry from many jazz clubs on the conti-
nent, this is not a meeting place to talk
over the music but a place to shout along
with it.
At the club, I join a group of internation-
al tourists and we leave and spend an hour
walking around the square watching street
performers and striking up sporadic con-
versations.
On my way out of Amsterdam, I ask
Hans, the second security agent to go
through my carry-on, where he is from.
“Rotterdam.”
“Rotterdam?”
“It’s a horrible place,” he says, handing me
back my bag.
“I liked it.”
“Yes. Yes, it’s great.” ❂
Icelandair flies to Amsterdam
seven times a week.
AMSTERDAM
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