Beverwijk and Amsterdam

I enjoyed the luxury of not having to get up by the clock in the morning. After a leisurely breakfast I did a bit of shopping at nearby Heemstede Centrum, taking the opportunity to toss the old shirts that I had bought some 15 years ago from Hema, a Dutch department store chain, into a donation bin. It was a satisfying symmetry to return those shirts to their country of origin, heh. Then I caught a bus to Haarlem NS. I didn't have enough coins for the automat, which only take coins and PIN cards, and was annoyed to be charged 0.5€ extra for buying at a counter. I made a note to accumulate enough coins for the return trip.


My destination was the Zwarte Markt near Beverwijk, the most famous weekend bazaar in the Netherlands, as the website name suggests. It isn't a black market as the name might lead you to think but a bazaar with exotic (i.e. non-Dutch) goods as well as a wide variety of household goods and foodstuffs. I thought it was walking distance from the town but when I failed to find it, I asked a migrant shopkeeper and he told me to catch a special bus from the station to the other side of the tracks. Despite the small size of the Netherlands, it can be inconvenient to walk between locations. I found that this bus didn't take the standard strippenkaart but cost 2.50€. Sigh, I'm getting nickeled and dimed here, I thought.


The bazaar was sprawling and immensely popular. It must have just grown like topsy. You name it, somebody was selling it. I was tempted by some of the music CDs but decided to wait until I got to Kuala Lumpur. I did however buy some lokum (Turkish Delight) as presents to take home. They were chunky and not as dainty as the ones I had in Istanbul 4 years earlier, but were tastier and more varied than the ones in Sydney. I also had an indifferent kebab roll for lunch here. I  mistook the bottle of chili for ketchup and had to wipe a lot off with a napkin before I could eat the roll.


(I should have taken some pictures in the market but my archive shows that I didn't, sadly.)

Then from Beverwijk station I caught the train to Amsterdam. Centraalstation seemed to be under renovation, as always. Everything was as I remembered it on the Damrak, the main drag heading out from the station: the glitzy tourist traps, the canal tour boats, the crowds. It was like stepping back into a time warp.

I headed off to the somewhat quieter district of Jordaan, which is more picturesque but also more upmarket. In the Lindengracht (site in Dutch) market I ate a brodje haring, which is a salted raw herring with onions in a bread roll. It peaks at the end of spring and the beginning of summer, and called Hollandse Nieuwe. It was as good as ever for me.

The market has the usual stalls selling apparel and other personal goods.

From there I caught a tram to Leidseplein, the square which is focus of Amsterdam nightlife. It was still the same as I remembered, except that the blaring pop music had been replaced by blaring rap and techno. This is the Stadsschouwburg, which is the municipal theatre.

By the side of the tram tracks cutting through the square were these open air tables packed with customers.

This is the Bulldog, a well-known coffee-shop at Leidseplein. In Amsterdam a coffee-shop means a place where legal amounts of cannabis can be smoked.

Just the facility for a urinary emergency after a night's heavy drinking.


Amsterdam is an energetic place where you have your finger on the pulse of entertainment; where you can catch the latest offerings. It's a playground for the Dutch; nowhere else in the Netherlands is like Amsterdam, it is sui generis. In that respect it had not changed, but I had, and this glitter no longer held for me the fascination it once did.

A couple of the famous Amsterdam trams that go ding!


It was comforting to see that some things stayed the same. Despite the energy, Amsterdam is also a homely and livable city, if you can afford to live there. The lack of tall buildings in the city and the preponderance of bicycles and public transport over cars are also factors. On a fine day, sipping a beer outdoors in Amsterdam is one of the coolest things I remember doing.

Flower beds in the national colours.


A lot of people in the street were dressed in orange and a smaller, braver minority was dressed in green. Holland was playing Ireland that evening. It turned out later that Ireland won the Eurocup match 1-nil.

On turning a corner in a quieter part of town, I found myself at a familiar door. It was where S, my supervisor during my internship in Amsterdam, and his partner C lived. Out of curiosity I rang the doorbell, and C poked her head out of the window of the top apartment. It turned out that I had caught S and C at the right time, as he travelled a lot, but happened to be in between trips. I accepted pre-dinner drinks and snacks with them and their guests. It seemed that one of the guests had a keen interest in the Minoan civilisation and had just returned from Crete.


I declined to stay for dinner because I didn't want to get home late as I had to resume my travels the next day and I wasn't in the mood for conversation anyway. Pretty much everyone I used to knew at the institute where I did my internship had gone their separate ways. What would my life have been like had I accepted a job in the Netherlands instead of migrating to Australia? Quite different, without doubt. It's quite pointless to indulge in hypotheticals, but I had an inner feeling that I had made the right choice.

Barcelona and Heemstede

Some of my roommates came in late last night. Some of them slept two to a bunk to avoid making noise making up beds, something they had neglected to do before going carousing. In the morning the woman in a blue dress was there as I checked out of the hostel.

I had an uneventful trip to Barcelona. I decided to catch the subway to see the forum site. It was a waste of a fare, the site wasn't complete and entry was restricted to participants anyway. I took this picture and left.


Back at Plaça Catalunya I bought 1€ of Internet time, dealt with my email, then had a sandwich in the attached cafe before catching the train to the airport. I was early so I read the El Pais that had been given to me for free at the forum.


On the plane I found myself seated next to a petite Turkish woman. She was reading a biography of Atatürk in English so I struck up a conversation. She was a political science graduate student in the US, had just presented a conference paper and taking a trip to Izmit to see her family. Her hair was a bit unkempt because she had spent the last few days in a hostel. We had a great conversation about political systems in countries around the world. She was interested in my observations of Cuba. She was pessimistic about Turkey, and felt that it had missed a chance in the 60's for development. I realised after we parted at Schiphol that we hadn't even got around to introducing ourselves. I wondered too if I should have chatted up the woman in the blue dress back in Girona. Oh well.


The bus back to Heemstede was like clockwork. Back at P and K's place I found that they had two women guests, a USAn and a German who had attended graduate school with P in the US. We had a jolly Indian takeaway dinner. The conversation ranged from reminiscences about grad student life, the status of women in Germany and the weather in the south of the US. The Canarian goat cheese, honey and palm honey that I had brought back were sampled and declared interesting by all.

Figueres and Girona

I didn't fancy the restaurants with the multilingual signs outside. Persevering, I found El Trull d'en Baserba (re: photo, cute woman, but nobody I know, unfortunately) on a side street offering a 3 course lunch for €8. But the most promising augury was a local passing by and catching my eye to give me a thumbs up for the establishment. The meal was tasty and filling. The red wine was plentiful. Somehow I managed to waddle back to the station, picking up ½ kg of strawberries on the way at the market. I nearly fell asleep on the train but got back to the hostel without undue public attention.

In the evening I explored the Universitat de Girona, situated above the old city.

I like evening light, it is gentler on landscapes.

This stone walkway was interesting. Possibly part of an old city wall.

After dinner at the hostel, the most memorable part of which was a gooey cream dessert, I went to enjoy the night air in the old city.

While I was sitting at the Plaça de Indépendencia a girl came up to ask something, it can't have been important as I didn't note it down in the diary. It seemed as if the Catalans weren't shy to ask even if you didn't look like a local. Or maybe because Girona is a university town, there are many foreign students who know the terrain.

The old city wasn't as charming as Gent in Belgium but the weather was better.

I thought I spotted one of the women hostellers, who had caught my attention the day before with her baby blue slip of a dress, looking for an eatery but she disappeared down a side street. The hostel seemed to have quite a few students, staying there while looking for better lodgings.

I realised that I had stopped thinking about the Canary Islands already. I no longer had feelings of unreality that had plagued me on past trips; I was in the present. I had also forgotten about Sydney, come to think of it.

Dalí Theatre and Museum

In Catalan, Teatre-Museu Dalí, as the name indicates, isn't simply a museum for Salvador Dalí the surrealist painter, but also a stage for Dalí the showman. He loved to shock, but he also opened our eyes to new ways of seeing.

It wasn't the quietest of nights. Besides the traffic noise, there were two sets of chimes on the hour. Fortunately I fell asleep quickly so I don't know if those chimes stopped before the early hours. In the morning I was awoken by my roommates packing. I decided to have an early breakfast and get to the museum for the opening time of 1000, as the lines get longer as the day wears on.

I caught a regional to Figueres. I passed a produce market in full swing near the station. I was tempted by the strawberries and cherries but those would have to wait till later. It turned out the opening time was 1030 so I took a walk around the block. Those regular protrusions from the wall are bread rolls.

The walls are topped by eggs, which recur often in his works. There are also figures of female gymnasts, see the next photo.

Near the entrance is a giant mural portrait with him wearing his flamboyant moustache. Judging from the background, I think it was taken at his house in Port Lligat. The museum is a smooth money-making machine. With the entrance ticket you get what looks like free additional ticket, but is actually an invitation to visit the jewel collection housed separately (he was also a skilled jeweler).

Outside the entrance is this homage to Francesc Pujols.

In the courtyard is this quirky installation called Rainy Taxi. The Cadillac is said to have once belonged to Al Capone.

This is Gala Nude Looking at the Sea but which at a distance resolves as the visage of Abraham Lincoln.  Nowadays we are all familiar with computer pixelation.

This is the giant mural under the theatre dome.

This installation is very clever. At first sight it looks like an arty living room with a mouth shaped sofa.

But look at it from the right viewpoint and it becomes a portrait of Mae West.

This baroque ceiling painting is entitled Palace of the Winds. The feet depicted are those of Dalí and Gala.

There is a Royal Bengal Tiger hidden in this optical illusion. It is a bit reminiscent of René Margritte.

It is not generally known that Dalí also designed beautiful jewelery. This display was below ground level near the crypt where he is buried.

Another piece, unfortunately the photo was shaken due to the low light and long exposure.


You can also see from his early paintings he was a very competent conventional painter if he wanted to be.

But the museum wasn't the only party going after tourist money. In a nearby souvenir shop were these distorted watches after the limp watches in his famous The Persistence of Memory.


I found the museum fascinating. Some works were delightful, some left me cold. But they all showed something of the eccentric that he was.

Girona

I had the most restful night for a long time. Not surprising, as it was a very comfy hotel. Breakfast was self-serve from a plentiful buffet but mostly sweet stuff; the Spanish love their sugar. I swapped a couple of jam packets for butter.


The bus didn't leave Cadaqués until 1425 and I had to quit the hotel at 1200. So I walked up the hill to the lookout over the next cove. A car with a couple stopped and asked me for the way to La Casa de Dalí. I'm sure it's the main attraction thereabouts. Back down at Port Lligat, there was a queue waiting for visiting hours to commence. I took a quick dip in the pool. The water was cold and there was a stiff breeze blowing so I dried myself quickly, packed, paid and trudged back to Cadaqués.

While waiting at the bus terminal, I saw from the schedules that there were no buses to Llafranc or Calella, two other coastal towns I would have loved to visit. So this trip I could only take in the inland cities of Girona and Figueres. I would have to return someday to Costa Brava with my own wheels to explore the little bays and coves. Finally the bus came and we took the winding road back via Roses.


At Figueres I changed to a train for Girona. I suspected that by error I had a ticket for a regional rather than one for the express that I was on. I decided to see what the conductor would do, and play innocent tourist if I had to supplement the fare. As it turned out he didn't care. Maybe he thought it was pointless for €0.35 difference.

I walked from the station to the old city, overshot the mark and walked back to the youth hostel. A humid day again, so I was raining sweat. The dorm room had zero privacy. What a change from a posh hotel room. Oh well, €18 per night was cheap and breakfast was included. I broke up another €200 note as I saw they had plenty of €50 notes in the till.


During my evening walk I stumbled upon the cathedral. I liked Girona; it had enough history to have interesting nooks, and the student population made it lively.

There were many attractive restaurants in the old city around the Plaça de la Indèpendencia.

I didn't feel like dining alone at a table so I settled for a sausage in a baguette with some healthy salad at a chain called Viena. It seemed to be a Catalonian chain—the menus were in Catalan.

An attractive woman waiting at the next table reminded me of Emma Suárez, the Spanish actress who made an impression on me in the 1993 film La ardilla roja (The Red Squirrel). She was soon joined by friends.

The cobblestone streets were well-lit by the shopfronts but they were deserted. Probably because it was Wednesday, mid-week.

From the bridge across the Rio Onyar, I took this photo of the distant cathedral, then returned to the hostel, wrote in the diary and called it a night. The street outside was a thoroughfare so every now and then a car with the stereo blaring would go past. What a contrast with Port Lligat.

Port Lligat

A busy morning. After breakfast I phoned ahead to the Girona hostel for a reservation. Then I got a bottle of water and some strawberries from La Boqueria. I found the Balearic Bookshop and chatted briefly to A, a friend of J's (from Cuba) who I had been asked to say hello to.

At the bus station they wouldn't let me take the bag of strawberries into the coach. They were afraid I might stain the seats. Fair enough. Once we turned off the highway, the road to Cadaqués was tortuous. Because of that and road works on the highway we arrived behind schedule.


I had a menu del dia at a convenient restaurant, then walked the 1.2 km to the village of Port Lligat, in a nearby bay. It was a warm, humid day and I soaked my hanky by the end of the walk. It didn't help that I had some wine with lunch.

The hotel was very comfy, it faced the main beach and had all the mod cons. It had an enticing pool which was refreshingly cool after my hot walk. It was easily the best place I had stayed at so far this trip. Of course I was splurging for it. Port Lligat is where Dalí lived and worked and I was curious about the place.

At dusk I walked around the beach. There were fishing boats in the little bay probably just like when Dalí was alive.

A little island protects the entrance to the bay. It was a lovely, peaceful place. I still remember it now and then.

This Casa Museo Dalí was his home for many decades. However I declined to visit, preferring to wait until I got to the museum in Figueres.

The yellow boat at the end was named Gala, Dalí's wife. I wonder if it was the same one he had used. I doubted it, she died in 1982, and the boat looked to be in good condition.

I walked to Cadaqués in the evening light, retracing my steps earlier in the day.

It too had a pretty harbour, and many tourists, but not the beach seeking variety. The cats were a bit shy; did people mistreat them here?

I liked the curves of this building, especially the windows. It however houses a prosaic real-estate agency.

I never get tired of taking pictures of dusk.

I like the warm glow that lamps emit when the world is turning deep purple.

Cadaqués felt more like Northern Europe than the rest of Spain because of the muted evening colours. I felt a little emotionally empty when I got back to the hotel. When one goal has been accomplished, in this case the Canary Islands, it's time to look towards the next one. That's life.

Goodbye Lanzarote

I found the cheese I wanted in the Hiperdino (the supermarket chain with the smiling dinosaur as a mascot) and quit my room. My flight wasn't until mid-afternoon so I had the whole morning to kill. Where to drive? Teguise again? Ah no, I liked Puerto Calero better. I spent a relaxing hour there sitting in the shade catching the breeze.

I noted that like at Gomera, the fish were plentiful in the waters. A lady came by and tossed breadcrumbs into the water, causing this frenzy. A tour bus turned up at the marina and I took this as a sign that I should make my getaway.

I realised why the rental company was unfussed about the petrol level in the tank. The island is so small that I only managed less than 600 km in 4 days. I parked the car, left the keys and the car park ticket in the boot of the car, as agreed, and proceeded to the check in counter. It was not yet open; we probably had to wait for the arrival of the plane. The airport gets a fair amount of charter traffic as there were 12 departure gates.

The flight left on schedule and by 2015 I was back at the Barcelona residencia. It was too late to get anything from the supermarket due to Monday night hours. I had some Chinese dim sum at a corner eatery that advertised "Chinese tapas". A bit pricey at €6.10 for a har gow, a siu mai and a Taiwanese rice but decent quality. I was too tired to wander Barcelona so I retired for the night after dinner.