Friday, May 14, 2004
Dusseldorfing
The ICE (Inter City Express) trains are the racehorses of the train depots here. Along with the maroon Thalys trains that connect The Netherlands with France and Belgium, the ICE's are sleek and thin Bombardier trains with long noses that cut through the air at up to 239 kph. They are seductive to look at, and inviting to sit in. The seats are cushioned and cozy, the trains new. What can be wrong with these trains that connect The Netherlands with Germany?
Apparently enough was wrong about them in 2000 that they pulled them from the rails after one train derailed twice in Berlin (unoccupied train and no injuries). And certainly enough was wrong with them in 1998, when one of them derailed at 125 mph and hit a bridge, bringing the bridge down on the wreckage and killing 101 people in Germany's worst rail accident since WWII.
So, things certainly could have been worse by the time we had our first experience with the ICE on Saturday, when we boarded it for Dusseldorf to see Sheryl's friend and former coworker, Steve Z. We got a great deal on the tickets, piling Sheryl's RailPlus discount on top of the Apex 7 (booked 7 days in advance). Roundtrip, we paid about 70 euros total. For all of us. Pretty good for what was supposed to be a 2 1/2 hour international trip.
And things started off alright. We caught the train to Utrecht (45 minutes) to board the pointy-nosed spoorwagen. We cruised through The Netherlands uneventfully, impressed with the fancy reclining fabric seats and abundant legroom.
Until Empel-Rees.
Where is Empel-Rees? Just across the German-Dutch border, apparently. What's in Empel-Rees? Not the ICE on most days, and yet, there we were. All of a sudden, the train just stopped. After a few minutes, an announcement was made in Dutch, German and, finally, in broken English. It went something like, "The train has stopped." Nobody really moved at this statement of the obvious. A few minutes later, the annoucement was more explicit. Something like: "The train cannot go any further. If you want to go on, you must get on the train at Platform One, which leaves in a few minutes. We are sorry for the inconvenience." At Platform One was a Deutche Bahn train, a local German train that, apparently, stops at every little village between Empel-Rees and Dusseldorf. Only Platform One was maybe 300 yards away, and the ICE did not have the courtesy to have had its little mechanical problem near any sort of platform.
This second announcement sent the passengers scurrying to grab their luggage and deboard into the weeds trackside. It's no easy thing getting out of these things away from the platform, either. At a certain point, you sort of just have to jump down.
Sheryl, Dario and Sofia trekking through the German countryside to Platform One. Note the drag marks on the ground in front of them, left by a previous passenger dragging her expensive luggage.
We made our way onto the DB train (through the weeds, across the track, up onto the other platform and into the train). Huffing and puffing. Fifteen minutes later, the local train headed toward Dusseldorf. Much confusion among the passengers, though. The couple behind us (Russian, I think) needed to make a connection in Duisberg in 30 minutes. A local train offical got on the train, explained the situation briefly in broken English, then said, "I have to go" when the poor Russian couple sought clarification.
In Duesseldorf, the readerboard announcing the arrivals of the ICE said something like, "This train is not coming", much to the confusion of poor Steve Z. He asked around and figured out that we had been waylaid and even figured out which train, but was told first that this train would be 15 minutes late, then that it would be 30 minutes late. All in all, something of a disaster, and our trip was only half over.
After a pleasant 27 hours in Dusseldorf hanging out with Steve Z. (more on this later), we were ready for another go at the ICE. We had been told when we bought the tickets the previous week that the ICE would only go to Arnhem rather than all the way to Utrecht, where we caught it. What they didn't tell us was that we would have to catch a train from Arnham to Utrecht, then another train to The Hague. We figured this out just in time to pile onto an extremely overcrowded train. Sof and Sheryl and Dar got seats because of the kindness of another couple (who moved to First Class), but I was stuck standing in the cargo area near the doors with 21 other people. It was stuffy. It was uncomfortable. And it was calm. There were none of the tantrums I would have expected back home, not even so much as a loud, angry sigh or a huff. And not one of us made the move to a nearly empty First Class section (which nobody is a sucker enough to pay for to begin with).
Everybody was even calm when, 10 minutes into the 20 minute ride to Utrecht, the train came to a complete stop. They were even calm when the train came to a stop five minutes later, then BACKED up 200 yards to make way for the fire trucks rushing to a barn burning 50 yards from the tracks. No bitching as the train sat there for 15 minutes waiting for the trucks to extinguish the flames. Amazing.
Apparently enough was wrong about them in 2000 that they pulled them from the rails after one train derailed twice in Berlin (unoccupied train and no injuries). And certainly enough was wrong with them in 1998, when one of them derailed at 125 mph and hit a bridge, bringing the bridge down on the wreckage and killing 101 people in Germany's worst rail accident since WWII.
So, things certainly could have been worse by the time we had our first experience with the ICE on Saturday, when we boarded it for Dusseldorf to see Sheryl's friend and former coworker, Steve Z. We got a great deal on the tickets, piling Sheryl's RailPlus discount on top of the Apex 7 (booked 7 days in advance). Roundtrip, we paid about 70 euros total. For all of us. Pretty good for what was supposed to be a 2 1/2 hour international trip.
And things started off alright. We caught the train to Utrecht (45 minutes) to board the pointy-nosed spoorwagen. We cruised through The Netherlands uneventfully, impressed with the fancy reclining fabric seats and abundant legroom.
Until Empel-Rees.
Where is Empel-Rees? Just across the German-Dutch border, apparently. What's in Empel-Rees? Not the ICE on most days, and yet, there we were. All of a sudden, the train just stopped. After a few minutes, an announcement was made in Dutch, German and, finally, in broken English. It went something like, "The train has stopped." Nobody really moved at this statement of the obvious. A few minutes later, the annoucement was more explicit. Something like: "The train cannot go any further. If you want to go on, you must get on the train at Platform One, which leaves in a few minutes. We are sorry for the inconvenience." At Platform One was a Deutche Bahn train, a local German train that, apparently, stops at every little village between Empel-Rees and Dusseldorf. Only Platform One was maybe 300 yards away, and the ICE did not have the courtesy to have had its little mechanical problem near any sort of platform.
This second announcement sent the passengers scurrying to grab their luggage and deboard into the weeds trackside. It's no easy thing getting out of these things away from the platform, either. At a certain point, you sort of just have to jump down.
Sheryl, Dario and Sofia trekking through the German countryside to Platform One. Note the drag marks on the ground in front of them, left by a previous passenger dragging her expensive luggage.
We made our way onto the DB train (through the weeds, across the track, up onto the other platform and into the train). Huffing and puffing. Fifteen minutes later, the local train headed toward Dusseldorf. Much confusion among the passengers, though. The couple behind us (Russian, I think) needed to make a connection in Duisberg in 30 minutes. A local train offical got on the train, explained the situation briefly in broken English, then said, "I have to go" when the poor Russian couple sought clarification.
In Duesseldorf, the readerboard announcing the arrivals of the ICE said something like, "This train is not coming", much to the confusion of poor Steve Z. He asked around and figured out that we had been waylaid and even figured out which train, but was told first that this train would be 15 minutes late, then that it would be 30 minutes late. All in all, something of a disaster, and our trip was only half over.
After a pleasant 27 hours in Dusseldorf hanging out with Steve Z. (more on this later), we were ready for another go at the ICE. We had been told when we bought the tickets the previous week that the ICE would only go to Arnhem rather than all the way to Utrecht, where we caught it. What they didn't tell us was that we would have to catch a train from Arnham to Utrecht, then another train to The Hague. We figured this out just in time to pile onto an extremely overcrowded train. Sof and Sheryl and Dar got seats because of the kindness of another couple (who moved to First Class), but I was stuck standing in the cargo area near the doors with 21 other people. It was stuffy. It was uncomfortable. And it was calm. There were none of the tantrums I would have expected back home, not even so much as a loud, angry sigh or a huff. And not one of us made the move to a nearly empty First Class section (which nobody is a sucker enough to pay for to begin with).
Everybody was even calm when, 10 minutes into the 20 minute ride to Utrecht, the train came to a complete stop. They were even calm when the train came to a stop five minutes later, then BACKED up 200 yards to make way for the fire trucks rushing to a barn burning 50 yards from the tracks. No bitching as the train sat there for 15 minutes waiting for the trucks to extinguish the flames. Amazing.
Sunday, May 02, 2004
Koninginnedag! Feestje!
On Friday, we went to Amsterdam for Queen's Day. As Boris, a finalist on the Dutch version of "Idols" said on TV, Amsterdam is the only place to be on Koninginnedag. As Lonely Planet says, everybody under 30 in the Netherlands goes to Amsterdam and all Amsterdammers over 30 (the uncool in the LP universe) flee the city for the day. I don't know about the last part, but it wouldn't surprise me to learn that all Dutch under 30 were on Amsterdam's streets today. Some say as many as 1 million people show up.
I have never been to other epic party events, save St. Patrick's Day in Butte. But that's not what I mean. I'm talking Mardi Gras in New Orleans or Carnival in Rio. I haven't seen these parties, but I'm certain Koninginnedag must rank. It's like the biggest frat party you can imagine, only it takes over one entire city and is powered by heavy doses of techno.
Officially, Queen's Day is the celebration of the birthday of Queen Juliana, who died earlier this month as Princess Juliana, having abdicated her throne to her daughter Beatrix in accordance with Dutch tradition. Queen Beatrix was born in January. Not exactly the time for parties in The Netherlands. On the way to the tram to the railway station at Hollands Spoor, I noticed that some of my neighbors had put up their flags for the day, some of them with orange ribbons hanging from the top. Orange, of course, is the color of the royal family (the house of Orange).
And Orange was certainly the color of the day, perhaps the only reminder on the streets of Amsterdam that this big party has a royal lineage. As we stepped out of the station at Amsterdam Centraal, we were handed orange sashes, courtesy of the national railway NS. Across the front was printed the word "Feestje!" That's Dutch for, roughly, "Party!" Everybody on the exceptionally crowded train was given one. Thousands.
Looking south down Damrak toward Dam Square.
Freshly festooned with our feestje gear, we made our way down Damrak, toward Dam Square, pushing Dar in his stroller while Sofia held onto the side for dear life. This is a slow process on the best of days, with tourists and other gawkers clogging the street and stopping at the bars, frites stands and souvenir shops along the way. On this day, it was nearly impossible. The trams had been shut down for the day, so the pedestrians took over every street in the Centrum. Except that commerce swarmed the sides as well, with shops and snack stands of all sorts crowding the sidewalk. Another aspect of Queen's Day is that all commerce is unregulated. Anybody can sell anything (legal) they want on the street, no questions. It took us probably 40 minutes to make a walk that would normally have taken 15. At least two guys openly urinated in the canal, one of the busiest in the city.
On the way down, we saw a proliferation of blow-up orange crowns, comically large. These are icons of the event, and are better than the other orange crap for sale on the streets (shirts, hats, etc.). They are the perfect symbols of Queen's Day, mixing the ridiculous and the royal. The marketing people at the Staatsloterij who came up with this are genius; you cannot take a picture of a crowd of any size on Queen's Day without seeing at least two score of these things. We made it our mission to find some of our own by following the flow. Where we saw a particular density of these hats, we went that direction. As we turned toward Spui Square, we saw more and more of them, and people in various stages of unwrapping and blowing them up. Finally, in the middle of the square, we found the source: Four or five people dressed like George Washington (for lack of a better analogy) distributing them by the handful. They had boxes and boxes of the stuff, and the square was slippery with all the discarded plastic packaging underfoot. We got six.
Sofia and Sheryl in Spui Square, sporting their iconic blow-up
Queen's Day hats, distributed free to advertise the lottery.
The trash underfoot was as big a part of the event as any of the costumes or the music or the crowds. The amount of garbage was nothing short of stunning. Stunning, even for people who have driven through the slums of Manila and been apalled by the amount of trash in the back alleys and on the riverbanks. We have never seen anything like it. All garbage cans we saw had been overrun by the time we arrived (at 10 a.m. or so). Beer cans, bottles, snack wrappers. Everything ended up in the streets (and a fair amount, I assume, ended up in the canals). Making matters worse, we encountered people every block or so who wanted to hand us some printed material, usually a flyer for a party or club. Most of these also ended up in the streets. We kept accidentally kicking cans at the feet of the people in front of us, and dodging the cans the people behind us were kicking at our feet.
Trash on Hobbemastraat, near Museumplein.
We had heard that children's events were staged at Vondelpark, so we made our way toward it. The noise was deafening, as we walked through one circle of thumping techno to the next, never out of earshot of beats we felt in our chests as much as we heard with our ears. Astonishingly, Dari was passed out in the stroller before we even reached Dam Square. We stopped to rest near the guys selling chances to throw eggs at their buddy from 20 feet away. There were plenty of takers for this game, in which the payoff was nothing more than hitting a guy in the face with an egg. In Vondelpark, the vrijmarket or "Free Market", was in full swing. The tradition is that kids all over the country gather up the toys they don't want and lay them out on a blanket in the street for other kids to purchase. Hundreds of kids selling thousands of toys from hundreds of blankets lined the pathways. Others performed concerts for passersby; one kid played on a portable keyboard from the same piano book Sof uses for her lessons. Essentially, he was practicing in the park for donations. Another kid struggled with his sheet music, which he held open with his foot as it lay on the ground, as he struggled his way through some piece on his violin.
We sat down in Vondelpark near the Film Museum and ate the lunches we packed. Thousands of others were sitting around enjoying the warm sun, but even this was a respite from the chaos on the streets. Vondelpark is worth a visit if you go to Amsterdam.
Refreshed, we pressed on, and found ourselves walking to Museumplein, around which sits the famous Rijksmuseum and the Van Gogh Museum. Today, it was dominated by an enormous stage. As we turned to leave (finally, we had found a place that was too loud), we were shooed aside by a van with a police escort parting the crowd on its way to the stage. We found out later that this was one of those "Idols" contestants on his way to perform some tuneless rendition of some American pop song. We decided to make our way back. It was 3:20 p.m.
On the way we stopped into an Australian (brand) ice-cream shop. They had a DJ in there spinning records. Further on, we suddenly found ourselves in the middle of a concert crowd as people had gathered to see some other artist whose name we didn't know perform. Sheryl was hit on by a guy too drunk ro notice the guy and two kids walking with her. "Don't leave me hanging here!" he said in his thick Dutch accent as Sheryl pushed her way through. On the other side, another couple with a stroller asked us whether they should try to make it through. We told them to take another route.
Finally, we made it back to the station and onto the train. It was 5:30. A walk that should have taken a half-hour had taken two full hours. We were exhausted, but satisfied. It was probably the cheapest entertainment we have experienced here in Holland.
Dari looking festive on the train ride back to
The Hague after an exhausting Queen's Day.
I have never been to other epic party events, save St. Patrick's Day in Butte. But that's not what I mean. I'm talking Mardi Gras in New Orleans or Carnival in Rio. I haven't seen these parties, but I'm certain Koninginnedag must rank. It's like the biggest frat party you can imagine, only it takes over one entire city and is powered by heavy doses of techno.
Officially, Queen's Day is the celebration of the birthday of Queen Juliana, who died earlier this month as Princess Juliana, having abdicated her throne to her daughter Beatrix in accordance with Dutch tradition. Queen Beatrix was born in January. Not exactly the time for parties in The Netherlands. On the way to the tram to the railway station at Hollands Spoor, I noticed that some of my neighbors had put up their flags for the day, some of them with orange ribbons hanging from the top. Orange, of course, is the color of the royal family (the house of Orange).
And Orange was certainly the color of the day, perhaps the only reminder on the streets of Amsterdam that this big party has a royal lineage. As we stepped out of the station at Amsterdam Centraal, we were handed orange sashes, courtesy of the national railway NS. Across the front was printed the word "Feestje!" That's Dutch for, roughly, "Party!" Everybody on the exceptionally crowded train was given one. Thousands.
Looking south down Damrak toward Dam Square.
Freshly festooned with our feestje gear, we made our way down Damrak, toward Dam Square, pushing Dar in his stroller while Sofia held onto the side for dear life. This is a slow process on the best of days, with tourists and other gawkers clogging the street and stopping at the bars, frites stands and souvenir shops along the way. On this day, it was nearly impossible. The trams had been shut down for the day, so the pedestrians took over every street in the Centrum. Except that commerce swarmed the sides as well, with shops and snack stands of all sorts crowding the sidewalk. Another aspect of Queen's Day is that all commerce is unregulated. Anybody can sell anything (legal) they want on the street, no questions. It took us probably 40 minutes to make a walk that would normally have taken 15. At least two guys openly urinated in the canal, one of the busiest in the city.
On the way down, we saw a proliferation of blow-up orange crowns, comically large. These are icons of the event, and are better than the other orange crap for sale on the streets (shirts, hats, etc.). They are the perfect symbols of Queen's Day, mixing the ridiculous and the royal. The marketing people at the Staatsloterij who came up with this are genius; you cannot take a picture of a crowd of any size on Queen's Day without seeing at least two score of these things. We made it our mission to find some of our own by following the flow. Where we saw a particular density of these hats, we went that direction. As we turned toward Spui Square, we saw more and more of them, and people in various stages of unwrapping and blowing them up. Finally, in the middle of the square, we found the source: Four or five people dressed like George Washington (for lack of a better analogy) distributing them by the handful. They had boxes and boxes of the stuff, and the square was slippery with all the discarded plastic packaging underfoot. We got six.
Sofia and Sheryl in Spui Square, sporting their iconic blow-up
Queen's Day hats, distributed free to advertise the lottery.
The trash underfoot was as big a part of the event as any of the costumes or the music or the crowds. The amount of garbage was nothing short of stunning. Stunning, even for people who have driven through the slums of Manila and been apalled by the amount of trash in the back alleys and on the riverbanks. We have never seen anything like it. All garbage cans we saw had been overrun by the time we arrived (at 10 a.m. or so). Beer cans, bottles, snack wrappers. Everything ended up in the streets (and a fair amount, I assume, ended up in the canals). Making matters worse, we encountered people every block or so who wanted to hand us some printed material, usually a flyer for a party or club. Most of these also ended up in the streets. We kept accidentally kicking cans at the feet of the people in front of us, and dodging the cans the people behind us were kicking at our feet.
Trash on Hobbemastraat, near Museumplein.
We had heard that children's events were staged at Vondelpark, so we made our way toward it. The noise was deafening, as we walked through one circle of thumping techno to the next, never out of earshot of beats we felt in our chests as much as we heard with our ears. Astonishingly, Dari was passed out in the stroller before we even reached Dam Square. We stopped to rest near the guys selling chances to throw eggs at their buddy from 20 feet away. There were plenty of takers for this game, in which the payoff was nothing more than hitting a guy in the face with an egg. In Vondelpark, the vrijmarket or "Free Market", was in full swing. The tradition is that kids all over the country gather up the toys they don't want and lay them out on a blanket in the street for other kids to purchase. Hundreds of kids selling thousands of toys from hundreds of blankets lined the pathways. Others performed concerts for passersby; one kid played on a portable keyboard from the same piano book Sof uses for her lessons. Essentially, he was practicing in the park for donations. Another kid struggled with his sheet music, which he held open with his foot as it lay on the ground, as he struggled his way through some piece on his violin.
We sat down in Vondelpark near the Film Museum and ate the lunches we packed. Thousands of others were sitting around enjoying the warm sun, but even this was a respite from the chaos on the streets. Vondelpark is worth a visit if you go to Amsterdam.
Refreshed, we pressed on, and found ourselves walking to Museumplein, around which sits the famous Rijksmuseum and the Van Gogh Museum. Today, it was dominated by an enormous stage. As we turned to leave (finally, we had found a place that was too loud), we were shooed aside by a van with a police escort parting the crowd on its way to the stage. We found out later that this was one of those "Idols" contestants on his way to perform some tuneless rendition of some American pop song. We decided to make our way back. It was 3:20 p.m.
On the way we stopped into an Australian (brand) ice-cream shop. They had a DJ in there spinning records. Further on, we suddenly found ourselves in the middle of a concert crowd as people had gathered to see some other artist whose name we didn't know perform. Sheryl was hit on by a guy too drunk ro notice the guy and two kids walking with her. "Don't leave me hanging here!" he said in his thick Dutch accent as Sheryl pushed her way through. On the other side, another couple with a stroller asked us whether they should try to make it through. We told them to take another route.
Finally, we made it back to the station and onto the train. It was 5:30. A walk that should have taken a half-hour had taken two full hours. We were exhausted, but satisfied. It was probably the cheapest entertainment we have experienced here in Holland.
Dari looking festive on the train ride back to
The Hague after an exhausting Queen's Day.
