The Babe Goes To Amsterdam

Our last weekend in Europe had a cast of six. My darling wife Raquel, the Israeli Ukrainian Alex, the perpetually stoned Dutchmen Eric, his infinitely optimistic Japanese wife Nolico, and our begrudgingly kind tour guide, Eric’s friend Seger. After a night of drinking jaegermister in Utrecht and a morning exploring this picturesque town in the Netherlands we set out for Amsterdam.

We arrived in Amsterdam around the serendipitous time of 4:20, and set out to find a coffee shop. Our brains addled, we set out on what Seger contemptuously described as a time honored tourist tradition of Amsterdam: wandering aimlessly in search of food.

To our credit it wasn’t entirely the fault of the tetrahydrocannibinol, there were factors working against us. The first pizza place we went by had a long line, the middle eastern shop had decent enough falafel for a snack but lacked ambience, the burrito place was sold out of everything except grisly beef, the slew of Italian restaurants we passed didn’t have room for six, and the two signs for Indonesian restaurants were inexplicably hung over either empty boxes or a brick walls with no windows. An hour later, to my delight and Seger’s dismay, we ended up at a restaurant three doors down from the coffeeshop that we’d started at. We dined on mediocre pizza that our munchies made into something amazing.

Fed and thirsty we set out for a bar. Again, indecision is the enemy of the stoned, yet we managed to find a string of bars quick enough. Fearing that we’d end up walking in circles on the sidewalk, I tried to lead the group into a spot boasting craft beers, but Eric intervened.

“We are in Amsterdam! Why do you want to drink Brooklyn Lager?”

I stammered some lame excuse but followed Eric into the place he described as punk-rock with little argument.

Inside, I realized for the umpteenth time how great it is to visit someone instead of somewhere. The bar was called “Ruig,” Dutch for “Raw” and it was amazing. It had exposed wiring on the ceiling, plywood for a front door, old exposed brickwork and 4 hipsters arguing over which funky piece 80’s vinyl they were going to put on next. Bless that Dutchmen’s sense of smell.

“All they need is an old Japanese man and this place would be perfect!” Alex declared.

We ordered Belgian style trippels from the oldest brewery in Amsterdam and proceeded to party. Before too long we found the couch, and half lounged, half danced with skills so hot we lured the whole damn city to come party Ruig-style.

We drank and smoked and drank some more. Laughing and reminiscing and just generally making me realize how important friends are on this great big planet we all call home. Here we were, people from Texas, Isreal, Japan and Utrecht, all laughing and dancing our hearts out because we were with people we loved enough to feel at home.

So comfortable were we that Nolico fell asleep with her arms wrapped around Eric’s belly. Try as he might, Nolico could not be revived from her slumber until he told her it was time to go. We did our best to hide our tears and hugged our goodbyes to the people that only need good music and a couch to make us feel at home anywhere on the planet.

With half of our party departed, Raquel, Alex and I kicked it up a notch.  We kept the beer flowing and the dance moves bumping. So notorious were we with the bartenders that they made a point of putting more of our precious trippels in the fridge for us.

“There’s only two left, don’t worry, we’ll bring ‘em to you once they’re cold,” they said and we felt all warm and cozy.

“Do we need to close the tab before we run across the street to the coffee shop?” Alex asked.

They looked at him as if he’d spoken Japanese.

“You’re coming back right?”

“Yeah! this place is great!”

“You can pay later of course,” the thought of us bailing on the bill never crossed their minds. They must’ve known we liked the music too much.

Across the street we wandered and proceeded to do the exact opposite of what we’d been told to do.

We’d just met a man named Willem, a Scottish Dutchmen, who’d assured us that yes the coffeeshop was open, but that for the love of Bob Marley don’t get that “tourist-hairspray-stoned-off-your-ass-shit” He swore by the stuff mixed with tobacco, and told us that the green stuff would knock us on our ass and end our party.

But when confronted with a menu including the likes of White Widow and Purple Haze, I couldn’t bring myself to make my darling wife imbibe more tobacco, so we got the green stuff, went back to the bar, lit up, and realized Willem had been 100% correct.

“You guys kinda got a going home vibe,” he told us and we shook our heads no and told him that we weren’t going anywhere until he turned his back. We giggled while we paid the tab and got the hell out.

We wandered home through the red light district, lingering just long enough to sense the unmistakable charge of sexuality the ladies of the night exuded, yet not long enough to be nauseated by it.

The next morning we set goodbye to Alex and wiled our day away lounging in the park, going to Van Gogh museum and thinking about our two month adventure through Europe, and our year abroad.

So now’s the time I should say my grand realizations about life, the world, and everything, but alas doing so feels too grand a task for one as ignorant as I, so instead I’ll quote that woman of infinite wisdom, that muse of magic and lover of life, my darling Raquel.

Raquel loves travelling and hates to travel. She says there’s no better feeling than running for a train or the moment when she first sits down on a plane and knows that she’ll soon be somewhere she’s never been and can’t possibly imagine.

But arriving is always a disappointment.

Travelling is expensive, exhausting, and the big stuff’s always a let-down. The monuments are smaller than you thought, less garish than you’d expect. The lines are only worth the wait because there’s nothing else to do. Raquel says that what really matters about a place is the people and the food. If you’re fed the food that they’d feed their mama, life is good, and if they do it with a smile and share a drink with you the meal’s all the better.

I think she’s awfully jaded for such a young beautiful woman, but then again, I can’t really say a thing. My experience is different from hers for every dish I taste, every joke I crack, every monument I photograph is made sweeter by her smile, her laughter, her presence. For me travelling with My Babe is effortless because everywhere we go is an adventure of amazement or the absurd.

Are there places I still want to go? Of course, but as long as she’s with me, it doesn’t have to be any farther than the grocery store. At least until she wants to run for another train. I’ll be racing to keep up.

Speak Greek

 

The Bear

“It’s all Greek to me,” I joked, looking at the funny letters that look like ours but don’t sound like them. We were in japan a year, and any attempts to learn the language were met with giggles and embarrassment, so why bother in Greece? It’s not like I’ll be able to get any sort of handle on the language in two weeks, and what will learning a few phrases really do?

Turns out that a few words in Greek have earned Raquel and I all sorts of goodies.

First, a disclaimer. I can’t read Greek, neither can you probably, so my translations are all just the sounds of Spanish. So think adios amigos not goodbye my friends.

We were given our first lesson in Greek from the first restaurant we went to. I asked the waiter how to say thank you, and he told us, efharisto, then spent the rest of the evening teaching us greek spelling on our table cloth. He was great. He’d write down a phrase, then vanish and let us absorb it, then as soon as we’d glance his way he’d be back at the table, checking our pronunciation. After the meal and the lesson I told him efharisto for everything. So impressed he was he brought us mastiha a sweet herb flavored digestif. It was perfect after a meal of spiced meatballs and mousaka. Raquel spent her entire time on the subway telling me how good it made her tummy feel.

The next phrase we learned was yasas, which means cheers and is good for hello or goodbye. We tried out this handy phrase in a little bakery. It earned us free sesame seed crusted pretzels and a big smile from the shopkeeper.

Of course, when learning all of this greek, you may get in over your head. This happened to us in the town of Finikas, when at a Taverna (spelled Tabepna in Greek). We ordered in greek, feta parakolo, or feta please, and the waiter proceeded to interrogate us in his mother tongue. I understood not a word, but the waiter figured this out soon enough and switched to English. Half a bottle of wine later and I was drinking tsipouro with the Frenchmen at the table next to us. Siporo is distilled white wine and I can’t for the life of me figure out why anyone would take something as good as greek white wine and turn it into something as repulsive as tsipouro. Fortunately the waiter noticed my distressed and brought Raquel and I rakomelo, which is the same vile liquor that’s been boiled with cinnamon and honey, and is marvelous.

After that drunken debacle I learned the next phrase. Milate Anglica? Or, you-speaka-da-english? This one earned us chocolate at a coffee shop one day and cheaper cups of coffee the next. Seriously I think they just like spoiling young Americans.

But perhaps the most powerful phrase in my limited vocabulary is roharismo parakalo. Which means simply, “check please.” If you learn anything besides yasas, I’d focus on this one. I always say it at the end of the meal and the waiters seem unable to help but bring us desert. I’ve earned us yogurt with figs and honey this way, a coconut custard that was quite tasty and two pieces of something like flan, one of which was coated in lavender syrup and the other in a pomegranate reduction. Ambrosia, and all thanks to asking for the check in Greek. I think the waiters appreciate an attempt at the language, and can’t help but feed us a little bit more.

The Babe and the Beard

But then again, I could be full of crap. The locals have told us they haven’t seen Americans here in years, and everyone might be being nice just so we’ll spread the good word. Either that or they’re trying to get at my wife. Aw well, at least they know enough to try to get me drunk while they’re doing it.

 

If you enjoyed this post, there's more! Use that Greek at a great restaurant or perhaps while you explore the island of Syros!

Cafes, Pastries and Melange in Austria

 

“In Austria, it’s all about the whipped cream,” my aunt Sharon says as she sips her mélange.

 Mélange, in all its creamy glory 

They serve it with everything in Austria, sacher torte, strudel, coffee, everything. Viennese waiters with too much pride will ask if you want whipped cream with a raise of an eyebrow, a waggle of their mustache, daring you to decline. Say no to the forthcoming mountain of whipped cream, and risk offending them and their centuries old culture, but then again, do as you wish, because your very existence has already pissed them off.

Apple strudel, coffee and cream

The Viennese cafes in particular are equipped with an arrogance so refined its almost breathtaking. One waitress dropped the money we gave her, scoffed at us, and tapped her foot impatiently while my aunt scrambled to pick up the loose bills. Another waiter, when confronted with two loud-mouthed Americans and their traitorous Viennese relative, demanded how long we’d need the table before letting us sit down. Thirty minutes we told him, and he held us to the number, for when twenty minutes had passed and we asked for the check, he waived us away, convinced that we were still enjoying the ambiance and his ice-cold presence.

 

In Graz the arrogance is more under control. My aunt took Raquel and me to a tiny café, and when Raquel asked (GASP!) what one of the pastries was the waitress smiled and indulgently told us the name and ingredients of every fantastic confection behind the glass. And when Raquel decided on the very first one the woman had named, she served us with a smile and a raised eyebrow, daring me to put whipped cream in my coffee.

The coffee in Austria is as delicious as the confections. In Vienna, be sure you order the mélange. It’s no different from a cappuccino, but to order such a refined drink in vulgar Italian risks being ostracized. In Graz ordering a cappuccino doesn’t invoke the same visceral reaction, but to order a mélange tells the server you’ve been to the capital city, something Austrians respect, even if only because they know you’ve strolled through Schonbrunn and dealt with a café far snobbery than theirs.  

Esterhozy, mélange, and poppyseed cake

But worry not intrepid traveler! All said snobbery is worth the confectionary perfection. For to be in Austria and not taste sacher torte or apfel strudel is a sin of carelessness most egregious. To not venture out and sample esterhozy--a slice of almond and cognac invented by angels in Hungary--or the dense mashed poppy seed cake my cousin can’t stop eating is a lapse of judgment as foolish as admiring the grand canyon with one’s eyes closed.

So dine on! Walk into a café, peruse the delights behind the glass, and trust they taste as good as they look. Remember that to fear being snubbed is folly. Those sneers and scoffs of the Viennese are much deserved. Your waiter is old enough to have served Kaisers and Kings. You’re but a tourist taking up space at a table once reserved for royalty.

Want more Austrian adventures? Click for meat, taboos, or here for food from my year in Japan.