That's not 'Crazy,' that's Dutch.

Amsterdam. Day two.

Here we are, looking like crap after
a late night at the hostel.

The number of selfies has been
increasing, proportional
directly to my laziness.

After a long lazy night, we woke up just in time for a trip to the Van Gogh Museum. On our way, we stopped for our obligatory Dutch pancakes, at a lovely place called Van Haarte Amsterdam which, speaking for everyone, we highly recommend for its reasonable price and mellow, proper quality, and its relaxed, classy atmosphere. And the coffee was good too.

Then we went to the museum itself. Because of the somewhat lax protections on the paintings I suspect the pieces actually displayed are copies, but still we were entranced as we climbed the museum's five floors. Going through the museum's route, we were able to see Van Gogh's growth as an artist, and metamorphosis into his resultant history: his stint in art school, his institutionalization, his mental illness and depression, his amazing art, and even art that has been influenced by his work.

Photographs of the art is not allowed. But:

The pristine lobby of the Van Gogh Museum.

"11 July V.G.M."
As cynical as a stroke unclean,
like still life done with one brush.
A museum hush and some new
photographs to depict with new frames
the potato eaters, or October, or that
endless self-interest in the
eyes of Parisian flowers. You bouquet
of melodrama, you earless huff who
won't wait in line. I'd rather
enjoy sunset and  thunder 
and sing some nostalgia than
buy into your old home.

De Dam has the National Monument
bullseye in the center of it.

After having our fill of the museum, we made our way back to De Bijenkorf, "The Beehive" shopping mall, at de Dam town square in the middle of the city. There we waited for a bit for Marco and his friend Jesse (pronounced "yessir without the r"). Just a few minutes later, Marco's distinctively tall stature emerged from the crowd, and the brightly-colored gentleman accompanying him was assumed to be his friend. Either that or Marco's rainbow for rent.

Seriously though, Jesse's got a classy sense of style.

Where should we go? What should we do?

Marco pointed at Jesse: "He's the Amsterdam expert."

Jesse: "No I'm not."

He proceeded to take us to a slew of delicious Dutch restaurants, recommending beers and giving us insight into the various locations surrounding us. Marco chimed in from time to time, but let Jesse to the majority of the tour guide-ing. In fact, Marco told me, he was sort of on for the tour guide ride too: "It's been years since I actually toured Amsterdam like a tourist, so I thought it could be fun."

Action shot of Jesse, a proper foodie and fashionisto,
recommending food while Marco looked for other good
Dutch dishes to sample.

That works out well for all of us.

So besides being able to catch up with the interesting and intellectual Marco, and getting to meet the entertaining and passionate Jesse, our two Dutch guides shared with us all of their insights into the city. For instance, the waterfront property dupe I mentioned in the last post. We always replied with "That's crazy!"

To which they would reply "That's not 'crazy.' That's Dutch."

After a lot of this, we found ourselves at the first of a few Dutch restaurants. Sorry to disappoint the Instagramers, but I didn't get any pictures of the food.

We had Flemish fries (which are double fried, and much better than American fries--actually of Belgian origin), bitterballen (a popular party snack, and a recipe I intend to take home with me), then Boerenkool met worst, and Andijvieschotel met spekjes as well as Zuurkool met worst. Of course, we also tried Dutch mussels, which are purer and simpler than Belgian mussels (which are soaked in milk so they swell and become creamy). We drank brown Westmalle, La Chouffe, and some other beers.

One of the many ships in NDSM. This one is an engine
ship which has masts attached afterwards. One of the
ugliest ships I've seen.

Our last stop for the evening was to head to the North side of the channel to have Gelato ice cream, at a place called NDSM. That proved to be an experience that would make the trip for us, as if the wonderful food and company hadn't already. NDSM originally stood for Nederlandsche Dok en Scheepsbouw Maatschappij, the Netherlands Dock and Shipbuilding Company, which was active in Amsterdam between 1894 and 1979. When NDSM was closed, a large part of the area was simply left behind.

Until the artists cracked into the shipyard.

The Silent Disco.

Seaweed.

They needed cheap housing to afford their bohemian lifestyle, so they settled in the warehouses. They found housing in the abandoned ships. They climbed the old loading crane and lived in it. And they filled the shipping containers with art exhibitions.

A music bar we found in NDSM, later in the evening.
With swinging balrog boogie music.

Today, art students and bohemian artists alike populate the area, filling it with experimental art exhibitions and a number of alien conceptual pieces, with no context between one and the next. The sheer disconnection between everything lent the greeting scene a surreal quality. People milled about. We went straight to the ice cream stand and had our ice cream. The best chocolate I've ever had. While we ate our Gelato ice cream, we put on headphones and listened to the "silent disco," where we could listen to live music being played in a small, translucent, soundproof box not sixty meters away.

And we looked at the shipping crates. Each had a unique show or piece, and each cost just a couple Euros to visit. Aryan went inside of one. In two words, Aryan called it "Surreal and Avant Garde." He said it was his "first positive experience with conceptual art."

An artist's home @ NDSM.

After that, and some wandering, we found yet another magical experience. A series of swing sets, rigged with sensors and speakers. Each swing would detect its amplitude and emit a unique sound track based on that. Together, all of the swings going made a kind of music, discordant and elegant at the same time. People could compete for their track to be heard above others, by swinging harder, or work together to balance the tracks.

Marco on the music swings.

Me trying too hard to win at music.

Jesse getting crazy.

We paused and reflected on the experience. We wandered around NDSM in silence, lazily finding a route near the Crane Hotel (which is what it sounds like), and playing with a distance-hearing device. Then we looked at the warehouse entrance, looming before us.

This is where things moved, inside of us, from magical to the more surreal.

Silence emanated from it, broken occasionally by a faint tinkling sound. Something we couldn't quite make out. It sounded like a quiet invitation in. So we looked to Jesse. He told us that there would be more art inside, and we could go in.

We did. And we were greeted by this.

Echoes in some dusty old box. A saxophone gently talks to a sleeping giantess whose sandy mottled skin
grinds beneath my feet. How disquieting to crunch through this old barge of a coffin to find what new
life finds its home here. Plastic faces glare from the walls and some shoe-toting armchair is spoiled. A whistle. A
glance. A brightly-lit hall with a romantic looking dress poised at the end, glaring back at me. They say
the Dutch used to tax for windows, and now bricks clot those arteries. And a quilt of hempen endeavor
soothes my stillness while shafts of light stab through to cut into the heart of this bizarre  warehouse of art.

The sand giantess faced this scene.

 I stared, transfixed by the unreal colors and detail, juxtaposed with the obvious and intentional flaws in the skin. The other side degenerated into mottled fish-like scales. Behind it, a huge empty space until the end of the warehouse. And off in the other direction, indoor houses were built up, two and three floors high, out of shipping crates and other materials, for housing and art shops. The others wandered off while I sat down to write what captions that photo.

My ears perked up when I heard what caused that tinkling sound. From inside it was a shriek, and it echoed through the wide space of the warehouse interior. Was that an instrument? I wasn't sure. So I got up to investigate.

Nearby I found it. Hiding in the shadows of a wide open space, dressed completely in black, an exotic woman with dark hair stood tall, perfectly still, and played the saxophone, one poignant note at a time. She let each yelp echo through the warehouse and fade to silence, as a small crowd watched her. Tubes of light hung at eye level, resonating the sound from her saxophone and emitting an eerie glow.

Taking a photo would not have done the scene justice.

So I caught up with the guys.

We explored further the galleries and various halls, but eventually found ourselves at the rear exit of the warehouse. So we made our way back, and waited for the ferry.

I found them in this hall, waiting for me, surrounded by a swath of colors and random objects. You are now aware
of the way I leaned over a pipe wall to get this photo, which got Aryan and Wyatt's attention--and now I am part of
the photo.

Some time passed before the ferry came, so a few of us had drinks and we talked sporadically. Mostly we sat in silence, letting the whole experience sink in. Everything that had happened was something of an anomaly.

The ferry took us to one stop before we got to ours, and we stood near the edge and watched the water roll by, along with the night sky and gentle channel breeze.

Amsterdam. Netherlands. The Dutch.

None of this was crazy. And with no artificial assistance I had what was easily one of the most surreal experiences in my life.

When we disembarked, Jesse said his goodbyes, and we thanked him for the wonderful tour he gave us. Marco walked with us to the station, and got us to the right platform. How great it was to spend the evening with these two great guys. It's good to know people from around the world, for little things like this.

And this made our stay in Amsterdam. Nothing the city has to offer could have even compared.

Marco Groenewegen

Jesse van Dongen

Until next time.

About the Brothers: Michael N

What started as a short and sweet idea, blossomed into something I could not have possibly imagined. Aside from the fact I'm a pack mule, stuffed up the ass with American products for greedy European friends, I'm an adventure seeker with intentions of sampling every food the world has to offer.

I never fully understood the culinary art until my late teen years, and I have never stopped innovating or trying new things or places since. I have developed a reputation amongst my peers and family members as a personal chef, which comes as a blessing and curse. It's very fulfilling and wholesome to know people enjoy the food you prepare, but it's always a challenge when they yearn for something new. I guess that relates with my piano skills (but I don't really consider myself a great pianist, just merely amateur.)

On the side note, I love technology. I breath it and bleed it. Expect me to be the one with the gadgets and what not for the remainder of the trip.


For the time being, Lady Luck has been kind to me, and I have the opportunity to partake the last leg of my Brother's Eurotrip while working. Like the many first world problems I have, I had to pass on going to Europe at the same time with my Brothers as I had to attend a minor detour in Cancun for a week. Though there may be four days left of the trip, it will be the best four days all four of us will have. So this leaves me being number four. With the Brothers and I parting ways on the 18th in Dublin. I will continue the Brothers Without Borders Campaign as acting ambassador, meeting new people and trying new food, until I am content with my travels.


I am Michael N., and that is all you need to know about me.

Clearly, you've never been to Amsterdam.

This big-budget movie line has been etched into my mind through so many repeat watches. For some reason it gave the city a mystical quality, like some surreal amusement park beholden to the penetrating eyes of reluctant police, and the invasive intents of its tourists.

Tourists like us.

But anyways, Jack Sparrow is now wrong:

Central station was just one stop from our hostel. Our stop was called Sloterdijk,
which is pronounced startlingly close to "slaughter dick."

Flying my Dutch colors in front of this
little castle, turned into a cafe.

Seeing the city, with some of its buildings erect since the fourteenth century, was something I'd never experienced before. I've seen "old": a home my grandfather built, or a historic US monument built on the founding of the country. But something that's literally twice as old as the United States--that's something else altogether.

"Europeans are incredibly racist," I heard in conversation, irony apparent to all, "but it's like a friendly sibling rivalry though, without the vicious qualities you see in the US." This was as we discussed the world cup, which I'm coming to realize is part of a culture from which America has structurally absolved itself.

What is Amsterdam?

Amsterdam is clever trade. We saw walls of waterfront property, undoubtedly sold at outrageous prices. And then we saw walls of waterfront property being built right in front of that waterfront property, stealing away the view and selling it again for the same premium. You'd think the customers would learn. We saw bricked-over windows, remnants of a time where the Dutch government taxed for window space. Churches with entrance fees. And markets all around. Various trinket shops and a number of attractive stores.

A nation without many natural resources, the Dutch have become arguably the best traders in the world.

The channels, almost exactly like those in Copenhagen, were
nothing like Copenhagen's channels.

"Amsterdam was built in a time where we didn't have cars or buses, or even trains. The city was built with carriages and foot traffic in mind, so there are millions of tiny shops all over. We have new technology now, but so many of the historic buildings can't be torn down, so little shops are here to stay."

The city has the best mass transit I've ever seen. No matter the time of day, car traffic was sparse at worst. Trams were so frequent they often were literally right behind each other, almost moving as one. And there are more bikes than there are people. We were told there are something like two-point-three bikes for each Dutch person.

"If someone steals your bike, you just take someone else's. That's just how it is," Our host in Denmark, Uli, said. It seemed like he was right. I occasionally say a bike handle sticking out of the canals.

Walking past one of the many "Coffee
Shops" in the city.

Amsterdam is tolerant. With an extremely conservative government, many things are illegal. But tourists and locals alike enjoy the Red Light District's attractions, the 'Coffee Shops,' which sell much more than coffee, and the various 'Smart Shops' that sell other mind-altering substances. With incense on the side, as if to legitimize the store front.

When we went through the Red Light District, it was appalling to see the number of children running through like it was an amusement park. And it was in many ways. One prostitute knocked more aggressively on her tiny door, whose glass windows reveals her scant clothing and minimal furnishings that still cost 150 Euro per day. She knocked on the glass hard, to get Wyatt's attention. He jumped, and made a face at her. She pointed and laughed. Everyone joined in.

Unreal.

Amsterdam police ride through every part of the city wearing highly reflective clothes, mounted either on horses or BMW motorcycles. Motorized scooters buzz every which way, weaving between bicycles and miniature cars.

Amsterdam is WiFi. As if they live in the 21st century, something which parts of Denmark refused to do, there was widely-available and free WiFi. And up that same vein...

Amsterdam has showers and separate toilets.

Yes, this deserves a large-sized, centered frame. We were that stoked about the revelation.

Throughout our stay in Denmark, we encountered "wet toilets." Basically, it's a toilet right in the middle of your closet-sized shower, and you have to squeegee everything off, and it's a huge confusing mess. And often quite dirty too.

We wandered around town, across canals, down alleys, inside the tiny room-sized shops. The Dutch don't have the inherent beautiful looks we saw in Denmark. The people looked more like US citizens. Portlanders, that is. The abundance of bikes probably helped. Bikes outnumber cars in Amsterdam at least five to one, by my estimate.

Pardon the scattered thoughts. Even without partaking myself, the haze of various-colored smokes weaved through the air at eye-level, through everyone's throats, into our voices. And the drinks keep coming...

Najlaa and Faisal, two of our new friends.

We met two Iraqis in Amsterdam. Childhood friends, who met together to travel around Europe. They are called Faisal and Najlaa, into whose path ours intersected many times throughout our short stay in this surreal city. Faisal works in hospitality, and Najlaa was a recent graduate from a university in New Zealand where she's been living most of her life. We exchanged conversations, bought each other drinks, and shared songs and poems among ourselves.

Staying at our hostel, spending time on the base floor, we met a zoo of youngsters passing drinks and other things around. And guitars--we sat outside, a group of twenty or more even, guitar and beat box, singing voices, and a list of post-adolescent nostalgia to go through.

Again, every city thus far has given us a friend, and generally someone not from the area.

We weaved through the alleys and streets of Amsterdam, vaguely meandering towards the Van Gogh museum, with that as our final destination. It was warm. Sunny. We sweated, and I abstained from buying chocolates for Ayumi on that first day in fear that they would melt. We talked sometimes, but after enough mazing through the dead ends and winding paths we converged on silence...

Chris and the three of us, in Museumkwartier.

Until I heard form Aryan "OH! TRAIL BLAZER! OH!"

My head snapped to him. Then to where he was pointing. And there he was: Amsterdam has a population similar to Portland, and so we can all blend in pretty well (except for the obvious tourism flags). And the fellow Aryan pointed at looked like just another one in the crowd... except for his T-shirt.

And thus, we met Chris. He's on a tour of Europe before he changes careers, from geography to business management, and gave us a lot of insight into traveling the area. He's been train hopping from city to city, never taking a trip longer than a couple hours, and had visited much of Europe by the time we met him. He agreed to wander with us towards the Van Gogh museum, and to have a bite to eat with us too.

I find this city lending me some power from the earth, just like Chicago did. You can feel it emanating from every alleyway, every centuries-old building, every algae-green channel and rusty bike handle protruding from it. Every vague haze you walk through, and every Dutch conversation in passing writes a song over the very language itself.

My first real Banksy sighting.

There are probably those who might think "a city is just a city." These are the people who dissociate themselves from the world they live in. Probably the real intellectuals. For me, it's magic. I live in Portland because it gives me a particular energy. I can feel it every time I return home, like adjusting to the temperature of a lake.

And when I'm in a place like this, I can feel the energy of the city. It's flowing through me. And it's so good to feel that energy flow through my hands as I write again. A long-departed friend, since starting to work as a software engineer.

Now we're reunited.

Crooked buildings.

A friend of mine named Mike once gave me a small pocket notebook, just in case. I never really used it except occasionally, though I've sometimes been grateful to have it on hand. During this trip though, I've filled half of it.

And of that half, most of it has been in Amsterdam.

If nothing else, just remember that a city is not just a city. Only from people who can't appreciate Jazz will you hear that. As if to brief us on that lesson, the Copenhagen Jazz Festival primed our minds to be ready for the improvisational beats and sometimes-discordant tunes that come with each city.

Bicycle bells. 50cc engines popping by you. A giggle. And those Dutch conversations.

This is not just a city...

A beautiful old building, out of which a Diamond factory business runs.

The book alley of Amsterdam has been active for two hundred years.

As if to juxtapose the rest of the city, walls like this were everywhere.

Really. Everywhere.

There was a beer boat.

De Dam, a common landmark for everyone in Amsterdam, with its own tram stop.

Stranded in København

Captain's log: 9 July 2014, 03:46. Cpt. J. N. Giampietro reporting.

Last sundown in Copenhagen. In Denmark.

The official captain's log battery has died. Who knows how long we were talking to this plastic brick, without it actually recording our wanton musings. We turned it on about 02:00 the night prior, our last night at Rikke's, and mused for hours about philosophy and anthropological deprication -- that is, we made fun of some of our friends, who are easy to tease.

Mostly each other.

And then Aryan left the captain's log active after we drifted into sleep. At least we now have evidence that Aryan talks in his sleep.

AA Power Cells Requested. Desired delivery point: Amsterdam City West Hostel. Time: 9 July 2014, 20:00.

Today was a day for completing checklists, as it was our last full day in Copenhagen.

On the checklist:

• Jægersborg Dyrehave.
• Dyrehavsbakken, the world's oldest theme park.
• Gammel Dansk shots.
• Final jazz show downtown.
• Meet Danish girls (Aryan).
• Get completely lost in Copenhagen.
• Meet some fellow travelers.
• Miss the last train back to our host's place.
• Get totally stranded.
• Have Germany win the world cup game against Brazil.
• Find out that Uli is still downtown celebrating the horrendously one-sided victory
• Meet some Danish hitchhikers waiting for the night bus.
• Catch the night bus back to Holte.
• Meet Uli partway when he gets on the same night bus back.

And we did them all.

Aryan with Rikke and Cecilia.

Rikke's roommate woke us up at about noon with the news that they had another couch surfer coming in 30 minutes, implying that we had to leave. Turns out there was some kind of miscommunication. It's all good--their new surfer was a young lady, an artist from New York, so they'll probably get along better anyways.

Thank goodness for Uli, the hostliest of hosts.

The Deutchlandiest of Germans in Denmark. A chill man, down to earth, kind and generous. He was great enough to host us again. He even hid a key outside for us, as he was going to go straight from work to the Germany-Brazil world cup game.

"I'll be home around 1 at the earliest, depending on the outcome of the game."

So we dropped our things off and headed North.

Jægersborg Dyrehave. The Deer Garden of Denmark, where deer the size of big dogs lope about through the woods. I was ready not to be impressed, coming from Alaska, having visited Wyoming, and living in the American Pacific Northwest. But regardless I was looking forward to it.

Off of the train, and on our way by foot, we stopped at the beach. Fantastic little beach in Klampenborg...

The transition from grass to beach was abrupt, and there were cute little piers to break sections apart.
Lots of the people with disposable grills on the beach, cooking up sausages.

Let's to the "Titanic" and get splashed! Pardon the color difference -- playing with white balance.

We saw a couple deer but they were too elusive for photos. We did, however get photos of us...

A hotel and restaurant in Dyrehave. Thinking of taking Ayumi here too ;)

Oh, how majestic and solemn,

Taken by Cpt. Aryan,
newblood photographer.

And on the other side of Jægersborg Dyrehave was Dyrehavsbakken, called Bakken for shot. The world's oldest theme park, and in the heart of Scandinavia. The name means "Deer Park Hill" or "The Hill" for short, and gets almost three million visitors per year.

We were happy to be three of them.

Entrance to the world's oldest theme park, depicting how it was when it opened...
in 1583.

Looks an awful lot like a theme park, with the occasional ancient wooden ride
or traditional building. In this photo you can just barely make out Rutschebanen,
a wooden roller coaster opened since 1932.

Øl is Danish for beer. I believe that's all I have to explain.

We thought Michael would enjoy the trollface statue! One of the ride designers of the amusement park, if I recall.

Like I said, ancient wooden structures littered the theme park. This throne has been standing for hundreds of years.

The sax player was the one who nailed it the most.

Finally, we headed back downtown, taking a train directly to Copenhagen. We got off, and wandered around downtown, chilling out a bit more at Kayak Bar to listen to the hip-hop jazz band playing there, before departing to search for Uli...

We searched for hours but could not find the fabled Fælledparken, which every Danish person seems to think is someplace else. Giving up on that, we resigned to simply spend a bit more time at Kayak Bar.

Here's a sample of the vibe...

There Aryan met a couple Danish girls and struck up quite a conversation with them. They seemed interested in talking, but ultimately he wound up leaving without much of another word, once Wyatt and I were ready to go home.

But with a small detour. Which included checking a few things off our list. Also this:

Note the guy wearing the blue shirt, who comes around the corner and instantly joins in. He was not a part of their group as far as I know. This dance is what Aryan calls the "Browob-ble" (Bro wobble) and he's been doing it in a number of videos. Did you catch it in the Rosenborg flower garden?

After that, we stopped at THE VIKING Restaurant and Pub to try Gammel Dansk, of which we all had to have a sample shot. It's a traditional Danish bitters drink, vaguely like Jägermeister, usually served for special occasions. Our special occasion? Wearevisitingdenmarkforthefirsttimeandwanttotryit. It's a once in a lifetime holiday. That takes place 8 July, 2014.

Probably not a drink I'll want to have again, though.

So without another word to the bartender, we walked back out to Strøget, the car-free shopping street, and looked for more places to hang out.

Found this on the way to our
next stop. #MonkeyMedicine
doesn't appear to be anything.

Finally, we wound up at Huset-KBH music bar, where I had a delicious pomegranate cider. Then we invited a couple strangers to sit with us.

Me, Wyatt, Aryan, Pete, and Con. Pete is
a music teacher in Dubai. And Con is a
photographer and historian, among many
other things. New friends!

They turned out to be brothers. Two Irishmen, Pete and Con, who were traveling Europe rather than South Africa in the name of locality and frugality. They were on layover We exchanged merry conversation for a good couple hours, during their six-hour layover before leaving once again. Pete works in Dubai as a music teacher, and Con was working on grad school applications after completing his degree in history. We got along splendidly.

They taught us an Irish term: Craic. Which is the origin for the American phrase "What's crackin?" Craic means "fun," and can be used in ways such as "What's the craic?" and "Sounds like some craic."

I guess you can't say things like "I'd like to buy some craic."

Finally, we decided it was time to go home. So we headed back to Copenhagen Central Station to grab the B Train to Holte... Except it wasn't there. Next arrival?

Something like 07:00.

Whoops.

What do?

Phone battery almost dead, like the Captain's Log battery. 01:30. Twenty kilometers from home. Little cash and for some reason very few places in Denmark take cards.

We checked out phones. We texted Uli, worried he was already home, and asleep. Earlier he had said he'd meet us at his place at 1. It seemed like a longshot.

He replied. "Still out. Grab the 95N bus. It comes in an hour."

Okay, it was slightly more complicated than that, but that's about how it worked out.

So we walked to the main mass transit square, and waited for the 95N. During that wait, we met some hitch hikers whose names we can't remember, who had traveled all through Eastern Europe using only their thumbs and backpacks. Brave, some might say. Stupid, others might say. I'd call it a healthy mixture of both.

The bus came, and we hopped on. Still, we were worried that we'd ride this night bus Northbound, not knowing when to get off, and would never meet up with Uli. He had said he'd get on at a later stop, but we had no idea when.

But finally, a few stops before leaving downtown, we spotted Uli getting on! He got on the bus with us, and rode back home to Holte. Boy, how we'd missed him.

We had a great last night with Uli, about which no details can be recalled. This is of course due entirely to the lack of captain's log batteries, and also how tired we all were.