The museum complex where the Van Gogh Museum is established is simply amazing, from an American point of view. I’m sure the Dutch think it is as it should be. It’s composed of 16th century edifices standing shoulder to shoulder with the most modern of cutting edge architecture. Seems like standard procedure for the Dutch.

The Van Gogh was undergoing some external renovation so it was quite a hike following the signage to get to the ticket office and queue up behind a group of 80 or so school children. Seemed like all these kids were fresh faced and beautiful. They shouted in excitement and just joy. I smiled just from being in their proximity, and seeing them having fun. Their teachers were all young, attractive and apparently committed to their profession. One can tell by the way the children react to the teacher. An uncaring or bored teacher can’t inspire anything in a class, especially cooperation. And, there is something to say about having a teacher who is beautiful, clear eyed and full of energy.

Upon further study I noticed that I was on the wrong line. There were 4 lines and I needed to be in the one for people who had to pay, which was the shortest line BTW. I happily switched lines, bought a ticket, and rented the audio tour, in hopes that my smoky voiced seductress would share the Van Gogh story with me.

The tour voice was another woman altogether. She sounded a bit mechanical and failed to seduce the listener, but did manage to inform. Seems the Van Gogh museum is making a big effort to adjust the perception of Vincent. They don’t want us, no longer to see Vincent as a tortured, capricious genius, who never really got a grip on life, but rather as a tortured studied and calculated genius, who never really got a grip on life. A subtle difference but very important, at least to the recorded tour voice. Seems he never really settled on one style or technique. His early stuff was dark, flat and rather joyless. Sorry to say, but the paintings I liked best were those he did while in the sanitarium. Lots of color and dramatic pallet knife work, and always a sense of dread. How did I miss that this guy killed himself with a gunshot to the heart? Damn!

Hopped back on the tour bus, a different bus, totally thunkless, and continued the adventure. I noticed what looked like a flea market as we headed toward some windmill and when we stopped at the windmill I hopped off and headed for what is called “The Dapper Markt”. Call it what you will it was a flea market plain and simple. I started down the long, long row of stands and saw all the things one would see at any flea market, old clothes, cheap electronics, used shoes, and a few cool exceptions, like herring served with onion and pickles, and fried fish. I was gawking at the herring stand Watching an old man dispense his wares at 1 euro a shot and saw a very pretty young woman order up from the old man. I watched as she ordered up and the relished the delicacy. The old man looked at me widened his eyesn, nodded slightly and tilted his head toward the young woman as if to say, “want what she’s having?” I smiled and nodded enthusiastically. Fresh haring is a joy. I’ll bet it’s great with beer!

That idea took me to a beer pub on my way back to the hotel where I had a few and exchanged stories with a bartender named Nicholas. We got into a conversation about how great Amsterdam is and I began to think about where I would want to live and what I would do. Paris or Amsterdam? Hmmmm tough choice. And as for what to do, well I have yet to figure that out. As long as I have ready access to Nutella crepes and Haring I’ll be set no matter what I’m doing.