Van Gogh Museum
Verdi won over Van Gogh. This time, I could aff ord both. Vincent Van Gogh came to Amsterdam nearly as broke as we were in our student days. He had not yet begun his work as a painter—he was training as a clergyman—but instead of spending his time with God the way he was supposed to, he spent his year in Amsterdam thinking about art. “Everything reminds one of Rembrandt’s etchings,” he wrote his brother, going on about his need for “nothing less than the infinite and the miraculous.” Van Gogh stared at flowers lit by 1877 Amsterdam’s roiled sky, and I find myself in the heart of the Van Gogh Museum staring at the permanent springtime of his sunfl owers, their yellow the shade of a tassled lampshade that used to be in my grandfather’s room.But what stops me cold is the iris, dark blues and purples like a sneak preview for the hour right after sunset. After leaving the Van Gogh Museum, I pass through the arch at the Rijksmuseum. Buskers sing Andrea Bocelli’s Nessun Dorma, filling the archway between the two wings, and captivating tourists.I find space between chained bikes waiting for their blonde Amazons to pedal away, and leaned against canal rails. A few feet away, is a mini-field of Nargis (Narcissus) flowers, one of my favourites. Their Springtime sweet smell makes your heart happy just the way the smell of sugar melting in butter does. And suddenly, I feel all is well in the world.Happy, as the city goes by and the coming evening’s cold starts to get to the small of my back, where I’m leaning against the railing. Then, as beautiful as a pig on a morning walk, the street begins to twirl with Hare Krishnas dancing and singing through a crowd that had, a moment ago, been thinking only of Benetton or Kiehl’s or Prada, what the 21st century has replaced dreams of tulips with, the modern world filling windows of 17th-century buildings that seem slightly off ended.The Krishnas clash their tambourines and chant for the beauty of creation. I’d fall in and dance with them, but the end of the conga line is by a french fry stand, the hour grows late, and I grow hungry—and not for enlightenment. I rarely take pictures on travels now. As far as possible, I refuse to take selfies. Despite being an editor of a travel magazine, and much to the annoyance of my boss, I rarely post personal shots of my travels on social media. How can you reinvent yourself, how can you be better than who you were, if you’re always tied to everybody who already knows you? Besides, I don’t need a camera. Years of travel have taught me how I remember things. I know I’ll remember the taste of the fries, the sky’s arcs of light, clouds glowing as though they were hiding a parking lot of UFOs. I know I’ll remember the street with two smoke shops—Super Skunk and Easy Time—flanking a restaurant called Everything on a Stick. At a flea market, I buy a stack of old postcards, other people’s letters home, the things they wanted to remember. At the farmer’s market I buy a massive jar of buckwheat honey. And then it’s time to go see if the thing I remember most has been remembered right at all. The Rijksmuseum—near the Van Gogh, is in a building that looks as if it was raised to house a cavalry regiment of stair-climbing horses. It is one of the greatest art museums in the world.You can tell by the number of people standing in front of Rembrandt’s grand painting The Night Watch, the utter perfection of his side light ruined by a crowd blocking the view. Maybe I’m the only one who cares, because nobody else is looking at the painting at all; they’re looking at their phones and taking pictures of themselves blocking the view of the painting, pictures that, for their sake, I hope they’ll live long enough to regret.But let’s face it, 1600s Amsterdam had its own version of a selfie. As soon as you had your narrow house and your wide collars and your tulip patch, you hired someone to paint you— fat, smiling, smug, and without the judgment of time that would tell you that you just got painted by one of the best artists in the world.Upper crust Amsterdam was papered wall-to-wall with these portraits. And I remember this, more than anything else, about Amsterdam in 1999: the endless gallery, a Mö bius hell with no clear means of escape in the Rijksmuseum, walls of nothing but one round and rosy face after another, eyes following, ruffled collars making the burghers look like a cannibal’s lamb chops. Hundreds. If not thousands. And I couldn’t fi nd a way out, and I was minutes from a full wobbly fit of claustrophobia, and there were more and more of the paintings and suddenly—wait.Those are Brueghel colours. I was well enough educated in 1999 to recognise a Brueghel painting from 10 meters. I was not well enough educated to know there had been a whole family of Brueghels in the 16th and 17th centuries, fathers and sons, all, apparently, smoking the same stuff . From 10 meters away, the painting is a bucolic landscape, a picnic on a riverbank. But come closer and you notice two of the people are actually frogs. Fully dressed and cursed by a goddess for not letting her drink from the stream. In 2016, I re-walk the galleries in search of those frogs. I see Vermeer’s milkmaid and Steen’s baker, but no frogs.Apparently, sometime in the last two decades or so, they hopped out of view, perhaps into storage or are on loan somewhere. And what I know now that I never would have known in 1999 is that it’s OK. That you don’t have to see what you thought you wanted to see. That, in the end, your expectations don’t matter at all. Because sometimes the world throws suit-wearing frogs at you and sometimes it doesn’t, and it doesn’t really care what you want.Out on the street again, I decide to head to Amsterdam’s famous, albeit now mostly touristy, red light district. I didn’t see it when I was 7, I didn’t make it even in 1999. Now at the age of 40, and with a few hours at a loose end one afternoon, I find myself wandering down De Walletjes. I see bored lingerie-clad women in behind street-front glassed rooms. I’m not sure how this is remotely titillating. They look like any moment they will pull out knitting needles and balls of wool and start knitting out of boredom. What is more suprising to me is the sight of tourists and locals walking through this area with kids, who also don’t seem to be too fascinated by the lingerie clad women or shop windows with all kinds of sex toys.As I turn a corner into the back lane, I find a strong sweet scent curl around my nose, it’s wafting from a long line of stores that sell marijuana. It’s legal here and up until now, I had mostly seen it being sold in the form of lollipops, breath mints, candy and even car-freshner at magazine vendors and tobacco shops in the city.Here, however, there were full-scale stores. Amused by this amazing afternoon route of art, sex and marijuana, I head back to Andaz. Back out on the street, I walk slowly and reflect on everything I saw in Amsterdam. Some things I had seen then, and some things that I had seen now. But I hadn’t seen everything.But that’s why I travel, why I know I have to come back (hopefully, this time with my mother). That’s what the miles have done for me. We don’t have to be good. We just have to be open. Show up and say “cool” at all the rewards revealed under strange skies.
Walk or ride around the city and head to Dam Square. It's located in the historical centre of Amsterdam and buzzing with activity. Spend the morning visiting the Royal Palace, the New Church and the National Monument. If you feel hungry, just stop by one of many cafes to indulge in a quick bite. One of the best activities is to observe people and that's best done right in the heart of the city!
4. Discover Heineken Experience/ Pubs & Cafe's ????????Hey all you beer lovers, here's a chance to see the whole beer making process of Heineken and at the end also learn how to perfectly pour the beer as a professional. Taste your favorite beer served fresh at the Heineken Experience.Even if you are not a Beer person (like me), taking a tour of the beer making process is fun.You could also go to the cafe's in Amsterdam not for coffee but for weed. Yes, the cafe concept of Amsterdam is focused on weed. Some of things that originate from Amsterdam are - Gin or Genever and Space cake's (believe me you will definitely get a space feeling ????). You will easily get these in any of the cafe's.P.S you get two glasses of fresh beer inclusive in the ticket.Did you know - Heineken is currently sold in over 170 countries ,as they say Heineken is " Born in Amsterdam, raised by the world".
Return to Amsterdam in the evening and spend sometime at the Jordaan, Amsterdam's most famous neighbourhood. Touristy and commercial, it starts from Centraal station and arches around the Canal Ring before ending it Leidsegracht. With plenty of cafes to choose from, decide whether to indulge in traditional or trendy food. Hope across to an art gallery after to soak in the Dutch art scene.
Holland is one of the countries where prostitution is legal. In the age of the internet, whatever you're heard of the famous Red Light district is possibly true. There are lots of red lights and young women standing in windows to lure customers in. Photography is prohibited but you can go in to one of the houses to see how clean the business is.
Amsterdam Central is the heart of the city and the major tourist spot as it is the main train station connecting Amsterdam with the other European cities. Here you can check out the Royal palace of the king, Dam square, Madam Tusaauds, Nine shopping streets, The Red light district and many more.Indulge in the best french fries Amsterdam offers at Manneken Pis. As you eat the fries dripping with sauces, reminiscence about your day in Amsterdam.All these within a few kilometers from the station.You can visit the tours & Tickets centre and buy a combo deal.
Built in 1408, this soaring church has been the stage for royal weddings and coronations, including King Willem’s marriage to Maxima and his crowning as Holland’s first king in a century in 2013. Now used for major art exhibitions, it has a gift shop that leads to a free display about the church’s turbulent history.
After the glitz of the previous excursion, find respite in this hidden courtyard protected from the madness of central Amsterdam. Beyond the Begijnhof’s humble doors, an oasis of 14th century houses, gardens and relic-filled churches provides quiet escape from the buzz of the city. Once a residential sanctuary for the Bengijntjes, a Catholic sisterhood comprised of women who took no monastic vows but dedicated their lives to educating the poor and taking care of the sick, it’s now a place where people still gather to worship, marry and reflect.
Stedelijk Museum Amsterdam
Get to Amsterdam in the spring and this spirit is there in all its glory. This afternoon, the sun shines straight overhead like a spotlight, and the town is surrounded by squares and trapezoids of solid colours and some multi-colours. Having explored Wanders world of the whimsical at the Andaz, I head to the Stedelijk Museum. I come to a room of paintings by Piet Mondrian, who studied art here in the early 1900s. I’ve loved his simple abstract geometry of primary tints in squares and rectangles my entire life, but now I realise his paintings were entirely representational, blocks of colour that could pass for the right-angled fields of blooming tulips—“an absolute of perfect sensations,” as the artist Barnett Newman wrote. In 1999, I didn’t go to the Van Gogh Museum because my friend and I had money for one of two options: tickets to our first Opera or the Van Gogh Museum.
Amsterdam’s floating flower market is a fine source for high-quality flora. Pick up a bag of tulip bulbs for the folks back home and they’ll thank you when they receive the gift, then think of you again in spring when the blooms come up. The thoughtful souvenir will cost you a few euros, but it’s free to smell the roses and photograph the stunning blooms at this fragrant open flower market lining Singel Canal between Muntplein and Koningsplein.
Sandeman's Free Walking Tour
Get your bearings in a sometimes confusing city and gain insight into Amsterdam’s its evolution from a muddy village on the Amstel into Europe’s most powerful trading city on this three-hour, whirlwind adventure. Tour the Red Light District, Jewish Quarter, Jordaan District, widest bridge, narrowest house and other top sights. Daily tours in English and Spanish are given by entertaining guides who work on a tip-only basis. Tours depart at 11:15 and 13:15 from the National Monument on Dam Square.
Tired of highbrow culture? Sample a lighter approach to art devoted to a single theme at one of Amsterdam’s quirkiest museums: Katten Kabinet. While professionally curated, this homage to all things feline has a humorous edge. The collection features two floors of paintings, drawings, prints and sculptures by Picasso, Rembrandt, Toulouse-Lautrec and other renowned masters, all with cats on center stage. There is a gift shop on the first floor proffers cat-themed posters and souvenirs. Even if cats aren’t your thing, it may be worth the €6 entry fee just for the chance to enter a posh canal house on the Herengracht, where Dutch gentry dwelled in Holland’s Golden Age. Even if cats aren’t your thing, Katten Kabinet may be worth a visit for the chance to enter a posh canal house. Built in 1667 as a residence for the wealthy van Loon brothers, the structure was restored several times before affluent Dutchie Bob Meijer turned it into a museum in 1990 dedicated to the memory of his red tomcat John Pierpont Morgan. In 2004 it served as a set for the Hollywood blockbuster Oceans 12. A-list guests have included former Amsterdam mayor Jan Calkoen and American president John Adams. The present owner still resides on the upper floor of the building with his family and several felines who wander through the museum at will.
Bazar Amsterdam had been on my list of places to visit for years. Ever since I had seen a small photo of the interior and caught a glimpse of the menu, I knew I had to eat there. What greeted me when I stepped inside, however, was a raw, sensory explosion that surpassed even my expectations. The cavernous space of the former Dutch Reformed church was filled with bright colours, Middle-Eastern music and tables with enough space around them to ensure you didn’t have your elbows in someone else’s food. Waiters carried metal serving trays that were almost bigger than they were and with good reason. Not a single main dish that left the kitchen was smaller than the average person’s head. The tavuk sis kebab that was delivered onto the worn wooden table in front of me was no exception. While I cut into the tender chicken that had been marinated in saffron infused yoghurt, I took in the fruit and vegetable crates behind me, the huge lamps hanging from the ceiling that no doubt had required more than a pair of hands and a ladder to hang and the decorative silverware in my possession. Everywhere you looked, there was something to admire. The bar in the centre of the restaurant, made out of tin cans, served my drink colder than the ice cold Heineken around the corner and just barely managed to outshine the canopy of fairy-lights in the hallway and the baklava that was served for dessert. Five moist and sweet pieces surrounded a Medjool date, all topped with something that could only be described as white sugar fur that had me doubting for a few seconds about its edibleness.