when in Amsterdam, after all, one cycles

We have all heard the maxim: “Wherever you go, there you are.” It encapsulates perfectly why travel as escapism doesn’t work — the simple fact is, one cannot escape oneself.

But oh, how we try.

In spite of the persistent forecasts, I woke up to yet another sunny day in Amsterdam. Why had I come? Your answer will be as good as mine, which may have something in common with George Mallory’s answer to the question, “Why did you want to climb Mount Everest?”

Because it’s there.

In this case, rather, it’s about what isn’t there: anyone I know.

In a place where no one knows me or cares about what I’m doing, I am invisible. I ride the tram. I buy pears at the grocery store. I wander through museums alone, and no one notices me. It is just as I like it. When you are lonely, it feels appropriate to be alone.

Feeling, then, as though I had the sunny day to myself, I returned to the De Pjip neighborhood to have a fancy-schmancy breakfast at Anne&Max, one of the hip cafés that had been slammed on the Saturday before, when I’d been through the neighborhood to visit the Albert Cuyp Market. Do all street markets seem the same sometimes? I think they do. It’s just different kitsch; in Holland, it’s tulips and Dutch clogs.

But the streets were quiet this morning — stalls closed and packed away — and I enjoyed a delicious egg & spinach concoction on the terrace, unbothered.

After breakfast, I came across a bike rental shop, and as it was so sunny, I thought, Why not? The owners were a Greek couple, and while the man was almost irritatingly friendly, the woman was helpful and straightforward. They got me set up on a bike, and off I went for the afternoon.

The Dutch are very comfortable on their bicycles, and they’re also very direct. There are bells dinging all the time, and fairly deft maneuvers being made by people in skirts and high heels on what are basically road-worthy beach cruisers. As far as I can make out, the only rule is that as long as it’s generally safe-ish, you just get on with things, because cyclists really do rule in this city.

So, off I went, mildly thrilled to be a part of the anonymous cycling throng, quietly dinging my bell to give gentle reminders to pedestrians and (fellow) tourists who were otherwise oblivious.

Yes, I could get used to this.

After biking around almost the entire city at an absolutely ludicrous pace for a sightseeing tourist, around 4 p.m., I finally collapsed into a cafe in the historic Jordaan neighborhood called ‘t Smalle, which is hilarious to me, because who begins the name of anything with an apostrophe-t?

I had the “warm meatballs,” which were indeed warm, and actually quite good. The outdoor seating was all taken, so I sat inside, but it was a charming interior — dark, rich wood and dim lightbulbs struggling to illuminate the space through ancient lampshades — and it served as a perfectly comfortable locale in which to while away my final moments before I had to return the bicycle.

I peered through the windows at the Dutch patrons, watching them as they watched the canals in front of them, feeling as though I was enjoying a second-hand type of pleasantness that I would have appreciated much less had I a companion with which to enjoy this lovely afternoon moment.

One thing that becomes clear if you travel through too much of the world by yourself is that there will always be people in love when you are not, always people who are happy when you are not, and although the opposite is true, too, sadly, we rarely notice it.

gin with Germans

I met a boy in Berlin, and after a drink at a bar in Kreuzberg with a very disappointing local band playing, we traveled north to Kollwitzkiez and found a venue with much better music.

After three gin and tonics each, and with The Low-Flying Ducks playing its encore, my Berliner companion put his hand on my lower back.

We barely remembered to pick up our coats on the way out — the bite of fresh air too appealing after our hours spent basking in the overly warm energy of live music in a slightly underground venue. Berlin in November is cold enough to make me wish I had a heavier coat, but alas — I am wearing one of my two weary sweaters, proof that one does not have to look particularly fashionable (or attractive at all, really) to make friends in a new city — friends ready to take you back to their sparse, Euro-furnished apartment with a mattress sitting directly on the hardwood floor and huge windows opposite.

Ben offered me coffee in the morning, but I scurried away into the sunshine, passing storefronts not yet open for the day and dutiful Berliners on their way to work.

And with that, Ben slips gracefully into my past, fondly memorable for his own reasons.

abandoned Berlin

On a Monday morning, I got a text from a Berlin resident I know via Instagram:

“Photo walk at abandoned swimming pool. Meet at 11:30. See you?”

I had no reason to say no, so I said yes.

We climbed over piles of glass and beer bottles from long-finished parties, empty cans of spray paint, and relics like smashed computers and old lounge chairs. We walked through pitch-black halls and emerged into a yard with eerily empty swimming pools and a greenhouse-like structure with all the windows busted out. We lit a smoke bomb and made purple-tinted portraits in the massive main atrium.

The place is called Blub Badeparadies —

Halloween at Tivoli

This life is not a constant stream of story-worthy moments. You are most likely to find me hunched over my laptop in a tiny room I found on AirBnB, fixing other people’s grammar for an hourly wage. It is far from a glamorous existence, but I do it so I can see as much of the world as possible.

Copenhagen, however, was a disappointment on more than one level: The shower didn’t drain and I inevitably found myself standing in three inches of water by the time I was finished, I didn’t make any friends, and I spent more money than I’d wanted to.

I did briefly make it to the cemetery I’d heard so much about, Assistens, and I saw a lot of the area around Dronning Louises Bro, a very nice bridge with picturesque waterfront on both sides, and Nyhavn.

I also managed to make it to Tivoli Gardens on the last night of its Halloween extravaganza, which could have been an amazing experience had I not spent almost the entire evening feeling sorry for myself for having to go to Tivoli by myself.

Being a Sunday evening, and the last night of these particular festivities, the park was crowded. I appreciated the generally spooky atmosphere they had created with all of the orange and black lights and jack-o-lantern decorations, but it also made me aware of how enchanting the place must be at Christmas time. I’ve never been a big fan of Halloween, and perhaps I’m just longing for a bit of Christmas.

After I wandered around for an hour or so by myself I had a indecently indulgent meal at one of the restaurants in the park — also by myself. I only had an appetizer soup and a dessert, but it worked out to 120 Danish krone, or $20 U.S. (Oh the shame!)

It was delicious, though: A pumpkin soup with some kind of fish in it. Sounds weird, but it was good. A note of warning, though: If you have never dined alone, know that ordering soup is a questionable choice. When you have a dining partner, you can eat soup with more grace, pausing between each spoonful to discuss your waiter’s choice of hairstyle, or comment on how sad you are that the candle on your table has gone out, even though that is likely because you guffawed with too much gusto when your dining partner made a slick and sarcastic remark about said waiter’s hairstyle.

When you eat soup by yourself, you find there is nothing to really do if you put the spoon down, so you hold the spoon in perpetuity, but you quickly find that holding the spoon while you’re not using it is ALSO awkward, so you just keep using it, and before you know it, you are shoveling soup into your mouth at an alarming rate, and you begin to experience a modicum of shame as you realize how much of a heathen you must look to the other diners in the restaurant.

At any rate, I finished my soup. I won’t tell you how long it took me.

Then I ordered a raspberry sorbet and chocolate dessert platter that was more intense than I had anticipated, but pretty good. Some of the pieces of chocolate had nuts in them, though, which ruins chocolate for me. I felt bad about leaving them since the server was paying so much attention to me and wanted to know how I liked everything (another thing that often happens to you when you dine alone), so I put those pieces in my napkin and took them to the bathroom with me to throw away. I am awful because: (1) that’s a waste of part of a $10 dessert, and (2) I am afraid of what a random waiter in Denmark who I will never see again will think of me. Oh and (3) what am I, five years old?

So, Tivoli.

Try going to an amusement park by yourself sometime. Try walking around alone, watching kids run past you to jump on a ride, their parents trailing behind with a camera and big smiles. Try listening to the screams of delight as friends terrify themselves on purpose on the terrifying carnival rides high above your head. Try watching couple after couple pass you by, holding hands, smiling sweetly at each other, wearing scarves, clutching hot chocolates.

This is not an inordinate amount of fun.

I am sad to say that I became the mildly creepy loner, laughing second-hand laughs at other people’s jokes, applauding out-of-turn for the boyfriend who successfully won a giant stuffed animal for his girlfriend at the dart-and-duck game, or smiling just a little too much at other people’s kids as they toddled by with balloons and ice cream. I am not proud of this.

But I went to Tivoli because it is the second-oldest amusement park in the world, originally opening in 1843, second only to Dyrehavsbakken, which opened in 1583 and is also in Denmark. Tivoli is more popular and more well-known I assume because it is in Copenhagen, and Dyrehavsbakken is near Klampenborg. Where? Exactly.

Whatever. Here are some pictures of Tivoli.

where to eat (and drink) in Tallinn

After taking the overnight ferry from Stockholm to Tallinn, Estonia, I disembarked to find the city super windy and quite chilly. So, I mostly spent my time finding cozy little spots to eat and drink warm things — and there is no shortage of these in Tallinn, perhaps by necessity. This city has the whole “cozy” thing down-pat.

So, for your future reference should you ever find yourself in Tallinn, here are some of the best places to consume things.

11:30 a.m.
Boca Pott: kohvik, kauplus, stuudio

This little spot lured me in with some cool jazz music and an adorable little courtyard, even though I sat inside, because… cold. It’s a great concept: cafe, shop, and artists’ studio all connected. The shop sells the wares the artists make in the studio, and I suppose the cafe was added to bring them together because, why not?

They have three dining rooms: the main floor, upstairs, and downstairs. I was lured downstairs by the fireplace, which burns real wood, as evidenced by the big pile that was stacked up behind my chair. They offer a few cakes and pastries as well as a full cafe menu, so I ordered a big cup of fruit tea and a pancake with jam (oo-rah for continuing the crepe tradition!). When it arrived, I sat there happily at my table, candle burning, fireplace popping beside me, warm lamplight to write by, and enjoying a delicious snack. Does it get better? I felt like an old man should’ve been reading the Lord of the Rings trilogy out loud from a rocking chair in the corner.

1:45 p.m.
Kohvik Sinilind

I found this lunch spot after failing to get a table at Sfäär, my first choice. I ended up being quite happy with this place — perhaps happier than I would have been at Sfäär (recommended by the NYT, I believe).

Arriving here, I was in a bit of a huff, because I fancied myself mildly snubbed by the waiter at Sfäär, who’d said bluntly they had no room for one more for lunch — full stop. So I exited and trudged along, sun shining right in my eyes, and the wind almost blowing me over. Although feeling quite sorry for myself, I calmed down quickly upon entering Sinilind: It is cute inside. And also deceivingly large. There is a front room, then through a small doorway is a larger room, then there is a third room even behind that. It’s very charming, with sort of mis-matched 70s decor and tables and chairs, and candles burning. There are really cute window seats in the front room as well as a teal-colored spiral staircase by the door scattered with books, a bird box, and some pictures propped up. A nicely-lit pastry cabinet taunted me as it was directly in my eye line from my table.

I ordered carrot risotto with duck and was told it was a good choice. When it arrived, I understood why. Hot damn that was good risotto. Perfectly creamy, but not overly so. Just the right amount of meat to complement, a few greens, and they threw some sunflower & pumpkin seeds in for good measure (and a little crunch). It was pretty amazing.

4 p.m.
Chocolaterie de Pierre

The menu boasts “Le Grande Cafe de la Ville, since 1937” — but this place also seems to be called Pierre Chocolaterie as well as Chocolats de Pierre. At any rate, it was the perfect place for a final hot drink after day of wandering Tallinn.

This place is tucked away in the courtyard of the King’s Cloister, I believe it’s called, and I almost didn’t go in, because they were redoing the paving stones at the tunnel entrance, and I wasn’t sure it was open. But I’m so glad I followed some other (more confident) people in, because it is a wildly adorable spot. Purple and green vines with tiny red berries crawl up the walls and string themselves in between the buildings. This cafe shares the courtyard with several small craft shops peddling jewelry and things made of wool and amber — the things to buy in Estonia, apparently — and all of the windows are warmly and welcomingly lit.

At the cafe, there’s some nice outside seating if you’re brave enough, with pillows and blankets and lanterns, but the inside is even more charming, if that’s possible. It’s a bit dark, but there are lots of lamps and candles and fabric making it feel super warm and cozy. Pillows, rugs, chair covers, tablecloths… I could fall asleep in this place it’s so comfortable. I sat at a table with a window looking out onto the courtyard, so I feel like I got the best of both worlds.

To drink, I ordered a truly incredible hot chocolate with candied oranges and ginger. It arrived looking a bit like a submarino from Argentina, in a milkshake-type mug with a long-handled spoon, except you don’t put the chocolate in yourself. It arrives already oozing out of the glass.

I spoon-fed myself happily and enjoyed the comfortable feeling of being surrounded by people having quiet conversations (in French, Estonian, and English) over coffee, wine, and nibbles.

things about cruise ships

I was last on a cruise ship in 2006. Before that, it was 1999, when I cruised to the Bahamas with my family as a freshman in high school. Those instances are the extent of my cruising experience. I’m not a big cruiser; I find the ships too confining.

At any rate, here are some things I had forgotten about cruise ships:

1. There are mirrors everywhere. At the ends of halls, along the staircases, in the dining rooms, in place of windows — everywhere.
2. You can rely on a constant soundtrack of shitty elevator-music renditions of every popular mainstream song ever written.
3. People think the entire ship is their house, and no one wears shoes anywhere.
4. The cruise ship buffet is pure awesomeness. Last night, I ate four desserts.
5. Duty-free! People get their panties in serious wads over duty-free champagne and cigarettes. I think part of the impetus here specifically is that Sweden has a lot of restrictions on the sale of alcohol, and it might be easier for some people to just take one of these overnight cruises once every few months to stock up. But still.

Anyway, cruising on it is not really the way I like to enjoy the sea. But I could hardly pass up a chance to get a peek at Estonia, since I’m nearby in Stockholm, so I agreed to cruise across the Baltic Sea overnight for a chance to explore the Eastern European capital of Tallinn.

fika with the Swedes

I stayed with a friend’s mother in Stockholm. (This is one of the major impetuses for most of my destination choices: Do I know someone there? Does someone I know know someone there? Can I sleep on their couch?) She has a wonderful apartment in Södermalm, the front door of which I knocked on at about 8:30 p.m. on a Tuesday.

Inger greeted me with some surprise, as I think she had not expected me to be able to navigate there successfully on my own. She recovered quickly, though, and offered me some bread and cheese and tomatoes and a few other bite-sized things as a welcome. We had a nice chat in her newly remodeled kitchen about her son, my friend, who was at that point the only thing we had in common.

For the next six nights, I slept in a twin bed in his childhood room, which was comfortable if quite heavily furnished. I may or may not have peeked inside some family photo albums at different points during my stay.

I had a few very Swedish experiences with friends of my friend while in the capital city: meatballs at Pelikan in Södermalm, a projection of Björk’s Biophilia at Rio, a very cool old theatre they now use for lots of things like this, and of course, fika many times over.

In Sweden, “having a fika” (FEE-kah) means taking a break from work, shopping, or whatever you’re doing to have coffee and something sweet, like a pastry, with a friend. For me, the custom is amended to replace coffee with tea, but the “something sweet” stands firm: The most traditional fika snack is a cinnamon roll, and I am quite devastated to have just missed the holiday for it: kanelbullens dag (Cinnamon Roll Day) on October 4.

At any rate, I heartily approve of the fika, especially in such chilly, autumn-cum-winter weather, and in fact, I feel as though I may have spent most of my time in Stockholm just eating and drinking.

I have accidentally become a regular at a vegetarian buffet called Vegetariskt Matcafé Légumes, a block from Inger’s apartment in Södermalm. And I’m not even sorry about it.

For 80 krona ($11 U.S.), you can eat as much as you want — and have coffee afterward. The options are nice — falafel, chickpeas, lentils, veggie lasagna, some sort of potato-stew thing, lots of different hummuses and tzaziki, bean salad, and other morsels like beets and green beans and dried dates. There’s also free bread — as much as you’d like.

It’s a good deal, especially if you’re very hungry. (I am pretty much always very hungry.)

The place isn’t huge, and it fills up quickly. People are good about sharing space and treating the tables cafeteria-style, though, and you are likely to find yourself elbow-to-elbow with a stranger or two over the course of your meal.

After several weeks of having lots of meals by myself, I think I have been gravitating toward this place because it’s full of other singles, too. Instead of sitting at a table at a restaurant by yourself, eavesdropping (or trying not to) on the conversations of the coupled-up diners around you while you wait awkwardly for your meal to come, it’s nice to be in a place where everyone else is sort of minding their own business quietly, too. Like you. Reading, flipping through an iPhone, or just generally staring around, like I tend to do. And there’s no waiting for food, because it’s a buffet.

Of course, I did go out and see the city. I visited the photography museum. I bought a scarf at H&M. I went for a run around Gamla Stan. I walked past the Abba Museum.

Generally, though, I contented myself with just walking around, like I always do. Stockholm is spread across 14 islands, so there are lots of bridges and ferries connecting everybody and everything. The city also has a shit-load of shopping: You can walk from the south end of Gamla Stan, across Helgeansholmen, and a full 16 blocks into Norrmalm on a pedestrian-only street completely lined with shops and restaurants.

The mere thought of this much shopping is exhausting, though, so of course I felt I deserved a break and something to eat.

I spent my last night in Stockholm at a pizza party with a bunch of Italians because — well, it seemed just as appropriate as anything else. One of the pizza toppings was horse meat, which is both horrifying and intriguing, but I don’t judge the Italians or the Swedes for it; I think a South African was responsible there.

the best museum in the world is in Zagreb

Before leaving Croatia, I spent two nights in Zagreb, and on my final night, I visited a wonderful museum that I had been looking forward to seeing since I first started researching my visit to Croatia:

The Museum of Broken Relationships

It is exactly what it sounds like: a collection of momentos from broken relationships.

Submissions from around the world are curated into a wonderful selection of stories and memories and lessons from broken relationships between mothers and daughters, fathers and grandfathers, and lovers of all kinds.

Some of the stories are laugh-out-loud funny, some are very sad, some are poignant. Together they provide a wonderfully holistic representation of the human condition, with our faults as well as our capacity for forgiveness, love, and understanding exposed.

The older I get, the more I realize relationships with other people are the most important things to cultivate in this life. I think a universal human need is the desire to be heard, understood, appreciated, and valued. People will remember your kindness far more than your correctness or usefulness.

It has taken a bit of life and some important experiences to soften my own heart, and as I continue to learn the value and importance of relationships, I am constantly surprised and overwhelmed and humbled by the capacity of human beings to care for one another.

One of my favorite quotations of all time is from W. H. Auden:

“A heart made crooked through loss and change is a heart that can love the world and its less than perfect people.”

Suffering is unavoidable — it is how we grow. It is how we better understand each other and ourselves. It is how our world view and our conception of the human condition expand to include the beautiful nuances that define us as a conscious species. Suffering turns us into better versions of ourselves: more compassionate, more empathetic, more generous.

Visiting this museum and reading these stories made me feel like a member of the human race, in all its beauty and pain, and sometimes we need that.

Incidentally, they accept contributions from around the world, so if you have an object from a broken relationship you’d like to let go of (don’t we all?), consider sending it to them.

Plitvice, with regrets

If I ever return to Plitvička Jezera, the national park in the middle of Croatia that features a huge series of lakes, impressive cascading waterfalls, the clearest blue-green water, and a series of boardwalks weaving serpentine across them, I will do one thing the same, and one thing differently:

1. Stay again at Hotel Plitvice, which feels like a relic from the 1950s or 60s, only with some modern upgrades. There are hints of “The Shining” if you find yourself in a hallway or on one of the massive staircases alone.
2. Eschew the boardwalks themselves and explore the trails at the rim of the canyon, high above the water.

scenes from Split

On the landing of a long outdoor staircase in Split, I peered through a gate and some trees into the secluded yard of a big square stone house perched on the hill. There was a maze of shrubs in the yard, and a little boy ran through it wearing swim trunks and goggles, taunting his playmates, who were somewhere hidden from my view.

Walking back down a different way, I spotted a man on a third-floor balcony. He was gazing into the street, both hands on the railing, and there were two or three bird cages on either side of the balcony door. The bird on the left was madly flopping around its cage; the man took no notice.

In the afternoon, I found the smallest chapel I’ve ever seen built literally inside the northeast wall of the old city.

A nondescript staircase takes you up into a corner where the north city wall meets the east wall. Through a door, you can find this minuscule chapel, with a old nun standing quietly inside.

She smiled, I smiled.

The room is approximately six feet wide, and maybe 20 feet deep. There is a small altar. Everything is stone. There are a few square windows.

Croatia is full of little surprises.