Oude Kerk (Old Church)

Promotional literature for the Oude Kerk calls it “Amsterdam’s best kept secret”. Then it must be the oldest secret ever kept. Established in 1306, the Oude Kerk, or the old church, was in its day the very center of medieval life in Amsterdam. Built as a Catholic church boasting at one time thirty-nine altars, the church was converted to Puritanism in 1578. The Oude Kerk is located in the heart of what is now known as the Red Light District.

As with all very old churches, the Oude Kerk was the final resting place for many people. Over the years there were some 12,000 burials in the church with 2,500 of them under marked gravestones. Among the most notable is c, wife of Rembrandt van Rijn who died at age 30. There were two types of burial gravesites available: church graves and family graves. Church graves were cheaper and marked with a “K”. Four layers of burials were allowed and after a few years the bones were disinterred and buried at deeper levels throughout the church grounds. By the 18^th century the practice of spreading disinterred bones throughout the surrounding area was discontinued.

When something has been around for 700 years there are tales to tell:

• ·      When built it had the largest roof surface area in Europe
• ·      The church is built on a foundation of wooden poles on cowhides
• ·      Combined with the peat-based soil, the church literally floats like a ship at sea
• ·      The floor of gravestones undulates
• ·      During the 1500’s the church provided daily refuge for thousands of people seeking shelter
• ·      The church employed dog chasers, who also removed prostitutes as well.
• ·      When burials were allowed incense was used to mask the stench of rotting flesh
• ·      Buried inside was Sweelinck, church organist at age 15, who later became a major influence on Johann Sebastian Bach.
• ·      Now days the single-most asked question by visitors is the location of the gravesite of Rembrandt’s wife
• ·      All graves have been excavated and filled with white sand

Saskia Uylenburgh (by Rembrandt van Rijn)

One of the "Family" graves

The Netherlands American Cemetery and Memorial

There is a certain, unavoidable, confidence-shaking anxiety that goes part and parcel with European train travel. Despite my very best efforts, I seem to have a sixth-sense (or unwarranted paranoia) that something is not right. Take today for example.

I knew my plan to visit the Netherlands American Cemetery and Memorial in Margraten, south of Maastricht included a two and one-half hour train ride in each direction. I knew it would start with a metro ride and include a bus trip. What worried me though was the train.

As the train slowed for its stop in Eindhoven, an announcement seemed perfectly clear to everyone—except me. It was obvious that everyone was asked to detrain, but when I asked the man closest to me to translate, he said, “If you are going to Maastricht you must go to the end of the train.” That’s what I did, with one small issue. The train has two ends.

By the time I realized my error, all I could see was my train in the distance. The good news is there’s more than one train…

The Netherlands American Cemetery and Memorial is the only American cemetery in the 

View from the entrance

Netherlands. Its 65 acres are the final resting place for 8301 Americans who gave their lives on European soil between 1941-1945. The land is sacred ground, but unlike the cemetery and memorial in Normandy, there is no visitors’ center, no movie, no gift shops—just men.

 

Earlier in the week I discussed my plan with a man I had met that day. After a short description, he asked, “That is a long way to travel. What will do you when you get there?”

I answered with the only answer that makes sense to me. I said, “Pay respects."

  

Ons’ Lieve Heer op Solder (Our Lord in the Attic)

Amsterdam has a history lesson on every street, and some of the most innocuous looking things conceal some of the most interesting things about this centuries-old city. Take the Ons’ Lieve Heer op Solder for example. Known to tourists as Our Lord in the Attic, this popular museum is an important example of a “schuilkerk”, or “clandestine church.”

What we see from the street—the same street glowing with red light and hazy with smoke from countless “coffee shops”—is the 16^th century canal house of Jan Hartman. What we find upon entering is one of the best, historically preserved homes in Amsterdam; and what awaits us in the three upper-most floors is as shockingly exquisite as it is unexpected.

Main entrance

First a history lesson: According to renowned travel expert, Rick Steves, Catholicism was illegal in Amsterdam between 1578-1798—illegal but tolerated (not unlike marijuana in the 1970’s). Catholic clergy were rounded up and expelled from the city. Catholic holdings (including churches) were confiscated. Catholics were openly persecuted and forbidden to worship openly, so they worshiped in private, which brings us to Our Lord in the Attic. In 1633 Jan Hartman designed the complete restructuring of the upper-most floors of his canal house, incorporating the same floors of the two adjoining houses—creating the church we can now visit.

The drawing room

The self-paced tour of the house allows visitors to experience first-hand the unique characteristics of a 16^th century canal house. It would have been important to a 16^th century merchant to impress guests and clients. The abundance of marble is actually painted wood. The architectural symmetry and attention to detail in the master’s drawing room where he would have met visitors speaks to the importance of appearances—to a Dutch merchant. Every room on the lower levels is the most interesting history lesson ever—until we reach the attic.

Carefully constructed to maintain the structural integrity of the three houses, the church is as much an engineering triumph as it is a celebration of faith. Cleverly re-supported by iron rods, the upper-most support beams of the houses were severed, combined, and reconfigured to create a double gallery; in other words, more room for the faithful.

      

 

The altar itself is a combination of religious splendor and engineering creativity. Tiny by comparative standards, the altar (as it is with all Catholic churches) is the focal point of the church. Of particular interest is the pulpit, mostly because at first glance there does not appear to be one. A masterpiece of design, the pulpit conveniently retracts becoming part of the left-hand “marble” column of the altar.

View from the second balcony

By 1800 such churches were no longer necessary and the construction of nearby St. Nicholas cathedral eliminated the necessity of clandestine churches. Ons’ Lieve Heer op Solder opened as a museum in 1888, making it the second oldest museum in Amsterdam. Currently hosting approximately 85,000 visitors per year, Our Lord in the Attic has survived—thank God.

The organ constructed in 1794 by Hendrik Meyer

In Het Donker Gezien

You’ve been to plenty of museums; right? We all have. We’ve wandered around among things and at times not even sure what we were seeing. Right? Some of those visits included seeing familiar things but in ways we had not seen before. We’ve all seen loads of paintings, but until we come face to face with a Vermeer do we understand light or form or tone quite the same as before.

What if I told you there is a museum near Amsterdam where you can truly wander around, and I guarantee that you won’t see things like you had before. In fact, you won’t see things at all. You won’t be able to see…period. So it is at In Het Donker Gezien, known as the Blind Museum.

The museum staff is entirely visually impaired, some completely blind. Visitors gain knowledge and appreciation through a number of activities. For example, visitors can play “Blind Bingo” as it was called, a tactile-dependent game in which the leader describes an object he or she cannot see while players attempt to find the same object among their collection—all the while with no visual input. Visitors can experience first-hand the use of a “stick,” the elongated cane used by visually impaired people to detect obstacles in their paths. Others can learn to type on a “brailler” gaining an improved appreciation for “reading with one’s fingers”.

Sam, our tour guide

The true highlight of the Blind Museum is a walking tour. Nothing could have properly prepared me for my twenty minutes of total blindness. The walk is a simulated tour from one place to the next, across busy streets, to the grocery store, and finishing at the disco. Perhaps I should back up a moment…

Although there is a lot of traffic in the Netherlands by almost anyone’s standards, you almost have to visit to properly understand that in this country the streets are more like anthills than most anthills. Every street has three features: the road, a sidewalk, and a bike lane. Imagine this in your neighborhood. Next to every road is a separate two-lane path for bikes and small vehicles. In every direction, from every direction, people are walking and riding bicycles. There are mopeds, and motorbikes. There are electric and two-cycle engine vehicles in the bike lanes. There are metro trains and tram tracks everywhere. And there are cars and trucks. No kidding, it must be a living nightmare for blind and visually impaired people.

Two-cycle "cars" like this are allowed in the bike paths

Inside the museum, visitors are taken into a part of the converted church (believe me, requesting divine intervention crossed my mind) designed to recreate the blind experience. In 100% pitch-black darkness, visitors are led along a typical, albeit extended walking tour. Along the way we stopped at the “restaurant” to “see” the twin statues at the entrance with our hands. Along the way we were “greeted” by an unhappy sounding dog, and eventually we “shopped” for our groceries, but the part that resonated with me was crossing the street.

Here’s the thing: I do this every day. Along my way I do what all walkers in Holland do. We approach the crosswalk after clearing the bike lanes, we press the cross button, and we wait for the crossing lights to turn green.

It’s not what you think though. If you are imagining any American street anywhere except for New York City then you might not get it. Here a person must never, ever, under any circumstances cross against the cross walk lights. It might be too complex or unnecessary to explain here but stepping into the streets without right-of-way can be and probably would be lethal.

The yellow portion leads to the highway/crosswalk.
The bumpy white part signals a warning that the street is next.

The crosswalks use variegated pavement to indicate proximity to the roadbed. The crossing lights have an auditory signal that changes speeds to indicate when to walk and when time is expiring. Honest to goodness, when crossing most roads anyone has barely enough time to make it across before time runs out. For impaired people, it is nearly impossible. For blind people, well, I could hardly have imagined how difficult…until now.

In the museum we were taught to feel the sidewalk. We learned to sense our proximity to the street itself. We were taught to listen. We tried to hear the things we could not see. Cars slowing sound different than cars accelerating. Engines idling sound entirely different, and despite the secure knowledge that we were actually safe and sound somewhere in an old church, it was a leap of faith to step off that simulated curb. That is how frightening it was when I could not trust what I could not see.

The view from the median of the Beneluxbaan

This morning as I approached the Beneluxbaan, a four-lane highway with two sets of metro train tracks running down the median, I remembered my walk in the Blind Museum. Although it is not the same, as I stepped toward the street, I closed my eyes. Knowing full well the relative distance to my certain demise is not at all like the approach of a blind person who would have no such advance warning, but for what it was worth, I walked blindly. I eventually felt the variegated portion of the crosswalk underfoot, and knew I would soon be near the pole on which the switch was located.

I found the pole and felt for the button. Sure enough the slow click of the crossing indicator started. The clicking changed to the rapid succession that accompanies permission to cross. I stepped forward. I felt the smooth surface of the highway and knew I was playing with my safety. In a split second I opened my eyes.

___

After spending parts of three hours in the Blind Museum it is nearly impossible not to feel an increased sense of empathy for visually impaired or sightless people. I remember my conversation with the Tinah Visser, one of the curators, who was teaching me to use the brailler. I told her about a friend in college who, despite his total blindness, would say, “See you later.”

“Yes,” she said. “That is what we say. We say ‘See you later’ but its only because we see differently than you do.”

http://www.inhetdonkergezien.nl/foto-centrum-wakan.html

It's Coming Back to Me (Pt.1)

For weeks now I knew I would return to Holland--this time for the longest tenure yet, nine months. Amidst the tidal wave of details (including everything from what to pack v. what to ship to breaking heart-breaking news to at least two people who deserve not to experience such disappointment), actually buried way, way under the really important stuff were the truly trivial things that somehow managed to dominate the limited amount of time needed for many, much more serious considerations.

Want an example? I knew I would start another blog. I know how important it is to me to capture my experiences and to reflect on their impact. I've written three other blogs, and in each case the time spent composing and expressing myself has proven to be essentially beneficial to the overall experience. I remember well the simple question asked of me by my "Irish cousin" after an evening of guaranteeing a reduction in the local supply of Irish whiskey. He asked: what will you take away from your time in Europe?

Deceptively simple that one. Knowing what I will take or, in fact, what I took from a year's worth of living in and around Amsterdam--traveling to almost every Dutch town of importance to me or the ones the tour books insisted upon, seeing the monumental icons of European culture and the history of two world wars, and living a simple existence among the Dutch people--was only recognizable upon reflection. I thought about it, I wrote about it, I cherish it.

Like I said, I knew there would be a fourth blog. The burning question, the one that I considered while I should have been doing more urgent things, was: What would I name it? (I've heard it said before you can truly understand something, you have to name it. It was attributed to the Chinese, but I figure that's only because we seem to want all sources of wisdom to come from somewhere far away.) 

And just as it was with the other blogs, until a name was assigned, there would be nothing to write. As trivial as it seems--and sounds--I gave considerable time to finding its name. I knew it was out there; I just had to find it.

Today, my first full day, I was standing at a Metro stop waiting for the #51 to take me into old Amsterdam to have coffee and conversation with my colleagues whom I have not seen for three years. As I stood there among the commuters and tourists, between the children playing tag around and around the rain shelter, minding my own business and lost in my thoughts, I realized that any number of things were coming back to me. I remember the differences between riding the Metro and the trams (yes, there are differences especially how one purchases fares). I remember how to say 'please' and 'thank you' without butchering the especially challenging Dutch language. I know that spek is bacon, and I know darn well not to step in a bike lane without making sure--real sure--it's safe. Yep, it's coming back to me in a number of ways regarding a number of things.

I knew I had my title. I knew because the phrase can be extended in other ways as well. Amsterdam is an awesome place and as much as things are coming back to me, I am coming back to it. I am returning to a place with a sense of history unlike any other city or town I have ever truly experienced first-hand. It is the home of Rembrandt and Anne Frank. It has stunning architecture and world-class museums. It hosts a daily, crushing flow of tourists, but despite the wounds of oppression and self-inflicted abuse there is a genuine sense of serenity among the canals. Being here and living here are like being behind a two-way mirror, a mirror that serves both as a facade of tolerance and a reflection of who we really are--all bathed in a smoky haze of red light.

It’s all coming back to me. Yep, it’s coming back.