Brand names and selling my body

It is no news to my friends that I don't do brand names. 

I would if they paid me to be an advertising billboard, but why should I sell my body to someone like Nike? After all Nike pays Federer a fortune. I wouldn't charge as much as he does, of course, because I'm not on international television regularly. 

Those who would see me with the brand would be limited to a few people in a few places. Perhaps we could work out a deal, one Euro per person I pass.

I've always thought that wearing brands says, "Hey, I'm dumb, I want to impress people that I have the latest, expensive thing. I think that makes me better than you."

Sometimes the thing that I like does have a brand name and then I either remove the brand name or hide it in some ways.

Yes, yes, I know--I'm a cranky old woman, or COW for short.

We amused ourselves in an Amsterdam restaurant with a beer coaster marked "Brand"...I did put my glass on it not sure if I was using it or hiding it.

However, it didn't matter

The chicken satay was so good we forgot about branding.

Snail Sweater

Regular blog readers will remember I brought home what I thought were empty snail shells as decoration. After all, when I bought snails in the states, the shells were in a plastic cylinder on top of the cooked and canned creatures. All I had to do was plop them into the shells, melt some garlic butter and they were ready.

Not so when shells are sold on the marché in France to put on our patio and in the bottom of a plant on the street to prevent neighbourhood cats from thinking the planter was a pretty blue ceramic kitty litter box.

Before we knew it we had snails to the right of us, snails to the left of us. Those little suckers may not move fast, but they sure could glue themselves around.

Rick went from thinking one snail was cute to a gaggle of them were not so cute. Since I'm now allergic to snails (darn it, because they are good), Rick couldn't imagine one going in his mouth and our landlady had already started lunch, we gave them a second chance by putting them in the dry river bed.

Since then, snails have been a family joke. 

Thus when I spotted what looks like a snail shell sweater in an Amsterdam antique store, window, I thought of buying it.

It might have been carrying the joke just a bit to far.

Another museum off the list

Another museum checked off my museums-to-see list--the Rijks Museum with its history and art collections. 

Like the Louvre and so many other museums, it is impossible to see anything but a small percentage of the work on display. One could spend years and never full see/learn/understand all that is there.

I was spoiled living so close to the Museum of Fine Arts in Boston. With my membership, could wander in after work and look at two or three paintings, absorbing every detail, then wander home for tea and catch up with housemates and daughter. Or we would all meet at the MFA and check out a gallery, knowing the rest of the museum would be there for our next visit the following week.

I'm so lucky that Rick enjoys museums as much if not more than I do. He's making up for lost time for all the years he didn't go to them.

The building itself was built in 1885, although it looks much older.

The wander through the 1600s section did add ideas for Murder in Amsterdam. I've a lot of research to do still but I won't be starting on the novel for at least six months and maybe a year.

We've two more museums we want to see before we leave, but then again, it's not that hard to come back. Just watch for Easy Jet bargains.

So many museums, so much to learn and experience, so little time.

The Amsterdam BnB

It's small, but boat living tends to be in small spaces, unless one has a yacht. However, the contrast between the BnBs we've stayed in: city, country, loft, modern, antique, has been more than fun.

We arrive at each location and try to determine if there's a washing machine and dryer (in this one the owner changed our washing from the machine to the dryer. You don't get that service in a hotel, just a high-priced laundry), hair dryer, etc.

In some there are cooking facilities. This one has a miniscule frigo and a hotplate. Tea and coffee are provided.

Hair dryer. So far yes, yes, yes, no, yes.

In all but one we met interesting people. They were away.

This one, in Amsterdam a houseboat, is owned by a young student studying mental health. They bought the location, got rid of the rotten boat on the site and built this one which houses three apartments, two of which they rent. Young and enthusiastic made them fun to talk to just as John was along with the interesting books and Charles was with his fascinating artwork.

If one has a disadvantage it will have other advantages: view, novelty, babbling brooks.

Mostly it is the joy of meeting new people whose lives enrich my own when I hear of their experiences. 

Window hookers

We walk down the Amsterdam street with its brick houses. Rick is a little ahead of me.

In a window are two women dressed in stereotypical black underwear, although we aren't in the red light district. One waves at Rick.

I point to him, point to me, mouth "mine" and shake my head "NO!"

We all laugh.

Orderly? Hah!

I know I keep going on and on about the BnBs, but it has added such a dimension to our trip. I promise this will be the last BnB. We book through https://www.airbnb.com/ and have found it easy and truthful.

Last night as we were both writing on our computers, tourists boats went by and we waved, they waved.

This is our last BnB for now, now anyway. What a variety of experiences we've had and this is the most fun--a canal boat in Amsterdam. It's the opposite of Montreal, a one bedroom condo with dining area and large living area, but then space on a boat is always small.

The water is right outside our window and the boat across the way is almost a mirror image of the one we are staying on.

The last few days Rick is off to a conference, I'm catching up with the next newsletters. 

More and more I am thinking of doing a Murder in Amsterdam. Annie, my heroine, thinks it is a good idea. The historical part could be the Tulip Bubble.

The houseboat owner and her friend had never heard of it.

Of course I still have to hand in Murder in Schwyz to my publisher and I've about 20,000 words into Murder in Edinburgh, 

The next five weeks in Geneva and Argelès should be more orderly for work, she wrote with a smile, knowing that orderly and life have not been the norm forever no matter which country I'm in. 

Amsterdam--Bikes, bikes and more bikes

The temperature when Rick and I arrived in Amsterdam was colder than it had been on Christmas Day. We were there to meet up with my Cape Cod cousins, who would be friends if they weren't relatives and who routinely come to Europe. Wherever they are I go meet up with them, creating wonderful memories of Bordeaux, Burgundy, Frankfurt, etc. Amsterdam was to create a new memory as they satisfied they urge for "old world" life. My cousin had found a charming hotel, not a chain. His only complaint there were no croissants for breakfast, but I thought the cheese with cumin and raisin bread more than made up for it.

Monday, the temperature went up and we decided to do the hop on hop off canal boat tour. Why this photo? Look closely at the word next to the window and O ticket shop. I don't think many tickets were sold.

Years ago in Milan I felt I was being attacked by 50 million Fiats. This trip to Amsterdam was 50 million bikes. Bikes to the right of me, bikes to the left of me. At least it was never a bike on my face. I do understand though why everyone is in such good shape. We could count the overweight people on the fingers of one hand. I can just imagine what Amsterdam would be like it all those bikes in the bike parking lot were cars.

As we crossed a bridge, we saw locks on the chain of the lock.I don't know the story behind it.

The view from our hotel window. So many of the buildings were decorated with tile. If there is an ugly part of the city, we missed it.

The canals made me wish Bruegel was there to paint the scene.

The port of Amsterdam is nothing like the Jacques Brel song (see  the end of the blog for lyrics and youtube). No sailors pissing anywhere. The old ship Amsterdam is beautiful.

Rick discovered what people warned him about me was true. We arrived at the airport almost three hours early for the flight back to Geneva. I admit after working for Interskill and running through airports often with my shoes in my hand to be the last one bursting into the cabin, I'm neurotic about not missing a flight or rushing except to rush to be early. He's a just-in-time person. Neither of us are right or wrong, but as he said, he "enjoyed yanking my chain" once we were at the airport asking, "Do you think we have time to (fill in the blank) before the plane leaves. The fact that the gate hadn't been posted, just made him smile more. However, he didn't object to the nice lunch we had. 

In the port of Amsterdam
There's a sailor who sings
Of the dreams that he brings
From the wide open sea
In the port of Amsterdam
There's a sailor who sleeps
While the riverbank weeps
With the old willow tree
In the port of Amsterdam
There's a sailor who dies
Full of beer, full of cries
In a drunken down fight
And in the port of Amsterdam
There's a sailor who's born
On a muggy hot morn
By the dawn's early light
In the port of Amsterdam
Where the sailors all meet
There's a sailor who eats
Only fishheads and tails
He will show you his teeth
That have rotted too soon
That can swallow the moon
That can haul up the sails
And he yells to the cook
With his arms open wide
Bring me more fish
Put it down by my side
Then he wants so to belch
But he's too full to try
So he gets up and laughs
And he zips up his fly
In the port of Amsterdam
You can see sailors dance
Paunches bursting their pants
Grinding women to paunch
They've forgotten the tune
That their whiskey voice croaks
Splitting the night with the
Roar of their jokes
And they turn and they dance
And they laugh and they lust
Till the rancid sound of
The accordion bursts
Then out to the night
With their pride in their pants
With the slut that they tow
Underneath the street lamps
In the port of Amsterdam
There's a sailor who drinks
And he drinks and he drinks
And he drinks once again
He drinks to the health
Of the whores of Amsterdam
Who have promised their love
To a thousand other men
They've bargained their bodies
And their virtue long gone
For a few dirty coins
And when he can't go on
He plants his nose in the sky
And he wipes it up above
And he pisses like I cry
For an unfaithful love
In the port of Amsterdam
In the port of Amsterdam