Anne Frank House

As I headed out this morning, a middle-aged couple approached me on the street. “D-a-m” “S-qua-re?” they enunciated with great care. [Evidently I don't look like a tourist, which is good.] I smiled and apologized for not being able to help them.

Until I began researching things to see in Amsterdam, I had long forgotten that this was the city where Anne Frank and her family had lived, and hid (until they were betrayed). It's possible to queue up in the afternoon for a chance to visit the Anne Frank House without an advance reservation. But when I looked at the website last night, there was exactly one reservable ticket left for today. That was meant for me.

It's been a long time since I read The Diary of Anne Frank—probably around the same age as Anne was when she wrote. I wasn't sure what to expect. Historical narrative. Some artifacts. A glimpse of “The Secret Annex.”

I was surely not expecting to pass beyond the hinged bookcase and walk through the actual rooms where they'd lived.

Our group climbed the stairs and moved along in near silence, reading the explanatory placards. The rooms are bare, as her father wished them to remain. In the room that Anne shared, sections of the original wall covering have been preserved and hung in place—there were the images clipped from newspapers and pasted 70-odd years ago by a young girl clinging to hope for a return to normal life.

At any time, this would be a wrenching emotional experience. At this moment in world history, it was nearly overwhelming.

Among the artifacts in the museum is a book, a grim registry of typewritten pages, opened to the page recording the names of Annelies and the members of her family. The display draws your attention to their names; let your eye wander to the names above and below, through the columns to the left and right. Only then will you see that both pages are filled with the names of other Franks, which certainly spill onto the unseen preceding and following pages.

Anne's father tried to immigrate, with his family, to the United States. That door was shut tight. A few years ago, a New York Times article cited a 1941 State Department memorandum:

At a time like this, when the safety of the country is imperiled, it seems fully justifiable to resolve any possible doubts in favor of the country, rather than in favor of the aliens concerned.

The “aliens concerned” perished.

The nations of our world have yet to learn these lessons.

My Comedy of Errors

After sitting on a plane for some 11 hours, with only a few hours' nap, it was perhaps not a surprise that my brain was not firing on all cylinders when we landed in Amsterdam.

Getting on the wrong bus was not my first mistake. It looked just like the one I'd missed, just like the one they said would be along in five minutes. Luckily I was relying on the navigation feature in Google Maps and got off at the first stop after I realized the bus was not following the expected route. As I handed my ticket to the driver to transfer onto the bus that would return to the airport, a gust of wind blew it out of my hand.

Back at the airport, I bought a new ticket and boarded the right bus. They provided a note with each ticket, explaining that we would need to transfer to a different bus to reach the city center; construction would force the regular bus to veer off on a detour. The driver of the airport bus knew the drill and made sure we all got off at the right stop; the driver of the local bus ... not so much. Having missed the optimal stop for my hotel, I had a longer-than-expected walk.

My hotel was conveniently located near the museums (and, as it turned out, boutique row). Relieved to have found it at last, my heart sank at the sight of a steep flight of stone steps leading up to the front door. Just as they seemed insurmountable, a passing gentlemen stopped and offered to carry my bag to the top. Chivalry is alive!

As I settled into my room, an email message alerted me to the first mistake I'd made in Amsterdam. “Had I left something on the airplane?” it asked. Had I? I didn't think so. What might it be? My e-book reader! I replied with a description; the airline explained how to reclaim it.

My addled brain somewhat revived by a hot cup of tea, I decided to venture out. If I could stay awake until a natural local bedtime, perhaps my body would adapt more readily to this new timezone.

The Netherlands, and Amsterdam in particular, is a world-renowned capitol of cycling infrastructure. Bicycles are everywhere. I have never seen so many bicycles. Space being tight, there are even floating facilities for bicycle parking.

The city was busier than I expected, the cyclists rode faster than I expected, and the rules of the road were utterly unclear. Tourists didn't always distinguish the bike lane from the sidewalk. Cyclists (and motorbikes) seemed to flow in all directions, rounding corners without signaling. Each intersection played out like a game of “chicken;” who had the right of way? No one appeared inclined to yield. Riders without bells whistled to get your attention.

All of this in street clothes, without helmets. This would not be the time or place for me to rent a bicycle. Walking was challenging enough.