But wait, there’s more.
As promised, there’s more to tell from the Roman Holiday.
Near Termi is the Museo Nazionale Romano housed in what used to be the Baths of Diocletian. I had a spare hour before my train left, so I wandered this museum for a small period. The two primary exhibits were burial relics from Etruscan tribes and the restored Great Cloisters – a grand courtyard designed by Michelangelo. In this courtyard were ancient Roman statuary and a heady, earthen scent that invited one to sit and doze. I was instantly enchanted by the courtyard’s lull and had to flee to insure my prompt exit from Rome.
Sharing the site with the museum is the church Santa Maria Degli Angeli. This church is the hidden basilica of Rome. It’s front wall literally looks like a crumbling brick wall; from the exterior, you’d never know what was hidden inside. Designed by Michelangelo (again), this church has sixty foot vaulted ceilings, marbled floors and pillars, twenty foot tall paintings and a Rose Line cutting a diagonal swath toward the altar. It incorporates the breezy openess of the original baths with a hush awe of ancient churchs. It’s a great find that I walked by literally every day without even noticing. I’m appreciate the whim that lead me in following a tour group.
From there, I went straight to Termi and caught my train to my plane.
The flight to Amsterdam was excruciating. A family of four sat in the three seats behind me. If the six year old behind wasn’t beating / kicking the back of my chair, he was tormenting his younger brother into screaming directly into my ear. I ask the kid to stop; I asked his parents to stop him; I even asked the stewardess to say a word. Suddenly, I feel a cold liquid pouring down my back. I look up to see the kid leaning over my seat, spilling soda down my back.
Action had to be taken. Hitting the recline button on my seat, I lean back forcefully. The kid is slung off the back of my chair and into his seat. There was a satisfying thump as hit sank into the cushions. Standing up, I look back at the family and cross my arms. ‘Just say something, please.’ The father looks away as the mother finally begins to scold her kid.
The younger kid continued to scream the rest of the flight.
Sadly, they were not the only annoying passenger I would encounter in the next twenty-four hours.
Schipol, the airport for Amsterdam, is a marvel of modern planning. In it, you could find everything a traveller needs. It is a combination airport (duh), mall, grocery store, hotel, and transport hub. You can get a massage, log onto the internet, and buy a suit all within 60 feet of each other.
Or you could if these were open, but my layover was to stretch through the middle of the night. Nothing was open but the hotel. That made it easier to drop my bag in a locker and catch a train to the Red Light District.
Don’t get me wrong, Amsterdam has some lovely attractions that I would kill to see. The Van Gogh museum, the Riks museum, windmills, tulip gardens, dikes, and canals. None of these are really visible at midnight on a Tuesday. So I had to settle for the Red Light District.
I’d done my research. Websites had told me the train station to visit and directions into the district. I promptly got lost. The Red Light District is much more district than red light. There are hundreds of bars, restaurants, and fast food stalls. I’ve seen these; that’s the American form of decadence. I was more interested in seeing public forms of depravity that America keeps private.
I resorted to following my nose. The scent of pot wafted past the canals and following it was the sound of frat boys giggling. I eventually found my way into the heart of the Red Light District. ‘Coffeshops’ offering hash and marijuana dotted the landscape and drifters floated down narrow alleys the wound off the main streets.
The coffeshops were an odd mix of hardwood & brass bars and Marley / rasta decorations. In all honesty, they didn’t really draw me in.
The narrow alleys that were attracting crowds. What were those?
These were the red light portions of the district. When I say narrow alleys, I mean 3-4 feat wide at most. Lining the alley were small rooms with windows facing inwards. Each window had neon lights lining the edges and a mostly naked girl peering out. Black lighting made the lingerie worn stand out like glowing billboards in the night. In way, they were.
Some women peered out at the passing guys with curiousity, lust, or indifference. Some smiled and winked. Others just sat reading the paper. In many windows, there were thick curtains drawn. Eventually, a guy would approach a window. The girl inside would open a door, they’d talk, and both would disappear inside and draw the curtains.
I’d never seen such transactions handled so openly. Shoppers clearly checking out the merchandise walked down these alleys alongside elderly couples and gawking tourists (me). I was glad that I didn’t go into shock or start thumping a bible or something. It was a different world. Not a bad world, just different from the small-town Missouri that I grew up in.
Eventually, I ended up in a Irish Pub called Durty Nelley’s – named after a pub in Shannon, which I’ve visited. Whiskey was expensive, coca-cola even more so. I stuck with just whiskey.
Finally, at 4:00 I marched back to the train to Schipol. There, I took a shower (love that airport) and slept on a bench until my flight early the next morning.
This flight was also scene to another annoying traveler: hairy-armed no deodorant guy.
For some reason, the guy in front of me constantly held his right arm up over his head. We’re talking a gorilla arm here. For most of the flight, he held it up in front of the movie screen. Worse, he had never even heard of deodorant. A ripe odor permeated the plane.
I slept during as much of the flight as I could.