The Dutch are not, as a rule, a particularly patriotic people- no one bothers to fly a flag unless it’s one of a handful of days even on official government buildings, and in fact it turns out when I wanted to buy a Dutch flag it took me several stores to fulfill this quest and even then I only found one in a tourist shop.  The exception to all of this though is every year on April 30, when the country catches oranjegekoorts, orange fever, and goes crazy in a giant street party to celebrate the Queen’s birthday in an event known as Queen’s Day (Koninginnedag- rolls right off the tongue doesn’t it?).

Now the first thing you have to know about Koninginnedag is the Dutch are technically not celebrating the current Queen Beatrix’s birthday, as hers is in January and that’s a lousy time for a street party, and instead they just hold it on the previous Queen Juliana’s birthday (unless of course it’s a Sunday which would be a holiday anyway, in which case it moves to the Saturday).  There is some speculation that the date might move when her son, Willem-Alexander, ascends to the throne as his birthdate April 27, but by this point everyone seems rather used to April 30 and more importantly the Nassau line is apparently in a pact with the devil to ensure there’s good weather every year on the last day of April-

If you don’t believe me on the pact part, the weather this spring has been bad even for Dutch standards- constantly around 15C (60F) degrees max, and cloudy with patches of rain- yet on the night before the sky abruptly cleared and we were treated to temperatures that wouldn’t have been out of place in July.  Then the next day it was cloudy and crappy again.

Anyway, the second thing you need to know about Queen’s Day is that this is a very Dutch holiday, and there is nothing more the Dutch like than buying and selling stuff.  So as a result for one day a year sales do not have a value added tax and the country turns into some sort of libertarian paradise where everyone starts hawking their wares on the street-

Now because it’s an experiment in free-market capitalism most things that are being sold are utter crap by people trying to make a bit of money on stuff they don’t really want to have anyway.  Everyone parts with a few Euro anyway, though, either to the cute kids in the Vondelpark children’s market or in a drunken misconception that a Vertical Limit VHS tape is awesome and you just have to have it!

Not one to pass up such a business opportunity, my brother decided to test out his salesman skills and bought a shopping cart full of beer to sell to the various passerby in front of my apartment. (Note: alcohol is one of the few things you’re not supposed to sell on Queen’s Day as you still need a permit to do so, but in practice several policemen walked by while we were selling it and never said a thing.) Because my apartment is on the first floor this involved selling beer from a bucket tied to a rope, where the beer was placed in the bucket once the money was handed over. We didn’t start until later in the afternoon as we spent the earlier hours exploring the revelry in the city, but soon after we started we had quite the steady stream of customers.

For those curious, in the end we netted 100 Euro, 2 muffins, two packs of Smarties, a bowl of popcorn, one egg, and one bread roll. (Some of those random ones were bartered for beer, but a lot were from a little girl next door who became excited to discover we’d put candy in the bucket in exchange for boring things she found in the kitchen. What a deal!) So all in all we did quite well for our first try on the vrijmarkt, and felt very proud and Dutch about our accomplishment.

The next day, of course, we woke up to drizzle, the city looked like some sort of apocalypse had swept through, and the entire nation was suffering through what is known to many as National Hangover Day.  But all in all Queen’s Day was seriously a lot of fun, and I know I’m looking forward to next year!

“To the health of the Nassau line- in one hand a sword and in the other, a glass!”

It’s their loss honestly, as it turns out the Keukenhof is ridiculously, gorgeously lovely and pretty in a way that makes you take a million photographs but it doesn’t really capture the beauty of it. Sure there are a bunch of other tourists around, many posing for truly awkward pictures, and no Dutch child voluntarily dances around a maypole on a Sunday afternoon in traditional costume that I know of (though my brother and I watched in solidarity, having done many similar performances in our lives), but this is really one of those special places. We’re spent hours wandering around admiring everything, and if you don’t believe me, well I guess the photographs capture a bit of the magic-

To cut to the chase, the Hagia Sophia is one of these places.  It was the reason I wanted to get to Istanbul, a task it lived up to as I got tears in my eyes at some points taking all of it in-

This is the church that was built in 562 A.D. by Byzantine emperor Justinian I (who massacred 30,000 people of an opposing sports team during a riot which created the room to build it, but still got to be a saint!) which was the largest church in the world for a thousand years and then became a mosque and is now a museum.  I mean if this thing was built not terribly long ago you’d be impressed, but the fact that such a building from 1,500 years ago is still here for us to admire is astounding!  I honestly don’t know anywhere else in the world where you can see such a place in such good condition as Hagia Sophia.

So many layers of history here… I spent about 4 hours just wandering around the place to take it all in.  This is the place where you can see the spot where the Byzantine Emperors were crowned (they were more or less the Eastern Roman Empire for those who missed out on reading this awesome book) right next to the minbar where the Muslim imam delivered his sermons a thousand years later, where graffiti scratched on an innocuous upper rail are actually runes left behind by a Viking in the 9th century, where the mihrab niche showing the direction to Mecca is found under a mosaic of the archangel Gabriel and flanked by candelabras stolen from the Matthias Church in Buda during the 16th century.

The mosaics were my favorite though.  They were whitewashed over when the Hagia Sophia became a mosque, of course, but quite a few were preserved in excellent condition-

(Fun fact- the woman on the right is Saint Irene in the Eastern Orthodox church, who was born as Piroska in the 11th century and was the daughter of King St. Laszlo of Hungary.  I assure you if you know who on Earth these people are it’s profoundly interesting.)

Anyway, what I took away from Hagia Sophia was a reminder of a story I read awhile ago about Vladimir the Great, ruler of the Kievian Rus’ people in the 10th century who later became Ukraine and Russia.  The man was looking for a new religion for his people out of those of his neighbors, and each one had a problem- he didn’t think the Rus’ could embrace Islam due to its alcohol prohibition (stereotypes exist for a reason, people!), he thought the Jews weren’t on the side of God due to how they kept losing Jerusalem and having bad luck all around (case in point), and in the Roman Catholic emissaries he found no beauty and instead dark churches with barely literate priests.  But then when Vladimir went into the Hagia Sophia in the middle of a festival ritual, the Rus’ were awed.

“We no longer knew whether we were in heaven or on Earth,” the chronicler tells, “nor such beauty, we know not how to tell of it.”

And that is why Eastern Europe follows the Orthodox Church- because the Hagia Sophia is just that awesome.  Frankly I don’t know a single person who’s gone into that building and not believed it.

(PS- Bonus!  Because I rather liked the nearby Basilica Cistern that was also built by Justinian I to supply the city with water but it’s not really worth a post in itself, here are one or two pictures from that.  Note that the medusa’s heads are a bit of a mystery as no one knows why those two columns have them as pedestals out of the several hundred down there.)

I’d have a drink at sunset on the rooftop terrace bar of the guesthouse I was at (Bahaus Guesthouse, seriously recommended), gazing at Asia across the Bosporus ahead with the spires of the Blue Mosque behind, listening to the haunting calls of the muezzins to prayer from all around the city.  There was no other word for it except for beguiling, except perhaps “enchanting” or “all around awesome, thanks for asking.”

Looking to another continent just a few kilometers away- I mean I’m the sort of person who still reads the “welcome to Ohio!” sign with great fanfare whenever I cross into that state, how do you think I could handle looking to Asia in a normal fashion?

Watching the boats plying up and down the Bosporus from tiny ferries darting back and forth to giant tankers whose foghorns invade the dreams of everyone in Istanbul was also a never-ending source of entertainment.  There are few things more lovely than watching the world pass by in front of you and imagining everyone’s story as they do so…

One of the many street cats in numbers one is used to in the Mediterranean.  Always fun to run across them, with the notable exception of the one time I was resting in my room and heard two tenuous meows, followed by a thump.  Turns out a cat had jumped in my open window in a clear attempt to check whether I’d left any food out (as prior guests surely have), though he was quick to jump back out when he saw no food and an unhappy occupant…

Plus there were flowers everywhere.  Fun fact: a few centuries ago a famous Turkish imam was asked by someone if there was anyone in a particular crowd was guaranteed to go to heaven, and the imam without hesitation chose a gardener.  When asked why his answer was according to Muslim tradition heaven is a giant garden and it’s understood that you’ll do what makes you happiest in heaven, so a gardener is a shoe-in for the afterlife.

Incidentally, between Turkey and now Holland I plan to be sick to death of tulips by the end of this month, but it does make Istanbul very lovely this time of year!

And of course one can’t forget the Grand Bazaar, and in fact all the shops and restaurants of Istanbul, didn’t hurt matters either.  You see, even the most touristy shop in Istanbul looks like a venerable Aladdin’s Cave of lamps and jewelry and carpets and who knows what else.  There are 3,000 shops in the Grand Bazaar, each with at least one person desperately trying to get your attention to look at some object or another.  If you’re actually considering buying something a lot of haggling over tiny glasses of Turkish tea ensues (there are countless young men running around the Grand Bazaar filling tea orders for the thousands of transactions occurring each day), which is pretty quick for something cheaper but can stretch far longer for major purchases.

I picked up a good quality leather jacket for less than half its original price after a good bit of haggling, and the most amusing thing about it happened when I inquired about whether the jacket was waterproof- without a word the seller whipped out his lighter and put a flame under the sleeve while it was still on me.  And then later the guesthouse owner was also admiring the quality of the jacket and a nearby girl was asking how he could tell… and without word the owner poured a nearby glass of water onto my sleeve (once again, while the jacket was still on me).

In both cases nothing happened as it’s of course a kickass jacket, but you can’t help but think it’s not the only time in history a Hungarian has been held to a flame and doused with water by the Turks. *wink*

As I said, somewhere between the adventure, the sights, the foods, and the people, I kept coming back to thinking how Istanbul is beguiling.  Trust me, there are definitely a few more stories on this topic to come…

I know, I know, this isn’t very original material, but we spotted an awesome (double) rainbow by the ocean in Ireland!  No pot of gold or leprechaun though…Anyway, this bit of Irish stereotype was brought to us by Howth, Ireland, which is a lovely little town just north of Dublin which is easily reached by a half hour rail ride.  Although I’ve been to Ireland twice before my brother hadn’t at all yet, so the day after St. Patrick’s Day I tried to find a nice little town nearby for us to visit for the “little Irish village” experience.  My go-to travel guide Wikitravel suggested Howth for a daytrip, and I must say it was perfect for us!

A town with a nice little harbor…

And the ruins of a 14th century church…

Which was replaced five centuries later by this one.  It was quite nice inside too, but of course in Ireland on a Sunday there were several people using it so no pictures.

Oh, and of course we had to stumble across a random little museum for a geek-out, which in this case was the Vintage Radio Museum!  Or rather I decided that we had to go in, and Patrick is a very good sport about his sister’s eccentricities (though later voluntarily stated he found it interesting)-

So I swear that I had no idea this was in Howth before deciding to come here, which made the discovery of this old tower all the more exciting.  You see, this was originally one of many towers built up and down the coast to keep lookout in the event of an invasion by Napoleon, and later was used as the first telegraph relay point between Ireland and Britain. (So for those keeping track, ie me, I’ve now seen both historic relay points in Ireland as the second is on the Ring of Kerry.) These days, however, a bunch of older gents banded together with their various collections of old radios and maintain a small museum inside-

For those who know me, I have a definite fondness for old radios and modes of communication (I’ve had my Ham radio license for a decade), so this was a very neat place to go into and look around and the old fellows who ran it were very happy to have interested visitors.  I’d say the most important thing we learned while there was actually that we have to thank Irish whiskey for radio- Guglielmo Marconi’s mother was not only Irish but granddaughter of the Jameson who founded the distillery of the same name, and went to Italy to study opera where she met Marconi senior, so the father of radio was actually half-Irish.  Thus when he needed money for his radio experiments he hit up the wealthy relatives in Ireland, and that’s how he funded many of his first projects.

I can imagine that conversation first took place after a few whiskeys though when it made a good deal of more sense.  “So, Uncle Jameson, I want to send information through the air…”

Finally, geekiness satiated, we finally tackled a bit of the Howth cliff walk!  Basically this is one of those lovely scenic places in Ireland where the cliff rushes up to the sea in a dramatic fashion (so lovely in fact that Yeats lived several years in a house on the point in the first picture), so a ramble was definitely required.  The entire loop is several kilometers so we didn’t do the whole thing- a bit of geocaching didn’t make our path linear, and the storm that gave us the rainbow was a bit threatening- but still quite lovely for sure.

At the end of the day Patrick and I were both in definite agreement that our day in Howth was pretty much perfect, and you can’t do a better daytrip from Dublin if you find yourself with only a little time in the country. We were both very happy to come across it!

Man, it’s like we’re twins or something…

So first of all, one common thing many an American has said to me since hearing that I went to Dublin for the holiday is “oh, I heard it’s not that big over there as it is in the States.”  I’m happy to confirm that this just isn’t true- the whole city took on more a festival air than in the USA, though there were certainly plenty of drunks if that’s your primary motivation.  Sure there are more Irish people in America now than Ireland by a large margin, but we definitely found lots to do and had fun!

The fun began with the Dublin St. Patrick’s Day parade, billed on their own website as “the largest St. Patrick’s Day parade outside New York City!”  Ok, with that one isn’t really expecting a Disneyland bonanza, but I still thought it was a cool parade and the fact that there was a “science” theme for some reason didn’t hurt my opinions either-

After that we headed straight to the Guinness Storehouse because theIrish Times had kindly mentioned that all people named Patrick were being granted free admission, and who could turn down something like that?  Patrick was given a “VIP” badge, short for “Very Important Patrick” of course, and by mid-afternoon the party was in full swing with ample amounts of free food, drinks, and music everywhere-

At some point the Irish step dancers let the crowds onto the dance floor to learn a few Irish dances as well, so I joined in.  Because if you have already traveled all the way to Dublin to join in on the festivities and have a thing for Irish music I’m not entirely certain why you wouldn’t!

Eventually we ended up leaving the Storehouse to find a good pub to watch an important rugby England-Ireland match in that was going on (though alas Ireland lost), and in general wandering around to a few of the different pubs that I enjoyed on previous trips to Dublin.  A picture from the corner window of The Stag’s Head, a great spot near Trinity College- alas a bit blurry from the lights in the window but gives you an idea-

Let the above picture dissuade anyone who claims Dublin is a boring place to be on St. Patrick’s Day- we were deliberately staying away from the tourist masses in the Temple Bar area and the city was still packed!  Though to be honest, I don’t believe that anyone who thinks the Irish wouldn’t throw a good party on their national day in the first place have never really encountered the Irish.

Oh, and because it’s as good a place to insert it as any, an Irish friend’s opinion on the matter of their reputation- “I’m so bloody tired of Irish stereotypes! As soon as I finish this drink, I’m punching someone.”

So St. Patrick’s Day in Ireland was a most successful adventure to be sure, though I’m mildly embarrassed to admit we were in bed by midnight!  That’s what happens when you start 12 hours beforehand and go without a break though I guess…

Fast forward about a quarter of a century, and it turned out that one of those twins was getting tired of paying exorbitant visa fees on her American passport, and both of those twins were considering moving to Europe.  So I decided to get that ball rolling, which turned out to be a mess of a process that dragged on for well over a year due to a mountain of paperwork one would expect from a former communist country. Lots of forms in Hungarian that at times made even my mother pause to understand their meaning (to give you an idea, my favorite was one just to confirm I wanted my name spelled “Yvette” instead of the traditional “Ivett”), all of which disappeared into the consulate… and while the process was supposed to take six months, it dragged on to over a year.  Klassz!

But in the end it all worked out, I finally had the Hungarian passport itself in hand in November, and it’s around this time that I discovered my new travel hobby.  Because you see, I now have a passport from a former Soviet Bloc country that is as yet not scanned or marked in any way, on a citizenship that a few months ago did not yet exist on paper…

That’s right, now when I go to the airport I alternate between my Hungarian and American passports when asked for identification to ensure the bad guys can’t trace me.  And I’ve been pretty successful shaking them off so far, except of course for that one gun fight on a speedboat racing through the Amsterdam canals that I don’t like to talk too much about.

Plus hey, my flirtations as an International Woman of Mystery aside, the visa fees to many a country just got a lot cheaper and the E.U. can now never kick me out. Win! As for where it may take me, I will just refer all curious folks to the cover of my passport holder:

Taken October 20, 2011

I’m cheating and not using the current view here because trust me, the current view of the area is quite gray and not particularly inspiring.  But I was out here in this remote corner of the eastern Netherlands because it’s where ASTRON is, so I felt the area itself deserved some mention.

The curious detail about ASTRON is it’s in the middle of Dwingelderveld National Park, though I feel obliged to mention that by Dutch standards a national park just means trees and is strikingly similar to the Pittsburgh suburb where I grew up (actually even less so, as there were no fences there!).  This detail manifests himself in curious ways- for example I have no issue sleeping through birds chirping in the wee hours, but hearing that will instinctively make me hop out of bed on the left side as I used to growing up and that’s rather awkward when there’s a wall there instead. (I swear I did this more than once even though I knew I wasn’t in Pittsburgh- and in fact never will hop out of bed at that house again, as my parents sold it about a month ago.)

But anyway, the next time I come out here will be just after Easter, and I’m told the Dutch countryside is quite a sight to see that time of year.  Stay tuned…

Seriously, Chamonix is the sort of place that makes you realize why skiers typically use phrases in conversation that otherwise are reserved for drug addicts.  Flying high through the air with light dancing all around!  Deep bowls of white powder everywhere!  It’s all you can think about and it’s going to kill you eventually!

The most interesting phenomenon I noticed at Chamonix while skiing by the way happened on the first day due to the curious detail of skiing above snow clouds.  It turns out if it’s not windy then snowflakes which are basically flat ice crystals will orient themselves parallel to the Earth’s surface as they fall (like a feather), and this will result in a glowing spot the same degrees below the horizon as the sun is above the horizon called a sub-sun when looking at the cloud below you.  Hey, for me this is exciting!  The sub-sun would also be visible right when you skied into the snow-cloud from above- a slightly disturbing thing each time, as your instinct is to question whether your vision is going when sparkly points abruptly begin swimming all around you.

But that wasn’t the coolest thing in general I found in Chamonix- that honor was reserved for the discovery that they have both a piste and a chairlift named after me here! As someone who spent many years of her childhood forlorn that she couldn’t find any vanity items in crappy gift shops with her name on them, a whole section of a major ski resort is like hitting the jackpot.  Pity they made a typo though as I would expect the French of all people to know how to spell my name properly, but then these are the guys who gave us good ol’ Mount White so I guess one can’t demand too much from naming around here.

So yep, the skiing was grand- I was a little disappointed in the town of Chamonix itself though.  Pretty, sure, but not that much too it and one of those parts of France where you can’t help but feel like everyone’s trying to rip you off and I guess I prefer the Wild West feel of American ski towns.  To be honest though with only three days I was too busy being one of the first out in the morning, one of the last off the mountain, and sleeping at least 10 hours a night to do the same thing the next day.  So a great escape to go skiing after all- certainly enough to starve off my white powder obsession for a little while longer…

It’s been a rather crazy winter in the Netherlands this year.  Two weeks ago I distinctly recall photographing daffodils along the Amstel River, today we’re one week into the longest cold stretch in a decade and people are walking and skating on the canal outside my apartment!

Things kicked off yesterday, when I rolled out of bed to discover that there were people skating where water used to be! (This is a bit of luck actually because the city decrees that boats aren’t allowed to go on some canals in winter, such as my stretch of the Keizersgracht. The next canal over is filled with broken up ice from the tour boats.) Not too crowded as yet, but that’ll change once the word gets out…

It should be noted that these pictures were taken on Monday as today was far sunnier.  The Dutch basically take the afternoon off when there’s natural ice to be had, and there’s even a word for it, ijsvrij.  I mean how could you not?!  Natural ice just doesn’t happen every year, certainly not within the city of Amsterdam.

By the way, as a friend pointed out there’s definitely something a little forlorn about parents dragging their offspring around on sleds in a country with no hills.  The Dutch will promptly tell you this is silly of you to note as there are canal bridges to be had, but this is just basically them revealing that they don’t know what they’re missing.

I have to admit that this looks really fun if you’re a kid though-

Sneller, mama, sneller!!!

Another rather interesting thing spotted on the ice is the hot chocolate stand set up by some enterprising teenagers! The most amusing detail to me though is the kids had a bottle of rum and they’d give you a shot in your drink for 2 Euro extra.  After all no one’s getting hurt and there’s money to be made, so who would let a pesky thing like liquor laws get in the way of that?

So anyway, this winter wonderland the Netherlands has fallen into is definitely lekker and I feel rather fortunate to have seen it.  The good news is there isn’t a real thaw in sight for the next week or so, meaning more and more sections of canal are becoming skateable- the problem is it’s usually weaker under bridges, but the first bridge is now skateable next to me so more are sure to follow (yep, I took this picture under the bridge!).  What everyone’s really hoping for with bated breath however is the Elfstedentocht will happen, which is a giant 200km-long race in the eastern Netherlands that was last held in 1997.  In fact, the committee that decides these things met today for the first time in 15 years with plans to meet again in two days, so fingers are crossed around the country! (Though, mind, mine are doubly crossed that they do it after this weekend because I’m going skiing!)

So hey, good times had on the ice by all!  And if you are in or near Amsterdam at all the next few days you really have to check this out, the longest stretch right now starts on the Keizersgracht not too far from the Anne Frank museum.