A Free Day In Haarlem

A free day in Haarlem
Sat 21Feb09

The phone rang at 2 a.m. A business contact in another time zone, answering a message I left last week. He made two apologies; one for not calling sooner and a second for waking me, then promised to call back in 10 hours. I went back to sleep but the jetlag kicked me awake a couple of hours later.

This is Saturday, my day to sleep in, to laze about and catch up on the rest a body needs. I thought about working but that wasn’t on so I switched on the computer and via the internet read the newspaper I usually savour on Saturday mornings at home. It also seemed a good time to run a virus and registry scan on the laptop.

I thought this might bring back my sleep, but no. With news from home to catch up on and nothing else to do I meandered through reports, editorials, blogs and responses until 7 o’clock arrived. Dawn hadn’t lit the view through my window.

My hotel room is a well appointed garret. The furnishings are efficiently comfortable. Its ceiling follows the curved roofline of this old building. Two small deep-silled windows look onto the cobbled wet lane that runs the 100 metres from a canal to my right to open on a lovely cobbled stone square and huge cathedral, dating from the early 16th century, on my left. It is all quite old, and kept as if new. This is very picturesque and typical of Haarlem.

I shower and dress, and go downstairs for a health Dutch breakfast.

It’s really boring being alone on the road in a foreign country at weekends. I didn’t feel like working or reading all day, and had resolved to go to a museum, the one that has Vermeer’s Girl with an Earring on display. It’s in The Hague at a museum called Mauritshuis. I’m told it’s about an hour away.

I get there by train after breakfast. The Haarlem station is a 15 minute walk from my hotel through these pretty cobbled lanes. It’s a cool overcast day and I’m glad I’ve brought my only warm coat, a big heavy Mac. Approaching the station I’m surprised by the thousands of bicycles parked in racks outside. I notice that very few have locks. There must exist a culture of honesty about this place that we’ve lost at home. It costs me 14.40 Euro for a one day return trip to Den Haag, and the train leaves a convenient 10 minutes after I buy the ticket.

The European train stations I’ve used have in common that they are busy, and even on a Saturday morning there’s a little bit of bustle here. I have time to buy The Independent, an English newspaper. I note is printed in Belfast. Two stories are oddly juxtaposed on the front page; a dying celebrity’s groom is being released from custody in order to spend the wedding night with her, and the Poms are concerned that the extreme right (read Nazi) British National Party are likely to win a seat in the forthcoming European parliamentary elections.

The few passengers include some noisy unsupervised kids. The trip takes about an hour, during which time I finish reading the paper and look out at the intensely farmed and carefully organised landscape that passes by. I plug earplugs into my Blackberry and listen to some familiar music, to past he time. We arrive at Den Haag and I realise that I’m very thirsty. Easily fixed when I buy a bottle of the ubiquitous plastic bottled water at a store on the station, where they sell sandwiches and beer in a very efficient way.

Den Haag central station opens out onto a large and lovely cobbled square, on which are parked several thousand bikes, just like Haarlem. The sun is shining. The museum is about 10 minutes walk away, in the far corner of another, larger and more imposing square built around a statue of Prince Willem. The building was a large house. Now it’s been converted to a lovely repository of hundred of paintings from the Dutch masters. It’s well organised and well run and when I visited it was busy, but not crowded. These paintings are all about 400 years old.

I’m given a thing that looks like a mobile phone with stereo head phones. By plugging in a code number displayed near particular paintings, I get a commentary. It’s useful and interesting. I learn a lot and get a sense of what it was like living back then. Makes me glad I’m living in the 21st, not the 17th century. I’m struck by the brilliant colours and high sheen of many of the paintings. There are not dark and sombre like Rembrandt. I was expecting to see faded old paintings but these look as if they were created recently.

After about an hour I get to the main attraction. I am very impressed with this painting and the explanation I get through the clever headphone set. It is the same size as the replica we had hand painted from a faded old print when we lived in Bangkok. Although we thought the painter understood we wanted it restored to a natural colour, he replicated the same faded blue look! We took it back with a copy of this Museum’s catalogue, which we were given by a work colleague who came from around here. I recall all this as I leave. The painting still hangs on our wall at home by the front door.

I felt a sort of connection to the painting because of all this. When a fictional story of its creation was published a few years ago I felt compelled to read it. The book was excellent, and we also felt a sense of ownership when we went to see the movie of the book a few years later. It starred the very beautiful Scarlett Johansen.

I have time to amble back to the station in time to catch a train back to Haarlem. The sun is brighter so I re-take a picture of the bicycles parked in from of Den Haag Central, thinking it should impress people at home. The return trip stops at all stations and has an unhurried ambiance of non-rush hour commuting. I don’t recognise the station when it reaches Haarlem, and because a few people have stayed on I think we still have a way to go. 5 minutes later I realise we must have arrived so I get out. I notice straight away that the train is right up against the buffer at the end of the line.

Coming out onto the street I’m at the end of the station, about 100 meters from the door where I entered this morning. The gap between me and that door is full of bicycles, thousands of them. I must ask why they’re parked there – it’s not as if people are commuting on a Saturday.
I walk back through cold crowded streets, my coat, scarf and hat a great comfort. An old Duesenberg rolls past me as I wait to cross the road near a bridge over a canal. I think it’s the first time I’ve seen one in motion. The driver wears 1930’s attire and a Sherlock Holmes cap. People are shopping and there’s an almost festive air about things.

In 10 minutes I'm back at the hotel where I freshen up and watch some TV; a show about refurbishing a VW van for some lucky guy in California. They do a great job and it’s entertaining to watch. Almost everyone on screen is fed well beyond what’s required for their health.

There's a small bar a few doors down, at the corner of the old square, where the Robert the barmen and patrons are friendly and the beer really good. I head there for company and refreshment about 6.00. It’s full and noisy with a convivial Saturday evening feel. My plan is to have a couple of beers and stroll down the lane full of restaurants, for dinner at one I visited last year. The barman introduces me to a couple standing at the bar and we strike up a conversation. The man (didn’t get the name) is a fireman and wants to talk about Victoria’s bushfires. Since I left home a week ago so many people have asked me that I have a little summary! He shakes his head at the number of deaths, and tells me that in Haarlem he attends and average of 2 fire deaths each year. His face turns sombre and he looks at the floor.

Things perk up when his friends Rene and wife arrive. They are old mates, who live within 500 metres of the bar (it’s one of many such places around the square) and they haven’t seen each other for months. Rene was born in Adelaide and has lived in Haarlem for 39 years. He goes back every few years for a long family holiday. We talk about footy and the fires and our respective jobs. He insists on buying me a beer.

I get a whole new angle on "Dutch Treat". They say “will you have a beer with me?” It’s hard to say no, even if I wanted to. Then his fireman mate does the same, so my couple of beers has become 4. Then the barman does the same so I start planning my departure.

While this is going on, they’ve explained the history of the bar, which has been there since 1875, and looks it. I’m told it’s typical of Dutch bars, both in appearance and history. I ask about the Latin inscription above the window - "Dulce et decorum estin taberna mori". This prompts an animated discussion and Robert produces from under the bar a book which is a little history someone put together many years ago. They continue the animated discussion and I scan through the book. There’s a poem written by Wilfred Owen, whom I’ve never heard of, but who was obviously a soldier in the First World War. It’s a moving lament - really moving - around the idea that the notion of noble sacrifice in dying for your country is a cruel fake. The poem is dulce et decorum est - the beginning of the Latin inscription above me.

Thankfully, my generous hosts are ready to go, so I pay my bill and leave. It’s about 7:30 by now and s0 I decide to have room service dinner and get an early night because I leave early in the morning.

Back in my room, Mr Google introduces me to Wilfred Owen. I feel ignorant – he was one of the great poets of the War. The only ones I heard of were Rupert Brooke, and Seigfried Sassoon. I have something here to cogitate upon.