No trip to Amsterdam would be morally complete without the obligatory trip to the Anne Frank House. The highly regarded monument to the personal struggle of a family in 1930s and 40s Amsterdam, after German occupation. I had read the Diary of Anne Frank years ago, and remember on principal that it was touching and moving and tragic (whether or not I actually remember the book as such is both debatable and moot, as it is only acceptable to have this opinion). After the father was released from his concentration camp, he had the house restored and left unfurnished and open to the public, a monument to awareness of international hate. The museum itself was crowded wall-to-wall with gawking tourists and school children, taking in the feeling of tragedy and solitude that only empty rooms can convey. One point I did find odd was that guides to the House were in every major language except Arabic. Other than that, there is very little to be said about the Anne Frank House that hasn’t already been said. Except that I remember learning about Anne Frank, and being told that she hid in an attic. I didn’t realize that by “attic” everybody meant a 1500 sq. ft. house built behind a first house. Unfortunately, I do not think that it has been as successful at promoting peace, understanding and no more genocides as first hoped, but I do think that it stands as an interesting reminder not only of all the terrible things that have happened in the history of humanity, but more importantly of all the terrible things we have simply let happen. However, maybe it was because I have been to the Killing Fields in Cambodia, but there is something much more poignant and heartbreaking in seeing a tower of skulls surrounded by fields of cows and playing boys than an empty house. Perhaps seeing the scenes of multiple genocides around the world gives on a different perspective…

At the end of the museum was a fairly new, interactive display concerning human rights and freedoms. The format was sort of town-hallish, where visitors sat on comfy, multi-colored cushions and watched a large screen explain to them various issues, after which said audience members voted on whether or not those rights should be, well, rights. Called “Free 2 Choose,” it touched on free speech, freedom of the press, freedom of religion… all the juicy stuff. While arguably fun technology, the entire display relegated all these choices to “yes” or “no,” which did them all a great injustice, as many were not simply black and white, as such. A question like, “Should the Muhammad cartoons have been printed in the Danish newspaper?” Well, should they have? Probably not. Legally, did they have the right to publish those cartoons under the auspices of free speech? Yes. Free speech covers bad taste, fortunately or not. But free speech does not cover outright threats. “Should Neo Nazis be allowed to have political rallies?” Again, with the bad taste. They should be allowed to hate whomever they want. However, as soon as they begin to make threats against the lives of Jews or police or whoever, they should all be arrested. “Should a police officer be allowed to wear a turban as a symbol of his religion?” Well, this is tough. Yes, if the turban doesn’t conflict with regulation uniform headwear. If there is a hat that every officer is supposed to wear, then no, he shouldn’t. Uniforms are uniforms. These are complicated issues, and their answers will change based on circumstances. You can’t just say “yes” or “no.” Needless to say, I didn’t enjoy the exhibit.

We also managed to stop at the Houseboat Museum, which looked incredibly hokey, but turned out to be quite the little gem. It’s just a normal-sized canal boat converted from a freight hauler into a houseboat back in the day. The main bedroom has been turned into a play area for small children, but other than that, it is supposed to have been furnished the same as it was when it was first converted. It was incredibly adorable, and there was a small brochure describing the history and use of the boat. It said that everything on houseboats has to be miniaturized to some extent, but I would like to point out that it was quite a bit larger than our flat here in Edinburgh. The bathroom was about the same, though. The little museum inflamed my passion for boating, and Jonmikel and I pined away for a canal boat of our own, perhaps on the Mississippi so we could sail from Cincinnati to New Orleans on a regular basis. Maybe when we return to the States, we can find a boat on the Potomac or something…

We also managed a quick trip through the Flower Market, which was more like the Bulb Market. Apparently winter isn't the season for flowers?

Our next stop for the day was the Sauna Deco, and tidy little sauna, complete with a Turkish bath, two sauna rooms of varying temperatures, an infrared room, a cold plunge pool (for added invigoration), a nap area, a café/lounge area with magazines from around the world, and massages galore, all done up in a neat Art Deco/Grecian urn motif. All sans clothing of course. Unfortunately, we seemed to have hit it on male bonding day, and for most of the afternoon I remained the only woman (there was one other who was about 60) in the Turkish bath. But it seemed quite normal, and I was all but ignored, which was fine by me. The entire experience was quite relaxing and not unlike my hot spring experience in Busan, South Korea. Though there, it was single-sex only. But it wasn’t as awkward and I know you are imagining it to be. I didn’t get any massages, but Jonmikel and I did do the rounds of both saunas, the foot bath, the Turkish baths and a quick jump outside (it was fairly warm and very sunny today, so it was safe) multiple times to enjoy the full scope of sauna activities. Oh, and for an example of how family-friendly it was, there was, indeed a family of three, obviously regulars, enjoying the saunas. The daughter was about 8. It’s nice how open and accepting and nonchalant the Europeans can be about such things. American would flip. But it was a fabulously relaxing experience, so much so I practically oozed out of the building when we left. I sweated in the Turkish bath (missing my kis from my hammam days in Morocco), quickly ran to the lounge to have a glass of orange juice, over to the cooler of the two saunas, outside to the enclosed deck in the sun, back to the Turkish bath (more or a large, hot steam room) to do it all again. The saunas, filled with stern looking men who glared at us when we tried to have a conversation (sooo not in the spirit of sauna-ing, which many plains Native Americans use as a time for political discussion and gossip), were burning some kind of cedar; rich, tangy, earthy aromas infused with heat and steam that made my mind kind of numb with relaxation.

We finally dragged ourselves away from our self-indulgence and headed for, what else, a nice drink to savor the experience of being so relaxed that we just kind of flopped around like gag chickens. Or members of the Church of England, if you ask Eddie Izzard. Some of you may get that. We picked a random, smoke-filled (the more smoke, the more popular with the locals; it’s been a long time since I’ve been asked “smoking or non-smoking?” and even longer since a hostess, looking worried, asked if non-smoking was okay) bar to have a lingering beer before finding something to eat. Sweating takes a lot out of you. We decided to try one of the ubiquitous South American steak houses in Amsterdam. I’m not sure what it is about Holland that would appeal to South Americans (surely not the frigid winters or the fact that nobody speaks Spanish), but there is an Argentinean or Uruguayan steak house on every block, at least. We stopped to look at a few menus, for no real reason, as they all seemed to offer the same things: steak. But we chose one simply on the fact that a server came out, smiled nicely and asked us to come in and try his restaurant. I had remarked to Jonmikel not 24 hours earlier how much I liked that about some of the places I’ve been to, most recently Morocco; I loved when the waiters came out to hassle you to eat at their establishment. I’ve eaten many good meals at places on the gentle but persuasive recommendation of a persistent server. You don’t get that so much in the UK or the US, though I do remember some of it in Spain, as well as any developing country. It’s a nice, personal touch. Turns out we made a good decision. The steak was perfectly done (still mooing, more or less, for us), the décor distinctly South American cowboy (cowboy gear, old and battered wood siding, big wooden booths, you get the idea), and it was packed with other happy customers. We took our time over dinner, as per usual, and by the time we headed out, it was already late. We meandered back, taking in our last night in Amsterdam.