a funny thing happened in amsterdam...

Everything was moving along pretty smoothly earlier this summer as we departed for Amsterdam, which was the next stop on our itinerary following Germany.  Although Aman and I had been on the road for nearly six and a half months at the time, we thus far had been spared all the potential horribles that we had contemplated before setting out on this adventure together (e.g., lost luggage, theft of valuables, malaria, dengue fever or some other serious illness, etc.).  So maybe we were due for a little mishap...  Certainly, with the benefit of time between then and now, we can characterize the incident as “a funny thing” or “a little mishap.”  To be sure, that’s putting it mildly.

It all started, as it does in any new town, with excitement.  One of my favorite cities in the world, we were happy to be spending four nights in Amsterdam.  Aman had never been to Amsterdam before, and I was looking forward to showing him around. 

Our train pulled into Amsterdam Ceentral railway station on a frigid, overcast day.  Before leaving the station building, Aman and I decided to stop at the international ticket counter and book a reservation for our outbound journey to Paris.  It seemed the efficient thing to do given that we were already at the train station, and pretty sure that a reservation would be required for onward travel.  We were prepared as well, having already consulted the timetable to determine the day and time we wanted to depart on another high-speed train for France.  So we walked into the international ticket office, grabbed a number and took not more than ten steps before our turn was called – thankfully it was a slow day at the office.  Aman told the man at the ticket counter where and when we wanted to travel.  That’ll be 88 Euros, he said after the push of a few computer buttons.  No, we already have tickets, we just need a reservation, we explained, as if there had been some misunderstanding.  That’ll be 88 Euros, the man repeated.  Seriously?!  Further conversation revealed that (a) a reservation was absolutely required for the direct train from Amsterdam to Paris, (b) the non-direct option involved two transfers and twice the travel time as the high-speed train (no thank you), and (c) the quoted price of 88 Euros was only good for two second-class seats (even though we were holding first-class tickets).  Did we really just pay 88 Euros to get downgraded to second-class, I asked Aman in complete disbelief after we booked the reservation and made our way out of the ticket office.  Needless to say, our opinions about the Eurorail pass and its value are pretty low. 

Outside the Ceentral station, it was very busy with people moving in every direction and trams snaking in and out of the station along various lines.  We found the waiting area for Tram Number 9 and joined a small crowd waiting in the tram stop shelter where we took refuge from the biting wind.  When the tram pulled into the station, there was a mad dash to board, which was loads of fun for two people traveling with large bags.  Just to give you an idea of how we might look on travel days, here is Aman, circa Vietnam:    

On the tram, we traveled down the main street of Damrak and through the bustling city center towards the Oost (“East”) neighborhood where we had rented an apartment for our stay.  It was not only a Saturday afternoon, but it was also the first weekend of the 2012 UEFA European Football Championship and Netherlands was playing in a match that evening.  The streets (not to mention the fans), therefore, were decorated in bright orange and incredibly busy when we hit them on that first day.

We lost no time in getting involved and, even though the Netherlands lost that night, it was still a pretty fun first night in town.

The next morning, we awoke to a sunny day.  This was perfect, as Aman and I planned on renting bicycles to explore.  For those unfamiliar with the culture of Amsterdam, apart from public transportation, getting around by bicycle is a way of life for Amsterdammers.  The city is very bicycle-friendly with lots of bike paths and bike racks.  The city also discourages driving cars.  Thus, like the US Postal Service, “neither snow nor rain nor heat nor gloom of night” usually tends to keep the locals off their bikes.  (In fact, I had seen this on one previous, and particularly soggy, trip to Amsterdam where many people were riding around in the pouring rain with one hand on the handlebars and one hand clutching an umbrella overhead.)

Aman and I had not done much bicycle riding since the start of our trip, but we were proud bicycle owners back in NYC and thus eager to get back in the seat, even if only for a couple of days.  Plus, since we were staying a little bit out of the city center, it made reasonable sense for us to have a way to get around other than tram.  At the bike rental shop, we opted for the traditional Dutch bike, the big clunky kind without hand brakes where you have to back pedal to stop.  

It took some getting used to, but we got the hang of it quickly and were off.  With me in the lead, I steered Aman out of the chaotic Dam area and on to some of the quieter and more picturesque residential streets that I knew – along the three main canals of Herengracht, Keizersgracht, Prinsengracht – where we rode carefree along the brick-paved lanes, over bridges, up and down the concentric half-rings of pretty tree-lined canals, past the rows of skinny canal houses and the ubiquitous coffee shops and fried potato vendors.

It was a positively blissful day of riding around with no particular destination in mind.  We stopped here and there to walk around, check on the score of the football match that was playing that day, or get something to eat, but generally did not stop riding until well into the night.

For our second day on two wheels, we actually picked a couple of specific destinations as opposed to riding around aimlessly; namely, the Van Gogh Museum and a really good Indonesian restaurant where I had eaten on a previous trip to Amsterdam and wanted to bring Aman for dinner, Kantjil en de Tijger.  It was another beautiful, warm day that afternoon as we left our apartment and rode along Singelgracht, the outer canal of the city center, to Museumplein, where all of the important museums in Amsterdam are situated.

Both Aman and I really liked the Van Gogh Museum and will go so far as to say, that it is probably one of the best museums out there.  That is, of course, if you are a fan of Van Gogh.  The permanent collection is displayed in such a way that Van Gogh’s life unfolds more or less chronologically, from the early period of his career when he was influenced by other notable artists, to his heyday when he painted some of his more well-known masterpieces, to his later career and the influence that he had upon other artists of the time.  There was also a good temporary exhibit on late 19th century, European landscape paintings and their symbolic significance.  Fascinating stuff.

By the time we were done canvasing the museum and all of its treasures, we were famished.  We hopped on our bikes and took the bridge over Singelgracht, towards the center of town. 

Dinner at Kantjil en de Tijger was a total feast.  The restaurant is known for its killer rijsttafels, a balanced collection of various specialties that come served in about a dozen little bowls and plates.  It is basically a bite or two of everything – vegetables in spicy sauce, vegetables in sweet coconut sauce, grilled fish, prawn skewers, beef skewers, salad, rice served in a banana leaf.  When we saw the plates arrive, we were all of the sudden glad that we skipped lunch earlier that day.

As we were wrapping up, the sky turned ominously dark as an impending storm approached.  Aman and I took cover, just as the rain started, at a brown café across the street where the evening’s UEFA football match was playing on several screens.  We sat at a covered outdoor table, watched the match on a screen that had been set up on the sidewalk and waited for the downpour to taper off. 

With the rain lightening up and the match over, Aman and I had a critical decision to make:  do we ditch the bikes for the night and go for some drinks, or do we ride back to the apartment and relax over the bottle of wine that we had bought the day before?  For no particular reason, we chose to do the latter.  We walked the couple of short blocks to where we had chained the bikes earlier in the night and began wiping the seats dry.  We hopped on, and took off in the direction of Vijzelgracht, a busy street leading over the main canals and out of the city center.  And that’s when it happened… 




We were riding with me in the lead.  I was not on the bike path – it was closed because of construction – but, rather, riding on the edge of the street.  Or at least I should say that I thought I was riding on the edge of the street.  Cruising along, the next thing I knew, the bike started to wobble badly and I realized it right away – I rode into the groove of a tram track….  (The first and last advice they give you about riding a bicycle in Amsterdam is be careful of the tram tracks, which run down the middle of many streets.  We knew this, and I thought I was being careful enough, but….)  Long story short, as I struggled to pull my bicycle out of the death grip of the tram track and slow down at the same time, i.e. back pedal, I lost my balance and the bike came crashing to the ground.  Hard.  With my left leg pinned underneath the clunky frame of the bike.  If that was not enough, recall that it had been pouring rain that night, which made the streets very wet.  The bike (and I) went hydroplaning, for what felt like an eternity, stopping only when we abruptly collided with the curb.  At that point, I picked myself up out of a puddle and hobbled to the chain link fence that separated the road from the construction zone.  (Damn construction zone.)

For someone who had never experienced a serious injury before that moment (assuming that a sprained finger in the fourth grade doesn’t count), I could not believe the pain.  Blinding pain…  I clutched the fence for support and closed my eyes.  When I opened them, a young girl was standing next to me telling me to breathe.  Another person asked if I wanted him to call me an ambulance.  Yet another person was picking up my bike and moving it out of the way of oncoming traffic.  Aman was scrambling off his bike, running to my side and asking me if I was okay… 

I tried to breathe.  I told the man that I did not want an ambulance.  I thanked the person for moving my bike.  I told Aman that I was not okay…

The kind bystanders dispersed once they saw that Aman had everything under control.  He first helped me across the street where I could sit on the steps of a closed shop.  Can you walk, he asked.  Leaning on Aman for support, I tried to walk on my left leg as if nothing happened.  It felt as though my lower leg was detached at the knee.  I can’t, I think I just seriously hurt myself, I said.  Aman proceeded to lock up both the bikes to a nearby bicycle rack and hail a taxi.  Do you think you need to go to a hospital, he asked.  No, no hospital, I said.  Are you sure, he asked again.  No hospital, I repeated.  We told the taxi driver to bring us to the apartment where we were staying.  How are you going to walk up the stairs, Aman asked.  Our apartment was located two floors above street level.  I’ll manage, I replied.

That night, I crawled one up two flights of stairs backwards on my hands and right leg.  Aman helped me get in bed, and I fell asleep hoping that it was not as bad as I feared and, deep down, suspected that it was.

When I woke the next morning, I threw the covers off my left leg and looked down in hopes that my knee looked normal.  It did not.  It was swollen and throbbing and I couldn’t move it at all without the most excruciating pain.  I think you need to take me to the hospital, I told Aman reluctantly.  He helped me to get ready and then hobble to the top of the staircase, which I descended, again, on my hands and one good leg.  At the street level, however, we ran into a problem.  We were on a quiet residential street – how were we going to find a taxi?  We had identified a hospital nearby, but I certainly couldn’t walk there.  Nor could I walk around looking for a cab.  Aman made sure that I was comfortable sitting at the bottom steps to the house before going off to find help.  Moments later, he came back.  Did you find a taxi, I asked.  No, but there is a couple of police officers up the street who can help, he said.  When the police van pulled up, Aman carried me to it and one of the police officers lifted me inside.  Why didn’t you go to the hospital last night, they asked after I told them what had happened.  I didn’t realize it was so bad, I explained.

We were at the hospital for about two hours.  I had a few x-rays of my leg done, which revealed that I had an avulsion fracture to the tibia.  (An avulsion fracture basically occurs when the ligament along with a small piece of bone gets pulled away from the main part of the bone due to some sort of trauma.)  The ER doctor also explained that my leg was in an “acute stage” and that additional testing should be done one week later.  In the meantime, she prescribed me some painkillers and crutches, and had her medical assistant wrap my knee in an ace bandage. 

Back at the apartment (which I again crawled into), Aman and I had some immediate decisions to make.  We had been scheduled to check out of our apartment and move on to Paris the next day.  It was clear that those plans would no longer work.  So we called the couple that managed the apartment and arranged to extend our stay.  Eric and Hill, incredibly nice people who stopped by as soon as they heard that I had injured myself.  They could accommodate us for one additional night, as other guests where checking in the day thereafter.  One extra night, however, was not going to buy us enough time.  I started searching online to find another apartment for two nights, while Aman went to the Ceentral station to modify our train reservation.  He also had to pick up and return the bicycles from the place where we had locked them up the night earlier.

While Aman was out running around… I sat on the couch, as it was all that I could basically do in my incapacitated state, staring at my leg and trying to comprehend how quickly our circumstances had sadly changed.  Aman came back hours later, after returning one of the bicycles, with a new train reservation and doner kebab for dinner.  With the exception of moving apartments two days later, that was pretty much how we spent the rest of our time in Amsterdam – with Aman scavenging the city for takeaway food, and me resting on the couch.   

Eric, helping us move across town by bringing Aman’s bicycle to the second apartment where we stayed:

Me, on the day we moved apartments, hurting but happy to be out of the apartment for an afternoon:

What an unexpected turn of events…

ich bin ein berliner

The second, and last, city that we visited in Germany was Berlin.  Visiting only Munich and Berlin while in Germany involved making a difficult choice.  We only had a week allocated to spend there, and had heard great things about Dusseldorf and Cologne, as well as the western parts of Germany in general.  Alas, we could not fit them all into our itinerary in one week. Consistent with our long held belief, when you try to squeeze too many places in too little time, you wind up with less of an overall experience, because you only skim the surface of what you see.  So we had to limit ourselves to two cities, and we couldn't leave Germany without seeing the historically and culturally rich capital of Berlin.

The 6-hour train ride from Munich to Berlin was an exceptionally comfortable one as compared to some of the more, um, interesting train rides that we had experienced in Asia.  As we boarded the sleek modern ICE train and sunk into our two first-class window seats – which we reached without a mob of people pushing us from in front and behind (India) and which were not located next to a broken WC (Thailand) – we looked across the table between us and smiled with delight.  We've come along way since Delhi, huh, Aman asked.  You got that right, I replied.

When we reached Berlin, under gray skies on a late afternoon day, we found our rental apartment on a quiet cobble-stoned street in Prenzlauer Berg (i.e. East-Central Berlin), dropped our bags and immediately hit the ground to explore.  Using the iconic Fernsehturm (i.e., the television tower built in the 1960s by the former German Democratic Republic, or GDR, which remains the tallest structure in Germany today) as a guidepost, we walked in the direction of popular Alexanderplatz, a busy public square in the city center, before veering north to Hackescher Markt, which we heard was a pretty happening part of town. Along the way, we admired the graffiti and street art characteristic of Berlin’s urban landscape. 

Given the off hour, not much was going on at Hackescher Markt, so we kept wandering in the direction of Berliner Dom, where we found the well-known bronze figure study, known as Three Girls and A Boy, which sits on the eastern bank of the river Spree.

Nearby, we also found the DDR Museum, which was on our short list of things to see and do in Berlin.  One of the most unique museums we have seen yet, this place is an interactive environment that gives a feel for what it was like to live in socialist-era (1949-1990) East Germany (known in German, for short, as the DDR).  Every aspect of daily life is on exhibit, from the durable Trabant car that most people in East Germany drove, to the school materials that were used by young children, to the programs one would watch on state-controlled television, to the replica of a government-manufactured concrete slab flat, to the wardrobe that was fashionable in the day, to the shortages of jobs and food, to the surveillance equipment that was used to keep tabs on those suspected of harboring radical ideas.  Very interesting, we spent a couple of hours there and only left after we both realized that we were starving.  We skipped the modern-looking restaurant serving GDR cuisine located next door to the museum and, for that matter, every other restaurant in the Markt area serving entrees starting at 25 Euros or more.  Not in the mood for anything fancy, we decided on some cheap doner kebab, which seemed to be an infinitely more palatable option, both financially and gastronomically.  We ate our delicious street food, well, on the street, where it's meant to be enjoyed, as we took in our new surroundings.  There, we decided, upon a good six hours or so of being in town, that Berlin was cool.  It was much grittier and dirtier than Munich – much as New York City is to, say, Chicago – but that was exactly what we liked about it.  

When we had finished eating, we started back in the direction of Prenzlauer Berg. Despite the late evening hour, it was still quite bright out and it felt a bit strange to be calling it a day before nightfall.  We were huddled (literally, as it was cold out) on the corner of our street debating what to do, when I noticed the dimly lit, graffiti-covered, no-name bar on the corner.  That could be fun, I suggested.  Aman and I walked in and had a seat at the bar.  A small altar decorated with a Buddha statue and votive candle sat on the wall behind it.  The establishment did not serve food, but the guy sitting next to us had a plate of something delicious-looking from the Thai restaurant two doors down.  It seemed to be a very down-to-earth kind of place, and so we ordered a round of drinks from Betty, the sweet, blond-haired, blue-eyed girl behind the bar.  Over the course of the night, we chatted with her about Berlin, how it was different than other parts of Germany, where the locals hung out, traveling, etc.  Before long, it was midnight and Betty was bringing me a shot of vodka and cloudy apple juice with a sparkler on top... It was the official start of my birthday, and the official end of a great day in Berlin. 

Over the course of the next three days, we did a little bit of everything and a little bit of nothing.  First, a little bit of everything.  That took place the next day, on my birthday, where we fashioned ourselves a full-day walking tour of the city, beginning at the famous Brandenburg Gate.  Originally built in the late 18th century, the gate was inaccessible during post-war era partitioned Germany, and not reopened until late 1989 as the Berlin Wall began to fall.  Today, it stands as a symbol of freedom and unity.  

Through the Gate, we made a right and stopped at the Reichstag building – the assembly place of modern-day German parliament since 1999.  We inquired about going to the top of the building to check out the Reichstag Dome, designed in the early 1990s by Norman Foster to symbolize the reunification of Germany, which looked fairly cool in person, only to learn that one needs a three-day advance reservation to do so.  (Thanks again, Lonely Planet....)  Instead of touring the dome, we sat on the lawn behind the building, where we placed bets on (a) whether Chancellor Merkel was in the vicinity on that given day, and (b) whether the contents of the beer / wine bottles littering the lawn were enjoyed the night before or earlier that morning.

Pressing on, we walked along the outer edge of the Tiergarten (without venturing in, as we heard that it was too touristy and that we should visit other more genuine local parks) in the direction of the Holocaust Memorial, a series of stone slabs set upon an undulating plot of land, which sits adjacent to the park.  Not surprisingly, the experience of walking within the rows of “stelae” has a much more powerful impact than simply looking at them from the outside.

We did not stop at the underground Holocaust Museum because there was a very lengthy wait to get in, but rather, we continued in search of Checkpoint Charlie, the best-known Berlin Wall crossing point between East Berlin and West Berlin during the Cold War.  Along the surrounding streets, there is an open-air exhibit that documents the significance of the checkpoint and related history but, apart from that, the area is very touristy.

From Checkpoint Charlie, we went in search of the nearby Topographie Des Terrors, an outdoor museum that focuses on the crimes against humanity committed by the Nazis during World War II.  Not until we were there, did we fully appreciate where we were and the activities that took place in some of the buildings that previously stood in the area.  (The museum is built upon the site of the former headquarters of the Gestapo and SS, buildings that were demolished during and after WWII.)  The museum itself was, at times, disturbing, yet very informative and brutally honest.  In one picture, a massive group of people is being marched off to a death camp and, a few pictures down, a group of smiling camp officers are shown on a break from their duties along the shore of a picturesque lake.  Again, a pretty thought-provoking look at the grim and not-so-distant past. 

To lighten things up, Aman and I set off in search of dinner, which we found at the Hofbräuhaus near Alexanderplatz.  It was still my birthday, after all, and I fancied a beer in honor of the big day.  When we walked in, the place was full of a lively bunch and a band on the center stage was playing an entertaining mix of songs with which we were unfamiliar.   We ordered a round of Hofbräu lagers and some tasty German fare, which we enjoyed as much as the scene unfolding before our eyes.  The band had started performing a German rendition of Achy Breaky Heart, prompting many of the older patrons to hit the dance floor for some very enthusiastic line dancing.  Even those not adventurous enough to hit the floor were singing in their seats and clapping their hands overhead.  For sure, it was a birthday dinner like none other.

The following day, we decided to relax and explore Prenzlauer Berg, where we were staying.  A vibrant neighborhood full of shops, cafes, bars and restaurants with lots of little streets great for wandering, it did not take us long to find a tiny Italian café (Toccasana) that suited our purposes for the day (i.e. Panini, cappuccino, and, most importantly, Wi-Fi).  There, I spent the entire day sorting through, organizing and uploading photos while Aman took a walk to check out what was happening in the vicinity and, of course, take more photos.  (As of today, we have taken some 18,500 photos since the beginning of this trip.)

Upon his return, Aman excitedly informed me that he found an excellent-looking, heavenly-smelling Indische restaurant nearby (Simla).  And so, we ventured off and enjoyed the rest of the evening over copper-plated bowls of aloo palak (potatoes with fenugreek) and mutton biryani.

Our last day in Berlin was an interesting one.  I had a 2 p.m. doctor’s appointment in connection with a routine medical issue.  The doctor’s office was not far from our apartment, and Aman walked me there.  Do you know how long you’re going to be, he asked me fairly.  No clue, I replied.  Never been to a doctor in Germany and I am not sure about the process.  He told me that he would wait for me outside the office – there was an inviting-looking bench in the shade nearby – and I went inside where I was promptly given a patient intake form… in German.  Umm, I’m not really sure what you need me to fill in here, I told the receptionist apologetically as I made a sweeping, circular motion with my palm over the entire form.  She helped me fill in the bare requirements.  The preliminary medical questions were also fun.  Do you know how tall you are in meters, asked the medical assistant.  Nope, I replied honestly.  Weight in kilos?  Not exactly, I offered.  She smiled and kicked a scale my way in response.  I then went back into the waiting room until – finally – over an hour later, the doctor was ready to see me. 

Meanwhile, outside, Aman was passing the time by playing poker on his iPhone.  He had just won a big hand, when he looked up and noticed two police officers standing nearby, whispering and looking in his direction.  As soon as he made contact with one of them, the officers walked over to him.  What are you doing here, asked one of the officers.  Sitting on a bench, replied Aman.  The police officer asked Aman for his passport (which he didn’t have on him).  Upon further questioning, Aman told the officer that he was waiting for me and pointed to the doctor’s office.  The police officers turned and walked into the doctor’s office (I didn’t see them, as I was with the doctor).  Minutes later, they walked out, nodded to Aman, and said everything was fine.  Not long after he had returned to his poker game, however, Aman looked up and saw that the officers will still standing at a distance and watching him.  Upon eye contact, the officers approached Aman once more.  Sir, we’d like you to come with us and point out your fiancé.  Aman stood up and shook his head.  By this time, I was done with the doctor, sitting in the waiting room and waiting for the invoice so I could pay and leave, when I saw Aman come in with a German police officer.  Ang, can you say hello to this nice officer please, asked Aman.  Baffled, I looked at the officer and asked him what was wrong.  Nothing ma’am, nothing ma’am, everything’s okay, the officer reassured me as he turned on his heels and started for the door.  I’ll be right out, I told a weary-looking Aman.

Back on the street, the police officer apologized to Aman and explained that they had received a complaint about an Indian woman in the area who was begging for money and bothering people.  Apparently, they thought that Aman was “affiliated” with her…

And so, after an exhausting afternoon for the both of us, we went for a leisurely stroll in a nice neighborhood that Betty had recommended.  Along the way, we stopped at a park, Volkspark am Weinberg, where we spotted what looked like a small outdoor café-bar.  Excuse me, Aman said to the lone barwoman.  Do you serve beer?  She cocked her head to one side and studied Aman carefully.  I wouldn’t work here if we didn’t, she replied. 

As we sat beneath an overhang at the café, a brief downpour passed through, sending everyone in the park running for cover.  When the rain stopped, Aman and I left the park and turned down Torstrasse in the direction of Prenzlauer Berg.  Nearing our apartment, we stopped at our favorite little neighborhood bar (Uebereck, I would later learn) to say hello, and good-bye, to Betty who was working that night.  After we told her about our day, she promptly poured a round of vodka with cloudy apple juice shots for us all and immediately restored our faith in the kindness of Berliners.  

And that is pretty much how our time in Berlin came to a close.  Despite Aman being mildly harassed by the police on suspicion of being a pimp (an unfortunate incident indeed), we still think that Berlin is a pretty cool place -  youthful, vibrant, multiculturally diverse - and, no doubt, shaped into the city it is today by some very tough times in its past.