Crossing Country of Cruyff

Have you ever been to Amsterdam? How about Brussels?

I dropped by Amsterdam and Brussels last February, on the way to Bristol for daughter's graduation. It was actually my second time to Amsterdam. I passed through the city  way back in 1999 on a brief business trip to Rotterdam. It's so brief and so business that I hardly remember anything.

It's different this time: three nights in Amsterdam and two nights in Brussels. The winter was cold and I was old, so I came away with a sense of triumph. But, seriously, what an incredible expedition. Planes, trains, trams, buses, boats, we took them all. Amsterdam and Brussels were lovely, lively and  so young and clean, with lots of character.

Character is, of course, a loaded and unscientific construct. A random travel blog would invariably fete and flatter a city like Bangkok, typifying it as the quintessential Asian city that exudes charisma and character. I've been to Bangkok a few times and I'd struggle to guess which part of the city the writer actually saw. She's probably lived all her life in sleepy Oslo. (Travel writers are 90% female).

I've not been travelling all that much, due mostly to time constraints. And travel is never cheap. The cost has been increasing since Marco Polo brought back fake silk from China. I've not been to Eastern Europe, Scandinavia, South America and Africa (except Cape Town). And Russia. That's more than 150 countries combined.

But, of course, some countries, like Moldova or Mali, are completely pointless. No economic man would want to visit Moldova or Mali any time soon. So the countries you'd really want to seriously see before you die shouldn't be more than fifty. I still have some way to go.

So my benchmark for a pretty place is far from gold standard, and may differ starkly from that of Chef Wan who's been travelling widely while cooking or cooking widely while travelling. I like Tuscany and its dreamy landscape. And nearby Venice, how to forget. The good chef may not agree with me, but he doesn't agree with everybody.

But let's get back to this business of Amsterdam and Brussels.       

Some Introduction

I'm writing this part with my sister-in-law in mind. She thinks Ottawa is in Japan.

So I'd like to educate her before going full-steam ahead with this piece, so that she can read with some foretaste and perspective. You may want to skip this if you've been to any part of Europe. Australia is not in Europe. Australia is in Australia.

The Netherlands is a mouthful name for a country. A Malaysian traveller will always say "Last month I went to Amsterdam", although he went to Amsterdam, Rotterdam, Maastricht and Giethoorn. Some people would get around this discomfort by saying Holland. But Holland is only one of the several parts of the Netherlands.

Of course, you could say Dutch, which is easier and faster, but Dutch is not the country. It's the  nationality or language (the Dutch speak Dutch), adjective (Dutch lady),  adverb (let's go Dutch), verb (she dutches him, a misspelling for she ditches him), or proverb (seperti  Dutch minta tanah). 

To cut this palaver short, only a reasonably literate person would say "Last month I went to the Netherlands" when he means the country. No choice here. You can't take the easy way out by saying "Last month I went to Portugal". Portugal is a different country.   

Belgium and Brussels are easier to handle. Belgium is the country, to the north of the Netherlands.  The people and the adjective are Belgian, like Belgian waffles. There are no illegal Belgians in the Netherlands and vice versa.

Amsterdam, and the Netherlands, will always remind me of Johan Cruyff, one of the four finest footballers on earth ever. Maradona, Messi, Pele, Cruyff, in that order. He played more than 200 times for Ajax Amsterdam and was voted world's best footballer three times. His football philosophy and vision has had a huge influence on latter-day leading lights like Pep Guardiola. Cruyff's oft-quoted wisdom "Before I make a mistake, I don't make that mistake" is so elegant that I suspect he was also a part-time poet.

Amsterdam is about ten times more famous than Brussels. 

KL - London Heathrow 12 Feb 2020

The morning flight was half-full or half-empty, depending on your attitude. The novel coronavirus outbreak was beginning to hurt the travel industry. On board everybody was glancing suspiciously around. This wasn't the best of times to travel. I wasn't sure how bad this new disease was shaping out to be, but the three of us (me, wife and daughter Aida) just took the risk. We'd been looking forward to Aidas's graduation since the day she was born. A wayward virus wouldn't be enough to deter us, we decided, leaving ourselves in God's hands.

The 14-hour flight was uneventful. I suddenly discovered that I could no longer enjoy movies or music. Perhaps I'm just too old. The new clutch of actors and singers are just difficult to like. Charles Bronson had long been dead, and Blackmore had gone bonkers for no reason. Why can't the airlines allow us to use our own earphones instead of their dirty and Daiso-quality headphones?

So it was real music to my ears when the Airbus shook as it hit the Heathrow tarmac. Outside was 8°C, but I was ready with three layers of shirts, or four actually.

London St Pancras - Amsterdam 13 Feb 2020 

After a night layover in Hounslow, we were ready to invade Amsterdam.

The peak-hour Piccadilly line from Hounslow  to St Pancras International was bursting with peak- hour crowd. From St Pancras we'd be taking the mid-morning Eurostar for a 4 hr joyride to Amsterdam, passing under the English Channel into France and Belgium before hitting Amsterdam at about 4 afternoon.

This was a totally new experience and we were all pumped up. I could only quietly wish all my grandchildren were here with us, running up and down the platform.

St Pancras International has been consistently voted the best railway station in Europe. No wonder. It  was an exquisite piece of architecture, a far cry from our hare-brained KL Central with Le Cucur selling nasi lemak at RM 14.50 a pop.

But Eurostar was a bit of a letdown. I'd expected the coach to be spacious and well-liveried with modern interior design, pastel colours and so on. But, no. It's all straight stuff, 90 seats per coach, reasonable legroom, better than the Piccadilly. But for £35 a ticket, I thought this one-way trip was good value.

We booked three seats of two two-seater  seats facing each other with a table in the middle. I'd really hoped the fourth seat would be left empty and the three of us could have all the privacy to mop up  our breakfast leftovers and Kettle chips. But it was full-house, somebody had taken the fourth seat. We'd no choice but to make friend with him, provide him food etc, I mean, he could well be an orphan or homeless, who knew.

His name was Binyamin, and he was an Iranian Muslim from Cardiff. In a way it was good to have him around because, you know, my wife and I, we'd be talking about the same stuff to each other for the last 35 years, so maybe it was time to talk to somebody else about something else.

We hit it off right away and I could see that he was gregarious type. He talked in clear English about his mother Fatima, about Iranians, and his dog. He'd been to lots of places, and his one travel tip: Don't go to Tbilisi, Georgia. The locals never said thank you and  the immigration even asked him whether he had a nose-job. We promised him we'd never get a nose-job or go to Tbilisi.   

We posted a picture of us brimming proudly with our new-found friend on our family WhatsApp. My son quickly responded: "Scammer".

At about 4.30 our train finally pulled into Amsterdam Centraal (Central) Station. Amsterdam! The Netherlands!

Binyamin waved us goodbye before disappearing into a thick throng of commuters. We'd been to lots of places and had our share of  unpleasant encounters. He's definitely not one of them.

Amsterdam is in the Netherlands, remember? All signs at the station were in Dutch. We'd to run around to find a ticket booth to buy train tickets to Haarlem. The Dutch were generally tall and rangy, about a foot taller than an average Kelantanese. Most could speak English very well with delightful Dutch accent. Talking to them, I'd to literally look skywards. We finally found a ticket booth and bought train tickets to Haarlem.

But why and what's Haarlem?

Haarlem 13 February 2020 

Well, Haarlem is a small town just outside Amsterdam, about 15-minute out by train. Harlem the borough of New York City was named after this Haarlem, probably as a logical extension of New Amsterdam, the former name of New York City. I hope this isn't too complicated.   

I'd decided to have Haarlem as our base camp to explore Amsterdam and the nearby countryside. Tourist hotels in downtown Amsterdam were mostly medieval structures and relics rebuilt after World War II. Most rooms were only slightly bigger than a flight deck, and you've to share the toilets with students and backpackers who wash their clothes and themselves on annual basis.

All Amsterdam city hotels claimed to be within fifty metres of the notorious Red Light District. And each hotel came with a caution that stairs were dark, narrow and steep and hotel wouldn't responsible for injuries, next-door noise, deaths etc. Aida's mom wouldn't survive these hotels.

Our hotel, New Amsterdam Hotel, in Haarlem was quiet and spacious with modern fixtures and organic soap. Our room, at ground level and about fifty metres from Haarlem rail station, was clearly knee-friendly. At only RM 1200 for three nights, it was real value compared to anything similar in Amsterdam. Every room was named after somebody famous. Ours was Malcolm X. I'm all for it as long as it's not Donald Trump. 

Amsterdam 14 February 2020
        

Our plan was to spend one whole day today (Friday) seeing Amsterdam, and only Amsterdam. The next day we would explore the region and the smaller rural towns like Zaanse Schans, Edam, Volendam, Marken and, if time and weather permit, Biljmer.  Ambitious itinerary but doable even at my age.

For this purpose, we bought  two-day Amsterdam and Region tickets at Haarlem Station. The tickets, €28  (RM 130) each, would allow us to travel in Amsterdam and the region on  train, tram, underground, bus and ferry as many times as we'd like for 48 hours. It was expensive, but cheaper than single-trip tickets.   

We took a morning train from Haarlem to Amsterdam Central Station, mingling with daily Dutch commuters. It was only a fifteen-minute ride, but long enough for the idle mind to get curious. The Dutch people impressed me as a serious and well-behaved lot, as compared to, say, Italians who were louder and easier. Italians are smaller-sized but better-looking.

On this train you'd hardly hear any loud conversation or phone calls and other silly stuff you'd experience on the Piccadilly line. The (tall) lady in the next seat  looked tense and bothered. Could she be a remote descendant of the Dutch sailors who attacked and took Malacca in 1647? Was she having an attack of conscience looking at us? Before I could conclude,  the train came to a full stop.  

Coming out of Amsterdam Central, it was hard not to marvel at the sight of Amsterdam in full wintry glory. The canal buildings were uniquely expressive with sleek architecture and tilting posture. It  was all the more remarkable when I realized that we were actually six feet below sea level, and had it not been for the clever set of canals cutting and criss-crossing the city, we'd have drowned.

If you're not Dutch, you're not much! How to argue with that. Smart and skilled people, these Dutch, turning a natural backwater into a European busy gateway, crossroads and commercial trading station. Natural resources are scarce but the country is home to global consumer mega-brands like Shell, Philips, ING, Unilever and Heineken.

Amsterdam is now an undisputed tourist heaven. The brand name is so strong that unsuspecting people from just about everywhere descend on the city just because it's Amsterdam. But, to be fair, there was plenty on offer. The canals, the flowers in April, cheese in loud varieties, Rembrandt, museums, museums and more museums everywhere.  I forgot to mention Red Light District, sorry.

The first thing for us to do now was to find the boat terminal for our canal cruise. We'd bought the tickets online, €12 apiece. We finally found our boat bobbing on the canal and we  immediately boarded it and, in the true Kelantan spirit, grabbed the best seats. A busload of Chinese tourists came in later to fill up the boat. Not from Wuhan, please God.

I thought the canal cruise was well worth it, the guide was funny. He covered both the modern and historical parts of Amsterdam, including a splendid view of Anne Frank house, now a museum. Aida told me we'd  need to book six months ahead to see it. I'm 67 and live on daily basis. 

The streets and alleys were choked with people and more people, seemingly oblivious of the near-freezing temperature and biting breeze. I had a Pagoda singlet, an old office shirt, a cotton sweater and a heavy windbreaker on, plus a Manchester City muffler strangling my neck, but my whole body was shaking every time I stopped moving. We unfroze by moving aimlessly and finally found ourselves in the famous Dam Square where all the aimless people finally ended at. A magician or somebody was performing for free, but I was so cold that I missed all the tricks.

Aida wanted to look up something and we took a tram out of city centre to an Amsterdam neighbourhood, about four or five stops away. I wasn't sure what was she up to because I didn't see  anything moving here. It was like a dead part of Amsterdam. Dutch is not an easy language and some words are long. A long word is actually a sentence or can even be a conversation. Aida might've mistaken one conversation for another conversation.

The bus and tram stops here didn't have big and bold signs like Abdullah Hukum, Taipan etc so we missed our stop and had to get off at another one further up. We stumbled on  a mosque (Al Fateh Mosque) and I could see people almost running in for Friday prayer. I went in and joined the crowd for a high-spirited khutbah - in Turkish. We missed our stop, but found a mosque for Friday prayer.  What a pleasant turn of events. You can get philosophical over things like this.  

It was about 4 afternoon when we finally hobbled into our hotel in Haarlem. After a short rest, I went out with Aida to see Haarlem. Aida's mom decided to stay put, saving her tired knees for tomorrow.

As expected, Haarlem was a pretty, typical Dutch town with its own canals, courtyards, markets, and tall Dutch people riding undersized bicycles. Bicycle was the main transport here, and everywhere in the country. Cycling was an obsession, with its own lane, parking, laws, culture, dating site, radio stations etc. I heard the Dutch Prime Minister also cycled to office. So there's no real competition to be a PM here.

On the way back, we stopped at one Albert Heighn supermarket to buy bread and strawberry jam for breakfast. I'm a bread pundit, so just one look and I knew. The Dutch were seriously hopeless bread makers.

Outside Amsterdam 15 February 2020

With Amsterdam done, we'd be travelling out today to explore the countryside outside Amsterdam. Our main destination was Zaanse Schans, and the object of desire was its famous windmills.

But we forgot Cruyff catch-line, and made a mistake.

Instead of heading straight to Zaanse Schans, we digressed into Beverwijk Bazaar and wasted two precious hours. On paper it was the biggest market in the whole country. In reality it was the biggest scam in the whole world. The stuff were mostly Chinese, and the traders were Arabs and Africans playing loud music. Don't come here if you ever visit Amsterdam. Go to Jalan Pasar instead. If you don't know where Jalan Pasar is, just stay home and be safe.

It was past noon when we finally saw the windmills and the wooden green houses of Zaanse Schans. The windmills were moving very slowly and they certainly looked much bigger in real life. Certainly bigger than the ones on Milkmaid and Dutch Lady packs. Honestly I didn't know whether these structures still had any useful function, other than bringing in tourist money. The windmills were part of a small recreated Dutch village, complete with small houses, small shops, small artisan workshops, small museum, all fully functional. How did the tall Dutchmen cope and breathe within these small spaces, I wondered.

The rustic feel and atmosphere of the village was enough to keep us hanging about for a while. It was late afternoon and we still had Edam, Volendam and Marken to do. And Biljmer. Travel writers had all raved about these little towns (picturesque, quaint, cheese), so I thought it might be useful to check out and confirm the hype.

There was only road connection in this corner of the country so we'd to find the right bus. Dutch buses were super efficient and comfortable, but lack the daredevil speed and urgency of our Rapid buses, which should be handy now that we'd very little daylight left. Visiting all four towns now looked impossible.

For the first time we were clueless and short of ideas. It was time to improvise, so we just took a bus to Edam and hoped for the best. Edam was purportedly famous for a unique variety of cheese called Edam. We're not cheese freaks (I'd prefer budu). We just wanted to see the town and buy some souvenirs. It was a pleasant trip with scenic countryside and a glimpse of Dutch "rural" life along the way.

Dutch houses were mostly straightforward and functional structures, with sharp, triangular roof and walls painted in a monochromic combination of green and green. This was inexplicably at odds with the rich, vibrant colour and creativity of the Dutch artists and impressionists.

Edam bus terminal way outside the town centre, on a no man's land. There was nothing at the bus terminal except buses and bus drivers.  No special cheese, no canals, no tall Dutch people. We were unhappy, to say the least, and took another bus back to Amsterdam Central. And then a train to Haarlem.

There's a direct bus from Haarlem station to Biljmer, the location of the Johan Cruyff ArenA, the home of Ajax Amsterdam.  It's part of my wish list, but it's an hour away, and it's almost dark and dark clouds were gathering ominously. We were not going to make a mistake.

On the way back to hotel, I kept repeating A Samad Said's poetic lines "segala yang dihasrat, tapi tak didapat, adalah nikmat, yang paling padat". I felt better.

Amsterdam to Brussels 16 February 2020 

Today we'd be crossing Cruyff's country into Belgium.

After three days of hopping on and off the train, we're beginning to like Haarlem station. Only now we could appreciate its elaborate architecture and the rugged beauty. The high semi-circular roof on top of the solid prewar steel structure was uncannily similar to that of St Pancras. 

We boarded a train here on this sedate Sunday morning for the last time. We'd get off at Amsterdam Central and transfer to another train for our onward journey to Brussels. It took us almost three hours by Intercity train to Brussels, a distance of about 200 km. It stopped at many stations to load and unload passengers. And bicycles.

From the train we could see that the Netherlands was flatter than pancake. No mountains, no hills, sparse vegetation, so much water. Cycling here should be effortless, and much easier than in Malaysia with all those rainforests, rivers, toll booths and road bullies blocking the way.

Brussels Central station was pleasantly fast and easy. We were out and up on the main street in less than ten minutes. Lugging our bags towards our hotel just a stone-throw away, we'd to navigate through large crowds of mostly young people moving about and talking in either French or Dutch or German. This had to be the centre of Brussels, and Hotel Agora Grand Place was smack in the centre of the centre of Brussels.

Our room was at the topmost (third) floor. This small hotel had no lift, which was technically equivalent to a mid-Richter earthquake hitting us. This building was built well before Isaac Newton founded calculus, so the stairs were all steep, narrow and winding. The good receptionist quickly calculated my age and my wife's age and offered to carry all our bags up to our room.

The room was well-appointed with generous space for our bags and Brahims. As we stepped in, my wife's knees collapsed. 

Brussels 17 February 2020

Only this morning we realized that, if not for the sharp stairs, our room would be just perfect. It overlooked the beautiful Agora Square where tourists and locals alike gathered and did nothing. From the room we had a clear view of a band of street musicians (probably Roma) performing before an appreciative passing audience.

We'd hardly recovered from the Beverwijk blunder, and we were already planning for another market outing in the morning. But this time the intent was to actually explore the heart and breadth of Brussels, and the market was just a side-track. Since this was going to be 100% on foot and knees, Aida's mom quite rightly decided to stay back and rest her knees and maybe watch the gypsies. I went out with Aida and let her handle Googlemaps and my job was to get upset whenever she missed a turn.

We found the market after half an hour of easy walk. Morolles Market was a small, open air affair with a genuine market feel, easy pace, and cash only. I finally settled for three dinner plates (physical plates, not KFC), quite rare pieces in the sense that they were made in England. I was happy with the purchase and would remember this place.

We retraced our way back, but not straight to hotel. We veered out to see some nice old buildings, monuments, statues, parks and open spaces around Parc de Bruxelles (Brussels Park?).  Unlike flat and watery Amsterdam, Brussels was hilly and winding. We climbed to the highest point for a vantage view of the city.  I can promise you Brussels is breathtaking and stylish. It's a pity that Amsterdam is much more famous. It's all marketing and branding, believe me. Brussels badly needs  a marketing campaign.

We were back at the hotel and found the gypsies performing before a large crowd at the square. Aida's mom was happy with the plates and unhappy that I'd not bought the complete set. Good thing she wasn't fully fit. 

After a one-hour breather, we all went down the wicked stairs and out to see the literally hundreds of shops and eateries around our hotel. Every other shop here was a chocolate shop manned by well-dressed woman. Looking around, I  noticed that the people here were so young, and wondered how could they be so rich and happy making only chocolates and waffles.

Aida bought a few packs of chocolates for office mates. I saw a Carrefour and went in to buy two bottles of Italian-made strawberry jam, part of my travel ritual. On the way back, we strayed into a small Pakistani joint selling halal burgers and chicken biryani. You can guess what happened.   

Less than five minutes away, right behind our hotel, is the iconic Grand Place. It's Grand Place (French), not Grand Palace (English), although it looked like a grand palace. This World Heritage Site and the most famous sight in Belgium was technically a big square hemmed all sides by intricately designed and decorated buildings, similar in concept to a piazza in an Italian city. We went there twice and it was dazzling at night with the lights changing their tones.

Brussels to Bristol 18 February 2020

This afternoon we'd be flying out of Brussels to Bristol for Aida's graduation tomorrow.

We took a train from Brussels Central to Brussels Airport with ample time for our 4.50 flight on Brussels Airlines to Bristol. It was a direct, one-hour flight from Brussels to Bristol. I'd taken the risk and booked these flights last November at only €29 each. It would've cost us €250 if we bought last week. I'd never felt so clever.

Brussels Airport wasn't too big, but certainly more spacious and easier to navigate (than KLIA) without wretched aerotrain, duty free shops and illegal immigrants. A big prayer room at the third floor was a pleasant surprise.

At the check-in counter I discovered that we would be flying on Cityjet, a third-party airline operating flights to Bristol on behalf of Brussels Airlines. I learned later that this arrangement is called wet leasing, another fancy airline jargon, in addition to the extortionate ones like excess luggage, flight delays, missed connection and non-refundable.

Our worst fear was flight cancellation because storms with sexy names had been battering UK for the past few weeks. So I was happy to see the Cityjet contraption, a smallish 90-seater Bombardier, parked way off apron. We'd to walk alfresco to board it, quite similar to Silangit Airport at Lake Toba, except that this airport was in Belgium, not Indonesia.      

Nothing remarkable about the flight except that the English pilot and crew spoke very good English. We landed at Bristol at about 5 pm, gaining one full hour due to time difference. It was drizzling when we grabbed a Grab car, and reached our hotel after one hour. We were so happy to see Bristol again, even in wet winter evening like this.

Bristol to Heathrow to KL 19 February 2020

Aida's graduation at University of Bristol ran with typical English efficiency and finished at 12.30. We left Bristol, probably for the last time, on a National Express bus for Heathrow. Bye, Bristol. 

Flight MH001 to KL was right on time. It was another round of 14-hour flight, movies with bad actors, and dirty headphones. But I'd plenty of time to cast my mind back and reflect.

It's been a joyful journey although I didn't go to Red Light District hahaha. Travelling through the Netherlands and Belgium, it's hard not to be inspired. The cities and people are gorgeous and vibrant. These two countries combined are smaller than Sarawak and their only tangible resource is sea water. They've no right to be so rich and productive. My impression is that their people are clever and talented, and everybody creates and produces something useful. We have forests and fresh water and oil, but everybody complains everyday.

My only gripe is that both Amsterdam and Brussels are too white, you know what I mean, unlike the more cosmopolitan London or even Bristol. There's always this tinge of uneasiness when you're more conspicuous than sore thumbs. Unforgettable experience nonetheless, and a reminder that we can't have the Piccadilly line every time.

So my idea of travelling is buying bread? Hahaha. Amsterdam has more than 140 museums and I didn't visit a single one. I went to the British Museum last year and didn't come away exactly more enlightened. My joy of travelling is mostly sight-seeing, and I do just that: seeing sights, at my own pace. I can get high just looking at local people, buildings, bridges, rivers, trees, trains, towns, villages,  universities, road signs, shops, markets, apple pies, fruits, toilets. I could go on.

Where would I go next? Nothing comes to mind yet, but one place I won't be going to is Tbilisi.
        

   










     


    



.