I have to prefix this blog post by stating that I am nothing akin to resembling a morning person and I had had 3 hours of sleep before heading out to experience the wonders of the mausoleum and its accompanying museum. The Mausoleum houses the preserved corpse of Ho Chi Minh, a leader who founded the Democratic Republic of Vietnam. During weekdays, the Mausoleum is only open until 12pm and I had currently avoided seeing it until recently from sheer laziness. Having passed the site numerous times, I was confident in my ability to rock up without so much of plan and blitz the grounds from 10am, with a mouth full of gritted determination and a decisive shutter finger. Apparently, reality had other plans for my arrival. Finding motorbike parking next to a roundabout close to the Mausoleum that cost me a whole 5,000 VND (<$0.25 US), I confidently dismounted my scooter only to end up becoming a bird at the window of a bakery. Despite seeing lines of visitors walking across the grounds and an uninterrupted line of sight to the building, I couldn’t discern where this mystical portal allowing entry could possibly be. After asking a security guard and following signs for a few blocks, I eventually found the road to petrification.
Courtesy of Google Maps. The red route is the ‘son-of-a-bitch walkway.’
As a general description of the route from the entrance of the grounds to the exit of the Mausoleum – it was a fairly linear path with just a slight semblance of freedom of choice along the way. I couldn’t help feel that it was a rather apt representation of what the building itself championed.
After a seemingly pointless security check, where not a single pat-down of a patron was given after a conspicuously loud metal scanner alarm, I received a rather fetching temporary handbag and parted ways with my backpack as it chilled in the bag check area.
Although the route through the site was scenic enough from the decoration of foliage and glimpses of the Ho Chi Minh Museum, it was another chore en route to the main event and the images of singing elderly men playing on television screens along the way were of little interest. Once upon the route to the Mausoleum proper, it was now time to say goodbye to the fleeting love that adorned my arm and part ways with the camera that we had supported, together. Strangely enough, it was requested that any professional cameras were checked into the holding shack, but we were allowed to keep hold of any phones. Seemingly, security guards shouting at anyone who tried to use their phones were deemed a suitable deterrent (to my annoyance after trying to contact a friend.)
When you finally reach the foot of the monolithic building, it is hard to feel anything other than distaste at such an unapologetically hideous looking creature of stone. Once inside, the plastic red carpet leads you through the bowels of the building and into the chamber of Ho Chi Minh’s death-slumber, with nought but solemn stares and silence to fill the air. Whilst I am no stranger to preserved body parts and specimens, the perversion behind this setup was a little disturbing, like the Victorian death portraits, but a live-action peepshow of which we were all perverts vying for a fix of the dire. Shuffling along the edges of the chamber, my eyes alternated between the orange-lit, domed head of Ho Chi Minh and the numerous guards in white, serving their master in his afterlife.
Exiting the spying booth, the daylight had a hard, judging light to it, but once reunited and reconciled with my departed camera it was onto the next – for the first time in my visit to the site I was given an actual option on how to advance onwards: ‘left to the museum and One Pillar Pagoda’ or ‘right to the Presidential Palace.’ I’d hate to ruin a surprise, but both paths take you back to the exit of the grounds; the choice leading right, however, lets you pay 40,000 VND (under $2 US) to see the housing buildings of the deceased president before reaching the exit.
Fully saturated in the vat of lucidity that comes with sleep deprivation, a lot of the photographs and information dotted about the presidential grounds held little attention or interest, but once pointed straight towards the One-Pillar Pagoda and Ho Chi Minh Museum, spirits were greatly lifted – not only freedom to wander and to photograph, but to also mill about and observe the different, and often colourful, groups of tourists.
With only 20 minutes to view the museum and make it back to the original bag check before 12pm, there was 0 to none opportunity to take in the information on display inside the museum and with a brisk pace and discerning eye for photographs, it was a whistlestop affair. To my shock and surprise, the museum was full of art displays and alternative pieces inspired by the history of Vietnam – it was a welcome contrast to the grey and gothic scenes that had come just before.
Accidentally exiting via the car park and not the front of the building, I managed to dodge a motorbike tour salesmen, load up with my bag again and trek back to my scooter for a ride straight to land of dreams before I had to start work in the evening. Thankfully, it wasn’t a nightmare making my way there.
Overall?
Living here, in Vietnam, it is pretty imperative that I discover and learn about the local culture and history that I am clearly benefitting from, but learning from the Mausoleum itself may need only be a one-shot deal to that end; the Ho Chi Minh Museum itself was really intriguing and it was such a shame that I had to the former, only to be briefly introduced to the latter. The museum is also open in the afternoons and I’d be perfectly happy to frequent it again with my camera and a head filled with rest and patience. Considering the fact that the only part of touring the grounds paid for was the Presidential Palace, it isn’t the worst attraction I have ever encountered, but as far as unintentionally creepy opportunities to experience local culture go: you are a great ruler, Ho Chi Minh.
With these guys; it was pretty much written in stone.
After spending the morning rushing around the city and generally getting lost, I decided to do something with my only second consecutive day off since starting work here in Hanoi. Making sure to charge my camera, I headed out late in the afternoon, to have my roommate tell me that the temple closed at 4:30pm so I’d better hurry; thankfully for me, that didn’t seem to be the case. The temple itself was pretty easy to find thanks to Google maps and my ability to locate a sizeable city block dedicated to a single collection of buildings. Lying just south of the Ho Chi Minh Mausoleum, the Temple of Literature is a stark contrast to the rag-tag buildings and shops that pepper its circumference. Navigating my way to the parking area that was just to the left of the main entrance gate, on the south face of the block, I wasted no time in finding the ticket booth. I was surprised to see even this late into a chilly and slightly wet December afternoon, that there were many people still walking around the site. Entrance costs for a single, adult ticket were 30,000 VND (around US$1.33) and I picked up a leaflet for another 8,000 VND (US$0.40) which gave a little information and context to the site, but more than that I was greatly impressed by its durability – it had seemingly been printed onto laminated paper and would seemingly give non-tear playing cards a run for their money.
The Temple of Literature, or as the site was known: Quoc Tu Giam, was originally the first National University of Vietnam, constructed in 1076. The University taught students in the ways of Confucianism so that they may become doctor laureates and mandarins (I believe that is not the fruit.)
It was the tourist, in the garden, with a camera…
Walking through the first doorway of the site, named the Great Portico, you can’t help but to admire the rectangular symmetry that runs throughout the grounds; from the courtyards to the door frames, 4 sides and 90-degree angles are king. Veering around tourists and loved-up couples I rushed to photograph as much as possible before security or remaining daylight decided to end my day for me, as it turns out, I need not have worried so much. Although the gardens were clearly well looked after, the grey of the sky and the lack of warm temperature seemed to add a lifeless edge to the plant life present. Although there were some flower displays before the Great Middle Gate, there was a real lack of vibrant colour and especially of life in the four ponds of the garden before reaching Khue Van Pavillion. Shaking off thoughts of being a crime scene photographer I carried on, to the majestically named 82 Doctor Stelae, and the Well of Heavenly Clarity (it was not crystal clear, I would also add.)
The stelae were literally records in stone of the Doctors that graduated the University from 1442 to 1779 and of great pride to Confucian scholars, they have at least seemingly lasted the ages.
Let me check in the back for you.
Moving deeper into the grounds, you come to the Courtyard of the Sage Sanctuary which greets visitors with an intricate metal urn featuring three dragon heads twisting to the sky flanked by snaking dragons facing the bottom of the urn. Once again, the symmetry of the courtyard was beautiful, but it seemed sparse and barren. The courtyard was hugged by gift shops on each side and stared down by large rectangular building containing statues and a gold plated tortoise. There was no need to take shoes off and the staff were surprisingly relaxed about tourists taking pictures and walking around the entire building. It would seem that ceremony, more so than religion, was the general thought in place.
Heading back out into the courtyard, I followed a rather ominous sign and trail to the final segment of the grounds – Thai Hoc Gate and Thai Hoc Courtyard.
The courtyard here was even more lacklustre than its predecessors, but the real gem here was inside the main building at the far side of it – a few more gift stalls, but also more information on the site and its history, and numerous statues and displays with a great deal more grandeur to them. The highlight of an earlier building was a gold plated tortoise – here each statue on the upper level was gold plated. Left to my own devices, I casually wandered around the ground floor taking photographs and then graduated to the upper floor where there was a garish display of gold and colour. If colour had been shared across the site, I would say that the upper floor of the final building had stolen it from the gardens and earlier courtyards – or perhaps it was left as a reward for those willing to seek out the sight.
Taking an opportunity to step out onto a balcony, the fading light outside still did not damper my mood as I looked out over the grounds surrounding either front corner of the building. Unfortunately, the noise from the city could still penetrate the contrasting peacefulness of the temple, but my desire to see something new had been sufficiently satiated. Being one of the few visitors left on site, I made my way for the car park at around 5:30pm and had the pleasure of paying a hefty 5,000 VND (US$0.22) for being the last person to reclaim their bike.
Overall?
Whether a solo tourist, madly-in-love couple or a sheep on a tour, the Temple of Literature is definitely worth seeing; if not to learn about the history and culture of Vietnam, then at least to take some shameless selfies to show how world-cultured you are. There are plenty of benches lining the courtyards and gardens, so if you want to sit and people watch, the world is your goldfish bowl. You can attempt to learn how best to take photographs in low-level settings; chat to the air, and your lover, about how seemingly poetic it is that the trees so twisted and gnarled in an ugly way appear indisputably beautiful; then again, maybe you just like to be part of a garbled squad of cameras herded from one pen to the next by a knowledgeable shepherd – in either case, a total cost of 43,000 VND (under 2 US dollars) for entry, basic information and parking, isn’t going to break the bank and certainly isn’t worse than doing something meaningless elsewhere.
I want to break free (whilst riding on a clapped-out scooter.)
After living in Hanoi for the last 2 months, I had yet to venture out of the confines of the greater city area and after a few drinks and a cobbled-together plan, myself and 3 workmates headed out to explore some scenes of nature that the city had denied us.
Once we had burnt through a hangover worthy of cheap Bia Hoi drinks, we scrambled to organise and meet at a Big C shopping centre south of Hanoi; with most of the morning lost to us, it was time to begin the journey proper. The route was fairly simple and direct, but thanks to a continuous downpour of rain the mood and the average speed grew decidedly more morose.
Hanoi is on the right and Ba Vi is the green area West of the city. Compliments of Google maps.
Easily the most enjoyable part of the ride to the park (before it became soggy and disappointing) was being able to go at speeds way in excess of those normally possible on the chronically congested city roads – the feeling of continuous momentum was slightly addictive and more than welcome. Once the rain made its stage appearance to boos and hisses, the only positively memorable experience was passing a construction crew surfacing a road and being waved across hot tarmac – the steam blocking our vision and the heady smell prolific in the air.
After accidentally passing our turning towards the park, we doubled back and found a restaurant where we could relax, dry off a bit and enjoy some Bun Cha (thin noodles with pork and soup.) The food outside of the city definitely has a nicer taste and bbq’d pork with a beer was much more pleasing when a fair few dozen kilometres into the unknown. Although, the frequency of Thit Cho restaurants (dog meat) was a little surprising as well; thankfully we had a slightly proficient Vietnamese-speaker in our party, so were safe from ingesting any furry, four-legged friends.
Parks and Rec.
Eventually arriving at the park after more than 2 hours from our time of departure, the cost of entry was 40,000 VND with an extra 6,000 VND for our bikes, which altogether is just over 2 USD. The trail was fairly simple and the roads were for the most part completely paved, which came as quite a surprise; even my 11-year-old, automatic scooter was more than a match for the ominously steep switchbacks and inclines. Before you could realise, you were escalating the mountain at an alarmingly fast rate – something that was very easy to do if you were enjoying every twist and turn the road had to offer to you. Admittedly, fuel consumption was a worry to me – our group had tanks that were half to three-quarters full, but as it turns out, my concerns were nothing more than an anxiety whisper in my ear.
Our first stop was to visit the ruins of a French church about half way up the mountain – the cloister of buildings looked amazing, but the centrepiece of the main church hall was the most breathtaking structure. It looked like something out of an Indian Jones set and the scenery added to the authentic jungle feel of the surroundings. We had managed to make it to the national park on a Monday, so there were thankfully very few other tourists there – there was at least 45 minutes of silence before more excited and camera-wielding fellows came along.
After a semi-disastrous incident of a workmate trying a semi-automatic bike for the first time and driving it into a ditch, we headed further up the mountain to the highest peak possible while still staying on our bikes. The mist had pretty much made a home here and the eery, mythical view was a welcome sight, even if it did block out the views from the mountain slope. Although there was a walking trail to the very peak of the mountain, everyone was beginning to feel the exhaustion of the day and the time was approaching late afternoon. Navigating in the rain, after dark, is not an enjoyable experience unless you are one for misery and stress.
It’s All Downhill From Here
The most pointless action that I undertook on the journey down was turning my engine on. After all my worries about fuel consumption (as there was nowhere to refuel on the slope) the gradients of the switchbacks and straights meant that the only thing needed to propel you along was gravity and a firm grip on the brakes. The automatic clutch on my bike turned out to be fairly confused by my slight acceleration whilst already moving at 30km/hr.
Passing a resort on the way down the mountain, we stopped for a quick toilet break and rest before disembarking back to the flats outside the park. Now with more bustling traffic and a fresh tank of climate-destroyer, we disgruntingly zoomed back towards Hanoi. As there was a military base in the area, there were plenty of soldiers running at the sides of the road and further on there was a group of soldiers armed to the teeth with automatic weapons and RPG launchers marching by the road. If there is anything more intimidating than a large group of soldiers with rambo-like loadouts, I’ve yet to see it here in Vietnam.
Good fortune had given us quite a dry journey for the first hour of our ride back, but as the sun came down, so did even more rain. The second hours was a rather dismal affair that brought little to no joy. It can’t be all bad, I hear you say? Once we had arrived in the south of the city after about 2 hours of riding, we had the welcome of peak rush hour traffic with some of the worst examples of riding and driving I have ever seen. The workmate leading the group, as a navigator, had an SUV driver reverse back onto his bike, getting the rear bumper of his car wedged onto the front guard of my friend’s wheel. Despite shouts of Vietnamese from locals who could see what was going on and several loud bangs on the back windshield, the driver continued to try slowly reversing before getting out, looking a the situation and moving forward. Adding to that, the cutting up, speeding on the wrong side of the road a mere few inches from you and tight gaps – it was a tough hour of battling through vehicles and pedestrians. Another workmate almost came off her bike at least twice and was party to most of the incoming suicide riders – here in Hanoi, you go hard or you go nowhere.
Once safely in the confines of an over-priced, Tay (foreigner) restaurant named ‘New Day’ in the old quarter it was drinks all around and disappointing sweet and sour pork. The joy of the day was well and truly over and all that remained was to travel home and rest up before the inevitably mundane beast of work would bite away on the next day.
Overall?
The trip was definitely worth doing, although perhaps not with a forecast of consistent and torrential rain. Despite being only 50km away according to Google maps, the journey was a good few hours’ ride away (although it may have been errors in navigating which helped inflate the time.) Compared to a normal day inside the city, this was a welcome foray into a small bit of adventure and a good reminder that I am here to explore as well as become ingrained into a humdrum routine of work and then drinks. One trip a month like this will see me right. I hope.
The warrior that is my scooter, named: Attila the Hunk…. of shit.
Amsterdam was the last city of my foray into Europe and would mark the (eventual) meeting of another friend on the continent; with my meagre budget I knew it would be a challenge to find entertainment, as well as adequately feeding myself, but accepting the challenge I ventured forth!
Day 1 – Pouring Rain and Strangers
I arrived near Sloterdijk Station after a 3-hour journey on an iDBUS from Brussels to a wet and unforgiving Sunday evening, on my own and without mobile internet or anyone to meet me. If I was to describe my general thoughts at the time they would be encompassed within the single word: ‘Bollocks.’ Failing to follow the simple directions on the Google map screenshot on my phone I wondered around hopelessly until a kind stranger asked where I was going and then offered to give me a lift in his car. Normally I would be apprehensive about getting into the car with strangers, but I assumed that the kind sir and his wife (who sat in the back of their 3-door car so that my soggy, foreign ass could take the front passenger’s seat) were not going to be the types to maim my still-living body and leave my corpse to bloat and decompose in some canal. The couple were both Muslim and the guy asked me where in England I was from and other general questions that helped the awkward silence of me soiling the car with second-hand rain water; going on my brown skin and beard, the guy assumed that I was Muslim too and not wanting to dishearten the saviour in my predicament, I did not correct him.
Eventually, I reached my destination: WOW Hostel, Wiltzanghlaan 60.
The building certainly gets points for colour.All that is needed is a couple of twins on tricycles – ‘The Shining’ eat your heart out.
I have stayed in plenty of hostels before, but shared group rooms are the bane of my journeys away from whichever place I’d call home, and this stay would be the most depressing and soul-destroying one yet – despite a welcome lack of strangers’ snoring. As my trip was a budget journey, I’d opted for 2 nights BnB in an 8-person room, which came to a total princely sum of £22 (31 Euros) when done through online booking. Once I had checked in and been briefed on the usual hostel rules etc. I was desperate to find somewhere warm where I could get dry, snuggle up with a wifi-enabled device and forget about the horror of not having a personal guide/chauffeur/host, as was the case in Belgium. Enlightened by travel tips ensuring that a lot of travellers leave their plug adaptors behind at hotels and hostels I tentatively asked the guy behind the desk if he had any EU to UK plugs spare; a brief look yielded a plethora of EU multiplugs and no adaptors. Damn travel site advice. Once I had left my phone on charge at the desk and after sitting around waiting for it to charge, it was up to my room to get cosy; but alas, further hardships were yet to come.
I will begin with a simple observation – when you are a child there is nothing more effing awesome than a bunk bed that you can climb and claim as your tower amongst the putrid presence of lower bunk peasants whom may abide in your kingdom; as an adult, however, finding the energy and effort to scale such a construction is tantamount to listening to a friend’s boring story and smiling whilst resisting the urge to tell them how much you want to develop a time machine just so that you can travel back to before the conversation begun just to save yourself from the inanity. That, or I just really hate bunk beds now. Due to my late arrival, the only bed left was a top bunk by windows that took up nearly the entire space of the end wall. Dumping my stuff in an under-bed storage chest left me with a grim realisation that my padlock would not fit the latch on the chest – I’ve played RPG games and the idea of leaving my things unattended in a chest for someone to pillage for loot was not comforting. As I ascended to my nest, I’d realised that I’d left something down in the chest below, so heavily sighing I began to climb down only to misjudge a foothold on the metal ladder of the frame and fall flat on my arse in the middle of the floor. My lower bunk neighbour looked up from his book and asked if I was okay, once he’d ascertained the conviction of my health went back to his book and no more words were said.
I had decided that food was in order, but as I was too late for the hostel restaurant (21:00 closing) I was treated to the class and comfort of a KFC burger meal for one, just a short walk away from my room. Once back in my room it was definitely time to call it on the day, so gathering the necessary items it was on to the shower. There are several things that I think are underrated in bathrooms – one is hooks and the other is space to sit and/or get dry without your feet getting wet again. There was neither in this room and it was a mental hook punch to the jaw that was received with a low, earthly grumble from within. Somehow the shower curtain had had the bottom half-foot, or so, of it cut off and there was nothing to stop the run-off from happily filling out the floor and with this storey’s colour scheme, it was hard not to imagine an homage to ‘Psycho’. Once I had finished washing, carefully dried myself and removed the clothes I had balanced on the door handle, it was back to the room that was filled with the silence of strangers that share a space of convenience rather than a space of joy and after multiple failed attempts to connect to the wifi gave up and let sleep claim me.
Day 2 – Footwork and Photography
I am never sure of what conditions other people have lived in, but I would stretch to imagine that they have curtains that are usually closed during their rambling of dreamscapes in their REM cycles; yet no-one in our room had deemed it suitable to close all of the curtains along the windowed wall. As much as I love 5:30am wake-ups, the several hours of wrestling to defeat the consciousness afterwards is a feat that I have yet to fully master. The saving grace of my stay here was the buffet-style breakfast that offered white/brown bread and rolls; cheap turkey or ham slices; cereal, juices and hot drinks. Ignoring the adage of ‘most important meal of the day’ this meal was important to my day as making sure to stuff my face here meant that I wouldn’t need to snack or buy a heavy lunch to survive a day spent in the city centre.
Curious as to what may lie on the other floors inside the hostel building I took a walk up to the green gallery (aptly placed inside the hostel’s green-coloured storey) and discovered that the hostel also hosted art studios and even a few exhibits from local artists – no real surprise that an artist would feel at home inside WOW, with the large room space and cheap accommodation, it may have even been a Godsend to them. There was an interesting exhibit in support of undocumented migrants named the In Limbo Embassy but during my stay I saw no-one using or helping with the exhibit/service. Before departing, I also made sure to check a huge circular stand of offer/discount business cards and made an objective list for my adventuring that day.
The Imprisonment of Heaven – not sure who made this, but it was safely tucked well-behind a wire fence on the way to the bus stop.
Heading out into the world outside the hostel, I searched the nearby stores for any signs of a plug adaptor, but once again disappointment had its hand firmly upon my shoulder. Once I had found the nearby bus stop at Bos en Lommerweg it was time to catch the number 21 bus into the city centre and owing to the short length of my stay I didn’t think that buying a travel card was worth the investment, so I opted for an hour-long ticket to cover my single journey that cost 2,90 Euros (yes, in Amsterdam even the buses charge you a time limit for the pleasure of riding them.) Once sitting comfortably it was just a case of staring out the window and awaiting my arrival at the Central Station.
Houses are tall, narrow, slanted and ever so slightly comical to observe.
The first destination on my objective list was Dam Square to receive a free walking tour of the city from a group named 360 Amsterdam that offered tours of the city and had numerous speakers and languages available to tourists. We even got adorable little Dutch gift bags to mark us as being part of the tour group.
Don’t you wish your gift bag was cute, like me??
We were told that tours usually lasted for 2-2.5 hours but due to the number of questions and noisy interruptions, ours lasted 3 hours, but was definitely worth the time. I learnt about the history of Amsterdam’s founding (or the alleged story of) and got to see a fair number of attractions that I would have struggled to find under my own effort. We were told that we didn’t have to tip our guide at the end of the tour, but I found it in my heart to offer 20 Euros for the time I had been given (not an Earth-shattering amount, but frugal was the word of my trip.) The 360 office was also located in Dam Square, just above a cafe named Dam Good Coffee and their tourist information and ability to act as a base for tourists (with toilets, wifi, refreshments and information) helped a huge amount.
Our tour guide, named Rik.
Adjacent to the 360 office was the New Church (Nieuwe Kerk) that was hosting the 2015 World Press Photo Exhibit and it was extremely intriguing – pretty much every part of it from the building itself to the photos, videos and even an interactive video documentary. Another 3 hours were lost inside this wonder for an entry price of 10 Euros and I will talk about it in more detail, here.
Hoping to meet a friend I headed back to the Central Station, where I was treated to the sound of amateur pianists playing at the public piano inside the station – a great idea to help break the monotony of public transport, but apparently an accommodation nightmare and a failing on timetabling meant that meeting my friend would be the following day. Determined to stay undeterred I bought a huge bag of chips (fries, if you aren’t from the UK) and headed to Dam Good Coffee to make use of a coupon I had received from 360 Amsterdam. Energised and wanting to walk some more I decide to trek the 5km, or so, past Westerpark and back to the WOW Hostel.
De Bloem on Nieuwpoortkade
I may have still been without a travel adaptor, but today had been a good day, all things considered.
Day 3 – Delayed Expectations and Coffee Shop Conversation
Making sure that I took care of curtain duty the night before, enabled me to ignore the majority of the early morning sunlight (though the sledgehammer slam of the closing door helped to replace it in terms of unwanted sensory stimulation.) Now knowing of the possible shower swamp conditions I made sure to be the second one in the bathroom and hastily packed up my things and headed to breakfast for another, final face-stuffing. Leaving my large rucksack in the lobby storage room and just making the 11am checkout, I headed out for a shorter day in the city before my pilgrimage back to London.
Dam Square was full of people, despite the cold and grey weather, and the entertainment ranged from scruffy-looking men feeding pigeons seeds and then letting themselves be coated with the bodies of these flying rats, to a group of beatboxers who had been in the country for a competition. Taking pictures of the former and then sitting to watch the latter, time passed impressively quickly. The performers certainly knew how to draw a crowd, much to the glee one drug-addled man who was happily dancing around and unintelligibly warbling along (too many a time did he misjudge his seating and fall backwards, beer can in hand.) As with all usual public performances that don’t agree with some council ogre somewhere or other, the police came to break up the group, marking the end of the impromptu show.
Pigeons make for an interesting shooting opportunity.A beatboxing crowd pleaser.
Still waiting on news of my friend I took on of the free ferries behind Central Station towards the Eye Museum – a very modern-looking building that hosted international films and photo exhibits. Having no time for a scheduled movie and not wanting to use the very upmarket restaurant inside I simply stood using the ample free wifi and waited for the arrival of a friendly face.
The Eye Museum with its sharp design.
Only a short 4 hours late I managed to meet with my friend Nadia who had just been kicked out of university for a shockingly horrendous attendance record and we wandered around until we found the coffee shop ‘Abraxas’. Talking away and experiencing the local culture, I then had to say my goodbyes and get the bus back to Bos en Lommerweg, grab my bags from WOW and then make haste to Sloterdijk Station to make the bus back to bonnie Britain. With a mouth that felt full of cotton wool and an empty pack of caramel wafer cookies that Nadia had given to me, it was time to settle on the back seat and get ready to embrace the journey ahead.
Overall?
This was my second visit to Amsterdam and I still had yet to visit the Anne Frank or Van Gogh museums; to fully appreciate Amsterdam I feel that I would need at least a week, plenty of advanced ticket bookings for the major attractions and a wad of money to help make it more comfortable. Despite all this, even with a tiny budget there is more than enough to keep you entertained and with the right attraction you can happily lose hours to being informed and amazed. It was a tough few days compared to my time in Belgium, but in no way do I regret going it alone and entering semi-blind with regards to what would happen. Wayfaring is certainly a little harder when every step of a journey is planned to the tiniest detail, that’s for sure.
Accidentally Wayfaring 