Tripping Through the Sights of Amsterdam

As I lay sprawled on a gravel path in Amsterdam, I thought I must have been mugged.

But my shoulder bag seemed to be intact, as was my shoulder. I sat up, reached for my sunglasses. They were bent from the fall, but unbroken.

A tall Dutchman leaned over me, casting a shadow. He asked if I would like water. I started to say, “No, thanks,” but I was too baffled to speak. “Don’t move,” he said, and stepped to a food-to-go kiosk in this park near the Rijksmuseum.

The cup of cold water was refreshing. My head was beginning to clear. The Dutchman kicked an outsize pebble from the path, the rock that may have tripped me. Then he offered his arm.

With pride askew but my trench coat untorn, I stood and waved goodby.

“We never considered naming you Grace,” my mother once said as she bandaged my knee in fifth grade.

I may not tell her what I put that knee through on the Museumplein of Amsterdam. (Yes, I had on sensible walking shoes. No, I was not running. Maybe I was looking up at the Van Gogh blue sky instead of the ground at my feet.)

Mildly battered, I marched on. I was determined to continue walking in a city that treasures its 17th-Century architecture. Amsterdam even boasts of an official yard where surplus antique doors and window frames can be bought to replace worn-out originals.

The modern era has been less kind. Many walls of the once-scrubbed city are blackened with graffiti. Drugs are tolerated and obvious.

Still, life seems to go on much as it has. Under the vast tiled arches of the Rijksmuseum a flutist was playing “Bolero.” It echoed amid the whoosh of trolleys and the clamor of backpackers. Wall posters of a sunny-yellow tulip marked the 40th anniversary of Kuekenhof Gardens near the country town of Lisse.

But on this day I would not leave the city. I would concentrate on central Amsterdam, the maze that spreads from Dam Square and is ringed by horseshoe canals: from Singel, the innermost, where one house is no wider than a door; to Prinsengracht, known for the Anne Frank house and the Westerkerk church, where Rembrandt is thought to be buried.

Atop the Westerkerk tower is a golden crown and orb that glimmers through the branches of chestnut trees in the garden of the Hotel Pulitzer, a clutch of refurbished canal-front houses.

I have spent restful days under those gabled roofs, but this time I merely walked through the lobby to remind myself of its charm, and then wandered back past its courtyard, art gallery, bar and small restaurant.

The restaurant glows with candlelight, polished brass and cane-backed chairs. White cafe curtains flutter in the windows. Tables are bright with fresh flowers.

I paused for coffee and pastry and to toast a stubborn, savvy judge who is a pal of mine. The judge was staying at the Pulitzer a while back, but shunned dining there because of his conviction that adventurous travelers should never settle for meals in their hotels. (“Too many tourists,” he proclaimed, as he fingered his passport.)

So off he went at dusk to explore the neighborhood and find a place ripe with atmosphere. He ambled past bobbing houseboats moored on the Prinsengracht and crossed an arching bridge near a barge decked with bikes and geraniums.

Finally he found what he sought on a corner of Keizersgracht canal. The food was good, the conversation low-key, the mood friendly and local.

After dinner he asked a waiter for directions back to his hotel. The young man opened a door that led to a labyrinthine hall, a bar, a courtyard and a gallery, and then the Pulitzer lobby.

This was the hotel’s Petit restaurant--on an opposite corner of the block--candles, cane chairs and all. His Honor did laugh, although he still swears by his method.

In that same neighborhood I paused with two college students to read the menu posted at the Cafe Mexico at 188 Prinsengracht. Tapas , tacos and the specialty-- pollo loco-- were described in Spanish, English and Dutch. I felt the need for a small salsa fix, and Amsterdam is notably tolerant.

I ordered a chicken taco with guacamole and a tall glass of local brew--the great Heineken beer. I relaxed and stretched my aching knees, and pondered the next day’s trip.