Wandering in Search of Van Gogh

A young man in student’s clothing approached me along the Prinsengracht canal on that day of high clouds in Amsterdam.

In a heavy accent he asked directions. The only words I understood were “Anne Frank House.” I pointed behind me, raised two fingers and said, “Two blocks.” He smiled and raised two fingers in a signal of “message received.”

I was flattered by this exchange, with its assumption that I might know the neighborhood. As I walked on I thought of Barley, the saxophone-playing everyman spy of John Le Carre’s novel “The Russia House.” One morning, as Barley strolled in Moscow, an elderly couple asked him directions. He did not speak Russian. He was, as usual, baffled. Le Carre explained:

“In every foreign city he had ever been, strangers asked him the way to places he didn’t know in languages he didn’t understand.”

Using Pantomime

I like that passage because it happens to me. In my enthusiasm I respond in English or Spanish or sometimes a dollop of French. With pantomime it often works.

Success encourages me to keep exploring the world as a soul mate of Henry the Navigator. I believe in my instincts and sense of direction, and the basic logic of maps. I will try to read any foreign sign in search of a word--or arrow--that may guide me.

Just the evening before I had found a Mexican restaurant in Amsterdam by scanning a Dutch flyer tied to a gnarled plane tree. The only familiar word was “Mexico.” But a street name and number (188 Prinsengracht) were given. It could have been advertising a lecture; I was glad to find a cafe.

Today my goal was the Van Gogh museum--which I would reach, according to the map, by following the horseshoe of the Prinsengracht canal. I crossed a bridge near the Anne Frank House and went on, reading faces and signs.

A large poster hung on a houseboat. “See Amsterdam by Moped--No license. No helmet. Rent one now at Strange Fruit.” Strange Fruit, it turns out, is a coffee shop at No. 14 Bloemgracht.

But I wanted to walk, not ride. My ankle was still bruised from a scooter spill on the island of Moorea.

After wandering through old bookstores and snapping photos of flower barges, I came to an open-air market by a church dated 1622. A man with a hand organ was grinding out carrousel tunes. Tiny birds of bright orange, yellow and lime chirped in high octaves. A cart was piled with wheels of Dutch cheese--spelled Gouda and pronounced How -da.

Morning Purchase Best

Giant sunflowers, with faces nine inches wide, were marked in guilders at the equivalent of about $2.50 a stem. The robust fellow who was selling them told me he brings a van full of blooms each Saturday from his farm 100 miles north of Amsterdam.

“You must come at 9:30 in the morning for the best selections,” he said. “By now they are picked over. I grow sunflowers without pesticides, so you get a few holes in the leaves, but they are the best for sunflower seeds.”

The sunflowers reminded me of my goal--the Van Gogh museum. I had been dallying in the pursuit of happiness. So on I went, following the canal, past children playing on slides that were covered with graffiti.

The bright wooden doors of historic Amsterdam--glossy red, hunter green, Delft blue--appeared less frequently. The trees by the water grew skimpy. Even the canal seemed less wide.

Windows gleamed with electronic goods and furniture displays. I paused at a hardware store to buy Super Glue. My glasses frames needed repair.

I figured that I must be getting close to the vast square called Museumplein--home of the Concertgebouw orchestra hall, the Rijksmuseum and the modern art collection of Stedelijk--as well as the glass-box Van Gogh.

But the next sign I saw was not cultural. Squash City was painted high on what looked like a hangar or gymnasium. Beyond was the harbor with its shipping docks and refineries.

Take a Trolley

Now I was the one asking questions. An elderly Dutch couple looked at my map and then pointed in opposite directions. Finally, they led me to an intersection and suggested I board any trolley toward central Dam Square.

“You are too far from Museumplein to walk,” the woman said. “You are no more on this map.”

As I saw her finger trace the blue line of the canal, I realized that flattery had turned my head. I had been marching firmly in the wrong direction since helping the student near the Anne Frank House.

In the middle of hearty handshakes, the woman who saved me remarked: “My English is not good, but do not worry. Some day we will be lost in London, and you will come by and will help.”

I promised that I would help her with directions in London or Los Angeles or even Moscow, if I possibly could.