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.