There’s something quietly calming about travelling by
sea - no airport queues, no anxious crowding, just the slow churn of water. We
arrived in Amsterdam with minimal plans, just a shared sense that we’d walk,
look, listen, and eat well.
We visited the Van Gogh Museum. I’ve always enjoyed Van Gogh –
at least the bits I’ve seen. But too often, his art disappears behind the
myth - the tortured genius, the ear, the sunflowers. But standing in front of his
work, you see his efforts to hold his world together with brushstrokes. The
colours vibrate. The skies swirl. It’s not all madness - it’s effort.
MoCo was a surprise. Banksy, Basquiat, and Robbie Williams –
now that was one I didn’t expect. I’m not a fan of the person, but I loved his
artwork. A small museum with a large impact. A sense that art doesn’t need to
whisper to be profound.
We visited the Anne Frank House. It’s hard to write about
that experience without sounding trite or overly solemn. The space is small,
but the silence inside is vast. You feel it in your chest. The creak of the
floorboards, the pencilled growth chart on the wall, the photos of movie stars
Anne admired - it’s all heartbreakingly ordinary. And that’s the point. An
incredibly emotional experience.
I went vinyl hunting, of course. Amsterdam’s record shops
are tucked into corners like secrets. I found a few gems—some Stones, some Beatles,
and a Dutch pressing of a Dutch band.
And then there was the food. Indonesian at Blauw. Rich,
fragrant, layered. The kind of meal that makes you pause mid-bite just to
appreciate how all the flavours are talking to each other. We didn’t rush, and
neither did they. We let the evening stretch.
It was a short trip, but it felt full. Not just of places
and things, but of moments. The kind you don’t photograph because they’re too
quiet, too personal. A glance across the table. A shared laugh in a museum gift
shop. The ferry ride home was smooth. We watched the sea and said very little.
Sometimes, that's the best kind of travel.
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