Vienna to Arnhem was 24 hours of pinballing around the European rail network. I was trying to count the trains I took, but had to give up because the number was too unimpressive. Four, I guess, including a short transfer in Cologne? More including rush-hour trips on the Vienna metro. But it felt like a week of sitting on platforms and staring out windows.
From Vienna, a sleeper train to Cologne. Waiting on the little mattress, a gift bag of mostly-useless things plus a highly useful little bottle of prosecco. Rocking along through dark countryside and brightly-lit stations, eating the breakfast of bread rolls with Nutella (there were other options), yawning on a platform somewhere in Cologne's central station at rush hour. In the washroom here (€1), the man in front of me was trying to bring a huge suitcase through the turnstile. I offered to pass it over to him, but he seemed preoccupied. It turned out that he'd gotten himself hopelessly trapped, and only saved himself from the most embarrassing emergency services call in history by squeezing painfully around it. It felt strange that I wasn't the one this had happened to; like fate had made a mistake.
Two connections to Arnhem. In Cologne, a last-minute platform switch just barely noticed in time. In Duisberg, two trains that both claimed to be going to Arnhem. I'd boarded one when, with two minutes to go, another pulled up displaying 'Arnhem Centraal'. Had to ambush a young mother for information; she put her hand protectively on her luggage, said it was the other train, stopped, thought, and decided that, after all, it was fairly likely that the one we were going on was going to Arnhem (so it proved).
Then lost in the shopping streets of Arnhem, where everyone looks vaguely familiar. People speak Dutch to me. In most countries, I don't pass for local (how do people keep penetrating my disguise?), but here I'm a puzzle. The hangdog look and the schoolboy backpack point one way, the height and general appearance another. Part of the problem is probably that "hello" and "thanks" are similar in English and Dutch. So, for a cashier, say, it's like having half a conversation with someone who then just stares at you stupidly.
My little room is out at the edge of town in a hotel overlooking the Nederrijn. Through the window is a sight like any watery Dutch landscape painting. If a cow would only wander past, it would be a fitting subject for any of the old masters. (Someone should move the trampoline, as well.) A five minute walk further out of town takes you into lush, ditch-riven, cow-sprinkled countryside. Despite some smash-and-rebuild development in the 20th century, there's a strange lack of tension between old and new things in this country; the modern world was trained across the old one like a vine. The high speed rail line was unrolled without disturbing the cows. The ducks do not notice the river cargo ships cruising silently past.
In Arnhem, every cloud seems to have its own completely individual ideas for the day. One will dump heavy rain; and then some will swerve away entirely for ten minutes of brilliant sunshine. People on bicycles make smooth flying dismounts. A Dutch commuter on a bike is like a Mongol warrior on a horse. At the far end of the city is the rebuilt bridge fought over in Market Garden. On the church of St. Eusebius, an odd modern bell tower has been built to replace the one destroyed in the war. In the public spaces all around it, and everywhere else downtown, preparations for Kingsday are advancing.
Kingsday looks like it will be something fairly major. People are erecting stages, unloading kegs, setting up portable toilets (one company's chosen slogan: "We create your Toilet Party!"). There are orange balloons, banners, signs with lists of bands. A can of Pringles says "KONINGSDAG" across the top. On the label, a chip wears a big orange crown. This chip is also wearing a sash that says Koningsdag. There is also a chip beside that one with a huge orange afro.
The night before Kingsday (koningsnacht) is intense. Kingsday itself is bananas.
At ten on Kingsday morning, Arnhem is eerily quiet. What people are up are at the flea market (a Kingsday tradition) that stretches forever along the park. There is intense interest in everything offered. Several people are clustered around a table of old pencil sharpeners.
By five or so, groups are streaming towards the centre, which is already half full of people in face paint, orange boas, huge orange wigs, orange jumpsuits, orange business suits. A few early casualties slump against walls as friends tilt water down their throats.
By six, the whole city centre is a party, and it is a rager. Every concert ground is like a tin of sardines forced into another tin of sardines. It's like a huge music festival, except the beer is cheap ("10 beers €20" say hand-lettered signs on fold-out tables) and people are actually having fun. It's quieter by the river, and then house music starts getting louder and a heaving dance party floats by on a restaurant ship. They have a growly DJ/hype man and a seriously impressive sound system, and they just cruise back and forth in front of the city all day, hopping and waving. First it's surprising, then funny, and then you're just in awe of their aerobic conditioning.
By seven, beer cups crunch underfoot like autumn leaves. After that, I don't know what happens, because it's pretty clearly time for tourists who don't know anyone and don't speak the language to get out.
The next morning, the streets are so clean the whole thing could have been some strange, orange-tinted dream.
The music of Kingsday
You don't know what to expect from a public holiday in the Netherlands. But the thing to remember is that if the Dutch are going to do something, they're going to do it properly. Kingsday makes Canada Day look like International Stuttering Awareness Day (October 22). It makes V-E day look halfhearted.
My last full day in Arnhem, I took the train over to Veenendaal to meet a huge group of relatives, who were warm, funny, welcoming, generous, and cool with my total inability to remember anyone's name (it wasn't for lack of trying; I have a terrible memory for names, faces, objects, locations, and events). Two of them took me to Huis Doorn, a fascinating place where Kaiser Wilhelm II lived in exile and died, and to see a spot important to the family history -- a private home whose lovely owner was happy to show me around. An amazing way to wrap things up in Arnhem.
From Vienna, a sleeper train to Cologne. Waiting on the little mattress, a gift bag of mostly-useless things plus a highly useful little bottle of prosecco. Rocking along through dark countryside and brightly-lit stations, eating the breakfast of bread rolls with Nutella (there were other options), yawning on a platform somewhere in Cologne's central station at rush hour. In the washroom here (€1), the man in front of me was trying to bring a huge suitcase through the turnstile. I offered to pass it over to him, but he seemed preoccupied. It turned out that he'd gotten himself hopelessly trapped, and only saved himself from the most embarrassing emergency services call in history by squeezing painfully around it. It felt strange that I wasn't the one this had happened to; like fate had made a mistake.
Two connections to Arnhem. In Cologne, a last-minute platform switch just barely noticed in time. In Duisberg, two trains that both claimed to be going to Arnhem. I'd boarded one when, with two minutes to go, another pulled up displaying 'Arnhem Centraal'. Had to ambush a young mother for information; she put her hand protectively on her luggage, said it was the other train, stopped, thought, and decided that, after all, it was fairly likely that the one we were going on was going to Arnhem (so it proved).
Then lost in the shopping streets of Arnhem, where everyone looks vaguely familiar. People speak Dutch to me. In most countries, I don't pass for local (how do people keep penetrating my disguise?), but here I'm a puzzle. The hangdog look and the schoolboy backpack point one way, the height and general appearance another. Part of the problem is probably that "hello" and "thanks" are similar in English and Dutch. So, for a cashier, say, it's like having half a conversation with someone who then just stares at you stupidly.
My little room is out at the edge of town in a hotel overlooking the Nederrijn. Through the window is a sight like any watery Dutch landscape painting. If a cow would only wander past, it would be a fitting subject for any of the old masters. (Someone should move the trampoline, as well.) A five minute walk further out of town takes you into lush, ditch-riven, cow-sprinkled countryside. Despite some smash-and-rebuild development in the 20th century, there's a strange lack of tension between old and new things in this country; the modern world was trained across the old one like a vine. The high speed rail line was unrolled without disturbing the cows. The ducks do not notice the river cargo ships cruising silently past.
In Arnhem, every cloud seems to have its own completely individual ideas for the day. One will dump heavy rain; and then some will swerve away entirely for ten minutes of brilliant sunshine. People on bicycles make smooth flying dismounts. A Dutch commuter on a bike is like a Mongol warrior on a horse. At the far end of the city is the rebuilt bridge fought over in Market Garden. On the church of St. Eusebius, an odd modern bell tower has been built to replace the one destroyed in the war. In the public spaces all around it, and everywhere else downtown, preparations for Kingsday are advancing.
Kingsday looks like it will be something fairly major. People are erecting stages, unloading kegs, setting up portable toilets (one company's chosen slogan: "We create your Toilet Party!"). There are orange balloons, banners, signs with lists of bands. A can of Pringles says "KONINGSDAG" across the top. On the label, a chip wears a big orange crown. This chip is also wearing a sash that says Koningsdag. There is also a chip beside that one with a huge orange afro.
The night before Kingsday (koningsnacht) is intense. Kingsday itself is bananas.
At ten on Kingsday morning, Arnhem is eerily quiet. What people are up are at the flea market (a Kingsday tradition) that stretches forever along the park. There is intense interest in everything offered. Several people are clustered around a table of old pencil sharpeners.
By five or so, groups are streaming towards the centre, which is already half full of people in face paint, orange boas, huge orange wigs, orange jumpsuits, orange business suits. A few early casualties slump against walls as friends tilt water down their throats.
By six, the whole city centre is a party, and it is a rager. Every concert ground is like a tin of sardines forced into another tin of sardines. It's like a huge music festival, except the beer is cheap ("10 beers €20" say hand-lettered signs on fold-out tables) and people are actually having fun. It's quieter by the river, and then house music starts getting louder and a heaving dance party floats by on a restaurant ship. They have a growly DJ/hype man and a seriously impressive sound system, and they just cruise back and forth in front of the city all day, hopping and waving. First it's surprising, then funny, and then you're just in awe of their aerobic conditioning.
By seven, beer cups crunch underfoot like autumn leaves. After that, I don't know what happens, because it's pretty clearly time for tourists who don't know anyone and don't speak the language to get out.
The next morning, the streets are so clean the whole thing could have been some strange, orange-tinted dream.
The music of Kingsday
- On a little side stage on King's Night Eve, a guitarist noodles expertly for a small, middle-aged audience.
- In a parking lot by the river, kids stand around in front of a hatchback that's blasting some kind of glitched-out noise that sounds like all the electronic music ever made being fed through a wood chipper.
- English hip hop and reggae of the very sweariest kinds are playing loudly downtown in the middle of the afternoon (no one minds).
- Dutch hardstyle. Look into it.
- Happy house remixes of pop classics. (Happy house is the second funniest genre of music in the world, after drone metal.)
- The Dutch Shuffle Demons. (Check out their new single about Trolley Bus route 587 to Arnhem Centraal Station.)
- Dutch rapping. (Dutch is to hip hop what Italian is to opera: its natural language. You can't get the same flow with less phlegmy languages.)
You don't know what to expect from a public holiday in the Netherlands. But the thing to remember is that if the Dutch are going to do something, they're going to do it properly. Kingsday makes Canada Day look like International Stuttering Awareness Day (October 22). It makes V-E day look halfhearted.
My last full day in Arnhem, I took the train over to Veenendaal to meet a huge group of relatives, who were warm, funny, welcoming, generous, and cool with my total inability to remember anyone's name (it wasn't for lack of trying; I have a terrible memory for names, faces, objects, locations, and events). Two of them took me to Huis Doorn, a fascinating place where Kaiser Wilhelm II lived in exile and died, and to see a spot important to the family history -- a private home whose lovely owner was happy to show me around. An amazing way to wrap things up in Arnhem.
