My Quick Trip to London--or--The Time James Earl Jones Said My Name

My 3-day visit to London was, to borrow a word as they use it in their vernacular, "brilliant!"

This post is going to be one of those cram-a-whole-lot-in-as-few-words-as-possible posts, as it seems like we filled each day with varied, interesting, and wonderfully fun activities all around London; many of these are, fortunately, accompanied with photos. I'll attempt to share relevant anecdotes only as necessary.

--Sunday--

I was quite excited to see Tom & Teriann when I arrived, mainly just due to the fact that it meant I was done with ridiculous traveling. We took the Tube (subway) to their flat in Acton Town (about 30 minutes outside the center of London), and then went back into town to grab a late lunch. We mostly spent the time after lunch leisurely walking around the city, doing some shopping, and waiting until Sunday's nights activity: a concert at Wigmore Hall. Wigmore is a very old, venerated, recital hall in London, the type of venue artists usually mention in their bios if they've performed there.

And what better way to finish the short day than with some Thai curries delivered from T&T's favorite Thai restaurant?

--Monday--

After sleeping in, we made our way into town to have lunch at the New World Cafe, Tom's favorite restaurant in London, tucked away in Neal's Yard, a brightly colored back alleyway in Covent Garden. Cool trivia: this cafe is in Monty Python's old flat!

We hung out in the Covent Garden market for a bit before heading over to Trafalgar Square to visit the National Gallery. It was odd being in the market because I have strong memories of it from my first trip to Europe in 2003 with the Arizona Ambassadors of Music Choir. (Interestingly enough, "The Lion King" is still running in the nearby Lyceum Theatre seven years after I saw it there!)

A view of the Covent Garden Market and London skyline from the balcony restaurant of the Royal Opera House.

Trafalgar Square.

National Gallery.

The Gallery, for me, is most memorable for some Monets (including some of the famous water lilies) and Van Goghs, in particular this famous wheat field painting:

The final stop was dinner. We went to a Latin restaurant underneath the train bridge on the Thames river. Though the walks across the bridge were bone-chillingly frigid, they provided magnificent views of London at night:

On the left is the London Eye, on the right is Parliament and Big Ben.

--Tuesday--

We started off the day fairly early, needing to queue up early for rush tickets to "Cat on a Hot Tin Roof" in the West End. They only release 6 rush tickets at 10 a.m. each day, so we got there at 9 a.m. and were first in line (the next guy arrived about 5 minutes after we did).

After securing that evening's plans, we went to Hyde Park (comparable in significance to Central Park in NYC) to do one of T&T's favorite London activities: feeding squirrels and swans.

Now, let me just say that though I was unusually excited to go do this, I had a tough time believing what they said was possible: that you can get squirrels to climb up your leg and take peanuts from your hand.

Well...I'm definitely a believer now. Feeding squirrels in Hyde Park may just be one of the coolest things ever.

After the group of squirrels we were feeding started to get full, we moved onto the swan pond.

Expectedly, the swans were large and beautiful; unexpectedly, they were aggressively eager to eat our bread. And to justify my use of the word "aggressively," I'll add that the swans were biting each other in attempts to cut through the crowd to get to our hands.

Also, unexpectedly, the whole ordeal was just downright hilarious.

It was really windy, so you can't really hear what I say, which is "So we're in Hyde Park in London, and I'm going to share this piece of bread with a swan." Lady-and-the-Tramp-style.

After we ran out of bread, it was back to squirrels, but this time we fed squirrels in a different area of the park.

We stopped by Tom's school, the Royal College of Music, which is right next to Hyde Park. He gave us a tour of the facilities, which included a stop at the school's instrument collection.

The oldest known keyboard...in the world.

After grabbing lunch and hanging out in the city, and eating dinner at Tom's flat, we went back into London to go see the most anticipated event of this mini-vacation: "Cat on a Hot Tin Roof," starring Phylicia Rashad and James Earl Jones. In case you don't know either of those names, Rashad is most well known for being Bill Cosby's wife in "The Cosby Show"; she also was the first black female to win the Tony for Leading Actress in a Play in the 2005 revival of A Raisin in the Sun. James Earl Jones (who is, by the way, 79-years-old), is most well known for being the voice of Darth Vader in "Star Wars."

The acting was absolutely, insanely, unbelievably brilliant. Four stars, two thumbs up, performances-of-a-lifetime brilliant. It was just that good. End of story.

If you're not familiar with the play (and I wasn't prior), it centers around an incredibly dysfunctional family. It's shockingly bold, brash, and honest. I'd be interested to see different productions of it because I feel it could be performed many ways. But, this production had me constantly alternating between laughing out loud and having a frog hop madly in my throat. There was a certain acerbic edge to so much of the humor--the kind where you laugh uncomfortably because it's funny in a that's-so-true-it's-awkward way.

I'm very much in awe of the whole experience. Especially after what happened after the show.

So we decided we'd wait by the stage door to get autographs. I mean, how often do you get to meet James Earl Jones and Phylicia Rashad, right?

First up was Rashad. By this point, most people waiting for autographs (maybe a small crowd of 20), had lined up next to Jones' cab, as we had been informed that he would be signing autographs from his car when he came out. When she came out of the stage door, Rashad seemed legitimately shocked that some of us wanted to meet her, get her autograph, and take pictures with her.

I don't know how to convey the following without writing it in all caps...PHYLICIA RASHAD IS THE KINDEST WOMAN ALIVE. You know those people around whom you instantly feel calm? She is the epitome of that.

Rashad could tell that we weren't British from our accents, so she was asking us why were were in London, and seemed genuinely interested in talking to us. It was incredible.

I went back to her after we took the picture and asked her to sign my ticket, which she did without a hint of hesitation. Then she says, "It took you all so long to start applauding after the lights went out that we all thought we had done something wrong!" Hah! I explained that from my point of view the audience was still just soaking in their phenomenal performances and we were all kind of stunned silent.

After talking with her, T&T and I could have gladly not seen Jones, because we felt as though there was no way things could get better. We were both awe- and star-struck, and inspired to boot.

Jones, who had come out while we were talking to Rashad, had taken the backseat of his cab and was signing through the window (no pictures allowed). Well, we decided couldn't not get his autograph if he was right there, so we waited to meet him. That's when we discovered that...(here it comes again)...JAMES EARL JONES IS THE KINDEST MAN ALIVE.

I handed him my ticket through the window, which he proceeded to sign:


When I handed him my ticket, I had also unintentionally handed him the ticket receipt underneath the ticket, just because I had yet to throw away the receipt. Thinking the receipt was a second ticket, he started to sign it.

I said, "Oh, you don't need to sign that--it's just the receipt."

Jones continues to sign:

Then, while signing, he says, "Are you Mr. Taylor B. Morris?"

"Yes," I reply, "I am."

"Well, Mr. Morris," Jones responds, "thank you for coming to the show."

Nothing makes you feel legitimately alive like having James Earl Jones speak your full name. In that moment, my existence was confirmed by the most recognizable voice in the Western hemisphere.

Then, like Rashad, he notices we're not from England, and wants to know where we're from. We tell him that we're from Arizona, and then he wants to know where in Arizona. (Mesa, your existence was also then confirmed by the most recognizable voice in the Western hemisphere.)

We kept talking to him for another minute as he asked us questions and was, again like Rashad, truly interested in learning about us.

We thanked him for his phenomenal performances as our conversation came to a close and we stepped away from the car. Jones waved good night and drove off in the cab.

...did that really just happen? Yes. Yes, it did.

--Wednesday--

I woke up early, headed to the Tube station with Tom, said my goodbyes, and hopped on the subway.

Back in the Netherlands for the last bit of tour.

Culture Warp & Timed Travel--or--How I Got to London

I’m currently at the train station in Liege, Belgium, waiting to catch a train to Brussels to visit my friend Tom in London for my three days off.

I just ate breakfast: coffee and a chocolate croissant in a café.

The lady asked me some question, in French, after I ordered my cappuccino. I didn’t know what she was asking, but was able to deduce that it was some sort of “Would you like it with ____ or _____?” Not wanting to be that difficult customer who doesn’t speak French, I just repeated whatever that first word was.

Then my cappuccino was given to me…extravagantly:

Suffice it to say that I’ve never quite seen a cappuccino like that before…I guess I chose the fancier option? Imagine, if you will, the faces of the other customers in line as they think that I’ve purposely ordered this dessert-like beverage for breakfast…

And then, in a moment of twisted irony, I saw and heard Miley Cyrus’ “Party in the USA” on the TV in the café. I say irony because this is the first time I’ve heard the full song (ever), even though it was a hit a few months ago in the US (I also say “full song” because the first time I heard the chorus was in a podcast I listened to a few days ago).

Talk about a culture warp: hearing Miley sing for the first time about partying in the USA, while drinking the language-barrier special in a train station café in Belgium.

Life is funny.

Thirty minutes until my train to Brussels…I should probably order another chocolate croissant.

----------

On the happenings of the past two hours:

9:40 AM - After enjoying the luxury of not one, but two (!), chocolate croissants, I slowly come to realize that the train ticket I have purchased in Liege will not allow me on the high-speed train to Brussels I was meaning to catch in 6 minutes—rather, it only allowed me to travel to Brussels via regular-speed, local trains.

9:45 AM – My train’s departure has been pushed back 8 minutes, allowing me a pinch of time in which to fix my language-inhibited ticket purchase. At this point, I’m waiting in the correct line to buy the correct ticket for the correct train, which leaves in 9 minutes. [For the record, it’s at this point that I also realize I really need to find a bathroom.]

9:48 AM – I tell the man at the counter I need to be on the train to Brussels that was supposed to leave 2 minutes ago. He hands me a voucher and tells me that I can pay for my ticket once boarding with this special, “exclusionary” voucher.

9:54 AM – The high-speed train, though late, arrives at platform two. The train attendant steps off, blows his whistle at some other passengers waiting outside a not-yet-opened door, and refuses to let anyone board the train...just to make sure you caught that: he refuses to let anyone board the train. WHAT?! The high-speed train leaves.

9:55 AM – A local train on the other side of the platform, whose sign indicates that it is going to Brussels, starts to board. I run to the train schedule, try to quickly decipher where in Brussels the train is headed, and decide—for better or worse—to board this train.

9:57 AM – I take a seat on this train bound for some station in Brussels, though I’m still not sure which station.

10:00 AM – I realize that the ticket I mistakenly purchased an hour prior turns out to be the exact ticket I need to be on this train. Fortuity strikes again! I calculate that the high-speed train I wanted was going to put me in Brussels about 55 minutes after departure. This train, though regular-speed, shouldn’t take too much longer. [Because I don’t know where and when exactly this train will be stopping, I decide not to use the on-board bathroom to ensure I don’t miss getting off at an opportune time.]

10:30 AM – The train arrives at Leuven, some station en route to Brussels. The electronic marquee in the train, though scrolling in Flemish, seems to indicate that my train is headed to Brussels-Nord, Brussels-Centraal, and Brussels-Zuid; my language abilities and travel experience allow me to conclude that these are North, Central, and South, respectively. My train to London leaves from Brussels-Midi in an hour. The question becomes: do I get off at Brussels-Nord and hope to catch a connection to Midi, or do I wait until Centraal? I deduce that Midi, being the terminal which has trains to London, Paris, etc., is probably closest to the Centraal station, because that, to me, is logical.

10:45 AM – We arrive at Brussels-Nord and an internal debate commences: maybe I should get off at Brussels-Nord. What if Midi is actually closer to Nord? No, my gut tells me, stay on and wait until Centraal.

11:00 AM – We arrive at Brussels-Centraal and I hop off onto platform 6. I have just 29 minutes until my train from Midi leaves for London. I run upstairs, check the schedule and find that a train for Brussels-Midi leaves from platform 6 in seven minutes, at 11:07. Perfect! I head back down to the platform.

11:07 AM – The train is not in sight. I look down the platform and realize, much to my chagrin, that the train is indeed in sight and very much boarding...at the other end of the platform. At this point I do the Home Alone dash: I grab my backpack, my jacket, my violin case, and my large, awkward, and unexpectedly heavy duffle bag, and proceed to run as fast as I can with this ridiculous amount of baggage to the opposite end of the platform. I say “Brussels-Midi?” to the attendant, who confirms my inquiry, and I hop on board.

11:09 AM – The train pulls into Brussels-Midi. Only 20 minutes until my Eurostar train for London departs! At this point, I’m thinking, Success! I’m golden! I start walking in the direction of platform 1 for my train to London. I go through a special set of Eurostar doors, and walk up to a set of turn-styles. I hand my e-ticket confirmation to the attendant, who then says, “Yes, but where is your ticket?” Ticket?, I think, this confirmation was all I received in my e-mail… “I can’t let you through without a ticket. You can try entering this confirmation code into that kiosk over that and see if it will print you a ticket. You’ll need a ticket to get through, though.”

11:10 AM – Success at the ticket kiosk. [I’ve still yet to visit the bathroom.]

11:11 AM – Eighteen minutes. I go through the turn-style and look down the hallway. In my delirious time crunch I failed to remember what was required for me to leave Brussels and get to London: customs.

11:13 AM – “All passports this way.” First passport stop: as fast and easy as it could be. Wonderful.

11:15 AM – Security. I whip off my belt, take off my watch, my giant jacket, and put these items into a bin with my cell phone and coins. Thank goodness I don’t have to take off my laced tennis shoes! Curse you, Shoe Bomber! I walk through the metal scanner and proceed to the next stop. I forego putting on my belt and watch to keep moving ahead, so instead I just hold them in my hands…with my passport, travel documents, jacket, violin case, and duffle bag.

11:18 AM – Eleven minutes. I get to UK customs and read a sign that says, “All non-UK passport holders must have a completed entry form.” Crap! I find the form and proceed to fill it out.

11:19 AM – Ten minutes. Stuck in line.

11:21 AM – Eight minutes. I move up to the desk and realize I chose my line poorly. This British customs woman is not wearing a jolly face that politely says, “Welcome to England! Cheerio!”; rather, her defined cheek bones and tightly pursed lips seem to broadcast her offensive: “I’ll throw you in a holding cell faster than you can say ‘fish and chips.’”

[For accuracy, here is a quick recap of my appearance and mental state. I’m carrying in my arms my violin, my duffle bag, my jacket and my travel documents. I’m also still carrying my watch and belt. I’m stressed, anxious, and worried about catching my train. And because I had just run down a platform and have been rushing through customs, all while wearing a wool sweater, I’m a disgusting, sweaty mess.]

I hand the woman my passport, and set down my stuff. I seize the time she uses to flip through my passport to quickly put on my belt and watch.

Customs woman: How long are you going to be in England?
Me: Till Wednesday.
CW: You didn’t fill out where you’re staying on this form.
Me: I’m staying with a friend in London, but I never got his address. He’s meeting me at St. Pancras station in London and picking me up there.
CW: So you’re staying with this friend?
Me: Yes.
CW: What is your friend doing in London?
Me: He’s a student at the Royal College of Music in London.
CW: How long has he been in London?
Me: A year and a half.
CW: Well, write his name and college on the form. Next time make sure to get the address.
[I write Tom’s name and school on the form.]
CW: Are you coming from the States?
Me: No, I’ve been in the Netherlands.
CW: So you’re going back to the States on Wednesday?
Me: No, I’m coming back to the Netherlands.
CW: When do you go back to the States?
Me: February 4th.
CW: Why are you in the Netherlands?
Me: I’m a musician. The band I’m in is currently on tour in the Netherlands.
CW: What do you mean by “the band I’m in is currently on tour in the Netherlands”?
…really?! Are you kidding me?! Unless I’m mistaken, that’s pretty straight-forward.
Me: Well…I play in a band. Right now we’re on tour in the Netherlands. I have a three day break from the tour so I’m visiting my friend in London.
CW: How long have you been in the Netherlands?
Me: Since January 1st.
CW: So you have the proper forms for playing in the Netherlands?
Me: I don’t have them, no.
CW: …you don’t have them?
Me: No, I wasn’t given them. My managers have them.
[CW eyes me. Apparently being polite and wearing a cardigan makes you suspicious? Or maybe she was just taking time to notice the prism of colors that was beginning to radiate in the immediate humidity of my sweaty aura. Looking back, I guess I, too, would be reticent about letting that guy into my country.]
CW: Go ahead.
[CW stamps my passport and ushers me through.]

11:25:00 AM – Having miraculously survived customs, I begin to run, yet again, to my train. I arrive at the platform and to find that my train coach, number 2, is, of course, at the end of the platform.

11:25:10 AM – I schlep my sweaty, baggage-laden, bathroom-needing, disheveled mess-of-a-self down the platform as train attendants from coaches 14 through 3 look at me with poorly-stifled repulsion.

11:26 AM – I, after an hour and half of traveler’s misery, finally board Eurostar 9181 to London. I put my duffle and violin case onto the luggage shelf and take my seat.

Dear Girl in Seat 75 (Coach 2),

I would like to apologize, formally, for my appearance, as well as any odors my body may or may not have been omitting without my knowledge when I got on the train. I’m sure that as I walked down the aisle you were hoping, “Please don’t let that thing be seated in seat 76.” Well, this thing was, for better or worse, assigned to seat 76. When I peeled off my sweater, you probably noticed my drenched armpits, back, and that awkwardly unpleasant spot in the center of one’s chest that happens to get moist. Sorry about that.

I’m sorry, too, that when I started typing this letter to you on the train, you happened to look up from your book, surreptitiously glance at my laptop screen, and see me typing this letter to you…because that detail—officially—makes the whole debacle more awkward than it ever was to begin with.

Less sweaty now than I was before,
Taylor

Doing it Dutch: Food, Fun, and Friends

As my mom's famous soup that I'm cooking for the band day-off-dinner tonight continues to stew on the stove, I decided I should probably update on the past two weeks between stirs of the pot. (When I say "famous," I mean that it's received rave reviews from multiple people outside the Morris family--she often cooks it for friends of mine, she cooked it for Barrage in October when we came through Mesa, and I once before prepared it for a potluck my roommates and I had at the Killington Music Festival. Definitely a Morris family specialty!)

To continue briefly with the cooking note, there's been quite a bit of it here these past two weeks, especially given that we have kitchens and stoves. Last Monday we had a 3-course potluck (for which I prepared appetizers, a brie-apples-and-other-stuff-on-crackers thing), and the other morning Charlie and I had what I like to call "Adventures in Cooking": attempting to prepare Dutch pannenkoeken with a box mix and instructions in a foreign language. As we were at the grocery store inquiring as to which oil to use in making the pannenkoeken, we discovered a secret to Dutch cooking. Instead of using oil, the Dutch use this creamy margarine-butter-concoction that's squirt-able...it kind of looks like yellow mayonnaise from one of those easy-squeeze containers. Not only were Charlie and I successful in preparing the pannenkoeken, but then we pulled out all the stops:

Half with apples, half with bananas and nutella. Covered with pannenkoeken syrup and powdered sugar (the usual Dutch pannenkoeken condiments)!

[As a sidenote, I just added the barley to the soup...but we couldn't find barley at the grocery store, so Dave and I opted for the next best thing, in our opinion: bulgur wheat. We'll know in an hour-and-a-half if that was a good second choice...]

It's been a really interesting experience living and performing here in the Netherlands (and Belgium), and performing for numerous audiences in the past two weeks has given us an interesting perspective on things. I plan on addressing the numerous mundane reasons I love the Dutch in another post later, but I want to discuss a few things about the arts in Dutch culture.

Thing 1.

Last week we went to the Concertgebouw, the Dutch equivalent to Carnegie Hall, and home of the Royal Concertgebouw Orchestra, named the top orchestra in the world by Gramophone Magazine in December 2008. It was pretty mind-blowing visiting such a venerated venue, and getting to hear a performance in it. Though we weren't able to hear the RCO, we did catch a concert by the Netherlands Philharmonic Orchestra (the second best orchestra I've heard to date, the first being the Metropolitan Opera Orchestra in NYC). They performed Dvorak's Cello Concerto with Marie-Elisabeth Hecker and Stravinsky's "Rite of Spring." Hecker, who is only 5 days younger than me and won the 8th Rostropovich Cello Competition at age 18 in 2005, was absolutely unbelievable--incredible technique and musicality, and absolutely captivating as a performer. I'd definitely recommend seeing her live if she's ever near you.

The original side of the Concertgebouw (on the right) was cased over with glass (on the left), and then they filled the space in between with a restaurant/cafe where we ate dinner before the concert.

Kristina & Tim enjoying pre-concert coffee and desserts.

A small group of us afterward in the lobby. (You may be thinking, "You guys wore that to the most important concert hall in the Netherlands?" Well, when you are only limited to 50 lbs of a suitcase, you can't exactly bring along dress clothes...)

In retrospect, I'm also really glad that we were all able to get seats at this performance. It was a Monday night, and it was a packed house. This little detail brings me to...

Thing 2.

[Soup update: the bulgur wheat looks to be substituting well for barley. Eating commences in T-minus 40 minutes.]

Sometimes Americans (and other peoples, for that matter) have it all wrong. The Dutch, however, have it all right. Let me break it down for you.

Concerts usually start at 8 or later. Why? Most venues have restaurants and bars attached to the lobby, so people will show up early, eat dinner, and relax pre-concert. Then, during intermission (usually about 20 minutes long), they all go back out to the bar for a free drink (usually included with the price of the ticket), and head back in the for the second half. After the performance, it's only about 10 p.m. Instead of leaving right before the concert is over or before an encore (as many Americans are apt to do when parking is an issue--and I freely admit that I've done this before), the Dutch take their time. They head to the bar, and continue hanging out with their friends. They don't take the pull-the-band-aid-off-faster-because-it's-more-painless approach to the arts; they don't come in at the last minute and leave a.s.a.p. so they can "beat the crowd." For the Dutch, going to the arts is not only a regular part of life (many venues have 5-6 shows a week, even in January, and each show will be a different act), but it's an all-encompassing social activity: food, fun, and friends. As a matter of fact, we have left the venue bar before many audience members most of our nights here.

I'm of the strong opinion that this is the sort of spin on the arts that Americans should/need to adopt. We need a stronger emphasis on the fact that going to the arts is an enjoyable, social activity.

(And sure, we could always have better parking facilities, but if a situation is created wherein people are not hurrying to leave, then traffic quickly becomes a non-issue.)

The fascinating catch to this way of life is that audiences who attend the arts frequently are smarter about the arts. Smarter audiences are more discerning. More discerning audiences are less likely to dig your act early on. Audiences less likely to dig your act early on truly make you work for their admiration.

This being said, every night has been a challenge. After our first couple numbers, many American audiences are already on-board; here, however, they're still skeptical. It takes quite a while to reel them in (rest assured: we eventually get them on our side!). It's somewhat refreshing, though very physically exhausting, having to necessarily work for it every night. I really enjoy the challenge, and the change of pace that it brings.

The other thing that's cool about this is that since they listen well, they seem to applaud for every song in a manner appropriate for that song. For example, after the more upbeat numbers, we hear more hoots and hollers. Alternatively, after slow ballads the applause is dense and very supportive, but also respectful of the aura created by slow songs. It's pretty cool to experience this type of smartly adjusted audience response.

[Update: I had to take a break on this post to go eat the soup at our day-off communal band dinner. Though less soupy than we would have preferred due to the unexpectedly extreme amount of liquid ultimately absorbed by the bulgur wheat, it was still really tasty! We finished one full pot and have most of another pot left for tomorrow's lunch. Thanks to my Mom, and also to my Grandma, who originally created the soup recipe--from scratch!]


So to round out this post, I've so enjoyed being here these past two weeks. The Dutch and the Belgians have not only been wonderful hosts (with incredible concert facilities to boot), but also just been such great audiences. It's fantastic being here.

I'll leave you with this video of an incredibly famous (and incredibly epic) Dutch pop tune we're covering in this tour, "Rood" by Marco Borsato. If we haven't snagged the audience before this point in our show, we get them when Hiddy, Tim & Kiana sing the chorus...in Dutch. (At which point, audiences wildly applaud and many begin to sing along.)

WARNING: you will probably find yourself humming the main theme hours after you watch...it's that catchy.

Holler for Holland

So we've spent the past two days in Amsterdam and it has been unbelievably awesome. This afternoon we drove out to Nieuw Milligen, Netherlands (/Holland), (about an hour outside of Amsterdam) where we arrived at the bungalows in which we're staying for the next month. I'll update about this neat housing area in the next few days.

For now, though, a recap of our time hanging out in Amsterdam thus far.

We got into Amsterdam late in the morning two days ago. By the time we had picked up our bags, gone through customs, arrived at the hotel, and taken a quick nap (sleeping on transcontinental flights isn't exactly the easiest thing...), it was about dinner time. So we hopped onto the train into Amsterdam and grabbed a bite to eat at a really nice Italian restaurant. But that's neither here nor there.

What's really neat is what we did on our full day off! First item of business: lunch at the "Upstairs" Pannenkoekenhuis, or "Pancake House" to those of us who don't speak Dutch, myself very much included. Pannenkoeken are the Dutch breakfast specialty; they are thicker than crepes, but thinner than full-on American pancakes.

Here's the awesome thing about the "Upstairs" Pannenkoekenhuis. Not only is it, literally, upstairs (a very, very, very steep upstairs), but it's also self-touted as the "smallest restaurant in Europe." To help convey that small-ness, I've included a video.

Charlie heads upstairs.

Pretty cool, eh? Not only were the pannenkoeken incredibly delicious, but the ambiance is hard to beat. I definitely plan on eating there again before we leave next month.

Unfortunately, my camera battery died right after I finished filming that video, so I don't have any pictures of the rest of yesterday's events: namely, trips to the Anne Frank Museum (very interesting, informative, and sobering) and the Amsterdam Tulip Museum (less sobering and more colorful...and it smelled good, too!). I'll steal some pictures from the rest of the band at a later point.

In the meantime, here are just a few other pictures from around Amsterdam.

Yes, those are all bikes. The Dutch really dig bikes. They even have bike roads separated with extra medians (in between the main roads and the sidewalks).

No busking allowed! Though I suppose one could argue that this sign only specifically prohibits playing the tenor saxophone whilst collecting money in a tuna can.

It's so cold here right now that many of the canals are frozen over--notice the birds standing on the ice.

My favorite classical violinist, Janine Jansen, is Dutch. And, she's so popular in the Netherlands that she just published a single issue of her own magazine. I found it in a convenience store right in between some of the most popular and hippest fashion magazines. How awesome is that?! A classical violinist so famous that she can publish her own magazine and sell it to the general public?!
Janine Jansen is the epitome of cool.

The Dutch (and much of Europe in general, I've found) are big on fruit smoothies without added stuff. These two were delicious.

An example of written Dutch. I mainly just enjoy how the equivalent to "emergency" in Dutch is so similar to English word "calamity." It seems so dramatic.

The first of 23 shows is tomorrow night! Off to play some card games before bed.