Great Silence

As I return to the blogosphere, I'm aware of the yawning gulf between the long afternoons and ripened grains of my last (August) entry, and the chill winds, lashing rains, and short afternoons of November. Why, you may have asked, have Bruce and Ellie fallen silent?

I can offer two reasons (speaking only for myself.) First, on Labor Day I flew to the US for ten days of work, and a quick visit to Vermont. A long journey brought me to Alabama, where I much enjoy intense, face to face engagements with the colleagues who I see too little. I slowly acclimated to a six-hour time change, American food, driving on the right, and television. I drove a long day through Tennessee hills and hollows, and listened in disbelief to crazed countrymen spitting at each other and warning of "death panels." In Vermont too, though I had warm reunions with friends and family, visited home, and felt the first hard frost, I remained disquieted by My Land, wanting to get home to Lane End. Is America so uncivil as to be ungovernable? Can Obama and hopeful, progressive people make some difference after all? I hope so, from afar, sharing the pragmatic optimism of the American Bard: "When the going gets weird, the weird turn pro."

Also,as we came into Autumn it became more difficult for me to avoid thinking that we were over half-way through the time that we thought we'd spend here. It had gone too fast, the mild spring and long-dayed summer were behind us. Ellie was focused on her last (and seemingly very short) term at University, and we would be facing some decisions about our plans for 2010. We both were completely consumed with playing a Gilbert & Sullivan operetta during the first week of October, and the days had too few hours.

But Autumn has moved nearly into Holiday Time, and the end of her University term is in sight. Despite hearing from you and from me what an evocative writer she is, My Wife is too consumed with her University projects, just now, to share her experiences and thoughts. I hope she will soon. In the meanwhile, Her Majesty has let us know the terms on which she will entertain our application to extend our visas beyond February, and we have plans in Olde England stretching till the end of April, at least. My daughter Juliana was scheduled to come visit just before Christmas, but had to change plans, so our Christmas and Boxing Day will be spend in Gloucester and on the shore in Wales with friends. And we, at least I, am looking forward to evenings by the fire, days that will soon begin to be longer -- we are dreadfully further North, you know, than you are -- and plans to get out and see the countryside. Actually, we've had some great times out and about this fall, and I'll end this silence with another post soon.

Faithful but Unfortunate

The family motto -- Fiel Pero Desdichado -- is still used by descendants. It was coined by the impoverished cavalry captain Winston Churchill, who paid a huge fine -- £500 was big money in those days -- for backing the losing Royalists in the English Civil War. But he soon (1650) sired the second of nine children John Churchill, who had the good sense to switch to the winning side in the Glorious Revolution of 1688, went on to the Captain-Generalcy of all British forces, and won the Battle of Blenheim (1704). Queen Anne and the grateful nation granted him the Manor of Woodstock, the funds to build Blenheim Palace, and the title Duke of Marlborough.





I decided two Saturdays ago (while Ellie was nursing along her thesis) to take a lovely summer day and see some of the environs. (Not Blenheim itself, as that is a day trip we'll take together.) My first goal was to see the Combe Mill: the original ‘power house’ of the old Blenheim Palace Estate timber mill and workshops.





The Mill has an original 1852 "beam" engine and the even older water wheel, plus a lot of neat museum stuff focusing on old technology. I visited on one of the few days they crank up the old steam power; the place is full of older gentlemen volunteers eager to share their stories of the old days and the old tools. The thing I enjoy most about this is meeting older folks who really have a passion and a history, whether it be for steam engines, clocks or old cars.






Nigel started with a 17th century village clockworks, ended with Big Ben, and told me more about the huge leaps in horology than I ever thought possible.

Old Jack as had his vintage roadster for nearly forty years, and was here for a rally of old time MGs.









Tying all this together (for me, at least, on a glorious summer afternoon) was a five-mile run through the countryside around Blenheim. Park in a country church-yard, jump into running shorts and shoes, jog up the farm lane and out onto the stoney road leading up the ridge, and catch the view across Oxfordshire. Sometimes along the edges of fields, sometimes through the wheat-stalks or forests; but I stop at a stoney house.



Greeted by a pack of curious house dogs and their peg-legged master, I learn that yon hedgerow, which my trail will follow, is the medieval path north from Oxford to Bladon. And this was the path taken by the aforementioned Royalist army in June 1646, retreating from Oxford to Bladon, led by Charles, the king whose career was cut short by a severe neck injury. Local legend has it that in this house (well, the oldest stone portion) the King spent the night, but I will take the trail upon which that elder Churchill doubtless followed his master, for I am to pay my respects to The Great Man.

Sir Winston Churchill was born at Blenheim in 1874, and for all his life frequented Bladon, the town just outside the estate. Many Churchills are buried in the yard of the 12th century church, and so -- after a State Funeral in London in 1965 -- was he.

But I still have two miles back to the car, up lanes, across stoney fields, dodging horse pies and nettles.

"The length of this document defends it well against the risk of its being read." -- Winston Churchill

Laphroaig

It burns on the way down, but it is one of the great malt whiskys, made on the Isle of Islay, off the west coast of Scotland. (And that's not a typo: it is the way they spell it.) Islay was a little too far on road and on boat to fit into our Scottish vacation with Ellie's daughters Sophie and Heidi, but we did make it to Arran. Just a 40-minute ferry ride from Ardrossan, home of sheep and one of Britain's largest wind farms, but it's wonderfully wild.

Arran is home to Goat Fell, at 874 meters, not quite one of the Munros, but a good six-hour hike nonetheless. (Mountain peaks in Scotland over 3,000 feet are called "Munros" because Sir Hugh Munro in 1891 produced a definitive list of all 284.) We started right at sea level, driving to Brodick Castle, the start of the trail. The castle is over 600 years old, and has some crusty battlements from Robert the Bruce's struggle for Scotland, but was mostly destroyed in fighting in 1455 and later. Conquered and occupied by Roundheads in the seventeenth century, the castle also received a gracious 17th Century makeover for the 10th Duke of Hamilton, whose forebearer received the island and castle as a bauble from his cousin James IV. About 100 years ago Brodick Castle passed into the hands of Mary, Duchess of Montrose (daughter of the 12th Duke of Hamilton) who revitalised the gardens. She was quite a lady, as I hope you will learn soon (from Ellie), as Lady Mary has a direct connection to Ellie's thesis project: two eighteenth century mahogany chairs from Holyrood Palace, the royal residence in Edinburgh. (The name means "Holy Cross:" there's a whole story involving royal princes, enchanted stags, and ruined chapels, but I digress. . . )

Back to Goat Fell: we struck out from the Brodick Castle grounds, spending a half hour or more in farm fields and woodlands. Everyone says vacations in Scotland mean two things: rain and the fierce Highland Biting Midge, Culicoides impunctatus.We kept an eye out for both, but had good luck. We cleared the tree line, constantly removing layers when the sun shone, and re-bundling under the scudding clouds and wind gusts. The trail was periodically steep, and leveled out in an open vale as the vistas across the sea to east and south opened.

Once in the open, the trail was well-tended, with portions that had had great trail work: vitually paving with flat rocks the sections subject to water damage. The trail comes to the base of a ridge, thankfully sheltered partially from the wind, and then begins to climb. As the ground cover thins, you go for long sections hefting yourself from boulder to boulder, up giant steps.

At times it is quite steep and the ridge is narrow: it is easy to feel your fear of making a mis-step or catching a gust of wind that will carry you off your feet and down. Not dangerous or technical, though Goat Fell does carry away hikers every year: mostly in radical shifts of weather.

Still no rain or midges, and we made our way up the final ridge, stopping for breath until we finally saw the penultimate ledge. A couple of young lads bouncing up the trail heedlessly gave Ellie the needed final jolt of certitude to make it.

Everyone had said that the 360 degree view of island, mountains and ocean made the effort worthwhile: they were right. I looked wistfully at the trail leading across to a neighboring peak and down to the shore, but knew that weather was headed our way.

So what about the trip down? Still no midges, and getting down the steep part seemed as easy as taking an elevator. Lower down, I was recounting a tale of having been hit by a cold front and sideways rain/hail in Dartmoor last spring, when what should happen: we were soaked by about ten minutes of hard slanting downpour!

But it was no big deal: the sun came back out before we hit the trees, and we were barely damp by the time we got back to the castle. All of this is quite easy to take when you know that a hot shower, good meal, and a dram of Laphroaig is in the near future.

Summer Showers

Last Wednesday dawned on Ellie’s resolve to go to London to see some very special books and do research related to her thesis. I decided to be a tourist, and we had plans to meet up at Canary Wharf for outdoor dinner (more on that later) –on the site of London’s historic docklands.

I had found two free lunchtime concerts listed for that day, and resolved to spend the day at St. Paul’s Cathedral, in the heart of London. I walked into the cavernous nave to the sound of about 40 American voices singing “O Happy Day” and swaying in gospel harmony. A group from South Carolina, they arrayed in a semi-circle right under the awesome cathedral dome – some 100+ feet across, nearly 200 feet above us – and gave us tourists some old time religion. Actually, since this is a cathedral space, I found it very gratifying that once an hour a canon comes to the PA system to ask for a few minutes of silence and prayer amid the London hubbub.

I took the full tour of the place, amazed at the treasures, the memorials to famous men, and all the history of the place. The fifth cathedral on the site, it was built in 1677-1708 following the Great Fire of London, by Sir Christopher Wren, and remains much as he has envisioned it. Lord Nelson and the Iron Duke (of Wellington) are buried in the crypt, and there are countless monuments linking glory with death in battle: including one to Captain George Blagdon Westcott (of Devonshire), buried at sea after a glorious victory over the French in 1797, and doubtless related to my forbearers (from neighbouring Somerset).

St. Paul’s is an inspiring architectural monument, and I climbed the 530 steps to the “Golden Gallery,” able to look out over the Thames and the great metropolis before thundershowers chased us down. The Quire (that’s right; not spelled “choir”) features amazing baroque carving Grinling Gibbons, whose decorative arts Ellie has come to know in her studies. The American Memorial Chapel stands behind the High Altar in an area that was bomb-damaged during the Blitz of 1940: it has three stained-glass windows that contain images of the seals of the 48 (wartime) states, and a leather volume listing the 28000 Americans who didn’t come home from Europe.

As dinner time approached Ellie and I conferred by cell phone to assess the unstable weather, as we planned to rendezvous for outdoor supper on a blanket on the (damp) grass. The occasion was the outdoor simulcast from the Royal Opera House of Rossini’s Il barbiere di Siviglia. We had been to a digital simulcast from the Metropolitan Opera (NY) before, and guessed that the sound quality and camera work would be excellent. As silly as anything from Gilbert & Sullivan, we saw excellent acting and a major heartthrob tenor Juan Diego Florez. It rained – HARD – for the first five minutes, but we got through the three hour performance damp but excited, and protected by the ground cloths and inflatable pillows provided free by the sponsors. But the big story was the American mezzo-soprano Joyce DiDonato, who performed flawlessly from a wheelchair, having broken her leg on opening night(!!) Her performance got rave reviews, and she tells the entire story on her blog. Talk about a class act! As the stars came out and the chill took hold, we found our way back to Cousin Nancy’s for the night on the wonderful Underground.

Holland Journal, from Ellie -- Part 3

Friday, 19-June
On my last day here, I went back to Amsterdam to take in the Rijksmuseum. It is undergoing renovations, and everybody had told me that it was disappointing because only half the paintings are on exhibit, but when I got there I found that they were exhibiting all of the Old Dutch Masters, so that was good enough for me. I only had two hours, but that was enough to feel completely satiated.
The thing that quickly becomes clear is that the likes of Vermeer and Rembrandt did not come out of the blue. Exquisite technical abilities were all around them. I got introduced to some wonderful portrait painters, namely Johannes Verspronck, whose portraits remind me of Richard Avedon photo portraits--they seem completely modern in sensibility. Yet they were painted in the 1650's. The background is like a photostudio backdrop, like the ones for school pictures, and the people are painted so meticulously that it looks like a color photo. Extraordinary.
Then I saw Rembrandts, some that I would never have known were Rembrandts. I think of his style being a bit loose and fuzzy, which I've never been that thrilled with, but here I saw huge, crisply painted portraits, with the characteristic glow of Rembrandt. "The Night Watch" is an enormous painting, about 18 ft wide by 12 ft tall; HUGE. It is a group portrait of Burghers, each of whom had to contribute money to be included in the painting, so only rich men are in it. One of them was so pleased with the painting that he had a very small copy made for himself, also exhibited, from which you can see that the Night Watch used to be wider than it is now, because there are two men on the left side of the copy who are chopped off in the original. Apparently, when the huge painting was done, they wanted to hang it between two doorways, so ...snip snip!!!
I didn't think any museum experience could top the Van Gogh exhibit, but surprise surprise. There are two Vermeer paintings there that had me in tears. I actually had to leave the room until I could collect myself.
The two paintings are "The Little Street" and "The Milkmaid,” each about 18” by 20”. At ten feet away, you think, wow, what beautiful paintings. But when you walk right up to them, something weird happens. At a foot and a half away, The Milkmaid, about which I've never seen anything particularly special, starts to have an electrifying effect, as though it has diamonds embedded in the paint. Something is going on in these two paintings. The effect on me was of being seared as though I were looking at the sun. It is perfect. The stillness of his scene, the moment in time that is absolutely perfect, grabs you by the throat and holds you there until you start to feel shattered, and you can’t figure out why, but you’re compelled to try. The girl's dress is of a blueness that no print can come CLOSE to depicting. Her face is of pure quiet focus, lit from the side window; the plaster wall is so perfectly represented and no amount of staring at the brushstrokes can explain it. Vermeer also mixed sand with the paint, in areas, to create some three-dimensionality, and this makes the paint jump out at you.
In “The Little Street,” again, it is a moment of infinite stillness, even though the women are doing things. On close inspection, you see that the bricks, so tiny, are not painted as bricks at all, just tiny spots, and glimmerings of shape. In both of these paintings, the composition is utter perfection, and that is a beautiful thing to behold. Why are these paintings so moving? Why is perfection so affecting? I've had the same weeping response in the Lacrimosa of Mozart's Requiem. Seeing them was like having the veils removed from your eyes; the clarity and brilliance is almost painful. I felt like running away screaming, "I didn't know!"
Well, now I know. That's all for the Holland Journal, Ellie.

P.S. Any musings on perfection and emotion would be appreciated.

Holland Journal, from Ellie -- Part 2

Wednesday, 17-June

I went alone to Den Haag (The Hague). I still don't know what a Haag is--I'm getting perilously close to buying a Dutch-English dictionary, now that my visit is drawing to a close, of course. The letter G is pronounced like an H; the letter W is pronounced like a W, not as in German, where the W is said like a V; the letters IJ are pronounced like a long I. The word 'wine' sounds the same but looks like "wijn." Gouda cheese is pronounced “Hooda.”

I think one of the amazing things about Holland is the ubiquity of Dutch. This sounds like a stupid thing to say, but Rotterdam has 150 nationalities, and they are all speaking Dutch, even within ethnic groups. It seems to me that in London and New York, the different nationalities speak their own language with each other. Even in High Wycombe, a much smaller city but with a large ethnic population, the different groups speak their own languages with each other, especially the Muslim women. But here, not so, and this has been true for Rotterdam, Amsterdam, and now Den Haag. Interesting. And it makes me feel provincial to be so surprised! I am just not used to seeing blacks and Indians and Asians speaking what I think of as a quintessentially northern European language, as their first language. Which reminds me of a funny moment we had, several nights ago when we went out for supper and ate at a superb dim sum restaurant. Our waitress spoke no English, we spoke no Dutch or Chinese. It turned out that she did speak French, so I ordered our food in French in a Chinese restaurant in a Dutch city.

Back to Den Haag. I had found out about a huuuuuuuuuuge market area with 520 stalls. My mind was filled with images of strange foods and objects and antiques and odd things unimaginable. It was a disappointment; after an hour I was hot, hungry, and had a headache. It was completely crammed with people, Muslim women wearing headscarves and pushing strollers and filling the tiny walkways, not moving; piles of shoes being pawed over and identical from stall to stall; cheap clothing and handbags all nearly identical; piles of vegetables (some of which I can't identify) and fruit (quietly fermenting in the midday sun), one seller doubling the price from the stall next door; mountains of nuts and figs; meat sellers, watch sellers, trinket sellers, tacky-cloth sellers, fried food smells; no way out; bumped by handbags---Help!

My antidote to the market was the Mauritshuis (pronounced Mow-rits-house) Museum, a beautiful mansion that now houses Dutch masterpieces, cool and quiet and hushed. Lovely atmosphere, and an exquisite collection of Rembrandts, and about four Vermeers, one of which is so fine that I may have to go back there just to stand in front of it. It is called 'View of Delft' and one of the very surprising things about it is that it's big. I think of Vermeer making such small pictures. I also wasn't expecting to be so bowled over by his technique, which involves such tiny droplets of color, like a string of pearls, to make the highlights along the side of a boat, for instance. And in this museum, as well, you can walk up to a painting and look at it a nose-length away. How simply and perfectly he paints a woman on the canal bank; if you look at it, you can't understand how so little can communicate so much. I read that he used techniques that are similar to the impressionists, making things look the way they feel, rather than strictly how they look. And this was in 1650. He gave tiny highlights to things that couldn't really have had them, strictly speaking, but that needed them; and he made some towers taller because they needed to be taller for the composition. I am again struck by the difference between seeing even a superb print and the real thing.

I came back from Den Haag in time to take a bicycle tour of the city with a small group. Rotterdam was obliterated by WWII and it makes me very sad to think what it must have been. Our guide said it looked pretty much like Amsterdam. What was destroyed was the center of the city, the oldest part. They rebuilt it with all sorts of 1950's ideas, like the city center should be a place where people work and shop but not live. Now they are seeing the error of this and rebuilding again to introduce high-rise apartment buildings in the center of things, because after business hours the place is barely alive. They put in a shopping area that is a pedestrian zone for ten blocks, the first pedestrian zone in the world. Of course, it is dull as ditch water! And now there is much debate about whether they should improve it or whether the boring and ugly 1950’s look has historical significance now. Much the same debate that goes on with furniture conservation!

That's the news from Holland today, Ellie.

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Thursday, 18-June

Bruce got out of his conference for the afternoon. We took the train to Delft, a ten minute journey. The train leaves about every twenty minutes. It's enough to make you tear your hair, knowing how easy train travel could be.
From the train, Delft looks completely uninteresting. All you see is the backside of town. But get on the other side of the station, and a mini Amsterdam unfolds. We were hungry when we arrived, and we found a cute restaurant with its dining room on a barge pulled up to the bank of the canal. We had lunch with the delicious Dutch beer that has become my staple. Across the canal (about 20 ft. away) a group of students were playing pickup soccer and the ball kept going into the canal. Finally a water taxi went by and fished out the ball for them. In another half minute it was back in the canal, and they were trying to hook it with a chair tied to a rope. I got the feeling the ball spent most of its playtime in the water.
Then we went to the Old Church, meandering through canalled streets, rubbernecking and trying not to back up into the canals. The Oude Kirk (pronounced owda kerk) was built in 1240, with some more added in 1520. Vermeer, who was from Delft, is buried there, in the church floor. The grave stones on the floor are extraordinary because they are carved in high relief. You really have to watch your step because there's a lot to trip over. The legible stones were 17th century, but many, many stones that still had deep relief carving were completely blank where the writing had rubbed away over the last six centuries!
Next to the Oude Kirk was a museum, where I THOUGHT there would be a Vermeer or two. Guess what--Delft has no Vermeers!! Rather sad. Anyway, in the Museum, which had excellent Dutch masters, we learned a lot about William of Orange, also known as William the Silent, who apparently founded Holland, having rebelled against Spain in 1648. He had four wives, the last of whom warned him that his best friend had a "creepy manner"---and sure enough, the guy murdered William, and the museum is actually where it happened, with the bullet holes in the plaster.
Delft, and most of what we've seen of Holland, is made of bricks. They don't seem to have much in the way of stone, which makes sense, being essentially one big bog. When you think about all the bricks that were produced just to build Delft, with all the streets paved in brick as well, the mind reels. Our next stop was the Nieuwe Kerk (the New Church) which was started in 1394 and finished in 1476. Quite new. William of Orange is buried in a crypt there, where all the royals are buried. I'm embarrassed to say that I didn't even know Holland still has a Royal family!
Supper was in a strange restaurant where everything is served, and eaten, in the manner of the 16th century, or thereabouts, and, alarmingly, no silverware appeared. When I said we needed forks, our waiter explained that in the 16th century they ate with their hands, and we were expected to do the same.
It was a lovely day out in Delft! -Ellie.

Holland Journal, from Ellie -- Part 1

Hi from Rotterdam. A five day journal, starting on June 14.

We arrived yesterday, a flight of one hour and ten minutes. We flew in over a sea of windmills, literally: the windmills are all over the sea as you approach Amsterdam, like fields of wheat except (from the air) it’s little white stalks with three twirling blade. Then as we flew over land it was more fields of white stalks. I was reminded of the Duke of Plazatoro's line, that owing to an unusual amount of rainfall, the streets are filled with water (or something like that!), for truly there are canals and canals and rivers and more canals criss-crossing the landscape. On the train from the window I saw what appeared to be boats in dry-dock, all in lines, and then saw that they were berthed in miniature canals about eight feet wide. And bicycles absolutely everywhere. At the train stations there are covered bicycle racks that stretch for what looks like a city block. It's my kind of biking territory--not a hill in sight.

Our hotel is a throw-back to some sort of Soviet-style ethic; pretty grubby, in modern parlance. There are two cigarette butts on the carpeted staircase that I'm tracking to see if they ever get removed, the hallways smell like mildew and when you look up the ceiling tiles are either water stained or missing, the room has an eau-de-stale cigarette, the pillows are dinky and the towels likewise, and the dining room floor has a fair amount of food debris. All night long there were punctuations from across the "courtyard" of loud Dutchmen, but thankfully it didn't keep me awake because I had no idea what they were saying. The noises from the other guests are, ahem, audible and sometimes of an intimate nature....

This part of Rotterdam looks like the set of a sci-fi movie: tall cylindrical buildings with round windows; ovoid buildings; sunken shopping areas dipping in front of you; pointy buildings….I'm sure there are some old buildings, or an older section, and I look forward to finding them this afternoon. I'm trying to stick to a plan of schoolwork in the mornings, exploring in the afternoons. I'm a little excited because I found a reference to a Dutch architect that was very influential in the chair-making trade of the seventeenth century, a Huguenot named Daniel Marot, and perhaps I can find a reference while I'm here in Holland.

That's all for now, Ellie.


Yesterday, Tuesday, Bruce got away from the conference and we took the train to Amsterdam. The train is a marvel of smoothness, quietness, and timeliness. It is expensive, but it's about half price for Dutch residents (those with Dutch bank accounts), so it's nice to know they are getting around cheaply. We rode on a double decker train past canals and cows and sheep and lots of waterfowl. Saw some windmills of the grain mill type, though none of them were wearing sails.

I'M IN LOVE! Amsterdam is exquisite. The first sight is the train station itself, absolutely huge and beautiful mid-19th centuryish spires and brickwork. The next sight is outside the station, a parking lot for bicycles, probably about a hundred thousand of them. How does anyone find their own bike? A miracle. The bicycles are a big part of the utter charm of the place. They are actually the main mode of transport, as far as I can tell, and as a result the city is quiet. Peaceful. The other transportation is the tram. Yes, there are some cars but they are outnumbered. It's quite a sight to see the intersections: a complexity of bike lanes, tram lines, and cars. Each group has their own light signals. The bikes are large and the seats and handlebars are set quite high so everyone sits very upright, old ladies, old men, businessmen in suits, young women in skirts, scarves and jackets billowing in the wind. It's a truly beautiful sight, I hope it's the sight of the future for all cities, and of course it's a sight of the past.

The second thing you notice is all the canals and bridges, close to the sidewalks. There are as many canals as there are streets, because they run in the middle of most streets. So to the mix of bicycles, trams, people, Vespas, and cars, add BOATS!

We went to the Van Gogh Museum. It was the most rewarding time I've ever spent in a museum. I thought, stupidly, there might be a dozen paintings by Van Gogh, and then paintings by others. As it turns out, half of the entire museum is Van Gogh. It was stupendous. Seeing his paintings, probably 70 of them (more?) in chronological order, close up, was strangely moving. What you miss by seeing prints is the thickness of the paint, the three-dimensionality of the brush strokes, which makes it seem as though the painter has been here recently. I don't know why it's so interesting to see paint in little blobs, but it is. And it is fascinating to see the colors Van Gogh sees in things, and how he outlines things with the opposite color. I stood in front of these pictures, bending in, peering at the brush strokes, getting inside his mind, at least a little bit. What an incredible luxury to look at so many of his paintings from ten inches away.

When we came out (having bought some large prints, of course!) we wandered over a bridge or two, dodged a thousand bicycles or so, looking for a bite to eat, and found an Argentine restaurant with a man playing tangos on a mandolin, right next to a Greek restaurant, a Spanish tapas bar with a man singing Spanish songs (beautifully, in fact) and playing the guitar, and sat at a table on the cobbled street.

After supper, we decided to look at Anne Frank's house, which was about eight blocks away. We found it, a completely ordinary Amsterdam house, three windows wide and three stories tall, just like its neighbours. It ordinariness is unnerving. It is obviously someone's home, and there are no big signs saying "here it is!" And right here, on this ordinary leafy street, with the ubiquitous cute canal in front, such misery, such fear, such horror. Unlike Dachau, which looks so cruel, this house looks completely homey and safe.

More later, Ellie.