Anne Frank Huis Amsterdam

08/11

I had read her diary and her biography by Carol Ann Lee and so felt as though I had spent hours upon hours with Anne Frank and her family in their secret annex.

I travelled to Amsterdam to spend a week being young and having fun in the party-renowned city after having spent many weeks with my family in Houten, Utrecht.

I had a blast as is inevitable in Amsterdam; staying in a youth hostel, meeting new people and seeing the various sights Amsterdam had to offer.

I had wanted to see Anne Frank’s house in Amsterdam ever since hearing her tale when I was a young girl, and I took a day alone to experience it for myself.

I arrived at the house one chilly Amsterdam afternoon…and then had to walk another 200 hundred metres to the back of the line (I recommend going early in the morning to avoid the queues) before waiting for 90 minutes to enter.

I knew not what to expect but I had to admit what I discovered was one of the most powerful things I’ve ever experienced.

Upon entering the house and ascending the stairs one is taken through the factory and offices of Opekta; Otto Frank’s company which distributed a pectin-based gelling preparation to be used in jam-making.

The offices and store rooms of the building are exactly as described by Anne in the diaries and as one walks through the building one can imagine Otto, Mr Kleiman and Miep Gies working away. These areas also contain a small exhibition including videos, Nazi propaganda from Holland during the war years, and a furnished model of the annex.

After the discovery of the Franks the Nazis stripped their annex of all furniture and possessions. When turning the site into a museum and memorial, Otto Frank made the executive decision to leave the house empty as the Nazis had left it, and not fully furnished as the Franks had.

When ascending into the back office, the map as described in the diary and the swinging bookcase loom before you. A lump entered my throat as I realised more than ever how real the plight of the Ottos was, and suddenly it was no longer a story on a page, but a very real reality.

I crossed the threshold of the bookcase and walked up the tiny staircase leading to the annexe that Anne had so often described tiptoeing up in stockinged feet so as to avoid detection.

As I walked through the rooms I was amazed that the map of the Nazi invasion of Europe that Otto had marked out with pins was still on the wall in their bedroom, and pencil markings of the girls’ heights. The room that Anne shared with Mr Pfeffer still contained the celebrity pictures which Anne so meticulously glued to the walls and took so much joy from.

The kitchen, while empty, was in my mind’s eye full of the two families around the dinner table, as they eyed each other off for taking too much and contributing too little. So much of the diary revolved around food in the annexe (or lack thereof) and the politics of sharing. I saw this all come to life as I stood where the usually-silent battles took place.

Opekta and the annex on Prisengracht, Amsterdam

The bathroom where Anne’s housemates thought she spent too much time in the mirror, and the toilet which could rarely be flushed for fear of capture stood before me as my eyes welled thinking what a normal young girl she had been.

Peter’s attic, where Anne came to spend so much time in the end to the dismay of all the parents in the annex, was bigger and gloomier than I had expected.

After walking through the annex, the diaries of Anne Frank are on display, along with a small exhibition on the camps which the Ottos found themselves in the end. There is also a wall of the hundreds of various republications of the diary all over the world, in more languages than you could think of.

In the horrible story that is that of the Franks, this is the one and only consolation; that Anne’s wish of publishing her diaries and becoming a famous writer were realised, even if she never lived to see the fruition.

This experience was certainly unforgettable and even more profound than I had expected. Otto Frank’s decision to open the house as a museum and memorial has been commended as keeping the horror of the holocaust alive so as not to repeat it.

Anne’s story is certainly not a unique one, thousands of families suffered as hers did. But we have her to thank for personifying the terror of WWII and keeping the plight of holocaust victims in the minds of many for decades, and will-be centuries, to come.

There's more to The Netherlands than Amsterdam

From Groningen to Maastricht, it’s a shame so many young tourists
never make it past the marijuana haze of Amsterdam to explore the rest
of the Netherlands. I did just that and loved every minute.

Travelling to Holland to see where my Oma and Opa came from all those
years ago had been a dream of mine from a very young age. I scrubbed
up on my Dutch and arrived at Schipol airport to be greeted by an
Aunty I’d not seen since I was three.

I knew people who had been to Holland, but all I had heard was of
Amsterdam, the Red Light district, and how it was legal to smoke
marijuana. I was hoping to get a little more out of Holland as the
place where my family began. After two weeks of windmills, trains, and
hagelslag, the following are my highlights.

I started in Utrecht, where my family came from, and where I was
staying with my Aunty (in Houten). I was immediately captured by the
beautiful city, with canals, streets and buildings to rival Amsterdam,
and a young university vibe about the place. I did the obligatory ‘Dom
climb’ which gave a great history of the town and an even better view,
and wandered the streets marvelling at the quaint houses and
ubiquitous bikes. Baskets of red and pink flowers hung from the
bridges striding the canals, as though it wasn’t beautiful enough
already.

Next on the list was Leiden where I cruised down the canals on an
idyllic boat ride, and visited De Valk windmill. It was here that I
first realised that windmills weren’t just tourist propaganda, but
actually had an important function in Dutch history in the production
of food and the relocation of water.

I also visited Rotterdam, the port at which my Oma and Opa departed
all those years ago, and was delighted by the amazing Museum Boijmans
Van Beuningen. Though I travelled all over Europe, I never found a
collection to rival this museum in terms of modern art. Then I hopped
on a boat and travelled to perhaps the most stunningly idyllic place
I’d seen thus far; kinderdijk. The only things in sight for miles
other than the waterways were windmills and flowers. Take your camera,
and wear your nicest outfit, these pictures will be going in a frame!
Rotterdam has a very urban and artistic vibe about it, not dissimilar
to Melbourne, and is, I feel, the most modern Dutch city.

Next on my list was the city I was most excited about, not because I’m
interested in international law, but because Johannes Vermeer’s “Girl
with a Pearl Earring” is my favourite painting and I had the chance to
see it here, in The Hague. The Mauritshuis in The Hague contains three
Vermeer works, including his most famous, which is often referred to
as the Dutch Mona Lisa. The museum isn’t huge, but it’s spectacular.
Also worth a look in The Hague is the Madurodam. If you don’t think
you’ll be able to travel the whole of Holland, just come here and
you’ll see it all in miniature!

Continuing on with my Vermeer quest I visited Delft, and here found my
favourite place of all. I found some amazing antique treasures in the
myriad of canal-side markets, and I pretended I was Vermeer as I
wandered the streets visiting the various buildings that once were his
home/studio/pub etc. I visited the Oude Kerk (Old church) where he is
buried, and the new church where I climbed the dizzying spire for a
magnificent view over the main square.

It was an amazing two weeks that shan’t be easily forgotten, and where
I learnt much about my ancestors and the culture from whence they
came. While I enjoyed the fact that there were few tourists and little
commercialisation, it’s a shame that others don’t get to experience
the Holland that I have seen as they bypass it all for Amsterdam.

The ‘Sail Croatia’ phenomenon and why it's taking young Australians by storm.

Long have young Australians been doing the Contiki Europe tour. Longer have they been doing the live-in-London thing. Well there's a new cliche on the block; 'Sail Croatia'.

Most Australians had never thought, nor perhaps even heard, of Croatia until the whole Brit Lapthorne misfortune. I know when I told people I was heading there, the only response I heard from my gen-X consorts was "Croatia?! Why? You're not going to Dubrovnik, I hope. You'll end up rolling on a river somewhere." However, my fellow Gen-Ys asked another; "You're doing 'Sail Croatia', yeah?"

Well yes, yes I was. Like thousands of other Australians, I was planning to set sail with 20 other (evidently also Australian) young folk for a week of gambolling sailing fun. I was finally going to see what all the fuss was about.

We got to the boat on the first day in Split and squeezed into our quaint little cabins excited at the prospect of spending eight days sleeping on this dizzying house of fun, and showering over the toilet while trying not to fall in it. We'd heard drinks on board were expensive, so just to be party to another cliché, we sneaked some vodka aboard.

We met the crew and our new roomies for the week (in my case, my three friends, an Aussie girl currently living in the UK, and sixteen 19-year-olds who all went to high school together in Brisbane - great), and set sail to our first destination; Hvar.

This set the tone for the week of partying ahead - hanging out with your own friends all day, until you had a few tequila boom-booms and felt like talking to the other people on your boat, or if you were really really brave; people from another boat.

After somewhat slightly getting to know your fellow sailors, and the others in the fleet, day two en route to Mljet was a bit more comfortable. The days on board the boat are spent lazing on top deck getting sunburnt, perhaps reading for entertainment, checking out who has cellulite and who doesn't, and salivating like Pavlov's dogs when you hear the lunch bell.

As one who had never experienced motion sickness before, I can't say the first few days eating aboard the boat were great - but you get used to it.

Usually after lunch there is a swim stop (they were quick to tell us Aussies that there are no sharks in the Adriatic) and then it's fix up, look sharp, time to hop off the boat (after skolling some of the sneaked-in vodka of course) and head out into the real world again. By 'real world' I mean bars frequented by tourists doing the exact same tour under a different name - you probably won't see an actual Croatian person.

This goes on for eight days, through Dubrovnik, Korcula, Makarska, Omis (don't worry, I've been there and I don't even know how to pronounce them) and back to Split - or a slightly different route depending on the tour company.

Highlights were kayaking in the national park in Mljet to St Mary Island, walking the walls of Dubrovnik  and watching people attempt to cliff dive while being taunted about the possibility of becoming a paraplegic, and getting our feet wet in the cave nightclub in Makarska.

Despite my sarcasm, it was a great week. Was it the best week of my life as I had so eagerly anticipated? No. But it was a lot of fun. It would be pretty hard not to have fun in a confined space with 20 other young people and vodka, so the fact that we were in Croatia was really of no consequence.

It's an easy way to travel, have fun, and meet people, without really leaving your comfort zone, and without having to organise any sight-seeing, meals or accommodation for a week. If you want to see and experience Croatia and get involved in the local culture, don't do this tour. If you want to drink with a bunch of twenty-something Aussies, swim and sunbathe everyday for eight days, and probably piss off some locals, but still have a smashing time; then this is the thing for you.

It's something I'm extremely glad I did and (though each morning my memory of the day before was wiped clean) it's an experience I'll never forget. But could I have had this exact experience cruising down the Murray-Darling? Probably. And I'd have had more money left over for some better quality vodka.

Cinque Terre July 2011

Where do I even begin to describe one of the most beautiful little places I think I’ve ever seen? The five towns of Cinque Terre all have something unique to offer, and are all just as beautiful and quaint as the last. The towns largely consist of a little ramshackle main street with colourful houses jutting over the coast like in a child’s painting.

We arrived in Riomaggiore, the farthest (or fifth town) by train if you’re coming from La Spezia and ascended the steep hill towards where our hostel was supposed to be. We marveled as we walked up at the picturesque little shops and cafes in an array of colours and sizes.  We found the hostel, and then the hostel owner pointed to a set of steps (342 – I counted), also all of different shapes and sizes, and told us our room was at the top. I had a 20kg backpack to contend with – my travel buddy had a 25kg suitcase.

After a sweet little Italian man carried her suitcase to the top, my travel buddy and I wiped the sweat from our foreheads and took in the amazing view of the hills, the coast and the amazing rickety houses that made up Cinque Terre – the climb had been worth it.

We spent the next few days exploring the other towns, each as wonderous as the next. Manarola is perhaps the smallest of them all, and featured a hiphop/skateboarding/graffiti exhibition right in the middle of the town while we were there, which led us to believe it had the youngest, most modern feel about it.

Next along is Corniglia – by far my favourite.  Another big climb to get to the town, but this has tended to mean it will be worthwhile once you get there, and Corniglia was no exception. Not just because the gelati was amazing, but the town is just perfect, with beautiful winding little streets, houses, and shops perched precariously right on top of a hill. On one side is the ocean, and an amazing view of the other towns perched on their hills over the coast, and on the other is row upon row of miniature farms carved into the side of the hills. Save a whole day for Corniglia – even just for the views.

The second town along is Varnazza, another lovely spot with great pasta if you want to stop here for lunch. It’s a nice walk along the beach here, and all the way to the next town; Monte Rosso. Monte Rosso is the most commercialised of the five towns, probably because it has the nicest beach. If you’re into the whole resort/hotel thing, then Monte Rosso is for you, if you’re not, just pop in for a brief visit!

I was very sad to leave Riomaggiore, and its ‘one bar’ that the little community of young tourists would flock to in the evening, and I doubt I’ll see anything like it ever again.

Learning Lessons in Sicily

July 2011: When I caught the train to Sicily I was shocked by a couple of things. The first; I woke up on the train about half way through the 12 hour journey to find that I was on a boat. I was slightly dazed and confused (having taken a Restavit or two 6 hours prior) and asked some fellow passengers what was going on. They confirmed that yes, the train had driven on to a boat, a boat that was now crossing the strait between mainland Italy, or the ‘boot’ and Sicily, the ball. The second shock was that when I arrived, there was no Al Pacino, no Marlon Brando, in fact no mafia (that I could see, anyway).

It was here that we learned a very valuable lesson: make sure you write down the address of your hostel. After about five hours, having to wake up my mother at 4am in Australia to teach her via text message how to open emails, and a confused taxi driver now €40 richer, we made it.

The next day we decided to see the sights of Sicily by getting a three hour train out of Palermo to a secluded little town called Milazzo, where we caught a bus into town, and then a ferry out to the island Vulcano, which has, you guessed it, a volcano. The Volcano hike was amazing, and apart from needing to go to the bathroom half way up, went off without a hitch. We explored, we inhaled the toxic sulphur fumes, and then came back down to bathe and delight in the warm mud springs said to work wonders on your complexion.

My travel buddy and I felt we had had one of the best days of the trip to date. We hopped aboard the last ferry back to Milazzo, jumped on the last bus to the train station, and arrived safely at the train station to discover the last train to Palermo had just left, and there were no more buses running back into town.

Being stranded in the middle of Sicily (Pacino or no Pacino) was quite frightening for two young girls, and we were at a complete loss as to what we should do. Should we sleep here at this dingy train station? The chances of being raped and pillaged are probably quite high, we thought. So we wandered around (in our still muddy, and only change of clothes) until we found a little B&B. “No room here” was all she knew how to say evidently. We kept wandering until we came upon a little hot dog vendor, closing up for the night. We asked if he could help us, and for the bargain price of €15 euro, he said, he could drive us back into town.

As we lay prostrate on the crummy bed in the dingy little hotel in our muddy clothes, we hugged and cried with relief that the day was finally over, and we weren’t dead.

Naples; Has anyone else heard it’s a s**t hole?

Upon arriving in Naples I wondered where on earth we were, and where was the beautiful Naples you see in your mind’s eye when you hear the word; supposedly synonymous with pizza and nonnas.

The train station we arrived at was covered in graffiti from start to finish, and there was rubbish, thugs, and less than safe-and-appealing-not-on-drugs looking people everywhere. To be fair, we soon realised the reason rubbish was ubiquitous in Naples; all the bins had been set on fire and burned into charred rubble, you know, as you do.

We found our hostel after some difficulty and fearsome trekking through this angst-inspiring city, thinking we were just in a bad area, and giving Naples the benefit of the doubt. When setting off to sight-see, I was understandably ecstatic when a young lady on the back of a vespa attempted to grab my handbag from my shoulder. Ah, Naples, you continue to impress and delight. Italians get sarcasm, right?

There’s really not much to see here, however it’s a great launch pad for day trips to Pompeii, Capri, Sorrento, and the Amalfi Coast; all of which are spectacular.

I highly recommend the hostel 6 small rooms; not only for its coziness and vast array of DVDs for when the city inevitably gets you down, but also because it’s across the road from the best gelato I have ever had in my whole entire life, anywhere in the world, and will ever have.

In summation; Naples: Probably just don’t go there. 

Picture: The Blue Grotto (Cape Azzura) Capri

That time I cried at the Colosseum

Rome: July 2011

Yes, it’s true. I cried when I saw the Colosseum. The girl who hadn’t seen a plane until she was 19, and until that trip to Byron Bay NSW, had only ever been to Nhill…the deathly boring country town in rural Victoria.

I didn’t only cry because of the “Oh my God I can’t believe I’m really here” moment, but also just because of the sheer size and magnificence of the monument. We’ve all seen images of it, we’ve all watched Gladiator (actually, I haven’t, but we’ve all seen ads), and we all think we know what to expect, but as you emerge from the Colosseo Metro station, it hits you like a bus in the street.

It’s right there, larger than life, and you’re more overwhelmed than ever you expected. One usually expects to be disappointed by something of this level of infamy (Mona Lisa, I’m talking to you), but the Colosseum delivers.

It indubitably takes you back to a time when humans wrestled lions and bears for the entertainment of Caesar and his subjects and cohorts, and was a truly amazing experience I shan’t be forgetting in a hurry.

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Don’t get me wrong, the rest of Rome was also pretty spectacular! The Pantheon, the Vatican Museum, and St Peter’s Basilica are unmissable, and the Trevi fountain is also worth a look!

The Spanish Steps? I don’t get it…It’s just a staircase?!