Amsterdam, the Big Tulip

Before we got hitched, Liam and I had both enjoyed the many meaty treats of old Amsterdam. Needless to say, it didn’t include a cultural cruise around the august galleries of the world-famous Rijks Museum. These days, life is mercifully more sedate. Randy times with likely lads on the pull are but a distant memory, and nights on the tiles have given way to days on the trail.

First up on our cultural pilgrimage was the Homomonument, a memorial to those poor souls persecuted for their sexuality during the Second World War. Opened in 1987, the monument takes the form of a giant pale pink triangle jutting out into the Keizersgracht. The pink triangle was the badge gay men were forced to wear in the Nazi death camps. And we all know what happened in those places.

This is the one site I’d seen before. Here’s me in the naughty nineties. The second picture is me now. Obviously, I haven’t changed a bit!

To my shame, I’d never visited Anne Frank’s Huis, so I was determined to right this particular wrong. It was a sobering lesson in everyday evil. Lest we forget.

And, yes, we made it to the Rijks Museum – huge and impressive but way too busy, I thought. There’s little time to take in the art without being bothered by jostling, happy snappers. Well, if you can’t beat ’em…

The following day we took an audio tour around the well-sculptured Royal Palace on Dam Square with its lofty ceilings and twinkling crystal chandeliers. It was great fun, apart from the couple of young pushy queens who didn’t understand the simple concept of the queue.

As our long weekend coincided with Storm Babet tearing across Northwest Europe, we were expecting lively weather. And we got it. We coped by drinking through it; like we needed an excuse.

Despite the inclement weather (and contrary to the images below), the city was rammed. Weaving through the obstacle course of talkers, walkers, cars, trams and manic cyclists coming at us from every which way was quite the challenge. It’s a miracle we didn’t come a cropper. But we survived unscathed.

The Big Tulip really is cool. We will return.

Dutch Courage

In the autumn of 1978, a pretty-faced eighteen-year-old pulled into old Amsterdam’s grim and gloomy Centraal Station. It was cold and wet, with scary types milling about the windswept forecourt. The new beau in town had no place to stay. He’d heard that Kerkstraat was the place to hang out but had no clue where that was or how to get there. While standing in the rain wondering what next, he was approached by some sleazy bloke with a nasty comb-over – the kind of man your mother warned you against – who offered him a lift. He wisely refused, jumped into a cab and stumbled into the first hotel he came across. He asked if there was any room at the inn. There was – just the one.

That new beau in town was me, and that was my inauspicious start to an eye-popping, life-liberating experience. I lapped it up – and Amsterdam lapped me up – looked after by the proprietor of the West End Hotel, a grey-haired Dutch chap with a handlebar moustache and kindly eyes.

Forty-five years later, Liam and I pulled into old Amsterdam’s now bright and flashy Centraal Station. It was cold and wet but buzzy, with travellers and locals milling about the windswept forecourt. We jumped on a packed tram to Kerkstraat and stumbled into our hotel.

“Hold on, I know this place.”

Yes, you guessed it. It was the same hotel – renamed, remodelled and reborn, phoenix-like, but the same gaff, nonetheless. What are the chances?

If you look closely at the image below, you can spot the old name ‘West End Hotel’ etched into the glass above the entrance.

I wonder what became of the grey-haired Dutch chap with a handlebar moustache and kindly eyes who looked after a pretty-faced eighteen-year-old all those years ago?

Should Old Acquaintance Be Forgot

Once more round the sun and it’s that time again to look back at the top of the pansy crop. For some reason, matters medical and mortality caught the imagination this year. On a happier note, stepping back in time to renew old acquaintances and bear witness to vows ’til death they do part also proved popular. So ladies and gents, I give you…

The Happy Couple

Purples Pansies in Bodrum

Amsterdam

Victoria Wood

Scarred for Life

Liam in Gran Canaria

See the Tree How Big It’s Grown

David Bowie

Norfolk and Norwich Hospital

A Manifesto for Life

And then there were the year’s three most popular images. Really, have you no shame?

The Scaffolder

Tom’s Posing Pouch

Biker Boys in Cromer

It’s All Double Dutch to Me

A couple of weeks ago I popped over to the low land of dykes, bikes, canals, tall thin blonds and tall thin buildings. I’ve been to old Amsterdam many, many times before. Back in the day, Amsterdam was a blesséd escape from finger-wagging, buttoned-up Britain, and a place where I could feel totally free. I won’t regale you with ripe tales of how I expressed that freedom – this is a family show, after all. Needless to say, it rarely involved a cultural troll round the marvellous galleries of the Rijks Museum.

Here’s an ancient image of me in the naughty Nineties on one of my gayfests.

I’m standing on the Homomonument, a memorial to those persecuted for their sexuality. Opened in 1987, the monument takes the form of a large pink triangle jutting out into the Keizersgracht canal. It’s a potent symbol: the pink triangle was the badge of shame gay men were forced to wear in the Nazi concentration camps during World War Two. And we all know what happened in those places.

This time I was there on business. I was attending the 2016 Families in Global Transition Conference (#FIGT16NL), a gig that brought together people from far flung corners, all concerned with issues affecting global families. The current refugee crisis in Europe and the Middle East added an extra layer of complexity to this year’s august jamboree.

Why me? You may well ask. I’m neither an expat, nor a family in transition (not anymore anyway). In fact, I was there as part of my work with Summertime Publishing and Springtime Books, specialists in expat titles. And I was asked to lead a social media workshop for writers. It was a bit of a hit, I’m told. I even got to sell signed copies of my books in the FIGT bookshop – and was more than chuffed when they flew off the shelves and soon sold out. Clearly some people like a dash of camp with their esoteric.

Here’s me flapping my hands about in the social media workshop.

And me on the right grinning inanely in the bookshop.

After a hectic few days navigating through the talkers, walkers, cars, trams and manic cyclists on a mission coming at me from every which way, I landed back at Norwich Airport at ten to nine in the evening. I was home with a large glass of Pinot in hand twenty minutes later. Now that’s the way to travel.

If you’d like to know more about Families in Global Transition and their valuable work, check out their website. In the meantime, here are some pretty pictures I took of the pretty city.