On Leaving the Camera Behind. And a Day in Amsterdam

If there were one thing I could get tourists to do for just a moment, it would be to throw away their damn cameras. Or at least leave them behind for just a moment. Just to see, for once, what it’s like when they approach a deeply revered monument like the Pyramids of Giza, Tikal or the Eiffel Tower, and to feel it. For once, really connect intimately with these pieces of history we fantasize about without thinking “I must photograph this!”, or even worse, “I must photograph this! With me in front of it!”

Now, let me back up. I have indeed visited and photographed the three sites mentioned above, and don’t regret it. Also, I can’t completely hate on the act of taking pictures of oneself in front of these sites. That would be like having a gluten allergy and being annoyed by people that don’t have that allergy.

If I wanted to relive this view, I should just watch Star Wars. Apparently this is the same shot they use for Planet Yavin

Pyramids and camels together in one picture?! Original!!!

I shoulda bought the post card.

I am in the extreme minority in my attitude toward selfies in famous places. Plus, somewhere back in my ancient blogs, I’m pretty sure you can track down pictures of me in front of Mount Everest and the Buddhist temples of Sarnath. Not my proudest moments. I guess I just don’t understand why people need a picture of themselves with these incredible pieces of human and natural history. I know that Angkor Wat is far more impressive than I am, and I wouldn’t want to sully the picture with some sweaty unshaven goofball (me). I honestly don’t know the reason that people do this, and I don’t know if the people that do this know why they do this. I don’t remember having rational thoughts of having someone take a picture of me in front of Everest.

Oh, here they are. Yes, there is no reason this 2,000 year old structure benefits from my presence.

It must be so exciting for Mount Everest to get its picture taken with me!

I like this one better. You can see the Eiffel Tower behind me.

Of course, this is not a behavior that is limited to Americans or westerners. I have seen everyone from Moroccans to Rwandans to Indians show up at some beautiful site or natural scenery, barely look at it, and proceed to take pictures of each other. Then they move on, without seeming to have realized what they had just seen. But at least they will have the grainy cell phone pics for their Facebook page.

Now, photos of monuments and even selfies in front of monuments are one thing. However, delving into the realm of cutesy photos of you interacting with the monument are quite another and have got to go. I never want to see another photo of somebody holding up the Leaning Tower of Pisa. I stood outside the Louvre for about 3 minutes and saw six different people having pictures taken of themselves where they were making it look like the tip of their pointer finger was touching the top of the glass pyramids outside. Walking past a certain view of the Eiffel Tower, I saw several people taking pictures made to look like they were holding it. Once again, however, I am a hypocrite. In 2005 I photographed my roommate William Irl Gibbs IV in Seattle’s Kerry Park (the one with the excellent views of the Space Needle) pretending he was gripping the Space Needle and licking it like an ice cream cone. Even though my mom insisted that I should send it to Seattle Magazine, I am certain that the idea was not that original. 

Nobody's EVER done this before.

So, as tourists, let’s all consider foregoing that cheesy picture, the gratuitous selfie, or even pulling out the camera at all. I am a photographer and I am saying this. This is because I am also a traveler. As a traveler it is important to take in everything around you and try to connect to your environment. Sometimes a camera can help with this, however, in most situations, I feel that a camera will be a hindrance to truly experiencing a place for the first time. Think about leaving the camera at home, or in the hotel room or even in your pocket for a while and see it as something liberating. You can live in the moment and won’t feel obligated to record every moment of your travels. How often will we go back and look at these pictures anyway? And come on, we all need to admit that nobody back home really wants to see all of these pictures.

Angkor Wat. This is one of my favorite, if not most favorite, if not only favorite, pictures from a big tourist attraction. I took my camera to Angkor Wat, but probably didn't take more than 20 pictures. I didn't bother to shoot the big temple it is famous for because it is so easy to picture it in my mind at any given moment. Tourists that took themselves too seriously as photographers were everywhere trying to get cliche shots of orange-robed monks around the temples. This is what my picture hints at, however, the subject is actually an Indian woman in an orange sari. To me, this image displays a far more accurate memory of my visit to Angkor Wat. Ancient structures in various stages of restoration crawling with tourists from all over the world.

Another thing that some travelers forego is the guidebook. True they can be indispensable, but follow it too closely and you will inevitably end up at the same guesthouses (which are now more expensive because of the valuable guidebook listing) and sites as everybody else. Maybe, just maybe, you will find something interesting that nobody had bothered to put in the guidebook. Maybe you will be able to find your way by asking around. Now me, I’ve never really gone anywhere without a guide book except France, but I like the idea of it. I definitely only use the guidebook for certain things (NEVER for restaurant recommendations), but I know that it will be a difficult thing to give it up.

All this to say that I had a 12-hour layover in Amsterdam without a camera or a guidebook. I’m hardcore like that. I did, however, print a map of the city from a Lonely Planet pdf. I mean, I’m not crazy. I had asked a few people of what I should do in Amsterdam, and it generally went like this: “Go to a coffee shop and get high, then go to the Van Gogh Museum, then go to the Red Light District, then go to the Ann Frank Museum”. I had hoped for interesting suggestions, but that was all I got. One person did mention the idea of renting a bike, which seemed perfect. Mostly, though, I just decided to wander all day and see what happened.

Figuring out the train from the airport was a lot trickier than expected, and the line for information was about 12 deep. I wandered around the platforms, looked at timetables, and stared at maps. It took about twenty or thirty minutes to figure out how to do it. I was clever enough to eavesdrop on an old British couple, who was also going to the central station, and follow them. When the train pulled in, I jockeyed with a crowd of thirty shrill teenage Czech girls wearing matching athletic clothes. They couldn’t seem to figure out the doors, but they still beat me to the good seats.

Stepping out of the city’s surprisingly simple and modest central station, I chose a direction to start wandering. I passed some imposing, old building (not having a guidebook leads to ignorant statements like that), where tourists crowded around for photos of and with the building. Then I chose the narrowest street I could find to go down, of course. It’s always better like that, right?

The vibe I got from the city was, yes, cute, but not Amsterdam. The vibe was Sunday morning. The streets were filthy with the refuse from last night’s party. Shards of glass and empty beer cans outnumbered pedestrians 8 to 1. It was quiet and nothing was open save for a couple of Chinese restaurants. I could have been anywhere. A bleach blonde British backpacker with a trucker hat and hipster sunglasses stumbled out of a crevasse and lit a cigarette.

Something caught the eyes of a couple guys walking in front of me. They turned and started looking up. So I did too. And then I realized I couldn’t have been anywhere but Amsterdam, because there was an Asian woman, wearing a bikini, gyrating in a second story window, trying to lure the guys towards her. I was glad to have wandered into the red light district on accident, because I definitely didn’t want to go there intentionally. Down another alley I passed a row of display windows with empty chairs. Sunday morning, after all, is probably not exactly rush hour for prostitutes. A pudgy, pale woman in a red bikini leaned out of an unmarked door as she smoked her cigarette and gruffly trash-talked with somebody inside. The dregs indeed.

I wanted to try eating something Dutch, but most of the restaurants seemed to be Thai, Indonesian and, for reasons unbeknownst to me, Argentinian. Plus, I knew I couldn’t afford to sit down anywhere and have a real meal. So I settled for a hot dog from a stall on a bridge. I put about thirty condiments on it to get my money’s worth.

Everything was still slow and quiet by noon and it seemed that everyone I did see was a tourist. I was starting to doubt the existence of Dutch people. Even the two deranged homeless looking guys I saw shouting at each other on the street were Americans.

I arrived at a central plaza where historic buildings were getting repeatedly violated by thousands of cameras. That famous wax museum had a line full of more people than I’d seen in the entire day combined. My plan to ditch the guidebook in order to get off the beaten track was failing miserably, and my feet were not efficient enough to get me out of there. I decided to hop on a random bus or tram. Then, down a little side street I saw a bike shop. I walked to it and found that they indeed offered bike rentals. The price was reasonable, and the bikes were plain and black. This was good because the majority of rental bikes are brightly colored with the name of the tour company painted on it, announcing to everyone that you are most certainly a tourist. I wanted my inability to follow Dutch biking customs and local street laws to show that I was a tourist, not my bike.

I was told that I would have to come back to the shop through the back streets because that big plaza and its surrounds would be shut down. Turned out that I was there on Remembrance Day, a somber holiday to honor those that died in WWII. The royalty would be at the plaza that evening to lead the country in a two-minute moment of silence. I was a day early. The next day was Liberation Day, which would be filled with wild street parties and festivals. During my bike ride I saw a massive stage that had been set up over one of the larger canals. They were doing sound checks for the next day’s concerts.

I rode around for a couple of uneventful hours. Of course they were uneventful. This city seems too charming and neat to have spontaneous excitement especially on Sunday and Remembrance Day. The most chaotic and out of the ordinary thing I saw during the ride was a cat toying with a live mouse. I sat and watched it play with its food for ten minutes. Amsterdam might have a reputation built on sex, drugs and sausage rolls, but you know what stereotype really seemed to fit the people? Flowers! Flowers, at least on this Sunday morning, really did seem to be a national obsession! I stopped at a street market, because, I like street markets. It was nothing but flowers, seeds and bulbs. I got bored quickly and rode on.

I loved riding around, though. It was a relaxing way to spend an afternoon between flights. When I was done, I walked to a little enclave of food carts I had noticed near the bike shop. One was grilling satay, another offered vegan bbq and the third had a variety of Dutch snacks and desserts. I decided on the cheapest thing from the Dutch cart: a sausage roll. I was not joking about sex, drugs and sausage rolls. It was bready and bland, but at least I tried out something local.

By this point in the mid-afternoon, the city was starting to come alive a little more. Crowds were forming in that plaza, and people were enjoying pints and sun on the patios of restaurants. I decided to do the same, as I saw a place with a cheap happy hour. By the time I got my beer, though, the last outdoor spot was taken. I was forced to sit alone in the dimly lit indoors where sun-wary stoners lurked. I read my book about the History of Somaliland and felt just a little bit lonely. Someone approached my table. A friendly person wanting to welcome the solo guy to the bar? No, just someone coming to grab an extra-long rolling paper from the cup that was sitting on my table. I had thought it was a salt-shaker or something, not a communal joint paper jar.

I wandered the city on foot for a couple more hours before heading back to the station and then the airport. My flight left at 9:00 and my bag was already checked in. I figured that arriving by 7:30 or 8:00 would be just fine.

I got to the airport at about 7:30. Plenty of time, right? Then I looked at my boarding pass. Boards at…7:30! That means it leaves in 30 minutes and I haven’t even passed through security. How could this happen? I’d made a mistake like this once before, and didn’t think I could do it again. I looked at the signs in the terminal, trying to find the way to security, or my gate. Nothing was making sense in my panic. Never in my life have I needed to ask directions in an airport, but for some reason I just couldn’t reconcile what was written on my ticket with the signs in the airport. I rushed to the information desk and just showed her my ticket, asking where to go. She pointed me towards what was probably the more obvious of the two directions available. I jogged, trying to find my way. Apparently this was one of those airports where you don’t go through security until you get to the gate. I saw a departures screen. Kenya Airways to Nairobi: Now Boarding. Departs: 9:00. What? I looked at my ticket. Boards: 7:30 Departs 9:00. I wasn’t late at all. Apparently because you have to go through security right at the gate, they open the boarding an hour and a half early.

I relaxed and went to the bathroom. Relieved, I relieved myself. When I walked out of the bathroom I got a strange feeling like something was off. Still, I had residual adrenaline and was moving quickly. Halfway into the midst of the airport, I realized that nobody was moving. Everyone, hundreds of people, were just standing there. Silently. I thought I was caught up in some kind of flash mob. I stopped, and tried to figure out what was going on. Then, a voice came over the intercom. It said something along the lines of “Thank you. This concludes our moment of silence to honor those who have died in World War II.” And everyone suddenly went about their business.