February 12, 2000

confinement

Contrast a visit to the Anne Frank house with the vagaries of modern air travel. No comparison.

A breakfast at 8AM of lots of cheese and meat and good, strong coffee fortifies me. I'm not a breakfast eater. But when things go wrong at airports, you can go hungry. I was once offered a slice of fruit cake in cellophane over nine hours after arriving at an airport. The offerer was a turbaned caterer. We were on a plane on the tarmac at Heathrow. Our plane was a direct Zurich-Chicago flight. So don't go to the airport hungry, I learned. It was not legal they said to offer us the catering cart contents because they were in the wrong country. As were we. And we weren't even hijacked.

Anne Frank House (Anne Frank Huis) opens at 9AM. I hadn't visited it on my last trip to Amsterdam. So it was my choice for the one thing to do as 'Tommy Tourist' as my buddy Mags describes it. (Other museums opened at 10AM or 11AM. We had to leave the hotel for the airport at 11:15AM.)

My companion and I were among the first through the doors having caught a cab there to maximize our time. His intent was to make a whirl through the Van Gogh museum, too, which opened at 10AM. I've been there, however long ago, and don't care for the harried pace. I took in all the exhibits of the house. I'm fascinated by the individual stories that are the patches on the quilt of history. I collect World War II memoirs from all sides and angles. I hadn't read Anne's diary in years. I did descend into my thoughtful tourist mode. I wrote today's quote down in my book from a display. I have a picture of Nelson's cell at Robben Island since the same good friend Mags had wisely carted me to the harbor for a boat ride over and a tour.

I bought a copy of the definitive guide of the diary (including some stuff originally edited out by Otto Frank). Reading this book on the plane ride home will soften my hatred of air travel. Not so bad.

I wander around the neighborhood afterward but there isn't much time. I have to satisfy my self with two photos. I stop in a small shop and buy a gift for my mother, two tiny ceramic buildings, a museum and the famous narrow house. She is busy packing up many such knick-knacks to move. Still she likes to get presents.

I grab a cab back to the hotel, button up my luggage and check out. Sitting at the bar with a Heineken, I watch for my traveling companion while writing a postcard to my sister. It starts to rain outside. He bustles in and heads for the elevator. My signal to pay the bar man, give the desk clerk a guilder to mail the card and wait for him to check out. We aren't too late.

The airport is a zoo. They allege boarding time is 11:40 for a 1:30 flight. It's already noon when we've checked our bags. They say the bags will be removed if we don't check in by 12:30. We stop for some souvenir candy. The reason for the early boarding turns out to be that all hand baggage and 'interview' security is at the gate. Once inside the gate, there are restrooms but no water or other refreshments. Soon we are flying, though, eating airline chicken (thank goodness for the cheese course) and I'm reading Anne's tales of potatoes and beans and ration cards. And that's the happy part of the tale. Life isn't so bad.

We get to Newark. On the plane to Austin we find that it is going to stop in San Antonio first. Odd. We are therefore an hour late with an additional take-off and landing. At Austin, Forrest meets me. I'd planned to take a cab and I'm glad to see him. I stop in the restroom and then when I go to the carrousel, my traveling companion says "I saw your bag." I wait a bit. It doesn't come around. I see, at the other end by the baggage office, my telltale neon locks on my black bag. When I asked the airline employee why she has removed a bag she says, "I didn't think anyone was going to pick it up and I didn't want it to go round and round forever." She must have thought we actually landed an hour ago! Hey, why should Continental tell her? They had denied the flight existed, confused their crews and angered a lot of passengers. One woman got out at San Antionio and had to be reboarded for Austin. We theorized she didn't speak English and foolishly thought a non-stop to Austin would land there. But still, imagine a young girl, quietly reading awaiting a fate beyond imagination. I might try to avoid Continental after this, but I still know how lucky I am.

"Some of us read Anne Frank's diary on Robben Island and derived much encouragement from it."

Nelson Mandela

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