matt's 101 in 1001

Move over John Robie, Thomas Crown and Ocean's Eleven; none of you managed the epic heist I pulled off at Amsterdam's world-famous Rijksmuseum, the Dutch national museum, home of masterpieces by such artistes, as Rembrandt van Rijn, Johannes Vermeer and Frans Hals. Nor did I require such trickery as suspension from the ceiling, à la Topkapi, makeshift Trojan horses or token red laser beams. Nope, nothing but my own ingenuity to land the below-pictured masterwork.

Yes, this artwork, commonly mistaken for a baggage card, is most likely of the mid-1990s era. Enveloped in a single shade of opulent red, with the letter A, number 61 and a simplistic, yet effective outline of a suitcase engraved lovingly on its matte-finish surface, this plastic card could easily fetch 50 pence on the black market, or, failing that, eBay. Nonetheless, for the sheer thrill, and obviously, the money, this prized possession of the Rijksmuseum was mine for the taking!

Just one of many highlights of my weekend trip to Amsterdam, dubbed the Venice of the North (so named because of the fact it has canals and, well, is in the north).


Like last fortnight's trip to Paris, it was another totally absurd 4:00am start (the price to pay for trotting the globe), and soon enough, we were on the bus to Holland! Travelling south through England, we wound up at Dover, famous for the White Cliffs of Dover (title self-explanatory), for the ferry across to France, from where we travelled up through Belgium to the Netherlands, arriving just in time for tea!

Staying at the far-classier-than-we-were-expecting Casa 400 Hotel, just outside the city centre, we soon made our way into the city for the first item on the itinerary, a tour of Amsterdam's famous (...or so I hear...) red-light district. An eye-opener, to say the least. Makes Surfers Paradise seem like the playground at McDonalds. What's interesting is that much of what occurs in the red-light district is illegal. Whilst prostitution and the various similarly-themed live shows that take place are lawful, contrary to what the city's many, many, marijuana-scented coffeeshops would have you believe, drugs are not. It's just that the laws are rather lax. Nonetheless, after completing our (strictly observational!) tour, the rest of our first evening was spent, rather tamely, with a pint of cider relaxing by one of the city's many canals.

The next day, we were treated to a tour of the city (interestingly, approximately half of the Netherlands - which actually means "low lands" - is less than a meter above sea-level, whilst much of it, including Amsterdam, is actually below sea-level; indeed, many of the city's buildings are built on wooden piles to counter the land's peaty subsoil), before taking off to the fishing town of Volendam, a gorgeous place with more character than you can poke a stick at.

On the way, we stopped off at, perhaps my favourite point of the trip, the cheese and clog factory. Yes, that's right: just the one factory for both. Where else but in Holland?

There is no greater agony in life than deciding whether or not to purchase a pair of clogs. I know I will never wear them. I know I will complain perpetually about having to lug them around with me. And I know they, frankly, look ridiculous. But on the other hand, they're clogs! After much, much agonising (I was in the queue with my credit card at the ready), I decided against such a frivolous, yet desirable purchase, settling instead for a miniature pair (the non-buyer's remorse is unfathomable).

Later that evening, I pulled my unforgettable heist (go on, admit it: how many people do you know who have flogged something from a world-famous museum?) before taking a wonderfully-relaxing boat tour through the canals of Amsterdam and later, spending a similar evening sitting by the canal and sipping cider until the wee hours of the morning.

After an all-too-brief weekend, it was time to head home, but not before a stop-off at a genuine Belgian chocolate factory (all photos of which, unfortunately, did not turn out due to a chocolate-smeared lens) and lunch in Bruges, consisting of genuine Belgian waffles! Having worked up an appetite climbing the 366 steps of the Belfry of Bruges, an 83-meter tall belltower in the town's centre square (worth it for the unparalleled view of the surrounding town and countryside), the waffles were swiftly inhaled.

And so, after a brief stop at a French hypermarket (like a supermarket on steroids), and a lengthy stop on the highway into London (which only served to appreciate just how relaxing Amsterdam really is), my third trip out of the country in six weeks came to a close. An absolutely amazing time, even if I'm still positively heartbroken over my decision not to purchase that incredibly comfortable pair of clogs. These things take time, but I will move on...

(Oh, and for those of you who want to know the specifics of my heist: in actual fact, I left my backpack in the Rijksmuseum in the afternoon, and upon returning to collect it during closing hours, forgot to hand back the card... a flawlessly- and accidentally-executed scheme worthy of a Hollywood blockbuster!)