Without Lifting A Finger

Ran into his very cool "installation" (reminded me of giant marbles or candies) in Schipol Airport (Amsterdam) as we were heading to the rental car garage. *     *   Dale Chihuly (born September 20, 1941), is an American glass sculptor and entrepreneur. His works are considered unique to the field of blown glass, "moving it into the realm of large-scale sculpture," (Museum of Fine Arts, Boston). The technical difficulties of working with glass forms are considerable, yet Chihuly uses it as the primary medium for installations and environmental artwork.   [From Wikipedia: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dale_Chihuly ] 

Eduard Douwes Dekker (2 March 1820 – 19 February 1887), better known by his pen name Multatuli (from Latin multa tuli , "I have carried much"), was a Dutch writer famous for his satirical novel, Max Havelaar (1860), which denounced the abuses of colonialism in the Dutch East Indies (today's Indonesia ). [From Wikipedia: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Multatuli ]

We slept near the airport and took the train into Amsterdam's Center. From there we walked to the Anne Frank House (about a 2 hour line) and then on to the Van Gogh Museum (another hour or so in line). Needless to say, we got tired of walking. We took a tram back and then hopped the train back to our hotel. In the morning we picked up our rental car and drove to Aachen.                                                                                                                             ...

Wasn't going to post any more today, but then I watched the exciting endgame to the World Cup match between Holland and Mexico. I don't really care who wins, though we did just get back from Amsterdam and I told the Sixt man (orange shirt, orange hair) I was rooting for his team. So, I'll just start (the drip-drop of Netherlands--Germany--Poland will continue over the next week or so) with a little bit of Dutch:                     

Re-reading "Death in Venice" (umpteenth time), the other came to mind: I died for beauty, but was scarce Adjusted in the tomb, When one who died for truth was lain In an adjoining room. He questioned softly why I failed? "For beauty," I replied. "And I for truth,--the two are one; We brethren are," he said. And so, as kinsmen met a night, We talked between the rooms. Until the moss had reached our lips, And covered up our names.

      

I wanted to walk down to the bluffs to see how things were going re "shoring them up." I know the city fathers and the lone sailor have been keeping an eye on things, but I wanted to see it up close for myself (I've been slowed down by the construction for months). Along the way I found another spectacle: Pirates at the Pier. *