Today was museum and tour day for me here in Amsterdam. I have some great — or at least interesting! — shots and insights to post over the next few days, including photos taken during the grueling Nordic marathon. (I can see why the Dutch are so carefree about creature comforts — if I lived in this climate, I’d do anything possible to warm up too.)

In the meantime, here’s a picture I took of Vincent Van Gogh today at his museum. Actually, it’s a picture of Vincent’s picture of Vincent.

No, I’m not doing anything clever with perspective, the way Vincent often did — I’m just trying to get the placque in the photo as well. Which I did. But it isn’t legible. The iPhone takes pretty good pictures of pictures, but not-so-good pictures of placques.

(By the way, the instant after I took this (non-flash) photo, I felt a light tapping on my left arm and turned around to see a warm-eyed guard tut-tutting me off taking any more. By contrast, some iron maiden of a guard in the Rijksmuseum later that day just about tore off the arm of an unfortunate guy who wandered too close to a cannon preserved from the 80 years’ war with Spain. She pointed down to a warning sign on the floor that asked patrons to keep their distance. “Can you read that? Hah?” she snapped, her eyes squirting blood out of her skull. If I had been that guy I would have said, “No, because I’m accidentally standing on it.”)

But back to Vincent. It was undeniably thrilling to see these paintings up close and in person.  I don’t have much to add to that.

Afterwards, I had lunch in Vincent’s cafeteria. The food was excellent. I’ve been doing my best to have Dutch food while I’m here — and by “Dutch,” I don’t mean McDonald’s, or Burger King, or KFC, which now ring the Dam. I mean plates I can barely pronounce, and sometimes can’t identify. Later that night I had something I believe was called Pruttlepot or Puttlepot, or maybe even Pootie-Poot, which turned out to be a stew of beef with apples and mashed potatoes, with some vegetables somehow baked in the same dish along side, with several side dishes in their own serving bowls.

Here was my lunch (or what remains of it) at the Van Gogh:

That’s a bottle of appelsap (or apple juice — I just like saying appelsap), and the bag from a packet of paprika-flavored Lay’s potato chips. Unseen:  some sort of raw fish sandwhich that was excellent and which I’d already consumed. What I like about this (other than the word appelsap) and why I took the picture is the bag of paprika-flavored potato chips. I love finding these regional variations on American-branded foods. In London nine years ago I first noted that curry is a condiment choice at McDonald’s, but the true discovery was the 10 or so variations of American potato chips — except in meat flavors. There were bacon-flavored potato chips, and beef flavored potato chips, and probably mutton-flavored ones as well. Why is paprika favored in the Netherlands? And is paprika derived from red peppers, as intimated on this bag? Or do the Dutch define “paprika” differently than we do, and as the British do with bacon? (Just as the Eskimos are reputed to have hundreds of different words for snow, the British so prize eating the pig that there are differentiations for “bacon” (which we would call “ham”), “crispy bacon” (which we would call “bacon”), “gammon” (which I guess we would call “fatty ham” and then either trim or throw out) and probably a couple more I’ve forgotten.)

There was no mention, by the way, anywhere in the museum as to what Vincent ate. And I doubt that he could have afforded lunch in his own museum, let alone the price of admission.

If you’ve run a marathon and you still can’t sleep, that’s pretty bad.

I completed the 26.2 mile (42 kilometer) Amsterdam marathon. Yes, my time was something like 12 days, 6 minutes — but I completed. More details — and photos — tomorrow. Right now it’s time for steak and beer, and bed.

we’re at the stadium and getting ready to line up. Note to Steve: yes, I am wearing a trash bag.

So now it’s 2:19 AM local time and I’m doing a marathon in the morning and I can’t sleep and I’m blogging from my iPhone. My friend (and marathoner) Kim Glann warned me about this.

Why don’t marathons start at midnight? I can’t be the only person who would prefer this.

That’s me, a few minutes ago, pinning my runner’s bib onto my marathon singlet. Which means that tomorrow morning, I’m going through with this marathon. If there’s never another post on this blog, you’ll know what happened.

You’ll note that abutting my bed is another equally narrow bed, to accommodate my roommate Regan, another marathoner. When we walked into the room and saw these little beds pushed up against each other, I said it looked like Ricky and Lucy lived here, and the cameras had just been switched off.

Amsterdam is chilly and drizzly, which everyone assures me is perfect marathon weather. The anything-goes atmosphere just reinforces what has become of Fortress America, where I expect the government to soon pass a law prohibiting untying your shoes. And the coffee here is fantastic and is served in those tiny cups better sized for shots of liquor. Which, indeed, one of the flight attendants had offered to add to my coffee.

Speaking of which, you might ask how the flight was. The food was superb — really! — and the ride was turbulence-free, and the in-flight video selection included shorts from Mr. Bean. All good. Except for being squished into an area two sizes smaller than a coffin for 12 hours. Joints and muscles I’d never heard from before seized up and complained. The airline magazine had a helpful chart of exercises one could do while seated, but I didn’t have enough room to perform them. Seated next to me was a heavy-lidded swarthy woman who once she fell asleep regaled me the rest of the flight with sweet fumes from her bowels. At one point to get fresh air I actually went and sat in one of the bathrooms. Where I could also stretch my spine.

All right. Off to bed. I’ve got something big planned for the morning. If you’d like to see the course I’ll be hobbling along, here it is. And you can visit the general site here.  There are 10,000 runners registered for the full marathon. Look for me in the back. I’ll be making my way toward a Heineken.

So it turns out that “Joe the Plumber” is somewhat related to Charles Keating — of the Keating Five scandal. Which, as one might remember, involved Senator McCain. (Like Murray the K in a different venue in an earlier time, McCain was “the Fifth Keating.”)

In fairness (why not, right?) to Joe the Plumber, as well as Mr. Keating, this relationship is not what one would call close. Rather, Joe is related to the son-in-law of Charles Keating. By this logic, I could be blamed for the antics of my brother-in-law’s cousin Timmy. (And let’s not go there.) No, to me it’s not the relationship that says anything — it’s that the McCain campaign knew nothing about it! If these guys don’t research people they hold up as paragons of the economy, how can they be trusted to run that economy? Because, among other things, a little research might have revealed this, as well:  Joe the Plumber isn’t licensed.

(Thanks to Tom Boyle for  sending in the first item — and helping me while away these airport hours.)

Okay, the guy’s back on his cellphone, pacing back and forth, trying to rescue the deal by blaming his wife.

Exact quote:  “I’m sorry if my wife got it wrong.”

Classy.

Last night I went to a presidential debate-watching party at Picanha Churrascaria hosted by the Burbank Democratic Club. I got there about 15 minutes late and found a packed room — the club had turned out about 80 people to eat, drink, and shout merry whenever Obama scored a point. After the debate when I gave a few remarks, I couldn’t help noting that the turnout proved once again that Democrats are good for business and good for the economy.

The restaurant is a Churrascaria, or Brazilian barbecue, where servers bring endless servings of meat until finally you are dragged off to be processed as Soylent Green. When my wife found out a few days previously where this event was being held, she asked me if I was going to wear sweatpants. I didn’t think I owned sweatpants (which I don’t), which led her to remind me that we have a friend who, before we dined at a churrascaria in San Diego a few years ago, purposely donned a pair of green sweatpants so he could really fill up on meat. I don’t know about him, but I know that by the time we left I was dizzy I was so overinjected with bovine growth hormone.

(The guy behind me here at the airport has been trying to work some real-estate deal over his cellphone while marching around giving his wife lunch orders and complaining to me about TSA. He’s been on the phone so many times and so long, I think the property’s lost another 20% in value. And we taxpayers probably now own it. I hope it has a pool and a walk-in humidor.)

This  morning on NPR I heard an interview with an undecided voter. I know, I know; you’re asking:  “Who could possibly be undecided at this point? What would it take?” Because that’s what I’ve been wondering. But this woman was very thoughtful, and what she said surprised me greatly. First she went on about abortion — and I was sure I knew what was coming. Instead, she said that she learned in the debate that what she’d been told about Senator Obama was wrong:  that he’s not in favor of late-term abortions. So, much as you and I would mock these dreary debates, they’ve swayed the opinion of at least one voter. Then the interviewer asked this woman whom she would vote for, and after listening to her cultural conservatism (she had also said that abortion should be a states-rights issue, echoing McCain) I was sure of her answer because I couldn’t believe she actually had been undecided — but she answered,  “Obama.” And here’s why:  She said that McCain was so visibly angry throughout the debate — so scrunched up and churlish — that she could imagine how he would deal with people around the world the next four years, and she didn’t like what she was imagining. “If you can’t get along with someone from your own country — an American — in the same room with you, how are you going to work with the rest of the world?” Exactly right. Which makes me wonder where she and her compatriots were in 2004. Maybe they just needed to feel a whole lot more personal economic pain.

Okay, the guy on his cellphone just snapped the phone off, jumped up, and threw his hands over his face. I guess we’re not going to be smoking cigars by the pool in that villa outside Palm Springs. But wait… he’s making another call. Who knows what could happen? And isn’t that a little metaphor for the economy right now?

So I’m here at LAX waiting for my new flight to Amsterdam and thought I’d take a minute to let you know I might not be posting much here the next week. Yes, I know the internet exists in Europe, too (certainly moreso than here at LAX, where this T-Mobile Hotspot has a lot of nerve calling itself a hotspot. The connection is so slow it’s more like a NotSpot). So we’ll see.

Why am I waiting for a new flight to Amsterdam? Because the flight I was booked for — and, I should note, for which I got up at the unhappy-making time of 7:06 after going to bed earlyish at 1:30 and then, of course, not sleeping well — was canceled. Or late. Or something. They couldn’t decide, although the various Northworst Airlines personnel working the lines kept calling out to each other, “He missed his flight!” so that I could keep calling out, “No — I didn’t! It isn’t scheduled to depart for more than two hours!” Getting humiliated is a no-no; adding a public scolding, and incurring both of them when you are unquestionably deserving of neither is strictly disallowed. I was not late — I was early. The PLANE was late, and would make me late for my transfer in Detroit. (A city I hadn’t intended to add to my Facebook Places I’ve Been map anyway.)

The ticket agent  very helpfully got me onto a direct flight to Amsterdam. Upside: direct. Downside: Waiting here an additional 5 hours. A quick scouting of what exists here in the dank end of Terminal 2 — some “Route 66” eatery, a knickknack kiosk, something laughably calling itself a Wolfgang Puck’s, and a Burger Kringe — told me it’d be a long 5 hours.

So now I’m checking email and downloading apps for my iPhone, including one called Flight Tracker. I checked on my (previous) flight to Detroit. Flight Tracker tells me that that flight is delayed. Good to know.