Amsterdam: In which we are selected by a variety of fine eating and drinking establishments

When it comes to travel, I've long held the theory that great restaurants and pubs find you -- and not the other way around. Sure, I use guide books -- and the recommendations of friends and hotel staff -- but time and time again, I'm drawn instead to the joint next door, across the street, around the corner or a block over. They rarely disappoint.

There is a mother lode of these appealing little eateries in Amsterdam. And they did a bang-up job of finding Matt and me. Let's just say we wandered into some great joints:

* Plancius: Named, I'm thinking, after the 16th century astronomer/cartographer/clergyman Petrus Plancius (no, I'm not a genius -- it was the first hit I got when I googled "Plancius"), we visited this hip spot mid-afternoon our first day in Amsterdam. It's next door to the Dutch Resistance Museum (very cool, btw) and across from Amsterdam's zoo.

Meal-wise, we were a little scribbled -- Matt had scrambled eggs and a beer. I had a Thai curry soup -- and a beer. We decided we liked cool green walls, industrial concrete floors and the fact that they allowed dogs -- very big dogs -- inside.

* De Prins: Walking into De Prins is like meeting up with an old, old friend. The minute you walk into this lovely old canal house, located on the Prinsengracht (canal) across from the Anne Frank House, the cafe wraps its arms around you, pulls you over to a wooden table, makes you sit down, then slowly says, "It's SO good to see you." And like that old, old friend -- De Prins has a few surprises: A menu that that covers everything from sturdy homemade soups to wild boar chops with Calvados, chestnut mashed potatoes and Elzasser sauerkraut.

Tucked away in a dark,, comfy corner in the back of the restaurant, Matt and I went for the sturdy soup option -- split pea (a Dutch specialty--and we can vouch for that) and goulash. And beer. It was a good way to remember, and release, the shadowy, heartbreaking memories that haunt Anne Frank House.

* Sama Sebo: This Indonesian treasure, Sama Sebo, found my husband and me when we visited Amsterdam in 2002. It was our first time in Europe, and we were travelling with a group of five friends.

Traveling in a pack is hard in Europe as Brad and I quickly discovered. We ultimately decided to divide and conquer, striking out on our own during the day and meeting up with the troops for a glass of wine, and the telling of tales, in the early evening. We were were on our way back from the Van Gogh Museum for such a session when we spied a minitiature door to a restaurant. A compellingly small door. A door that insisted we open it.

Inside was an small enclosed foyer -- and a beautiful teenage Indonesian girl doing what appeared to be quantum physics. We asked about dinner. She disappeared behind a closed door and returned a few seconds later, followed by a small man in a batik dinner jacket and fabulously spikey black hair.

He gravely guided us into an intimate dining room where we were set upon by at least 12 different waiters, also decked out in batik dinner jackets, apparently each personally responsible for our complete and total happiness. One glass of wine later, we were tucking into one of the best meals I've ever eaten -- a rijstaffel (rice table) -- or series of Indonesian small plates served with exquisite timing and precision. We were completely, and totally, happy.

And so were Matt and I on Thanksgiving night as we recreated that glorious meal. Sama Sebo delivered.

Totally satiated, we walked back to the hotel. And decided, thanks to utter contentment and internal alarm clocks still set on Bermtopian time, we weren't quite ready for bed. A Thanksgiving night cap was in order -- and we found it at Van Vuyter's, a tidy little bistro around the corner from our hotel.

VV is the kind of place where you settle in with a beer or glass of wine and spend hours solving the problems of the world, telling funny family stories and pondering life's mysteries. We accomplished all three, then toddled back to The Citadel.

* Panorama: The comes a time in your travels when you need carbs -- thank God for Panorama.

Friday's itinerary was ambitious: A walk to the Albert Cuyp Market in the morning, then to the Van Gogh Museum in the afternoon. Then a canal stroll. Did I mention the market is about a mile long? You get the picture -- we were on our feet most of the day, and when dinnertime rolled around, we were feeling a bit peckish. And a little lost as to where to eat. So we started to walk. Again.

As luck would have it, Panorama was just around the corner from hotel on the other side of Singel canal. We were drawn to the the little bistro like lemmings to the sea -- and we when walked into the restaurant, it felt right. It was small, maybe 10-12 tables. It was dark and cozy. The menu was Italian. All pasta. Beauty.

I don't eat a lot of pasta, but at Panorama, I laser-locked onto the spaghetti carbonara and never looked back. It was probably the best pasta dish I've eaten.

I think Matt shared similar sentiments about his bolognese.

We didn't suffer. Thank God Panorama found us. And Plancius. And De Prins. And Sama Sebo. And the handful of other little pubs and bistros we popped into for a beer, bowl of soup or snack. Bon appetit, Amsterdam!

Amsterdam: In which we visit The Torture Museum

I am a museum whore. And I proudly admit it.

Nothing makes me happier than perusing culture's unique treasures -- art and otherwise -- in museums, large and small, famous and infamous, contemporary and arcane. Maybe it's the historian in me -- or the voyeur. Who knows, but anyone who travels with me quickly discovers -- I. AM. A. MUSEUM. WHORE.

HOWEVER. Over the years, I have learned not all my travel companions share this fascination of mine. As a result, I've tempered my urge to go museum-crawling dawn-to-dusk and tailor certain museum visits to the special interests of my travel pals. Which explains why Matt and I were at The Torture Museum our first day in Amsterdam.

I think it's partly a Guy Thing.I could be wrong here, but I suspect that, given the choice between ogling The Dutch Masters and checking out The Rack, most self-respecting 23-year-old guys would choose The Rack. At least that was my reasoning for incorporating a stop at The Torture Museum in our walking tour of Amsterdam's Old Center.

So, visualize this heart-warming family scene -- mother and son, arm in arm, skipping up to the ticket booth to get our tickets for a carefree holiday outing through Amsterdam's Torture Museum. Norman Rockwell material? Not so much.

The Torture Museum was, shall we say, edifying.

Lesson number one -- over the centuries, we humans have been incredibly efficient (and creative) in thinking up ways to make life physically and psychically miserable for each other, particularly when it involves religion, palace intrigue or politics.

Lesson number two -- anyone whose career involves collecting, researching, cataloging and displaying implements of torture must have, well, a somewhat unique outlook on life. (One look at the gentleman selling tickets to The Torture Museum was a confirmation of that.) I'm thinking life is not all giggles and car keys for a torture museum curator. Just a hunch.

Lesson number three -- one not lost on either of us -- a lot of torture involves one's private parts. We both walked a little gingerly for a few minutes after departing the dark confines of the museum.

I give you the link to The Torture Museum in Amsterdam. . . seriously, a soupcon of its many dubious charms.

Plus, one last observation: There are actually people who review torture museums on the Internet.

Amsterdam: In which the key controls all

Thanks to an odd alignment of the stars, I found myself in Amsterdam with my youngest son over Thanksgiving. A road trip was needed -- and Amsterdam it was, thanks to a sweet package assembled through my favorite online travel site http://www.go-today.com/.

We left Seattle Tuesday at noon on a direct flight barely two-thirds full. It was heaven. Especially after sizing up our travel mates in the seats in front and behind us:

In front of us, a large, well-dressed woman traveling with a faux fur coat closely resembling Ivan the circus bear. It obviously pained her to be stuck in Economy with us common folk, especially as she started to put her pet coat in the bin above her and encountered Matt's duffel bag stored sideways. It was abundantly clear that, on her planet, incorrectly stowed luggage is tantamount to finding a fresh turd in the overhead bin. She poked the bag and announced, "Well, that's a piggy package" to the half-dozen empty storage units near her screaming "Fill me, fill me." We, her fellow world travelers, just stared.

In the seat behind us. . . a toddler. A sick toddler. A sick, screaming toddler. A sick, screaming, inconsolable toddler. A sick, screaming, inconsolable toddler who was close to coughing up a lung everytime he shrieked and sobbed. I have nothing against sick, screaming, inconsolable toddlers -- I've traveled with a couple of my own back in the day -- but with visions of H1N1 sugarplums dancing in my head and directly into my immune system, I told Matt, "We're moving as soon as we're wheels up."

And move we did -- to the back of plane with space to burn. I repeat, it was heaven.

About nine hours later, Northwest Airlines gently deposited us at Schipohl Airport and we began navigating our way toward Amsterdam.

Getting to Amsterdam from Schipohl is easy -- with typical Dutch efficiency, there is a train leaving for Centraal Station about every nanosecond. Buying tickets, however, is another thing, especially with our New Best Friend -- Tony, a carpenter from Quebec.

Tony's English was less than polished and he was completely, but cheerfully, flummoxed by the automatic ticket kiosks. He couldn't understand the directions, so he asked us for help. It was at this juncture we learned Tony faced an even greater ticket-buying challenge -- namely, the machines didn't take euros, just debit and credit cards. And, of course, Tony only had euros. Misery loves company -- my debit card didn't work on the Dutch machine, and my credit card pin number came across as gibberish. Thus, our fates became ultimately and irreparably intertwined: Tony, Matt and I needed to buy train tickets from a real person.

This is easier said than done at the Schipohl train station because, obviously, they'd like you to use the ticket machines. As a result, the ticket counter is cleverly hidden from most public view. But after spinning around like a weather vane several times (and a stop at a cleverly hidden information booth), we found the ticket counter, made our purchases and, with train tickets in hand and Tony chattering non-stop, clambered onto the train to Centraal Station. Tony was so excited he carried Matt's duffel.

We sadly parted ways with Tony in front of Centraal Station, heading off in search of the Hotel Citadel. According to its web site, the hotel is a 10-minute walk from the station and on one of Amsterdam's primary tram lines. Of course, we followed the wrong primary tram line but, with the help of a hotel bellman who had nothing better to do than direct two hapless Americans to a completely different hotel than his, we did a little u-turn and found our home for the next four days.

Call me crazy, but I think European budget hotels rock, and the Citadel rock-star rocked: INCREDIBLE location, cozy breakfast room, great staff, great coffee, partial view of the 15th century spires of Nieuwe Kerk. Other amenities included a postage-stamp hotel room with thin walls, comfy beds and extremely eloquent plumbing. There were going to be no surprises as we -- and everybody else in the hotel -- took care of business in the bathroom.

The bathroom. Let's just say it was equal parts ingenuity and insanity -- basically an open floor plan where toilet, sink and shower were one. Spacious enough, but somewhat drainage-challenged -- suffice to say, we had our own little wading pool after the first shower of the day.

And the lights. All the lights (including the bathroom) in our room were activated with our hotel room key card. Really. No key, no light. "The key controls all," Matt intoned, as we problem-solved this unique little feature.

But all in all, our room and the Hotel Citadel were quite satisfactory. And with a little freshening up, we were ready to take on Amsterdam.