Because Paris to Amsterdam was a popular route, I thought it would be simple to hop on and off with my Eurail pass. Wrong. So in addition to the expense of the pass, which I still recommend to any European traveler, I had to plunk down 40 guilders to reserve a seat.
close, but no blonde
After a four-hour wait at the station, a nightmare for a backpacker on a schedule, I hopped on the train and found my seat. To my dismay, it was in a smoking compartment. An anomaly in North America, the tolerance of cigarettes on trains is alive and well in Europe.After witnessing parents lighting up in front of their children in the cramped car devoid of proper ventilation, I escaped to look for a better seat elsewhere. That is when the wait and the cigarette smoke became worth it, as I found an empty first-class compartment.
Well, almost empty, as to my joy there was a tall, blonde woman dressed in a designer dress with Louis Vuitton luggage by her side seated alone. We struck up a conversation and from her accent I could tell she was Dutch.
I found it amusing that this genuine beauty was conducting such an open and carefree conversation with me, a complete bum of a backpacker (in appearance). The catch was that after about fifteen minutes, her husband emerged from the bar car. No problem , I thought. It was great while it lasted and at that point, I was content to settle into my seat to enjoy the journey.
My one worry concerned the conductor. My Eurail pass did not cover first-class travel, but I was prepared to defend my seat to the death, as the entire car was free of passengers, save for the Dutch couple. I was quite pleased when the time came for my pass to be punched.
After leafing through my passport, the conductor played dumb and decided it was not worth the hassle to kick me back to coach. I could not help but see this as a positive omen for my upcoming sojourn in Amsterdam.
the "vonderful" vondelpark
I arrived in the Dutch capital after sundown, with my adrenaline pumping. Although I had been away from home for almost two months, it was as if I had just left. Paris was intense, exhilarating and exhausting all at once.My spirit was renewed the minute the train pulled into the ornate Central Station in the heart of Amsterdam. As I dodged other backpackers and the odd hustler and petty criminal, I searched for a cable car to take me to my hostel in the Vondelpark region of the city. It was Saturday night and the streets were packed with revelers.
Restaurants, cafes, bars and nightclubs abounded. I arrived a mere twenty minutes later and had a good vibe right away. When you book a hostel on the Internet as I had done, you can never be sure of your choice. I was confident the Vondelpark was fine, as I had read up on it, but there is no feeling like being able to affirm the choice firsthand.
The hostel is one of the largest in Europe and is an affordable and popular abode for travelers on a budget, along with the Flying Pig Palace. I checked in, locked up my backpack, washed my face, and headed out to explore the famed canal streets of Amsterdam.
feeding the stomach and mind
Now for the record, I am against excessive drug use. I have never put a cigarette to my lips and as you can imagine, based on my reaction to my seat on the train, I find tobacco to be abhorrent.My alcohol intake is modest and before Amsterdam, I smoked marijuana twice. But to be honest, as I walked into the Amsterdam night, I was on a mission to find one fat blunt to satisfy my soul.
First though, I needed to grab a bite to eat. Amsterdam is awash in affordable fare, from Indonesian cuisine to falafel and chip (french-fry) restaurants. I opted for the latter and struck up a conversation with the proprietor, a Palestinian gentleman who told me that the past ten years he had spent in Amsterdam were the best of his life.
He filled up a large paper cone with piping hot chips and at my request, added some squirts of mayonnaise and curry sauce. Because of the length of time between meals and the extent of the hunger pangs, it was one of the greatest culinary experiences I had ever had. I ordered a falafel pita to go and ventured out to complete my mission for the night.
roll with me baby
I found a dark street adjacent to a canal and after a reflective moment staring into the moonlit water, I walked into a small, dim coffeehouse. For those who are not familiar with the term, a "coffeehouse" in Amsterdam is a pseudonym for a weed shop. And this one was perfect.Save for several large candles placed on a makeshift coffee table, the place was shrouded in darkness. A man sat slumped in the corner, oblivious and in a trance. To complete the cliché, a Bob Marley record was audible. I approached the counter and asked the young barista for a menu. I asked him to recommend a sweet weed (as opposed to hash) and based on his selection, ordered a joint and an herbal tea.
When I asked him to roll it without tobacco, he hesitated and remarked that it would be rather strong. His exact words were, "that is one f***ing strong joint." I expressed my reluctance to inhale nicotine and he nodded in understanding. I paid him for the ample spliff and nestled into a couch to enjoy it.
He was right. So much so, that I sat in a state of blissful paralysis for over an hour. I even blacked out for a good ten minutes at one point, as the high reached an apex. After some time had passed, I sparked it up once more, took four hits and made the effort to get off the couch and walk back to the hostel. One bag of Doritos (purchased at a newsstand) later, I was sleeping like a baby.
an unexpected breakfast
After a mere six hours, I awoke feeling refreshed. I was surprised at my energy level, as I jumped out of bed to take a shower. The hot water felt so good on my sore muscles and as I dressed, I wondered what breakfast the hostel would have in store.To my joy, it was a virtual smorgasbord of fresh bread, cereals, cheeses, sliced meat, and juices. Hot chocolate, coffee and tea were available at limitless supply and each table had a jar of jam and chocolate hazelnut spread on it. Wow. This was a unique hostel experience for me. With stomach full, I took a short walk to the Rijksmuseum.
time for some culture
Housing the largest collection of Dutch art in the Netherlands, the Rijksmuseum was one of the most impressive I had seen in Europe to date. Located three blocks from the Heineken brewery, it contains Dutch masterpieces from the 15th to the 19th century, including Night Watch by Rembrandt. You can spend an entire day there and still come away with an incomplete view of the museum. Four hours were enough for me, although I had not had my fill of art for the day.The Van Gogh museum was next on the itinerary. In a torrential downpour, I ran like a maniac from the Rijksmuseum to the Van Gogh and arrived soaking wet. The museum was packed beyond anything I had witnessed short of the Louvre in Paris. Nonetheless, I navigated the horde as they clamored to catch a glimpse of the schizophrenic master's best.
I left with exhausted eyes and although I was tempted to venture into the Stedelijk Museum across the street, famed for contemporary and modern Dutch art, I thought the best of it. The rain had subsided to a drizzle and I took great pleasure in the fact that I could walk from one destination to another with ease.
turn on the red light
I stumbled upon the Anne Frank house almost by accident but due to a massive queue, decided to skip it that afternoon. On the opposite end of the cultural spectrum, the infamous Red Light district was a revelation.Live sex shows (at a steep price) and prostitutes on display but no discernible spirit. Maybe the fact that it was Sunday had something to do with it. Regardless, I was disappointed by the fact that it was more commercial and less festive. A naïve thought I realize but as an interested observer, I would have preferred the business side of the sex trade to be less visible.
A friend I had made in Bilbao, Spain had even remarked that after having sex with an Amsterdam prostitute, she had been so methodical and professional that he had come away feeling used. Imagine that!
can you take me higher?
So I chose one high over another. I walked into a coffeehouse named the Bluebird and liked what I saw. A quiet bar tucked away in a corner where I could sit and relax undisturbed. I purchased a joint of Moroccan black weed (sans tobacco) and a cappuccino and sat down to spark. The caffeine enhanced the pleasurable sensation and in no time, I was in my happy place, content to observe the crowded scene inside from my choice spot in the corner.My location behind the bar made it appear to some after they had mounted the staircase to the second floor, that I was an employee. More than a few scared punks attempted to order weed or hash from me.
At first I directed them to the main bar and informed them that I was a customer. But after an hour, I started to mess with them for my own amusement, asking them what they were looking for and in general, coming across as a slick coffeehouse proprietor. It was rather hilarious.
i've got my pipe!
After some time, five middle-aged men placed themselves around the bar to smoke. But smoke what, I had no idea. The leader began to prepare a hash pipe like a scientist. I was in awe at how thorough the process was. He minced the hash cake on top of a piece of cardboard using tools drawn from a manicure set he had in his jacket pocket. Then he lit a match and let the flame roll around a cigarette.As the paper loosened, he emptied out a pinch of tobacco and combined it with the hash. Next, he unscrewed the pipe and stuffed it with the mixture. The pipe itself was a relic. Gnarled and knotted, it looked like it was carved out of a piece of driftwood. Once the pipe was back together, the scientist lit a dead match and let the curled flame ignite the hash.
Another man pulled out a piece of cheesecloth, wrapped it around the pipe and inhaled through it. He made like Puff the Magic Dragon and passed the pipe around. The communal smoke went on for over fifteen minutes until the scientist noticed me staring. With a nod, he passed me the pipe. I consider myself a polite person but I grabbed it like it was mine and sucked on it like a newborn on a nipple. The sensation hit my head like a hammer. "Where is this hash from?" I asked with a cough. Without lifting his eyes, the scientist replied, "Hawaii, my young friend."
And that was Amsterdam. The fact that I can see myself relocating to the city (not just for the legislated marijuana and prostitution) is testament to how diverse a place it is. Only Barcelona and Paris share that distinction in my book. It is a city of great contrast. Beautiful, lush neighborhoods with quaint townhouses lining the canals, against the sleaze, grime and depravity of the Red Light district.
The fat prostitute beckoning in the window versus the demure corporate lady strolling by with her expensive handbag. The posh boutiques versus the coffeehouses. For the dilettante traveler, Amsterdam presents a dizzying array of experiences.
Resources:
Amsterdam Travel Guide
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