When I stepped off the train at Central Station, I thought I had been mistakenly transported to Gotham City. It didn't take me long to adjust to the dark hedonism of the place, however, where day runs into night and night runs back into day. I blinked, and a week had passed me by. I could count my few remaining brain cells on one hand. When I arrived in Amsterdam, I was expecting mad craziness beyond comprehension. What I found was exactly that.
Amsterdam is known as the world's most tolerant city. Name it, and it's probably legal. Mass consumption of the good-time condiments is the national pastime where a typical day, for those willing to shed responsibility and inhibition, will be anything but. My week-long festival of debauchery is a foggy recollection at best. With the aid of my poor penmanship in a beer-stained journal, here is a recreation of an Amsterdam day much like all the others.
the soiled toilet
I awoke unusually early -- around 1p.m. My dorm room in the hostel, The Flying Pig, resembled a cramped military barrack, only with no rules. After stepping on the poor soul sleeping in the bunk beneath me, I climbed back down to sea level and stumbled to the shower. It was a medieval assortment of discarded hardware store supplies -- duct tape, chicken wire, a white picket fence, sheets of clear plastic, and more duct tape.The makeshift plastic walls had many holes and caused a standing water supply of 2 to 3 inches on the floor at all times. I brushed my teeth, then used the toothbrush to rake the muck and cobwebs from my eyes. The haze from the night before hovered above me like my own personal cartoon rain cloud, as I staggered into the alley.
Outside it was dark and drizzly. Perfect. Direct sunlight in my condition would have caused a spontaneous combustion-like reaction in my hangover-infested brain. I walked to The Last Watering Hole to hook up with Becky, Monica and Kelly -- three girls I had met a couple of days earlier. I got lost in the maze of cobblestone gloom, then came upon it by accident. They were huddled around a wooden table with an odd Chilean whom they introduced as Rod -- we came to know him as The Dude .
the dude, puff and some heineken
The Dude was a meek fellow who always had the look of confusion on his face. He was short, in his early 30's, with curly black hair and a genuinely mischievous grin. He wasn't sure how long he was staying in Amsterdam, where he was going next, or how long he'd been in Amsterdam for that matter.One night at dinner, a spiritual conversation erupted amid the usual giggling babble and blank stares, after the departing trains of thought had left the station. When asked if he was religious, The Dude grinned and spouted, "I believe in sunsets."
I met The Dude while he was in mid-story. "... The guy told me to eat only half. But I didn't feel anything, so I ate it all, and things got very bad. So then, I took a train -- very long trip. I think I left Amsterdam. It was starting to rain and I was feeling so anguished." Then The Dude smiled.
We devoured a couple dozen Heinekens while talking of travel-related horror tales. The Dude, with his broken English, provided the most laughter, although he never really understood why. And after a couple rounds of Puff the Magic Fatty , we were back in the dank alleys of Gotham, social misfits in search of food -- the whole lot of us drooling madly.
food, glorious food
Amsterdam is the city that never sleeps, but always eats. Only one thing outnumbers the coffeeshops -- the restaurants. All of the fast food joints showcased their fine assortment of grub in fancy glass fixtures, each food item looking hand-crafted with loving care.The amounts and variety were dizzying. The pyramids of sandwiches, pizza and puff pastries seemed self-replenishing, creating an endless supply. But that was only a quick fix. What we needed then was inside seating and of course, more Heines.
At every corner, a new scintillating odor led our watered mouths in many directions. Although a rotting deer carcass, at that point in time, would have been perceived as a temptuous aroma. Indecision. We agreed to park our wobbly bodies at the next restaurant that crossed our path. And so it was -- Mexican. We floated in, rudely examining others' entrées while being led to our seats.
The dinner conversation left much to the imagination. It was a regular Tower of Babel experience; each of us speaking in tongues. Amsterdam produces many fine mood-enhancing toxins, which in turn produces intellectually-impaired ramblers. The food was inhaled, the beer slammed and out the door we strolled. The girls had a plan... an X-rated one at that.
women and their porn
An Amsterdam sex show is a unique experience, but not one for the easily offended. The Dude bailed, making it just myself, three girls and a plethora of eroticism. Becky, Monica and Kelly, I later learned, were attracted to porn like moths to a flame.We arrived early and snagged some seats up front. The room looked like a mini movie theatre -- uncomfortable red cushion chairs on a gradual decline for better viewing and sticky floors which obviously disgusted me more so than had it been a normal cinema house.
The show began without the usual dimming of the lights. The embarrassment-masked bemusement and gaping grins of those in the audience provided a show unto itself. Stage-fright is a concern for any actor, however, the problem for one aspiring porn star revealed itself in a small way.
To the girls' dismay, no farm animals were used in the show -- they were from Texas. The six different adventures in smut lasted about an hour and cost around $20 -- the equivalent of eight Heines , I figured.
the dizzying effects of sex
We left the theatre red-faced and thirsty. Locating the infamous Amsterdam coffee houseboat was the next item on our hedonism scavenger-hunt. Although it was the only one of its kind, nobody was able to point us in the right direction. Milling around aimlessly in the dark had its moments."Ding ding, ding ding!" yelled a fair-haired maiden as she zoomed past on a haggard old Schwinn. The barrage of pedal pushers ringing their bells is common place. But with hands full of packages and unable to reach the bell, what else is a girl to do? We dug her and laughed like idiots while pressing on to find the boat.
The coffee houseboat hid in the blackness; unassuming and still. Once inside, the atmosphere quickly turned. Christmas lights and tinsel were flung about. An aromatic buzz cloud rose to the ceiling and hung there in layers. This bohemian's sanctuary vaguely resembled a boat or anything else I had seen. Unusual suspects puffed and drank in the dim light, watching cartoons and listening to loud techno music.
it's all about joey
We sat down and looked about the place. The allure eventually wore off and we settled in nicely. Coffeehouse conversations tend to walk the line between deep and silly and ours were no exception. After returning from the bar with another round, I overheard Becky. "Joey's eyes... water... when he pees," she said in a drawn-out series of hysterical outbursts. We laughed so hard, two of us got the hiccups. I assumed Joey was someone they all knew.The bathrooms on the boat were unisex and resembled a sort of converted broom closet. The light flickered like a spastic strobe giving the impression of slow motion, as I stood in front of the cracked mirror. The illusion created an alternate dimension in the recesses of my mind. I felt like a child with a new toy. It was then that I got the nomadic urge.
last stop: wonderland
I said my goodbyes to the girls and arranged to meet them the next day, then hopped the nearest train. The outer areas of Amsterdam are filled with wonderful neighborhoods, full of folksy cafés, bars and coffeehouses. I got off the train at Rembrandtsplein and wandered around.I stumbled upon two men playing chess. The board was painted on the ground, about 30 feet by 30 feet in dimension. The pieces were three feet tall and appeared cumbersome -- providing a workout for both body and mind. I shook off the Alice in Wonderland feeling and parked myself on a barstool in the nearest pub.
I chatted up the cute Dutch girl pouring my Heine. But her shift soon ended and so did my stay. The area was socially subdued and short on misfits, so I jumped a train back to inner Gotham, or so I thought.
The numbability factor had exponentially increased over the past few hours rendering me both unintelligible and incapacitated. Translation: I was pretty fried. With eyes half open and head bobbing around, I fought the midnight hour with all my strength. I lost.
red lights everywhere
"Hey, excuse me. Hey!" That's when I woke up. "Where are you going," asked the woman standing above me. "Central Station," I replied while forcing myself back to reality. She told me to board the train next to us, and that would take me back to Amsterdam. "Back to Amsterdam?" I yelled.I stood up noticing the train had emptied and walked into the pitch-black night. The conductor of my new train looked upon my bewilderment with amusement. I sat there by myself while the two drivers talked outside. Not a city light could be seen anywhere in the distance. Once again, I faded into deep sleep. When I awoke this time, the train was again bustling with passengers. To my amazement, the next stop was Central Station.
I wandered around the red light district a while, trying to lure my brain out of its doldrums. Many girls were dancing in the windows of soft blue light, enticing the men for a late-night rendezvous. Coupons are actually printed and distributed for such activity.
foggy night, foggy mind
The district attracts an interesting ensemble of shady characters. Each turn of a corner amazes slightly more than the last. And then there was nothing... no one. I had taken a wrong turn; I had entered nirvana. The street was completely void of people. The fog, which I thought was only mental, had surfaced everywhere and inspired the street lamps to give off a delicate glow, producing a dream-like state. No lights flickered from the row of houses on either side of the canal.I climbed down to a dock and sat with my dangling feet just above the canal's water line. I contemplated the situation, laughed, then focused my eyes. Maybe I had slipped into a wormhole to another time or had lost my mind completely , I thought.
room full of red eye
The quiet was exhilarating. I felt at peace, unable to move from my seclusion. For an hour, I sat there without seeing another soul. I had viewed Amsterdam as a tourist; now I was seeing it as a late-night resident. Oddly, I liked the latter more. My wrong turn provided the greatest memory of the entire trip.I eventually forced myself up and on my way. Within minutes, vagabonds of all shapes and sizes once again surrounded me. I staggered back to The Pig to hang with the tragically hip smokesters lounging in the bar -- the dreadlocked zombies and pierced amebas.
Their 4a.m. eyeballs were barely visible beyond their blood red apertures. Everybody had a way-cool dazed look painted on their face, myself included. The Pig has an adult-size playpen with endless cushions and miniature tables. The lair of globetrotters was always full of card players, smokers and dreamers.
up close & personal
I wedged myself into a group of girls passing around the sweet stuff. The dank scent lingered in the air 24 hours a day. I met and forgot many people during the early morning hours, all except for Wande.Wande was a 21-year-old student from London. We hit it off immediately, but her train was leaving at 10a.m. -- in five hours. We spent that time talking and wandering about The Pig, laughing at all the overindulgers. We hung together right up to her boarding the train. She gave me her phone number and e-mail address, which I have long since lost.
Twenty-plus hours of partying produced mad fatigue in my body and mind. As I slowly lurched back to my bunk, I thought of all the wonderful people I had met on my trip thus far. That's when it occurred to me that The Dude lived in all of us -- that lonesome traveler stumbling in and out of strangers' lives. I have memories that I will never forget, although barely remember.
I chuckled as I shed my clothes and climbed over my bunkmate. Sleep began to take hold, while I listened to others get ready for the day. I slipped into the unconscious with one recurring thought buzzing about in my head -- I, too, am The Dude.
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