My New Favorite Color

Graffiti near the hostel

There was more to Amsterdam than drugs, like hookers! But before I depart from drugs, I must mention the amazing array of products offered at the smartshops one can find around town. After one too many tourists died from taking shrooms and wandering into oncoming traffic, the purveyance of psyclobin mushrooms has been forbidden. But that hasn't stopped the shops from selling chocolate truffles made with mushrooms. The only drawback is that you have to eat half a box to get the same effect that just a couple putrid caps would give you. I was dangerously close to buying a peyote cactus but got cold feet at the idea of crotching it through security at 4 airports. The shop clerk told me I could say it was a present for my mom but the 30 euro price tag and the instructions for usage (which included the drawn out process of turning the plant into tea, drinking it, and then vomiting it up) killed the idea for me.

Sorry for the digression, but I really enjoyed the drug culture of Amsterdam, although I've heard it's almost entirely marketed towards tourists. The Red Light District is also for tourists, actually. And I loved it just as much. Unfortunately, because of rumors of pimps breaking overzealous tourist's cameras, I have no photo-documentation of my exploration of the world's most famous whorezone, at least not at night.

I first went into the district unwittingly while visiting the Anne Frank house, which is located on the edge of the area. My image of the Red Light District was a haze of unclear preconceptions that only involved dark alleyways and brick streets. In the day time it actually was a normal looking place. In the night it was too, for that matter. If it weren't for the g-string clad women dancing in windows, it would have looked exactly like the rest of the city.

One image I was sure would prove true was that of, dirty, down-on-their-luck hookers who I would never dream of sleeping with in my worst nightmare. My noir scenario turned out to be completely false as a doubled back down some streets just to see the would-be GQ models attempt to usher me into their small professional bedroom. If it wasn't for a bad case of self-righteousness and a bread-and water budget, I would have taken the 50 euro dive in a heartbeat.

Red Light District during the day

My objective on entering the Red Light District was to see a live sex show, which is surprisingly hard to come across in suburban Minnesota. We managed to find one after asking a couple peep show bouncers where to go. Believe it or not, it was closed! It couldn't have been past two in the morning at it was closed! I couldn't believe my eyes when I saw the sign, but there was nothing we could do apart from cutting our losses and heading to the strip club.

I was surprised how comfortable I felt in the strip club just as I was surprised at my comfort in the district. I thought I was going to feel alienated, like a piece of my born innocence was dying away. Well, I guess that innocence died long ago with my first glimpse of internet pornography, because I felt perfectly at home sitting next to a guy who was rubbing his face in a middle-aged woman's vagina as I waited for the topless bartender to bring me my beer. The strippers dancing at the bar were hit or miss as looks went, but were all incredible at dancing. I never knew how far the pole arts had progressed until I found myself gasping at the sight of one stripper swing down a the pole upside down as fast and coordinated as a Michelle Kwan doing a double axle.

I did my best at shooing away the strippers as they attempted to coax me into getting a lap dance I knew perfectly well would cost me 10 euro. Short of running away, there was nothing I could do to deter these women. I shook my head violently as one of the least spectacular specimens wrapped her legs around my shoulders.

"No thank you!" She didn't respond. "No thanks!" I gave up. "Well, is this one on the house?"

"No, baby." Fucking swindlers.

She rubbed her body on mine in a routine that matched the other dancers' lap dancing move for move. They all went from front to front, to back to front, to titties to face. I refused to let myself enjoy it in hopes that she would go away and leave me with my money. Of course she finished her dance the same as if I jammed my face into her willing breasts and sat impatiently next to my drink until I finally handed her a 10 euro bill.

"Try to make sure no one else does this to me." She didn't keep up her end of the bargain, but I learned the rules of the game and was able to fend off the rest of the advances that night, usually by avoiding any eye contact.

"The road of excess leads to wisdom."

Intro to Amsterdam

It started out with a plane taking off from Kastrup Airport in good ol' Copenhagen. I learned quickly that if I made swallowing motions with my facial muscles I could avoid a debilitating migraine caused by the pressure changing in the cabin. Jack, my travel companion either did not share the same physiology or the same learning curve, and spent half the plane-rides doubled over in an emo stupor of excruciating pain I knew too well from past flights to Florida with my dad.

Landing in Amsterdam, we learned just how far away the actual city is from the international airport. It's the same for all the airports in Europe. If we were in Lord of the Rings, the journey from the airport to downtown would last for six chapters. It was easy enough to hitch a ride on a bus on a route that lead us to a Hard Rock cafe only a few blocks from our hostel. I had no idea how useful tourist information could be until I arrived in a country only knowing the name of the place I was staying.

The Hans Brinker Budget Hotel markets itself as "The world's worst hotel." The reception desk is decorated with post cards and posters with images of customers cheery faces at check-in and gaunt, heroin starved masks at check out. All these for sail from the receptionist at .50 euro a pop. I nearly bought a poster depicting the hotel's policy of cutting out sections of the carpeting to get rid of cigarette burns.

Long exposure of the hostel

Despite the "hotel's" self-inflicted reputation and dubious reviews on Hostelbookers, it was actually an extremely pleasant place to live. Well, maybe scratch the "extremely." The walls were thin and apparently Dutch kids were having something like a prom night rented out rooms on several of the floors. I had trouble sleeping the first night either from my surging excitement at finally leaving Denmark or the incessant screaming I could hear coming from outside my door. But for the price, I couldn't complain. It was a hostel after all, and in a room with 6 beds a little screaming from outside is a whole lot better than a fat guy with sleep apnea. 

Amsterdam itself was amazing. Yes it was pretty. The flowers were blooming and the flower market was in full Spring. Even Venus Flytraps and other tropical plants were flourishing in the weather. The canals sparkled as they pulsed with images of the cityscapes that inspired Van Gogh's imagination. But what really charmed me was that it only took a 2 minute walk outside the hostel to find what the Dutch call coffee shops.

Not to be confused with "cafes" (I think you know where I'm going with this), coffee shops are dispensaries of high quality cannabis, hash, brownies (space cakes), and and overpriced juices you are obligated to purchase if you plan on smoking inside. I was privileged to have the ability to enter these shops, which the government will be banning tourists from in within the next year. Each shop had it's own identity, one was comic book themed, others electronic, some reggae. But they all got the job done.  They had weed-smoking down to a science. The environments and the drinks provided were the perfect supplements to extremely high doses of THC. The music where we went was loud and had a baseline that even the most vegetative stoner would find impossible to sleep to. And the organic juice had the body and hydrating potential to alleviate a cotton mouth I thought to be incurable.

Quitting Trips

I promised myself I wouldn't go more than a few days without writing in this. I promise I was spending the last 16 days conducting serious business. It's fun to rehash the experience in bullets, since it comes out as impressive as impressive with even the most unenthusiastic delivery.

 I went to Amsterdam where I was forced into a dance by a stripper as old as my aunt.

From there I flew into Barcelona and got kicked out of my hostel for drinking and got drunk in the midst of a giant protest I couldn't understand a word of.

Then there was Rome, where I followed a gay pride parade to a Lady Gaga show on the same race track Spartacus raced on a chariot.

Prague was more tepid, I spent the last night in a 5 floor club with 15 people from my hostel getting ignored by a model and talking up her nicer brown haired friend.

I'll return to these cities in the next entries, but I thought an overview would be appropriate. I'm kind of sick of traveling and managed to spend 2000 dollars over the course of the trip when I budgeted to spend 500. I might be going home early and may not give a shit. I spent enough time gone to finally feel satisfied with having a home in Minnesota. At least for now.