"My Time in Amsterdam"
By John Amaruso
When I first arrived in Amsterdam, the lights, the sounds, the sights, were amazing. The cobblestone roads, the red lit glass windows with prostitutes beckoning your patronage, the endless procession of coffee/pot shops, the pubs, they were all fascinating. The fact that a culture was so accepting and open to all these different vices was a shock to me, coming from a religious and uptight country like America.
When I arrived in Amsterdam I went to the hostel me and Jessica booked. Two nights at 'The Flying Pig Downtown', the 'hippest and best' hostel for backpacking tourists through Europe. Sounded ideal for two people who knew nothing of Amsterdam and wanted to experience a stay in a hostel. Couldn't have been more wrong.
The room I was in smelled like dirty feet and gym socks. 18 other nameless strangers cramped in a room of bunk beds, engulfed with the smell of sweat and dirty hippy odor inflamed my nostrils to the point where I couldn't close my eyes for more than 5 minutes without wanting to vomit. Closing my eyes increases all my other senses; ten fold.
So I left. I found a hotel down the block, called the Hotel Sint Nicholas- 70 euro a night and I got a nice double bed, neatly decorated, clean, odorless and hippyless. My kind of place.
Stayed there for two nights waiting for Jessica's arrival. She comes up with the theory that because she missed her flight and because she didn't look at her itinerary, it is my fault and I should pay for the hostel room that she missed. Doesn't make much sense, but what it does do is sour relations between an already fair-weathered friend. I tell her she's out of her mind if she thinks she's getting a penny from me for her mistake. Those with no sense of responsibility tend to believe everybody else is responsible.
Despite this I spend my first few days alone walking around the city, getting to know it. I start by walking through the infamous Red Light District. The myths of hookers and drugs free flowing through the streets, the legends of seedy nights and hazy recollections of mischievous and dubious activities attract the likes of all sorts of tourists from around the world to this playground of debauchery.
As I walk through, I'm expecting to see what I've been told, but did not expect to see what I saw. As I walk through the district, I take a quick glance to my left. There's a woman, standing in nothing but lingerie, peering out through a glass door at me, waving her finger, asking me to come inside. As quickly as I looked at her, I turned away in utter shock. I felt that I had done something wrong for actually looking at a woman standing in the middle of a street, behind a glass door, in nothing but her underwear. After the initial shock, I saw dozens of more glass doors like the first one. All with different hookers in different shapes and sizes; some beautiful, thin, dolled up and immaculate; others fat, ugly, gruesome and old. Then there were the transvestites. What a surprise some guys got when they went up and started conversation and the tone of a man's voice comes from what looked like a beautiful woman's mouth.
By my second day there I met a kid from Finland and a kid from Spain who were promoting a local pub crawl. I befriend them and we grab a beer at a local bar. The kid from Finland, Henry, plays the guitar and piano. He tells me how he grew up on heavy metal the same way I did. We tell each other we're gonna jam out seeing that I'm a drummer, but that never comes to fruition.
Afterwards we go grocery shopping and have dinner at his flat with his other roommates who all attend the same college together. The chance to be in a locals home in Amsterdam is rare. I accept it and embrace it with open arms and thank them for their hospitality.
Afterwards I leave. I go back to the hotel and ask the man at the front desk if a woman came in looking for a Timothy Kearney. He points out the window and says she just walked that way. So I run out in hopes that I can catch her, and luckily I find her down one of the many alleyways walking with two guys. I call out her name and stop her. We chat for a moment, then decide we should go find a place to have her currency exchanged.
Being about 8pm, most currency exchange places had closed for the night. Realizing this, I tell her how I exchanged my currency at a local fast food place, Mr. Toms, and how most businesses around here will do exchange money for a fair rate.
We stop in a local convenience store. I walk up to the counter and ask if he'll do an exchange rate for Jessica. He gladly accepts, and says for English Pounds he will give exact Euros back. He neglects to add that it's actually a rip off of 30%. She accepts, and is about to hand 100 pounds for 100 euros, in which she should have been receiving 130 Euros. I tell the man that he is ripping her off and he should give her a better deal. Jessica angrily looks at me and tells me to walk out of the store. I pause for a moment, glare at her, and walk out.
She walks out mighty and high, telling me who do I think I am, and that she can handle this on her own; she says quote 'because she's a woman she can't handle it?' Apparently I'm annoying, she's independent, she doesn't need my help. I tell her I'm only trying to help her not get ripped off, and this has nothing to do with gender. Her indignant response infuriates me, so I tell her to go have fun independently and walk away.
Later on that night I end up getting drunk at a pub by myself. I see two women sitting at a booth on the other side of the bar. Those two girls made up about 30% of the bar's population; me, 15%.
So after a few drinks I promise myself to gather up the courage to go meet somebody. I walk over to their table, introduce myself, and we walk. It goes smoothly. They tell me they're from Argentina, one's a psychologist and the other is a journalist. We have a good conversation for an hour or two, right up until the bar's closing time. We say our goodbyes, and I wish them well on their journey through Europe. Never to be seen again.
I end that night by getting high in a coffee shop called Abbraxas. By myself, I'm sitting next to a group of Italians, I can't understand a word they're saying. An Asian kid sits next to me, he too by himself, and we both tentatively smoke our joints, pondering why we're alone. Such answers are complicated.
I end up getting too high for my own good. I stumble back home, to the point where I'm almost tripping out. I lay in bed for no more than a half hour, and I get a ring on the hotel telephone. It's the lady at the reception desk, telling me I have someone who wants to speak to me. It's Jessica.
She tells me to come downstairs and that she needs to talk to me. I reluctantly comply, put on clothes and go downstairs.
She's high off of her rocker. We walk out of the hotel and walk down the block, talking as we stroll. Her first night in Amsterdam she tells me is haunted by strange noises and voices coming from her room, and stories of spirits haunting her hotel hallway. I tell her she's being over-dramatic and has to chill out. I ask her if she took any heavy drugs; psychedelics, cocaine, anything that would make her freak out and paranoid the way she is. She claims she's just high.
I end the conversation by telling her I am very high and I need my sleep. I couldn't function, let alone function with somebody who wasn't functioning. She tells me she is scared because she's a lone girl walking around Amsterdam. I tell myself she wanted to be the lone girl, independent and ignorantly proud, that was her choice, not mine. Instead of voicing my inner voice, I answer with don't worry it will be fine and that I will talk to her in the morning.
I do my best to avoid her at all costs from that point on.
I wake up and decide to go on the Volendam, Marken and Windmill bus tour. Not before I get a little high though.
I smuggle pot into a coffee shop, buy a soda from them to lend me legitimacy for sitting inside the shop, smoke it, watch a Hootie and the Blowfish concert on the tv, and leave.
I arrive at the pick up spot for the tour. I notice a lone girl among the group of couples, families and friends. She's wearing a white pea-coat. She's blonde, about 5'5', pretty face, nice eyes. I wonder why she's as alone as I am.
I get on the bus and take a tour throughout Amsterdam. I videotape the moving scenery as we drive by, catching images and videos of both the Dutch countryside and Dutch urban landscape.
We arrive at a Cheese factory. The tour guide says we can choose to join her in the cheese factory to see how the cheese is made, or we could go off by ourselves and tour the city. I choose the latter, for improvisation is better than orchestration.
The landscape was filled with 500 year old windmills, powering the small town. They're huge, beautiful and green. Apparently the black and green themed paint wasn't optional. It was practical, as it was made of grass and tar, the cheapest way to paint your house. It also helped insulate the home from high winds and weathering. Ingenious.
We return to the bus and go to Volendam, a small little town with a lot going on. We go to a clog making factory, and watch how clogs are made. I find out their uses varied; they were cheap and many pairs could be bought for big families for practically nothing, while farmers used them to protect their feet from being crushed from the stomping of horse hooves. Innovative.
As we're standing and waiting for the group to return, I overhear the blonde woman talking to two Asians. The Asians have thick accents, I assume their from China. The girl has a very familiar accent, an American one. Surprising for the fact that up until this point I hadn't met one American during my stay here.
I intercede and ask her where her she is from. At first she's confrontational, but after a few moments she lightens up and says she's from Arizona. She teaches in the country of Georgia; tells me how ignorant and crazy the population is. They clamor for the rule of Communism. Soviet style. Stalinist, authoritarian rule. She says how they believe stability always trumps prosperity.
The Asians I find out are from Australia. Interesting.
We agree to all go out together and grab a drink. A few drinks to be exact.
The night goes smoothly. We joke and talk about our experiences. Me and the blonde relate over American things and talk about Communism. She tells me how she is going to go to Belgium tomorrow for the day. I tell her that sounds amazing and how I would love to join. She seems a bit ambivalent about the proposition, so I drop it.
While walking around the red light district, I joke with her and try convincing her to approach a hooker and ask how much. Never happens.
We end the night at some shady eat-in place and order some overpriced deep fried crap. The Asians sit awkwardly. The blonde is getting hostile with them and tells them to leave us. At a point I even feel offended. After a few more abrasive hints, they get the picture and leave.
After they leave she jokes and says how she thinks they're gay. I tell her I don't think so.
After that I ask if she needs me to walk her back to her hotel, as it is a far walk. She declines. I offer to walk her halfway. She declines. She calls a taxi. The taxi arrives. She leaves. Never to be seen again.
I wake up the next morning, hungover. I say to myself; fuck it, I'm going to Belgium. I jump on the next train to Belgium.
Two and a half hours later, I am in Brussels, Belgium. The Grand Palace in the center of the city was beautiful. The architecture of these 16th, 17th century buildings and cathedrals were magnificent. I couldn't believe how beautiful it was. Belgium was just the stepping stone for Germany to invade France; twice. At least that's all I ever knew up until this point.
I walk around the city. Me, a backpack and a camera. I'm hesitant about pulling out my tablet; the woman on the train warned me that Brussels is dangerous. It freaks me out, as the city is a bit dingy around the edges. Especially North Brussels which I had the pleasure of passing by on the way. Looked like NYC before Guilliani cleaned it up; plus crystal meth.
The city itself is nice. Until I get lost in the French Muslim Ghetto. Never knew a place existed; until I walked into it. The scenery of french Arab children coming home from elementary school with their parents was fascinatingly different for me.
I wandered a few miles from the Belgium Centraal Station, which was not a good idea. I ask for directions. Virtually nobody speaks a lick of English. A poor neighborhood like this one can't afford a good education, so it's strictly french here.
I finally find my way despite the language barrier from the one white french person in the whole area. Bus 65 to Centraal. A bit of confusion over the bus ticket, I don't think I actually had to pay, but I worked my way in, paying two euros.
I finally get back on the train and arrive back in Amsterdam safe and sound.
I see Jessica. I try talking to her. She ignores me. I walk away.
The guy at the front desk says she's upset and I should probably talk to her. I tell him she should probably apologize to me.
I end up getting very high again, going home and passing out.
Friday comes and I decide I want to go to the Anne Frank museum. It was so interesting learning about her life. Until that point I had actually never read anything Anne Frank wrote. Her writing was amazing, something that should be cherished, something I now completely understood. I was inspired by her strong will and articulate thoughts, and how powerful of a little girl she really was.
Later that night I attend the pubcrawl the Finnish and the Spaniard told me about. I arrive by myself. I am inundated with endless vodka shots. I had pre-gamed just as hard before. Stupid me.
I meet a few girls from... not sure. I believe Ireland. We have a lovely conversation. Don't remember any of it. I end up blacking out and leaving after the first bar. 17 euros, gone.
I wake up, apologize to Henry for leaving the pubs. Too much free vodka is only good if you want to black out. I certainly did not.
I wake up to a canal cruise. 10 euros and it was some crap. Cool to see Amsterdam from a different angle, learn about the boat houses and stuff like that. In general though, boring.
I go out and get high again. I go back to the hotel and lay down for a very long time. Watch some tv, chill out before this night's pubcrawl, where I promised myself I wouldn't make the same mistake.
I arrive at Nelly's pub for the pubcrawl. I talk to the guy, he gives me the details. I sit at the bar and order a few drinks. I walk outside for a cigarette. I walk back in. A woman is walking up to the one free section at the bar simultaneously. I give her the courtesy and let her in first. She smiles and thanks me.
I wait behind her for a few minutes, as she waits to get her drink. Brunette, nice eyes, about 5'6', great body, nice outfit. She's cute.
After a few minutes, the guy to the right of her walks from the bar. I walk into that spot to try to order myself a drink. As I do this, the brunette looks over at my wristband, and asks if I am here for the pubcrawl. I tell her yes. She almost immediately invites me to hang out with her and her friends in the downstairs of the bar. I comply.
I meet all her friend. Jacob, Jason, Emily, Emily, and her, Ashlee. All from Australia. Ashlee tells me she's a teacher. The song 'Hot for teacher' rattles through my head.
The other people tell me about themselves, I don't remember any of it.
We end up having a great time. Laughing, joking, poking at differences in American and Australian cultures. Imitating accents and joyfully drinking. We drank with a stag party, or what we in America would call a bachelor party. A group of men, divided evenly between men dressed up as Mario or Luigi. It's interesting how European bachelor parties are all themed. The other bachelor party on the pubcrawl were all dressed as matadors.
We arrive at the next bar, Teaser's. An imitation of hooters. I meet a Scottish woman. Beautiful. Brunette, beautiful eyes, skinny, club girl material. Her accent is thick. Her drunkenness is apparent. Combined, it's incoherent.
She kisses me. She can't kiss for her life. She was off timing, completely naive to the act of making out. The Australians look on and laugh. I participate and laugh. Her aggressiveness goes from sexy to crazy in 2.5 seconds as she pulls my hair and mutters incoherent sentences with that awful accent of hers. I flee the scene with my Australian friends.
As me and the Australians walk down the block, a few minutes later we see her making out with another guy. I ask myself if I have herpes. The Australians laugh.
We end the night at another late night dine in. We reminisce and talk about how much fun the night was. We part ways after coming to the conclusion that it was 4 in the morning and I was leaving early for NYC. We reluctantly say our goodbyes, exchange facebooks, and the rest is history.
My time in Amsterdam was one that I will never forget. That is why I wrote this, so I won't soon forget. It won't be my last time. I promise myself, I will return.
By John Amaruso
When I first arrived in Amsterdam, the lights, the sounds, the sights, were amazing. The cobblestone roads, the red lit glass windows with prostitutes beckoning your patronage, the endless procession of coffee/pot shops, the pubs, they were all fascinating. The fact that a culture was so accepting and open to all these different vices was a shock to me, coming from a religious and uptight country like America.
When I arrived in Amsterdam I went to the hostel me and Jessica booked. Two nights at 'The Flying Pig Downtown', the 'hippest and best' hostel for backpacking tourists through Europe. Sounded ideal for two people who knew nothing of Amsterdam and wanted to experience a stay in a hostel. Couldn't have been more wrong.
The room I was in smelled like dirty feet and gym socks. 18 other nameless strangers cramped in a room of bunk beds, engulfed with the smell of sweat and dirty hippy odor inflamed my nostrils to the point where I couldn't close my eyes for more than 5 minutes without wanting to vomit. Closing my eyes increases all my other senses; ten fold.
So I left. I found a hotel down the block, called the Hotel Sint Nicholas- 70 euro a night and I got a nice double bed, neatly decorated, clean, odorless and hippyless. My kind of place.
Stayed there for two nights waiting for Jessica's arrival. She comes up with the theory that because she missed her flight and because she didn't look at her itinerary, it is my fault and I should pay for the hostel room that she missed. Doesn't make much sense, but what it does do is sour relations between an already fair-weathered friend. I tell her she's out of her mind if she thinks she's getting a penny from me for her mistake. Those with no sense of responsibility tend to believe everybody else is responsible.
Despite this I spend my first few days alone walking around the city, getting to know it. I start by walking through the infamous Red Light District. The myths of hookers and drugs free flowing through the streets, the legends of seedy nights and hazy recollections of mischievous and dubious activities attract the likes of all sorts of tourists from around the world to this playground of debauchery.
As I walk through, I'm expecting to see what I've been told, but did not expect to see what I saw. As I walk through the district, I take a quick glance to my left. There's a woman, standing in nothing but lingerie, peering out through a glass door at me, waving her finger, asking me to come inside. As quickly as I looked at her, I turned away in utter shock. I felt that I had done something wrong for actually looking at a woman standing in the middle of a street, behind a glass door, in nothing but her underwear. After the initial shock, I saw dozens of more glass doors like the first one. All with different hookers in different shapes and sizes; some beautiful, thin, dolled up and immaculate; others fat, ugly, gruesome and old. Then there were the transvestites. What a surprise some guys got when they went up and started conversation and the tone of a man's voice comes from what looked like a beautiful woman's mouth.
By my second day there I met a kid from Finland and a kid from Spain who were promoting a local pub crawl. I befriend them and we grab a beer at a local bar. The kid from Finland, Henry, plays the guitar and piano. He tells me how he grew up on heavy metal the same way I did. We tell each other we're gonna jam out seeing that I'm a drummer, but that never comes to fruition.
Afterwards we go grocery shopping and have dinner at his flat with his other roommates who all attend the same college together. The chance to be in a locals home in Amsterdam is rare. I accept it and embrace it with open arms and thank them for their hospitality.
Afterwards I leave. I go back to the hotel and ask the man at the front desk if a woman came in looking for a Timothy Kearney. He points out the window and says she just walked that way. So I run out in hopes that I can catch her, and luckily I find her down one of the many alleyways walking with two guys. I call out her name and stop her. We chat for a moment, then decide we should go find a place to have her currency exchanged.
Being about 8pm, most currency exchange places had closed for the night. Realizing this, I tell her how I exchanged my currency at a local fast food place, Mr. Toms, and how most businesses around here will do exchange money for a fair rate.
We stop in a local convenience store. I walk up to the counter and ask if he'll do an exchange rate for Jessica. He gladly accepts, and says for English Pounds he will give exact Euros back. He neglects to add that it's actually a rip off of 30%. She accepts, and is about to hand 100 pounds for 100 euros, in which she should have been receiving 130 Euros. I tell the man that he is ripping her off and he should give her a better deal. Jessica angrily looks at me and tells me to walk out of the store. I pause for a moment, glare at her, and walk out.
She walks out mighty and high, telling me who do I think I am, and that she can handle this on her own; she says quote 'because she's a woman she can't handle it?' Apparently I'm annoying, she's independent, she doesn't need my help. I tell her I'm only trying to help her not get ripped off, and this has nothing to do with gender. Her indignant response infuriates me, so I tell her to go have fun independently and walk away.
Later on that night I end up getting drunk at a pub by myself. I see two women sitting at a booth on the other side of the bar. Those two girls made up about 30% of the bar's population; me, 15%.
So after a few drinks I promise myself to gather up the courage to go meet somebody. I walk over to their table, introduce myself, and we walk. It goes smoothly. They tell me they're from Argentina, one's a psychologist and the other is a journalist. We have a good conversation for an hour or two, right up until the bar's closing time. We say our goodbyes, and I wish them well on their journey through Europe. Never to be seen again.
I end that night by getting high in a coffee shop called Abbraxas. By myself, I'm sitting next to a group of Italians, I can't understand a word they're saying. An Asian kid sits next to me, he too by himself, and we both tentatively smoke our joints, pondering why we're alone. Such answers are complicated.
I end up getting too high for my own good. I stumble back home, to the point where I'm almost tripping out. I lay in bed for no more than a half hour, and I get a ring on the hotel telephone. It's the lady at the reception desk, telling me I have someone who wants to speak to me. It's Jessica.
She tells me to come downstairs and that she needs to talk to me. I reluctantly comply, put on clothes and go downstairs.
She's high off of her rocker. We walk out of the hotel and walk down the block, talking as we stroll. Her first night in Amsterdam she tells me is haunted by strange noises and voices coming from her room, and stories of spirits haunting her hotel hallway. I tell her she's being over-dramatic and has to chill out. I ask her if she took any heavy drugs; psychedelics, cocaine, anything that would make her freak out and paranoid the way she is. She claims she's just high.
I end the conversation by telling her I am very high and I need my sleep. I couldn't function, let alone function with somebody who wasn't functioning. She tells me she is scared because she's a lone girl walking around Amsterdam. I tell myself she wanted to be the lone girl, independent and ignorantly proud, that was her choice, not mine. Instead of voicing my inner voice, I answer with don't worry it will be fine and that I will talk to her in the morning.
I do my best to avoid her at all costs from that point on.
I wake up and decide to go on the Volendam, Marken and Windmill bus tour. Not before I get a little high though.
I smuggle pot into a coffee shop, buy a soda from them to lend me legitimacy for sitting inside the shop, smoke it, watch a Hootie and the Blowfish concert on the tv, and leave.
I arrive at the pick up spot for the tour. I notice a lone girl among the group of couples, families and friends. She's wearing a white pea-coat. She's blonde, about 5'5', pretty face, nice eyes. I wonder why she's as alone as I am.
I get on the bus and take a tour throughout Amsterdam. I videotape the moving scenery as we drive by, catching images and videos of both the Dutch countryside and Dutch urban landscape.
We arrive at a Cheese factory. The tour guide says we can choose to join her in the cheese factory to see how the cheese is made, or we could go off by ourselves and tour the city. I choose the latter, for improvisation is better than orchestration.
The landscape was filled with 500 year old windmills, powering the small town. They're huge, beautiful and green. Apparently the black and green themed paint wasn't optional. It was practical, as it was made of grass and tar, the cheapest way to paint your house. It also helped insulate the home from high winds and weathering. Ingenious.
We return to the bus and go to Volendam, a small little town with a lot going on. We go to a clog making factory, and watch how clogs are made. I find out their uses varied; they were cheap and many pairs could be bought for big families for practically nothing, while farmers used them to protect their feet from being crushed from the stomping of horse hooves. Innovative.
As we're standing and waiting for the group to return, I overhear the blonde woman talking to two Asians. The Asians have thick accents, I assume their from China. The girl has a very familiar accent, an American one. Surprising for the fact that up until this point I hadn't met one American during my stay here.
I intercede and ask her where her she is from. At first she's confrontational, but after a few moments she lightens up and says she's from Arizona. She teaches in the country of Georgia; tells me how ignorant and crazy the population is. They clamor for the rule of Communism. Soviet style. Stalinist, authoritarian rule. She says how they believe stability always trumps prosperity.
The Asians I find out are from Australia. Interesting.
We agree to all go out together and grab a drink. A few drinks to be exact.
The night goes smoothly. We joke and talk about our experiences. Me and the blonde relate over American things and talk about Communism. She tells me how she is going to go to Belgium tomorrow for the day. I tell her that sounds amazing and how I would love to join. She seems a bit ambivalent about the proposition, so I drop it.
While walking around the red light district, I joke with her and try convincing her to approach a hooker and ask how much. Never happens.
We end the night at some shady eat-in place and order some overpriced deep fried crap. The Asians sit awkwardly. The blonde is getting hostile with them and tells them to leave us. At a point I even feel offended. After a few more abrasive hints, they get the picture and leave.
After they leave she jokes and says how she thinks they're gay. I tell her I don't think so.
After that I ask if she needs me to walk her back to her hotel, as it is a far walk. She declines. I offer to walk her halfway. She declines. She calls a taxi. The taxi arrives. She leaves. Never to be seen again.
I wake up the next morning, hungover. I say to myself; fuck it, I'm going to Belgium. I jump on the next train to Belgium.
Two and a half hours later, I am in Brussels, Belgium. The Grand Palace in the center of the city was beautiful. The architecture of these 16th, 17th century buildings and cathedrals were magnificent. I couldn't believe how beautiful it was. Belgium was just the stepping stone for Germany to invade France; twice. At least that's all I ever knew up until this point.
I walk around the city. Me, a backpack and a camera. I'm hesitant about pulling out my tablet; the woman on the train warned me that Brussels is dangerous. It freaks me out, as the city is a bit dingy around the edges. Especially North Brussels which I had the pleasure of passing by on the way. Looked like NYC before Guilliani cleaned it up; plus crystal meth.
The city itself is nice. Until I get lost in the French Muslim Ghetto. Never knew a place existed; until I walked into it. The scenery of french Arab children coming home from elementary school with their parents was fascinatingly different for me.
I wandered a few miles from the Belgium Centraal Station, which was not a good idea. I ask for directions. Virtually nobody speaks a lick of English. A poor neighborhood like this one can't afford a good education, so it's strictly french here.
I finally find my way despite the language barrier from the one white french person in the whole area. Bus 65 to Centraal. A bit of confusion over the bus ticket, I don't think I actually had to pay, but I worked my way in, paying two euros.
I finally get back on the train and arrive back in Amsterdam safe and sound.
I see Jessica. I try talking to her. She ignores me. I walk away.
The guy at the front desk says she's upset and I should probably talk to her. I tell him she should probably apologize to me.
I end up getting very high again, going home and passing out.
Friday comes and I decide I want to go to the Anne Frank museum. It was so interesting learning about her life. Until that point I had actually never read anything Anne Frank wrote. Her writing was amazing, something that should be cherished, something I now completely understood. I was inspired by her strong will and articulate thoughts, and how powerful of a little girl she really was.
Later that night I attend the pubcrawl the Finnish and the Spaniard told me about. I arrive by myself. I am inundated with endless vodka shots. I had pre-gamed just as hard before. Stupid me.
I meet a few girls from... not sure. I believe Ireland. We have a lovely conversation. Don't remember any of it. I end up blacking out and leaving after the first bar. 17 euros, gone.
I wake up, apologize to Henry for leaving the pubs. Too much free vodka is only good if you want to black out. I certainly did not.
I wake up to a canal cruise. 10 euros and it was some crap. Cool to see Amsterdam from a different angle, learn about the boat houses and stuff like that. In general though, boring.
I go out and get high again. I go back to the hotel and lay down for a very long time. Watch some tv, chill out before this night's pubcrawl, where I promised myself I wouldn't make the same mistake.
I arrive at Nelly's pub for the pubcrawl. I talk to the guy, he gives me the details. I sit at the bar and order a few drinks. I walk outside for a cigarette. I walk back in. A woman is walking up to the one free section at the bar simultaneously. I give her the courtesy and let her in first. She smiles and thanks me.
I wait behind her for a few minutes, as she waits to get her drink. Brunette, nice eyes, about 5'6', great body, nice outfit. She's cute.
After a few minutes, the guy to the right of her walks from the bar. I walk into that spot to try to order myself a drink. As I do this, the brunette looks over at my wristband, and asks if I am here for the pubcrawl. I tell her yes. She almost immediately invites me to hang out with her and her friends in the downstairs of the bar. I comply.
I meet all her friend. Jacob, Jason, Emily, Emily, and her, Ashlee. All from Australia. Ashlee tells me she's a teacher. The song 'Hot for teacher' rattles through my head.
The other people tell me about themselves, I don't remember any of it.
We end up having a great time. Laughing, joking, poking at differences in American and Australian cultures. Imitating accents and joyfully drinking. We drank with a stag party, or what we in America would call a bachelor party. A group of men, divided evenly between men dressed up as Mario or Luigi. It's interesting how European bachelor parties are all themed. The other bachelor party on the pubcrawl were all dressed as matadors.
We arrive at the next bar, Teaser's. An imitation of hooters. I meet a Scottish woman. Beautiful. Brunette, beautiful eyes, skinny, club girl material. Her accent is thick. Her drunkenness is apparent. Combined, it's incoherent.
She kisses me. She can't kiss for her life. She was off timing, completely naive to the act of making out. The Australians look on and laugh. I participate and laugh. Her aggressiveness goes from sexy to crazy in 2.5 seconds as she pulls my hair and mutters incoherent sentences with that awful accent of hers. I flee the scene with my Australian friends.
As me and the Australians walk down the block, a few minutes later we see her making out with another guy. I ask myself if I have herpes. The Australians laugh.
We end the night at another late night dine in. We reminisce and talk about how much fun the night was. We part ways after coming to the conclusion that it was 4 in the morning and I was leaving early for NYC. We reluctantly say our goodbyes, exchange facebooks, and the rest is history.
My time in Amsterdam was one that I will never forget. That is why I wrote this, so I won't soon forget. It won't be my last time. I promise myself, I will return.
No comments:
Post a Comment