The Crooked Buildings, and Windows of Amsterdam

I’ll start by saying this: if Italian trains are Thunder Mountain Railroad, then German trains are fucking Star Tours. It was slick, smooth, stylish, and comfortable. And fast. I was finally on my way to Amsterdam, a place that, for obvious reasons, I had dreamed of for quite some time. I was still reeling from my time in Munich, and the miraculous turn-around that had happened. It was a strange feeling, being at the tail end of a trip I had been longing to take for years, an even mix of homesickness (only slightly at this point), and the notion that I should say to holy Hell with the flight home, I’m going to stay here and be a vagabond! What am I going to go home for? Strip malls and a job? I mean, goddamn, Amsterdam has legal pot!

So the train pulled into Centraal Station, and right away, this place was something different. Oh yeah. Out the main station, and BAM! It was like the Haight District, Venice Beach, and Vegas rolled into one. Actually, Vegas doesn’t even compare. Vegas might as well be Disneyland. I’ve got some great stories about some semi-serious shit going down in Vegas, but in Amsterdam, the potential for a totally out of control situation to wrap it’s black, scaly claws around you until you’re too bound up to scream seems much greater. In fact, you’re surrounded by people who are in that situation. Right off the bat I was offered coke, heroin, and ketamine. I’ll just say that if I wanted to drink a shot of snake’s blood, I probably could have done it, but this was the end of my trip, and I was low on cash. This visit was going to have to be simple and pretty honest.

My hostel was just inside the Red Light District. The first thing I noticed: the buildings are crazy. It doesn’t make any sense, the buildings are all crooked! It’s like the entire city hired the same shady unlicensed contractor who cashed the check and split. The don’t line up with each other, I don’t know how stuff doesn’t just slide right off the tables in some places. And that’s just side-to-side. They also lean forward. I stood at the entrance to the narrow street my hostel was on, and the tops of the building were literally, and noticeably, leaning in towards each other, like the opposing block were bowing to each other out of respect. I checked in, half-expecting to roll out of bed in the middle of the night – towards the street, of course.

This was the third place I had stayed in a row that had a bar in the lobby, which has its ups and downs. Ups: there’s a bar right there in lobby! Downs: dude, there’s a freakin’ bar right there in the lobby, ugh. It was actually difficult to book a room in advance in the city, being that it was a weekend, and people tend to flood the city. It’s only a train ride away from anywhere in Europe, and it’s relatively cheap. Plus, goddamn, Amsterdam has legal pot!

Anyway, once I was there I was able to book the weekend at the place I was already staying in. They’re required to keep a few beds open and available for walk-ins. So that was done. Three nights. Three nights then home.

I sat down at a table in the smoky bar, ordered a glass of wine, and relaxed for a bit, yellow pad in hand. I figured, the last time this thing was out, it really came in handy. A guy sat down and said hello. He introduced himself. And off we go.

His name was Fernando, and he was a soft-spoken Argentinean. He had long frizzy hair, a bit of "coffee," and he wanted to share. Well sit down, friend. Fernando hadn’t been home in months, and had been working in London, I didn’t catch as what. I’d never smoked hash before, never even really seen it. It’s sort of gummy, rolled up in a ball. He pulled out a bag of smoking tobacco, dropped a pinch in a paper, and then added a little "coffee" through the cig. Seriously, they smoke coffee there, can you believe that? He finished rolling and I ordered us round of drinks. You know, it’s funny, but I don’t remember too much about what we talked about. Huh.

Anyway, we finished up, and I invited him to come along to the coffee shop down the street. They definitely sold coffee – and also marijuana – of various varieties – in various quantities – in fact, as long as you're there, why don’t you just browse through the menu. The weed menu. There was a coffee shop (which is code for, place to by pot, by the way) just a few doors down the street – and then another a few doors after than – and one across the street from that too – get the point? Yeah.

Fernando and I just, hit the first one we came to, a place called Hill Street Blues, a scrubby, dark little place with graffiti and stickers all over the walls. Very reminiscent of more than a few punk venues I’ve played over the years. I thought about my friends, thought about how I had deliberately saved Amsterdam for last, thinking it would be the most insane part of the trip. Really, I just missed my friends. This was like being in Vegas by yourself, like cruising the strip in dirty clothes, and staying in a flophouse sort of place with a cloud of various kinds of smoke hanging out in the bar, and cats bolting out of the doors when you opened them. I kept thinking how I would have handled a trip like this had I done it a few years earlier, had I been 18, fresh out of high school. No answers.

Fernando had a tea, I had a coffee (actual coffee). Back at the hostel, he found some people he had met earlier in the day, but I wasn’t in a very social mood. I grabbed an extra sweatshirt, my scarf, and headed into the city. I wanted to see the red light district (I mean, come on, yeah?). Of course I had no plans on partaking, though it sure as hell would have been easy. For those of you reading, who aren’t familiar with the layout of this place, follow along. Close your eyes, and conjure up your vision of Pleasure Island, the crazy, kids’ party island from Pinocchio. It really is like what I imagine a real-life Pirates of the Caribbean world would be. Prostitutes in red windows, cracking the doors and beckoning you inside in some foreign language. It’s cold and dark, save the red haze, and perfect, white swans slowly glide down the canal that splits the street. It is titillating.

* * *

Let me tell you about the women in windows. It’s depressing. I mean, the people who line the streets, are essentially, window shopping for a person. They are just, propped up like mannequins. At night, in the dark, under a black light and red bulb combo, the 19-year-old from Ukraine, or wherever, looks pretty good. But that’s at night. Those are the A-listers. The women who occupy those windows in the daytime, under the harsh light of early afternoon are another story. A sad one. They look beaten. It’s devastating. And it’s there, all lit up to be seen, it’s all apparent, bruises and sad eyes and too much makeup. Too much time in those damned windows. Too much. That is the true story of what goes on that street. It’s all too much.

* * *

Outside of sex shows and live music, there wasn’t a lot happening at night, and I wasn’t particularly interested in the sec shows, not to mention, I was pretty much beyond budget. Like I said, this was a place to be enjoyed with good friends, but not so much solo. It’s lonely, solo. On my last day, I visited the Van Gogh museum, strolled through the city, gawked at the street performers, visited a coffee shop. My trip was over. This was the last day. I took it easy, and rested up for the journey home I would be taking the next morning. It was going to be a long one – much more fraught, demoralizing, and exhausting than I could have anticipated. The next day, was the long trip home.