Meet me at the Coffeeshop: adventures in Amsterdam.

Byronic man, deep in profound thought about the possibilities for lunch.

Warning: this blog entry contains references to drug use. As if you didn't know that.

The first impressions of Amsterdam is that it is a playground designed for men. The Red Light District in particular hosts an army of physical distractions; prostitutes, coffeeshops, sex shops and Absinthe bars. People come here to lose themselves in experiences that would end them up in jail in their own country. Studies indicate that the largest cliental of prostitutes are the English, a fact that surprises no one. Walking through this heaven of gratification could give you the distinct vibe that all Dutch people are filthy degernates. However if you walk a few hundred metres in any direction away from the Red Light District, you will come across the splendor of the canals, which are so idylic and pictureseque, you wished you lived here. Besides having an almost perfectly designed city with canals and streets co-existing in a grid like formation, the Dutch, like their fair-haired, Northern friends, are extremely socially progressive, have clean streets and have the best transportation system I have encountered with bicycle paths, trams, trains and buses, which make travelling a breeze. Amsterdam was the first city we neglected the transport system for old fashioned bi-pedal motion that our grandparents ensured they did over boiling tar roads. We developed our walking legs quickly with the one and a bit hours walk into the beating heart of the city, while watching the romantic canals unfold before us. To further add to the scene, Autumn had deposited a sea of brown leaves over the city, making the streets resemble the dull coloured beauty of a painting from one of the Dutch masters.

Very pretty.

Likewise.

Bicycles. A very uncommon site in Amsterdam. Ha!

Unlike our previous experience with the Parisians, the Dutch people are very homely. I wouldn´t call them down-right lovely, as their talent for sarcasm florishes like their tulips, but they have no hang ups about speaking in English, which I must say, they do better than the bastardised tongue that a lot of Australians use. Our curiousity as to why the people were so relaxed and placid was quickly answered when we saw a small a group of businessmen in a coffeeshop, smoking, at 10 in the morning. I hope they don´t ride their bikes afterwards. If people did that in Australia on a regular basis, conversing with them would liken itself to chatting to a lobotomy patient, but for whatever sociological reason, it works here. Let us not forget while the rest of the contient was in turmoil during WW2, these relaxed folk decided killing people was not their thing and remained neutral. Although they were occupied by the Nazis, their city was undamaged, so they invested money, not in rebuilding like the rest of Europe did after the war, but in establishing an envious economy. So, the lesson that can be learned from this is not only is peace desirable, it can be very profitable as well.

Do not operate while stoned.

One day we stumbled upon the Heineken brewery. I had heard that the Heineken tour, dubbed the `experience´, was well worth a visit. As soon as I saw the large neon sign on the old brewery building, I had to see it. Anouska was not very enthuastic. I pleaded and whinged to her like a spolit child until she caved in and agreed. Not only were you treated to the mechanics of mass-producing beer, you were also educated in the ingredients of the golden ambroisia. Then you got to taste it, which was by far the least educational and best part of the tour. Sure it was a 10 Euro extended advert for how good Heineken is, but a little doctrination every now and then cannot hurt, right? It was here that Anouska discovered that she quite enjoyed the taste and texture of beer (naturally under my guidance).

Never say never, Anouska.

Being in Holland, there is of course a gallery dedicated to Van Gogh. A receptionist at our hostel informed us how to correctly pronounced Gogh, which is basically by bringing phelm up in your throat (Gaaarrcckk). It is a terrific gallery, filled with apt descriptions of his work and his life. My appreciation for this mad genius increased manifold in the three hours that we spent there. His work is sublime and he has definitely cemented himself as one of my favourite artists. The staff also enforced a no photography rule, which made me so deliriously happy, I could have cried. Finally, here was a place where I got to concentrate and appreciate the work without incessant flashes distracting me and working me into a red rage. A few doors down was the Rijks museum. I found it to be rather small for the sum they asked for, which in any tourist destination of Europe is not an uncommon complaint. Despite that, there were some fantastic Dutch works. The draw card for the museum is Rembrant. I found myself less than impressed with his light and shadow work, which was, I am told, very innovative for the period. After our share of art, we went across to the Anne Frank Huis, where Anne, her family and four friends, hid from the Nazis for two years. After seeing the annex in reality, it is hard to image that eight people lived here for two years in secret, while people ran a jam business downstairs. They had to be completely silent during work hours to avoid detection. It is here that Anne wrote her now famous journal detailing her thoughts on Jewish persecution, the war and living in what can be described as a self imposed prison. They were sadly betrayed and the Nazis herded them into concentration camps, where they all perished, except for the father. After being liberated, he searched for his children, only to find they died from typhoid. He found the journal upon returning to Amsterdam and got it published post-humously and the rest is history. It was a very emotionally draining experience, but rewarding all the same.

Now, let me tell you a little story. I know some of you out there will enjoy it, but others will 'tsk' disapprovingly. But hey, you can't be in Amsterdam and not go to ...

THE COFFEESHOP.

Entering the coffeeshop was like transgressing into a stoner's room. It stunk like a bogan's party. Smoke hung lazily in the air, while a small group of stoned men loudly played a dice game in the corner. The bar attendant checked our passports and let us through an electronic turnstyle. We found a place to sit and took off our coats. Other people looked us over vacantly and returned to staring at the walls. Anouska turns to me and says,

"You do it."

"No, you."

"You know what to ask for."

"What, like I am experienced in this?"

So, I go up to the woman at the bar.

"Can I have two coffees please".

"Sure. Take a seat"

I try and supress a smirk. The thought of purchasing pot, especially in a cafe, is hilarious to me.

"Oh, and we'll have two joints and a lighter."

We pass the time smoking and pretending we are not absolute novices at it. After a while, I start to feel stoned and became fascinated with tandem figure skating on television.

"I wonder who makes their outfits. They must be very clever, because it doesn't interfer with their routine at all."

Several hours have come and gone since arriving and Anouska complains that she is so hungry that she will gnaw her arm off. I believe her. We head off to a kebab shop down the road, our mouths already wet from the prospect of the impending meal. Having a kebab shop so close to a coffeeshop in Amsterdam is criminal. We order kebab slices and wait 15 minutes to be served, which to a stoned, famished person, could as well be a year. It finally comes and it is the best thing I have ever tasted in my life. I am now familar with a stoner's obsession with late night snacks.

"This is the best meal I have ever tasted," I said through a pile of masturcated meat.

"Every mouthful is like a moment of ecstacy".

After I had eaten everything on the plate, I start putting spoonfuls of mayonnaise on my plate. Anouska asks me what I am doing with it. I pick up my fork and start eating the mayonnaise sauce. When that is gone, I gather up some more and eat that as well. People in the take away shop don't seem to care, they must see this sort of behaviour all the time. We head back to the the hostel, our clothes are covered in the stench of skunk. Anouska let's the tap run while looking at her face. This goes on for some time until I break her out for it. We settle down to sleep and have the most vivid, colourful and disturbing dreams we have had in a long time.

The End.

By the second day in Amsterdam, I would have had friets, either by themselves or accompanied by a meal, about half a dozen times. I was in friet-overload agony. I didn't want to see another chip for as long as I lived. But the strange thing is, by the fifth day, I really started liking them. Once you break the friet-pain barrier, you're fine. It's not as if they taste bad or anything, quite the opposite. The Dutch make the best chips in the world. And they have every sauce you can think of to accompany them, but I stuck to their mayonnaise, which was delicious. If you liked deep fried food, than Holland is the place for you, because literally everything on the menu is soaked in a bathtub of oil. We stopped at a charming little cafe, where we had coffee, fried cheese sticks and meatballs. It wasn't the most nutrious meal, but it sure tasted good. Mostly, we stuck to more basic meals, like soups, out of fear that our stomachs would revolt against the the large quantites of fat we forced into them. Saying this, their take-way crumbed sausages are worth a visit to their take away chain, " Febo".

Big Mouth Strikes Again.

.

With the Dutch Christmas (5th December) approaching we are starting to notice the preparations for Christmas. The streets are decorated with beautiful lights and store´s merchandising stresses to the consumer the connection between love and spending. Children squeal with excitement and couples walk lovingly hand in hand. If you are in the Netherlands, you will also see Sinterklaas or St. Nicholas walk town the main road giving lollies to soon to be hyperactive children, with of course, his moorish helpers. That`s right! Sinterklaas doesn`t have have Elven helpers, he has black people. Obviously, the Dutch people have not caught onto the political correctness craze that has swept Australia. I am searching the internet trying to locate the origin of such a tradition, but I cannot find any information. I will assume that it dates back to colonial slave days. For all those screaming `bloody racists´, I have some more information that will further enrage you. The Moorish helpers are not black people. No,they are white people doing black face. Children coming to this event join in the fun by going black face themselves. I bet when they grow up, they will not think it is so`cool´to be the colour of the oppressed.

Australians are everywhere like a plague