|
When I stepped off the train at Central Station, I thought I had been mistakenly transported to Gotham City. Although, it didn\'t take me long to adjust to the dark hedonism of the place - 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 just 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 pasttime, where a typical day for those willing to shed responsibility and inhibition most likely will be anything but typical. My weeklong 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. I awoke unusually early - around 1pm. My dorm room in the hostel, The Flying Pig, resembled a cramped military barracks 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 2-3 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 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 was a meek fellow who always had the look of confusion on his face. He was short, in his early 30s 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 for that matter how long he\'d been in Amsterdam. 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. " âEUR?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. 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 smell. Indecision. We agreed to park are wobbly bodies at the next restaurant that crossed our path. And so it was - Mexican. We floated in, rudely examining other\'s entrees while being lead 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. 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. 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. 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 âEUR?water âEUR?when he pees," she said in a drawn-out series
Artical Related: 
world
 
1.Barrier Reef Blues
2.Getting round Berlin 3.Jazz Melts France's Mediterranea.. 4.At Home in Ibiza 5.Ireland's Blarney Stone Gets Lucky 6.Meet your Brazilian in-laws. 7.Charity and Concrete in Costa Rica 8.In a Quiet Land 9.Great Leaping Lemurs 10.Shanghai Dawn 11.To the Roof of Taiwan 12.Indonesian Island Idyll 13.Land of Smoke and Mirrors 14.Shanghai Surprise 15.Turning Japanese
Latest Artical
1.·½Ô²Ö§³Ð
2."Element ’UpdateProgr.. 3.ASP.NET 2.0 Disclaimer Introduct.. 4.Rockets-Mavericks Preview With T.. 5.A Cigars and Insurance 6.The new tax law 7.The thing, The play! 8.The emperor’s new cloth 9.Perfect Trade 10.Understanding organizational cul.. 11.The snow, Heavy snow piles on th.. 12.The Organic Ethnologist of Alger.. 13.The politics of protest 14.Special screenings 15.Weekend channeling |
Food | Hobbies | House | Career | Family | Lifestyle | Travel | Usa Food | Author | Animal | Adsense Tips
| 中文站
