Download Link (right click save as): Amsterdam
Nicole and I had already been living in London for four weeks when her privatized student loan finally came through. I had paid her end of the deposit on the apartment we were now sharing with two other students from the Ithaca London Program, but a place that size comes with a high price tag. She needed money if we were going to enjoy Europe to the fullest, and now, she finally had some. We already missed out on the school-sponsored trip to Ireland due to the past lack of finances. Now, it was time to make up for lost experiences.
We went to Amsterdam.
And we had a simple goal. Rather, I had a simple goal. I’ve never been much for breaking laws, which went a long way towards keeping my range of experiences tame. This time, I wanted to get wild. And the Dutch, God bless them, have many outlets in their fine country to legally get wild.
I also wanted to see things that weren’t there. I was going to do psychedelic mushrooms!
We arrived at an airport that had three syllables and too many double ‘O’s’ and took a train to a station that had four syllables and too man double ‘A’s’. I bought a map from a vendor catering to young college kids looking to buy local frivolities, and headed out into the story.
It was snowing so heavy then, good Noreaster snow, like a little taste of home. Flakes the size of baby hands making walking down the street like looking through the scramblers when you didn’t pay for Cinemax. The map got wet and hard to read fast, finding the hostel was going to be more challenging than I had anticipated. Taking a cab there ended up also being difficult for all the wrong reasons. We hailed a guy outside the train station as cabbies are wont to be, but he told us that our hostel was only a few blocks away, and he couldn’t take our money in conscious, which cabbies are not wont to be.
We walked on in the snow over the bridge of the first of many water channels that give the city its Monet quality, and separate its many subtle neighborhoods. The streets on the other side were narrow but cozy, the buildings short and lived in with windows and roofs in the classic style that suburban homes steal but can’t replicate. The old city confidence from hundreds of years of occupants let the streets rest easy while strangers like us meandered through them, admiring their house faces and trying to catch glimpses of a moment in the life.
One window box in particular caught my eye as, I came to realize, it was designed to do. It wasn’t much different than any other ground floor window box I had seen. About ten feet across and protruding roughly a foot out from the wall it was built in. Antique curtains hung inside next to lazy green plants that let their leaves and branches stretch well past their pots to the floor. But, the pink neon sign was unique. As were the words I couldn’t read that it spelled. And the window didn’t show me a living room, just another wall with a door, and a cushy chair in front of it. It was an odd sort of small room, like a closet turned office with a glass wall. Then, the door inside opened.
The girl who walked through had black skin and smooth hair, a friendly face and a come-hither body. She wore lingerie and wore it well, the intentionally complicated kind with garters and stockings and bodices that make taking it off unwrapping a Christmas present you’ve always wanted. Both her hands were full: in one was an old time hand fan, and in the other was a watering can. She coquettishly gave herself some air while she sheepishly gave the plants a drink. I watched bluntly.
As she finished, she looked out the window and met my eyes. Nicole and I had been staring, and honestly, why wouldn’t we? The girl smiled at us and then at me. In one motion she was heading back through the door from whence she came, pausing only briefly to point her perfect thong wearing buns at me, clenching them slightly instead of turning to wink, and disappearing from our lives to never be seen again.
Welcome to Amsterdam, she didn’t say.
We got to the hostel shortly thereafter and were promptly given towels, having been drenched by the snow in our London appropriate fall clothes. Our room was on the third floor. There were no elevators. With wet clothes and carry on bags, the trek up any stairs would be taxing, but these stairs were special. They were much closer to a ladder than they were to stairs. They were steep enough that I had to put my free hand on the step past my head so I could have the leverage to bring my bag up the next, unless I just wanted to let it hang in the breeze. Hanging on to the railing or the next step was less about balance and more about self-preservation. After much sweating and grumbling and far too much elapsed time, we were in our room and quickly asleep.
The next day was to be our tourist day, and tour we did. The canals, the tulips, cheap cuisine, and local beers filled our time nicely. There was still an hour or two of daylight left and one place left to visit. Nicole was not the most confident person in the world, and had apprehensions about going to our final stop after dark so we rushed to get it in now.
The Amsterdam Red Light District is separated in the middle of the street by one of the many canals. And, like the good little Londoners we were, we walked down the left side of the street. The window box I had seen coming in was by no means unique. Every building on the block had one, and most were filled and open for business…
But, it was daytime. Apparently, the prostitution industry is not so different from the restaurant industry, as you seem to want your best employees for the evening rush, rather than the stragglers during the day. The most memorable of the day-shifters was in the first window box we saw on the block. She had to be at least late fifties, and I imagine with a gravelly voice (the cigarette gave that away.) She was perched on a tall wooden stool with her legs spread wide. She had the shape that is traditional for Latinas of her age who have had several children, but this was the first time I had seen that stereotype in a sheer teddy. She took the cigarette out of her mouth so she could curl it better as she tossed me a hearty wink.
“I think she likes you”, Nicole said.
I think she liked everybody.
Across the canal on the other side of the streets were window boxes aplenty, all filled with other girls who liked everybody. From my distance, they looked significantly younger, in far better shape, with much more energy and much less clothing. I think they would have liked me too, but Nicole was not interested in finding out such. At the time, three years into the relationship that I thought would be my last, the sight of new nubile bosoms seemed a remote possibility and I was happy to take an eyeful. Nicole rushed me through the rest of the block before I could have any great ideas and very helpfully pointed out our destination: the Smart Shop.
Smart Shops are where you go to buy drugs in Amsterdam that are harder than marijuana, though they have that too. Through the doors I was reminded of going to a sex shop when I was a teenager: the staff was friendly and the stock was fascinating but the smell was too unique and you can’t help but feel like you’re getting away with something just by being there. The wares were all under glass and dolled up for maximum visual appeal, but still gave the same subtle warnings of drawbacks as a brownie that sits in a coffee shop display case for nine hours. Where there weren’t drugs, there was luggage that you could buy. The bags weren’t anything special, but they helped to fill out the store so it wasn’t just hallucinogens and empty space.
And there was a fern. How quaint.
The man behind the counter asked us politely what we were interested in.
“Mushrooms”.
“Excellent,” he said. “What kind?”
“What do you got?” I inquired pretending I knew what I was looking for.
“Well, we’ve got Local, London, Thai, Taiwanese, Hawaiin, Aussie, Afgan, Cali. Whatever you want, really.”
Playing cool clearly wasn’t going to cut it. “Yeah, I’ve never actually done them before, so I’m not really sure what I’m looking for.”
“Oh, no problem at all. What are you looking for from the experience? Would you like a mellow trip? Something exciting? Do you want to run around shouting? Do you want a spiritual experience? Or would you like to see things?”
I weighed my options excitedly where Nicole got progressively more nervous with each permutation of druggy good time.
“I always wanted to see things that weren’t there,” I said enthusiastically.
“Then you want Thai.”
“Of course I do. Give me enough for two”
With a flick of his wrist I had a bag in my hand, and a small bag it was. He explained to me that they were dried out for potency and you didn’t need much for a good time. The bag looked exactly like a Pop Rocks bag down to the font and color. Except, instead of “Pop Rocks” with graphics of little rocks flying around the words, it said “’Shrooms” with the graphics of little mushroom caps flying around the words.
“How do they work?” I inquired.
“You eat them and hallucinate,” he explained.
“Ah”, I said.
Once his smile to himself was finished, he did explain. “Try not to eat anything for several hours before you have them, they work best on an empty stomach. You should each take half the bag and that will keep you good for about 5 hours. It’ll take about 30 minutes to work. You can ride a bike or drive if you want, but I wouldn’t recommend it, especially not for you first time. Having a safe space to go back to and relax wouldn’t be a bad idea. If you’re having a bad time, eat some chocolate or oranges. The food will dull down the reaction, and the strong flavor gives you something pleasant to focus on. Otherwise, relax and enjoy the visuals.”
It was very informative.
Nicole and I thanked the nice man and returned to the hostel, and prepared.
Empty stomach, check. Safe room at the hostel, check. Chocolate bar, one trip to the drug store downstairs later, check. The last ingredient, a Pop Rocks bag of potent drugs, Big check.
After some last minute jitters and a few deep breaths, we tore the packet open and emptied its contents into our hands. The tiny blackened parcels look much closer to dirt than a religious experience, but I’ve seen “Indiana Jones and The Holy Grail”, so I know that special artifacts can look very humble.
Time to eat.
We decided to count to three. And agreed, we would say three and throw them into our mouths.
Another deep breathe.
One…
Two…
Three…
Head snapped back, hands slapped over mouths and chewing.
And chewing.
And chewing.
Those things tasted awful. Not enough to stop you, of course, but enough to wince more than a few times, like imitation beef jerky from an odd health food store, with the texture of a torn off fingernail. That thought, which I had at the time, made it all the more difficult to swallow down, especially as the stems scratched at my through in protest of their consumption.
The deed was done. So, now we played the waiting game.
15 minutes… nothing.
30 minutes… nothing.
We put on a documentary about Johnny Cash.
1 hour… nothing.
The documentary ended. Johnny Cash was dead.
At two hours, we decided to walk around outside to jump start the trip. We followed the canals so that we wouldn’t get lost. Another hour later, we were lost but not because we were high, just uncoordinated and amongst many canals. When we asked the nice 6’4’’ gentleman with the cist on his eyeball for directions back to our hostel, I tried to convince myself that he wasn’t actually there and I was hallucinating the cist because, how random is that? Sadly, truth remained stranger than fiction. The cist was real, the directions back were solid, the ascension up the stairs was steep, and the sleep wasn’t restful.
We awoke the next day with an agenda: to go and complain about our lack of mushroom trip and to see the Anne Frank house. First thing’s first.
We went back to the smart show after the free continental breakfast at our hostel. Belly’s full with fire and soft boiled eggs, we politely but firmly demanded an explanation for our poor evening.
The man asked if we ate the entire bag, and we had. The man asked if we abstained from eating anything else before the ‘shrooms, and we had.
“Hm”, he speculated aloud. “Try again.”
He presented us with a free bag of psychedelic Thai Pop Rocks and sent us on our merry way. Halfway through the door, I asked if it was dangerous to have this many mushrooms on consecutive nights.
“Probably not,” he assured me.
Skipping some details (we went to the Van Gogh museum instead of the Anne Frank house because his life story was less of a downer), we found ourselves back at the room in our hostel ready for round two. I offered them to Nicole first. She declined. She was nervous that some how the new mushrooms would join up with the already digested mushrooms in her belly, and launch some sort of hallucinogenic uprising from deep within. Since that was actually my goal, I had no problem gobbling down the entire bag of foul tasting fungus myself.
Once again, time for the waiting game.
15 minutes… Nothing.
30 minutes… Nothing.
One hour…. “Fuck this,” I said. “We’re going to a coffee shop.”
I’ve never been a big drug guy. Even at my druggiest, I got high about four times a week during the summer after my second year at college, two years removed from Amsterdam. Pot never really did it for me. But at this point, after two failed ‘shroom trips in the most relaxed drug law country on the planet, I was going to get destroyed come Hell or high water.
In Amsterdam, they sell pot in coffee shops. They also sell coffee there, but who cares? We’re American tourists and we wanted marijuana. I believe those were akin to my words upon going into the quaint brick storefront with the large windows and confronting the barista.
She casually handed me a three-ring binder filled with laminated pages, covered, front and back, with at least 30 different types of weed. This was at the same time helpful and not in the least bit helpful. I might have gotten upset but the low lights, mahogany tables and pleasant mix of pot and coffee aromas forbade any irksome. It felt like the kind of place where you would find a beatnik but he wouldn’t judge your clothes or style. In that spirit, I asked the pleasant barista woman what I should get for two people.
“Well,” she said, “do you want marijuana or hashish”
“Hmmm. Marijuana, please.”
“Okay, do you want mild, medium, or strong?”
Having only smoked dank to this point, I presumed that their stuff would be infinitely more potent. In kind, I figured their mild is my medium, my medium was their strong, and their strong would be batshit insane. I played it safe accordingly.
“Medium, please.”
“Okay, do you want to get high or do you want to get stoned?”
“….” I said.
I shrugged. “Stoned…?”
She opened the book, flipped to the page with the stuff from Afghanistan, and selected one from the brotherhood on the page. I was happy to accept her suggestion and ordered enough for two and some rolling papers.
It was only back at our table that I suddenly remembered I had never rolled a joint in my life. Nor had Nicole. Fortunately, everyone else in the place had and a very pleasant stranger was all too happy to oblige us. Despite not working there, he hopped behind the bar counter, grabbed a filter, made up the doobie, and presented us our plunder in about 45 seconds. Quite prompt and responsive for a pothead.
I placed the joint on my lips and took a long pull. The smoke was smooth from the papers, aided by the filter for consistent flow, my lungs filling up with burn gradually and pleasantly. I breathed out most of the cloud before finally coughing on the tail. My brain started to dull immediately, a fur coat wrapped around my brain, keeping it warm and cozy until it was needed again. We passed it back and forth three times.
This stuff was extremely medium and I was extremely stoned.
I couldn’t tell if I was getting sleepy or if the concept of sleep had eked into my consciousness and wouldn’t go away until addressed, but either way, it was quickly decided that the time had come for us to go home. I put on my coat and stumbled through what minimal crowd there was to stumble through. I pushed open the door and took a breath of the night air…
…And that’s when the mushrooms kicked in…
…
Wow.
The delineation between mind and body had never been clearer to me as that moment when my conscious thoughts nearly fell out of my physical being. Suddenly, I was a spirit entombed in a fleshy vessel, a star child of indeterminate scope anchored to a host body for lessons in human understanding, all visuals a dance of splendor, all sounds orchestral convergence. All matter came to life at once with a pulse to match my own, and a story to share.
My eyes were wide open as my eyes were wide open.
One of my greatest faults is that it’s always been extremely difficult for me to be of any given moment. I typically think too much about anything going on to be 100% a part of it, always at an arms length to offer commentary. This stuff forced me closest to it. Yet, I still couldn’t help thinking how cliché it was of me to be so enamored with the colors I was seeing.
“What’s it like?” Nicole asked.
“I almost said ‘The Colors!” but I think that would be so cliché,” I replied.
Wherever you go, there you are.
Except now, I was about to take another sort of trip. The most frightening part of my life was the next moment. In the time we’d been walking, my mind and spirit had become one, a completely independent entity from my body, and it sought enlightenment. My goals in life to explore the truer natures of existence crystallized a lifetime of questions in mere seconds. I knew what I wanted to know and I felt I could discover it all right then. And you know what I didn’t need to do that? A pudgy human form. So, I decided to leave it.
It’s a very peculiar moment when your soul decides to leave your body.
It’s also a scary one. My eyes shifted upward and I grew feint.
Oblivion awaited…
Right about here, my body hit panic mode and interrupted my stream of consciousness with a command to concentrate on my breathing.
In through the nose, out through the mouth.
In through the nose, out through the mouth.
My soul still desired unrestricted knowledge but the overwhelming commands to ‘watch breathing’ became a soothing mantra. Mantra’s are good when trying to not drop dead in the street from an existential threat.
The thoughts shifted from metaphysical concerns to more immediate ones as the long cold trudge to the hostel continued. I thought about language, about how strange it was that we attribute resonant emotional meaning to a seemingly random series of mouth made noises. I thought how amazing that different regions would produce different denotations and connotations for the noises, and how certain languages don’t have certain words for phenomena that is not relevant to them. I wondered why you couldn’t have a musical language, a society based on notes, where your honesty is displayed by your ease of rhythm.
Somewhere around this point I worried that I had forgotten how to speak English.
“We should turn here.” Nicole said.
“Uh…ch… Yeah… Yeah.”
One crisis averted.
And a new crisis developed.
I didn’t make the turn. Nicole didn’t question my not turning, just allowing me to follow my trip. Little did she know, despite my consciousness still technically residing in my body, the two weren’t really on speaking terms with one another. Adding new elements to our pattern of existence, in this case making a right turn, proved to be an irreconcilable issue. I let it pass.
Soon, we came to the next intersection.
‘Right turn here’, I said to myself.
I kept going straight.
‘Damn.’
Next intersection.
‘Right turn here.’
I kept going straight.
‘Damn.’
Last intersection before a canal. It was now or hypothermia.
Right turn here!
I turned headfirst and the rest of my body followed. It’s the little victories which give life its flavor.
The canal gracefully guided us back to our hostel allowing me to avoid sharp turns with its serpentine curves. We walked through the door, the warm air a blanket that still couldn’t cover the shit eating grin on my face. The hardest part was over…
I forgot about the stairs.
The stairs up to our room were steep before, now they were Goddamn Everest. It’s amazing to actually see the vertigo effect from Vertigo actually happen before your eyes. The sudden flash of horror and Hitchcock made me want to sit on the floor and watch ‘North by Northwest’ right that second. There were no TV’s about and if I wanted to see anything approaching Cary Grant, I would need to get to my room to do it.
Hand over hand, foot by foot, Nicole delicately guiding me, I took the better part of an hour to get up the stairs, apologizing to the steps along the way for their rotten lot in life, assuring them that they provided an important service. I would have saluted them if I weren’t terrified of taking my hands from the railing. Also, the hour it took to get up the stairs might have been one to two minutes, time being quite relative in such a state.
Here was our door. It opened. We were safe. Sleep was coming. It was the end of my trip.
To celebrate, I washed my hands for twenty minutes.
It felt INCREDIBLE.
I came out of the bathroom and Nicole said “You were in there for 20 minutes.” (That’s how I knew definitely how long it was.)
“It felt INCREDIBLE!” I said (It felt INCREDIBLE).
We lay down. My eyes closed. My waking dream gave to my sleeping dream.
We had a flight to catch the next morning. My trip was over.