Amsterdam, Holland 5/26/08

I got up early to catch my train. I tried to catch the very first train out so that I had as much time as possible to explore around Amsterdam before dark. The problem with having only one day in a city (or country for that matter) is that you know that the whole day is going to be a little rushed. I got up, and got down to the trainstation with still about an hour till my train was scheduled to arrive. I huddled, with all my equipment, under the huge Departure sign in the center of the station, looking for my train to come up on the screen so I could know what platform to wait for it on. When the time came when my train suppose to appear up there, the times seemed to skip right over mine, and my train was nowhere to be found. "That's pretty strange," I thought. I took out my ticket and checked it over. I noticed a special text which I hadn't noticed before, written right along side the departure which said, "Nord." I didn't know what that meant, but I figured it must have something to do with this confusion. I looked at the time and grumbled, then immediately took my ticket up to the information counter nearby. The man at the counter couldn't speak much English, but I was proud of him, that he as least tried. Most people in Paris, especially, won't even try to speak to you. They just pass you off back and forth to eachother. He told me I was in the wrong station, which was not what I wanted to hear 30 minutes before my train was due to leave. "Ok," I asked him, "Which station do I need to be in?" He pointed out on my map where I needed to go, and showed me a connecting metro train to get me there. I thanked him, and hurried down the station to find that special connecting train. I followed the signs, but they only took me so far until I had to ask an old man leaning on the railing. He lead me down, and showed me exactly where I needed to get on. Once again, being super early had paid off, because as soon as I made it to this new station, my train began to board. It left just after I climbed on.

As I found my seat, I sat staring out the window. I'll miss Paris. I certainly had some very memorable experiences there. France, in general, has been quite an eventful country for me. There's been so much to do, and so much adventure to be had. I've witnessed, and gotten a chance to do things I never thought I'd get to do. I thought about if I'd like to live there one day. I've been asking myself that throughout several countries I go through, because at some point I'd love to live abroad for a couple years. The question has always been: Where would I go? Paris, I'm sure, would keep me entertained, but it seems like most people I talk to who live there tell me they'd rather not. It is a big city, and I'm sure that would get quite overwhealming sometimes. I myself am not so much a big city kind of guy usually. I enjoy my suburbs, parks and beaches. Nature is always something that rejuvinates me as a person, and keeps me happy and content. Large cities can be depressing, because you feel so insignificant more easily, and the hard, cold concrete structures often can present a very "human dominated" preception; as if the whole world is just run by "the man." Out in the smaller towns, and suburbs I think there's more of a symbiance with nature. The world feels a little more friendly, and it seems like people are happier and healthier. I think I'll always need a good mixture of both, though. I like to be close enough to a big city to be able to find my fill of adventure, but able to come back to the calm of the suburbs.

When I reached Amsterdam's central station, I was relieved to remember that I had already booked a night in a hostel. I didn't have to go out spending my day searching for a bed for the night. I did, however, still have to book my ticket out of here for tomorrow morning, so I found where the tickets were sold and headed that way. the lines didn't seem very long, and I was thrilled, but upon walking up to the booth, a woman stopped me and handed me a ticket with a number on it. This aparently, was another one of those number calling systems like back in Madrid, where I'd end up waiting forever for my chance to get up to the teller. I looked up at the screen, and we were still about 20 numbers behind mine, so I decided to make myself comfortable there because It would probably be a while. I watched the numbers on the screen tick by slowely, surpassed easily by the numbers on the clock. When I became one of the only ones in the room I recognized, I knew my turn was up soon. Finally, the numbers flashed in my favor and I approached the teller. One thing I was immediately, and quite pleasantly struck with, was that everyone here in Holland seemed to speak English very well. In fact, the Dutch accent even sounded almost somewhat Canadian. It wasn't all broken up and incomrehensible like most everywhere else. I had to fight off the earge to speak in short broken sentances, and had to get used to speaking real English. I paid for my ticket to Berlin, and held it tightly between my fingers. This was my final train ticket, and it seemed bittersweet to be coming so close to the end.

I looked up directions to my hostel using my blackberry internet. It told me which tram to get on, and the directions from the stop. I had to go little ways on the tram, but the directions were pretty straightforward and simple. I payed for a bus ticket, and the bus driver gave me a big smile, and spoke to me in English I could understand. As far as I was concerned, this place was heaven on earth. When I got off the tram, I walked by the park to where my hostel stood in a row of neighborhood houses. It was called The Flying Pig Hostel, and had a large sign with a picture of a Pig dressed up in an aviator uniform. The hostel was packed with young men and women all coming and going. It took some time for me to get to the front of the reception. When I got there, I told the woman with pride, that I had a reservation to stay here for tonight. She looked down through her records, and then through them again. My confidence faded a little eachtime, then she looked up and said she couldn't see it here. I gave her a bit of a confused look, and went back over the phone conversation I had yesterday. I looked down, and caught sight of a map of the city, noticing right away that there were two Flying Pig Hostel logos presented on the page. I looked up, "Are there two Flying Pig Hostels here?" I asked. "Yeah!" she said, catching onto what I was thinking, "this is the uptown hostel, and then there's also a downtown one too." I told her I might have booked in the other hostel, and she checked and confirmed that's exactly what I did. She showed me how to get to this other downtown hostel, and as it turns out, it was just a couple blocks from where I was back at the train station. So off I went to catch the tram again back the direction in which I came. But it wasn't so bad. I got to see a lot of the Uptown I probably wouldn't have had time to see otherwise. I wandered around with the receptionist's directions and finally saw that big pig sign off in the distance, and upon entering I noted the differences and knew that this was certainly the right place for a downtown hostel. As I opened the door, a plume of smoke escaped out into the air. The space inside was hazy, and warm with clouds of ash. The air here smelled very strong with marajuana, a smell I was never all that fond of, but it came in such great wafts that I soon became used to it. Strewn about the room were people on pillows with lit joints in their hands, puffing away at the sight of me. The reception was a bar turned opium den, where you could find all that you would need to make the craziest anal-retentive person the most passive lamb in a matter of minutes. Off to one side there was a corner over by the window filled with pillows, and a small table in the center filled with ashtrays. Buried in the pillows were bodies, scattered about attaching themselves to the floor like barnacles, and moving with imaginary tides. After a while, just breathing inside this building made me want to crawl up and join them. The girl at the reception was young and blonde. As she took my reservation, she smiled up at me looking refreshingly pure. I stumbled over the barrier into the hostel half stoned from the air so thick I was drinking it, and being patient, she showed me how the key card worked to get me through.

After settling in my room, I got out into the fresh air again and began my exploration through the city. I casually walked through the streets noting the fantastic amount of cult trinkets and goth fashion wear amongst bars and cheap food stands (usually pizza, Kebabs, or bakeries). The whole city was a giant Hot Topic store; a stoner's paradise. I looked around for something to eat, because I hadn't really eaten all day. I finally found the perfect little traditional Dutch resturant, which I'm sure was set up for tourists, but I only saw locals in there when I walked in. I ordered some type of beef stew in a special sauce with apples. Along with it they brought me a huge plate of mashed potatoes, salad, and a plate of spinach also. It was like a huge homecooked meal, and it was wonderful. I left fat and happy, stumbling back to the hostel.

I sat down at the bar with my pipe, and smoked for a bit with all the rest of them. The smell of my vanilla pipe smoke mixed with exhausted weed made an interesting, and not necissarily unhappy auroma in my nostrils. It was nice to just sit around and enjoy some peace with my pipe in my mouth surrounded by my backpacker comrads. We were unhurried, and contented. In the night I enjoyed the wonderful cheap beer from the bar in the hostle. I thought about going out to find a bar, but the one in the hostel was so cool, and the price was a rare find. I got talking to a frenchman next to the pool table, and we discussed our trips, and what were the great things about Amsterdam. One thing he mentioned was the redlight district, which was just a few blocks from the hostel. The buildings along the river are lined with windows looking out onto the streets, and at night the prostitutes get all dressed up (or down I should say) in trashy lingere, scimpy bikinis, and sometimes nothing but string, and dance around in the windows beconning men inside through the door. When the room is "occupied" you see the girl pull the drapes shut, and the transaction takes place. I'd heard about it all over from peolpe who had come from Amsterdam, and all agreed that if you hadn't been to the redlight district at night, you hadn't experienced Amsterdam. The french traveler I was talking to reccomended it highly, and agreed that it was definately just one of those things to see in Amsterdam. I thought "fine, it's totally gunna be like a row of ugly prostitutes throwing themselves at everyone who walks by. I've gotta just walk through to say I've done it. It is one of those things you can only find in Amsterdam." so I got a little later, and began walking toward the redlight district. As soon as I got there, I knew I was in the right place but it was nothing at all what I expected. There were hundreds, possibly thousands of people crowded into these little streets. Along the strip were the windows as I was told, colored with different color lights and a girl in each one. However, these weren't your average hookers you find in every other big city in the world who look desease ridden, and unatractive wearing the same dirt-soaked dress for months at a time. These girls were absolutely gorgeous, sitting there in their respective windows often more laughing at the drunk men making passes at them, then dancing or enticing the crowd. They looked like normal beautiful girls, like ones that I might back in California, but for the fact they just weren't really wearing anything. I didn't so much stop to look at the girls, because I felt kinda weird and uncomfortable. It was like window shopping in a department store for a human being. I did however, stop to watch the people around me who were shopping with the intention to buy. It was really weird to watch how there was basically no shame, and no recoil for the fact of throwing your sexual needs right out there in front of everyone. It was even stranger to see them get turned down when they didn't have enough money, and so go look for someone cheaper. Some men would talk to the girls, getting friendly and wooing them with an attempt of lowering the price, and some of them were successful. It was like this crazy mixture of buisness and dating. The money mattered, but the girl (since she was high class) had to like the guy too. It was really weird the way it was done there in Amsterdam. When I had walked down to the end of the street, I declined continuing the path back through the other direction, curiously enough, mostly because I felt really attracted to some of these girls. I knew that was a really slippery slope to start down. I wasn't going to allow myself to become infatuated with a woman dancing behind glass. That just raises a number of little red flags. I got out of there as soon as I started feeling for these women, and letting my heart slip into it. I was glad I got to witness that famous part of Amsterdam, but I was also glad I had the sense to know when to leave.

As I walked back, I felt my heart start to race a little. I had the feeling like I just met some cute girl who liked me. I began thinking, "That's probably not a healthy reaction, is it?" Sex is a big button for me. I've been torn over it my whole life, and my heart gives it a lot of emphasis. It's not like I delve over it, or am even thinking about it a whole lot. I think it probably comes to my mind even less often than most of the guys I know. I'm pretty conservative and private when it comes to that, but when I'm faced with some sort of sexuality, my heart goes to a weird place. It causes problems for me, emotionally. I'm conflicted in a profound way, but I'm not yet sure exactly why.

When I got back to the hostel, I explored the basement area which is set up like a lounge with couches, chairs, giant screen TV, and even less ventallation for the massive plumes of smoke engulfing everyone down there like a thick morning fog. I sat down there with a room full of my new roommates, smoked and watched Superbad on the massive TV. Later, some of my roommates got up saying they were heading out to the redlight district, and they asked if I wanted to come along. I told them no thanks, I'd been there already, and now I was content. I spent the night relaxing in a fog.