white male consumer

This is an account of my weekend trip to the Netherlands the last available weekend during my semester abroad in Freiburg, Germany, fall semester of 2005. I’m able to piece together that it was December 9th through the 12th, although additional details beyond that get hazy. This is the second part. Here’s the first part. Note that no admission of guilt or wrongdoing in any territory should be taken as stated or implied!

The first indication that I had truly arrived was the moment I stepped outside of Schiphol, Amsterdam’s international airport, where a fragrant scent permeated the evening air, which I could only credit to travelers (flight stewards? Pilots?) smoking up their remaining wares before boarding their planes. I remember thinking that I could really get behind the kind of societal ethos permissive of this! I ducked back into the airport to figure out which rail line would lead me to Centraal Station, where I’d then be in the heart of the city and within walking distance of practically everything.

Schiphol turns out to be 20 minutes southwest of Amsterdam (unbeknownst to me at the time) so while I initially determined the correct rail line to board, I turned antsy after riding for a short while. An interminable period of time later, I decided to depart and hoof it at what appeared to be a populated station – an erroneous decision. I found myself in a generically industrial outlier to Amsterdam late in the day, with only a sense of where the train tracks led (and an illuminated sky in that direction). There was no human activity on the streets and little traffic as I set out in the general direction. I ended up in an industrial cul-de-sac, and with no better options, turned back to the train and re-boarded after spending maybe an hour traipsing along a strange part of town. But whatever apocalyptic factory land that it is I sampled, it wasn’t particularly threatening (dawdling through parts of Budapest or Bratislava alone at night were more questionable moves). My ticket wasn’t re-checked and I arrived at Centraal, no harm no foul.

My hostel was situated in the heart of de Wallen, and while I can’t remember the name, I can still narrow down the location to a few square blocks on a city map. My prior hostel experience in Dublin turned rather negative, but I was doing Europe on the cheap and it doesn’t get any cheaper than a bed for 10 euro or so a night. This hostel shared headquarters with a hazy coffeeshop, filled with muted travelers. My room turned out to be a block down in a different building (adjacent a second shop). Fortuitously I only had to share the room with one other boarder, and only the last night I spent there – he was a cheerful sort, immobile the one time I met him, laying flat on his cot in the middle of the day.

While making preparations for the trip, I had researched a variety of attractions. Among them were the Het KattenKabinet, a museum populated entirely with cat memorabilia; Stedelijk and Van Gogh museums, modern art and Van Gogh, respectively; and Vondelpark, the purported “central park” of Amsterdam.

Albert-Cuypstraat Market, a pedestrian open air market, was also on the itinerary as an enjoyable way to spend some time. And heck, time allowing, Anne Frank might have gotten a visit too. But with a base of operations established and bearings properly adjusted, I began with my customary touristing method – of arbitrarily wandering the streets. In this fashion, I had found a picture-perfect square in Bratislava where I took up a park bench for hours, and listened as an orchestra played from an adjacent building, watching humanity stroll past, and puffing on my (tobacco) pipe – a satisfying way to end the evening and absorb the local atmosphere at no cost.

As expected, Amsterdam proved to be an excellent locale for this type of sightseeing, particularly because of its beauty, architecture, sights… and coffeeshops.

Saturday morning came and I began to wander, aided by good food and any number of coffeeshop, both of the earmarked and conveniently encountered variety. Five years later, in no particular order, I can recall making it to Dampkring – whose design is straight out of a Tolkien novel and where a scene of Oceans Twelve was shot; Kadinsky – more of a chain, which I surely patronized, along with the various ‘Bulldog’ locations; and Katsu – which I remember as a welcomed sight after traveling down to Albert-Cuypstraat Market only to find everything closed: either wrong day or wrong season I am unsure.

I also remember visiting the shop owned and operated by two American expats, and also the place renowned not only for good pot, but good breakfast. And it was.

Strolling along the canal-ways, taking discrete tokes, I walked by the house turned Anne Frank museum. I also took in Amsterdam’s famed flower markets, hocking not flowers this season but arborvitaes – row upon row of perfectly pruned trees, for sale to locals gearing up for the holiday season.

And my eyes were opened by the Netherland’s methodology concerning prostitution. Regulations as they exist are left to local jurisdictions, and there are no such constraints state-wide as there are in Nevada, for comparison’s sake, regarding condom use, STD testing, or zoning. (I claim no authority on this topic in either instance, I could stand incorrect today.) Yet it’s still a functional system, again seemingly better responding to a demand unconstrained by government proscription.

The infamous ‘red lights’ are found throughout de Wallen, clustered in small groups, visible from far down the block, all the better for the morally presumptuous to avoid. They herald small glass cubicles: inside black light-lit, freely advertised, diverse women on display. The cubicles are rented, include security (I don’t want to say surveillance per se, but of some sort to ensure safety), and the whole practice normalized as just another occupation.

With such a laissez-faire attitude concerning prostitution and drug use, it may come as no surprise that the people could not have been more open, friendly, and hospitable (and no, I’m not just talking about the ones paid to be). Whereas France and Switzerland get bad raps from foreigners, the Netherlands seemed as congenial as eastern Europe, on the upswing after decades behind the iron curtain. The food, as promised by previous visitors, was uniformly good. The public transportation, light years ahead of anything I’ve encountered stateside. So to, was the marijuana.

My trip was conveniently scheduled in this respect, as I arrived following the annual Cannabis Cup. My research afterward found some druggies put out when they arrived in the weeks leading up to the event, and certain eye-popping strains taken off the menus in the interest of saving some for the awards. Visiting afterward ensures that everything still in stock will be made available, and also avoids the bulk of tourists hellbent on similar intentions. (When I went to New Orleans in 2003, it was the week before Mardi Gras got under way in earnest, and I felt the same then. No matter if you’ve actually come for the same reason as all the other people – they’ll act like asshats en mass and it’s best to avoid.)

(In determining plans for the weekend, I had consulted the Amsterdam Coffeeshop Directory. I notice that it might not be as well updated now as then, and perhaps there are better resources out there today.)

I left on Monday having had my fill, a positive hangover to bode me through finals week. That Friday I was off for my flight, back to the states. My experiences abroad brought home the fact that people are basically the same no matter where you go. And similarly so are the places. Paraphrasing h. h. the Dalai Lama, “No matter how powerful our sensory experiences might be, they cannot overwhelm our state of mind; mental experience is superior to physical.”