How was my first trip over the Atlantic Ocean, you ask? Well, I can sum the entire trip up in one word; fascinating. Fascinating in many ways. Lets start by explaining where my country of choice was and how that choice was made. Previous to this overseas vacation I had only been to Jamaica and a Southern Caribbean cruise, which felt as though they were the exact same trip. Both consisted of tropical foliage as far as the eye can see, crystal clear blue waters, friendly and shady locals selling tourists armfuls of handmade products, and taxi rides that will make ones fingernail sound like a perfect afternoon snack. Most people can think of a place they dream of going like; Italy, Spain, Alaska, Japan or maybe even the North Pole in hopes to see little elves making toys. Regardless of which country, state or city a person dreams of visiting, if given the opportunity to go anywhere they would most likely choose that dream destination.
Speaking of dream destinations you are probably curious of what my dream destination is, right? Well, it is Ireland. Where did I go for my first trip over the Atlantic? Amsterdam, a place I thought only readers of High Times went for their once-in-a-lifetime dream vacation, but apparently I was wrong. So, how did I end up on a plane headed to Amsterdam instead of Ireland? Well, lets just say I know a few of those High Times readers that thought Amsterdam would be the perfect honeymoon getaway, and to my surprise they wanted a few friends to join them. Within 24 hours my airline ticket, hotel, and Eurail train tickets were purchased and it was official; I was headed to Amsterdam and was completely unaware of what I had gotten myself into.
Departure Day. The alarm sounds, obnoxiously as I grunt under my breath to express a sign of displeasure from the screaming noise coming from the nightstand next to my ear. Still half asleep with barely one eye open and a bedroom only lit by the moon peering through cracks in the blinds, I turn off the alarm and sit on the edge of the bed. Now I begin rubbing my cheeks with both hands as fast as possible in hopes that my face will awake and the rest of my body will follow suit. The flight takes off around 6 a.m. which means arrival at the airport needed to be at approximately 4:30 a.m. In other words, the alarm went off entirely to early for a non-morning person, me. All packed and ready to go I am greeted by the honeymooners, my brother, two long-time friends (married), and my husband at the time. Off we go to begin our overseas adventure!
Arrival in New York. The adventure starts with a flight to New York City, then a six hour layover. Six hours in an airport? Not with this spontaneous group. A unanomous vote to leave the airport and tour the city was enacted, and off we went searching for a subway. No, not the sandwich shop as I am sure you are thinking, but a public transit system used in cities and countries with dense populations around the globe. As for Texans, we are not very familiar with this contraption, well besides what had been read in books or seen on television, or when the local news informed the city that a “plan” to add a rail system was in effect. Still have not seen this “rail” they speak of? So, back to the Subway. It was horrid! All seven of us pack in the subway car, and see very few passengers, the few consisted of a homeless person curled up on the bench covered in filth with no recollection of anything going on around them. There was a rancid stench that filled the air, a stench that made you forget you were riding a subway, and thought instead that you were riding in a dumpster with wheels. Then, thank God, the subway stopped and it is time for us to get off.
Times Square. Burr! February in New York City is nothing like February in Texas. From the subway station we make our way towards an intersection and as we do the breeze is becoming noticable stronger. As we cross the street the experience is much like walking through a blizzard. The wind blows on your face and feels as though it takes the flesh with it. It hurts to wrinkle your nose or move your fingers inside the gloves and you shiver while thinking, “How much more clothing do I need to put on to get some warmth around here?” Since time was limited we were only able to fit in the enjoyment of eating a gigantic slice of New York pizza at a family owned pizzeria, and browse some gift shops to buy typical tourist junk. After our short visit in Times Square we hop back onto the dumpster with wheels and head back to the airport for boarding to Amsterdam.
Seven Hour Flight. We all boarded the plane, found our seats and buckled ourselves in. The friendly stewardess at the front of the plane informs everyone that there will be movies played throughout the flight for anyone interested in viewing. Immediately following that information I begin to smile and I take a sigh of relief thinking, “Maybe seven hours is not that bad afterall.” The first movie did not begin until we had already been in the air for almost two hours and if that was not bad enough, it was a G rated cartoon movie, The Corpse Bride. I mean, how many children are flying to Amsterdam, really? It was a cute movie – the first time. Yes, I said “the first time”, they continued playing it the entire flight with small breaks in between to stare at a little plane flying across the globe, meant to be us, displaying how close we were to our destination. That’s it. That will make a dreaded seven hour flight seem like eternity. At the middle of the second round of The Corpse Bride we all decide that it is nap time, except for my brother and husband, they decide it is the perfect time to use the stewardess call button every five minutes asking, “Another beer please! Another Jack Daniels please!” This went on for the remainder of the flight, five of us sleeping and the other two having a private party until the airplane was completely sold out of the Jack Daniels.
Arrival in Amsterdam. Keep in mind Amsterdam is seven hours ahead of us, so when we arrive, it is 10 a.m. and my brother and husband have not slept a wink. All seven of us grab our luggage and proceed to the outside to locate a taxi or some type of transportation to our hotel. Inititally we see a tram but have to idea how it is used or how much it will cost to use. So, we start walking down the street with too much luggage, wheeling the luggage up and down curbs and over tram tracks in the freezing temperatures. My husband, who has a very short fuse, decides to drag the luggage as if it had done something wrong to him. As he drags it up onto another curb the bag attached by a strap to the top of the suitcase falls to the side and takes the entire suitcase onto its side. Which has now officially lit his fuse. That’s when he decides, “That it!” He flags down a taxi and all seven of us and our many pieces of luggage squeeze inside. We arrive at the hotel, check-in and go up to our rooms to unload. The room is beautiful. The bed was plush, there were gorgeous dark wood floors, contemporary furniture, and drapes that set a cozy tone for the room. The shower was different than I was use to, it was a tub with a showerhead but instead of two sliding glass shower doors it was just one glass covering only half of the tub, a little odd. Well enough about the room, it was barely used anyway. Next stop is the lobby to meet the rest of the crew. A decision had been made to walk to the Heinekin brewery for a few morning brewsky’s to get the vacation started.
What a deal! It was only 10 euros (about 12 dollars) for a tour, two beer tokens, and a souvenier. It’s a self-guided tour so we self-guided ourselves straight to the first bar to get a beer. Our entire group looks as though we had been up for days. Girls in no makeup, me in glasses and hair pulled back in a ponytail; guys, especially my brother and husband, looking similar to what a zombie looks like; hands stretched out in front of them moaning, “beer, beer, beer…” and stammering to the bar with the last of their energy supply. About 30 minutes later we arrive at the second bar, grab our next beer and take a seat at one of the cocktail tables to rest our tired bodies. At this point we lose a couple members of our crew due to pure exhaustion, but my husband was not one of them, if you can believe that. A tour group then enters the last bar. They all have matching t-shirts and appear to have chaperones watching their every move. To our delight they all toss their beer tokens on our table and walk off. We had at least 25-30 beer tokens, in other words 25-30 beers, staring us straight in the face while we frowned because we had no energy to take the free ride offer to the land of; Blitzed. To everyone’s surprise we surrendered the tokens to their keeper, the bartender. Where were we headed next? Bed.
Coffee Shop. Have you ever been to a coffee shop that did not serve coffee? Well I have. It is like going to eat at the Cracker Barrel and having them say they do not have any crackers to go with your soup. It is just wrong. So we enter into this non-coffee serving coffee shop, we walk down about three steps, duck our heads under the threshold and pull our heads back up to notice that we are in an old jail transformed into a bar. Each cell is missing the metal bar doors, and each cell has a table inside for us, the guests. On our right as we enter is a long bar displaying a marijuana menu listing the many different types of marijuana and the different prices for each one. If that was not strange enough, the bartender or maybe we could call him the weedtender, informed us that if we would like any of these leafy grains cooked into a dessert they would be more than happy to do that for us. What? You mean we can go to the bar and they will cook High Times brownies for us? Now this place starts to get interesting. I am not a smoker, of anything. I mean, I was young once and did some experimenting, but inducing a paranoia attack and removing all motivation from my body became very unappealing for some reason. I like having control over my brain, I know that is weird for some, but I like seeing the world through clear goggles not foggy ones. So, this is where my brother and the honeymooners buy their first Amsterdam marijuana and boy were they excited. You would think they were children on Christmas morning jumping up and down at the pile of gifts Santa left for them. Although I did not understand the excitement it sure was entertaining to witness. Personally, I would like to experience a trip like this with my head screwed on straight and really take it all in. View this adventure through clear goggles. At this point I’m feeling a little too square for a coffee shop or maybe Amsterdam all together. From the coffee shop we decide it is time to find our way to the Red Light District.
Red Light District. My brother is the most excited, well my husband might have been too, but he knew better than to say so. We start by walking down brick laid streets with canals running on all sides of each street. We pass by many shops that are closed, more coffee shops that smell like skunk, and various specialty shops selling mushrooms, peyote, various paraphernalia and more. After walking for at least 30 minutes we start to see the red lights. Everyone smiles, probably a nervous, how-do-you-act kind of smile since we are not familiar with the openess of stuff like this. Now, picture old brick buildings three to four stories tall, all joined together like one long building stretching all the way down the street. Each apartment has a window that stretches from floor to ceiling, and a girl barely clothed standing in plain view. It was strange. I guess window shopping in Amsterdam is quite different than the window shopping we do here in the States. Before arriving to the Red Light District I had pictured nasty women, like the ones portrayed in movies where their hair has a bad color job and their black roots are exposed at about six inches in length, lipstick bright red, stocking with holes in them and more. To my surprise these women were all gorgeous! I could not find one women that was unattractive in the slightest. Men are walking by whistling, screaming obsenities to them and staring. There were also men walking into these window (doors), with a curtain closure immediately following their entrance. There were many smiling faces walking out of each room. Not sure what they were smiling about? Okay, actually I did. At this point I decide Amsterdam is the real Las Vegas. Vegas is for beginners.
Using Public Restrooms. Have you ever seen the theatrical play; Urinetown? Well if not it is worth the money. I happened to see that play just a month or so before our trip overseas and within moments the play came to life. I needed to use the restroom so we decide to stop and eat at a Heinekin restaurant. This restaurant was full of thick clouds of cigarette smoke, so thick your vision was distorted. I immediately fled to the restroom, gasping for breath as the ash-like air moves down my esophagus and into my almost virgin lungs. As I was steadfast down a small hallway towards the womens restroom I am stopped by a lady sitting at a small table with an appetizer sized plate sitting in front of her. I direct my attention to her with a look of confusion on my face, and she says, “You pay here to use the bathroom.” I respond impulsly with, “Pay to pee?” only to have the lady respond with an up and down nod of her head, meaning yes, pay to pee. So I ask how much and she says that I can pay whatever I want. Can this place get any stranger? I have to pay, but I can pay whatever I want? That would never happen in the States. So I pull out the pile of coins in my pocket and hand her one, then realize I just handed her a euro, a whole dollar and twenty cents in American money! Since coins in the States are not as valuable, your touch and recognition are pre-wired to habitiually hand over a quarter, which mistakenly was much more than a quarter on my first attempt. Tip: either use your hotel restroom when possible or pay attention to which coins you are handing to the creepy lady in the hallway.
Securing Transportation. Amsterdam is not a large city so purchasing taxi rides or owning a car are a complete waste of money. With that said, this town is filled with thousands of bicyclists, and as a tourist you are usually always in their way. At first you get frustrated because no matter where you walk some bicycle cruises by using no breaks and just rings the bell on the handlebar to warn you that they are coming and you might get run over. Being that our group is so smart, we decide it is time to rent bicycles! So off we walk to the rental shop. The friendly store clerk explains how the rental works, the cost, and insurance then leads us out to our new two-wheeled, bright red, old fashioned style bikes. We hop on and I notice something strange. There are no breaks on the handlebars, only a bell. At that moment I realize that I have to retrain my brain and motor skills to remember to not squeeze the handles to break, but you push the pedals backwards like kids do on their bikes in the States. So we ride our bikes across the tram tracks, which was nerve wrecking since the space between the tracks was the perfect size for your tire to get stuck and you to fall to the ground in hurt and embarrassment. But I made it to the other side. We locked our bikes up to a tree in the center of the town square and went to eat. As we leave the restaurant to walk to our bikes it starts snowing everywhere, the ground is covered in moments. Then my hot tempered husband starts the griping. “Go figure, we finally rent bikes and it starts frickin’ snowing!” Actually, he said something similar to that but replacing many of the words with cuss words and even adding a few extra cuss words for effect. Then I calm the fire by saying, “Who cares, that is part of the adventure, hop on!” From that point on, the bikes were not only a transportation aid but were also a fun way to get around and experience Amsterdam as a bicyclist. At many points we were riding on the wrong side of the road and other fellow bicyclists were screaming for us to move to the other side while ringing their bells in anger. I was not fazed at all by their rudeness, I am a tourist for God’s sake! My brother on the other hand, stopped riding altogether. We turned around and he was nowhere to be found. Apparently he was tired of getting yelled at and decided to stop at a bar and have a drink to take a little pressure off. I guess I can check “biking in the snow” off of my “Never Done Before” list. Check!
Van Gogh Art Museum. I had never been to an art museum before, so I guess this is a good place to start; the Van Gogh Museum. We purchased our tickets and invested in headphones that explain the artwork to us in English; this is also a self-guided tour. There are endless paintings available for viewing. So we start at No. 1. Wow, how beautiful! Then No. 2. Wow, what a neat story behind this one! Then No. 3. Wow, beautiful! Then No. 4. Wow, what a neat story behind this one! Then…you get point. Although, there were approximately three to four paintings I absolutely loved, there were more than 100 that were just mediocre, something that was only made famous once he passed away, but probably would have stayed in an old attic for eternity if he were still alive. I was moving through the paintings faster than my husband which he was not thrilled about, so I was told, “You’re not even listening to the stories! Grrr…” so I slowed down and pretended to listen to the story of the painting I was standing in front of while staring out the corner of my eye at another painting I liked better and actually listening to that story instead. Ha! Tricked him! Needless to say, on that day standing for hours staring at the wall I realized art museums are not for me.
Anne Frank Museum. Now this museum was amazing. Mainly due to the emotional effect that it has on you. When you are standing in a house that was previously occupied by a Jewish family in hiding from the Nazi regime, you stand there completely humbled and can feel the presence of the sadness and fear this family experienced. One room has a row of glass boxes, each with a part of Anne’s diary where she describes in detail the horrifying reality of her life, but also writes of love and understanding. This was the most emotional part of the trip. I am not much of a history buff so if I was not taught it in school, or I was taught it but forgot, that would be the extent of my historical knowledge. Learning visually and emotionally has always worked better for me, and that is exactly what this museum did for me. It brought the stories of the Holocaust to life, I felt the pain, sadness, fear and love as if I was personally involved. I left the museum with a heart aching for the approximate 6 million Jews that experienced what Anne Frank and her family had gone through.
Leaving Our New Home. If I had to choose one country to move to permanently, Amsterdam would be my choice. Not for the drugs, prostitution or art museums, but for the relaxed atmosphere where racing across town to get somewhere on time, just to be late because traffic is backed up for five miles, is not an issue and everyone has a friendly demeanor, that is unless you are standing in a bicyclists way.
