Bill Bryson Can Sleep Easy (Amsterdam)

Member Name: Peakly

Product:	Amsterdam
Date:	16/12/01 (715 review reads)
Rating:

Advantages: Smoke, Sex, Sewage

Disadvantages: Smoke, Sex, Sewage

I’ve shied away from reading the other 152 opinions on Amsterdam, although not because I don’t have the time. About a month ago, I took a ferry there with a friend and spent a weekend exploring what has been ‘The Promised Land’ since my first adolescent puff on a pipe many a hazy moon ago. Amsterdam has long been the Holy Grail for those of us that chose to indulgence the lighter side of sin, filling the voids in our existence with soft-drugs, soft-porn and soft-water-based transportation. Though what I found far from matched my expectations (which, predictably, now seem horribly naïve), it remains with great fondness that I recollect three days of wonderful, shameless inactivity. In fact, considering it all in black and white, I can only conclude that Amsterdam was the closest I’ve ever came to Heaven – though when compared to all my previous experiences, that is not quite the fantastic compliment it seems. Perhaps it is merely the glossy finish of one’s memory, or else the sweet veneer of time – the same natural distortion that makes our childhoods only ever the absolute worst or best time of our life’s. Because I can recall with certainly, a vaster range of emotions then happiness in that trip – including, at times, fear, disgust and a confusing heaviness of the heart. Though I may appear to have brought only tacky postcards and dubious memorabilia back with me from Amsterdam, the truth is I took a lot more. And now, if you’d care to listen, I’m going to try and explain what, and why.


When my friends asked me, why I was going to Amsterdam, my retort was always cheap and cheerful – easy, worry-free cannabis and a guilty curiosity about the seedy streets of the Red Light District. That was my justification for the location, not the holiday. Of course, when family asked, I explained my thirst for ‘the experience’, and the chance to visit the various muse
ums and Ann Frank House’s Amsterdam can boast. The truth is, I was both lying and not. My intentions were to do all of these things. Upon arrival, however, it became quickly apparent that squeezing every possible tourist activity into a three-day slot would be rather missing the point. Neither of us wished to bastardise the experience… it is often easy to forget to have fun in your pre-occupation with actually having fun, no? At least that’s what we told ourselves, and everyone who asked when we got home.

The first thing we did, is look for a coffee-bar. That’s what everyone does, right? It was the familiar scent of burning grass that lead us, cartoon-like, to the first and favourite coffee-shop of the entire trip. Situated on the corner of a long row of shops, right in the heart of Amsterdam’s most tourist-orientated area, was a small bar painted in spectacular reggae-themed pictures and colours. After a minutes procrastination, in we stepped, with casual steps and lazy eyes. There was no way we wanted to look like tourists. If it been a bar, then the three semi-conscience men that lined the counter might have glanced at us as we walked by. Instead they remained transfixed on nothing, confirming beyond doubt – we had arrived. Everything, I remember, was going fine. No one seemed disturbed by our arrival. With a sloth-like brushing back of my hair, perhaps an absent yawn, I approached the counter and caught the attention of the bar-man.

“Hey”, I said

And after that, everything went terribly wrong.

“I’ll have a couple of weed joints, and two cokes please”

Spot the error? As I learnt later, you’re expected to examine the menus and specify what cannabis you actually want. Asking for simply ‘a joint of weed’ was suicide. Now, I’m faced with an embarrassing confession. Perhaps it was the unusual environment, my slig
ht lack of confidence or the un-identified strength of the joint, but for the first time in over half a decade of smoking – I felt ill. Very ill, very fast. After a couple of inhalations, nothing hit me beyond the same reassuring buzz as always. Everything beyond that, is a nightmare of panic, disorientation and paranoia like no other. My friend (Brett), thankfully, still felt fine. Despite that, for about an hour I staggered the streets of Amsterdam, seeing most of it for the first ever time, to the sound of his laughter. Being stoned in that panicky, confused way is incredibly difficult to explain – the best way I can describe is as some absurd adventure, that, somehow, is enjoyable at the same time as being horrific. The point is, you know it won’t last. With a surreal detachment you can live out your drama, hopefully with enough experience to know and tell yourself it’s not half as bad as it seems. It is, I guess, a small-time equivalent of a bad acid-trip (I’m talking comparative strength of drug, not making some fool-hardy uneducated claim that you junkies out there can shout at me for). It’s left me now with this wonderfully bizarre memory, of sitting on a park bench surrounded by pretty flowers, with the cars and people around me appearing in a strange pop-up picture-book distortion.

After that, I carried my mildly wounded pride around the shops for the afternoon, feeling pretty good. The sheer wealth of gift-shops in the heart of Amsterdam puts even Blackpool to shame – though, thankfully, there is nothing quite so tacky as a stick of rock or porcelain figures of big-breasted women (there are a lot of postcards though). These shops have the heart and over-all presentation of familiar holiday resort outlets, but for the most part their stock is good quality and, actually, fairly high-priced. Most sell cannabis equipment – a hundred different pipes and bongs, also joint holders… boo
ks of roaches (make-shift filters)… a thousand variations of tobacco papers (including a jumbo-sized Jim Morrison tribute pack, which was the first purchase I ever made) – pretty much everything you could think of. Some even sold cannabis seeds and magic mushrooms growing kits. Not only this, however, but on the same streets are top clothing stores (if that’s your thing), countless eateries (sandwiches and home-made pizza mainly) and some fair-price CD shops. All of that stuff we could find in Newcastle though, so for the most part we stuck to the novelty shops, wow-ing and settling into the relaxed attitude. The shop owners themselves varied, usually, from being either extremely kind or extremely ignorant and short-tempered. I have no idea why. You either walk into a shop and feel instantly compelled to leave, or else be greeted by some grinning stoner, who would happily chat for an hour without you making a purchase. In one store, a girl sat quite happily, tapping away peacefully to the in-store music. I bought ten incense sticks, and asked her what the music was. For twenty minutes we discussed bands, Amsterdam and the effects of mushrooms, concluding with her writing down the name of an album I later bought and a well-meant shaking of hands. Undoubtedly, and hopefully, she’s still sitting behind her counter, watching us tourists come and go with that rich apathy only a well-paced bong can provide. Later that night, we returned to that first coffee-bar, this time with a better idea of how things worked. After carefully looking at the menu, I ordered a cut of cannabis resin (can’t recall the name for the life of me) and we rolled our own. This time, no panic. Only the closest we ever came to our ideals, resting in the downstairs room that had planets and stairs painted in aluminous paint across the walls. To the sound of Bob Marley, we spent an evening inside a poetic cloud of smoke, feeling, finally, like we were in Am
sterdam. Much later, we rode the small ferry that runs every seven minutes across the canal, back to our bed and breakfast. From the water, in the distant, we could make out the glow of the red light district, dancing across gentle tides half a mile away. It was then the feeling dawned on us both, though we never spoke of it, that we had from conquered Amsterdam, and that our biggest test still stood over us, titan like and strong.

Day two, we escaped the main-streets of Amsterdam. The main reason, was simply so that we could witness the more genuine parts of the city – the explorers desire to see more then what was intended for him, perhaps. Another reason, I hate to say, was to escape the beggars and drug-pushers that had gone a little to spoiling the day before. Allow me to explain. In Amsterdam, men wait on the streets so they can whisper ‘cocaine, ecstasy, speed…’ in the ears of young tourists looking for a good time. I except they do a good trade. The problem is, as we knew, even if you were looking for class A drugs – these men are likely to give you crap, if not mug you altogether. Or so we were told by infinite numbers of people before we arrived. I make no qualms about it – I’m not a particularly experienced traveller (as you might have guessed). This took me by surprise. What was worse, was the number of street beggars would approach you at every possible moment – from walking the streets to enjoying a quiet meal in McDonalds. Don’t get me wrong, all my sympathise are in tact – indeed, to begin with, we both gave all we could, but by the tenth or twelfth time of being approached I channelling anyone not to grow weary. One man, I remember, stopped us as we were walking home much later on. “Have you got any change?”, he asked. For the first time, I genuinely hadn’t – nothing expect for some notes anyway, and I wasn’t about to hand over ten po
unds plus. Sorry, but neither would you. Instead of trying for a bit longer then leaving, this man began to tell us how we ‘people’ had everything, and he has nothing, and if we didn’t give him money, he’d take it from us. There was not one ounce of conviction in his voice. He stood no physical chance of mugging us, and the sadness in his eyes screamed it to everyone. With heavy-hearts we walked away, feeling miserable, leaving the man alone. After that, for a good while, there was no wind in our sails, a uncomfortable cocktail of guilt and anger filling our heads. We didn’t want a repeat of the incident on day two.

And so instead, we got voluntarily lost. Amsterdam, away from the hustle and bustle, becomes quite simply a beautiful city. We followed the canals deep into streets of purple-stoned houses, proudly hung baskets of flowers and children on bicycles. For a while, I felt like I was on the set of some pretentious art-house movie. We found a series of little, far less commercial coffee-bars. One’s without pool tables. One’s that we didn’t have to share with a hundred other people. One of the finest moments in the whole trip was on that afternoon, in a tiny coffee-shop by the canal, chain-smoking joints and chatting idly with the two Rastafarians that ran the place. Talking now, it almost sounds like I’m making it up. That hour or so later took a dream-like quality, as we walked under the seedy red-tint and through the thin alleys of the red light district, feeling the sickness rise in our stomachs. And I guess that’s what I should mention next.

Suddenly, in ten footsteps, you’re out of the quaint rows of houses and into a labyrinth of wide-windows and jeering on-lookers, under countless neon lights prompting your entrance to pornographic cinemas and peep-shows. Within ten minutes, I felt like the love-child of Travis from Taxi Driver and Peter Stringfellow,
if you can imagine such a thing. A row of sweating Japanese business-men stood resting on each other shoulders, as opposite them a large-busted prostitute danced and pouted wearing a brave smile, from behind a glass window. Eventually, someone entered through the door by her left, and the curtains were drawn. I can’t remember the rates exactly, but you bought either ten minutes or an hour with these girls, all under the supervision of tough looking bouncers. Take a camera and you’re a dead man. At first, it was all just very amusing. I considered reaching for my wallet and laughed out loud. It’s all a bit bizarre, and arriving there for the first time, you could be forgiven for feeling a little uncomfortable. Actually, I didn’t. But after a while of turning corners and bumping into people, never finding the boundaries of the district nor obtaining a second to breathe or think, I felt unhappy. There’s something infinity saddening about the women behind there windows, and something even worse about the wide-eyed men (and women) that stand around watching. Free will or no free will, I confess I felt sorry for everyone. I don’t know what that makes me, self-righteous I’d imagine, but I have to be honest. Witnessing the Red Light District is witnessing man in his most depraved and sordid moment – but then again, I think the same when I see people watching Big Brother, so I’m nothing to go by. Things turn from novel and amusing to tragic in half a second – particularly in contrast with the relaxed grace of the cities other spots. Despite this, cheesily, I value the experience. After finally finding our way out, myself and Brett returned as with the night before to our downstairs corner and smoked until the early hours. Tomorrow was to be our last day.

And tomorrow came, under a torrent of morning rain. The last day of a holiday is always a day of melancholy and reflection, and what bett
er place to do so then in Amsterdam? As it was a Sunday, the streets were quiet and the majority of shops closed. We walked the streets for one final time, discussing what we should have done and what we were glad we had done, deciding, firmly, that we intended to come back. An hour before we had to drive to the ferry back to Newcastle, we shared a last joint, on a bench not far from where we were staying that over-looked Amsterdam’s main river. The air was cold, though the wind was forgiving and we managed the last moments undisturbed. For all that time we considered the biggest question – this bag of White Widow, the finest-of-all-fine grass we have… should we take it home? In the end, we decided no. Instead, we selected from the crowds someone whom we deemed worthy of a free bag of skunk. Along from us, on another bench, sat a man who wore an amusing hat. It seemed a good enough reason as any.

“Excuse me?”
“Yes” (in a German accent)
“You speak English?”
“Little”
“You smoke grass?”
“Yes!” (companied by a grin)
“Well, would you like this?” (wide-eyed yet sorrowful, he shook his head)
“I have no money”
“No, you can have it. We have to go home now. Here, enjoy.”

Queue the most genuine, if slightly confused thank you I’ve ever had. I shook the mans hand, then walked away.

“It’s good sh*t!” I told him, from over my shoulder.
“I can see!” came his reply.

I can’t quite remember his face, but I know it was something like the guy from Dumb & Dumber – the other one, not Jim Carey. Though I still grit my teeth to think about it, we did make that mans day. Looking back once more, we saw him ride off on his bike, almost falling into the river. It was perfect. A few hours later, we were half-way across the ocean watching
a group of Geordies sing on the ferry karaoke, spending the last of our currency on whiskey, smoking cigarettes on the deck. Watching Amsterdam disappear, over the horizon.



Of course, many other little things and incidents took place, but they’re less interesting and I’m five pages in already. I guess I should round up with an opinion-y bit… Amsterdam, in general, is enjoyable place to be. Try and experience both the commercial and more genuine sides to the city, as both have their rewards. If smoking dope is your thing, you’ll be like a child in a sweet shop – just remember to check the menu, and examine the stuff before you buy it. The biggest tip I have, is to buy a copy of something called ‘The Smokers Guide To Amsterdam’ as soon as you get there. It’s a small booklet sold in pretty much all of the novelty stores – it’ll tell you where to go, how to make sure you’re not be ripped off, and loads about safety in the Red Light District and what is okay and not okay to take home. Even if you’re not a big smoker, it’s worth having for the map alone. By day, Amsterdam is like any city – almost frustratingly busy, tiring but exciting. At night, everything is pretty much the same, only the canals look ten times as beautiful and the numerous bars and their drunken inhabitants almost make you feel like you’re back home in England.

That’s about it. I guess the biggest recommendation, or rather compliment I can give to the place is that next year, we’re going again. If only to find that German bloke, and get my White Widow back.




* This is a friggin’ long opinion, and I’m tired. Apologies for numerous typing errors this is bound to contain, but I can’t be arsed to fix them all.

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