The Inaccurate Tourist

64. First Class

I started this trip to Amsterdam by taking the first-class train -- rubbing elbows with high-powered businesspeoples, celebrities of wit and glamour and the latest stars of pornography, only without touching elbows because the seats were far too large and spacious. That didn't prevent us from hobnobbing, however, smoking our cigars and sipping cognac around the fireplace, exchanging bon mots and throwing back our heads in peals of laughter. Oh, the first-class times we had!

I arrived in Amsterdam about six hours before Justine and her parents. I busied myself with dropping off my luggage at the apartment and wandering around the city. I did a bit of pre-shopping (the main event can only be held with Justine), and walked up and down the streets. I had a few coffees here and there -- but I didn't inhale.

Amsterdam is a very pretty city. This time, it seemed like a very comfortable city as well. I think I'm a calmer traveler than ever before in my life. There's less anxiety in walking around a foreign city. I hope I'm a calmer person in all my life these days.

I sat down by the homomonument and saw a rowdy group of older German ladies filling out some sort of tour group checklist game. They discovered a box containing very expensive pink woolen socks on the bench next to me, and loudly proclaimed their good fortune waving their little pink flags in the air before pocketing them and gaggling off. A few minutes later, a pair of young Chinese gents came racing back to find the box empty except for despair, which they took with them. I couldn't communicate with any of these people.

I also saw a very beautiful couple in black on a canal bridge. She was shooting him with dark intentions and a solid, heavy-lensed camera. He was relaxed against the rail, sunlight on his sculpted face and his little digital point-and-shoot slipped into the canals. He made a very late grab for it, then froze in a second of anxiety and regret when it was very obvious that it was irrevocably gone. Sometimes bad-looking things happen to good-looking people, but they learn to let it go with fashionable grace.

I met Justine and her parents at the station, and led them to the apartment getting only slightly lost (I didn't want to show off). The apartment was certainly luxurious -- a wonderful kitchen, large dining area, living room and bedrooms. We had a little protected terrace, but we never got the chance to use it.

We were right in the red light district, and there was certainly some noise -- but it all calmed down enough that it never woke me.

Prostitution is legal as long as it's licensed. The obvious benefit is that it's much less sleazy -- the ladies of the night (and afternoon and morning) seem to be healthy and clean, good-humoured if not enthusiastic. Obviously they're in the business for the quick cash (they're making much more than me), but it's hard to make the comparison to illegal prostitution in North America. They don't seem to be scared or scary, victims or coerced.

The next day, we ate breakfast at the apartment and headed out. We walked a bit around the centre of the city and along the canals until we got to the floating flower market. I managed to not buy a single blue ceramic piece of tourist crap (a first for Amsterdam).

I saw some grafitti that said "sudden prayer makes God jump". I'd wear that on a T-shirt.

We headed to the museum district. The rijksmuseum was firmly barricaded in preparation for renovations, so we walked to the back, where protesters were waving anti-Bush flags and speaking Dutch into megaphones. One banner-waving group separated from the main mass and started quickly and quietly walking away, and another banner-waving group started chanting "nazi-scum-nazi-scum" at them. The police were already between the two groups.

I think it's important to take a stand, so I'd like to clarify my position on the matter. I am strictly against Nazi Scum, and feel that they serve little useful purpose in our modern society.

The van Gogh museum was quite full. We saw several very important pieces, such as his sunflowers, and irises, and almond blossoms, and his room in Arles. Once again, it's astonishing to see the real canvas for such iconic paintings. Him and his cohorts did a number of self-portraits -- frequently with a painting-within-a-painting of another of their number in the background. They weren't ugly men, but they all had a case of 'crazy eyes'.

We walked back up to the flower market for some appel pannekoeken -- delicious Dutch cuisine.

At that point, we separated so Justine and I could shop. Shopping with Justine is a lot of fun, thanks to her impeccable good taste, the good conversation (and impeccably wicked sense of humour). It's just hanging out with a goal.

We ate steak that night. We like to eat the animals, especially grilled flesh from their side ribs with barbecue sauce (and a side salad).

The next day, we separated straight off, and Justine and I headed to the Flying Dutchman seed and bong shop. He has some incredibly beautiful glasswork -- really nice art that doesn't seem right to use as a bong.

Across the road, we visited the Cannabis College and went downstairs into their garden. Our guide was Christy -- she was enthusiastic and chatty about all aspects of The Plant and its utility, its legal and social aspects. She mentioned several times that it was nice to talk to tourists that were interested, but with nothing to prove. She explained which species were for relieving pain, for getting mellow, for profound and cheerful conversations (my favourite) and which were for getting serious messed up. She explained how to grow the plants for optimum size and how to get them to flower. She pointed out what to expect from a good and bad coffee shop, and which varieties to buy. Then we talked about work permits, prostitutes, languages and she took our picture.

We took the Cannabis quiz, but we only got 13 out of 20 questions correct, so we only got the sticker, not the diploma. Christy went over the questions with us so we could improve for the next time.

I recommend Cannabis College to everyone. They obviously have their agenda, but they aren't trying to sell you something. They're volunteers and the 2.5€ visitors fee (for the garden) is nominal. I should have gone to Cannabis College every time I've come to Amsterdam. I could have had my diploma by now.

Then we went to Nes Café just off the Dam Square to make my purchase. I picked up two grams of Royal Dutch Orange (for a nice friendly buzz), a gram of Haze (the 2004 cannabis cup winner, guaranteed to seriously mess with your head) and a gram of Copper Sativa, a nice in-betweener. For transport, I cut a hole in the interior lining of the interior pocket of my Calvin Klein man bag and stuffed the little ziploc bags to the padded bottom, along with a punctured single dose satchel of decaffeinated instant coffee to prevent it from stinking.

Just kidding! It was caffeinated.

Then the serious shopping started. I bought another pair of Esprit jeans (on sale) and a couple pair of red lycra underwear. I'm in the process of abandoning boxer-briefs.

I bought some cheese, cheese knives, spatulas, Dutch licorice and assorted candy.

I bought a rust T-shirt from w.e., and a shiny tank top a size too small. A couple of sizes too small, in fact, so it's unwearable outside of the house -- but it feels great against the skin. Maybe the right occasion will pop up, or I'll learn how to layer my clothing.

Justine confirmed my suspicions that men are wearing very odd, long and thin white scarves theses days, and that it made no sense. We ate some deep-fried meat from vending machines for 1€ and went to the fancy mall that used to be the graceful and airy post office.

We were there the previous day but the mall had been closing, which didn't prevent a hair metal band from performing a rousing chorus of their wry chart-topping hit Testosterone. It was much less irony-laden this day, except for the ugly-is-the-new-beautiful attitude of the designer boutiques. I demand mainstream, accessible fashions within a reasonable price range, and I insist that ugly-is-the-new-still-ugly!

Other than a coffee and a useful waitress explaining that a particular Dutch delicacy was "hard... and soft", that was the end of my trip.

We had to hurry back to the apartment so I could repack my bags, say goodbye and rush to the central station. I got there ten minutes before my train left, which was a waste of eight and a half minutes.

I didn't book first class back to Paris, so the glamour was strictly last-season Gap and the wit was non sequitors with extra pointless and inappropriate adjectives.