Amsterdam, November, 2005
Buy the ticket, take the ride.- Hunter S Thompson
“I’m sorry, may I see a copy of your reservation again please. I’m not finding your names on this flight.” I reach over the tall counter and hand the airline attendant the reservation leaving Valencia. “Oh, right here. Lo veo el problema. I see the problem. Your flight to Amsterdam is for the 12th of February not the 12th of November.”Epic fail, my only job was to book our flight and I botched it.
If you’ve done any European travel while ballin’ on a budget, surely you’ll know “Ryan Air” the discounted airlines for inexpensive travel between countries. Must have fallen for one of their pop- ups showing “a better fare” that just happened to be for three months from the date I had searched for.
The attendant advised us that the next flight was full but that we could try the train systems. Our bags were packed and we weren’t leaving defeated. We scramble and find ourselves on a train out of Spain, headed to Paris for the night.
Paris was rainy, and you guessed it, cold. After finding an inexpensive room we grabbed dinner and enjoyed the glitch- turned adventure. There are worse places in the world to be “stuck” for a night.
At sunrise we were on another train bound to The Netherlands. Hours into our journey the chug of the train slows and stops at a large train station with hordes of people moving around and other trains resting on their tracks. Hmm, I don’t think this is Amsterdam. Didn’t get that memo?! Everyone was kicked off the train, and we found ourselves in the midst of a crowds of waiting passengers. A perceptible confusion penetrated the air, mingling throughout frustrated voices. It seemed highly unlikely that anyone here spoke English, this was literally the Belgian countryside. My friend and I recognized a gentleman from our train and we decided to follow him, since he looked like he knew what to do. We moved after him like hurried ants through the herd of passengers. A train attendant was shouting directions in French, pointing his finger to head that way. We spotted salvation, yet our salvation train appeared to be leaving! We sprinted as fast as our backpacks allowed and jumped onto the train within seconds of it leaving. Literally, it was like something out of an old western film. The rickety train shook its way north, and in just over an hour we arrived to our Oasis of Amsterdam.
It was lightly raining as we headed towards our hostel. The energy of this city already seemed calm and welcoming. We dropped our bags and with no time to spare headed for our first Coffee shop. To get some coffee . . . of course.
There were too many cafes to choose from so we opted for the one plastered with Bob Marley décor. “Strawberry (ahem) milkshake, and a chocolate chip (ahem) cookie please. Hey check this out, you can order different kinds of hash here too!” It didn’t take long for us to be drownin in de natural mystic.
The city was beautiful to explore. Dutch style houses lined in perfect symmetry sat sleepily affront canals with lovely little bridges and cobblestone streets. Bicyclists passed us, and we noticed how fresh the air was. “Ooo smartshops!” The adventure led us to the “souvenir shop” for delighting in the local fungi. A large, brightly lit, glass case lay before us with around 20 choices. Mexicans . . . chocolate truffles . . . “Philosopher’s Stones! We’ll take those.” It’s no lie, that their flavor compares to poo. That’s probably because they’re grown in ripened patties, therefore one must indeed choke these down, nose plugged and pretend it’s gourmet.
We wandered on enjoying the tranquil canal scenes and random outdoor markets. Colorful flowers were for sale what seemed like on every corner, and souvenirs clogged tented booths. We came upon a unique textile booth, with racks of hippie-esque clothing ripe for many a backpacker. We approached the long, flowy skirts to find the perfect gift to take back to our girlfriend. I stood in front of the rack of skirts and was captivated at how pretty they looked as they flowed in the wind. “Look how windy it is,” I told my friend as I reached out to touch the flying skirt.
“Christin, there’s no wind,” he replied mockingly. In the same instant I realized the skirts were not moving, it was an illusion in my mind.
“Well . . . guess I’m trippin’!”
“I think mine’s kicking in too!”
We giggled away onto our adventure. The once tranquil canals rippled and waved, the brick pavement patterned geometrically, and alleyways turned into heavenly vined canopies. There was no one else on the streets but us. It must have been Siesta time and everyone was home enjoying their family meals and naps. We were left frolicking and doing photo shoots like crazies out of Fear and Loathing. Night comes and the wandering leads us to a carnival. Bright lights and loud noises. It felt like I was in a horror movie and bobbing clowns daunted my peripherals. Sensory overload and giant cotton candy, we venture on. The street is narrow but the lights are red. To my left, was a glass walled window with a chick in lingerie posing to passerby’s, baiting her next potential client. So, this was the red- light district. Fear came over me and was kicking me to get out of there. It was also time this philosopher trip came to an end! It was pushing hour 5 or 6 and I just wanted it to be over. We made our way back to the hostel with one last stop in a smoke shop. My friend picked out the perfect prize, a mid- to- large size bong to bring back for the college apartment.
The rain started up, the trip had cleared and we had just made it back to our hostel. We were both exhausted from our walking adventure, but plastered with satisfied grins and proud of the new glass purchase. I hear a shatter behind me and curse words. It was one of those devastating moments you can’t believe is happening. He looks up at me from the ground, mouth open with disbelief. Way to end this trip with a bang!
We bought the tickets . . . bought more . . . and took the ride of unforgettable adventure . . .
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