An American Rogue in Europe: Chapter Five

You've stumbled on (or perhaps, surfed directly to) the account of one American's (and his wife, best friend and HIS wife) journey across the sprawling playground of Europe. If you've been here before, you know the deal. If this is your first visit to Drunkenrogue.com, check out Chapters One through Four.

Chapter Five: Tulips, Wooden Shoes, and Dikes, The Drunken Rogue in the Smoky City

The Dutch are not only interested in Cannabis Sativa and its pharmacological effects. They also love art, gardening water and its redirection and (apparently) tobacco.

Ella and I spent a large portion of our day in Amsterdam discussing our lack of culture shock. Most people spoke English (though not all of them spoke it well), the land itself looks a lot like New Orleans and even the open use of marijuana isn't so shocking. I've been in a smoke shop, and had coffee with stoners, what's so radical about putting the two of them together? What is shocking is the complete infiltration of the cigarette into the Dutch lifestyle. While you really have to go back thirty years or more to find a time in the U.S. when one could smoke without stigma, in Amsterdam it's the non-smokers who stick out. Relegated to small, unoccupied sections of the food courts and public areas, here it is the abstainer who feels like the unwanted. I don't mind smoke. I married a smoker and even occasionally enjoy a cigar myself, so I sat amongst the "in-crowd" and breathed that beautiful (and thick) second hand!

Amsterdam is a deceptively large city. When all you have to go on are Rick Steve's tiny maps and the second-hand reminisces of your sister (who only spent one weekend in the city and God knows what the locals slipped her while she was there) it may seem (as it did to us) the kind of city that can be crisscrossed thoroughly in a matter of hours with time to spare for museums and pubs. If by hours, you mean half a dozen and the crisscrossing is to be done by men fitter and younger than I, then yes, it can be done. Ella and I had a shortlist of places we'd like to see in the city (Van Gogh's Museum, Vandle Park, The Old Church and maybe, maybe the Anne Frank house) and as soon as we could make it through customs we were on our way.

I love Rick Steve. His guide books have been (if nothing else) thoroughly enjoyable but I now know his maps are more like impressionistic paintings of a city any sort of geographically true representation. Do not, I repeat, do not, plan your day based on the layout of his maps. Ella and I had done exactly that. We left the airport by tram at 11:30 local time. We returned to Schipol satisfied but defeated by the city a short five hours later. Truthfully, the city had defeated us long before that, but we had some trouble getting back.

Vandle Park (pronounced VOO-ndUHL) is a lovely little spot for a picnic, or so Rick Steve would have us believe. What he doesn't tell you is you need to pack a lunch just to get there. If one wants to stay in the city, it's about as far away from the Central Train station as you can get. So obviously that's where we went.

Amsterdam is a town, not unlike New Orleans, that is almost assuredly past its prime. In its early history merchants and shippers worked their way into the upper class bringing sophistication and culture without the snobbery that so often accompanies it. With the advent of air travel and now the Internet, its function in Europe's economy is largely tourism-based (again, not unlike New Orleans). Amsterdam has maintained its love for art and culture as well as an open "anything goes" attitude that makes it popular with young people (the drug culture doesn't hurt). As we left the train station, after a thoroughly enjoyable 20 minute tram ride, we were immediately surrounded by bicycles. I've been to New York, D.C. and Pittsburgh. I've seen cities with a bike culture, but this goes beyond anything I had seen before.

According to Rick Steve there are 16 million people in Amsterdam and there are (roughly) 16 million bikes. At the exit of Central Station there were literally dozens lying around chained to anything standing still. As Ella and I took in our first view of the city, we saw a peculiar sight, a bicycle parking garage. Two levels each almost a city block in size and literally overflowing with bikes. The idea of trying to find your bike in that mess terrifies me. I'm told the ability to get around quickly while not using any power other than leg power appeals to the Dutch. It appeals to me too, but not enough to warrant keeping up with a bike in a sea of man-powered vehicles.

We were told Amsterdam was an open-minded, free-thinking town. We had read that their attitudes largely consisted of live and let live. We finally understood this attitude about three blocks from the train station when we discovered a McDonald's immediately next to a sex shop. Dollar menus and dildos, Happy Meals and happy endings all in one locale.

Amsterdam's architecture is beautiful and at times gravity defying. Buildings seem to rise at impossible angles having settled sideways, doorways and bricks lie slightly askew. The canals that crisscross the city are lovely, though you are as likely to find trash in them as a moving boat. Coming from the south, I find Europe a little dry, but Amsterdam's canals made up for that nicely.

The churches are probably the most interesting and exciting buildings in Amsterdam. My lack of education in architecture history is here apparent as I can't really place the influence of the design. Suffice it to say it's lovely and you'll see plenty of pictures if you ask me.

An hour and a half into our excursion the hunger bug bit Ella. The timing was impeccable since we had just happened upon a square full of restaurants, bars and cafes. There were almost too many choices. Everything looked good but we finally decided on an "English Styled Pub" named "The Old Bell". The Euro system still confounded us but the food looked good and they had beer. Ella had mushroom soup and a Strongbow Cider.
I passed on the soup but did have an awesome beer by the name of Murphy's Irish Red. I know, I was in Amsterdam, I should have had Amstel or even Heineken but alas. As Ella enjoyed her soup, I enjoyed the beer and we both enjoyed the antics of a lovely tabby pub-cat. We discussed the Euro exchange rates and whether we were getting a good deal.

Ever since the European states began to combine economically the Euro has been on the rise as compared to the Dollar. Currently, the Euro fluctuates between 125% and 150% of the Dollar's value. The problem arises from the fact that pricing structure is roughly the same as America. So if bread costs $1.50 in America, then it probably costs 1.5 Euro in Europe. That's fine for the Europeans who get paid in Euros but sucks for Americans who are trying to stretch our pitiful Dollar. We had changed a good bit of cash to Euros at the Airport so that we could eat at my little slice of American heaven, Burger King. Having a thousand dollars plus available by ATM and more on our credit card makes you think you're prepared for anything but transposing that to Euros makes your stash look significantly smaller. Our dinner finished and our Euros (far too large a pile of them) spent we continued on our way towards Vandle Park.

The WC (water closet, or bathroom for your Yankees) is like a little shang-ri-la for the traveller (especially the beer drinker). They are often dirty, sometimes not free and almost always hard to find. I used the (delightfully clean) WC at the Old Bell but a half liter of Murphy's Irish Red doesn't move out too quickly. Beer, it has been said, is never purchased but rented. My deposit was apparently due. We had found Vandle Park (hint: it's roughly a thousand miles from the train station) and I was ecstatic at the prospect of the public WC's. We walked and walked, and walked. Lots of park, but no toilet in sight. I wasn't really worried about peeing on myself but I did begin to think my bladder was in danger of exploding. Suddenly, out of the dense Dutch forest, there was a beacon of light. The Amsterdam film museum. It's lucky for the Dutch film lover that it actually had a bathroom, because I was peeing somewhere in that building. Business having been accomplished and a couple of Euro cents dropped in the tray (a strange European custom) as thanks, Ella and I discussed our options.

We could continue searching for the Van Gogh museum or we could head back to the Airport early leaving us room for getting food or even to check out an art exhibit at the Airport. We had searched for the museum and hadn't found it yet, and I wasn't very hopeful that another hour of walking would make the difference. The idea of having another hour of stress on my legs without any Van Gogh to show for it was simply unacceptable. We decided to cut our losses and say goodbye to Amsterdam. A very confusing trip to the tram stop and a kindly tram operator who took pity on a couple of Americans with tram passes but a strong desire not to walk to the train station, led us to our train home...sort of.

The train we took did indeed go to the Airport but a limited night's sleep (thank you, in flight entertainment center) and a day's walk around Amsterdam had given Ella and I a case of the sleepys. As we slumbered with visions of French cheese (Ella) and Double Whoppers (Joel) swimming in our heads we overshot the Airport by roughly twenty minutes. Thank God we had decided to head back early.

We corrected our course and reentered Schipol International Customs and Passport Check. One more round of customs and passport check (we must have made a wrong turn) and voila! Ella and Joel, two and a half hours early for their plane. We had originally come back early to see the art exhibit but frankly we were too pooped to peruse. Schipol Airport (a beautiful one, by the way) is equipped with "comfort chairs" throughout the facility and they were calling our names. Ella parked it and immediately fell asleep. I stowed my bag under my chair, hooked up my Ipod (yay, Louis Armstrong) and wrote for a while. With forty-five minutes to board our flight, I woke Ella up, we grabbed a coffee and one more very public cigarette and prepared to take the final leg of our journey to Allie and Richard.

Coming soon -- Chapter Six: Tricky Dick and the Traveling Sharptons