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

An American Rogue in Europe: Chapter Three and Four

Any adventure worth going on takes a lot of preparation. Just think about "Lord of the Rings," they spent like an hour and a half before they ever started towards Mordor. It only took me two blogs before the actual trip part of this trip journal kicked in.

Chapter Three: The Amsterdam Hustle

Passport in hand, Ella and I arrived far too early for our flight from Dallas/Fort Worth,
but in plenty of time to get shafted on prices of airport food. Bellies full we sat and waited for our European adventure to begin in earnest.

Here I must say a special thank you to DFW. Ella and I have been without cable for almost two months now and so I am somewhat behind the times as far as current events are concerned. Even when we did have cable I never watched CNN or Headline News and boy was I missing out! I had no idea that Wolf Blitzer's new (not so new anymore) show, "The Situation Room" was so thoroughly enjoyable. A friend had described it as "news for ADD adults"
but you really don't understand until you've seen it firsthand. Wolf strolls back and forth in front of a bank of monitors pointing at and discussing (never very thoroughly) the sensationalistic events of the day.

"Here's an explosion!" "This is a riot going on in Paris." "Ooh! A hurricane!" It's really quite fascinating.

Wolf's dulcet tones (by the way, what are the odds that "Wolf" is his real name?) sped the time by and shortly we were in the air...or at least on the runway. It seemed the fates weren't ready to let me go just yet and planned on toying with me a little longer. A storm system was literally surrounding DFW airport and the flight tower wasn't letting anyone off the ground. Our hour and a half layover in Memphis became an hour, then a half-hour and then...takeoff. Our pilot (surely a meteorological genius) had found a hole in the storm and we were given clearance from the tower. We knew it was going to be a close call whether or not we made our connecting flight to Amsterdam. I figured it was a win-win situation. Either we'd make the flight and get to spend our planned afternoon in Amsterdam or we'd miss it, take a later flight, still make our final flight to Germany and get some free flights as compensation for the delay. I was familiar with the "if we screw up, give them a free flight" protocol because it sent Ella on a free trip to Boston a year ago. I love that policy by the way. If they complain, give them free stuff until they go away. It works for McDonald's and it works for the airlines, only the price tag of the comps changes.

Halfway through our flight to Memphis we got the news that we would make it in time for our trans-Atlantic flight, but without any time to spare. And I don't mean with little time to spare. I mean none. We got off at gate B-4 and our connection was leaving (immanently) from Gate B34. I never ran with the bulls in Pompeii, nor am I particularly interested in doing so, but I imagine it looks a lot like we did running down that corridor. Ella skillfully dodging, jumping and circumventing obstacles and fellow travellers, while my bloated (probably slobbering) carcass tried to keep time with her. I've been to Amsterdam now, I know it's a charming little city, but I mean the people of the Netherlands no ill will when I say an afternoon in Amsterdam was probably not worth that run and what it cost my health and dignity.

Chapter Four: The $24000 Question

As this account is eventually published, and for years from now whenever we tell the story of our trip, one question is almost guaranteed to come up, "Did you smoke pot in Amsterdam?"

I can, without reservation, say that I (and Ella) did not partake in the greenest of local pastimes. I was a Theatre student in college, I'm a writer by profession and an artist (if only in my mind). I'm about as open minded on this subject as I could be, believing in and supporting decriminalization in the U.S. and yes, I experimented once upon a time and I did inhale. But on this trip, in this place, I had no high more potent than a good beer and a bit of disorientation from my first high altitude flight.

You might be asking, "If you think it's alright, you've already done it before and it's not only legal but encouraged there, why not?"

I've got three reasons.

1. I had only just caught my breath from the run in Memphis, why do something to hinder my lung function further?

2. I'm a little older and wiser now (I'd like to think so anyway) and would rather remember the trip than "the trip."

3. I have to admit, having it legal, available and above board rids it of some of the appeal. When someone smokes pot in America, they are a free-thinker, a rebel, a dissenter. When you smoke pot in Amsterdam you're the 1,000th customer today...and a sucker for high priced snack vendors.

Coming Soon -- Chapter Five: Tulips, Wooden Shoes and Dykes, The Drunken Rogue in the Smoky City

An American Rogue in Europe: Chapter Two

I was told yesterday that my first shot at blogging after my significant hiatus was too short, I apologize. Today's entry, I'm sure will be more pleasing.

Chapter Two: The Big Easy, the Hard Way

It was Saturday at noon when we finished moving the furniture out of our house. Our crew, Ella, myself, Mom and Dad, Randy (father-in-law extraordinaire), Jena (Lil sis), Kyle (crazy Austin filmmaker), Bear (cousin and talented artist) and Dee (cousin's girl and ice cream entrepreneur) were enjoying lunch at Jena's house (since there were no chairs at ours) when I decided to check on my passport.

I love the United States. I'm a bit of a flag-waver and have been accused of being a little xenophobic, but I have absolutely no love for the Department of State or the application process is absolutely ridiculous.

Roughly ten weeks before my expected travel date I got my small fortune together and travelled to Grambling's Post Office. Grambling is roughly a quarter of the size of Ruston but apparently the residents of Grambling are much more likely to travel internationally since Ruston's Post Office has no passport service but Grambling's does.

I was alone in the Grambling Post Office and remained alone for the entire 25 minutes it took me to finish the application. That did not hinder the clerk from inquiring as to whether I had scheduled an appointment and implying that he shouldn't take my application since I hadn't made one. He finally did take my paperwork, my money and my picture. He did the last very poorly leaving me with a passport photo that makes me look more than a little like a sex offender. The good news is I'll only be using for the next ten years, so no worries. Finally, my application was done, Grambling's finest mailman wished me a good day, and I went home to await my documentation.

Eight weeks later, still no passport. 10 days before my trip, I called the 1-800 number. This is an exercise in patience and perseverance all on its own. A series of messages alerting me to the current workload of the passport office all but made it impossible for me to ever reach an actual operator. After four full cycles through the phone system, I finally made it on hold. A short thirty minutes later, I was actually speaking to a person. She was polite, apologetic, and foreign. I hate to make a snap judgement, but if I was guessing, I'd say that English wasn't even her third language. She found my passport application record in the computer quickly once I gave her my social security number, passport application number, mother's maiden name, address, three personal references, shoe size, and sexual history.

The good news was, my passport was still being processed. My friendly passport agent told me she would "put a rush" on it, no charge to me, and I should receive it either Friday or Saturday morning with several days to spare. I thanked my new foreign friend and said goodbye. Saturday came and still no passport. Again I waded through the answering service quagmire, and this time my passport agent (again foreign) had sadder news. My passport was not on its way. It was, in fact, not ready for delivery. Worst of all, it would not be ready in time for my trip. No manner of expedition, no amount of money would get it to me in time to leave Wednesday. My one hope was to journey to my regional passport office and apply in person. With proof of my impending journey (and barring any outstanding warrants for my arrest) I'd be able to walk away, passport in hand that afternoon. I questioned a system that couldn't finish my passport in time on its own, but with me nearby, urging them on, would be able to whip together a passport in a matter of hours, but eventually I gave in and set up an appointment.

Now for a geography lesson: The little wife and I have made our home for the past three years (and separately for several before that) in North Louisiana. Ruston to be specific. Our flight to Europe was to leave from Dallas, Texas, some four hours west. New Orleans, and my passport lay some five hours to the south of Ruston. For those that are a little slow on the uptake, that is the exact opposite of convenient.

By Sunday evening Ella and I had completely moved out of our house, cleaned it thoroughly (enough) and headed north to my parent's house. We unloaded a few things, visited for a moment and set out for the Crescent City. Leaving a few minutes before midnight, we knew it would be a long trip. Some five and half hours later, we pulled into our future home. The original plan was that we would visit our friend's house before heading to the passport agency, seeing as we didn't really know where the office was, and as we only had two hours until we had been told to arrive, we decided to head downtown.

New Orleans is a beautiful city. Designed long before it was built, and then rebuilt in the image of a long line of Imperial masters, it is both comfortingly predictable and fascinatingly surprising. For the record, the passport office is located on the thirteenth floor of 365 Canal Street, within spitting distance of the Mississippi River, and just across from the all-new Harrah's Casino. We had found the office (after a slight detour through the Shops at Canal Place Mall) and set up second in line after a couple of college students from Northern Arkansas. The four of us commiserated over our struggles with the State Department and I chided myself for worrying so much about our five hour trip when these guys had driven more than seven (we would later meet a guy who had come all the way from Northern Alabama, more than 10 hours, just to pick up his passport and turn around again).

I've never really been in a disaster or tragedy but I've heard that people that find themselves in such situations often end up with an unnatural familiarity and uncommon courtesy towards one another. The passport office wasn't exactly a disaster area. but we were all put out and could have reacted with anger at the clerks and each other. Overwhelmingly that was not the case. I wouldn't call it pleasant, but my fellow prospective travellers made it immensely bearable.

Coming soon -- Chapter Three: The Amsterdam Hustle