Sitting in the Bulldog Coffee Shop, watching faces form out of the wood-grain of the walls through the Silver Haze, I suddenly found myself thinking about how I would write about this moment.
Maybe Ian's right. Maybe I'm living for the blog. Already I've been thinking about making this a long-term affair, and what the implications of that would be for my family, friends, even strangers I meet who will have no idea their actions might be fodder for this litany of literate logorrhea (Note to self: good title.)
But then so what if I am? What if it's the desire to write about them that spurs me to do things I wouldn't do normally, things that frighten me and challenge me? Seems to make more sense to me than living my life for some possible afterlife.
Took an overnight bus in from Hamburg and arrived in The Tolerant City at about 6 AM.
A stray dog rifles through some garbage in the gutter, a sad disgusting reminder of the previous night's revelry. No shouts of groups of drunken rugby teams and hen parties haunt these early morning streets, but the smell of urine is palpable.OK, I'll stop. It doesn't really work without hearing the accent, anyways.
Too early for check-in, too early even for the Metro, we wandered the streets looking for eats. Finally we found a nice hotel with an all-you-can-eat breakfast buffet, and since we had nowhere to go until 2, we sat down and ate all that we could.
Later I decided that even though I'd been pretty much up all night, had a bad ankle and a chafing issue I won't go into here, that it would be a good idea to take the free walking tour at 11:15.
The Koninklijk Paleis on Dam Square. You know, where they Dammed the Amstel to make Amsterdam?
Here it is, folks. The one that started it all. The original corporation. You know them, you love them. The first name in genocide and colonialism for over 200 years, it's the Dutch East India Company. What happens when a bunch of rich shipbuilders get together to protect themselves from pirates and negotiate better prices from the native spice growers? The world was never the same.
That's Landros, our Greek guide.
Here is a beautiful, postcard-esque view of Amsterdam.
And here it is with my ugly mug.
On the banks of the Amstel, we stopped for a quick break, and when I turned around, the tour had disappeared. That's right, I lost the tour. And I want to stress that I was fairly sober at this point. But only for a couple of minutes after this point.
Finally it was 2, so I met Ian back at the hostel and we put down for a nap. I think mine may have been more restful than Ian's, I'm not sure. Anyways around 10 we were able to get up and at them, but drizzling rain and sex aggressively for sale sent us back into various bars to drink.
As of this writing, I am the new proud owner of the knowledge that most, if not all, coffee shops in Amsterdam close around 1 AM. Saw a number of other "first-nighters" stumbling about in the rain, searching for someplace to get inside, dry out, and relax.
So we're back at the hostel. Tomorrow I guess I'm going to have to take the Dam Tour again, seeing as how I missed the second half, and there's still Van Gogh and Heineken to experience, so stay tuned.
By the way, all the rooms here are themed. This is our front door.
And here are the weird blacklight designs that make up the only art in our room (and one whole wall):
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