Journals

  Amsterdam is a place of bogus joys and sorrows, a glorified city of sex and sensimilia where bikers have the right to run you over if you unwittingly step foot into their bike-path.   It is a spot well-marked by X, literally poring over with them within its infamous quarters known so ubiquitously for their Red Lights.   It is not my choice of final destination, but it is here that I find myself, an innocent bystander to the circus of affairs that unfolds before me.   The people, looking in the windows; the scene, taking in the smell, it is all surreal.   It is what we have learned of in legends and tales but now are finally touching.   I have a keen feeling I have been swept into a vortex transposing me into a post-apocalyptic world.     Before we step foot into this alternate universe where night creatures roam free, we are warned for the 37 th time not to take any pictures inside, or a brooding beast of a man will appear to smash our camera and possibly our face.   I feel the rapid need to clutch my precious digital camera with all my might.   I’ve come too far on this journey to lose all my pictures now. We are also so cautiously warned to take mushrooms only at our own risk .   Apparently, the kind of shrooms you can find at “smart shops” has sent one tourist or another plummeting to his death.   The first place of interest called to our attention is The Grasshopper, a 3-story bar/cafe appropriately named for the main item on its menu, of which there are many kinds.   Without warning, we are led through streets where it becomes almost irrelevant where you look – a different variation of the same image is everywhere – I hold onto my camera in one hand and Katie’s in the other.   I never fully imagined the awkwardness that would play out in this situation.   My palms go clammy while my mind clamors for some sort of escape from the mental imagery.   But perhaps I’m glad I did this, as a lesson in the realms of human depravity.   I think everyone should experience it at least once in their life.   Those in the group who choose not to go to the sex show split into two groups.   Those who wish to smoke, and those who don’t.   I am the only guy amongst the non-ganja smokers, and as a result end up taking a turn into several underground sex shops.   Katie and I follow along as some of the other girls look for something to get their boyfriends.   One of them actually picks up a porno flick for her dad.   Something in particular seems to be elusive, as we continue to enter similarly depraved sex shops so that Anna can get exactly what she’s in search of.   What this is exactly I am not sure, for she is whispering to the others.   Each of these shops are filled with men and women of all ages and races, as are the more crowded streets, which offer something uniquely nefarious.   The women behind the windows, we are told, are actually separated along ethnic lines.   Whether this is true or not, I could not be sure.   I barely wager a sideways glance as we pass.   We arrive back outside the entrance of the sex show awaiting the rest of our group, only to find Chris and Peter along with the two Canadians sitting stoned out of their mind on some of Amsterdam ’s finest cannabis.   Chris is looking around wild-eyed repeating something to himself, while the others appear simply motionless and devoid of life.   Outside on the street another tour group stops right in front of us.   The tour guide leads one of the women over to a spot to show her something.   At that exact moment a line of water sprays from a plastic elephant’s trunk perched on top of the sex show façade.   It is no coincidence what this large trunk is shaped to look like.   Upon landing in the women’s hair, she reacts hysterically, screaming and running.   It is the first time I am able to laugh at what I have seen in the district known for selling sex and drugs.   And what else is there, really, besides rock n’ roll.   The city has captured the essence of hedonistic desires, fulfilling peoples’ need for the obscene pleasure-seeking thrill, while capitalizing on the color red (and tiny green buds) to stimulate what they’re really after.   I Amsterdam is the picture many tourists come away with, and I’m sure they’ve had a good frolic.   Yet of all the tastes, good and bad, left in my mouth throughout the trip, this one is the hardest to swallow.   You simply can’t imagine a place like Amsterdam in your mind.   No way.   You have to see it and breathe it to actually know it exists, to understand its aura of filthiness.   It’s hard to believe that our European jaunt is nearing to an end on such a low-note.   The lows on this tour have, no doubt, been devastating, but this is something more than low.   It is coming to the realization that a place, an idea of a way of life for some, is enormously hollow.   Thank goodness we are only in this Godless place 1 more night.   I’m ready for normalcy and my own pillow again.