Amsterdam

I had about twelve hours to kill in Amsterdam. I could have put them to better use, but I didn’t know the city and was way too paranoid about when I should be returning to Schiphol for my flight. I was also exhausted, and growing more so by the hour despite the sunrise having reset my internal clock. I spent a lot of time in cafes, alternating the occasional beer with coffee, talking to a lot of baristas and bartenders, with the odd backpacker mixed in for variety’s sake. I read. I wandered the warrens, realizing after a few circuits that I was retracing my steps a lot. There are only so many blocks to wander within De Wallen. Thrice I found myself being gestured to by the same voluptuous black woman, who became brazen enough by my repetitions to open her glass door and call out to me, telling me not to be afraid, that she’d take care of me. I’m sure she could have. I smiled and waved back, thanking her, but saying “No, thank you.”

I steered clear of the cannabis cafes. I had no desire to be singled out for a special search. I’d already had to endure one while en route to San Francisco when I’d been nosed by the dog passing U.S. customs while in Pearson Airport. I’d felt a nuzzling up my butt while preparing to walk through the metal detector, brushed at whatever had been pressed up there, but having found nothing, I thought nothing more about it. But upon passing through the metal detector, American Customs Officers directed me to follow them. I found myself at a table before another Customs Agent, my backpack between us.

He gave me the tired spiel: “Mr. Leonard, have your bags been out of your possession since you packed them?”

“Of course they were,” I said.

“Excuse me?” he said.

“Air Canada had them. This is the first I’ve seen them since I left Timmins.”

He was not pleased with my answer. I guess he thought I was being a belligerent asshole. Which I was. “I don’t care what you do in your private life,” he said, “but in the U.S. we take a dim view of drug use.” I was taken aback. “If you hand the stuff over to me now, there’ll only be a $500 fine; if I have to search you bags to find them, there will be a $5,000 fine when I do.”

I wondered what any RCMP on the other side of the doors leading to the inspection area might have to say about said possession were I actually in possession of any said drugs, fine or no fine.

“Go nuts,” I said, nudging my backpack towards him.

He began unzipping and un-cinching the bag, shifting articles, removing large, neatly packed and stacked zones of clothes, unfolding them and spreading them out. I watched the clock, marking the minutes, noting the passage of seconds, inching their way towards my potentially missing my flight.
“You missed this spot,” I suggested, once or twice, pointing out this pocket or that, hoping to spread up the process.

“This is a really nice bag,” the Customs Agent said.

“Thanks,” I said. What else would I say? I didn’t trust myself to say much else.

Then he leaned towards me and whispered, “I know you don’t have anything, but my boss is over there watching and I have to go through the motions.”

“Take your time,” I said, not really meaning it, noting I still had thirty minutes to boarding time.
I noticed then that every inspection table was occupied, and there had to be at least twenty people in queue for their own personal attention.

Either someone had smoked a joint in the washroom, contaminating everyone who passed by, or the dog had had a cold. I’m only thankful they didn’t strip search me in the back room. Randomly.
So, while in Amsterdam, Amsterdam being Amsterdam, I had no intention of having a repeat experience. I stayed clean. I wandered about and took snaps, lingered over bridges, soaking in the sights and smells along the canals, marvelling how many riverboat apartments there were moored along their lengths, how many bicycles there were chained to the wrought iron and the stands, how tiny some of the delivery trucks were weaving through the pedestrians, and how warm it was in the sun, yet so cold and damp in the shadows. And how every red lit alleyway was bounded by the most garish and suggestive graffiti. Like I said: I read. I bought some souvenirs. I nursed beers, sipped espresso, chatted with those inclined to do so, and when the time came, I made my way back to Centraal Station and Schiphol.

I returned too early. There was little to do past security lock-up. There were the usual pubs and cafes and restaurants charging extortionary prices for far too insubstantial portions, there were book stores, there were plastic seats. There were bold and not particularly beautiful carpets one expects in all airports.

I was thoroughly exhausted by then. I’d been up for over 30 hours and was feeling the effects of sleep deprivation. I could not concentrate. I reread the same passages without processing the words. I was freezing. I dug my fleece insert out of my three-in-one and zipped the neck to my chin, despite watching passers-by parade past in t-shirts and shorts. I embraced myself. And I still shivered.
I boarded. I found my seat, pleased that it was a window seat, pleased that I’d have the opportunity to rest my head in the nook between the headrest and wall. I’d tried and failed in the past to sleep when in the middle seat, and dreaded the prospect of being awake for another ten hours of flight, and another eighteen hours afterwards. I’d be a wreck.

I need not have worried.

I set down, clipped on my seatbelt, and decided to close my eyes for a moment or two while the rest of the passengers shuffled to their seats.

Someone nudged me.

What the fuck! I thought. I was pissed. Leave me alone. Let me sleep.

“Hey buddy,” the guy beside me said.

I opened my eyes and glared at him.

“Are you getting off with the rest of us,” he said, sliding to the edge and standing, pulling down his carry-on.

I looked around. The plane was almost empty. I’d slept through boarding, the taxi and take-off, the ten hour flight, all meals, landing, the taxi to the Jo’burg terminal, and the disembarking of most of the passengers.

Best flight ever!