Amsterdam, Again

It was time for me to depart Egypt. I had an early flight, the first of the day it seemed, one to be shared by Derik and Jackie. We dragged ourselves out of bed, too early for breakfast at the hotel, wrestled our luggage into the shuttle and tried to claw our way to wakefulness on the ride to the airport.

We queued up, passed security and grabbed a morsel of airport breakfast before boarding the flight to Amsterdam. We’d already compared itineraries, discovering that we both had the day to kill before our flights to Toronto and Montreal, respectively, theirs leaving about an hour after mine. We enquired about whether it was possible to sit together for the flight, but were told that the flight was full and that it wouldn’t be possible. We didn’t argue. It was only a four-and-a-half-hour flight.

Once we’d taken our seats, we took note of where we were to one another, theirs about five rows forward of mine. This gave me an ideal seat for what ensued. There was a snag. Derik had bought a Zulu thrusting spear and leather shield while in Khan el Khalili and had not shipped it. Why did he buy a South African spear while in Egypt? I don’t know. He took a fancy to it and had to have it.

“They’re never going to let you board the plane with that thing,” I said, noting how he’d only wrapped newsprint around the blade as “packing” before departing for the airport.

“Sure they will,” he said. He fully expected to board the flight with a two-foot bladed spear. I thought him an idiot for even attempting it. Somehow, he did. How he got past security with it is anyone’s guess but they let him pass. Not so the flight attendant. He had to check the spear, she said. He refused. I thought I was going to see him ejected from the plane. He finally let them take it after about five minutes of rather tense discussion, actually following them to make sure that it remained stowed on the plane and not removed altogether. We made a couple attempts at chatting in the aisle, but were shooed back to our seats by the flight attendants. I settled in to take another stab at Gravity’s Rainbow. The hours ticked by.

My mates asked if there was time to go into the city. None of us wanted to spend the day in the airport. I did some quick math in my head to see if it was feasible. I had eight hours to kill before my flight. I was thinking, thirty minutes into the city, thirty minutes back, and hour and a half to pass customs; that left about five and a half hours in the city, max. I’d rounded up all my times to be on the safe side, promising myself that I’d be back on the train to Schiphol in five hours whether they were with me or not. I thought it doable, but we wouldn’t see much. We locked up our luggage and made for the train.
We bought our tickets, boarded the train and arrived about twenty minutes later, disembarking with the herd, pressed through the urine-soaked underpass and out onto Stationsplein, then Sint Nicklaasbrug, Prins Hendrikkade, and then Damrak. I was getting rather good at this, having been through here a few times already. Although this time I was aware that the clock was ticking. Very aware. My eyes kept a close watch on my watch and whatever clocks happened to drift by. It was 10 am.

Derik declared his desire to visit a cannabis café. I was less inclined, having already experienced the tender scrutiny of customs agents once already, but Jackie thought we should stick together. I deferred to her wishes, still a little smitten with her, despite the understanding that these five or so hours were the last that I’d ever see of her.

“You want to smoke a joint?” I asked. “I know just the place,” taking them directly to the closest one I knew of, The Grasshopper. There was nobody in there. It looked as though it was just opening; not surprising, as de Wallen had never been hopping anytime I’d wandered its warrens. I think the Red Light District is more of a nighttime attraction than a day one.

Derik ordered his joint. And smoked the whole thing. Jackie helped a little, taking a drag or two or three, but most of it ended up in Derik’s lungs. I abstained. Sure, you say, not believing me for an instant. But I did. I really did. Cannabis had been a college thing for the most part, long set aside.
And good thing too. That joint was stronger than anything Derik had ever smoked before. He was so stoned he could barely walk, and every bit of motion and glitter was a distraction that was irresistible. It was like herding a cat, a slow walking, giggling cat. Jackie was in better shape, but she was in no way an adult for the next couple hours, either. I dragged them into a café, ordered a round of coffees and beers, and ran a finger down the menu until deciding what each of us was going to have for lunch. Once they’d sobered up a little, I brought them to the little bakery I’d discovered, the one that specialized in deserts. Jackie was a big fan of deserts, having said more than once that desert should be had every day, so I thought it would please her. It did. But upon completion of an éclair or two, I noticed the time. My point of no return had come and gone.

“I’ve got to get to the train,” I said, ready to leave even if they weren’t.

I suspect the prospect of being left alone in Amsterdam, still somewhat stoned and left to their own devices, sobered them up enough to see the need for haste. We hoofed it back to the station, boarded the train and leapt out at Schiphol station. We collected the bags from the lockers. Once past customs, I looked up at the departures board, searching for my gate. It was the furthest one. Of course it was. Just then, my flight was called. “This is the final boarding call for flight…” I said my goodbyes then, but they insisted on seeing me off. I wanted to run. They did not. I feared that the gate would be closed to boarding when I arrived. It was not. The last few people were at the gate when I arrived. I exhaled the breath that was locked in my chest, my relief palpable.

Derik and I shook hands. “Be good,” I said. He laughed.

I hugged Jackie for a few moments longer than mere acquaintances might. I kissed her on the cheek as I pulled away. “Take care of him,” I said, even though they were just friends, “he needs minding.”
We waved, I backed away and then turned and jogged the last few steps to my gate. The gate attendant peered at my ticket and waved me through.

The time had come. My promise was at hand.

I fished out my final pack of cigarettes and my lighter, dropping them in the bin as I passed.

Amsterdam, A Return

I had always wanted to go to Egypt. I’d watched countless hours of documentaries about it and its importance to the emergence of civilization, not to mention Cecil B. DeMille’s career. Contiki Tours offered a Nile package, and I’d had a blast on the Contiki South Africa tour, and at 35, I still qualified, so I decided to book with them again.

Then I met Bev. We were in early days, just dating then, so I expected to leave and return to an email saying that she’d met someone else while I was gone. There was that possibility. We didn’t know much about one another then.

I researched what weather I’d expect to face, not to mention what was socially acceptable. Lonely Planet was a help in that department. I discovered that it was considered rude to turn down a cigarette when offered one, hence my deciding to wait until after the trip to quit smoking. That was probably just an excuse to delay the inevitable, but I wanted to give myself the best chance of success. I packed light-ish. There was no need for rain gear (Egypt being in the thick of a desert), but there was great need for hiking boots and long pants. Knees were a no-no, so long pants were a necessity, although I did pack shorts and a couple bathing suits—I was a tourist, after all. Everything went into the backpack. There was really no need for a backpack, but I had one and was hell bent on using it.

Flights were similar to the prior year. Timmins, to Toronto, Toronto to Amsterdam, with yet another eighteen hours to kill until connecting to Cairo. This time I had a mask and earplugs. This time I was prepared. This time I was well rested upon landing in Amsterdam, or at least reasonably well rested. And this time I had some understanding of the city, the trams, the museums, and confidence in the timetable I needed to keep.

I passed customs, caught the train, disembarked at Centraal Station and found a café for breakfast. Exactly the same as last time, but this time without trepidation, this time without the weight of exhaustion pressing down on me, taxing my thought processes.

I made my way to Voorburgwal and caught transit to The Rijksmuseum. I wanted to see Rembrandt’s “The Night’s Watch”; I wanted to see the van Gogh collection. I took my time, sitting in front of the limited list of masterpieces I sought out, reading from the museum guide book, taking in that I’d read and applying it to what I was seeing. I didn’t stay anywhere near as long as I wished to; time was short, and eighteen hours is not as long as one might think.

But I was of a mind not to rush. Amsterdam is a walking city and I wanted to get a feel for it as such. I didn’t know when I might be back, if ever, so walking afforded me the best view I was ever likely to get. It was only a couple kilometres, I reasoned, and I still had time. I took what looked to be the most direct route, up Nieuwe Spiegelstrat. I was making great time until I came face to face with a canal crossing my path and no bridge spanning it. I crossed at Vijzelstraat, a couple hundred meters over, following Rokin after crossing yet another canal. Each step brought me into further confusion. It was dizzying navigating streets that thread between canals. I began to wonder if I were lost. I wasn’t. I just thought I was.

Amsterdam is also a city navigated by bicycles, so I was passed by more than a few of them, astonished at what people managed to balance upon them and still keep to their seat. What Amsterdam is not, is a car friendly city. There are cars, but they are small, compact 1.2 litre affairs; anything larger would find their route too narrow and risk being hung up on curves and curbs. I saw one such, hung up on the curb, its wheels racing, a crowd gathering to watch the fun before a few men stepped forward to help. They were still helping long after I’d seen the need to be on my way. I was hungry by then and in search of a café.

I grew hungrier still. I began to wonder whether I’d made a mistake walking, thinking that it was taking longer than it should to get back to the city core and its main canal, wondering if I were in fact following a ring route and not a spoke. I didn’t have a map other than the one in the Lonely Planet Guide I was carrying and it wasn’t as detailed as I’d have wished. That was stupid of me. But I continued to cross canal after canal, each curving forward from me. That seemed promising. What I saw seemed similar to what my little map was showing me, anyway. I gave a sigh of relief upon spilling onto Damrak after about an hour. I recognized it instantly, thankful I hadn’t gotten myself turned around.

I decided to keep to De Wallen. I ate, I had a few beers, a few espressos, I sought out and found a few treasures, like a sliver of a bakery that specialized in pastries.
I had an early supper, preferring that to some gourmet salami and baguette for twenty bucks at the airport.

I lingered over a book back at Schiphol until my flight was called, tackling and failing to complete Pynchon’s “Gravity’s Rainbow,” sleeping well on the plane, waking shortly before landing in Egypt in the relative coolness of an Arab dawn.

I made it. Strike it off the list. I’d always wanted to come to Egypt. And now I was there.

I hoped this adventure would be as memorable as the last.

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!

De Wallen

I decided I wanted to go to Africa. It was the mythic land of Johnny Weissmuller and National Geographic specials, of lions and leopards and lizards, oh my!

My travel agent was confused. But there’s no scuba diving in Africa, she said. A lot she knew. There was loads of diving to be done in Africa, in the Red Sea, along the Ivory Coast, inland at Malawi, and round the Southern Coast. But I didn’t want to go scuba diving in Africa. I wanted to go on safari.
I chose South Africa. Apartheid had fallen with Mandela, but I suspected that South Africa might not be safe after the Great Man had passed on. So, the time was ripe, I thought. No time like the present.
My travel agent was at a loss. Apparently, she had little experience booking holidays outside of corporate travel brochures, something I was beginning to suspect after two years of pulling hair and teeth. I suggested Contiki Tours, pulling that stored nugget from my memory. Contiki catered to travelers under 35. I was 34. I qualified. We found a two-week circle tour of the country, beginning in Johannesburg, ending in Cape Town. I signed on the dotted line, checked my passport, and boarded the plane.

I’d never travelled east before, to the Far East yes, but that was heading west. This would be my first experience flying to Europe, into the sunrise. It’s only an eight-hour flight. Getting enough sleep on a red-eye is hard enough without the prospect of such truncated rest. It can be even more problematic with a screaming babe within earshot. Even more so with six. And me without earplugs.

I alit in Schiphol Airport outside Amsterdam without having slept a wink. It was 5 am local time, and I’d been up for about 18 hrs by then. My flight to Jo’burg wasn’t until 10 pm. I was a wee bit tired, and the prospect of spending seventeen hours in the airport seemed an exercise in misery, so I decided to take the train into Amsterdam. Why not? I thought, who wouldn’t want to see De Wallen, the Red Light District?

I passed customs, caught the train after studying the timetables for exhaustive minutes, deciding when the best time to return was, so as not to miss my flight, and I was off. I arrived in Metro-Centraal Station before the sun had risen completely, the early morning still basking the city in a ghastly damp grey. Pigeons roosted and strutted, but not many people. In fact, the only people up and about seemed to be those who’d disembarked with me. I followed them, thinking rather holistically that they knew where they were going. They led me out onto Stationsplein and then to Damrak Street. I found a café, just past the Sexmuseum, that was only just then opening, the waiter’s key still jiggling the lock.

“Coffee?” I asked. He nodded and let me in, gestured for me to sit anywhere I liked, and thrust a menu in front of me. I pointed at what looked like a full breakfast, and said, “Coffee!” again, this time with more certainty, adding, “Juice?” with less. He nodded. I ate, the sun rose. Damrak woke with me, brightening, taking on much needed colour. I found a pad of city maps in the café, so I peeled one off and stepped back out into the newly lit city. Streetcars rolled up and down the street while I continued strolling south. I had no clue where they were going, indeed, I had no clue where I was going, so I watched them pass without caring where they were headed. I noted the District was across from me, just across the canal and made for it, crossing a bricked causeway, still slick with dew.

I crossed at Oudebrugsteeg, smelled the Grasshopper Café as I passed and began threading my way through the warren of De Wallen. It was not at all claustrophobic, if it was narrow. Three and four story buildings, all pressed tightly together rose up from the cobbled ways, giving the impression of a rabbit’s warren. But by and large, the streets were wide, easily accommodating the delivery trucks that were already flitting to and fro within, replenishing the prior night’s excesses. Terraces spilled out onto the streets. Flags of all nationalities hung limp from all manner of bar, café, hotel and hostel. Small signs, neon glass and wrought iron inched out from their fronts. Windows and menus advertised what lay behind and within. But at that time, almost everything was asleep.

I wandered up and down its narrow streets until I saw what I sought, the fabled shopping windows with their overhung red neon rights, made famous long before Sting wailed to Roxanne that she didn’t have to turn on the red light. Where in one, a scantily clad lady of the early morning night in fishnet stockings stood statuesque before the cluster of young men transfixed by her very presence, and I suppose working up the courage to solicit her; in another, a middle-aged woman toiled with the door open to another such den, changing sheets, hoovering up and wiping down the leavings of the night before. I peeked. It was long and narrow. A tiny single width bed, no larger than a cot, stretched back from behind a drawn-back curtain. That room looked so horribly lonely to me. It didn’t hold even the hint of romance. It’s not supposed to, I suppose.

A family of four strolled passed me as I looked in. The mother held up a map, and was tracing their path upon it, the father behind her, dragging their children along hand in hand, hot in pursuit of her as she dashed through the debauchery. I decided to follow.

I spilled out into Oudekerkspein, a wide circle of courtyard surrounding a church. A church! Der Oude Kerk, in fact, Amsterdam’s oldest Parish Church. In the middle of the Red Light District. I could not believe my eyes. I had to remind myself that this had not always been a haven to toking tourists and red lit prostitutes. It was once, and probably still was, a place of all sort of commerce and residence. Who else was likely to fill those other three floors above the street? Tall stately trees burst up from the cobblestones, their leaves dappling the cobblestones with green and gold.

My eyes darted here and there, taking in its red bricked expanse, its iron works, its stained glass.
That’s when I saw it: a single brass cobblestone amid the multitudes of green and grey and red directly in line with its entrance.

It was moulded in the shape of a hand clutching a breast.