Amsterdam Wrap-Up

Amsterdam Wrap Up

Greatest Moments
The library is fantastic. Honestly. It's seven floors of pure awesome – with one dedicated to cds and dvds. Another is a restaurant. Floor 4 has live music, and hosts radio shows. What's there not to love? I even felt guilty when I didn't pay my 20 euro cents to use the washroom. The free walking tour was spectacular too.

“I could do without” Moments
Not following my own rules.

Things to Return For
The Van Gogh museum. And I'd also love to return with friends. As I said many times, I do not think that this is a place for solo travellers. This is a place where you need people, and that combined delight makes it fantastic. Is what I'd assume.

What I'll Remember
Being terrified of the prostitute on Elite Street,

Shout Outs
sigh...

Final Day in Amsterdam

All last night, as I lay in bed drifting off to sleep, I thought about the delicious included breakfast that I was to enjoy upon waking up. I thought about the glass after glass of juice I would drink, and the odd cup of hot chocolate, just because it was there. I then pictured the sandwich I would construct, followed by the second I would pack away as my sneaky lunch later on. There was black currant jam, and a giant table on which I could scrapbook all the pieces of paper that I had collected through Copenhagen, Amsterdam, and The Hague.

It would be the perfect way to start off my final day in the city. Relaxing, unhurried, and delightful.

It was a beautiful sunny day in Amsterdam! The skies were blue, the sun was warm, and people were smiling as they enjoyed a reprieve from the grey they'd been surrounded with for days.

And then I woke up. What a terrible dream to have, only to wake to the sound of rain pelting down outside. Clearly, the world is conspiring against me. But, as I was snuggled under my warm blankets – the first time I'd not used my sleep sheet this whole trip, being able to roll and relax however I wanted – I thought of the hot chocolate that awaited me the moment I threw my clothes on and got up.

That was all I needed to think of. So on went the clothes, and down the stairs I rushed, through a hall, up a final flight of stairs and – A giant lock on the breakfast door. A giant lock on the breakfast door?!

The sign read Breakfast: 7.30 – 9.30. Had I missed it? Was I too early? Looking at my watch, I saw it was just 8:00. The perfect time to show up for a long breakfast break. Not too early as to seem as eager as I was, and not too late that I'd be hurried. No – this was the perfect time. And yet – the giant lock.

Down the stairs I went to the main desk. Waiting in line. Wait, what was that noise? Rushing back to the once locked breakfast door I found it – still locked. Sigh. Back at the main desk, I was told that the person manning breakfast had overslept, and should be here soon – but as they said that thirty minutes ago, he had no faith in their actions. I was awarded six euros and sent out into the world to find food.

Six euros? How was I supposed to get glass after glass of juice, two sandwiches, and other delightful snacks for only six euros? An outrage this was! An outrage. But also the perfect opportunity to go explore the southern parts of the city that I had neglected since day one. Sure it was raining, but – ohh... It stopped. Excellent.

So out I went to the central rings, and beyond. There, I found something that I had been wondering about for days. There was a grocery store. So in I slipped, looking to spend six euros on snacks, and food, and whatever I could get my hands on.

Oh my god! I'm not in Scandinavia anymore! I saw loaf after loaf of bread, for the price of 58 euro cents! This was for twelve slices of bread. This would have cost four to six times as much over the last few weeks, but now here it was, being practically given away. And seven slices of cheese for a euro twenty? eighteen slices of meat for one fifty? Things were turning out for the better here. And juice, and two puddings (only seventeen cents each!) and I was set. All in all it came to five twenty five. I was ahead here. So, stopping in a bus stop to sit down, I constructed my six sandwiches, ate a piece of cheese, polished off the puddings, and sipped my juice.

Foiled!

I had finally been foiled by the European yogurt fruit drinks. This was no juice! But the grocery store was so far away. This liquid slop would haunt me the rest of the day. But little by little it was consumed – lactose intolerance be damned!



Up and out of the city I went, through parks and past all number of ridiculous elephants that cover the city in their elephanty goodness. Then there was the museum dedicated to some painted. I don't know – he did something called Starry Night? I dunno. I didn't go in. I'm sure he's not that big a deal anyway, right.

(...Stupid MOMA not having that painting in when I was in New York.)

Then I headed into Vondelpark, where it – of course – started to rain. Once I had my jacket, and my bags fly, on it started to slow down. But what else could it have possibly done? As I stuffed a sandwich into my face, I paused to watch the herons, which remind me of my cottage, childhood, and family back in Huntsville, Ontario. There's something prehistoric about how they walk, and stalk their prey. Anything that reminds me of dinosaurs is instantly granted a number of bonus points. There's Awesome, and then there's Dinosaur-Awesome, you must remember.

It was all just aimless wandering from that point on, as I made my way back through the city, past sights I'd not yet seen, and over numerous other canals, just like the ones I had become rather familiar with. Although, watching the garbage boat clean debris out of the water was quite an interesting experience.



If you've got to be a garbage man, you might as well be this kind. You get to spend your days on the water. You get to use cranes. What's not to love?

Through my stumbling I ended up back at the Anne Frank house. And for all of three minutes the sun really did come out. The sky really did become blue in a small patch. And then, it was gone. But in that time, I took more pictures that I had the entirity of the day. One might, upon looking at them, question if I just turned three hundred and sixty degrees snapping shots all the while. Of course I did, would be the answer. What would you have done?

And then, on the half hour, the church bells began to ring.



Now, Anne Frank wrote how it made her day to hear those bells ring. However, I question if they still ring the same way as they used to. I question this, not because of the music they make, but because of how often they make said music. They play the full music every hour, and every half hour. And they play on the fifteens as well. If Anne really was waiting for these moments, and they played just as often, she must have been on hyperactive attic junkie. Was that insensitive? I'm sure they only played once a day decades past. Right?

And then, four afters after I set out, I was back at the hostel. Lactose intolerance would not be damed, it seemed.

With photos transfered, and this very entry written to this very point, I grabbed (or rather, I will grab – oh sense of time is getting all messed up now. How meta.) a copy of the free walking tour brochure – as it also held information about the not so free red light district tour. For ten euros, I would be a fool to miss it. So, with that in hand, and information secured, I set off to the library to waste away the next four and a half hours before the walking tour would begin – conveniently just down the street from that very library. What luck!

A Day at The Hague

Ah, The Hague. A city with its very own article. You have to love a city that is so sure of itself that it's not Hague. Oh no – it's The Hague. Imagine being from The San Francisco, or The Toronto. Or, just for fun, The Mexico City. There can be no others.

Yes, The Hague (and don't you forget to capitalize) is a place that most of us have heard of. If only because every time there's a war criminal on the television, they end up in The Hague. I used to think that it was a place. A jail. A court room. Nope – it's a city. And if you're in Amsterdam, one that is definitely worth the trip.

For less than twenty euros I managed to grab myself a ticket across the country. Well, alright, not that far across the country. But I ended up in another major city: living in Canada has really messed up my sense of location, on a world scale.

When I got there, my first move was to find the tourist information office, located ten minutes from the central station. But fear not, future travellers, there is no worry here because many sign posts point out the way. Once there, you'll be offered the purchase of a number of maps, and walking tours of the city. Please – who wants to by a map of a city that you can see all of in under three hours? So go straight to the The (c-c-c-combo breaker) Hague magazine and rip out the last page. Don't worry, this is the one free thing in the whole place. I think. Well it was free for me, and no one chased me out.

Now in your hand you have a delightful map of the downtown area. Now, let me tell you all the places you need to see, in order to say that you've “done” this city.

Step one, march on over to the art gallery with Girl With a Pearl Earing. If you like art, you can even go inside and explore the gallery. Otherwise, you can simply enjoy the giant banner of it hanging from the outside. Or, you could just enjoy one of the numerous replicas around the city, and in the brochures. Still – you can't really say you've seen it, unless you've seen it.

I have not seen it.

Next, skip through the giant arches to check out the political seat of power for the country. It's an odd thing – because the seat of government is not in the capital. You know what other country should try something like that? Canada. Yeah, you're cute Ottawa – but we all know that Toronto is where the life is. Or just for kicks, make Quebec City our capital and watch those French try to declare sovereignty then!



Once you've taken a picture or two there, you can move on. You're going to want to walk up up up. Stop at the palace, take a picture of it standing on the blocks under the tree for some delightful framing, and then walk further north to the Peace Palace. This is where all those nasty men and women get put on trail, and ordered to who knows where.

Yes, the Peace Palace. What's not to love? It's gated off. It's hard to book a tour. It's full of tour buses. What a magical place! On the other hand, you can see the World Peace Flame. It's a little eternal flame that has rocks from every country in the world surrounding it. Yup, it's the first time every country in the world has ever gone in on one project together. So my question – why is the flame so ridiculously small? Ahh – the flame represents our hope for world peace. Yes, I understand now.



But then, what if a new country is formed (come on Tibet! Lets go Taiwan!) there's no expansion room to add these new rocks. Ohh well, they're cut. On the plus side, Canada has a pretty spectacular red and black rock in the works. And then you look at portugal, who have arranged 9 cubed rocks. They form a checker board. Ohh I'm sorry Portugal, didn't you understand? ONE rock. But they didn't want to be rude, so they added them all. Way to go seat of Government in Portugal. What will the citizens be like under such rule? And showoffiness!

O.K. so you've seen those big four things. Head back down to the tourist center, walk up the street a bit, and walk through “The Passage.” Yup. That's what they've named their shopping arcade. The passage. Because it's a passage. If you look at the names of other buildings in the Netherlands, or paintings here – you really start to realize how lazy these people were. They need to hire some Australians to add more flavour. "[The Passage]; that's a silly name. I was going to call [it] chizzawuzzas.”

The passage will also lead you right back to the central station. Convenient!

But wait – stop in at a McDonalds first. You'll never forgive yourself if you don't try a McKroket. Yes, I do love sampling local treats at various McDonalds, and this is one not to be skipped. It appears to have been a friend patty stuffed with mashed potatoes and steak, covered in horsey sauce. It's an Amsterdam specialty, and not to be missed.

But don't give up your 25 euro cents to the mean old dungeon keeper at the washroom. Seriously – how does a whole continent say it's ok that people charge them to pee? What we're paying for the lady to keep things clean. I tell you what – I'd stage my own protest. Sure, I'll pay your fee – but you're gonna damn well work for it!

But no – I will not pay, so what did I do? Did my pants require a good washing afterwards? (well they do – but not for that reason. Shirts, I can change every few days... but the shorts. The poor poor shorts.) I simply went to a Burger King. They have free washrooms, like the whole world should have! Are you listening Europe?! Washrooms should always be free! Especially if you're a paying customer – McDonald's. Do you hear my ire McDonald's?!

Sigh.

And then it was back on the train, returning to Amsterdam.

The Hague: been there, done that, almost bought the postcard.

Marijuana is Illegal

You know, you try to tell people that marijuana is not legal in Amsterdam, but they never listen. Did I not write it on my first entry? I'm pretty sure I did. But, no, people say – the movies say it's fine. And people smoke it in the coffee shops all the time. What could possibly go wrong?

Well the thing is – the police will let things go if it's good for the economy, good for the people, and safe. And hidden. That's the important part. There's a reason that they're called coffee shops and not marijuana dens.

But, last night as I was walking home, I saw two people in the streets smoking up. This was unfortunate because I was walking in the safe wake of two police officers. These two offices, having the same field of vision of myself, also saw the two tokers.

The police had a nice close talk with these two gentlemen, reminding them that there was laws in this city. They also asked who sold it to them, where they got it. I guess one answered correctly, because he was sent on his way, looking sheepishly over his shoulder at his buddy who was being led away in handcuffs.

I can only assume he answered wrong.

Remember kids: Marijuana, only legal in some South American counties, and India – provided you buy it legally, and use it for religious purposes.

The Delayed Delayed Train Post

A Day at the Museum

Now, in reality I don't under value this point, but I can see how it may come across in my writing, as if I do. Amsterdam, is the first city I have been to that actually “feels like somewhere else.” Yeah, Scandinavia was great and all, but I kept feeling as if I could round the corner and find myself at Yonge and Dundas square, just in time for whatever ridiculous festival they had going on to close down the summer season. But here – here, I feel that I could walk for hours and never see a single thing reminiscent of anywhere remotely close to home.

It's a feeling that is at once alienating, and encapsulating. I am part of nothing, and because of that I am part of something. I'm not gonna lie, it's pretty peachy. The city is one giant geometric shape that I still haven't managed to wrap my mind around, and try as I might to explore outside the inner canals, I haven't managed to find my way out there. And not for lack of trying either. It's just that I somehow have managed to lose myself in this 2,5 KM in diameter city.

Today, the effort will be made to finally get to the rumored parks that lie just beyond Nassaukade. Why, I've been told there's a Vondelpark that is spectacular. Though how spectacular anything an be under these blanks of grey skies is beyond me right now. I knew as I watched the blue overhead, stuck on my most delayed train, that that would be the one day of nice weather. I hoped against it, but – you know – that's just how it is some times. Every now and then, the weather gods smile upon you, but more often than not they hate you, and want you to remember that fact. Lest we forget, and what not.

But my first mission for today will be exploring the Anne Frank house, as I have mentioned a number of times previously. I've built it up, so – in theory – it could end up crashing down in a pile of disappointments, but I'm thinking it won't. Somehow, I reckon that if the ghosts of old vikings were enough to stir me to feeling in Oslo, those that roam this property should be quite evocative.

Ahh – in yesterdays post, you may have noticed our most excellent tour guide posing beside what looks like a metal rhombus. Is that the right word? A rhombus? He's standing beside a giant metal four sided object that is not a square. Let us just leave it at that, and move on to the question of just what it is. They can be found in most 90 degree corners. What could they be, do you think? What are they for? They're slanted. They have other slates coming up at random angles?

That's right! They're so if you feel like peeing in the corner on the way home from the bar, said piss will come splashing back all over your pants and your shoes, and everything else within a terrible terrible splash zone! How ingenious. But then where do people offload their urine when they are in the most dire of situations late at night?

There are these green cylinders that you walk into in the middle of the street. Trust me, you'll know them when you smell them. There, you simply stand inside and go onto the ground. Yeah – that's right – some cities have pits, or constructed toilets, or even those standing urinals like in London. But here? Nope – get inside the green cylinder and pee on the ground. Why not, yeah? Because if you value your shoes, you'll stay far away.

Apparently 200 women dropped their pants and started to pee off a bridge in an act of protest, some decades ago – as they wanted their own. So the city agreed, and built large yellow cylinders for the ladies. Unfortunately, this led to a lot of sexual assault, and therefor they were shut down in the seventies.

Fun fact – a good game, while drunk, if you're a local is picking up bikes that are not securely locked to anything, and chucking them in the river. What fun. The game enters play, as you need to see whom, yourself, or your mates, can make a bigger splash in the water.

Well, once again there was little to no exploring. After the Anne Frank museum, it was raining. Not a big rain – but rain enough, to send me straight (well not exactly) to the library to test out my brand new North America to European plug converter which will actually fit in the sockets here. Works like a charm. For the next two months i can charge batteries, and use my computer at the same time! Magical! I'll have to buy a new one for the other countries too though. Ohh bother.


Despite the rain, it did cause me to write a haiku:

The raindrops fall
like snowflakes caught in an
early winters breeze

That's enough of that now. So after the Anne Frank house, I went to the train station to book passage out of this crazy place. I took a number, after being told I could use the self serve ticket machines to book my own ticket. I knew this was a lie, but I grabbed the number anyway. By the time I had finished explaining the system to an Italian guy beside me my number was up, and I figured I'd go talk to a real person anyway. You'd think these events – me taking the ticket, and me being called – happened almost instantaneously. You'd hardly think that there was a twenty minute period explaining a simple online form. But, considering his English wasn't that strong, I'm surprised he got booked where we wanted to go. By the way is Milano actually Florance? Well that's where he's going – and he seemed happy with it, so very well then.

And then it was on to the library, where I discovered my parents had discovered how to use skype. Fast forward and hour, and I'm uploading video, and pictures, just like a champ. And with all this direct power, there's nothing that can stop me! Nothing. Well, I guess closing hours could stop me, but we're not there yet. I think we're still three and a half hours off.

On that note, I should start to upload the train videos.

So how was the Anne Frank house, you might be asking. Powerful. And strange – very strange.



I'm glad that I did this museum at this stage in my life, and not a day sooner. Being so close to, and touching, history is always a hard thing to get ones mind around. Even if you know – you understand – that something is true, it's really hard to actually know... it's true.

Walking around the first building, where Otto Frank ran his business was a chilling experience. This was the very place where his factory was run. This was not a recreation. This was not moved to a new location. This was the very same floor they worked on. And this was the very same place where footsteps overhead might have been heard, had the Frank family ever failed to tread lightly.

Walking in, the first thing you notice is – what a lovely area. What a beautiful place to live.

And from there you go from room to room in the office, and the factory, watching videos along the way, and looking at a variety of items that had been collected over the years. Identification cards, forged documents, shipping orders.

Then you reach a room with nothing in it but a bookcase. The bookcase. The movable bookcase that the people living in the annex had to creep out of when they wanted to leave their hiding place. When Anne writes about having to duck and jump every time she wanted to leave... well, so to did you. And the words come alive. Because, this is not some place made similar to her world, as if you were experiencing the life of another Anne on Price Edward Island. This was the very house, and the very floorboards, that she walked on, not that many decades past.

Just before you head through to the secret quarters, you look out the window, at the canal below, and are once again stunned by the beauty of this place. In my mind, and many movies, the nazi's only rounded people up on overcast days, in decrepit ghettos. But here, in beautiful Amsterdam, they were pushed like cattle through multicoloured streets, under blue skies, with reflective waters all around. This is real life – seen more or less as it is, rather than through a tainted lens of pathetic fallacy.

In the Annex you step first through Otto's room, and then into Anne's. The map Otto used to track the allied invasion from Normandy still hangs on the wall, as too do the markings of the two Frank girls heights, as they grew throughout their stay.

Anne's room is decorated with posted pictures from magazines, and cards. She wrote that it made the room a little more cheerful. But now faded, and slightly torn, they only add to the haunting atmosphere that permeates the entire building.

Then it's up the stairs, to the main room, where menus typed out for special occasions are preserved near the stove, and various texts find themselves placed in glass containers. These are the things from their daily life, novels – prayer books – that would have very little significance if not for the events that took hold of their lives.

There is no furniture here. Nothing to show how it would have looked. For that you can only look at a model near the entrance. When the Nazi's came, they had the place stripped bare, and when Otto - the only survivor from the camps – returned he asked that it be kept that way.

Then to Peter's room, and finally you can peek up into the attic. The very attic where Anne stole her first kiss, watched the world outside, and was able to escape – spend time away – from the rest of the family below. Though you are not permitted access, mirrors give you a clear view of the entire area. This is not a room quite like what was described in the text. This was that very room.

And then you exit. Exit the Annex, and return to the house. And there, you see the final few artifacts. One of which is the German paper confirming that the Frank family had been fully moved to the concentration camps. And you can watch a video recorded by one of Anne's friends who was in a neighbouring camp, who threw rations over the fence for her.

Then the final staircase, where you can see the original diary. The red tartan covered book, with the girls own writing within.

And you realize how strange it is that this matters. And how strange it is that you care this much for one girl's story. Because she was only one of six million. And then you exit the museum, send a video email home, from the terminals provided for just such a thing, and you're gone. And the experience fades, and you can rejoin the world outside, rejoin the modern times, and perhaps go for an ice cream, or a beer, or something of that nature.


Because you start to forget – and you have to. Otherwise...


One of the more interesting things is an exhibit at the very end of the museum called freedom2be or something like that. Basically they show videos and ask tough questions such as “should head scarves be banned from schools.” And you push a red button, or a green button to agree or disagree. Then the stats come up for who said what in the room, and who said what over all time.

What's most fantastic is that this program proved why democracy is stupid. And how easy people are to lead. One of the questions began: “Free speech is a fundamental freedom, blah blah blah, should people have the freedom to express their thoughts.” 90% yes. Next question “should people be able to self-publish text on the internet denying the holocaust.” 8% (I think just me) yes. Ugh – most of the audience just contradicted themselves.

Look – I'm not saying that it's a good thing that people deny the holocaust – but at the same time, I'm glad that I live in a country where people are allowed to express that opinion. The same group then were 50% in favour of “should rappers be allowed to express anti-gay statements in their music?” Well come on people. Where is your consistency? They're all the sae question. Vote with your wallets here, and your attention. If people express wacky ideas you disagree with, then either show them as such, or stay away.

Freedom of speech – its a great thing. And 50% of people seem to think so... 66% of the time. Ai ya.

Well – that's that. I'll stay in the library until I get all my media online. Tomorrow – perhaps tomorrow I'll finally explore the city!

Amsterdam Graffiti

Day 2 in Amsterdam

Well it's my second day here. And if you're reading this before my day one post (not the - supposed to be short - one, but the real one... Well then, hopefully I'll be able to change the date and get everything back in order. Bear with me. I do so dislike not having my own computer. Big shout out to Gap Mike who sold me his eeepc and made all this possible.)

So what have I bee up to today? Well, why not start by saying that I'm in the library right now at 6.30 in the afternoon. There seems to be a big radius around me, free of people. Do you think it has anything to do with my travellers musk? You could bottle that scent and sell it to the rich, without a doubt. If Tyler Durden could sell them that soap, I could sell that most delightful, rich in what are they called? Those things that make animals like other animals? Well - there you go. I'm sure I could.

Now I will say that it has been three days since my hair has been washed, but by brushing it 100 times on each side, I've given it a most lovely shine. And it's not my fault that my hair hasn't been washed! I've wanted to. Three days ago, I missed out, because I had to make my check out time. And then, I was on a train. Today the shower I jumped into was stuck on "Way to bloody hot, and scalding" and it was all I could do to simply use my delightful neon blue shower gel to destinkify the rest of me. Tomorrow though - tomorrow I will wash my hair (actually, probably when I get back tonight. Because when the smell starts to bother me, then you know there's a problem. Like grade seven students, not yet educated in the wonders of proper bathing habits. Or hobbits, too.)

I headed out on a walking tour of the city today. You know, one of those free ones where you feel guilted into tipping at the end. Well, today it wasn't really a guilt thing. I just really did feel like I should tip. Sadly, all I had was three euros left on me by that point. But couples were giving five euro for the both of them, so I figure I'm ahead, yeah?

The tour started in the main square, and walked us through the red light district. We were warned not to take pictures. A week ago a man from Malaysia didn't listen to that warning. He found himself being chased down the street by a woman who burst from her window, grabbed his camera, and smashed it down into the ground. Make sure your gear is insured - buy it with a Mosaik credit card for one years protection!

In the ground, just outside the alleys - there are always alleys, aren't there? - a brass sculpture had been placed in the ground. It is of a mans hand clutching a breast, with a lock and chain attached to it. When it was first installed, the city tried to remove it, but there was so much protesting by the people, and the workers, that it was put back. There is also a statue erected in support of sex trade workers the world over.

From there we wandered past the various prisons, both men and women. Each had a sculpture of a man or woman being whipped by a nun on it. The men's prison has been turned into a clothing mall, so - still punishment for the men then isn't it?

There a girl was pooped on by a pigeon. Made worse by the fact that our guide pointed it out to our whole tour, as loud as he could. You know, in some ways he reminded me a lot of myself - except more Australian. Should you find yourself here, look for Ryan the tour guide. He'll be in a red shirt, at the central square, 11:15 every day (except on his days off, of course. Others will be there in his stead.) The tour runs in Spanish as well, if that's your gig.

A stoned man just Baahed (like a sheep) as loud as he could. He is being escorted out of the library now.

There were also post offices, and royal palaces, and other such things of importance on the tour. And there were the coffee shops. Apparently the best and safest is the one from Oceans Twelve. I don't know. I've never seen the movie - but if you check it out, you'll know the one. Apparently Matt Damon makes quite the fool of himself there.

The tour ended at the Anne Frank House (closed today form Yom Kippur.) The church bells, which Anne wrote brightened her day, began to play as we heard the store of the Dutch Civil resistance to the Nazi's. The only non-jewish civilian resistance - outside of the various cells - in the history of World War II we were told. Ten died, including the mayor, because of this. over fourteen thousand stood strong.

From there, I set out on a quest to find a plug converter - without success - in three electronic stores. Each sending me to another in a log line that would have, without a doubt, eventually led me back to the opening store. Instead I stopped the cycle by buying a bag of fruity smarties (skittles where I'm from) and heading off.

I toured the various alleys of the red light district once more. During the day this time, and it was much like I said before. Interesting, but more of a show than something lude. It's like they say, when something is allowed, the fun is just stripped right away from it.

This whole town feels like a Disney ride. It feels almost - safe. And maybe that's because it is, so long as you stay where you are supposed to, and obey the rules laid out for you. And if that's not a way to just take the fun out of something, I don't know what is.

That Cool Kid From High School

Marijuana smoke wafts through the streets like a London fog; but, a modern London fog, not one of those yellow, thick, pollution enhanced ones from T.S. Eliot's days. And sure, half naked girls dance in windows, but there are more Chinese restaurants than there are enticing prostitutes.

Remember that cool kid from high school? That one that all the girls wanted to be with, and the one who all the guys looked up to? That's kind of what Amsterdam is like. But let us walk a little bit farther into this extended metaphor, shall we? Look back with a critical eye – did all the girls want to be with him? Did all the guys look up to him? Well you didn't, I'm going to assume. Not that I'm type-casting the people who sit around and read blogs all day, but, you know – I kind of am. And was he really that cool? Sure he bragged about having sex when he was thirteen years old, and he smoked before anyone else. And yeah, he even knew how to crack a beer using a lighter, instead of an opener by the end of grade nine. But lets be honest, did that make him a cool cat, or just a product of poor child rearing?

And look at him now – odds are he's got the pot belly, the sagging muscles, and is forever living off of reputation, and brief glimpses of his former glory. Seriously – that's Amsterdam.

It's pretty alright, with its canals running through a network of pedestrian streets, and delightful architecture. It has its share of tourist shops, but those are outdone by the number of actual stores selling products that one might actually have use for (unless it's a sticker to put on your laptop, in which all stores will leave you wanting.) And the number of museums? There are more per square mile here than anywhere else in the world.

If this was any other city, it would be a dream (to use a term Marty McFly's mother might have used when she was in her high school days – just as an aside, has anyone ever really thought about the end of that movie? You know when George McFly hires Biff to wax his car – I get that that's supposed to show that their roles have completely reversed. But, doesn't anyone think it's weird that George hires the person who tried to rape his now-wife to help him out? And that his wife seems to be o.k. with that arrangement? Seriously. Ponder that for a moment, will you?)

But this is not any other city. This is Amster-effing-dam! And there is only one reason people come here. It's for the coffee shops, and it's for the red light district. That's what Amsterdam is about – right? It's about half naked window in every window, and the smell of legalized Marijuana on every corner.

Here's the thing though. Marijuana is not legal here. I don't care how many people tell you that it is, or how many times you've watched Harlod and Kumar. It is not legal in Amsterdam. I tell you what, you come here, walk by a police officer with a spliff hanging out of your mouth, and you see what happens. Enjoy international prison my friends.

But, the coffee shops will sell you weed, and you can smoke it – free from fear – within those buildings. One again, it's not free, but it's accepted here. Also, the weed you get there is said to be some of the best in the world, and some of the purest. My tourist guide told me so. Just don't buy from street dealers. They are a wee bit more shady. Like that guy in the trench coat who hangs around outside your school during lunch break.

So yes – there are a lot of perma-stoned people here walking around. But is that a fantastic and magical thing? Not from what I've seen. From my own impressions, it leads to twenty five year old male tourists pointing at your beard, and slurring words that I don't think would have meaning in any language. And it leads to shop keepers being sexually harassed, and some female customers being groped, by the fifty year olds who don't know which way is up, who stumbled in from the coffee shop next door. (Do you think these coffee shops actually sell coffee? Where do you think one can get a good Cup o' Joe here?)

This world where marijuana is legal everywhere – let me tell you, I've seen that side, and it's less than fantastic during the day. At night it's better. It's a different crowd. And it's more relaxed, and suitable. Think of it like you would the bar scene. Sure you get more drunken youths wandering the street at night, but you're ready for that. It's the aging alcoholics during the day that are the real annoyance.

So we've established that the who coffee shop scene is no different than your friends shag-carpeted basement, complete with – i don't know – Phish record, and black lights. It's alright, but it's nothing to write home about. So now let us explore the red light district shall we?

Yeah, I get it, the lights are red. That's cute. If you want to see half naked girls (anywhere from the legal age of consent – 16 – and up) just look for the lights, and wander towards the windows. There they'll be gyrating around, knocking on glass, motioning for you to come over, and drop your forty to fifty euros for fifteen minutes of sex (numbers, again, taken from my guide book. Remember – the worst souvenir you can come home with is an STD. Sure, these girls get tested four times a year. But I'm sure prostitutes that pay two hundred euros for an eight hour window rental have sex with a lot of different people in those three months between testings.)

So there you are, in the district, walking the streets surrounded by lots of other tourists, and oh my god is that a family of tourists, with their eight year old children?! Oh never mind, there's another, and another. Huh. If anything points towards that fact that the red light district is not what you've been led to believe it is this. And look, there's a tour group of twenty Asians, aged forty to sixty following a man holding an umbrella on a guided tour through the entire area.

Forget all that for a moment, shall we? Let us walk up to one of these windows, and take a peek inside. There you will find a girl who looks either like the most beautiful angel you've ever seen (it has to be said, these are probably some of the most attractive prostitutes you'll ever be able to afford, unless you have one of those jobs where you work comps you them for an overtime project well done.) Or – like one of the most beautiful women you've ever seen, whose face got all mixed up in the blender that is the birth canal. I honestly don't know how else to explain it. Eyes point in strange directions, located high on cheekbones that aren't quite right. And noses that have – you know what, lets just forget their noses. Still – the bodies are after market pride and joys (like an Japanese drift racing car.)

So there she is in front of you, through a pane of glass on street level, gyrating around – wait – no she's not. She's just sitting back smoking, looking completely disinterested. Alright next window – there's the blender face. Skip. Next window. (I'll give you this, you choices are seemingly endless.) Alright, there she is wiggling around, tapping on the window, calling you forward, trying to start negotiation. But you're not here for that. You're here for the voyeuristic tourist purpose. So you look her up and down, and then it strikes you: she's wearing a metallic bikini that covers up more than most of your friends cover up at a backyard pool party. You know you're hyperbolic when you think it, but you can almost recall pictures from your grandmothers era that show more.

The more you look at her, the more the uncanny valley works in reverse. She becomes removed from that of a living being, and seems more like an image from a magazine (so perfect is her skin, that you'd swear she was photoshopped.) The more you look at it, the knocking becomes nothing but an animatronic response to programming, and as you walk the street you see the same thing over and over and over. Sure they're pretty girls – but you've seen pretty girls before. There's nothing sexual about these girls (until you pay your fee, and walk through their glass door, closing the curtain behind you, I'm sure.) These streets are less titillating than that Sports Illustrated Swimsuit issue that you found when you were eight years old.

With the invent of the internet, and the sheer number of topless and nude beaches within Europe, and even my hometown of Toronto, there is more to see there than you would ever find here. The red light district becomes more like the fast food auto-mat down the street, where you insert your coins, open a window, and take your hamburger.

Did I just compare a woman to a piece of meat? Absolutely I did. And I would compare any other person who presents themselves in a giant vending machine the same way. Because that's all the red light district is. It's a giant vending machine that lasts for three or four blocks. Put in your money, open the door, and take your product. When you're done with it, the window closes, and the machine becomes restocked.

I understand the importance of the profession, I understand the need for it, and I definitely believe in the legalization of it for the protection of users, and workers. But that doesn't change anything about how it works here.

Get out of the way, eight year old kid. This is my standing spot! And that's what's wrong with this place. It's so tame. And sure they have sex shows for thirty euros, but for that price I'm told it's better to watch someone play ping pong in Bangkok. At least that way you'll see something you couldn't watch on late night television.

The porn DVD sales are staggering in this city. My final point on the red light district is this: Five men were talking about what new DVD they wanted to buy, looking them all over, one after the other, while right behind them four women (two together) were trying to call them over for some more fleshy fun. They'd have none of it.

That cool kid from high school. That's what Amsterdam is. It's a city living off a past reputation, trying to rekindle moments of former glory. And thinking back, you realize that he probably wasn't that great. And you're almost positive his life is without now. But, there was something about him, wasn't there? Some reason why you still know his name. A reason why, when it comes to gossiping, his name is still thrown around the circle. And that's what Amsterdam is.

It's a city you need to come see, even if you realize that it can never live up to its greatest of promises. There's still something about it. Something that calls to you. Something that says, come on – just check it out, if only for a little while.

Plus, you know, it has the Anne Frank House, and that's a fantastically historical and powerful sight to see. Bet that guy from back in the day never had that!

A final note on prostitution:
Half the clients are female. One of the most fantastic things about Amsterdam is how pro-homosexual it is. There is a statue to homosexuality (three pink triangles) that was erected over twenty years ago here. The city had (has?) an openly homosexual mayor. 10% of all marriages are same sex. The gay clubs have high numbers of straight people, and are some of the trendiest, and the straight clubs are not empty of homosexuals. Imagine that, a city of tolerance hidden between hookers, lax laws, and clouds of smoke. Or maybe it exists because of that? There's your reason for legalization right there.

Editors Notes:
The author was a little bit cranky when he wrote this. Any piece written on the first day in a city, before a big breakfast, and after a god awful train ride, may not be viewed through the same eyes as a refreshed individual. Stay tuned for tomorrows re-review of the cities night life, and everything that it has to offer.

Also, the author just “doesn't want to be cool” and refuses to use drugs. Who comes to Amsterdam if they don't want to smoke weed (or, more commonly, inhale through a vaporizer) or take 'shrooms, on sale at oh so many well marked shops.

Finally, you'll not find pictures of the red light district, or the girls in the windows, because you will get beaten up, and have your camera smashed if you foolishly take a picture. So get on a plane, and come see it for yourself. It's worth the trip.

Teeny Tiny Amsterdam Post

Hey everyone. This is me, writing to you. The thing is, I've ever so hungry, and as such words, and what not, are lacking. I have not eaten for a full 24 hours, and while normally this is not such a big thing for me, it is today. So I will quickly need to be off to find food.

Why, you might ask, have I not eaten? Am I falling into a new lose weight quick technique (that provides results, as the cost of your health?) Why no. It's because German Rail hates me. That's just how it is.

I was more than prepared for the 15 hour train ride. The 20 hour one, not so much.

See, the other thing is that that post is all in videos. Which I can't upload. Why can't I upload? No free internet here in Amsterdam. This is of course a lie, because I'm using free internet now. At the public library (behind the chinese ship just down from the central station.) But - there is no USB port, so I can't upload files. And the hotspot here is uploading at 0.23MB That's bad.

Also - I think I blew a fuse trying to plug my laptop in. There were lots of angry shouts in a language that I don't know.

Questions to ponder:
1. Why is The Netherlands Holland?
2. Why is someone playing My Heart Will Go On on the library piano?
3. Why does the library have a piano?
4. Where can I get a Big Mac in Amsterdam? Seriously - I've craved one for a month.

Finally, I would like to point out that a good number of people do appear to be perma-stoned. This is not for me, you see, as I dislike all drugs - never using illegal, and rather distrusting perscription as well.

Oh good, they've started to play My Heart Will Go On again from the top. I was just thinking, man - I wish he would play that song again. Home Country pride and all that.

O.K. so I'm a little loopy now.

But here's the thing - I can't upload pictures, or videos, which means I'll either write posts and just hold off on them, or post the posts, and then add the images and videos later, when I have the means.

Alright - that's it for me. Off to find some food.

Ohh - I bought my ticket to the Anne Frank house. I forgot the poster that some of my grade 12s did on that book last year which features a scantily clad Anne Frank advertising the book, with slogans such as "read about the sexual excursions of Anne Frank."

Seriously - did they even read the back of the book? (Hello, to you if you're out there.) How I wanted a picture of myself holding that poster infront of the house. Ai ya.

Ohh - if you are out there, and you have the image file, email me and then it can still be a reality.

Final, final point: Holland is a region in The Netherlands