The Dam Rain

Okay, so an overnight bus is not the best way to approach Amsterdam. Nevermind that it was full, leaving Max and I to wrestle broad shoulders in attempts to find sleep or even comfort. The true agony didn't begin til our 6am arrival. Way made our way exhaustedly to our hostel only to be informed that we could not check in until 2pm. They did stash our luggage, but the gruff Aussie manning reception lacked the international charm we'd grown accustomed to on this trip, and refused to even give a staight ansewer on where to find breakfast.

So, we wandered out into the Red Light District at 7am. At 7 on a Sunday morning, even the prostitutes have forsaken their windows, leaving only the absolute sketchiest of humanity to slither and crawl the cobbled streets, trying to push whatever it is their trying to push, and/or waiting for the chemicals to leave their systems. One guy, who would become familiar enough the next few days, seems to have mastered the art of perilously forlorn begging. A small, sad looking man to begin with, with downturned lips and recessed, unfocused eyes, he walks up to you from apparently nowhere to ask for change. "Please," he says, stepping nearer, "PLEASE," grasping at you with clawlike hands, "PLEEEAASE!" with gills veritably flapping as if he were a fish asking for a drink in the desert.

After an arduous morning where the only highlights were a hotel buffet breakfast and sitting alongside a canal in the only sunshine we would see suring our stay, we finally made it to our bedroom, where I did manage 2 hours of sleep before the snoring hit peak volume. Now that it was late afternoon I braved the Red Light District again in search of food, finidng only greasy fast food for some reason. I also spotted my first window prostitute, who waved to me from behind her pane, directly across from an 18th century stone church. I can't be certain, but I'm pretty sure it was Geroge Foreman, in drag, with a purple wig.

Ultimately, I couldn't form a complete opinion about Amsterdam's particular form of window shopping - I would alternately flash between thinking about animal cages and vending machines. But I suppose in a world where this happens whether it's legal or not, forcing it into public view and regulating it might be the best-possible scenario. Of course, as the whole area is perpetually jammed with tourists, it usually appeared as just another spectacle, at least until some guy would break the illusion by walking up to a window, being let in, and drawing the curtains.

I wish I could say I bicycled through the tulip fields looking at windmills, but the weather was rotten - brought with us from Hamburg I'd guess - so the experience wound up being relatively boring aside from the Van Gogh museum. It was pretty funny getting kicked out of a Dutch bar in a nontourist area. We only went in to escape the rain, and I would have ordered a beer once I'd used the restroom. But they didn't speak english, we don't speak dutch, and the bartender seemed of the opinion we werejust trying to take advantage. Before I reached the men's room, I heard acommotion and saw Max hastily backing out the front door. Then the attention turned to me, with three or four people shouting, pointing to the door, and ultimately calling out "Sorry!" once we were out. I get the feeling this was the attitude of the entire country by the time I boarded my flight to Dublin.