“Where the fuck is this place?” I looked for the bicycle shop Daniel mentioned. I google mapped it, but I was having trouble figuring out which road to take. The names were not matching my chicken-scratch directions. I had followed the Sarphatistraat onto an island, but I didn’t know where I was. I entered a small market and asked a clerk if he knew the bike shop. The clerk’s English was not good, but he seemed to understand what I said. He drew a map for me and I bought a bottle of water just so I didn’t feel like a prick.
I found the shop using his directions. The lot outside the building was huge. Hundreds of bikes were parked outside, row after row. Then I entered the building and realized the bicycles outside weren’t for sale—they were the bikes of the shoppers and employees! Holy fuck! Thousands of bicycles were racked from floor to ceiling in what could have been a converted airplane hangar. I searched for a section with a price range around 100 to 125 Euros. An employee helped me, showing off different bikes with different features, different strengths and weaknesses. He was incredibly helpful and informative, but didn’t seem to give one shit whether I bought a bike or not. This was the type of sales approach I preferred. Give me some breathing room to make a well-thought-out decision and I won’t wait outside to knock your teeth out when you finish working. Why was this concept so difficult for American salespeople to understand? Oh, that’s right, they were paid on commission instead of a salary with benefits like this guy. After the relaxed and comfortably paid employee spent a half hour chilling with me while giving demonstrations along with information, I chose a model that cost 135 Euros along with a 30 Euro bike lock.
I was excited. My first bike in Amsterdam! I wrapped the lock around the top frame of the bike, locked it in place, and left the store. I hopped on my bike and noticed the sun breaking through the clouds. “Sunshine!” I cycled toward the “mainland” to Hoogte Kadijk, turned south on Entrepotdok Sluis, and west on Entrepotdok. I arrived at Bloem after two. I locked my bicycle onto the rack and went in through the side door. There were a few customers and Daniel was working with an attractive woman I didn’t know. There had been a beauty deficit created by Anabel’s absence. Apparently, this woman had been hired to provide a surplus.
When Daniel came free from working on drinks I nodded for him to follow me. He looked at me quizzically. We went outside and I showed him my new bike. He bent down and took a close look at it. He looked up and said, “Good choice, this is a nice bike.” He rose and extended his hand. I shook it as he said, “Congratulations. You are now officially Dutch.” I laughed then Daniel said, “Well, not quite. You need to get another bike for special occasions.” Huh? He said, “Most Dutch have two bikes, one for everyday use and one they use for special occasions like anniversaries or weddings.” I said, “You’re shitting me.” He laughed and shook his head. He was serious. “The fucking Dutch, man. America’s got two-car garages and the Dutch have a home rack for two bikes.” Daniel corrected me, “Two bikes per person!” I slapped my hand against my forehead. “Of course they do!”
We walked inside and Daniel poured me a beer. “I’d have one with you but we’ve been busy today. The weather’s nice so it’ll probably stay that way.” I understood and told him I wanted to get out for a ride around the city, anyway. “Oh, yeah, of course.” He introduced me to Bloem’s newest addition. “Michael, this is Fleur.” She smiled and said hello. Daniel said to Fleur, “Michael’s American but he has an apartment in the city.” She nodded and continued working.
Daniel looked at two slips of paper, started on drinks, and then went back to the kitchen to place orders. I heard a “Ja!” then finished my beer. I wanted to get out and see the city. I paid Fleur, trying to make small talk, but she seemed shy. I shrugged my shoulders, waved goodbye to Daniel, and left. I unlocked my bike and rode over the Entrepotdok bridge toward Middenlaan. I waited in the bike lane for the light to change. When it did I sped along and crossed the bridge connecting to Nieuwe Kerkstraat. I couldn’t believe the time I was making. What a huge difference! I flew by Albert Heijn and used my bell for the first time as a middle-aged woman fiddled with her grocery bag. She looked up in horror then got out of the way, yelling “Sorry!” I waved and smiled as I passed and she smiled back. I sped up and zoomed over the Magere Brug weaving around pedestrians. This was fucking fun! The day really was perfect, too. The sun had come out in full force and there was only a slight breeze with a hint of chill. Amazing for January. Great winter biking weather.
I followed Kerkstraat past my place and all the intersecting streets up to Vijzelstraat. I stopped there to let a tram pass then made my way relatively unencumbered. I stopped at Leidsestraat with a bevy of other cyclists beside and behind me. Once the tram and cars cleared we split off in all directions, weaving through pedestrian traffic while ringing our bells. I went straight ahead and came to a “T” at Leidsegracht. I turned and rode half a block to Prinsengracht, my favorite of the big canals, and turned west. I saw Café Molenpad across the canal and made a mental note to go for coffee on a good-weather morning. It was the first place I tried Bitterballen. I burned my tongue because the grease was so hot. The place had charm and its setting on Prinsengracht was unmatched.
I leisurely rode along the tree-lined canal looking at the houseboats, lazily wondering what it would be like to live in one. I imagined waking up in the summer, making coffee, walking out onto the deck to read a book while tanning, watching cyclists and pedestrians walk past on the street as well as the boats puttering by in the canal. Seemed like a good life. It wasn’t hard to imagine summer on such a beautiful day. The weather made the street and the canal that much more inviting. Prinsengracht had a special vibe no matter the weather, though. I hadn’t been past Leidsestraat on my previous trip so this was the first time since 2004 I had been to the eastern canal ring. Prinsengracht was the outer canal of the three major canals—the other two being Herengracht and Keizersgracht—so it was the longest of the “U” shaped canals.
I crossed the bridge at Westermarkt and rode to the Westerkerk. I stopped and found a bench. I leaned my bike against it and sat down. There were walkers and cyclists galore. I felt invigorated. I was breathing heavy because I had pedaled at a good clip most of the way and hadn’t been used to using bicycling muscles since living in Chicago when I regularly biked along Lake Shore Drive in the spring, summer, and fall. The nice thing about Amsterdam, comparatively, was that I could ride year-round even in the rain. The other thing that made Amsterdam a better city for cycling compared to Chicago was that you could bike anywhere in the city without worrying about traffic.
I watched the parade of people go by while basking in the sun. A pretty young woman walked up to me and I thought, “Well, this is more like it. Yes, women, come to me instead of the other way around.” For good or bad, she merely wanted me to take a photo of her and her friends in front of the church. I said sure and she showed me how to use her camera. I positioned them so I could take a good picture then clicked a couple shots. She came over, looked at the photos, and thanked me. “No worries.” I sat down next to my bike then realized I’d had my back to it the whole time. “Shit, Mike, don’t do that again without locking up! Anyone could have swiped it.” Luckily it wasn’t tourist season or it might have been stolen. I was disgusted with myself for being so absent-minded.
I got back on my bike and took Westermarkt toward the city center. Westermarkt became Raadhuisstraat and I turned left toward Amsterdam Centraal on Spui. I was going opposite car traffic and there was enough that I decided to ride on the sidewalk—big no-no—because there were so few pedestrians. I spotted a sign for a smart shop. “Hmmm … shroom again tonight? Someone obviously put that shop there for a reason and the reason must have been for me to stop.” I liked my logic. I parked outside and locked my bike to a small rack outside. I went inside and found the décor different from other shops. There were tons of strange items for sale that had nothing to do with shrooms or health or anything else. There were ships in bottles, globes made out of coconuts, didgeridoos, and other odd items. In a way, the objects were shroom-related; these were the sort of items someone shrooming might find interesting. I was tempted to purchase a coconut globe.
A long-haired young man read a newspaper as I wandered about the store. I went to the glass-topped counter and looked at the shrooms. The young guy looked up with almost total disinterest. I said I was looking for a heady trip with strong visuals. “Body high and euphoria would be a bonus.” His face lit up a little. “Cool. Are you a painter?” I shook my head. “No, I just want an experience that more fully brings my senses to life while also allowing expansive thought. I did some Hawaiians last night and I loved the heady trip, but I’d like more sensuality, a fuller body high. Euphoria would be a bonus.” The young guy proceeded to describe the attributes of the various shrooms. He had some on hand I hadn’t seen in other shops. I purchased two doses, one called Philosopher’s Stone and the other Golden Teacher. Philosopher’s Stone were truffles rather than shrooms. Whatever, as long as they took me somewhere. The guy said he often meditated or painted while using these. I thought about that and recalled my drawing pad.
The guy told me about doing ayahuasca during his travels to South America, a substance that caused him to puke a black bile-like liquid. He said if I really wanted to cross boundaries I should give it a try. “You may want someone there to wipe your ass in case you shit yourself while inside your universe.” He laughed and I said, “Whoa, that far out there?” He shook his head. “No, man, that far in there.” I asked him how long the trip lasted. “Depends. Maybe eight hours.” I asked him if it was more potent than LSD. He screwed up his mouth and furrowed his brow. “Hard to say. Just different. There are some similarities, but you feel the naturalness of ayahuasca compared to the synthetic bite of LSD. For me, I had no awareness of being human at all. I was so far into my being that there was no way to distinguish anything outside my mind. Your mind, believe me, is a universe. Shrooms are like a bike with training wheels comparatively.” I laughed and said, “Well, I probably still need the training wheels even though I dropped acid quite a few times when I was younger. That was a long time ago, though.” He nodded and said, “Hey, don’t get me wrong, I’m not saying shrooms are nothing, especially if you do more than one dose. I’m just saying ayahuasca will open up your mind in ways nothing else I’ve tried can.” I nodded appreciatively and said, “Fair enough.”
I thanked the man for the shrooms and the conversation then told him I would see him again soon. He said, “You better hurry back, because I’m going to San Francisco next week. My girlfriend lives there and we’re taking a trip to Mexico.” I stopped and we talked about the Bay Area and his trip to Mexico. They were planning on going to a nude beach to trip, spiritually purge, and commune sexually. Right on. Before I left, the guy came around the counter and we embraced in a long, intimate hug. I had felt energized simply by speaking with him, but the hug seemed to purify me. I felt … connected not just with him but with myself.
I departed and thought, “Wow, riding a bike makes a world of difference. I wish he wasn’t leaving so soon. It would be great shrooming with him. Or, better yet, taking ayahuasca—he could be my designated ass-wiper.” I laughed so hard I couldn’t unlock my bike. The sky was dark, too, which made it that much more difficult. My bike had a light—I made sure when I bought it because I knew I would be night riding often. The bike had all of the reflectors necessary as well. Street ready, night ready. I had my ownership papers and registration papers, too. I straddled my bike, followed Spui to the Singel, and as I saw the river I realized I had not covered this much of the Nieuwe Zijde in years. The city was much smaller now. Killed two birds with one stone thanks to the bike. I rode along Koningsplein as it turned into Leidsestraat. The streets were busy and I was out of practice riding in traffic. There were a few stops and starts and one near-miss of a pedestrian.
I pulled onto Kerkstraat and made my way back to my apartment. I locked my bike to one of the racks outside my apartment and took my bag of shrooms and truffles inside with me. I placed them in the refrigerator. I pulled a frozen meal from the freezer—too tired to cook anything decent after a long day of walking and bike riding. It had been a great day, though. I pulled out the Philosopher’s Stone to eat with my meal. They were little clumps that looked sort of like huge walnuts. They had a similar texture and the taste was awful. It took some work chewing them and washing them down. “These fucking things had better be good.” I wasn’t sure that they would be, though. I decided to eat the Golden Teacher shrooms as well. The guy had said both the Philosopher’s Stone and the Golden Teacher were strong. “Time to take off the training wheels and find out what else is happening within my mind and body.”
I went to have a puff of pot only to discover I was out. Shit. I put on my jacket and shoes then went out. I unlocked my bike, rode to the Greenhouse, bought three grams of Super Silver Haze, and rode back to my apartment. I locked the bike, unlocked the outer door to the building, checked Susan’s mailbox, and took her mail upstairs. As I was unlocking the apartment door, I felt a “whup-whup-whup” throughout my body. “Shit, I gotta get inside and put this mail away before all hell breaks loose!” I unlocked the door, opened it, closed it, locked it, and put the mail in the coat closet. I closed the door of the closet, leaned against it, and let out a sigh of relief.
Fuck, having to go out for pot didn’t give me any time to prepare. I wanted a hit even though I didn’t need one. I had just gone out of my way to get the cannabis, though, so I made myself load a bowl. Loading the bowl was difficult because I was feeling massive effects. I could barely lift the pipe once I put a bud in the bowl. I lit the bud, inhaled, and let go of the carb. Whoosh! I exhaled and the cloud formed into several clouds, each cloud another cloud with a different name, a different time, a different way of relating to the world. The clouds were freaking me out. “Go away! Dissipate!”
Dissipate. I really liked this word. All words needed three or more syllables. I tried to think of a way to put together a sentence using only words with three syllables, but before I could even think of one word I was awed by the disappearance of the smoke. “They went away! I said ‘go away’ and they did! Holy shit, I’m the god of clouds.” I fell back on the couch, unable to move. My eyes were fixed on the ceiling, just white-yellowness lit up by the lamps in the living room. I turned my head to the side and saw the giant plant in the corner. It was a palm tree; it wasn’t a palm tree, but it was a palm tree. “How did I get in the fucking jungle?”
The ability to move returned and I climbed from the couch against the wall to the couch against the windows. I belligerently reached for my cigarettes and lighter. I managed to snag them and lit one. I opened the window using the crank. I cranked for years and the damn thing barely opened an inch until it flew all the way open in a nanosecond. “Time is weird.” Out on the street were walkers heading in both directions. A few cyclists as well. I wondered if they just went around the block over and over and over again, like I was playing the lead in The Truman Show. It was possible. Anything was possible.
I blew smoke out the window. My awareness was dividing and dividing and dividing. One bubble of awareness followed the smoke like a private investigator while a string of attention dangled down the side of the building to twirl in stucco for the sake of learning about being stucco. A frown of sight wondered what was behind the closed curtains directly across the street; items of importance hid behind the curtains. A knuckle of shame cracked and sent a shockwave of self-loathing to a man walking alone with his head down. I wanted to feel awful about infesting him with a feeling that had been mine, but I was no longer capable. He was going to have to feel the shame for me, poor bastard. A wave of emotion-rich consciousness asked a skinny redhead dressed in an umbrella how many times she had walked around the block. She looked up, startled. “I asked you a question. How many times have you walked around the block? Is someone paying you to do it? Why are you wearing an umbrella?” She shook her head at me, exasperated or disgusted, maybe both. A bubble of my consciousness that had escaped my notice came back in the window to whisper to me, “You didn’t say the things you thought you said. You asked her if she chose to be red.” Oh.
I wanted to lean back inside but I didn’t want to abandon the parts of my awareness that had departed to wander around Amsterdam looking for clues, kissing statues, and conversing with cubes. I wanted to buy flowers from the Singel market. That and rub my feet together. I couldn’t figure out which option was more accessible. Thought shifted as my visual environment changed. There was a tiny white cathedral in a window across the street and tiny people entered it to view meta-epistemic art. The cathedral floated from the window, shimmering into the street above the walkers who now wore gas masks and hazmat suits. The cathedral expanded in size and became a spinning white globe. Faces of people swirled around while changing expressions constantly from terror to laughter to awe to confusion.
They were my expressions, expressions I contained within me as parts of who I was. The globe was my personality and the faces pretended to be feelings and moods representing a multifaceted soul generating the spin of the sphere. “How did I become the sphere? Who am I in here?” I looked down and realized I wasn’t “here” at all. I looked back outside and saw myself looking at myself from the sphere. “Fuck, I’m seeing the empty husk of a body from soul that has nothing to do with identity in any of the ways I’ve considered.” Why couldn’t I find my way from the surface to the core of the sphere? Was it only possible to look outward from within? Was I only able to be aware on the surface of my being?
These limitations seemed cruel. “Who did this? I didn’t choose it … did I?” I couldn’t tell. The walking gas masks were gone and now puppies with human bodies frolicked up and down the street. Bricks flew from building to building rebuilding buildings into entirely different shapes. There were no rectangles any more, just cones, cylinders, and spheres. “I want a triangle.” Had anyone ever asked for a triangle? Why do I want a triangle? What would I do with it? What is a triangle? A man on a bicycle stopped to readjust his head as it had nearly fallen off his neck. “That was close, man!” He looked up and stared at me. I didn’t like the look at all. “Just keep going. Nothing good can come from you lingering.” He flipped me off and began riding away. I saw his head on the ground looking up at me. I yelled, “Hey, you forgot your head!” He was long gone, the headless bicycle rider, but his fucking head kept grimacing at me. “Stop looking at me, fucker!” A bubble of awareness returned from a far-off land and told me that pedestrians were looking at me like I was a madman. “Let them look! You weren’t here, you didn’t see what happened. Why didn’t you take me with you, anyway?” No response. I was either gone or my awareness remained silent.
I quieted down and turned back inside with the intention of smoking more weed, but as I looked around … there was an entirely different world existing. Fuck, I merely had to turn my body and a new world became. I was inside a planet, certainly not Earth. I didn’t know its name and thought it would be ridiculous to give it one as it kept changing shape and color. The walls rounded. Hard edges, right angles, they ceased existing. Everything was curved. Linear thought could no longer exist as straight lines weren’t possible in this world. What had once been lifeless figurines in a corner were now melting globs of butter coating walls and seeping through the floor of this world into the world below mine. The god of that world wouldn’t be happy about all that melted butter dripping from the ceiling. I wasn’t sure if I was at fault, though. What caused butter to melt? Probably ice cream.
A living thing with a paunch coughed in the kitchen. I couldn’t see the creature, but I heard it. The paunch was a scent that described itself as flatulent, old, hunched, and formidable. I caressed my cheek, my fingers dragging my teeth down my throat and into my lungs. I chewed on inhalations and swallowed exhalations. One, two, three, four, I counted then recited the alphabet without giving credence to vowels or consonants, an alphabet without letters calculating a mathematics without symbols. The equation of representation aligned with snowballs and fetuses with boils over their eyes walking around the city, each one connected to every other by umbilical cords, an umbilical web that caught mothers and forced them to be birthed by daughters. No one was safe from anything they ate, digested food refusing to be defecated, melon mush overtaking kidneys to pound nails into two by fours for practice before being hired by contractors who were only allowed to hire human body parts to perform manual labor.
Cigarette. Was there a cigarette? No, there was nothing. There was a mirror with twinkles and lampshades next to a clock without hands or numbers, boiling oil bubbling from a vase volcano spewing plumes of plumes smelling like shrooms … oh, yeah, shrooms and truffles. I forgot. What? What? “Did you hear that zinging sound?” Who? “You.” Are you talking to me or the plants? “You are the plants.” What does that mean? “Why does it have to mean anything?” I don’t know. Aren’t things supposed to mean something? “Who told you that?” I don’t remember. I believe it, though. “Like when you believed in Santa Claus?” Oh. I hadn’t thought of it that way. Is meaning like Santa Claus, a story told to children to make them feel better? “No, it’s a story told to adults for nefarious purposes.” Fuck, what’s real then? “Yeah, what’s real?” I’m asking you. “I am you.” Then why do you keep referring to me as “you”? “I’m not. You are!” Who the fuck is “you”?! “Not me. Must be you.” But you’re me! “I’m not ‘you’; I’m me.” Fuck, man, this doesn’t make any sense. “Exactly!”
Nothing made any sense and that was what was real. Order was a lie; chaos was reality. “No, man, there is no reality. That’s just an idea.” Who are you? “I don’t know.” This is really weird. “Is it?” I don’t know. I’m not sure what anything is. “Good, good. Now shut up and look around.” Pot, smoke pot. Inhale. Clouds of smoke. Clouds. Indoor clouds, clouds inside the world, clouds without an atmosphere, clouds parking in the rear. “The floor is wood!” The floorboards rocked up and down, wooden piano keys playing a tune I couldn’t hear. I rose and walked on the floor and, sure enough, I was bounced up and down by the wooden piano keys. I tried to hop about to avoid the floorboards that were falling, to walk only on the boards rising to their apex. I swished and turned and slashed. Inside was a tornado, no longer a floor or ceiling, walls, tables, or couches, nothing but a spinning reel that cast a line into murky waters that pulled the line and reel under an emulsified darkness.
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