Amsterdam Nineteen: Melkweg

I woke bright and early. I turned on my MacBook, checked my email, and discovered I’d been offered two more indexes. I shot back an email to the publisher agreeing to do both for the terms they offered. I always felt better having work lined up. I worked most of the day on the other index. I was making progress and there was a possibility I would finish it before I left Amsterdam. It usually took between two to six weeks to receive payment since I was an independent contractor so finishing early meant receiving payment earlier as well.

Throughout the day, though, I thought of Vanessa. She had sent me an SMS the previous night after I had fallen asleep. The message? “Thinking of you. Kiss.” I sent her an SMS in the afternoon inviting her to go to the concert with me, although it was questionable whether I would be able to score a ticket for her. I wrote that I missed her—and I did—and that I would see her soon even if she couldn’t go to the concert with me. I doubted she would want to go; she did not like jam bands. She never sent an SMS in return and I figured it was because she was sleeping. Work or party all night, sleep all day. I had tickets for the next two nights so I figured I wouldn’t see her until Saturday.

I stopped indexing late afternoon and smoked a bowl. I had picked up a couple grams of OG Kush while walking midday. I made pasta, ate, and saw it was after six. The concert didn’t start until nine. I felt anxious. I wondered if it was anticipation for the show, but I wasn’t sure. I couldn’t place it, but something didn’t feel right. I had another hit off the pipe and relaxed. Given that my shrooming experiences had all been positive, I gobbled the Ecuadorians.

I felt euphoric when I first felt the effects around 7:30. I took a shower, one of those lovely showers that the shrooms welcome with butterflies, unicorns, and rainbows. I didn’t linger, though, as the steam became suffocating. I had a mild panic attack until I opened the bathroom door to let in cooler, drier air. I dried my body with fluffy and felt better. The walls were breathing as I walked out of the bathroom wrapped in fluffy. They tried to escape from whiteness but without success. “Keep trying! Don’t give up now. If you want to be pink or mauve then fucking do it!” I shook my head in disgust and walked into the bedroom.

I stretched my arms above me as high as I could and fluffy fell to the ground. I looked down with my arms still raised. “You don’t like stretching? Fine, be that way. You can stay on the floor as long as you want. I’m not helping you up.” It took some time to figure out how to put on blue jeans. They were unbelievably unruly. “Goddamnit! Your function is to be worn so stop resisting.” All objects seemed to be uncooperative. I sensed a revolt and I was outnumbered. “Fuck, this isn’t going to end well.” Had I done something to piss them off? Perhaps I hadn’t been fully acknowledging their importance. I apologized and announced that I would henceforth respect their purpose.

I kept working on the jeans. They were so unruly. I tried to straighten them but as soon as I bent over they bunched up again. “Motherfucker! This is fucking bullshit!” I got up and walked around the apartment in my underwear. “Everything smells like hair!” Swishes whistled, flowers spewed. I pushed the button for the blinds. They opened and I walked to the middle. No person on the street, but wind rippled the water. A Rubik's cube of colors lit the windows across the canal. “Motherfucker, no one’s going to be able to solve the puzzle.” I walked back to the button. The blinds began to close. I pushed the button again and they retracted. I pushed again and again. “I am getting my fucking money’s worth out of this place, damnit!”

I felt no anger. I spoke incredulously as my thoughts whirled in circles, interconnecting, forming a tapestry of incoherence that made much more sense than logic ever has. I thought of dwarves and saw none anywhere. “Why is 'midget' a derogatory word? Who decides these things? Is there someone in Belgium making waffles who elicits edicts by email to a woman in Delaware who writes in Harper’s that 'cunt' is bad and 'vagina' is good? Fuck the scientists for naming body parts! I want Snoop Dogg to label all body parts. I will use his words and call them Bible. Fuck anyone who disagrees and overthrow the New Yorker for publishing stupid cartoons.”

Whoo, dizziness and heat, my face flush, body feeling tied up in knots. “I can’t move anywhere with my legs bitched together like this. No wonder the jeans wouldn’t fit.” The blue jeans! I ran back to the bedroom and fiercely forced them onto my legs. I pulled them over my ass, looked down, and refused to zip them. “Horrible! My skin hates being confined.” I walked back to the window which was still open. “Here is my cock, Rubik's cube. I masturbate for your pleasure and disgust.” I couldn’t cum so I zipped my pants and buttoned them. “Darkness in my eyes; close the blinds.” I walked away to find more clothing.

The t-shirt did not have eight holes for my arms. “Am I supposed to fit four through each hole? Fuck!” The socks wanted to be anywhere but on my feet. “You fuckers! You are going to do what I want you to do. Get on my feet!” Order obeyed. Shoes welcomed the invasion of my feet. They exchanged vows and joined in holy matrimony. The Boss jacket … sigh. Beautiful, sleek blackness. “I will be invisible to all not privy to style. For those in the know, I will be worshiped as the Dark Prince of Sheen." The fabric was Holy. The jacket whipped around me and fluttered as cape. My arms slid in the snug pussy sleeves.

My watch strangled my wrist. Wallet with moe tickets and cash dropped inside coat pocket and zipped itself shut. Phone dropped in the other and asked me for help. I tried to think if I was missing anything. The watch said 8:30 so I went to the stairs but they had been replaced by an escalator going up. It took forever to get to the bottom. When I opened the door the strangeness of air movement surprised me. I couldn’t understand it at all. “How the fuck? The door is an inch thick and it separates me from another world entirely. This reality has to be modified so there aren’t such stark shifts. Change should be gradual not all-at-once.”

The Melkweg was a good half-hour walk sober. How far by shrooming? Eternity or maybe longer. I walked down Entrepotdok to the bridge and crossed over. The temperature had risen at least ten degrees since I left the apartment, undoubtedly the result of the intense body heat emanating from me. Clarity of thought and everything sharp. Hyper-awareness. Thoughts swam in a river without current. No resistance, no objections, no declarations.

From the zoo, birds flocked randomly, tweeting and flitting about my head. Squirrels scampered under my feet, rabbits hopped beside me, and raccoons scurried ahead to lead the way. Lions roared their approval of me and elephants sounded their trumpets to announce my presence. An ATM blinked at me and I withdrew my wallet. “Here, eat my card." I saw numbers and pressed my finger against one of them. Paper ejected from a slot and I stole them. I put them in my wallet, looking both ways to make sure no one saw the robbery. The machine vomited my card and I took it back. Another successful heist.

I walked down a tree-lined street. The ominous shadows frightened me. I was sure I was being followed. Sure enough, a mad gang of Australian barbarians walked around the corner a half block behind me. I ran as fast as I could and darted down a side street and then made a turn on another. There was no telling where I was. Nothing looked familiar. I slowed to a walk. The temperature had risen again. I was now sweating. I took off the jacket and tied it around my waist. I felt better—not because I was cooler, but because I had managed to tie the sleeves without any trouble. “I am growing as a person. My motor skills are improving.”

I found Kerkstraat accidentally and walked toward Leidseplein. Wildness abounded, throngs of people wandering every which way, none of them real, all characters in a video game. I was the lens through which gamers played. I didn’t want to be the lens. I shut my eyes but the screams became louder. There was laughter from pot smokers and beer drinkers sitting at tables. They were laughing at me, devilishly mocking me in my stupor. They knew more than I, that much I could tell. I felt vulnerable because of this. They were not guides to help me along, but manipulators who wanted to use me, devour me, sacrifice me to satiate their lust for blood and humiliation.

I had to cross the Leidseplein to get to the Melkweg, but there was no easy way to do it. Everywhere giants rode tiny bicycles screeching for hell hounds to rise from the belly of the earth. The gigantic American Hotel loomed as an ornate monolith unleashing hordes of demons. A gaggle of harpies laughing like hyenas made the witches of Macbeth cackle with hatred. Passing through this rung of hell unnoticed was impossible. Everyone was looking at me. I lurched forward, weirdly walking. I broke into a trot to get across the square and the street. I turned to look at the lights of the oncoming tram. The beast was grinding and howling. When it passed I saw a bubble-head in the window whipping back and forth. Jacob’s Ladder. I shuddered and covered my mouth with my hands to muffle the scream.

A cacophonous crowd had gathered outside the Melkweg. Were souls being devoured? Should I enter? The temperature had risen again; I was deep in the chasm of hell. Sweat poured from my brow, dripping down my face. I had been submerged in a vat of greasy lard. Breathing was difficult. I went to the entryway, untied my jacket, withdrew my wallet, and took out the ticket for the night’s show all while shaking like a leaf. I managed to hand my ticket to the person who seemed to require it for passage. I entered the venue, disoriented by the throng of people and the excruciating noise. The band was playing. I looked at my watch and couldn’t read it. The numbers made no sense.

I pushed forward and was pushed forward once on the main floor. Bodies writhed all around me as disjointed sounds came from every direction. I tied my jacket around me again, difficult as it was while being crushed and pushed and pulled. My head swam in the flashing lights. I recognized a series of sounds. A moment of clarity in a sea of chaos. “This is moe. The song is ‘Plane Crash.’” I loosened up a little and started grooving with everyone around me. When I heard the lyrics, “Too fucking high,” I jumped and twirled along with everyone else around me. Long blonde hair plastered wet on the ecstatic face of the woman next to me, sweat drenched the shirt of the dark-haired guy in front of me; everywhere was movement, sound, light, and wet, sweaty, greasy melding of bodies with faces contorted, stretched, melting, eyes bugging, popping, craving, mouths open with tongues wagging and wiggling, limbs akimbo, flailing high and low, in and out, lashing and smashing against everyone, hips swayed and twisted and grinded, legs kicked, bent, stretched, and hopped. Multicolored clothing swirled and squirted like a Pollock in the making. My nostrils filled with the green of cannabis mixed with grey body odor and pink disinfected perfume, a toxic cocktail of colorful fumes.

An infinity of multisensory fulfillment gave way to moments of overstimulated sensory horror. I dizzily forced my way through the contorting and interlocked bodies blocking my way out. I had barely entered the floor space and yet found myself near the stage. Every step resulted in a movement closer to the stage. I would be on it with a microphone in hand if the tide didn’t turn. I found an aisle of space, an area where people were chilling and barely moving except for slowly bobbing heads and gentle swaying. I blasted through and saw the doors. A maze appeared before me and I zigzagged back and forth until I found the exit and burst into the cool, damp air of night.

Massive gulps of air followed by deep breaths then steadier inhalations. “Oh, dear God, that was fucking intense. Thrilling and horrifying. Whew.” My t-shirt was drenched, my head was wet, and my crotch was a tropical rain forest. I slowly walked toward Leidsestraat. I turned right so I could avoid Leidseplein—I didn’t need to deal with that rung of hell again. I wasn’t tripping quite as hard, but I wasn’t out of the woods just yet.

I walked by the American Hotel and hoped it wouldn’t swallow me. I found a street I remembered from previous visits to Amsterdam. Less crowded, quieter. I realized I was heading south, though, so I turned east on a wide four-lane street dominated by cars moving so fast the Indy 500 would have been exhausted. It was unpleasant but there were fewer pedestrians. The oncoming cars were coming right at me, though. I winced every time there was a near miss … which was every time a car went by. It was exhausting constantly avoiding them. I had to get off this street. Death was too close.

There was a canal on the inner side of the sidewalk and I veered closer to the railing. I wanted to run my hard along it, but there were bikes locked to it most of the way. A giant neon monster appeared in the form of a casino. Lights were flashing so angrily I abandoned the railing and ran. I put space between myself and the casino monstrosity. How had I ended up in Vegas? Fuck, I don’t want to shroom in Vegas; I’d be better off shooting up bleach.

I found a street conducive to walking. Few walkers, few cyclists, and even fewer cars. Sweet relief. I walked north on Spiegelstraat, the beautiful high-end street of art galleries, antiques, and shops. The walkers were strolling and there were no cars at all. The cyclists passed casually. I was still soaked with sweat, but I had stopped adding to it. The air was chilly and my face and hair were dry. I mussed up my hair to remove the clumps of dried sweat. I looked at one of the dark windows of a shop and saw a reflection of a freaked-out monster who wanted to eat me. I turned away quickly and discovered the warm glow of soft lights on the street.

I turned east on Kerkstraat. A little busier, but a far cry from the Leidseplein. I had calmed enough to deal with the occasional group laughing or shouting as they walked toward me and past. I continued walking at a brisk pace, though, to make sure no one came up from behind me. I looked back now and then to see if I was being followed. I was safe. A few bicycles passed, but I was only alarmed once when the cyclist rang her bell. I laughed at myself for jumping out of the way and realized the worst of the trip was over. I crossed the Magere Brug, one of the many intriguing bridges in Amsterdam. The worst was over. In no time I would be back in the sanctuary of my apartment.

Amsterdam Eighteen: Mood Zones

I took it easy Wednesday. I worked on an index in the morning then went for a stroll. As I walked out the door, I remembered that I was in Amsterdam. It seemed that each time I left my apartment I was surprised to find myself in a foreign country. It was as if I woke each day in the United States and the front door was a portal to Europe. I always forgot it was a portal until I walked through it. This made for a very fun life each day: I woke up thinking nothing particularly special was happening then I would walk outside thinking I was going out for groceries. I would stop a foot or so outside and shake my head. “Who put that canal there? There aren’t any canals outside my house in Madison. What the hell was in that coffee I made this morning?”

Reality reasserted itself and said, “You are in Amsterdam, motherfucker! Drink up the canals, admire the mansions, explore the neighborhoods, and check out a museum for crissakes. Van Gogh ring a bell?” Van Gogh? Hmmm. Why not? No, wait, the Stedelijk. Fuck it. Just walk and see what happens. Soaking up the city is intoxicating.

The day was cloudy, but not terribly cold. I took an umbrella with me just in case, though. The apartment had a little rack near the door and there were three umbrellas in there, each a different color. I was feeling festive so I grabbed the brightly colored one with polka dots.

I walked southwest, cutting through the canal rings and past the Seven Bridges of Reguliersgracht, one of the most beautiful areas of Amsterdam. I stopped on a bridge and looked out over the water. After a time, I turned and faced the street, watching cyclists and pedestrians as well as the canal stretching out to the west. Everyone in the area had a different look and feel about them compared to other spots in the city. To an extent, that was because the locals of the area are different and so are the tourists and travelers exploring. I thought it was more than that, though. I noticed that I changed depending on the neighborhood setting around me. I became a buzz of energy around the Dam or Rembrandtplein whereas I was soft and contemplative when strolling through the quieter streets of the Oude Zijde. At the Seven Bridges, I felt … timeless. The setting erased the idea that there was another place that might be more gratifying. While in that setting, there is no possibility of believing a better place exists.

I walked away reluctantly and soon found myself on Nieuwe Spiegelstraat. I felt entirely different. “No, that was just a thought you had at that moment. You could have easily been in Vondel Park or the Jordaan and felt the same way if the conditions were right.” I doubted this, though. I looked in the windows of the antique shops and galleries, slowly strolling with my arms behind my back, casually twirling the umbrella, and I continued hazily thinking while simultaneously being intrigued by paintings and artifacts. I remembered feeling similarly at Seven Bridges in the past. I was always with S., though, so perhaps I thought it was her as much as the spot; but, no, it was the setting itself. Night or day, summer or winter, doesn’t matter. Romance emanated from the place. The romance was so subtle that I had thought it came from within me, but the truth was that I walked into a mood that never wavers. I knew it was true because the mood didn’t come with me when I left.

The discovery of a place I could visit to experience romance through no effort of my own was extraordinary. Amsterdam provided a huge array of moods, almost all of them on the plus side of the emotional spectrum. On guide maps, Amsterdam’s semi-circle urban layout was often categorized through color: The Nieuwe Zijde might be blue while the Oude Zijde could be red. My map, on the other hand, would highlight mood zones and I would make maps within each zone to show where specific emotions could be felt while occupying a specific position on a given street, bridge, or park.

I think these truths have been understood by photographers, painters, and filmmakers in a somewhat different way. Lighting and timing give a place a particular mood. The difference, though, is that the painters, videographers, and photographers are not in the space they are capturing; they are looking at the space from another place. In a sense, the photographers, filmmakers, and painters are celebrating the space from which they are painting or taking photographs. What you do not see as viewer is where you are while you are looking. The composers of the image, if they are adept at their craft, have likely searched for a special place from which to capture the scene with paint, film, digital photos, or video. Finding a place to capture is likely easier than finding the position from which to capture it.

The art of experience differs from other arts in this sense. In Amsterdam, I was the object of art to be captured. I merely needed to move myself from place to place to create different moods, sensations, and thoughts. I experienced a particular array of mood/sensation/thought in Eik en Linde that differed from the combination I experienced at Seven Bridges. As I connected more intimately with the city through spatial exploration I was able to mentally map the places that created distinctly unique experiences that couldn't be found at other locations. Romance can be experienced in Oosterpark, but the qualities of the romance would be different than the romance experienced at the Seven Bridges. My ability to notice the differences depended on the sensitivity of my awareness. Awareness of the quality of being in a particular place was the art.

I viewed paintings in the window of an attractive gallery. The interior was entirely white; the only colors came from the paintings, most of which were abstracts featuring one color. All of the paintings were bright and bold with clean lines. Many of the one-color paintings used different hues to create shape and form; three hues of orange made up one painting that was divided by both straight and curved lines. My eyes were pleased, particularly because the sharp white of the interior made the colors explode. The paintings didn’t look like they required tremendous skill, but the five figure prices suggested that the painters were masters. To each their own.

I thought more about myself as the object of the art of being and realized I was priceless in comparison. I looked up and down the street and saw other priceless objects of art standing, walking, and cycling. I wondered if they considered themselves more valuable than the paintings and antiques they viewed. Furthermore, I wondered if they viewed one another as the art they were. I wanted everyone on the street to gather around to view each other, to sniff and listen, to touch and lick, for each to marvel at the interplay of multisensory art objects. All the galleries and antique stores would likely shut down as their paintings and artifacts failed to compete with this newfound relational art between humans.

I walked across the Prinsengracht bridge and Nieuwe Spiegelstraat became Spiegelstraat. More shops and galleries. I’d had my fill so I continued walking. As much as I wanted each person to appreciate the art of every other person, I did enjoy stopping to look in the windows. I wouldn’t want the galleries to close; I simply would like a change in perspective when a human being looks at another. I was awed by the existence of other humans, by being in proximity, and by experiencing their presence through my senses. Granted, I preferred interactions with humans in specific places at specific times under certain conditions. The centerpieces, though, were the human beings.

The massive edifice of the Rijksmuseum appeared before me. I hadn’t visited since 2001. Seeing it again made me feel like a child. “Dad, dad, can we go? Please, please, please, dad, just this once and I won’t ask for anything else, okay?” My inner dad said yes so I went. My biological dad would have said yes, too, because that’s the type of guy he was. My brother and I once pleaded with him to drive fifty miles off an Interstate highway to see a ghost town we had found on a map. We were on vacation driving across the United States and my dad wanted to make time, but he was too much of an explorer to say no. Unfortunately, the ghost town was a major disappointment. The best part of the experience was the excitement on the drive to it. In a sense, that made the detour worthwhile and I could see in my dad’s face that he felt the same way. At the very least, we scratched the place off our list of things to experience in life knowing we never had to wonder what we missed.

I had extensively explored the Rijksmuseum on two occasions. The first time was in 1998 with S. and the second was in 2001 when I visited Amsterdam on my own. Rembrandt’s massive Night Watch is the focal point of the museum, but I was more fascinated by other parts of the museum. Still, Night Watch filled me with awe. The size blew me away, about 12’ x 14’. Combined with the detail? Insane! I couldn’t imagine how long it took to paint it. Museum guides proclaimed it was finished in 1642, but there was no information on when the painting was started. The main building of the museum was being renovated so the Night Watch was in what was called the “fragment building.”

Since the main building was being reconstructed, I enjoyed other areas. The furniture and interiors section was a highlight for me. There were three large and intricately decorated dollhouses that I loved. They provided a detailed view of how affluent houses were furnished in the seventeenth century. I spent at least an hour looking at them. I could imagine living in each one and it was easy for my mind’s eye to see the men, women, and children of past eras walking into and out of each room: A teenage girl combing her hair in front of a bedroom mirror, a stately gentleman drinking scotch in a wood-paneled den, and indentured servants slaving in a basement kitchen stocked with pots and pans as well as a wood-burning oven.

Interestingly, doll houses were not toys in the seventeenth century; they were serious hobbies of women. The most spectacular of the three dollhouses was collected by Petronella Oortman. The museum guide stated that all the pieces were made to scale in the same way and using the same materials as the furniture and other items in houses of the time. The miniature porcelain was delivered from China. Oortman commissioned cabinetmakers, glassblowers, silversmiths, basket-weavers, and artists to furnish the dollhouse. The cost of the dollhouse when created was equal to the price of a real seventeenth-century canal house in Amsterdam.

I loved looking at the antique furniture as well. The houses they had once called home formed in my mind and I thought of Herengracht, Prinsengracht, and Keisersgracht. I had not explored the major canals much compared to past trips. I decided I would at least cover some of the canal ring I had not yet seen as I walked toward the exit of the museum. However, the wind was howling and the gray day had turned dark. Fortunately, rain was not falling. My umbrella would likely have flown away just as spectacularly as the woman’s I viewed during the weekend I stayed at The Grand Hotel. I sighed as I thought about the hotel while walking back the way I had come. I veered slightly off the same path I had taken and saw the sign for Conscious Dreams again. I remembered that I still had the Ecuadorian shrooms in my refrigerator. I contemplated whether I would shroom in the evening as I shopped at Albert Heijn for groceries and a bottle of wine.

I returned to the apartment early evening. The wind had died down near the end of my walk, but a heavy rain poured. Even with the umbrella I was wet. I was wind-worn and tired. I changed clothes and made a ham and kaas broodje mit tomaten. I tried out my Dutch here and there. It was bad, almost always related to food, but I noticed when I shopped or spoke to others that the attempts were appreciated. The woman at Albert Heijn tried to help me with pronunciation and that made me feel welcome. I had a decent ear for the language and could pronounce Dutch words fairly well. I lacked the vocabulary, though. Most of the Dutch in Amsterdam spoke English so fluently that whenever they discovered I was American they would launch into my native tongue.

I opened the bottle of wine and loaded a bowl. I puffed a bit, listened to music, and lied on the couch to read. Shrooming seemed like a bad idea given my physical exhaustion. I had tickets to moe the next two nights and I thought it would be fun to shroom at the Melkweg. The day had been full, a nice mix of work and meandering play, so I relaxed the rest of the evening.

Amsterdam Seventeen: Mr. Lollipop's Shop

I smoked a bowl after Vanessa left. I put the CD case/coke tray away then listened to music while picking up The Architecture of Happiness where I last left off. I crashed around two. The next day I woke early. I felt great. No matter the drugs, sex makes me feel good the following day … and sex with Vanessa was very good. I went to Eik en Linde and ordered a coffee. No hunger, just energy, perhaps remnants from last night. I chatted with Kasper and a few regulars, including a man who was Serbian but had been living in Holland for nearly thirty years. He gave me a hard time about being an American and seemed to be frustrated by my agreement that the United States is the bully of the world.

“What do you want me to say?” I asked. “I agree with you. No other country but the United States has military bases on foreign soil and we have over seven hundred military bases in countries all over the world. And, yes, I know they are there not to protect U.S. citizens from harm but to provide a foothold for multinational corporations. Don’t think, though, that The Netherlands is off the hook. You think Heineken and other Dutch corporations don’t benefit from the U.S. military presence in the Middle East, Africa, South America, and elsewhere? Besides, it wasn’t all that long ago that the Dutch were involved in South Africa.” That momentarily shut him up, but then he started going off on McDonald’s and the demise of food quality worldwide. I sighed and nodded my head. He was mostly good-natured, but he was frustrated that he couldn’t find an argument.

Kasper came to save me by chatting me up. He asked if I was seeing Vanessa. I told him I saw her last night. He raised his eyebrows and said, “So, you’re serious about her, eh?” I smiled and nodded then shook my head … then nodded and shook my head. “I don’t know. She’s great, but I don’t see it going anywhere long term.” How serious could I be about an escort? But if I was being honest with myself—and I was—I was smitten. My wallet said break it off, but my heart and libido said turn it up. I thought about telling Kasper she was an escort, but that seemed like a bother. He would figure it out eventually. No reason to think so much. Just let it be.

Vanessa’s story about her background affected me. I probably wouldn’t feel for her the way I did if she wasn’t so open about her life, so willing to share her powerful emotions and to let herself be herself, sexy and crazy as she was. I think what sealed the envelope for me was when she asked me not to turn out the lights. Her vulnerability was palpable and it added yet another dimension to a woman more complex than I could fathom.

The cocaine was another factor. Get a few lines of coke in me and I’ll be ready to rob a bank if that’s what everyone else says is groovy. I imagined me and a crew of men and women jacked up on coke wearing black masks and capes while hijacking an armored vehicle then flying off to Pluto to have a night of wild group sex. Sex and drugs, a combination for living and creating that has no equal.

I could hear the Serbian chattering away about Halliburton while my mind drifted off to play. I was painting a canvas of thought and words I rarely had a chance to use in conversation kept applying themselves, jasper whispers dancing on fig leaves between bolts of melting sun rays exuding fragrances and allowances for dallying. The Serb was jabbering about George W. Bush and while I agreed with him, the spittle collecting at the corners of his lips filled me with an urge to mash a potato in his face. If I could scrape his skull with a cheese grater I was sure he would slow his speech a little.

When I looked back at Kasper’s relaxed movement and natural smile I saw him as a golden chalice cascading goodness. He wasn’t so flippant as to be tossing dandelions on strangers wherever he went nor would I see him frolicking naked in Vondel Park while eating a ripened mango. It seemed likely, though, that he could be trailed by a bumble of butterflies while meandering down a cobblestone path reading a pamphlet of poetry.

The Serb kept on chirping and I occasionally said a word or two to let him know I was present if not exactly listening. I knew there was anger and frustration involved from the tone of his voice and that told me more about who he was than the content of his commentary. I was interested in him as a person, but I cared little for what he said. In other words, I liked sitting next to him while he expressed his anguish. It was unusual, after all, to see such ugly passions in Amsterdam. He was a novelty, I guess, and that made him as worthwhile as anyone else. Plus, his monologue allowed me to revel in my own thoughts while he prattled on and on. Not having to say much while in conversation can be delightful; much less energy is expended.

My energy was dipping a little so I called to Kasper to order an espresso. “You want any food?” The time? Hmmm. Backward running clock was hard to misread as it was about noon. I wasn’t terribly hungry so I ordered bitterballen. Kasper was busy so he just said, “Ja,” and turned away. It was the lunch rush and while I typically would have left, I liked being buffered from the crowd by the Serb. I had nested in my favorite area of the bar, the back side of the curly Q. I could pretend to be engaged with the Serb while observing the bustle of activity throughout the café, a collection of human electrons bouncing off one another, zipping this way and that without rhyme or reason, each particle of person made social by proximity of sound, sight, and touch.

Lunch at Eik en Linde often resembled a party attended by groups of people who knew one another through a friend of a friend. It was as if they hadn’t seen one another for years or were just meeting for the first time even though the very same party with the very same people had congregated just yesterday and the yesterday before that and every yesterday since the inception of Eik en Linde as a café.

Often enough the people presented as colors. A loud middle-aged man who always stood and waved his arms while holding a beer without ever spilling was beet red while two quieter older women who mostly chatted at a two-person table next to the window were pale yellows. Some came in costumes of personality, a white-bearded gent who groused as a Grumpasaurus and a young blonde woman who graced the room with the eroticism of Aphrodite.

Kasper brought my espresso and bitterballen. As he turned away I quickly asked if I could get some water wheneveryougetachance! He was gone and I wasn’t sure if he heard me. The Serb shifted gears and made a statement about the moment. “You should have been ready with your question before he arrived, lad.” I nodded and lifted my espresso to him as a show of agreement. The bitterballen were hot so I let them cool off while I sipped my espresso. I asked the Serb how he had come to live in Amsterdam for thirty years and before I could take back the words he set sail a story about being in the navy—Yugoslavia had a navy?! I didn’t ask, I just listened. He was as passionate as ever, but now he was smiling more and his eyes filled with nostalgia as he gave me what was apparently the backstory for his arrival in Amsterdam. He said something about being on a submarine. A submarine? I wondered if he had hijacked a Russian sub during the Cold War and made his way to the port of Rotterdam, saving countless lives by thwarting a potential nuclear attack. The chest-puffed-out self-importance said something about the esteem with which he held his military endeavors.

Military stories always seem to be told as if the world would have ended had it not been for so-and-so and such-and-such. “If it wasn’t for me and my platoon, Saddam would have marched his troops into Germany and France and completely destroyed them. America would have been next.” Really? What did you do during the war? “I was a surveyor.” Huh? You saved the world from Saddam by mapping a desert? Well … thanks.

Kasper placed a glass of water in front of me. He turned away before I could thank him. As he walked down to the other end of the bar he raised his hand and sang, “You’re welcome.” Motherfucker. I realized I could never be a barista or waiter. Keeping so many things straight in my head would make me trip over my feet. One thing I loved in Amsterdam, and Holland in general, was how much more esteemed bartenders and servers were. If anything, they were the royals of the café, the people who really mattered. Without them, hell, we would just be people talking rather than drinking, eating, and talking.

Watching servers and baristas in Amsterdam was like watching a choreographed dance. If the staff had been working together for years, then it was high art: each person knew where the other would be without looking and they would communicate without words. Glances and gestures spoke volumes, a language known by maybe half a dozen people with each person speaking a slightly different dialect that only those other half dozen could understand. If I learned Kasper’s barista language I wouldn’t be able to use that to fully understand Philip’s. Their interplay was like the most extraordinary avant garde modern dance with patrons serving as background dancers who do seemingly random things while the star performers act out movements that are discernible, over time, as order amidst chaos. I loved watching a server hold a tray of plates in one hand and three glasses held between fingers in the other while avoiding the chair of a customer who had suddenly and without warning backed it a foot into the walkway without looking, causing the server to pirouette, glide, slide, arch, twist, sway, and leap all without spilling, stopping, or speaking or the customer noticing a thing. Even facial expressions remained the same. Obstacles and near collisions were all part of the dance.

I ate my bitterballen and drank my water. The Serb had finally gotten around to his move to Amsterdam and was talking about where he first lived. I didn’t know the town he mentioned and wasn’t even sure it was a town. It sounded more like he’d hacked up a lung and then coughed three times. How one spelled a hack and three coughs I had no idea. He told me about his first job working as a candy taster at Mr. Lollipop’s Shop and how he would often take a spin at Warble Dither during lunch breaks. It was something like that, anyway. I wished people would just make up shit about themselves to make conversations more interesting. If a person has lived a boring life then spice it up a bit for the good of the rest of the world. No one wants to hear how you collated papers in a cubicle. How fucking awful that we live in a world where most work is boring.

I looked back at Kasper and thought, “Well, at least his work is interesting. Hell, I can see it in his face and his movements.” Maybe that was it: he moved! The movements weren’t repetitive, either. Yes, some movements were made more often than others, but the combination of Kasper's movements on a given morning or afternoon was as complex as a symphony. So many body parts moving at different times in different ways, all accomplishing something specific, something necessary, to make the work coherent, symmetrical, and beautiful.

I watched Kasper’s adagio and caught his eye. “Could I get a de Koninck when you have a chance?” Kasper smiled and nodded as he continued his movement. The eventuality was inevitable: I wasn’t going to work today, not when I could think like this. It had been far too long since my thought was so agile. Why waste it on an index? The café was filled with buzzing conversations and bursts of laughter. I wasn’t going anywhere. Interesting how much less the crowd of early-afternoon regulars bothered me compared to the weeks prior. I felt like I was seeing through new eyes. Other than me, no one noticed any difference at all. Funny how none of us really knows what’s going on within anyone else’s world.

Amsterdam Sixteen: I Miss You, Baby

I woke on Monday and took my MacBook to Eik en Linde. I ordered an uitsmijter and coffee. I popped open my MacBook and appreciated the photo I had chosen as the desktop background: Vanessa on the bed wearing her black-and-red bra and panties striking a pose with her hands on her hips and her lips puckered in a kiss. I sighed and opened my browser. I was sitting on the wall-side of the curly Q with the backwards running clock right above me. I could see the whole café from my seat.

Kasper walked my way with the coffee and before he put it in front of me he stopped and looked at me. I looked up and asked, “What?” I was smiling widely, I could tell, because he had a twinkle in his eye and he started smiling, too. “What?” I asked again, almost laughing. He continued to stare at me and his mouth opened a little as he shook his head. Then he closed his mouth in a strange little smile and looked down to place my coffee. He looked up again briefly and nodded his head ever so slightly. “I see,” he said. “I see.”

I could tell he knew but I wanted to make him say it so I said, “Come on, out with it.” He had turned to fill another order, but he looked back at me and flashed his charismatic smile. “Do I really need to say it?” I laughed then sheepishly said, “No.” I paused. “Is it that obvious?” Kasper walked over to me and crossed his arms before leaning against the counter. He peered over at me. “If it was any more obvious we’d have to avert our eyes.” I rolled my eyes. I was embarrassed. It struck me just how long it had been since I’d had a morning-after glow about me. Kasper was still smiling. “So, what is she like, this woman of yours?” I closed the browser and turned the computer around so he could see her. Kasper stood up quickly and his eyes widened. “Whoa! Wow, she is … impressive.”

Kasper asked her name. I told him but as I did I wondered what her real name was. Did I need to know? I decided no. I realized I wanted to see her again, though. That was a given. Tonight? No, not tonight. In my head I had gone through all of the purchases I had made including the apartment and the flight over. I had spent over $10,000, but I had billed for a few indexes, had more lined up, and $2000 coming each month from the divorce settlement. If I stopped spending now I would return from the trip with nearly as much money in my pocket as I had when I left. I laughed to myself. Yeah, like that was going to happen. I mentally put Vanessa’s tab on the maintenance from S. I liked the idea of S. paying for Vanessa and I to have a good time. The thought made me smile.

Kasper had turned away to serve other customers. None of the regulars I knew were there so when Kasper brought my uitsmijter I ate in peace. He came over to ask how the food was and I gave him a thumbs up. He asked if I was going to see Vanessa again and I nodded yes. "Where is she from?" A question intimating he knew she wasn’t Dutch. I told him she was Romanian. He nodded his head up and down. His smile was tight. “She is … impressive.” I nodded my head. “She's a handful, man.”

I had another coffee after my meal and looked at my email. I downloaded some PDFs for an index and took a look at one to make sure the file was clean and readable. Everything seemed to be in order so I closed it and shut down my computer. I waved goodbye to Kasper and he said, “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.” I responded, “I’m not sure what you wouldn’t do so where does that leave me?” He laughed and waved. “See you next time, Michael.” I walked home in the cold sunshine.

The day went by quickly as I indexed at my apartment. I thought about wandering around in the sun, but I wanted to make headway on my work assignments. I thought about Vanessa occasionally throughout the day. Whenever I’d take a break from my work I’d open the folder with her photos and look at them. In one she appeared as a sexy vixen while in another an adorable sweetheart. Memories vividly flashed and I danced with her in the hotel room again.

I stopped working late afternoon. I made a hearty salad and had a glass of wine. After putting the dishes in the dishwasher I paced around, not knowing what to do with myself. Damn, I wanted to see Vanessa, touch her and hear her voice. I smoked a bowl and chilled out listening to music. I felt sufficiently relaxed. As I was about to doze off my phone rang. Weird. Only a few people back in the States had my Amsterdam number and none of them had called me. I answered and was surprised to hear Vanessa’s voice.

“Hey, baby. I miss you.” Huh? I was flummoxed. I asked her how she got my number. “You call me Saturday. I have number in phone.” Oh, yeah. I forgot about that. “What you do?” I told her I was relaxing. “You want I come over tonight?” I thought about this. The truth was, yes, I did want her to come over, but I didn’t have any cash on me and, well, part of me wanted to wait until later in the week to let my jets cool a little. My heart—or perhaps my libido—won out and I responded, “Yes.” I told her I needed to go to an ATM to get cash and that I could only see her for a couple of hours. “You no want me stay with you tonight?”

Oh, Vanessa. “Yes, I do want you to stay with me, but I can’t afford it night after night.”

Vanessa shot back, “You millionaire, remember?”

I laughed. “Yeah, yeah, yeah, I wish.”

There was silence on the other end of the line. “So no all night?”

I said, “No all night. A couple hours, though.”

“Okay. What time I come?”

“How about nine?”

“Okay, see you then, baby. What your address?”

Oh, yeah. I told her my address and she said, “What? How you spell that?” I spelled it out for her and she told me to do it again. I spelled it a second time and she said, “This is not in Amsterdam.” I told her yes, it was in Amsterdam, just outside the city center. “Okay, I call back if lost. See you, baby. Kiss.”

It was only seven so I got my coat to find a cash machine. There was one at a bank not too far away, less than a half hour walk there and back. I withdrew 300 Euros, 200 for her rate and another 40 or 60 on top as gratuity. I realized I wasn’t going to be able to see her as often as I wanted. It was too much money. As I walked from the ATM back to my apartment I stopped and thought, “Fuck that shit. That’s a bunch of cowardly bullshit. That’s not who I used to be and that’s not who I am. That’s the voice of a broken man suffering from a crushing loss. That guy, I have sympathy for him, but he isn’t allowed to make decisions any more. No fucking way.”

I reminded myself that I was in Amsterdam, that I came here to rediscover my zeal for life, and that I had been doing just that. This was no time to regress. No, I needed to keep my foot on the gas and soak up the city as well as Vanessa’s charm, passion, and beauty. Maybe I would become a cliché, the American abroad who falls in love with an exotic escort. There’s always a reason that a cliché is a cliché. Fuck, why not? I tried the traditional approach and that nearly destroyed me. New tactics were in order. I was on a mission now, that mission being to create my life as a masterpiece.

When I returned from the ATM I took a shower. I still had shrooms in the fridge but decided not to eat them. I figured I would wind up telling Vanessa to stay over if I did. Not that it would be the worst thing in the world, but making an attempt at moderation seemed in order. Self-control. Discipline. I laughed. “Yeah, right.” I put my laptop on the coffee table, anticipating Vanessa’s proclivity toward Romanian music. I was willing to indulge her because I loved watching her smiling dances. I put music of my own on the stereo hoping she might enjoy some mood music as well. It may have been my dime that was making this happen, but I still viewed her as a person, as an equal. I didn’t intend to sacrifice my principles for pleasure. I thought they could coexist. A fool is a fool to the end, I suppose.

Vanessa called me just before nine. “Where are you? I no can find apartment?” I asked where she was and she told me. I had no idea where she was, either. We went back and forth and I opened the blinds to look out. I saw a taxi parked down the street and said to her, “I can see you. Tell your driver to keep coming and I’ll go outside to meet you.” I ran down the stairs and outside just as the taxi pulled up. Vanessa got out and gave me a hug. We went inside and immediately she said, “You have money? You give me now, that way no hokey-pokey.” I laughed. I was pretty sure she meant hanky-panky. I thought about putting my right foot in and my right foot out but instead I just handed her 200 Euros.

She looked at it and then asked, “You want cocaine?” I told her I still had half a gram left from the hotel. She said, “Yeah? Maybe we want more than half gram. I pay half for cocaine. Maybe I stay, you know?” She looked up at me with her puppy dog brown eyes and batted her eyelashes. I shook my head. “No, not all night, but, yeah, more coke.” Vanessa smiled and went back to the cab. She exited and closed the door. We walked upstairs as the taxi pulled away.

I asked Vanessa if she wanted something to drink. She said beer but I didn’t have any. She pouted but then looked at me like a lamb and asked, “Wine?” I said yes and went to the kitchen to pour a couple glasses of cabernet. I also filled two glasses of water.

I returned to the living room with the wine and went back to get the water. Vanessa said, “Where you go?” I said, “Just a minute,” and returned with the water. She said, “Ah, good.” I took a good look at Vanessa. She was wearing a black leather jacket that came down to her hips, trendy torn jeans, and black boots. I could make out just a bit of red underneath her jacket. She looked sexy as she sat there holding the wine glass. “So, we do coke?” she asked. I laughed really hard and almost dropped the glasses. There was drool dangling out of my mouth and I could hear Vanessa squealing with laughter. She had gotten up and was taking the glasses out of my hand. She said, “You are so excited for coke that you drool.” She turned on the sex in her voice and said, “Or maybe you drool for me.” I fell to my knees and laughed so hard I couldn’t breathe. Vanessa said, “Hey, it so funny for you to drool for me? I sexy, no shame for you to drool for me.” I tried to stand up but I was still laughing too hard. I managed to yell, “Stop, you’re killing me!”

I heard Vanessa laugh and the click-clack of her boots on the hardwood floor coming toward me. She helped me to my feet and said, “Baby, you no need coke. You already high.” I took a deep breath and looked at Vanessa. She looked up at me and tried to suppress a laugh, but couldn’t. That started me all over again and soon enough we were holding each other up while we laughed hysterically, absolutely whooping and hollering with wild abandon.

We finally slowed down. “God, that felt good. Vanessa, you are the perfect mix of sexy and funny. Seriously—no, nothing’s serious about this at all—but you are … you’re the best." She let out a long, “Awww,” and said, “You are very sweet. You make me happy. I don’t know why, but you surprise me, you know?” I kissed her forehead and then went to my bedroom. Vanessa again said, “Where you go?” By the time she finished the sentence I came out of the bedroom with a CD case. She smiled and we walked over to the couch.

Vanessa poured out about a third of the baggie of coke and started mashing it with a phone card. She diced it up fast and formed four fat lines. I sarcastically asked her if she was in a hurry. She said, “I only here two hour tonight. What, you want sit and stare at wall?” She smiled as she said it. I shook my head back and forth but said nothing. I took a drink of water then grabbed a bill from my wallet. Vanessa rolled a bill of her own. “You have nice place,” she said.  I thanked her, but as soon as I did she said, “Still, I like hotel better.” I rolled my eyes and said, “Yeah, me, too, but I don’t have 400 Euros to spend for a room every night.” Vanessa bent down to do a line, but sat back up. She licked her lips and smirked. “If you were millionaire you would.” I threw up my hands. “When are you going to let that go?” She winked at me. “I will stop when you are millionaire. Then you will marry me and buy me diamonds all the time.” Oh, Lord.

Vanessa snorted a line, half in one nostril and half in the other. I did the same after she finished. We looked at each other with our eyes wide and said as one, “Oh my God!” I couldn’t believe it, but this stuff was even better than the other two grams. Vanessa shook her head and stood up. She walked around the coffee table to an area with plenty of space in the living room and shook her whole body. “Wow! Oh my God, this is really good!” I got up, too, and started pacing. “Holy fuck, holy fuck, holy fuck.” We were both flying to the moon and orbiting at high speed.

Vanessa asked if she could play some music. I said yes. She said, “I play House tonight. I think it is right music for this cocaine.” No shit about that. Vanessa found a link for E-Contact and took off her boots. We both started grooving. She took off her jacket and threw it on the chaise lounge next to the stairs. She had on a long-sleeve light red button-down shirt that barely made it to the waist of her low-riding jeans. Two buttons we undone and she unbuttoned another one, revealing her ample cleavage. I was wearing jeans and a t-shirt. I had socks on and was slipping and sliding all over the floor. Vanessa was hopping up and down as the music shifted to Daniel Sanchez. We kept moving until we were all but drenched in sweat.

I waved my hand at Vanessa, indicating I needed a break. She nodded her head and we went back to the couch. We were huffing and puffing. Vanessa switched the music to a slow Romanian song. I was not keen on Romanian tunes except for some of the great gypsy fiddling, but in this case I was grateful. The music slowed my heart rate. We both guzzled our respective glasses of water and I took them to the kitchen to refill them. When I came back her shirt was completely unbuttoned. She was unbuttoning her jeans when she looked up at me. She had heat in her eyes. I put down the glasses and pulled my t-shirt over my head. I unbuttoned my jeans, too, but before I took them off I walked over to her and kissed her. She continued to unbutton as we kissed. She pulled away to push her jeans down around her ankles. She removed her socks then stood up and stepped out of her jeans. She was wearing light red panties that matched her shirt. She removed her shirt and I saw the bra matched the panties and shirt as well. Those needed to come off and fast.

I put my arms around Vanessa’s ass and lifted her off the floor. She put her arms around my neck and her legs around my lower back. She kissed me as I turned and walked to the bedroom. We were trying to devour each other as we kissed and her intensity pushed my passion into a frenzy. I threw her on the bed and fiercely pushed my pants to the ground, stepping out of my socks as I stepped out of my jeans. I dived on the bed and landed on Vanessa’s lips. I unclasped her bra and she dug at my underwear, ripping the waist band as she did. I lifted her bra over her head with great difficulty because she refused to let go of my briefs. I felt them rip even more until she finally let go. I saw she had a torn shred of my underwear in one hand as I removed her bra completely. Before she could grab my briefs again, I pulled down her panties with force. My cock had come out of my briefs which were now awkwardly dangling below my ass, the waist band stretched out completely and a huge hole in the front from where Vanessa had ripped the fabric. This turned me on even more.

Just before I was about to penetrate, though, Vanessa’s eyes went wide and she screamed, “Condom!” I dove off her to the left and almost fell out of bed. Thought returned and I said, “Oh, shit. That was close." Vanessa scampered out of the bedroom and returned just as fast, tearing the wrapper with her teeth and pulling out the condom. I shifted to lie face up and Vanessa’s wild eyes said, “You are mine!”

The sex was passionate, but became more intimate over time. I was becoming more comfortable with my sexuality. When we finished we laid on the bed looking at the ceiling. We were both breathing heavily. Vanessa rolled onto me, her petite body more like a feather than a weight. She tossed her hair back and looked into my eyes. She was smiling and her eyes were glowing. She said to me in a satisfied voice, “Was good. You give me orgasm. I think you are getting better.” She laughed and rolled off of me. I pretended to be mad at her and bear-hugged her while growling. She screamed a fake scream but it was piercing nonetheless. I let her go. She turned back, “No, baby, hug me like that more. I like your muscles squeezing me.” I did as she said. “Yes, like that. It feel goooood.”

We remained in that embrace until Vanessa sat up like a shot. “What is time?” she asked in a panic. I thought, jokingly, to myself, “That’s a question philosophers have been trying to answer for millennia.” She jumped out of bed and ran to the living room. I breathed deeply and stretched before slowly getting out of bed. I felt fucking great. I walked into the living room and saw Vanessa on her phone. She said, “I check messages. I have ‘nother client! Shit!” She kept listening then hit a few buttons and put the phone back to her ear. She sighed and her body relaxed. She plopped down on the couch. I loved watching her move while naked. Her body was delicious eye candy.

Vanessa took the phone away from her ear and smiled. “Client cancel. Oh my God. Would have been very, very bad.” I looked at the clock in the kitchen. It was a little after eleven. I told Vanessa. She said, “Yeah, I know. I stay ‘nother hour?” I said, “Vanessa, I have to watch my money at least a little.” She nodded. “Is okay I stay if you no pay?” I was taken aback. “Um, yeah, sure.” She smiled and knelt in front of the coffee table. She rolled a bill and bent over to snort a line. I looked at her and looked at the window. I thought it must have been a great view for the condos across the canal. A naked man and woman doing blow in the living room. Fuck.

I went to the window and pushed the button to close the blinds. I heard Vanessa gasp and figured she must have zoomed one. I looked over at her and she was standing, jiggling and shaking from the coke. She looked over at me and laughed. “Shit, I no notice window!” She kept laughing and I walked over to the coffee table to do the last line that Vanessa had cut earlier. I flung myself back against the couch and screamed, “Yeeeeowwww! Damn, that’s the shit. Fuck woman, I wanna fuck again!” Vanessa said, “Baby, we no fuck; we make love.” I stood up and walked to her. I put my arms around her and kissed her firmly and she kissed back. We twirled and kissed, exploring each other’s bodies with our hands.

I couldn’t think, I didn’t want to think. My body pulsed and shook, the coke sent my emotions through the ceiling to visit the upstairs apartment. Vanessa’s lips tied mine in knots and her hands shed unneeded molecules from my shoulders, back, and ass. It was all I could do not to squeeze her as hard as I could, to keep myself from biting her lips, to not pick her up and slide my cock into her again. Some part of my consciousness remained and repeated Vanessa’s earlier scream, “Condom!” Other than that tiny voice I was desire.

Vanessa pulled away and I gasped for her. She said, “I know, but water.” I nodded my head and grabbed the glasses. We drank and Vanessa began fiddling with my MacBook. Romanian gypsy music blared. She grabbed one of the glasses of wine and I grabbed the other. She clinked my glass and took a drink then went to the bedroom. I rubbed my hands together and followed her. She put on her bra and I said, “What are you doing?” She said, “I cold. I put on clothes." I put my arms around her waist and said, “Or … we could slide under the blankets and get warm again.” She smiled and said, “You are horny tonight.” I said, “It’s your fault. If you weren’t so fucking hot.” She smiled, just enough that I thought she might change her mind. She bit her finger and looked at me wickedly. “Okay, baby.”

I rushed her and tackled her onto the bed. “Aaaaieeee! You are crazy." She rolled me over and got out of bed. “I get condom, okay?” She came back and slid the condom on me with her mouth. She slowly climbed up on top of me and rode. I was so hungry. I rolled her over and looked into Vanessa’s eyes. I couldn’t speak, but I could feel my eyes screaming for her. She looked back into my eyes with wonderment, shaking her head with her mouth open, panting and whispering, “Yes … yes … yes …” She licked her lips and turned on her side. I stayed on my knees as she looked back and up at me. She reached back with her hand and clutched the side of my ass, willing me to move faster. I rotated my hips into a position where I could glide smoothly, effortlessly, and Vanessa moaned and squealed. Her body moved sensuously and then roughly; combined with her audible sighs and yelps of pleasure I felt every cell in my body convulse and I came … and came … and came, a never-ending ejaculation that threatened to dehydrate me.

I fell to her side and gulped for air. Vanessa remained partially curled, breathing soft “ohhhs” that gradually slowed to a stop. “Fuck, woman. You’re turning me into an animal.” Vanessa lifted her head and looked at me through the damp hair stuck to her forehead. She sighed and said, “Yes, I know. You make me rubber. I no can move.” We laid still for several minutes until Vanessa got out of bed. I asked her where she was going. She said, “Shower.” I nodded and laid back down.

When she got out of the shower she dressed. I got out of bed and put on sweats. Vanessa said, “I call driver.” When she got off the phone she said, “He busy so not here for half hour.” I nodded and asked her if she wanted more wine. She said no. “Water.” I got more water and when I came back Vanessa was on the computer. She asked me if she could use Yahoo! Messenger. I said sure. “You have webcam?” I told her it was built into the MacBook. She squealed with delight and started tapping away. I sat beside her and saw the image of a woman come on the screen. Vanessa turned to me and said, “My sister.” It was her older sister in med school. Vanessa was writing in Romanian and as she did she translated to me.

I asked her to teach me Romanian so she gave it a stab. The only word I remembered well was “iubescu” which means “I love you” … in the romantic sense. I joked with her and asked if she was writing “iubescu” to her sister. Vanessa turned to me with scorn in her eyes and gave me a clipped “No.” She winked and said, “I save iubescu for you, baby.” She leaned over and kissed me. When she turned back I looked at the computer screen and saw the video of her sister holding her hands to her mouth with her eyes wide. Her sister was gorgeous, perhaps even more beautiful than Vanessa though it was hard to tell through a 2x2 video image.

Vanessa sighed and typed a message. She turned to me and said, “Now she ask if you are boyfriend.” I asked Vanessa what she wrote. She looked at me with a pinched smile and giggled. “I tell her ‘yes.’” She laughed and then stopped herself short. She held her hand in front of the webcam and gave me a serious look. “She no know what I do so you are boyfriend, okay?” I said yes, I understand. Vanessa kept her hand over the webcam. “No one from Romania know what I do, okay?” I solemnly nodded yes as Vanessa took her hand off the webcam. Her sister’s image was gone. “Ah, she leave. Oh! Now my best friend is here!” She mentioned her name but I couldn’t understand what it was nor would I be able to pronounce it if I tried. A strange rolling “r” different than French was involved. Vanessa typed a message and then one was returned. Soon the two of them were typing fast and furious back and forth. Vanessa went from laughing to serious to angry to smiling. After 10 minutes I was getting bored so I went around the table and poured out more coke to mash and dice. Vanessa looked up at me and smiled. She said, “I done soon, baby. I sorry I message, but is special with her. She my bestest friend.”

I nodded sympathetically and went about my business. I cut two more lines and noticed there was maybe half a gram left. I looked at the clock and saw that twenty minutes had passed since she called her driver. I enjoyed her presence even when her focus was elsewhere. There was something about letting her be herself that made being with her much richer. I rolled a bill and did a line. Wow. Vanessa typed a goodbye to her friend and then did her line. I gave Vanessa the baggie of coke. She asked why. I said, “I have half a gram in the other room. You keep this for yourself.” She said, “Okay, baby.” She paused with a puzzled look on her face. “You pay me for coke?” I said no and got my wallet. I gave her a hundred Euros. She said, “It only thirty, baby. I pay half, remember?” I nodded and told her, “The rest is for you. Thank you for staying with me so long tonight. You make me very happy.” Vanessa took the cash and smiled. She placed her hands on my cheeks and said, “You make me happy, too. I want to stay longer. It is nice with you.”

Vanessa’s phone rang. “My driver is here.” Vanessa kissed me then said, “Call me, okay? Kiss.” In a flash, she was down the stairs and out the door. I went to the window, pushed the button to open it, and watched her get in the cab. It sped away down the street and out of sight. I thought to myself, “What a strange life she lives.”

Amsterdam Fifteen: Good Morning, Sunshine

I woke in the morning with Vanessa between my legs. She had applied a condom and was slowly sucking the tip of my penis. She looked up, saw I was awake, and winked at me. I laid my head back down and laughed. She lifted her head and her mouth made a popping sound as she uncorked her lips. “You like blow job, baby?” I said, “No, blow job is horrible!” Vanessa screamed unintelligibly then bit down on my dick, hard enough for me to cry out, “Hey!” I looked up and she still had my cock in her mouth. She was no longer biting, but she had a wicked twinkle in her eye. I said, “Hey, you watch yours—“ I wasn’t able to finish as she sucked more of me into her mouth and twirled her tongue. My head fell back and I felt a moan trying to escape but she had sucked the breath out of me. Thoughts drained as the sensations intensified. When I came I wasn’t sure how much time had passed. I didn’t care. I just panted and tried not to move, afraid if I did that my whole body would tremble and I would scream. She was just that fucking good.

Vanessa removed the condom, walked to the bathroom, and returned with a hand towel. She looked up at me, a service-like tenderness in her eyes, and washed me. When she finished she went back toward the bathroom and threw the cloth around the corner. She was amazing. Even after that personal outpouring of horror and emotion from last night she was still a delicious combination of personal and professional. I wanted to be with her. I wanted her to stay all day every day. I looked at my cock and then I looked at the clock. 8:00 AM. I was exhausted, happily exhausted. Vanessa said, “I take shower, baby.” I wanted to get up and join her, but I couldn’t move. I laid naked on the bed staring at the ceiling, enjoying the post-fellatio glow.

I heard the shower shut off and I made myself get out of bed. I was in danger of falling asleep. I nummied the remnants of white powder on the Phish CD case and got a whiff of alert. I tidied up the room a bit and put the food tray outside the door. I made sure the sign said do not disturb. By the time Vanessa walked out of the bathroom, I had dressed in sweats and laid out her clothes. She was wearing her white robe, noticed the clothes, and smiled. She kissed me on the cheek and said, “You are sweet, but I have clothes in bag.” She pulled out fresh underwear, bra, skirt, and blouse, none of them particularly sexy in comparison to her other clothes. I sat on the side of the bed watching her dress. She went back to the bathroom. I got up off the bed and started packing my belongings. Vanessa returned and I noticed she was smiling. She looked delightful.

Vanessa walked over and kissed me. “I have to go.” I stood there waiting for her to go, but she didn’t move. “What?” I asked. I slapped my head, “Oh, yes. The money!” I blushed, retrieved the Euros, and gave them to her. She shifted her weight and adopted one of the poses I loved, her head tilted with one leg extended to the side. She leafed through the bills then her face lit up. She kissed me again, smiled playfully, patted my cheek with a leather-gloved hand, and said, “Goodbye, innocent. You have number. Call me, okay? I want see you again.” She smiled, turned on her heel, and opened the door. She looked back and scrunched her face, “You know what I think?” I shook my head. “I think you are strange.” She let out a laugh and ran out the door.

I shook my head and walked to the door to closed it. I turned and leaned against it. I laughed. “I am strange.” I heard her voice in my head: “Baby.” That accent and those lilting sighs. Whew. I was dead tired, though, and too dreamy to think about anything but her. I pulled out the coke and a CD case from my backpack. I needed something to keep me awake until I got home. There was a lot of coke left. I chopped up a decent-sized line and zoomed it. I felt the whoosh of awareness swirl around my head and I stood up, hopped to the bathroom, and took a shower. I shaved, brushed my teeth, put on deodorant, yada yada yada.

I got dressed, cleaned up the coke and the CD case, and put them back in my bag. I checked my wallet to make sure I had everything. Satisfied, I picked up the room key, made one last round, and went to the door. I looked back at the room and sighed. I was going to miss it. “You made for a great weekend, motherfucker. Thank you.” I opened the door, threw the sign in the room, and closed the door. I went down the elevator to the front desk and proceeded to check out. I looked at my bill—over one thousand Euros. I charged it to my credit card. I loosely added up the damage from the weekend and realized I had spent well over three thousand Euros. Worth every fucking cent.

I walked into the drizzling rain and put on my cap. As I slowly walked toward my apartment through the blind streets of the Oude Zijde I realized I could barely remember who I was before the weekend began. It felt like years had passed since I had eaten pasta and shrooms on Friday. I thought of Vanessa now and then, an image of her standing with her hands on her hips, her head tilted to one side, one leg extended, her eyes piercing through me, her lips pursed in a kiss before broadening to a smile, and her voice fluttering in my ears, “What? You no like, baby?” Oh, I like, baby, I like.

...

I arrived at my apartment around noon. I had taken the scenic route. Not on purpose; I kept getting turned around on streets that doubled back the wrong direction and then tried to correct by taking streets that came to a dead end at a canal. I loved it! The Oude Zijde is wonderful that way. It didn’t hurt that it was sunny and the temperature was decent.

It felt weird being back, though. The apartment that seemed so spectacular when I first arrived now seemed pedestrian after my weekend at The Grand. I tossed my backpack onto the bed. I was famished. I made a sandwich then forced myself to unpack. I put a load of clothes into the washer. I set up my MacBook on the dining room table. I still had enough energy to download the photos and videos of Vanessa. I did a line of blow then looked through the slides. I deleted those that were blurry or redundant. About two thirds of the photos disappeared.

I watched one of the videos. The quality was excellent with good lighting and sound. Watching Vanessa dance put me right back in the hotel room. She was right in front of me, twirling around in her robe as it opened and closed, exposing her body then covering it up. I felt a pang for her. I was tempted to call and ask her come over, but I resisted the urge. Instead, I grabbed my lid of cannabis, lighter, and pipe. I loaded a bud of Buku into the bowl. I walked to the living room and pushed the button to open the blinds. I lit up as I looked out at the canal and the condos across. I inhaled deeply. The view was lovely in the sunlight. I exhaled, lit the bowl again, and sucked in the smoke. I held this one a little longer then exhaled.

I put down the pipe and lighter on the coffee table. I walked over to the stereo then realized I wanted to listen to Phish. I went to my bedroom and put the coke away. I ran a finger across the CD case and numbed my tongue with the powder. I removed the CD and lazily walked back to the living room. I grabbed the remote, cycled through a few songs, and rested on “David Bowie.” The stereo pumped out loud music and I turned it down a few notches so I could hear myself think. I probably had it cranked while I was shrooming on Friday. I thought of Friday again. I shook my head and smiled.

I zoned out on the couch listening to music. I thought of Vanessa’s story, the horrific series of events that led her from Romania to free agency as an escort in Amsterdam. In a way, she had made it. She was on top of the world, in control of her own destiny. But at what cost? She said she was broken. What did she mean by that? She was healthy physically except for the crack in her ribs. That had healed even if not set quite right. She meant her spirit. I saw a glimpse before we fell asleep. Anyone can be up and twirling about for a weekend. I certainly was and was I healed from years of depression? It felt that way, but was I really in any lasting sense? 

These were not questions I needed to answer. I wanted to enjoy myself. I picked up the bowl again and lit up. I finished off the bud while listening to “Destiny Unbound.” I cashed the bowl into the ashtray and lied down on the couch. I let the sounds roll over me as I fell asleep.

...

I woke early in the evening. The weekend had thrown my sleep pattern completely out of whack. I didn’t want to cook so I went for a walk. I passed Eik en Linde and thought of popping inside. I could see through the windows that it was packed and I wasn’t in the mood for a big crowd. I had no anxiety about it, though. It was merely a preference. I noted that and inhaled the cool night air. I felt good. I felt fresh. I felt like someone else. “Who the fuck is this guy?” I wondered. “Whoever he is I like him. I hope he sticks around.”

I walked to the city center, the east side. I found a Greek restaurant near the Red Light District. It was more of a sidewalk stand built into a building. I ordered a gyro and a diet soda then walked down a side street until I found a bench. I watched pedestrians and cyclists pass as I ate. One of the cyclists with healthy curly blond hair was whistling the James Bond theme song. I laughed so hard soda nearly shot out my nose. Amsterdam is always alive but at night it feels electric. I could feel it crackling with energy in this neighborhood.

I decided to wander south. I crossed the Amstel, passed through Rembrandtplein, and followed Vijzelstraat until it intersected with Kerkstraat, one of my favorite streets in Amsterdam. I walked to the west. There were pedestrians and cyclists but without that hyper-energy that sizzles around the Red Light or Rembrandtplein. I saw the Conscious Dreams sign and said, “Why not?” I entered and looked for a bit before going to the counter. I had no intention of shrooming, but I wanted them on hand. There was an attractive Dutch woman working. She spoke English in that special lilting Dutch manner.

I flirted with her, complimenting her accent, telling her she had beautiful blonde hair. My spirit must have been just right because she flirted right back, telling me she thought I was Dutch with my black coat, black pants, and easy gait. “That’s a hell of a compliment, woman. I might fall in love with you if you keep it coming.” She laughed and said “You look very handsome as well.” I sighed and put my hands on the counter. I tilted my head and looked her in the eyes. “Now why would you do that? Now I’m in love with you. I’ll never be happy again unless you go out with me.” She kept laughing so I said, “Seriously, what time do you get off work.” I was joking around, but I played the part pretending to be deadly serious. “Well, uh, I have a boyfriend.” I threw up my hands, turned around, and took three steps toward the far wall. There were no other customers in the shop. I put a hand over my eyes, turned back to her, and lowered my hand. I sighed and looked up. While looking at the ceiling I said, in a choked-up voice, “You couldn’t just tell me that straight out?” I looked her in the eye and yelled, “No! You led me on, made me think that we shared something special, that maybe, just maybe, you were the one!” I put my face in hands and doubled over, heaving my back as I pretended to sob uncontrollably.

I stood up straight like a shot and removed my hands from my face. I looked at her as casually as I could and said, “Okay, got it out of my system. How much for the Ecuadorians?” She shook her head and said, “Whoa. I …” I interjected, “Sorry, I was just having fun. I’m American; we love melodrama and overacting. I’m just playing to type.” She smiled but had a look in her eye that said, “I’m not sure I’m going to flirt with anyone ever again.” I asked her what she thought of Americans and she seemed to regain her composure. She said, “They’re okay. The Americans we get around this neighborhood are different than those around the train station and Dam Square.” I said, “Yeah, probably fewer tourists, more travelers.” She nodded.

There are major differences between tourists and travelers. Tourists want to see the guide book sights, take photos of everything, ignore the subtleties that make Amsterdam rich, and stay out of areas that veer off the beaten path. That’s why Eik en Linde sees so few Americans and why I was such an oddity there. Travelers want experiences and memories rather than photos and journal entries. They want to meet the Dutch and other travelers, they want to drink in the richness of an out-of-the-way jazz club or find a party by talking with a local at a little known club in De Pijp. Travelers are artists of experience and they want to collaborate with other experiential performers. At this point, I was a tweener, not quite confident enough to really be a traveler.

Then again, I wasn’t trying to be a traveler on this trip. I was trying to live like a local—though my weekend put me more in the class of … I’m not really sure. Neither tourist nor traveler, I guess. It was a weekend of hedonism, mostly Dionysian but with flashes of Epicureanism. Vanessa’s story changed the tenor of the experience. She became human and I became more human as a result. I owed her a debt of gratitude that went far beyond money.

I continued conversing with the Conscious Dreams' woman. I was running out of steam so I bid her adieu. Before I walked out I twirled around and asked her what days she worked. She said, “I’m on to you now. Good try, though.” I laughed and she gave me a smile. I said, “Tchüss!” as I headed out the door. I walked back to the apartment. I checked my watch; almost ten. It was three in the afternoon in Wisconsin. I found it ridiculous that I lived there. I belonged in Amsterdam. I had thought that the first time I exited Amsterdam Centraal. A wave of nostalgia came over me as I remembered how the city had taken my breath away that first trip. I truly wanted to live in Amsterdam. Not just “live like a local,” but set down roots. I wondered how I might go about doing that.