I woke at six in the morning. I felt refreshed, as if I’d had a psychic colonic. Whatever cosmic detritus had been cluttering my mind seemed to be gone. I hadn’t even smoked to come down. I simply drifted off to sleep as if in a fairy tale. I took a deep breath, stretched, and let out a low meow. My body felt wonderful. Sunshine peered through the windows.
Responsibility was in order so I indexed for a couple hours then stopped when I realized it was going to be an easy project. I made an omelet, showered, dressed, opened the window to check the temperature, and put on my Boss jacket. I sauntered down the stairs, deposited a few recyclables, and walked out the door. Which way? Did it matter? No. Still, I had to choose. Or not. I could stand still while staring straight ahead for hours if I felt like it. I didn’t so I walked toward the Magere Brug. It was chilly, but not bad for January. There was little wind and the few faces I passed were relaxed. I imagined my relaxation mirrored theirs.
I stopped at the arc of the gently sloped bridge and peered north. The view was beautiful. The river was wide and, thus, the Magere Brug was long. On either side there were apartments and condos, some nicer than others. Straight ahead far off in the distance the river curved northward to the west. At that curve was the south side of the Oude Zijde, the area where I had gotten lost while looking for the smart shop. Others leaned against the railing admiring the view as well, each dressed warmly with style. I saw a man with an attractive scarf and made a note to purchase one for myself. A warmer lid would help, too.
Content, I continued across the bridge. I walked Nieuwe Kerkstraat and saw Albert Heijn. I wanted a pack of cigarettes. I hadn’t been smoking much, but I felt the urge. As I stood in the checkout line I saw a giant tub of Red Bull. I had never had an energy drink even though they had been around for seemingly forever. I purchased a can along with the cigarettes. I felt fresh, but I wanted a pick-me-up since I woke so early. As I walked out the door I popped open the can and took a swig. I walked away from the entrance to smoke and finished the drink. I tossed the can in a recycling bin.
I turned back toward the Magere Brug. By the time I crossed, I felt a jolt of energy. Whoa! I hadn’t expected that. I felt wired. Instead of heading home, I turned to the north along the Amstel then west onto Keizersgracht. Keizersgracht, like all the major canals, was grand and beautiful. The streets were lined with trees and there were five-story mansions abounding. Most of the buildings were made up of flats or two-story townhouses, but some were five-story homes. Even though the flats were narrow at the street, the interiors were deep. Keizersgracht just felt like old, old money, money that has aged gracefully and sniffed a bit when vagabonds skipped down the street.
Of course, that was a whimsical notion I had about the place. I felt more like a welcome wanderer. I loved the canals. The canals were proof that love exists. In many ways I hoped to die young enough to avoid excessive suffering, but while walking along a grand canal like Keizersgracht I wanted to live forever. If I could sit next to an Amsterdam canal for eternity I would choose to do so.
I walked past Utrechtsestraat, kept going by Reguliersgracht, and on to Vijzelstraat. I had to stop to let the car and tram traffic pass. It seemed far too busy for a Sunday, but I was still in a great mood—no wonder everybody was nutty over energy drinks. It was like legalized speed as far as I could tell. Governments have been ridiculous about such things. Energy drinks were legal, but cocaine and amphetamines were not. “We believe you’re responsible enough to make good choices about gambling, cigarettes, energy drinks, and alcohol, but when it comes to cocaine, heroin, and LSD we don’t trust you at all.” There was no logic, no scientific basis, absolutely no intellectually coherent framework justifying such arbitrary laws and policies. It was like legislatures had thrown darts at a dartboard made up of different substances, objects, and behaviors. “Okay, wherever the green darts land, we make that legal; wherever the red darts land, we make that illegal. Joe, you’re up. You get one red and one green then it’s Sally’s turn. Nice toss, Joe. Now throw the green one. Let’s see what we got here … okay, cocaine is illegal but using deadly semi-automatic weapons is legal. Good job, Joe. Sally?”
I crossed Vijzelstraat and kept following Keizersgracht. The mansions went on endlessly. The trees lining the street never stopped. Bicyclists whistled by me. There were walkers ahead and when I looked back they were behind, too. I was a participant in this parade and wondered if I should be doing cartwheels to add pep.
I struck Nieuwe Spiegelstraat and headed south. Even with my Hugo Boss jacket I felt underdressed. I was wearing a snazzy pair of black and white urban walking shoes that were a bit worn and faded blue jeans, some designer brand. I could wear Armani on Spiegelstraat and still believe that my clothes weren’t good enough. All of it, though, was my perception because there were plenty of souls dressed more casually than I. There had always been something about the street, though, that reminded me of my humble beginnings in life.
I enjoyed myself while window shopping; I loved looking in the antique store windows. Whenever I would look at some ancient item of undoubtedly great value, I would turn my head side to side and think, “Yeah, but, I’m walking around an antique right now and it doesn’t cost anything!” That, to me, is the beauty of the city. The shops can sell their wares for thousands or tens of thousands of Euros, but the canals and architecture are accessible any time of day or night for no charge. I had no doubt that corporations would eventually figure out how to charge for walking on sidewalks and probably every outdoor space. They would do it in the United States first, but it would spread like a disease around the world. “Excuse me, sir, have you paid the fee to leave your apartment? No? Please step back inside or I’ll call security. What’s that? Your wife is pregnant and you need to get to the hospital? Well, you should have thought about that before you frivolously spent money on food and rent.”
I passed by Kerkstraat and over the bridge at Prinsengracht. I found myself at a cross street named Weteringdwarsstraat. I turned left, toward the Amstel as far as I could tell. It was a pleasant street and soon I was crossing Vijzelstraat again. I noticed that the street changed names; what was Weteringdwarsstraat was now Noorderstraat. Amsterdam’s streets were confusing enough without name changes from block to block. Clearly I was not the only person doing shrooms. The city zoning department was making up shit to fuck with everyone. They were smoking bubble hash and eating fritjes while sitting in a room with a wall of television screens in some nondescript building in a far-off neighborhood laughing their asses off watching people like me do double takes. They undoubtedly made bets on how many times a particular vagabond might walk around the same block looking for Tweede Kamer.
I came to a four-way intersection. Each of the three directions I could walk ended in a “T.”I loved finding places like this! I could keep going straight on Noorderstraat, turn left to walk down a quaint side street named Noorder Dwarsstrat, or turn right to walk down what one might think would be the same quaint little street—which it was in a physical sense—but was named Nieuwe Looiers Dwarsstrat. What the fuck? How could I be expected to make a choice when they all had different names? I turned left to walk to the end of Noorder Dwarsstrat which led to Prinsengracht. Then I turned around, walked back to the four-way, and straight across the street now named Nieuwe Looiers Dwarsstrat. I came to the “T” at Nieuwe Looiersstraat, turned around, and went back to the four-way.
Satisfied, I turned right and continued walking down Noorderstraat. The street ended at Reguliersgracht. I turned left, came to Prinsengracht, turned right, and walked to Utrechtsestraat. Thank fuck, I was almost back to my apartment. The energy drink was wearing off and I shuffled home.
I was tired, but satisfied. “Damn, that was fun.” I went to the couch against the wall and noticed a fascinating print of what appeared to be Shiva. Had that always been there? How could I have missed that? I looked around the room and noticed there was another wonderful print on the wall above the dining table. “Huh?” I wondered at how blind I had been when checking out the apartment in December and especially the previous day while shrooming. How could I have missed those while observing everything in detail including the back of my hand? I thought, “Well, duh, I was observing the back of my hand.”
I thought about this. Did it really matter what I observed while shrooming? There was so much to observe that I could hardly be blamed for missing framed prints on the walls. Or could I? Some part of me, some deeper part of me, felt ashamed for not noticing. What a ridiculous standard, though! Not every object that exists can be observed, certainly not in a city like Amsterdam or even in an apartment like Susan’s. I looked over at her glass-encased cabinet of figurines. I hadn’t observed them, either.
I understood, in a particular way, how limited in observational capacity each person was. The focus of attention determined what was believed to really exist at any given moment. I had a flash. “No wonder there are so many differing values and meanings in the world.” This couldn’t be a new thought, though, even for me. Was it? I couldn’t tell. If it was an old thought it was one I had taken for granted. I was sure philosophers and theologians and shamans and others had covered such ground. Did that make the realization any less important? No, it made it neither more nor less important … unless I gave the realization a value of greater or lesser importance.
I held great power in my mind. It was a latent power that always had the potential to be accessed. I brought the power to my consciousness, looked about the room, and observed without verbal thought. I felt a surge within me. “Yes, I see.” I closed my eyes and listened to the silence. My breathing made an “hmmmm-mmmmm” sound. “Yes, I hear.” I felt the fabric of the couch with my hand. “Yes, I touch.” I nodded with satisfaction. “This is why I’m here, why I came to Amsterdam, to more fully realize and appreciate what it is to live within a body as a being.”
Hungry, I made a veggie sandwich of spinach leaf, tomato, green peppers, red onions, and jalapenos. Susan had certainly left the kitchen stocked. I poured a glass of water, walked to the kitchen window, and looked out as I ate. There were pedestrians and cyclists passing to and fro. No cars. Bicycles were chained to racks and street signs up and down the block. Cars were parked here and there but only on this side of the street. I looked at the windows of apartments across the way. I saw inside a few with curtains open. Most were nicely furnished and decorated, clean and orderly. I admired the style and design tastes of the Dutch as well as the openness in which they lived; many apartments even at street level had open blinds or curtains all day and night. As for my apartment—it was Susan’s but I thought of it as mine—I hadn’t closed the blinds once. It was early afternoon and I was tiring. I needed sleep.
...
I woke around 5:00 PM. My sleep schedule resembled pi. I went to the kitchen, made a hearty salad, and poured a glass of Cabernet. I ate at the dining table then checked email while tuning the radio to a music channel emitting a low humming sound with an occasional a voice reverberating a low moan. Eerie.
I showered and dressed, planning to walk to Bloem for a couple beers and hopefully see Daniel, Nina, and Anabel. At the same time, I figured I would probably enjoy the company of nearly anyone. I was in that sort of mood; calm, feeling at home within myself, not merely in my apartment or Amsterdam. This was a shift from the first trip. The shrooming experience the night before had altered something I couldn’t place. It didn’t hurt having an inviting evening hangout waiting, either.
Having a morning, afternoon, and evening home-away-from-home gave me a sense of place that differed from anything I could recall experiencing. I was going to relish this trip. All I had to do was focus my attention in a certain way, think of what pleased me, and, voila, I was who, what, and where I wanted to be. The how allowed creativity and the why was my choice. Having all the major questions answered I took a celebratory puff of Super Lemon Haze and stretched—my legs were tight from the earlier walk. Cannabis is a wonderful muscle relaxant.
I was smoking less thus far, perhaps because all my ducks were in a row. I had used cannabis chiefly for anxiety control and pain management in the past, but now I mostly enjoyed it for the gentle high. I left the apartment, walked across the “skinny bridge” (as the Magere Brug was known), and past Albert Heijn. I crossed the bridge leading to Plantage Kerklaan and my heart leapt as I saw familiar sights. The convenience store with the ATM out front had been where I withdrew the gift I gave Vanessa—I stopped in my tracks.
I hadn’t thought about Vanessa since arriving. The messaging between us had been distasteful by the end. She had made it clear that she primarily wanted to see me in exchange for payment. I couldn’t afford to continue doing that and I no longer needed what she provided as an escort; I wanted more from a relationship than that. Seeing Vanessa was extraordinary and I would always owe her a debt of gratitude. She boosted my confidence, lifted me out of depression, and reignited my passions. I paused for a moment, appreciating her. I would likely call her to say hello, see if she might have changed her mind, be willing to hang out some time and have fun. If not, then … goodbye.
I hadn’t thought about Vanessa since arriving. The messaging between us had been distasteful by the end. She had made it clear that she primarily wanted to see me in exchange for payment. I couldn’t afford to continue doing that and I no longer needed what she provided as an escort; I wanted more from a relationship than that. Seeing Vanessa was extraordinary and I would always owe her a debt of gratitude. She boosted my confidence, lifted me out of depression, and reignited my passions. I paused for a moment, appreciating her. I would likely call her to say hello, see if she might have changed her mind, be willing to hang out some time and have fun. If not, then … goodbye.
I was saddened and stood for a while without thought, simply feeling emotions. The experience was sorrowful but beautiful. As I began walking again, though, I saw more of the neighborhood that had been home during my first stay. It felt like running into an old friend. I crossed Middenlaan, the Artis Zoo, the bridge over the Entrepotdok canal, and saw Bloem. It was packed and the front doors were locked. I walked around the side and those doors were locked as well. Had a group rented Bloem for a private party?
I walked to a side window and peered inside. Revelry was the only word to describe the scene. I saw Nina and tapped the glass. A few people turned their heads, individuals I did not know. They gave me quizzical looks then turned away. Nina finally saw me. At first she didn’t seem to recognize me. Once she did, though, she smiled and waved. I lost sight of her as she disappeared into the throng. In moments, Daniel called me to the side door. He looked as handsome as I remembered. I hugged him as he smiled and he said, “Welcome back, Michael.” I took a step back, looked inside, and asked what was happening. Daniel, chill as ever, said, “Anabel’s birthday party.” I said, “Damn, all this for a birthday party?” Daniel tilted his head and explained, “She’s also traveling to Australia for six months.” I nodded in awe.
We went inside and I hung up my coat. Soon, I was awash in persons I did not know. I lost Daniel, but Nina found me. She hugged me and kissed my cheeks. Delightful. I said, “So, Anabel’s traveling for six months?” Nina frowned and stomped her foot. She hung her head and said, “Yes.” Then she looked up at me with tears in her eyes. “She’s going to be gone so long!” I remembered that they had grown up together and were best friends. Nina recuperated, won back her smile and spunky verve, and we chatted for a bit until she introduced me to Anabel’s father, a wildly fun-loving guy in his late forties or early fifties. It was impossible to tell. His smile and twinkling eyes made him seem forever young. Nina told him I was American. His eyes popped, he put his hands on my shoulders to give them a good shake, and then he hugged me while saying, “Ah, that’s wonderful!” I laughed and thought, “Fuck, man, now I know where Anabel got her passionate affection.”
Nina drifted away as I talked with Anabel’s father. I looked around the room as we talked. Everyone was smiling and drinking and having a ball. Nearly everyone seemed as animated as Anabel’s father. He asked me how I knew Nina. I told him the story of how we had met. He loved it, his eyes dancing while his gestures took on a life of their own. Damn, he was fucking fun. We talked and laughed a long time. He told me about some of the misadventures of his youth in Holland, America, and elsewhere. I told him I was renting an apartment in the city and about some of my adventures in November and December. He invited me to dinner at his home in Haarlem just as Anabel and her sister were climbing onto the bar.
I saw Daniel out of the corner of my eye looking a tad worried. Whether he was worried about them falling—they were hammered—or about the damage they might do to the bar, I wasn’t sure. Probably both. There were several toasts and then an emotional embrace over losing a sister for six months. Cheers and shouts from the crowd, an “awwwww” when they cried and hugged. As they made their way off the bar, I was hugged and slapped on the back by at least a dozen people I did not know. Some were relatives of Anabel’s while others were friends from Haarlem and the university.
Nina found me and handed me a beer. I pounded it; I wanted to catch up to everyone else! She laughed and grabbed another from behind the bar. She asked if I had just returned to Amsterdam. “Yeah, a couple days ago.” She pulled her lush brown hair behind an ear with one hand and looked at me with a strange grin. “How did you know about Anabel’s party?” I laughed. “Fuck, Nina, I had no idea there was going to be a party here tonight. I was just coming for a few beers hoping to see Daniel, Anabel, and you. Shit, I’ve been hugged and kissed on the cheek by so many smiling faces I feel like I walked into a surprise ‘Welcome Back to Amsterdam’ party!” Nina laughed, her blue eyes smiling. She was fucking gorgeous. She reached up with both hands and pulled her thick hair back to tie it with a scrunchie. She was wearing a gray cashmere sweater and her sleeves were pulled up. I didn’t want to look because Nina was such a sweetheart, but, fuck, she just about burst out of her sweater when she put her hands behind her head. I distracted myself by saying, “Anabel’s dad is awesome!” Nina brought her arms back down, nodded her head, and said, “Yeah, he’s a total hippy. Peace, love, freedom. I love him!”
As we talked and drank more beers, I mentioned my shrooming adventures. I jokingly said, “I’m going to become a shroom guide.” She looked both surprised and impressed, “Wow, a shroom guide. What’s that like?” Before I could clarify she said, “Personally, I don’t do drugs.” That surprised me, but then she continued, “I just do cocaine.” My jaw hit the ground. “Wait a minute, wait a minute, wait a minute. Did I hear that right? You don’t do drugs … but you do cocaine?” She nodded nonchalantly, so much so that I questioned whether cocaine was a drug. I definitely believed that, for her, cocaine wasn’t a drug at all, just something one did to enhance the evening. She emphasized her point, “You heard right. Cocaine isn’t a drug.” I laughed and said, “But marijuana and mushrooms are?” She looked at me like I was crazy and possibly a moron. “Uh, yeah! What, you don’t think marijuana and shrooms are drugs?” I said, “Cannabis is a plant and shrooms are fungi.” She shrugged her shoulders and said, “That’s cool. Cocaine comes from a leaf. To each their own, right?” I was dizzy with delight over these fantastical classifications. In Holland, at least, categorization was determined by individuals rather than a school of thought. How could I not love that?
Anabel found me and threw her arms around me. I had to hold her up because she was about to fall. “You came for my birthdayyyyyy!” She gave me a kiss, her lips so moist they slipped all around my cheek. It was a little bit like being licked by a Saint Bernard … a Saint Bernard who looked like a sexually-charged sandy blonde goddess. Her lips departed, but only because her foot slipped. I squeezed a little harder to hold her upright. Her eyes were glazed and her hair was all over her face. Her words were slurred almost beyond recognition. “Youuuuu,” she poked my chest repeatedly with her finger, “half to meeeee muhhhhhh fumbly.”
Anabel proceeded to introduce me in a completely incoherent manner to half the room; uncles, aunts, cousins, brothers, and sisters. They were all happy-go-lucky, drunk as hell, and having a great time. I don’t think a single one of them understood what she said and I don’t think they cared. They all raised their beers to the ceiling and cheered. More people came to greet me, each one with dazed eyes, a happy-as-fuck grin, and a clumsy hug while yelling in my ear something in English or Dutch. One cousin hugged me and screamed in my ear, “I love you, man!” I laughed my ass off and said, “I love you, too, brother! I’ll love you every fucking moment until I die!” A big, “Yeahhhhhh!” followed. It was as if I was the prodigal son coming home from a lifetime away. Maybe they all knew me from a past life and I was the only one who didn’t remember that all of us had been family in the sixteenth century
Anabel had long since disappeared, carried away by drunken huggers. I talked with one of her less inebriated cousins for a long time. He was a cool guy. Anabel found me again, though. She had settled down. Her words were still slurred, but when I asked her about her wanderlust she coherently said, “I’m going to Australia for dance.” She certainly had the body of a dancer and the passionate physicality to go along with it. “I didn’t know you were a dancer. Are you going there to study or teach?” She smiled lazily and then her whole face exploded as she blasted, “BOTH!!”
In a flash, Anabel was pulled away, the gravity of the swirling room catching her in its vortex. I swam through the waves and found Daniel. He was relaxed, drinking a beer, chatting with Anabel’s mother. She appeared to be entirely sober and she excused herself as I approached. Daniel gave me a smile. “You, sir, have been invited to dinner on Tuesday night.” I asked, “At Anabel’s?” He said yes. “It’s the night before she flies to Australia. Come by Bloem around six or so and we’ll take a train to Haarlem.” I was stunned to be invited to such an intimate affair. I had just met this wonderfully free-spirited family and they were inviting me to a going-away dinner for their daughter. The experience was so foreign I couldn’t process it.
As Daniel and I talked, I noticed a slight slur in Daniel’s voice. Compared to everyone else, though, he barely seemed buzzed. I said, “Okay, I’ll swing by. Fuck, I didn’t even know if I’d see any of you tonight, then this great fucking party, and now I’ve been invited to a family going-away dinner. Is it always like this here?” Daniel adjusted his black sweater and shook his head. “Nah, not at all. You’ve met some special people, Michael. But you’re unique in your own right and it comes across. One of those wordless things.” I smiled with a seriousness that surprised me. I was touched and even awed by the compliment. We stood quietly drinking our respective beers at a distance from the inner wilds of Bloem.
Daniel nodded his head toward the side door as he pulled a pack of cigarettes from his jeans. I followed. I had no idea what time it was, but I really didn’t care. I lit a cigarette and we enjoyed the chilled air in silence for a few minutes. Daniel looked at me casually with just a hint of a smile. “You’ve walked into an interesting life, Michael. I can’t think of any other customers that immersed into this inner culture yet somehow you’ve done it quickly and seamlessly. You come across in a certain way that makes everyone feel good, like you’ve known them you’re whole life and you’re thrilled to see them. It’s beautiful.” I looked in the window at the ongoing merrymaking. “I get what you’re saying, but I don’t perceive myself that way.” Daniel laughed and exclaimed, “I know! That’s what’s so unusual. Not only do you not judge others, you embrace them as if they’re the most extraordinary people you’ve ever met.”
Man, I wasn’t used to compliments like these or an analysis that portrayed me as such a wonderful person. I looked around to see if Daniel was talking to someone I didn’t realize was present. “Daniel, I think I am meeting the most extraordinary people I’ve ever met.” He nodded again and said, “Yeah, it’s a special group. Most of them, anyway.” I felt as I had in December; Daniel was the most intriguing and indecipherable person I had ever met. His confidence was powerful but quiet, nonjudgmental because … there was no need for him to be judgmental! He was so at ease with himself in his body, heart, and mind. What lurked inside that mind, I had no idea, but he exuded profound intelligence and wisdom even when he was silent. His presence, that was the thing, and for the life of me I couldn’t figure out how that could be.
