Amsterdam Sixty-One: Night Cycling on Shrooms

I woke up feeling like hell. The alarm clock read 8:30 AM. I made myself get up and saw Daniel sleeping on the couch. I took a shower, forcing myself through the hangover. Once the water started flowing I felt better a little better. I brushed my teeth, wrapped a towel around me, and went to my room to change. Daniel was awake, watching the news. “I have instant coffee. Want a cup?” He nodded his head while lighting a cigarette. I made a couple cups and took them into the living room. I had a cigarette and blankly looked at the news. Nothing registered.

When Daniel saw the time he asked me if I wanted to go to Bloem with him. I shrugged my shoulders. “I have to get my keys. I called Isa; he said he’d meet me there. I’ll make you an omelet and some good coffee.” I laughed. “Sure. Sounds good.” We got our bikes and cruised down the Amstel. I rarely went this way to Bloem. I looked back at a huge picture window on Keizersgracht, stopped pedaling, and turned around. Daniel stopped, too. I pointed at the window. There was a painting so realistic yet space age that my jaw dropped. I motioned to Daniel and we went over to take a closer look at it. I said, “Damn, I need to start painting. Look at those colors.” Daniel replied “It’s photoshopped, blown-up and air-brushed.” As I looked closer I discovered he was right. I was disappointed. To have created that image by hand using paint would have been astounding, something few people in the world could have accomplished.

We rode slowly over to Bloem, talking painting and art on the way. Even though I liked the image created in the window, I agreed with Daniel that something had been lost in the digital age, the workmanship, skill, talent, and practice necessary when painting by hand while using brushes and other instruments for application. I had little respect for splatter painting as well. With digital technology, though, nearly anyone could create fantastic images without much time, effort, or skill; that diminished my appreciation because I was too aware that so little time and energy had been necessary in the creation of those images. They engendered boredom which was a shame because beauty became insignificant. If beauty could be created as easily as yawning what was it really offering? Daniel said, “It’s like coffee or winemaking. Yes, instant coffee will provide caffeine and a box of wine a good buzz, but if your palette is refined the difference between instant coffee and a fine espresso are divided by centuries. Technology in this sense reverses progress, diminishes art.”

I looked over at Daniel. I admired his sensibility. Fortunately, I was wearing my shades as the sun was blinding. He continued, “I haven’t seen a good painting for years. Not a contemporary painting. The techniques being used … it’s not art; it’s design.” I understood the distinction. I agreed, although I said, “There is a place for good design, though.” Daniel replied emphatically, “I agree! But design is a poor substitute for art.” Damn, he sounded like me … or maybe I sounded like him. Didn’t matter. We were on the same wavelength.

“You know the sketches you looked at last night?” Daniel nodded. “I’m tiring of the black and white drawings and even the colored pencils. They don’t appeal to me anymore. I need paint on canvas to really create the images I see in my head. I keep think about it and the urge is getting stronger.” Daniel asked, “What’s holding you back?” What was holding me back? “I suppose it’s nothing more than being busy working and going out all the time. Besides, the only images in my head right now are an omelet and coffee.” 

We made our way down Middenlaan and turned north onto Kerklaan. The sun definitely took the edge off the cold. The bike ride invigorated me a little, but I needed that coffee. As we crossed the bridge, I noticed how attractive and inviting Bloem was in the sunshine. I tried to imagine what it was like with all the tables out next to the canal in the summer. Relaxed. Blissful.Gezellig. Daniel and I locked our bicycles. Isa was inside Bloem so we entered. He greeted us as he handed Daniel his keys. “One of those nights, eh?” Daniel held up his hands. “Yeah, I suppose so.” Isa put on his backpack. “I have a class otherwise I’d stay for a bit.” Daniel gave him a wave, “No, no, go to class. Thanks for coming on short notice, Isa.” He waved good bye to Daniel and I then went out the side door.

Daniel started the espresso machine and did his work quickly. He complained about the machine and said he had been trying to talk the owner into getting a new one. He pulled out a magazine and showed me a state-of-the-art industrial-sized espresso maker. He had done the math and said that during the busy seasons they could sell x more cups of espresso, coffee, and cappuccino making y more dollars. He estimated the machine would pay for itself in about a year and then it would be all profit. More importantly, to both of us, the quality would be significantly improved.

We drank the double espressos. I felt instantly better and Daniel went to the kitchen to make breakfast. He invited me back and I checked out the kitchen for the first time. He mentioned how he wanted a new this, new that, to reorganize, redesign the entire interior, and make the cafe into “what it could be.” He told me he was paid partially in shares of the restaurant and that he was, at the time, forty percent owner. He needed another 25,000 Euros to make it to fifty percent. The owner leased the building so if he could gain over fifty percent ownership he would have the freedom to make the changes he wanted; plus, the name Bloem would be his. He mentioned the owner had another restaurant in another part of the city which was where he spent most of his time—when he spent time at his cafés any more. Daniel exclusively ran the daily operations of Bloem.

Daniel worked about eighty hours per week. During my binge-indexing stretches I worked like that for a few months, usually six or seven days a week. But I always took long breaks after jags like that. That was how S. and I had found the time to travel Europe on our honeymoon as well as other trips to Europe and around the U.S. I enjoyed my leisure time and my life’s goal was to not work, at least not in any way that felt like work. Indexing was the closest I could come to autonomy while still making enough money to live a lifestyle I enjoyed. Daniel had mentioned he hoped to do the same and he thought if he could gain majority ownership or, especially, sole ownership he would be able to retire within five or so years. The sooner he gained a majority share the better.

I was spending money at a clip that wouldn’t allow me to continue coming to Amsterdam for long trips like this forever. The shrooming, the eating and drinking out, the cost of rent, and other expenses were too great. I would have to index a lot more, but if I did I would be working eighty hours per week, sacrificing the balanced lifestyle that made living worthwhile. Daniel’s job allowed him to be social while working and I liked that. I figured I could work in a place like Bloem, but I also saw that there were plenty of responsibilities besides the social that took up Daniel’s time and energy. Still, Daniel clearly liked his work.

I thought about the day before, too, realizing that while the trip to see Jeff and Andy had been for work, it also led to a night of revelry. I understood, better than before, that there was an entire network of people working in the café and bar scene and that they really knew what was happening in the city, the best night spots and the off-the-grid party scenes. To the average person, whether tourist, techie, or accountant, a waiter was probably just a waiter, but the reality was that many of the hottest scenes were known by the folks waiting tables, tending bar, and managing cafés. They were spread all over the city and they connected with one another.

Daniel fixed my omelet as we talked about his business possibilities. "I wish I had the money because being an investor might allow me to get legal residency." I thought of my credit line, my income, and I thought it would be so tight that I would never climb out of debt. “Maybe someday. If I’d cut back on my lifestyle I could probably save enough, maybe get a loan. It would be tough, though. But, damn, I would love to do it, both to be working with you and to be able to live in Amsterdam permanently.” Daniel said he would be happy to have me on board.

The conversation shifted to becoming a citizen or legal resident. Daniel said he had residency and was in the process of attaining citizenship. “I have the option of dual citizenship, but I would probably give up U.S. citizenship.” He mentioned that immigration laws in Holland were far tougher than in the U.S. He also mentioned that with the EU there were tons of foreigners from throughout Europe living in Holland because of the new residency laws. The most significant influx had been from Romania, Bulgaria, Hungary, and Poland. “They bring a lot of crime, too.” I didn’t doubt it; it was similar in the United States. I thought of Vanessa and the story she told of how she had arrived in The Netherlands. I had looked up information on the Internet about the sex trade in Europe and Vanessa’s story was similar to stories described by human rights organizations.

I asked Daniel about other ways to become a resident or citizen. He said, "The best way would be to start a business, something that allowed you to hire employees. Anything that brings in more taxes to The Netherlands and provides jobs." I thought about this. "What if I started a guide service?" Daniel shook his head. "Too much competition. You'd have to come up with something special to offer that isn't otherwise being provided by other tour guides and companies. You could always try to become a tour guide yourself, but that's competitive, too." Hmmm. "What about becoming a shroom guide?" Daniel stopped what he was doing and looked up at me, laughing a little. "I have no doubt you'd be good at that, but I'm not sure that's the type of image Holland is looking to promote." Damn. Probably true.

"I suppose if I offered more refined and personalized guiding services. Individuals, couples, very small groups. Sex, drugs, fine dining, appreciation of good beers and liquors, introducing individuals to scenes they might not otherwise ever be able to find or experience during a short stay." Daniel nodded. "Possible. Unless you learned other languages you'd be serving exclusively English-speaking tourists." True. "There are enough English-speakers coming to Amsterdam. I could serve them exclusively. I'm not interested in guiding tourists, though. Travelers." Daniel again looked up at me, this time confused. I explained. "Individuals, couples, groups looking for more than the sights, more than just coffeeshops, people looking for experiences. In other words, I would be an experience guide." Daniel nodded his head. "I suppose that could work." I said, "If I drew up a business plan, marketed it, and found there was interest, maybe the government would grant me legal residency." Daniel laughed. "You'd working pretty hard just to try to live here." I considered that. "It would be worth it. The idea of not living here is ... I don't want to think about it right now."

I saw the clock reaching eleven. Daniel said he needed to go to his apartment to shower and change. He had been getting the place ready for customers as we talked. “With the sunshine it might get busy early.” I didn’t doubt him. “You can hang out if you want. I’ll be back soon.” I was tired but not as painfully hung over. The idea of biking back home wasn’t appealing. I figured I could go upstairs and nap on a bench then eat an early lunch. “Yeah, sounds good.” Daniel left through the side door and locked it from the outside. I walked upstairs to the windows looking out over the canal. It was such a beautiful day, walkers and cyclists passing on their way to somewhere. I went to the long bench against the wall and lied down. I used my jacket as a pillow and fell asleep.

Daniel woke me around 12:30. He put a cup of coffee on the table in front of me and said, “Customers are rolling in so ... time to wake up. I let you sleep for a little while, though.” I was disoriented. Waking up inside Bloem with sunshine glowing through the windows felt weird. There was a cute young woman sitting at a table next to the window. She wore earphones and tap-tap-tapped on her laptop. I drank my coffee in silence, my mind too groggy to think. The sun was glorious, but I wished it wasn’t. A dark, gloomy day would have been better. I rarely thought that, but even weak hangovers didn’t like bright sunshine.

Food. Needed more food. When I finished my coffee I walked downstairs. It wasn’t nearly as bright and for that I was grateful. I went to the bar and placed my cup near the sink. When Daniel came back around I ordered a grilled cheese sandwich and tomato soup. Seemed like the perfect thing for my queasiness. A cappuccino, too. Daniel made the cappuccino but said it might be a bit before my food was ready. I noticed there were several customers at tables and nodded. Daniel be-bopped around the café and I marveled at him. Where the fuck did the man get his energy? I suppose the coke had allowed me to drink more than I would have the previous night. That was probably why my hangover was worse than his. Then again ... 

I thought of Andy and his lively insanity. Made me chuckle. I could listen to him talk for ages and had no doubt he could outtalk the ages. I loved De Gekraakte Ketel and Gollem. I’d be making trips back there soon enough, I figured. I would need to look at a map to figure out where they were, though. I had just followed Daniel, working so hard to keep up that I didn’t get a good sense of the route we took.

Daniel gave me a glass of water when my food arrived. I hadn’t even thought about water, but a damn fine idea. Fleur entered as I ate and got right to work. She gave me a smile and I waved, my mouth too full to speak. She and Daniel were busy, anyway. I imagined Dorlan or maybe the college kid (Caesar? Chester? I couldn’t remember) was cooking. I felt better after eating. Another glass of water then I was ready to go. I talked with Daniel briefly. He thanked me again for giving him a place to sleep. “Hey, any time.” He slapped me on the back, I put on my jacket, waved goodbye to Fleur, and left. I unlocked my bike and slowly rode home, this time taking Kerklaan to Nieuwe Kerkstraat across the Magere Brug. When I passed Middenlaan and saw Eik en Linde I realized it had been a long time. How long?

Hell, I’d been in Amsterdam about a month; it couldn’t have been that long ago. A month in Amsterdam, though, seemed like a year given how active I was. It had been less than a week since I had worked, but it seemed like a month. I needed to get cracking again. After the three-day sex party and previous day with Daniel and Andy just about every waking moment had filled with extreme activity. I loved it, but I needed to be balanced. Work and sleep, important parts of life. If I had created human biology and the economic system I would have done things differently, but for some stupid reason I wasn’t given that power. Unfortunate for everyone. I would have been great as God.

When I arrived home I locked my bike, went inside, and slipped into bed. Fuck, that felt good. I dozed off for a few hours. When I woke it was nearly five. I dressed and opened my laptop. I indexed for a bit and checked my email. Nothing from Sterre. A few emails from the States, fortunately none work-related. I replied to the emails then made some pasta. I saw the dose of McKennaii in the fridge. I forgot I purchased it before going to Bloem the day before.

Well, why not? I hadn’t dosed for nearly a week. I gobbled the shrooms along with the pasta. I needed a night for myself after socializing all week. I wanted to be outside, though. The temperature was relatively warm. I hadn’t really biked while shrooming. I needed to rectify that. I wanted to take in the architecture of Amsterdam, admire the canals, view the lights, appreciate the wanderers and cyclists as part of the city rather than individuals—I wasn’t dismissing their humanity; I simply wanted to appreciate Amsterdam as a whole rather than focusing exclusively on its parts.

I got dressed in my winter coat, scarf, and hat. Even though the temp was decent, cycling would make it colder. There was little wind, though; that was good. It was nearly nine when I left. The shrooms became active making it more difficult to unlock my bike. As I stood up and pulled the bike from the rack, I wondered if biking was a good idea. Probably best to cycle around areas I knew well. I started down Kerkstraat and made a left at Utrechtsestraat. I turned right on Prinsengracht and instantly felt soft and smooth on the dimly lit canal street with the beautiful trees lining it. I marveled at the lights in the windows of apartments. I slowed to look into one.

The apartment interior was beautiful. The walls were painted yellow and the soft lamp lights created an inviting glow. Antique furniture throughout. I felt like I was looking into a different century. A dignified older man walked into the room, sat on a chair, and opened a book. I was reading about him in a book of my own, sitting on an antique chair in a room of yellow reading about a man who was reading a book in an antique chair in a room of yellow. I was reading mirrors facing one another, the image of me reading about the man sitting in an antique chair in a yellow room repeating itself endlessly, the images becoming smaller and smaller and smaller; I was infinitely represented through reflection wondering if there was an original source I could call “me.”

The man looked up and saw me, snapping me out of infinity back into a moment, one not finite at all, a moment of totality in which nothing but the moment existed. Representation, especially static representation, was a lie—at least as representation. The mirror told the truth in the moment, it was what was reflected; a painting was a painting, not what anyone said it represented or meant. I realized I was staring at the man and that he was, in fact, real. Oh. I decided to pedal away as I didn’t want the man to have to look at me all night.

I turned north on Reguliersgracht, such a beautiful canal street. I felt the romance I always felt there, heightened by the shrooms. I was in love, completely, totally, madly in love. How could I have been anything but love? When I turned left onto Keizersgracht I understood why. I had become a stately gentleman, cycling through the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, a man of wealth and power, not averse to philanthropy; in fact, I embraced philanthropy because it told a story to others that I was a man worthy of being wealthy as my charitable giving attested. I gave as a means to bolster my ego, to become admired by others who had less, to shame my peers who gave so little in comparison. I was a great man, not in any spiritual, physical, emotional, or sensory way, but a great man of finance and ownership, a man considered great by those in stations lower than mine, a great man envied by peers, a man considered great by society and in history books being written even as I lived.

The surrounding environment made up who I was at any given moment. There was no "me" independent of the contexts surrounding me. I was always in relation to what was external, my senses stretching me outward beyond my body, my self never ending at the skin. It had always been that way and I realized earlier in life that truth even if I didn't express it in words. It was evident always, from the time of year (snow on the ground and Christmas versus green grass and Fourth of July fireworks) to the physical surroundings (Amsterdam canals and architecture versus Wal-Mart parking lots versus remote lakes in western Montana forests). If I had a core, perhaps my body, it was a core that changed in relation to my surroundings, the cold affecting it much differently than extreme heat. My thoughts and emotions differed while nakedly embracing a women versus being ridiculed for wearing a shirt inside out. Individuality was so much different than "individualist" ideologies had led people of Westernized cultures to believe.

I crossed over Vijzelstraat. I had to speed up—I had been riding so slowly I may as well have been walking. There was a tram creeping toward me from the north, a giant metallic worm squirming over asphalt and brick. It whirred and screeched; it sounded hungry, looking to devour pedestrians and cyclists through the mouths on each side of its body. A strange creature, one I didn’t want to fuck with at all. Once I had safely passed Vijzelstraat I looked back and saw it pass out of view. I breathed a sigh of relief, happy it hadn’t turned to follow me. I was pretty sure I could have out-pedaled it, but I was glad not to be involved in a worm-tram bicycle chase. It might have made for a great scene in a Jason Bourne movie, but I had no interest in becoming a movie star.

I slowed to admire the tree-lined canal and the glorious mansions that lined it. The tram had shook me from my thoughts and I coasted to the rail of the canal so I could look out over the water. The current was moving slowly. I saw the reflection of the lights from the fourth and fifth floor apartments in the water. They were wavy and inviting. I wondered if I dove into the water if I would enter a Keizersgracht living room. What a surprise it would be to the underwater couple living there. I left them in peace and turned my bike back to the street.

Leidsestraat demanded I stop. There were cars, cyclists, and pedestrians traveling up and down the street. I didn’t mind waiting. It was like watching a parade go by. “Look at us,” said the cars, “we go ‘vroom-vroom.’” The cyclists were chill and said nothing. Their body language communicated that they were yoga kings and queens and that their feet never touched the ground. The walkers told me, though, that the cyclists live in the air. “They are our gods and we, mere mortals, watch them go by with wonder and awe.” I thought, “I’m a cyclist.” I peddled across the street and waved to a pedestrian. He must have felt thrilled that I had acknowledged his existence. It probably wasn’t every day that a god smiled on him.

I pedaled over the bridge spanning Leidsegracht then took a left onto Runstraat. I rode over the Prinsengracht bridge turning left on to the shorter bridge spanning Looiersgracht, stopping on the arch of the bridge, standing on the pedals of my bike, balancing, turning to look each direction at the canal passing beneath the bridge. To the north was Prinsengracht and to the south was Looiersgracht. There was a quieter beauty on Looiersgracht. I felt a new wave of romance overtake me as I dismounted my bike. The romance differed from that of Reguliersgracht. This romance was younger, not yet completely full, a child’s romance, one still budding. I walked the romance to south side of the bridge and rested my bicycle against the railing. I leaned on the metal railing and looked out over the canal. I couldn’t get over the lights reflecting on the water.

I saw rusty red become neon orange, the edges lightning yellow, a cloud of white below the softest pink was smudged here and there with fuchsia, and between the vertically aligned whiteness there was the blackness of the sky, a blackness come alive by the neon orange, the lightning yellow, and the puffy pink. They each had vibrancy and while none blended there were no lines of demarcation between them, each existing as one in relation to the others. I thought again of painting, that I needed color, more color for creation. But not now, no, not now. The city was painting itself and I was the viewer. As I moved up and down the bridge the colors shifted. I was collaborating with the lights, creating new colors on the water. This was watercolor painting! I thought it was wonderful that it would disappear as soon as I left while the potential existed for the colors to return for any eyes that looked at the canal while crossing the bridge.

I turned to cycle east along Prinsengracht and turned left onto Rozengracht. I took the first right and realized I was in the southern edge of the Jordaan neighborhood. The streets we narrower. I had rarely visited this area during my Amsterdam visits, certainly not this far south in the Jordaan. I roamed up and down streets, not bothering to keep track of names. Most of the streets were residential, but there were often shops at intersections and certain streets had shops, bars, and cafes here and there in the middle of the blocks, existing side-by-side with residential buildings. I thought I was heading east at times, but whenever turned I thought, “No, I had been heading north.” Eventually it dawned on me that I no fucking idea where I was. I decided to cycle straight until the street came to a “T” or crossed a major street.

As I rose, though, I continued admiring the differences in architecture and street layouts in the Jordaan. Historically, the neighborhood had been poorer and Jewish, but now it was hip, trendy, and pricey. The proximity to Prinsengracht and the city center undoubtedly led to its gentrification, but in terms of appearances the architecture spoke of its humbler past. There were renovations, though, that gave clues to its present. To the north the neighborhood was even pricier; that may have been due to the Anne Frank House and the proximity to Amsterdam Centraal. There was more shopping as a result of the tourists and travelers in the area, those who typically spent money readily. Before and after tours they likely went out to eat or shopped. Hard to imagine anyone feeling like eating after touring the Anne Frank House, though. I felt nauseous after visiting it the first time and the shopping around the area just felt wrong, almost insulting.

Still, I was fascinated by how neighborhoods changed over time, especially in a city as old as Amsterdam. The architecture might remain the same, the urban layouts, too, but the interiors of apartments, shops, and cafés told stories about what the areas had become. Combined with the amount of cycling and foot traffic as well as the way individuals were dressed, it wasn’t difficult to tell what any particular neighborhood had become no matter its past. History was best told through time spent wandering the geography of a city; certainly the current climate could be seen, heard, smelled, tasted, and felt. Names and dates might provide an assist, but relying on such information alone distorted the truth. Renovations, repaving of streets, the dress of individuals in particular neighborhoods, where tourists flocked and where they didn't weren’t found in history books even though they were more critical to understanding the way things were and are than whether King so-and-so ruled from 1647 to 1709. Reality was too complex to be adequately described through names, dates, and major events.

I eventually found Prinsengracht again. The shrooms had mellowed so I pedaled at a faster clip while enjoying the scenery on the way home. My body felt loose, easy. I was awash in a gently waving gratitude toward the city. When I reached Vijzelstraat I turned left and biked to Kerkstraat, turning right on my way to my apartment. As I parked my bike, my thoughts shifted toward the next day. I needed to index.

I hadn’t realized how cold I was until I entered the apartment. It felt cozy. I took off my coat, scarf, gloves, and hat, changed out of my clothes into sweats then drank a couple glasses of water. I grabbed a beer from the fridge and went to the living room. I loaded a bowl of Arjan's, puffed away, and opened the window to have a cigarette. I drank more beer, sat on the floor, opened my sketch book, picked up a pen, and scratched out lines and curves, shading now and then to create something that looked like nothing in particular.