Amsterdam Eighty-Four: Sal and Jersey Jimmy

To achieve a sense of balance, I indexed all morning. After making lunch for myself, I discovered I was completely out of pot. I got dressed, looked at the dark gray out my window, and bundled up. Once outside, I felt a hard wind blowing so I decided to walk. I moved briskly over the Magere Brug and then north along the Amstel, the wind ripping into the flesh of my face. Spring had flirted a week or so ago, but decided not yet.

Once inside the Greenhouse, I took a minute just to warm up before looking at buds. I decided for a mix. I bought two grams of Lemon Skunk, a gram of Love Potion #1, and two grams of Arjan’s Ultra Haze #1. Hard to go wrong with recent Cannabis Cup winners, though I checked the smell and moistness first—I turned down the Cheese because it looked dried out.

After my purchase I walked to the back and took a seat. I was alone in the shop, which made sense—early in the week, early in the day, cold as shit, and further from the center than a number of other quality coffeeshops. Chillaxation music played softly as I broke up the Love Potion buds and filled my dugout. I noticed the “red hairs” looked pink and figured that was how the strain acquired its name. I filled the bat and took a puff. A taste of tangy strawberries, a light fruit punch. It was easy on the lungs. Even the smoke had a fruity fragrance, possibly evidence of the strength of the sativa in the blend. I loaded the bat again and took another hit. I felt like a giant berry, squishy and sweet. It was a waking herb, for sure, reducing body tension while smoothly uplifting my spirit. I felt awake, a perfect daytime, out-and-about high.

I could see the two bud-slingers up front, talking about nothing. One had a nasty look on his face, like I was invading his space. I recognized the other guy. He was cool. The creeper, I didn’t know. There were definitely vibes in coffeeshops and they seemed to vary by time of day, day of the week, neighborhood, clientele, and staff. The layout, lighting, and music made a difference, too. As much as I wanted to hang out and waste the day, I figured I could brave the wind and cold to get back to work at home the rest of the afternoon. I felt too energetic to sit still.

I was surprised when I walked outside. The wind had died down and the cold wasn’t so biting. When I got back home, I decided to take my laptop to a café nearby so I could work from there. I placed the two containers of the other strains I had purchased on the coffee table then loaded the bat and had two more hits of Love before heading out. I could tell it would be good for indexing. I was jazzed, too, because I didn’t think I would need more than a couple of days to finish the index. A couple thousand bucks in the bank for not much time working. The way it should be for everyone.

I walked down Kerkstraat then south on Utrechtsestraat and stopped inside Café Bouwman. It was on a corner at the confluence of the Pinsengracht. I loved these bars because they always had doors set at a 45 degree angle on the corner. I walked inside and found a seat at a table near the door, I could sit and look out at the bridge crossing the canal while I worked. Having a cozy high made it all the better. I set up my laptop and opened the PDF, launching right into the text. In time, a waitress came to my table and asked me, in Dutch, what I wanted. She was shorter and dark-haired, stout but very attractive with a light-up-the-room smile. I couldn’t help but smile myself and in my fruity high I was a bit giddy, anyway. I happily ordered an Americano and she skipped away. Not really, but in my mind she did. The whole world was popsicle sticks and candy canes.

I could barely fathom what was written in the PDFs, but after more than a decade of indexing some latent worker bee took care of things for me while I watched cyclists and happy walkers cross the bridge. Every time a tram rolled up to the stop to let off and take on passengers, I was shocked. As soon as it was out of sight, I forgot that trams ran along Utrechtsestraat. When the next one passed by I nearly spit up the coffee the cheery cherub-cheeked angel had brought me before blowing me a kiss on her way back behind the bar. I sighed often while somehow making significant progress on the index. Perhaps only one more full day of work and I would be finished. 

In the middle of the afternoon I started ordering beers, only a couple. The coasters intrigued me. They were insignificant, but they may as well have been attached to my body in some way. Why not? The brown walls, floor, and ceiling of the café seemed just as much a part of me as anything else. When immersed in brown, brown becomes a very important part of oneself. I believed this wholeheartedly, primarily because it was true. If it wasn’t then my senses had no purpose whatsoever. I was passionately brown at times, so much so that at one point I had to step outside to have a cigarette and another puff of the Love Potion.

Late afternoon, I put away my MacBook and ordered a grilled ham and kaas sandwich with fries and water, being a bit parched from the beers and coffees. None of the other customers in the café had caught my attention all afternoon. There were comings and goings, but other than the rose-cheeked bubbliness I wasn’t interested. I sensed in the others a distance, an uneasiness, an aloofness that did not sit well with me. Who were these people and what did they believe they possessed that made them superior? It was as if by being on a street like Utrechtsestraat that they had been christened by royalty to be lords or nobleman, whatever the modern equivalents might be, most likely upper-middle-class snobs, youngish great ones standing above the fray though not quite at the height of true greatness.

I knew that merely by putting on a show of subtle bombast such barriers could be broken. How often had I in life? It was no different than what existed in any other city and that broke my heart. I hated reminders that I wasn’t living in utopia. Still, there was a charm to being extravagant at times and the idea, especially, of luring in the lurid classes of quasi-opulence tickled my spine. The mere utterance of a few choice words, delivered with aplomb, escaping my lips as my eyes popped and my cheeks pulled the corners of my mouth into a Cheshire grin while mixing just enough taboo into my exultant exclamations—acknowledging the difficulty of doing so in this present age—in such a way as to set myself apart from them while blending seamlessly within, becoming an enemy that they were compelled to befriend, was a powerful impulse that became overwhelming whenever affronts to utopia presented themselves which they unfortunately did more often than I would have liked which, when it came down to it, was just once.

Before I reached such a state and began bleating in an otherwise pleasant café, I took my leave. I walked back down Utrechtsestraat toward Kerkstraat and when I reached the corner I was called out by a couple of men, one about fifty and the other maybe half his age. The older man was just under six feet, stocky, a bit of a gut, a head of thick silvery-gray hair, decked out in a red and white Paulie Walnuts tracksuit. The young guy was huge, thick with broad shoulders, possibly 6’4’’, not fat but just short of athletic. He was wearing blue jeans and lightweight blue and gray zippered hoodie—with the hood down. The wind had disappeared.

I walked over to them since they had called to me, curious about what two extras from the Sopranos might want from me. The older guy asked me if I spoke English. He had an East Coast Italian accent. I hated that I was thinking of this guy as a cliché, but fuck me if he didn’t fit the stereotype. I said, “Yeah, I speak English.” He turned to the tall baby-faced brute, and said, “Finally! I was beginning to think everyone here was stuck up or illiterate.” Illiterate? I didn't ask. He turned back to me and said, “Are you an American or just a Dutch guy who can speak English?” Oh, dear lord. From high to low. Where was the happy medium? “I'm American, but, honestly, most of the Dutch in Amsterdam speak English to some degree.” The old guy peered at me intensely then relaxed. “Huh, ain’t that somethin’. I wouldn’a guessed it, everyone ignoring us, too good for us or somethin’. I figured you as a Dutch guy, too, what with you being dressed in black and all.”

The accent was so thick I just … stared at him in wonderment. What were the odds of meeting these guys in this place? The young guy didn’t say anything, though. He just stood with his arms crossed looking pissed off, shifting his weight from one leg then the other, whipping his head around to look down Utrechtsestraat to the south every now and then, just full of jittery energy. He looked like he wanted to hit someone, anyone.

The older guy held out his hand and said his name was Sal. I shook it and told him my name. He nudged the young tank to shake my hand and he reluctantly reached out his meaty paw to shake mine. The older guy said, “My nephew, Jimmy. Forgive his manners.” Sal smiled as he continued. “He’s young and stupid.” I held back a laugh as best I could.

Sal started talking about all sorts of things, always expressing gratitude that I was American. He mentioned they were from New Jersey. Naturally. He finally asked why I was in Amsterdam. I said, “I live here.” He turned his head to Jimmy while thumbing at me, “You hear that? This here guy lives here.” He turned back to me and bobbed his head up and down while saying, “What da ya know, an American living in Amsterdam. I never would’a guessed.” I asked Sal what they were doing in Amsterdam while trying to stop myself from asking—half of me said you don’t want to spend any more time with these guys and the other half said they’re probably here to whack somebody. I booted both thoughts out of my head, reminding myself not to be a fucking bigot just because of Sal’s accent. I hadn’t realized until that moment how much the Sopranos really screwed over East Coast Italian Americans. Besides, I had just been complaining to myself about stuck-up assholes too fixated on status to deign others perceived as beneath them worthy of their time. No, I wasn't going to be one of those people--even if Sal and Jimmy turned out to be goodfellas. All I had to do was remember the kindness that had been shown me on my first day in country back in November. Offering a helping hand to out-of-their-element Americans was becoming a hobby.

Sal answered, “We’re here on vacation. My nephew, he said I gotta do somethin’ fun on my birthday so here we are for the next three days. Today,” he smiled at Jimmy then back at me, “is my birthday.” I smiled, thinking that was an exceedingly cool thing to do, and wished him a happy birthday. Sal kept on, “We’re looking for some good spots to party, have a good time. Jimmy says to me that you can smoke pot here, that it’s legal. That true?” I laughed and said, “Yeah, basically.” He looked at me in a strange way. “Seriously?” I said, with all seriousness, “Seriously. There are coffeeshops all over the city.” Sal looked confused, “Coffeeshops?” Jimmy, who had been doing nothing but bouncing around trying to figure out which wall to punch, said, “That’s what I been sayin’, Sal. They ain’t real coffeeshops. They fuckin’ sell weed.” As soon as the words came out of Jimmy’s mouth, Sal cracked a fierce backhand across Jimmy’s face. “What’d I tell ya about the language, huh?!” He stared at Jimmy for a few seconds then said, “What your mother would say?” Unbelievably, Jimmy’s shoulders slumped and he dropped his head. A meek, “Sorry,” escaped his lips.

Sal turned back to me. “Sorry about the kid. He don’t know manners.” He turned back to Jimmy again, “Or to respect his elders.” I had to keep my jaw from dropping. The only word that I could think, at first, was “Wow.” Watching the overgrown beast-child get slapped for saying “fuck” by his uncle, a man about two-thirds his size … something about it just seemed right. I said “fuck” all the time, though, so why should that be? I wasn’t sure, but I liked the old-school “mind your manners and your elders” dynamic. Maybe it was something from my Catholic upbringing, maybe I had watched too many mafia movies, or maybe—no, probably—it was because I didn't like Jimmy. I was bigger than my old man, too—though not to this degree—but I knew he could kick my ass if he decided to do it. I had no doubt that the same was true of Sal and Jimmy. 

I thought about this as we talked more. I remembered growing up in a Waterloo, Iowa, a union town. I saw the same dynamic there. The people weren't Italian, but German and Irish. The common denominators were that they were Catholic union guys and, in that sense, there were plenty of similarities with Jersey Catholic union guys. The mob might have been a bigger part of the show out east than in the Midwest, but there were enough similarities that I understood Sal and Jimmy well enough to get along with them. Of course, I wasn't sure they were union guys at all, but it seemed likely that they were old-school Catholic. 

I discovered they were staying in a hotel nearby on Prinsengracht. Sal asked, again, where they could go for a good time. I thought briefly about pointing them down the street to Rembrandtplein and heading home. I liked Sal, though. I couldn’t help it. He was gregarious, fun-loving, and truly had a wide-eyed “I can’t believe I’m in Europe” vibe. The kicker, though, was when he smacked Jimmy when he felt he was out of line. I really wouldn't have considered showing them around the city if that had not happened. I just didn’t like Jimmy. He carried himself like a thug and until his uncle slapped him he had scowled in every direction in which he looked, including at me.

I asked Sal, “What are you looking for? Music, drinking, drugs, sex?” He said, “Yeah, exactly,” and I laughed. When I finally stopped I said, “Okay, let me think for a second … you’re definitely in the right city, I’ll say that.” As I was thinking, Sal said, “We just left that yuppie joint up the street,” he pointed toward the Huyschkaemer, a place I liked but was definitely filled with young money and, well, these Jersey guys were from an entirely different culture. It was possible they had even more money, but the cultures surrounding the money in each case were entirely different. Sometimes that works, but in this case? Not even close. “There’s a whole ‘we’re better than you’ thing going on there, bunch of stuck-up Dutch frat boys. One even had a crest on his shirt. What kind of man wears a shirt with a crest on it?” Jimmy chimed in, “I told that fucker to meet me outside so I could kick his ass, but the fucking pussy wouldn’t leave the bar.” Sal gave Jimmy another swat and said, “Language!” I thought, “Dear God, I really am hanging out with the Sopranos.”

Still, I figured why not show them around, find them a good time, some place where their gruffness played well? They had already eaten and so had I. I asked them if they wanted to find a place to drink or if they wanted to smoke pot? Sal said, “Let's get high.” Jimmy looked less than pleased, but Sal was the man and it was his birthday. I walked them over to the Greenhouse and looked at the strains again when we arrived, but I realized Sal might not know how to roll a joint. Sal responded defiantly, “I know how to roll. What, you think I never smoked pot before?” I shrugged. “I didn’t know one way or the other. Still, they have pre-rolled joints if you don’t want the hassle.” He shook his head so I asked him if he knew what strain he wanted. “Strain? Damn, they got different kinds, huh? I mean, I want to get high, you know?” Having been in the place earlier in the day, I suggested Love Potion #1. He laughed and said, “You’re kidding me, right?” I pointed at the menu. “I’ll be damned. Okay, let's give her a whirl.” I suggested two grams so he could take some weed back to his hotel for the next day. He ordered papers as well and then the three of us went back to the corner lounge space to sit on the deep, plush wraparound couch so Sal could roll a joint on the funky wooden table.

As Sal broke up a bud and started to roll, I took out my dugout and ground some pot into the bat. Sal looked at me and laughed. “That’s a nice contraption ya got there.” I nodded and he looked at it as if it was the first time he had ever seen one. He muttered, “I never dreamed in my life I would ever buy pot in a store. America could learn a few things from the Dutch.” That made me smile. “This is a great city, Sal.” He continued preparing his joint while saying, “Yeah, maybe the Dutch ain’t so bad after all. We just been meeting uptight jerks who hate Americans up till now.” I asked if they had just arrived today and Jimmy said yes. Sal said, “We took a cab from the airport straight to our hotel. We was wandering around, stopped in that bar full of poofs, and then we saw you. Maybe we rush to judgment a little quick.” I said, “Maybe. There are people like that everywhere, you know? Most of the people I’ve met here are great. You’re staying in an area of the city that isn’t so much a party spot. It’s more,” I wanted to say 'refined' even though that wasn’t entirely accurate, but I didn’t want to be insulting so I said, “uppity.”

I continued, “The city is pretty diverse, really. There are a lot of different scenes here. I’ll show you an area you’ll like, though.” Sal said, “Hey, this is a good start. Legal weed.” He laughed as I thought about what their encounter may have been like at the Huyschkaemer. I guessed that Jimmy, as much as anything else, had come across as the “Ugly American.” It seemed more than likely that Jimmy would consider anyone who was different to be an asshole deserving of a beating. Sal, absent Jimmy, would probably get along better. Maybe.

As Sal finished rolling the joint and licking the edge, Jimmy said, “I’ll be right back, I gotta take care of somethin’ real quick.” He got up and walked toward the door. Sal yelled after him, “Hey, we’re smoking here, alright! You better be quick, whatever it is.” Jimmy left the Greenhouse as Sal lit up. I noticed the disapproving looks of the coffeeshop denizens around us, more used to the chill in this location than the bombast of a middle-aged Italian American ... wearing a tracksuit, no less.

I took out a cigarette and started smoking. Surprised, Sal said, “You can smoke inside here? They told us we couldn't smoke in the other place.” I said, “It’s okay in the coffeeshops. I know, it’s weird. Just the way it is.” Sal took another hit and as he exhaled he asked, “Why do they call these places coffeeshops? They sell weed!” I didn’t really know so I made up a story. “Well, when they first started selling weed from storefronts back in the 1970s they had to have a legitimate business license. So they sold coffee along with the weed. It’s not necessary any more, but the name lives on even at places that don’t serve coffee.” He nodded his head slowly. “How you know so much about this, huh?” I shrugged. “I live here so ...” Sal asked how I was able to live in Amsterdam. “I work from home for American publishers. As long as I have an Internet connection, I’m good.” Sal seemed impressed. “So you can work anywhere in the world? And you chose Amsterdam? Why, so you can get high whenever you want or what?” I laughed. “Well, yes and no. I mean, it’s nice to be able to get weed at a shop without worrying about the law. There are a lot of other reasons, though. It’s the freest city in the world as far as I’ve seen and, despite your first encounters with the Dutch, they’re mostly good people in my experience. I might have to keep traveling and find out if there are better places, though. People here rave about Berlin and Copenhagen.”

We kept smoking and bullshitting. Sal was high and he kept thanking me profusely for entertaining him. “You’re a good guy, Michael. You don’t even know me and here you are showing me a good time on my birthday. A good host, a good person. Thank you.” It just kept going, even after Sal said, “I’ve been saying ‘thank you’ a lot haven’t I?” We were laughing the whole time, though.

“Where the hell is that kid?” Sal turned to me. “I swear, that kid, he can’t stay out of trouble for five minutes. He’s got a good heart, but he don’t know how to control himself. He’s doesn’t think, he just acts.” He shook his head then turned to me as he exhaled, “Holy shit, I am stoned.” I chuckled and a minute of silence passed between us until he said, “Oh, sorry. My language.” I didn’t know what he was talking about at first and after fifteen seconds of thought I realized he had said “shit” so I started laughing. Sal turned to me and said, “What?” but then he started laughing, too, which just made me laugh harder.

That was when Jimmy returned, grinning while he stomped toward us. Sal slowly stopped laughing and said, “What the hell you do?” Jimmy said, “I went back to that place and cut the tires on that uppity fucker’s little girl bike.” I rolled my eyes and asked how he knew that the bike was that guy’s. “I didn’t.” Jimmy's smile grew wider. “That’s why I slashed all of them.” Sal grabbed him behind the neck and pulled him forward, “You ever do anything like that again I’ll knock your teeth out! What your mother would think, huh?” Sal released him and Jimmy sat back into the couch. His face was red and he sheepishly apologized. This was a hell of a family. Sal was one thing, but this kid, Jimmy, he was beyond being an “Ugly American.” He was a fucking goon. Sal kept setting the hooligan straight, but damn was the kid a fuckup. It was weird being out with Jersey guys in Amsterdam.

As Sal started to take another puff I said to him, “You smoke any more of that and you’re going to be sitting here all night.” He looked at me and then looked at the joint and said, “You’re right. I’m stoned.” He looked it, too. He tried to pass the joint to Jimmy, but he said no.  Jimmy had no problem slashing tires, but smoking pot was a no-no. Figured. If he smoked any ganja he would let go of his hatred and hatred was definitely something Jimmy wanted to keep locked in his heart. I asked them if they were ready to go. Sal said, “Give me a minute.” A minute turned out to be nearly half an hour. He zoned out a couple times and I brought him back with conversation, telling him bits of history about Amsterdam, some true, some stories I made up to keep him awake. He kept telling me what a great guy I was and every time I said, “Hey, it’s your birthday. Enjoy yourself.” Jimmy, naturally, looked bored and impatient. He glared at the other patrons until they looked away or walked out. I was hoping he would get a contact high and chill the fuck out.

When we finally walked outside, Sal asked, “What’s next?” I said, “Well, it’s a little bit of a walk, but let’s hit the Red Light District.” He said, “You wanna get some whores?” I told him Amsterdam's Red Light was like nothing he had ever seen, that prostitutes sat naked in windows along the streets in a huge neighborhood prowled by guys from all over the world. Sal said, “No kiddin’? How they get away with that?” I said, “Prostitution is legal here.” Jimmy said, “I fucking told you that, Sal!” Sal elbowed him hard in the gut and Jimmy uttered a barely audible apology. Sal said, “Okay, let’s go see some whores!” I walked them toward the Red Light District, but I got turned around at some point. Jimmy complained about how far it was and I said, a little exasperated, “We can grab a cab if you like.” Sal answered, “No, walking’s good. I need the fresh air. It’s beautiful, too. What’s wrong you, Jimmy? You got no appreciation for beauty or history?” I appreciated the old man more and more.

We finally arrived at the edge of the District and the young guy’s eyes lit up. We wandered around as the two of them gawked at and catcalled women in windows and went on about how crowded the place was, completely shocked that it was all legal. Somehow, Jimmy managed to avoid fighting anyone, but it was probably because of the nude women in windows everywhere. I mentioned to them the prostitutes had unions and they both about shit themselves. “Mother of Jesus, can you believe it, Jimmy? A union whore. This city, it’s like Disneyland for adults.” I saw a smart shop ahead and thought the two of them might find it interesting. I pointed to the sign and said, “That shop sells magic mushrooms.” Sal looked at me doubtfully and said, with a little venom, “Come on, you’re shittin’ me, right? Trying to have a laugh on me?” I laughed and said, “No, no, no. I’m completely serious. It’s just like the pot, shrooms are legal here. Come on, I’ll show you.” Sal stepped in beside me and Jimmy followed along behind, whimpering about leaving the whores behind.

We went inside and the place was packed with all manner of people, young and tattoed, middle-aged long-haired hippies, women in tight miniskirts, regular Joes in jackets and khakis, men and women with every shade of skin color. I squeezed the three of us to a spot at the counter and Sal looked down at the shrooms in awe. Jimmy was more fascinated by the people. He turned to me, looking pissed. “It’s a freak show in here.” I shrugged while Sal continued looking at the shrooms under the glass case and said, “Relax, we won’t be here long.” Jimmy, for some reason, showed some respect and nodded his head, turning around to look with his uncle.

A shroom merchant, a young guy with a dyed-green mohawk, walked over to us and asked if he could help. I asked Sal. “Do you want to shroom?” He asked if I was going to shroom, too. “No, I gotta get going soon.” He pleaded, but I made up an excuse. “I’ve gotta get up early and work.” He shook his head in wonderment. “You can do this any time you want, can’t you?” I grinned wide and he said, “You’ve got it all figured out, you know?” I thought to myself, “Yeah, I do.” He looked back at the server and said, “I think I’ll need a couple minutes.” The mohawk walked away to help someone else and Sal asked me, “So, what, there are different types of mushrooms?” I said, “Yeah, they all have somewhat different effects. Some give you more of a sensuous body high, some are really visual and trippy, some are more cerebral, some are more social, each lasts for different lengths of time, they vary in intensity, and so on. It’s like choosing a wine, really.” Sal shook his head in disbelief. “This country, damn.” He turned back to me and said, “I can’t imagine anyone else doing this for us. I can’t believe you are. Michael, thank you.”

Sal asked me what I would recommend. I felt like a sommelier. I said, “Well, I think you’d probably enjoy a body high more than anything else on your birthday. Something to make you feel a buzzing but relaxing energy flowing through your body. The Hawaiians are way too cerebral and you don’t want to get too far inside your head tonight. Something with visuals might be fun, especially with all the neon in this area—although it might also feel hellish. No, I think something that creates a feel-good happy vibe.” Sal said, “Yeah, that sounds good.” Even I, at this point, started thinking it was rather amazing that a person could purchase a substance that could create specific moods, varied sensory experiences, and new perspectives within an hour after eating. It took a pair of brand new eyes to remember just how spectacular it was that psilocybin existed, let alone that it was legal. Of course it should be legal! Why shouldn’t magic be fucking legal?!

I was thinking McKennaii, though a bit strong, would be perfect, but this Red Light shroom shop, which was every bit as garish and packed full of tourists as the District was, did not carry McKennaii. I saw the Colombian strain and thought that would work. They were less potent, but they were somewhat social. I pointed to the container and suggested Sal purchase something to drink to help wash them down. Sal said okay and eventually another server came to help. Sal pulled out his wallet, paid, grabbed the container and the drink, and the three of us walked outside.

Sal said, “Look at the sign, Jimmy. American Express, Visa, MasterCard. Geez.” Jimmy smiled, but he still seemed uncomfortable. When Sal pulled out the package he asked why there was so much. “Oh, right, you’re probably used to dried shrooms. You have shroomed before, right?” Sal looked at me indignantly. “I’ve been around the block a few times, kid. I ain't no friggin’ Boy Scout.” I was a little taken aback. “I didn’t want to assume. I was just asking.” Sal apologized and I continued, “The shrooms are sold fresh so instead of two dried grams of mushrooms, you’ve got about 35 grams there. Most of it’s water weight, but it’s about the same as doing a couple grams of dried shrooms. The difference is that you know exactly what strain you’re getting and the exact weight. I mean, they’re still shrooms, so you never know how you’ll react, but it’s more predictable than taking dried mushrooms from a plastic baggie you bought from some guy at a Dead show.”

Sal laughed and started gobbling up the shrooms, washing them down with a soda. Looking at them, I couldn’t help myself from saying, “You know, if you only want to eat half in case you haven’t tripped for a while, I’ll eat a few stems and caps for you.” Sal pulled away and barked, “Buy your own, man!” I laughed and he quickly apologized. “Sorry, that was uncalled for. But I can do a full dose. I’m not a child.” Interesting. Maybe I was mothering him a bit with the shrooms. I didn’t mean to do that, but I just didn’t want him to have a freakout, especially since I was going to be heading home while he was tripping. Could Jimmy handle a panic attack from his uncle? Maybe, but probably by punching every person within ten feet of him.

Sal finished off the container. “God, they’re awful.” I nodded in agreement then told Sal and Jimmy I was heading home. “If you guys can’t find your way back just hail a taxi and tell the cabbie the name of your hotel.” Sal tried to talk me into staying. “Come on, it’s one night, you know? You should keep partying with us.” I graciously said no and pointed to the heart of the Red Light District. “Wander around and enjoy. You'll find a bar somewhere around the area. If you don't, get a cab and tell them to take you to Rembrandtplein.” Sal said, “Okay. Michael, you're a great guy, you know? Pot, shrooms, and whores, you believe this guy, Jimmy?” Jimmy smiled genuinely. I was surprised. Sal pulled out his wallet, grabbed a couple hundred Euros, and tried to hand them to me. “For what you done for us tonight.” I said, “No, no, no. It’s your birthday, Sal. Besides, I was having a good time, too.”

Sal reluctantly put the cash away after a couple more efforts. “You could do this for a living, you know. I got friends back home that’d pay good money for you to guide them around like this. Make it even better if you could hook us up with the right whores.” I looked up and after a moment said, “Yeah, I could do that, too.” I stopped myself from saying more—I was ready to call it a night. Sal handed me his card and I looked at it. A classic car restoration business. Interesting. “You ever come to Jersey, you look me up. I got a 40-footer, we’ll go out deep sea fishing. It’ll be my turn to show you a good time.” I smiled. “That sounds great, Sal.” He shook my hand and said, “You sure I can’t give you something for your hospitality?” I replied, “Sal, you already did. It was a pleasure being out with you and your nephew.” Jimmy reached out his hand and looked at me with appreciation and respect. Maybe he had potential after all. I shook his hand and told him, “Hey, look out for your uncle. When those shrooms kick in he’s going to think everything’s unicorns and rainbows.” Sal interjected. “Enough with that talk, already.” Jimmy paused and then said, “Thank you for helping us tonight. You’re a good guy.” I nodded and turned to walk away, waving goodbye. They waved back and I walked home.

Amsterdam Eighty-Three: Café Life

It was becoming increasingly clear that I was going to need an assistant or, perhaps, to become an assistant. There were no two ways about it, it had to be one or the other. My preference was for a young, tiny Vietnamese woman who was advanced in martial arts, could speak every Asian language in addition to English and Dutch, and had money to burn. However, I realized I was more likely to find a person who needed an assistant and help them with their various needs through cleverness and creativity, my ability to be vulnerable and nonjudgmental, and my willingness to do any type of drug offered to me. The latter had to be worth something to someone. I didn’t care about being paid; usefulness was my goal. What else would it have been?

Whenever I stood in line at a patisserie waiting for an éclair, I thought of such things. And whenever I bit into an éclair after waiting in line, the thoughts disappeared. By the time I had finished I wouldn’t even think to wonder what I had been thinking about while waiting in line. Instead, I would rub my belly and be happy. Why it should be different, I wasn’t sure. I knew it wasn’t different, though, so I didn’t worry about it. What would have been the point even had I remembered? No, it was better to remember that I thought these things the next time I stood in line waiting for a tasty pastry and then forgetting about them again after taking a bite.

I rode my sugar rush to Eik en Linde. It was too early for Bloem and I hadn’t seen Kasper and company for longer than I could remember. After I locked my bike and walked inside, I saw Peter as well as two older gents I didn’t know sitting around the curly Q. One was sitting in my spot, but I had pretty much forfeited claims to any particular seat since I hadn’t visited regularly since the fall. Nevertheless, I found a good spot against the wall. I placed my laptop bag on the counter, put my coat on the seat, and sat down.

Kasper was busy down the bar so I looked over toward Peter who hadn’t yet realized I was there. As usual, he had a beer sitting in front of him. Each of the old cusses on either side of him also had glasses filled with beer in their hands. I turned to look at the backwards running clock. About 12:45 … meaning it was 11:15 AM. Well, at least it was after eleven. Maybe they had just gotten started.

Not that it mattered. Social mores seemed especially ridiculous with time moving backward. What struck me was not so much the drinking at this early hour, but that Peter didn’t seem to recognize me. The conversation between the three of them switched back and forth between Dutch and English. In a way, it should have made following the conversation a little easier, but that wasn’t the case. I understood referents to marching bands then gorgeous women cycling in the rain and then the fascism of taxing cigarettes. I understood just enough to know that this was a typical brown café conversation. It was, like most Dutch conversations, an equal opportunity affair: no subject would remain uncovered.

When Kasper finally saw me and wandered my way he extended his hand and I shook it vigorously. I asked, “Hoe ben je geweest?” He answered, “Kan niet klagen. Heb je honger?” I said, “Ja, een koffie en uitsmijter mit tomaten, paprika, en champignons.” He nodded his head, but gave me a look. “Je hebt gewerkt aan uw Nederlandse.” I smiled and said, “Niet op doel.” Kasper laughed then said, in English, “You’re getting better, but your translations aren’t quite right. Pretty good, though. Amusing, but good.”

When Daniel turned away to place my order with Philip in the kitchen cubby hole, I turned to look at Peter and the other gents. Peter was eyeing my warily. He said, “Ik dacht dat ik je kende, maar spreek je Nederlands te goed om Michael te zijn.” Motherfucker. Too many words I didn’t know. “Peter, I was pretty much at my limit talking with Kasper.” He guffawed. “Oh, I see. So, you can speak Dutch with Kasper, but I’m not good enough for you.” I shook my head. “No, Peter, you’re too good for me.” This did not sit well with Peter at all. “You disappear for a month and then you come back full of American cow shit.” I corrected him, “Bullshit.” I could see the confusion on Peter’s face so I explained, “The term is ‘bullshit,’ Peter. Cow shit is just cow shit.” Then I added, just to fuck with him, “But maybe that’s what you meant.”

Peter sighed. “No, I remember this now. The cow is the woman and the bull is the man. Why the shit of a man should be so much more deceitful than the shit of a woman? It’s the other way around so I stick to my saying: cow shit.” I laughed then he switched to Dutch, “Twee kunt dit spel, je eentalige Yankee.” The two Dutchmen sitting on either side of Peter laughed heartily. I wasn’t sure what he had said, but I knew it wasn’t flattering. “Peter, all I heard was ‘cunt,’ though I doubt it has the same meaning that it does in America. We’ve already established that I’m the one with linguistic limitations, you know. There’s no need to flaunt it with words I don’t understand.” Peter raised his eyebrows. “Judging from your response, I think you may understand more than you know. Still, you’re not drinking beer yet so my respect is limited.” I shrugged, “I wouldn’t want you to waste it all at once. Glad you’re pacing yourself.”

Kasper returned with my coffee and said, to Peter and I, “It’s too early for this.” Peter shot back, “It’s too late to say ‘it’s too early.’” Kasper waved his hand at Peter dismissively and leaned against the counter in front of me. “So, where have you been? I thought maybe you had left for the States.” I added cream to the coffee then said, “No, no, I wouldn’t leave without saying goodbye. Never. I’m on the other side of the Amstel, remember? I don’t make it over to this neighborhood too often in the mornings.” Another customer called for Kasper and I sipped my coffee as he walked away.

I talked with Peter and the other two gents intermittently until Kasper brought me my food. As I ate, I listened to the sounds of Dutch resonating throughout the café. I ordered an espresso when I was finished, told Kasper about some of my adventures and misadventures, eliciting a comment about how he missed the single life. I told him I would be happy to switch places as his life seemed idyllic to me: a beautiful wife, a darling daughter, managing his parents’ café, everyday conversations with a mix of fun-loving patrons, both locals and tourists, veering from the lackadaisical to the utmost seriousness. The grass is always greener.

I went out for smokes with Peter occasionally, talking about nothing, jabbing and needling. As the afternoon grew I wondered if I did want Kasper’s life. I certainly had just months earlier, but as I thought about it more seriously I wasn’t so sure. Being single, particularly the way I was living, was in many ways more fulfilling than even the best years of my married life. Would I really want to go back to living that way? I realized I hadn’t spent this much time at Eik en Linde since November and I thought back to that time, about who I had been, how I had felt, my outlook on life. I could barely relate to that person. November had been a weird and wild month, a month of escaping from depression to take control of my life again, to enjoy it, and to direct it in some fashion, even if haphazardly, fumbling according to desire and pleasure as much as anything else. And yet, I made critical decisions that allowed me, in the early spring, to shift as easily from wild partying with sex and drugs to meandering mornings and afternoons in free-flowing conversations with witty, down-to-earth friends and acquaintances at a cozy, familiar café. There was no more anxiety, no depression, only creativity, adventure, and appreciation.

When I ordered a beer from Kasper mid-afternoon as the café continued to fill up, I thought about how unusual it was to experience so many different modes of being within such short periods of time, how each moment simultaneously shifted both subtly and strikingly without contradiction. Every person sitting or standing within view, within earshot, moved or spoke with different rhythms, different cadences. They contrasted with the movements and sounds of the party over the weekend and yet there were similarities in the sense that the interactions were familiar while being diverse. The commonality was vitality. There was life here just as there had been there. The forms life took seemed different on the surface, but not at their core. This told me nothing in particular; I had no great insight. I felt alive, though, and I appreciated being in the presence of life.

I hadn’t touched my laptop since arriving. When I saw the clock at 7:30—meaning 4:30—I paid my tab. I had already said goodbye to Kasper as his shift had ended at four. Peter and the other two fellows had left early in the afternoon. I hadn’t spoken much in the preceding hours except with Kasper, but I had felt fully immersed in the life of the café just the same, observing expressions and gestures while listening to Dutch, French, and English throughout the afternoon.

I left the café, unlocked my bike, and rode to Bloem. A full day of cafés. It had been some time since I had lived such a day. I locked my bike and walked into Bloem, taking a seat at the bar. I waved to Daniel as he served a customer at a table. Isa was working behind the bar and I ordered a Floreffe. He poured it, knifed the foam off the top, and placed it on a coaster in front of me. After a few minutes of simple but amiable chatting between us, Daniel pulled up a seat next to me. There were only a few customers present so it seemed he had time. The three of us talked about inconsequential matters for a couple minutes then Isa went to attend to a couple that had walked in the door.

Daniel checked on a table then asked me if I wanted to join him for a smoke outside. Once we were outside, Daniel sighed and said, “I’m thinking of breaking it off with Sophia.” Whoa. “Really? Why?” Daniel took a drag and exhaled. “We’re too different. She’s, well, she’s a slob.” I laughed. “I wouldn’t have guessed that.” He shook his head and threw his butt into a coffee can serving as an ashtray. “She gets up at noon, smokes pot, and either goes back to sleep or sits stoned in front of the TV or listens to music. She’s lazy.” Wow. I really wouldn’t have guessed that. I hemmed a bit, though. “She does work late so maybe …” I trailed off as Daniel looked at me sharply. “So do I, but I don’t sleep all day.” I asked in what way she was a slob. “Clutter everywhere. She doesn’t clean up. Too stoned.” Huh. I was usually productive and energetic while high, but then again being stoned was another matter. Daniel continued, “It’s okay, it’s her choice. It’s not what I want, though. I mean, she’s twenty-six. That’s young, yes, but she acts like she’s still in college. We’re not a good fit. I love her spirit, but ... I don’t know, it’s not enough, not long-term.”

They had only been seeing each other three weeks, as far as I knew, and they had been full of fire every other time I saw them. But Daniel was certainly not lazy. He had a consistent high energy, working seventy or eighty hours each week often with enough juice to keep going after work. I had wondered about that in the past, how he always seemed to be fresh even after a long night out. Month after month maintaining that stamina? I didn’t allow myself to wonder too much, though. It wasn't my business. Some people are high-octane, although Daniel never seemed harried. Maybe that was it, too: he was always within his skin, he didn't over-extend himself. Being that relaxed, eighty hour weeks may not have felt like eighty hour weeks.

I understood his feelings about his relationship with Sophia, though. She wasn’t just a friend; she was his girlfriend and they had gotten serious fast. That measure of day-to-day sharing of life meant giving up at least some of one’s self in order to make the relationship work. If Daniel’s perspective was accurate—and I had no reason to believe it wasn’t—then he had been giving much more ground than Sophia. I had a hard time seeing Daniel hanging out all day doing nothing with Sophia sitting in a cluttered room. Daniel was patient and nonjudgmental, but giving up so much of who he was all the time? I couldn’t imagine that being satisfying for him. Or anyone else, really, but I was probably more like Daniel in that regard. I liked a clean space and I preferred activity.

“Have you mentioned any of this to Sophia?” Daniel folded his arms. “Yeah. We’ve had a couple arguments, but that hasn’t changed anything. The longer we’re together the worse it will be. Better to end it early. Better for both of us.” I thought about it, though. She seemed crazy about Daniel. Even after only a few weeks, this would sting. Sophia seemed like one who dove in heart first. She may have had her other habits, but her heart was passionate, beautiful. It was a shame because they had seemed like such a great fit emotionally--she brought out something in Daniel I hadn’t seen before they started seeing each other. Emotions alone are never enough, though. Neither is great sex, though that makes up for a lot. Still, it wasn't like Daniel would be wanting for bedroom companionship.

As we walked back inside, Daniel said, “Don’t tell anyone about this. I just needed to get it off my chest.” I patted him on the back and said, “No problem. If you want to talk about it more or, you know, after, just give me a call.” Daniel smiled a little then got back to work. A few more tables were filled and Isa seemed to be scrambling. I sat back at the bar, my Floreffe nearly finished.

After Isa had dealt with the new tables, he came around the bar to fill drinks. He poured another for me then took a tray full of drinks to the tables he was serving. Daniel was in the kitchen placing orders. Busy for a Monday. I took out my MacBook and placed it on the bar, turning it on while drinking. I figured things would be busy for a while and I wanted to take a look at the PDFs for the next indexing project.

After checking email and reading a little news, I shut it down. The rush had slowed and I ordered the special of the day, chatting with Isa here and there until the food was ready. Daniel took a break and talked with me a bit from behind the bar while Isa waited tables. We kept it light, jovial. When I finished eating I went back to the kitchen and complimented Dorlan. He was Turkish, but spoke Dutch well. Most of our communication was nonverbal and when it was verbal we communicated mostly through tone, volume, and inflection. I liked him, but it wasn’t possible to get to know him well with the language barrier. Most of what I knew of him came from Daniel. I imagined it was the same for Dorlan.

Daniel joined me for another cigarette and this time we smoked in silence. I felt more intimacy with Daniel when there were no words. I noticed his presence more acutely. I still hadn’t figured out a way to describe the dynamic, but I cherished it. If I was stranded on a desert island with only one person, I would want that person to be Daniel. I would choose him over a woman even. Yes, the sex issue, but I would never feel alone if he was present. We could go without talking for months and I wouldn’t feel any distance. He had that quality and I didn’t know any women who had that—I didn’t know anyone besides Daniel who had that.

As the hours passed and Bloem’s customers cleared out, Daniel, Isa, and I talked about all manner of subjects, mostly politics, economics, and philosophy. Isa listened more often than he spoke and he seemed to enjoy when Daniel and I argued over politics and economics. We agreed on many things, but Daniel was more of a capitalist. I understood his point of view and his arguments had merit, but there were flaws. We didn’t see eye to eye over the damage of international trade.

When Daniel’s wife, Ana, walked into Bloem late, she and Daniel spoke in Dutch at the end of the bar. Isa told me he was fascinated by the conversation. “You’re both passionate. I’m learning quite a bit, too.” I knew Isa was an economics major, very intelligent, but he was only 21 so he lacked real-world experience related to a number of economic issues. Ana, meanwhile, walked toward me on my side of the bar. I stood and kissed her on each cheek. Daniel said, from across the bar, “You just picked up an ally, Michael. Ana’s views are aligned with yours. It's bad enough dealing with the Dutch on these issues, but you, Michael, an American?” Danile shook his head and threw up his hands. “What's the world coming to?” Ana seemed perplexed. I said, “Politics and economics.” She smiled knowingly as she sat down next to me.

From our first meeting, I knew Ana volunteered at Greenpeace and lived in a squat. I figured her politics would be more in line with mine. Daniel possessed a minority view in Amsterdam, but certainly not an exclusive view. There were many international businesses in the city and certainly in the country. The Dutch, I had learned, certainly had a “capitalist class.” Daniel was a fan of the United States—for the most part—but it seemed that it was more because he had been surrounded by radical Dutch culture for a decade and held onto an American ideal tightly. He may have been somewhat conservative as a Dutchmen, but he would have been a liberal in the States, certainly on social issues. His wife was a lesbian, for crissakes, and he had as many gay friends as straight. That seemed typical in Amsterdam, though. Daniel was tolerant and, at least socially, libertarian. He wasn't quite as libertarian when it came to fiscal policy. His issues were with what he thought were excessive rights and privileges for workers, but from the conversation he understood that the United States was on the opposite extreme. A happy middle was what Daniel desired and I could understand that sentiment even though I didn't believe such a happy medium could feasibly be achieved.

Ana left at closing time and I stayed only a half hour after that. It had been good to see her again; it was a surprise I hadn’t expected. I had spent over twelve hours in my favorite cafés with good friends over the course of the day. From the wilds of the weekend to the softer rhythms of the early week, I felt fat and happy. I rode through the cold on the way home, marveling, as I so often did, at living in such a magical city.