The final few weeks in Amsterdam, the end of March through the first weeks of April, were tranquil. That day of reflection had enabled me to put away ambition and to live in peace my final weeks before returning to America. I spent many days at Bloem with Daniel and friends, soaking in their presence, their relaxed manner of living day to day, appreciating the magical way in which they made what appeared to be mundane or routine pregnant with fulfillment. Living well came so naturally and easily for them. They modeled the method and I learned by observing and practicing their pace. They had managed to live an Amazonian shamanism in an urban environment. Accomplishing this in a Westernized city was extraordinary.
I spent many days alone wandering around the city, occasionally meeting new people, spending an afternoon or evening with them, but often I spent time alone with myself whether out in the city or at home in my apartment. I continued to shroom and the experiences became more rooted even as they expanded. Breathing was becoming a way of life, the form of movement I cherished most. Simply sitting, in my apartment or in a cafe, looking out onto the streets at the people passing by, at the architecture of the buildings, listening to the sounds of cycles and cars and conversation, of the rain falling, of the wind whipping, feeling the warmth inside and the bracing cold outside, feeling the light and darkness of day and night and artificial light, savoring pastries and espressos and beers, and being transported by the smells of bakeries.
I experienced none of the ecstatic highs of the early days. I had become part of the rhythms of the city and they matched the rhythms within me. I spoke very little those last few weeks, mostly observing through sensation, allowing feelings and thoughts to come and go, to remain still whether sitting or moving. I knew the entire enterprise was coming to a conclusion, but I rarely felt pangs of attachment, of wanting to stay forever, of dreading my departure.
The day before I left I felt a deep sadness, but it had the potent fragrance of ripened fruit. I could recall all experiences I'd had without even remembering them. They were simply there, accessible. I didn't dwell on them or feel nostalgia, but as I sat alone most of the last day, simply looking out the window while drinking coffee, smoking cannabis, and listening to quiet music, they meshed with the steady drizzle outside.
Susanne, the woman who had rented her apartment to me, returned from the Caribbean during my last couple of days in Amsterdam. I had decided to stay an extra week so she was surprised that I was still there when she returned. I offered to leave and stay at a hotel for my final days so she could have her apartment to herself after such a long time away, but she insisted that I stay. We had a couple of lovely conversations and I learned more about her.
She was a fascinating woman. She was around 60 years old and during the 1970s she, her boyfriend, and some friends drove an RV to India. They were hippies. She described how different the world was at that time, how it was possible to drive through Afghanistan and the Middle East. Not that the trip was without its perils, but the times were different; it was before Russia had invaded Afghanistan, before the U.S. had invaded Iraq. A simpler time. She and her boyfriend, who later became her husband, became Buddhists and it seemed that that was due mostly to their experiences in India. She was retired, but she had worked in some fashion, an import/export business, between The Netherlands and India. She still had friends there, a point which would become important in the future, though neither of us knew that at the time. In fact, had I not stayed those extra days which allowed us to get to know one another, I'm not sure there would have been a future between us. But, that's the wonder of travel, of being open to possibilities when meeting others who are open to possibilities.
I had come to appreciate Buddhism through my shrooming and meditative experiences during my stay. I couldn't formally call my way of life or my way of thinking Buddhist because I had read very little about it. However, it's no accident that shrooming often leads to a mindset and outlook and lifestyle that is commensurate with Buddhism according to what I later learned. And when I later read about the practices and thinking of Buddhism I realized that coming to those Ways would have been impossible for me by only reading. Shrooming, at least the way I was creating my experiences, led to living a way akin to a confluence of Buddhism, shamanism, aestheticism, and athleticism. My compassion for myself and others had expanded, my appreciation of life had been renewed, and my wonder at natural and human-created beauty and design had flourished.
A lifetime had passed since I had fallen into despair and wondered if there was any reason to continue living, and yet it was only seven months earlier that I had felt that way. When I had sat in front of my computer in Madison, Wisconsin, after finishing a work project with no immediate work to do in the coming weeks, I felt nothing, thought nothing. There was just a hollow within me, the result of a years-long depression chewing away at whatever I had previously valued in life. The depression didn't just arise from divorce, from aging, from physical ailments; it was American life, a culture of material deadness, meaningless production, empty consumerism, a place with no outlet for the soul, a place not conducive to being human in the ways I needed to be human.
My deepest wonder was whether it would be possible to integrate the way of life I had developed in Amsterdam into a life in the United States. What would I do if that proved to be impossible? I barely considered the question before discarding it. My focus was entirely on consciously integrating a life of wonder and creativity and openness and play combined with compassion, kindness, and courage when I landed back in the states.
I spent my last night with Daniel at Bloem. There were few customers that night and I stayed late, well past closing, and it was just Daniel and I who drank beer while we talked deep into the night. I wasn't sure if or when I would return to Amsterdam. Neither of us felt a deep sadness about this. Somehow, it seemed inevitable that I would return, but I really wondered about that that night as I walked home. I had given the keys to my bike to Daniel, telling him that I'd rather he use it or find a friend who needed a bike rather than just let it remained locked at a stand for no reason.
I woke up the next day, showered and packed for my flight, had breakfast with Susanne, and then called a taxi to take me to the airport. I rode in silence watching the rain as we went. It had been some time since I had been outside the city center and surrounding neighborhoods so the shock of seeing the ugliness of 20th-century functional utility was pronounced. I knew it was going to be even worse when I arrived in Chicago and took the commuter to Madison. As I picked up my ticket at Schiphol and made my way to the gate, I realized more fully that I was leaving and really--really--might never return. I had spent a lot of money each trip, especially the first. I was going to need time to bring my finances back up before I could even think of returning.
Fortunately, I had to focus on getting through customs, which was surprisingly easy, and then getting some food before the flight. I was exhausted from being out late the previous night and hadn't thought ahead to bring food with me. The only restaurant that was open inside my gate was McDonald's. I made myself order a quarter pounder with cheese because I didn't want to be hungry on the flight. It was a terrible mistake. I had truly forgotten how greasy and artificial American food was. I felt nauseous after eating a few bites and couldn't stomach more than a few fries. Within minutes, I made a beeline to the restroom and squatted on the toilet. A furious spray of sewage spewed from my asshole. Even though I was somewhat relieved, I could still feel the coating of grease lining my insides. Such a stupid fucking mistake.
Again, though, it distracted me from the fact that I was leaving Amsterdam. Once seated on the flight, I felt more relaxed. I thought I would sleep, but I couldn't for whatever reason. I was extremely happy I hadn't slept when the plane flew over the southern portion of Greenland. The glaciers were magnificent, otherworldly, absolutely mammoth. I took several photos and then offered the woman sitting next to me a chance to sit next to the window so she could look out. She was thrilled. Once we had passed Greenland, we had a lovely chat. She was from Rotterdam and, oddly, a Christian. I couldn't recall meeting any Christians in Holland previously. It made sense that there were some, but it was still surprising. I thoroughly enjoyed the conversation with her and she had none of the earmarks of fundamentalist or evangelical Christians. I didn't get her denomination, but whatever it was it seemed Christian in the best sense as she was welcoming, kind, and excited about traveling to America. She even got me to become mildly excited about returning. I had forgotten how America was perceived by some foreigners, that it had had a reputation as a wonderfully diverse democracy before George W. Bush started unnecessary and lawless military invasions of other countries. For this woman, at least, it still held the promise of the possibility of a better tomorrow. I wasn't sure if she was naive or just culturally filled with Dutch optimism.
We exchanged contact information as we disembarked and then waited forever to get through customs. It was a madhouse: hot, congested, noisy, chaotic, and confusing. There seemed to be no rhyme or reason in the setup. After over an hour in line, I finally got through. After that, chaos reigned again. I finally figured out which terminal I needed and barely made it to my gate on time to board my flight. Fortunately, there was plenty of space on the puddle jumper to Madison so I was able to stretch out and relax, finally falling asleep once we took flight.
The good thing about arriving in a small airport is that navigating is easy and luggage is unloaded fairly quickly. I was able to get an airport transport back to the house I was renting from my friend who lived in Minneapolis. It was a nice day, too, partly sunny and the temperature in the 60s. It was a bit weird to think in Fahrenheit again, but I discovered I liked it. I was even excited as the cab pulled up to the house. I adjusted my watch to local time which was around 4 PM. I unloaded all of my bags with the help of the cabbie. I got a kick out of hearing his Wisconsin accent, too.
Once I was inside I was pleased to see how clean I had left the apartment. I left all my luggage by the door, went to the kitchen to drink water, and then marched upstairs to my bedroom. I threw off most of my clothes, whipped back the blankets and sheet, and slid into bed. I was out instantly.
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