Arriving in Amsterdam

”O Brave New World, that has such people in’t.” ~William Shakespeare, The Tempest (Act V. Scene I. Lines 205-206)

[Fair warning: the following several posts are going to get increasingly “raunchy.” I have not spared much detail in making sure that I keep this record as accurate and honest as possible. Some of the material in the post is certainly “PG-13”or "Rated R" in terms of content, and later ones get increasingly graphic. If you would like the cliff notes version, I’d be happy to share it with you either via email, or when I get back.]

April 12, 2013 (Continued)

As I usually do, I followed the crowd off the plane and through the airport. My email from Andy had instructed me to buy a ticket for the train and take it to Amsterdam Centraal station. The airport was apparently just a stop on the line (the same train I would have been on had I brought it from Prague) and would be a 12 minute ride to the Centraal Station.

The ticket machines were in the baggage claim area. I was the third person in line. The first woman appeared to be a foreigner while the woman directly ahead of me was Dutch. The first woman began having troubles and they started communicating in English to figure out the machine. It wasn’t working very, but I figured I could be patient and wait.

As I stood in line, I started watching the people walking through the terminal. They were a very clean cut and put together sort. Their clothes were nice, but not too flashy. They looked organized, but not all together serious. There were a lot of families travelling together with little kids, and also a lot of younger teenagers travelling alone. Blonde hair seemed to be very prevalent, although more of a sandy blonde shade. Facial features were small and delicate on both genders, and both men and women seemed very warm and affectionate

After waiting for the machine for about ten minutes, it was my turn. That was when I discovered it only took cards. A $5 transfer fee didn’t seem worth it to me for a 4 euro ticket. Andy’s email had said I could either buy the ticket at the machine or in the main terminal at the train station. I decided to go find the train station.

The main terminal was huge! It probably had twice the number of retailers as my local shopping mall. There were full department stores and grocery stores inside the terminal. Vendors set up little booths to sell flowers and spices. It was unlike anything I’d ever seen before.

I found the information desk and asked the man about tickets to Amsterdam Centraal. He pointed to the ticket window (which had been pretty much right in front of me) and told me the next train left from platform 3 in twelve minutes.

I went to the window and bought a ticket to Amsterdam Central. Taking the long moving ramps down to the train platforms underground, I found platform three. There was a board showing all sorts of different train names, with various arrival and departure times. I couldn’t tell which one was going to be mine.

As I was staring, slack jawed, at the departure board, a mother and daughter pushed their way past me. The daughter appeared to be a few years younger than me. She looked young enough to know some English.

“Excuse me,” I asked showing them my ticket. “Which train do I need to take to get to Amsterdam Centraal?”

The mother clearly didn’t understand me but looked at her daughter. The daughter took my ticket. “It will be the next train, but I think this ticket is not the right one for Amsterdam Centraal. You should at informance desk if you need the token too.”

“Ok, thank you,” I said.

“But hurry,” she said. “The train will be here in three minutes.”

I went back up the moving ramp to the informance desk. I was pretty sure I had the right ticket, but it didn’t hurt to check. The man behind the counter confirmed that it was the right ticket, and that the train was just arriving.

I rushed back down the ramp. At the bottom, I saw the mother and daughter waving down and pointing to the train. I smiled and nodded at them. As I got on, they gave me a big thumbs-up gesture. I waved good-bye and went to get a seat.

The train was not laid out like the other’s I’d been on in Prague. This one looked more like the inside of a school bus, with leather seats for two lined up in rows all facing the same way. The car was pretty much empty with the exception of four or five people scattered about. I took a seat about half way up the car, but still more towards the back.

As I rode into the city, I couldn’t help but notice that everything looked very modern. The buildings appeared to be tall, sleek office structures, much like the downtown of my own capital city. As with nearly everywhere else I’d been in Europe, it was very overcast and foggy. Sure enough, it was starting to rain. Murphy’s Law, I thought.

The next stop was Amsterdam Centraal. Getting off, the train station was huge. My observation in the station was the same as the airport. Everyone looked very formal but friendly. I pulled up Andy’s email on iPod. It said,

“From Amsterdam Central Station to St. Christopher’s [Hostel] at the Winston, it is just a 5-minute walk. Walk out of the main entrance of the station and go straight ahead on the Damrak for about 250m. Take the first street after the water to the left (Oudebrugsteeg) towards Grasshopper. Go straight ahead until Warmoesstraat and turn right. We are at number 129 on your left-hand side.”

How hard could that be?

I found an exit and walked outside.

As soon as I did, I was surrounded by people. Everyone was smoking something and shoving baggies in my face and the faces of every other person walking out of the door. The smells were fowl and gut wrenching and crowd made me immediately claustrophobic. They were wearing leather jackets and chains with tattoos and piercing everywhere. Had I been in downtown USA, I would have been feared for my life…oh who am I kidding, I was fearing for my life.

Had I been thinking, I should have clutched my camera in one hand, my bag in the other and bulldozed my way forward. Instead, my hands shot up in the universal “I’m innocent” gesture. Slowly, I backed my way back into the station, and the crowd stayed outside.

Inside the “safety” of the train station I thought to myself, what have I done? I wasn’t ready for this. This was foolish. This was not for boring, old Zach…I should have gone to London or Budapest or someplace “safe.” I’m not ready for this!

I took my iPod and went into the main ticket office. I waited in line until someone was available to help me. When I got to the counter, the elderly gentleman asked me if I preferred English or Dutch. I said English. I showed him the email from Andy and asked for directions.

“Is very close to here. Very easy to get to,” he said. “Go out of the office, take a right and walk to the end of the hallway. Go out the doors on your left. Across the street is the Victoria Hotel. On the left side of Victoria Hotel is Damrak Street. Then just follow the directions from your friend.”

“Thank you,” I said, while in my head thinking can you just come with me?

I walked to the end of the hallway and stepped outside. The crowd was much thinner and less pushy here, although the various smells still brought a gag to my throat. I reeked of weed and cigarette smoke. The rain was sprinkling a little bit. It wasn’t uncomfortable, but I did stand out as the only person without an umbrella.

Cross the street, I saw the Victoria and found the sign for Damrak. Walking along, I noticed several used condoms littering the ground. There were neon signs along the road that said “Live Sex Show” and “Paradise for Sale Here” There were windows with naked photos on display and men pedaling magazines and pot lining the streets.

I didn’t really want to pull my iPod out in this crowd. I remembered that after Damrak I was supposed to look for The Grasshopper. I had no idea what that meant. Was it a statue? A street? Actually, it turned out to be a night club. Just about a block down Damrak, I happened to turn my head at just the right moment to see the green neon sign for “The Grasshopper.”

I watched and saw a few yards down were a large group was crossing the street. There didn’t look to be a cross walk, but it appeared to be a frequent crossing point based on the amount of foot traffic and the fact cars were patiently waiting for the pedestrians. I walked to spot and when the next group started to go, I followed along with them.

Walking past The Grass Hopper, I found the threshold of my comfort zone. I was once again in the mob scene as I shuffled along narrow little streets filled with people who (a) didn’t speak English (b) were selling every hallucinogen imaginable and (c) were stoned out of their minds. I quickly learned not to make eye contact with anyone, because they would immediately hold out Ziploc baggies or pre-rolled joints to offer me one.

I did make the mistake however of looking lost. A black man, grabbed my shoulder and pulled me aside saying, “You look lost mate.” He had a Dutch accent.

“I,” I hesitated. “I’m looking for my hostel. I think it’s called The Winston?”

“Oh sure,” he said, “The Winston. See that sign that says ‘Gay Cinema’?”

 “Yes…” I said as I saw the sign.

“The Winston is just passed that,” he said. “Like three doors.”

“Thank you so much,” I said.

“No problem,” he said. “Hey, mate,” he continued, opening his jacket. Inside were various Ziplocs of various substances. “You need some hash?”

“No,” I said. “I’m good.” I turned and quickly walked away.

I found The Winston. It wasn’t open. It also wasn’t my hostel. It was a brothel.

My hostel was two doors passed The Winston, called St. Christopher’s. St. Christopher’s was a bar and smoking lounge, and I walked passed it twice. When I finally decided to go in and pushed my way past the hung over and stoned bar flies, I found a door in the very back of the building that read “Reception.”

I was home…

Inside the reception office, there was a youngish, twenty-something guy behind the counter. “Hi,” I said, as I stumbled in. “I’m with the Weekend Student Adventures group.”

“Yes!” he said, his face lighting up. “You are the last guy!”

“That would be me,” I said.

He asked for my passport and entered the information he needed into his report. Handing me a key card, he explained that they ask us to swipe our card whenever we come into the hostel, as well as to get into our room. He gave me a map of the city, as well as a coupon book for half off drinks during happy hour in the bar.

“Go stow your stuff and then I told your guy we’d give him a call when you got here,” he said.

“Thank you so much,” I said. He pointed me through another door back towards the rooms. On the other side of the door, the walls were painted with various black and white hypnotic designs. There were framed pictures of naked men, women, and children all doing bizarre activities (from day to day life to weird yoga poses.)

I was room number four, bed number one. I found the door, and used the key to open it. The inside was dark and had that raunchy smell of semen musting up the air. There were four bunk beds in the room (eight beds total.) Someone was asleep on one of the corner bunks in the back of the room, and someone else was in the shower.

My bed was the top bunk right by the door. I climbed up onto it, laid down, and exhaled.

Ok! I thought. It’s not what I bargained for, but I can do this...I can do this…I can do this. I’ll go meet the group, I’ll still see the Anne Frank house, it’s all part of the ‘cultural experience’…I can do this…I can do this…I can do this…

I didn’t want to lug my backpack with me, but I didn’t see any lockers. Not wanting to turn on the lights and wake the sleeping guy up, I decided to come up with a different plan. I pulled my safe out of my backpack. It has a cable on it (like a bike lock) to chain it to a desk or bed. Feeding the cable through the loop on the top of my back pack, I locked it to the side rail of the bunk bed. I transferred everything I had with me to the main compartment of my bag, stowed my passport, wallet, and phone into the bottom of my backpack, and used the little TSA lock my aunt gave me to lock it shut.

Taking another deep breath, I secured my card key and some cash inside my jacket, fastened my camera around my neck, and headed back out into the madness.

At the front counter, the guy called Andy. He said they were having dinner at a place called “The Little Quarter.”

“It is about 150 meters down the street,” he said. “It is easy to find.”

“Except there is not much sign for it so be on look out,” an older man added.

I thanked them and headed outside.

I figured my stride wasn’t quite a meter, but it was probably around 30 inches or so (a meter is roughly 39 inches.) I decided I would count my steps to measure out the 150 meters and see how close that got me.

Walking along, I was again careful to not make eye contact. The times I did, very friendly people would quickly approach me and start asking for or offering various products and services. After 150 steps, I didn’t see anything that said “Little Quarter” on it. I did see another hostel, so I went inside.

There was a line at the desk of various guests asking for directions to various sites. I waited my turn and asked the receptionist where Little Quarter was.

“The address is 49. We are 43. It will be on this side,” he said. “You are almost there.”

Stepping outside, the first thing I saw was a big neon sign that read “Little Quarter.” (So much for no signage.)

I walked to the building, and pushed my way inside.