GHoSToKeR
03-26-2007, 05:15 PM
Friday night. Stoned and drunk as usual. An acquaintance asks me if I want to go to Amsterdam, and he means right now. Sure, I said, right after I fuck your wife. But he was serious. He got in a taxi, and at four o'clock gave me a call. He tells me he's outside, the flights are booked, the credit cards are getting cold, the taxi-driver is getting sufficiently pissed off, and to get out of bed before he smokes this entire joint to himself.
Five am. We're outside the airport, caned and cold. I'm starting to feel the first worrying signs of a major hangover and sobriety is closing in fast. Is this guy actually going to take me to 'Dam? I've seen the receipt for the tickets, but my state of mind isn't allowing me to believe it. I feel like this until I'm sitting in the First Class seat of a plane going to London, drinking champaign and singing Comfortably Numb at the top of my voice. Man, I love that song - according to our stewerdess, nobody else does. Fascist.
The trip goes pretty well. I start reading Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas on the plane, and from then on I can only think of my travelling companion as 'my attorney'. Shit, he might aswell be, I hardly know the guy and despite the car full of drugs, we're pretty much in the same boat... or plane. Just call me Raoul.
By the time we arrive at Schiphol airport, it's about midday. My sleep-deprived subconscious takes over and points in the direction of the deepest, darkest cafe we can find. Two Heinekens, fours shots of tequila, and an eighth of Jack Herer please, my good man. This is a new experience for me, and the whole chilled atmosphere is making me feel so good, I never wanted to leave. I wouldn't have, if I had been on my own.
A while later we were stumbling around the canals and inner-streets of Amsterdam, not caring where we were walking or what we walk in to, just another couple of tourists with too much money to spend and too many brain cells to fry. Alas, we ended up in the Red Light district. I freaked. All of these scantily clad women, staring out of every window, trying to entice us in.. it was all too much for me. Out comes a joint. Man that line of coke is starting to hit me big time (where did we even get coke from!?) and this Jack Herer is beatiful, 'my attorney' should be appreciating it too. I try to pass him the joint...
Umm. Where is he? Where the fuck is he? He was right next to me a second ago, everything was cool. Maybe he fell into one of these windows - will he ever come out again? I don't even know, this isn't what I need right now. I need to float around until I come back down, no more, no less.
It must have been the windows. Did he fall in? Or did something reach out and pull him in? Oh shit, again I feel like Raoul Duke and his Samoan friend, barely able to deal with a normal situation and blowinjg everything out of proportion. These windows are just windows! Get a grip!
I lean against a wall near the canal, feeling totally conspicious because of my bright red eyes and lost expression. Masses and masses of people are walking by, and every single one of them is looking at me. I know - somewhere in my mind I know - that they're just like me, enjoying this beautiful city and what it has to offer, but everything and everyone is feeling more and more hostile. The people on the streets aren't just looking at me, they're looking at me. Is it because I escaped the lure of the red windows when my friend didn't? I swear I didn't leave him, he left me! What was I supposed to do?
At that point I thought I hadn't moved much, just hung around not far from where my buddy left me, but in truth I had no idea where I was, no idea where to go. I spend another while just wandering around, stopping in at occasional cafes and enjoying my time, sure that everything will be okay in the end. By five in the afternoon I was feeling really anxious. I don't know if it was the weed, or the situation, but it just wasn't right. It took me an hour to find a taxi, but I got in one, and in my mumbling, gibberish, non-sensical way I command the taxi driver to take me to a hotel, and to treat this matter with utmost expediency!
A hotel? In 'Dam? Which hotel? He thinks they're all going to be fully booked, and until I give him the name of one, he won't move. Not worth his time, or mine, he says. Eventually I talk him out of kicking me back on to the street, and he makes a few phone calls to find me a room for the night. We drive around, but there are still no rooms.
By 10 o'clock that night, I've spent the last of the 100 Euros my friend gave me, and I have no way of withdrawing any cash or getting some more. I convince a taxi driver to take me to the airport, and thankfully he obliges, despite the 75 Euro fair.
The rest of my trip is spent walking around the airport, paranoid about the weed I have in my pocket, but still going outside for a joint every so often. I use a payphone to found my friend; he's wasted, in a hotel outside of 'Dam, and getting instructions out of him is practically impossible. I try ten times over the course of a few hours, but I'm still no closer to understanding where he is or what he thinks I'm supposed to do.
Fuck him. Fuck this. I feel like shit, I'm stoned, I'm tired, I'm hungry. I sit down, and carry on reading Fear and Loathing. At some point I fall asleep, and when I wake up it's five o'clock in the morning again, and a security guard is hovering over me with a big fuckin' automatic sub-machine gun flamethrower bazooka thing practically in my face. I go outside to smoke the last of a joint, hiding out of the way to avoid the cold and in the enquiring minds. Have I really smoked almost an eighth of this stuff on my own? I must have, there are only a few crumbs left. I throw them into the wind, deciding I'm not going to resolve this situation unless my brain returns to some kind of functioning state.
I rummage through my belongings and scrape together enough money for a strong coffee, and at 7am I head to the British Airways desk. A flight to Gatwick is leaving in a few minutes, and thanks to the quick work of the stewardess, I'm able to jump on it. From then on in it's nothing but champaigne and sleep.
Five am. We're outside the airport, caned and cold. I'm starting to feel the first worrying signs of a major hangover and sobriety is closing in fast. Is this guy actually going to take me to 'Dam? I've seen the receipt for the tickets, but my state of mind isn't allowing me to believe it. I feel like this until I'm sitting in the First Class seat of a plane going to London, drinking champaign and singing Comfortably Numb at the top of my voice. Man, I love that song - according to our stewerdess, nobody else does. Fascist.
The trip goes pretty well. I start reading Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas on the plane, and from then on I can only think of my travelling companion as 'my attorney'. Shit, he might aswell be, I hardly know the guy and despite the car full of drugs, we're pretty much in the same boat... or plane. Just call me Raoul.
By the time we arrive at Schiphol airport, it's about midday. My sleep-deprived subconscious takes over and points in the direction of the deepest, darkest cafe we can find. Two Heinekens, fours shots of tequila, and an eighth of Jack Herer please, my good man. This is a new experience for me, and the whole chilled atmosphere is making me feel so good, I never wanted to leave. I wouldn't have, if I had been on my own.
A while later we were stumbling around the canals and inner-streets of Amsterdam, not caring where we were walking or what we walk in to, just another couple of tourists with too much money to spend and too many brain cells to fry. Alas, we ended up in the Red Light district. I freaked. All of these scantily clad women, staring out of every window, trying to entice us in.. it was all too much for me. Out comes a joint. Man that line of coke is starting to hit me big time (where did we even get coke from!?) and this Jack Herer is beatiful, 'my attorney' should be appreciating it too. I try to pass him the joint...
Umm. Where is he? Where the fuck is he? He was right next to me a second ago, everything was cool. Maybe he fell into one of these windows - will he ever come out again? I don't even know, this isn't what I need right now. I need to float around until I come back down, no more, no less.
It must have been the windows. Did he fall in? Or did something reach out and pull him in? Oh shit, again I feel like Raoul Duke and his Samoan friend, barely able to deal with a normal situation and blowinjg everything out of proportion. These windows are just windows! Get a grip!
I lean against a wall near the canal, feeling totally conspicious because of my bright red eyes and lost expression. Masses and masses of people are walking by, and every single one of them is looking at me. I know - somewhere in my mind I know - that they're just like me, enjoying this beautiful city and what it has to offer, but everything and everyone is feeling more and more hostile. The people on the streets aren't just looking at me, they're looking at me. Is it because I escaped the lure of the red windows when my friend didn't? I swear I didn't leave him, he left me! What was I supposed to do?
At that point I thought I hadn't moved much, just hung around not far from where my buddy left me, but in truth I had no idea where I was, no idea where to go. I spend another while just wandering around, stopping in at occasional cafes and enjoying my time, sure that everything will be okay in the end. By five in the afternoon I was feeling really anxious. I don't know if it was the weed, or the situation, but it just wasn't right. It took me an hour to find a taxi, but I got in one, and in my mumbling, gibberish, non-sensical way I command the taxi driver to take me to a hotel, and to treat this matter with utmost expediency!
A hotel? In 'Dam? Which hotel? He thinks they're all going to be fully booked, and until I give him the name of one, he won't move. Not worth his time, or mine, he says. Eventually I talk him out of kicking me back on to the street, and he makes a few phone calls to find me a room for the night. We drive around, but there are still no rooms.
By 10 o'clock that night, I've spent the last of the 100 Euros my friend gave me, and I have no way of withdrawing any cash or getting some more. I convince a taxi driver to take me to the airport, and thankfully he obliges, despite the 75 Euro fair.
The rest of my trip is spent walking around the airport, paranoid about the weed I have in my pocket, but still going outside for a joint every so often. I use a payphone to found my friend; he's wasted, in a hotel outside of 'Dam, and getting instructions out of him is practically impossible. I try ten times over the course of a few hours, but I'm still no closer to understanding where he is or what he thinks I'm supposed to do.
Fuck him. Fuck this. I feel like shit, I'm stoned, I'm tired, I'm hungry. I sit down, and carry on reading Fear and Loathing. At some point I fall asleep, and when I wake up it's five o'clock in the morning again, and a security guard is hovering over me with a big fuckin' automatic sub-machine gun flamethrower bazooka thing practically in my face. I go outside to smoke the last of a joint, hiding out of the way to avoid the cold and in the enquiring minds. Have I really smoked almost an eighth of this stuff on my own? I must have, there are only a few crumbs left. I throw them into the wind, deciding I'm not going to resolve this situation unless my brain returns to some kind of functioning state.
I rummage through my belongings and scrape together enough money for a strong coffee, and at 7am I head to the British Airways desk. A flight to Gatwick is leaving in a few minutes, and thanks to the quick work of the stewardess, I'm able to jump on it. From then on in it's nothing but champaigne and sleep.