Van Gogh, Canals, and Cannabis, Oh My!

Seems like there was always a guy in Dam Square in front of the Royal Palace with a microphone. 

In our three days in Amsterdam, we had watched a group of protesters freely protesting their lack of protesting rights. A drunken magician, who spent more time cursing out the crowd than actually performing tricks. And now a young man with one of the loudest boom boxes ever was playing hip-hop while he made thumping sound effects and grunting noises into his mic at a decibel that was close to a jet engine testing lab. 

It began to rain. His tip cup quickly filled up, covering his euro-and-a-half of earnings. Pat suggested we move on, but I wanted to see what happened when the splashing rain hit the electrical connection. I would have tipped well to see his hair catch on fire. But alas, the crowd dispersed, he gave one last thump, and quit.

We headed for outdoor seating under an awning with a heater on Damstraat and ordered a couple of beers. 

In front of us, a steady “stream” of walkers and bicyclists drifted by. Two young ladies took the table next to us, shook the water out of their hair and immediately lit up a joint. “Can I get you anything?” a waitress asked. 

“Double shot espresso,” said one of the young women. The other woman put the joint into the ashtray, exhaled, and said: “Pastries.” 

“How many?”

“A lot.”

Pat and I found it interesting that you could walk around smoking pot or eating cannabis-laced gummy bears at all hours, but when we walked into a small grocery shop there was a sign on the beer section: “No alcohol sales between 4 pm Thursday and 3 am Friday.” There was no explanation for this. I also wondered if we waited it out and went back at 3 am, if there would be anyone there to sell us a bottle of merlot.

Another couple took the table to our right and immediately lit up a joint.

“We may be the only unstoned couple in Amsterdam,” Pat said.

I reached into my pocket, took out a little cookie, popped it into my mouth and said, “speak for yourself.”

“That’s a waffle cookie,” she said. “I saw you buy them at the Van Gogh Museum gift shop.”

I removed the stoner smile from my face. “They were my reward for spending three hours watching you study each and every painting like you were counting the brushstrokes.” Don’t tell Pat, but I enjoyed every minute at the Van Gogh Museum and I took a gazillion photos, figuring I could change V I N C E N T to E R N I E in Photoshop and impress some of my less
cultural friends.

The rain was letting up, so we gave up our table to a couple who had been waiting patiently for something to open up.

“Hi,” I said.

“Not yet,” the guy said, taking a joint out of his shirt pocket and examining it to see if it would still light.

We took a right off Damstraat and found ourselves in the Red Light District. Only a few of the doorways were occupied. Must be the first shift, probably like the warm-up band at a rock concert. I thought about striking up a conversation, you know, like, “Where you from? What’s your sign? How’s tricks?” Pat thought this was not such a good idea, though she didn’t express it in quite those terms. Instead, we found a cafe right beside one of the canals and grabbed a seat. 

Earlier we had taken a 75-minute boat ride from in front of Anne Frank’s house through several canals and all the way to the ocean and back. We found out that Amsterdam was spongy and impossible to build until the 12th century when fishermen built a dam on the river Amstel, creating a harbor. Today it is known for its many bridges, quirky architecture, and tolerance of all things.

I raised my glass. “Proost,” I said, repeating something I heard from a nearby table.

Pat hesitated and figured I had just cursed her out in Dutch. Then she raised her glass and “proosted” me back.

I’m going to assume that was a good thing.