My friend Paul often plays the role of instigator, and for that very reason, I travel with him often. His inquisitiveness parallels a kitten first experimenting with catnip. I usually play the role of protective parent on our trips by trying to curb his curiosity at least to a more reasonable level: one that I can keep up with, one that is more-or-less legal, and for sure, one that’s not going to get us killed.

I’m usually game for most adventures, but if there were more than only the two of us in the group, I never could keep an eye on him quite as well. Things could get hairy when Paul had the lead, and I think he subconsciously knew it. He’d always walk well ahead of the group, and whenever he found something interesting, he’d usually hustle back to give the full report. Sometimes, however, he would just get too excited and plunge right in. More than a few times, that found us trouble.

We arrived in Amsterdam around 2:00 a.m. after an exhausting 14-hour drive from Munich, enduring heavily congested autobahns and gridlocked staus most of the way. Tired not only from too much time in the rental car but also from a full week at Oktoberfest, finding a party ‘til dawn in our new city was tempting, but probably treacherous. Paul was game as usual, but Chappy, John, and I voted against him, deciding to instead turn in straight away and save our festive spirits for a full day of fun tomorrow. Though reluctant at first to call it a night, Paul was soon harmonizing his snores with ours.

Around 9:00 a.m., I awoke and quickly rallied the sleep-deprived troops. After cleaning up and getting ready to go explore, everyone’s stomachs growling in unison, we walked downstairs only to be greeted by an elaborate breakfast buffet full of delicious cold cuts, a dozen varieties of fresh crusty breads, sweet fruit, cereal galore, and featuring a full-time crepes creator.

After we stuffed ourselves silly, sampling just about everything from the smorgasbord, I pulled out a tourist map from my backpack and we planned our day’s sightseeing route. Just as I was thinking that free breakfasts might be the best part of traveling in Europe, our friend Chappy was wrapping a napkin around a ham on rye and preparing to smuggle it out for a snack later. Free lunch too. We all followed suit, knowing full well we were soon to be trumped by the long walk.

The October morning was cool, but the hungover sun was finally roaring into gear and promising a gorgeous day. The first stop on the map was the floating flower market. None of us were planning to purchase any tulip bulbs to ship home, and we all thought the barge gimmick a bit touristy, but the overwhelming rush of color and aroma created a satisfying after-breakfast aperitif that we all savored for much longer than our day’s itinerary called for.

To top it off, the two beautiful, young, blonde-long-haired, taller-than-us Dutch women behind the counter were extra flirtatious, so of course we all bought bulbs. Paul even ponied up for a pair of colorful clogs.

We left and suddenly we hear Paul yell back from a hundred or so paces ahead of the three of us, checking back for just a brief moment to make sure we saw his energetic pointing.

“Holy hallucinating!”

Though we had barely stepped off the barge, we did see him luckily. Then, he disappeared down some stairs and into a building. I started thinking something along the lines of here we go again, so I picked up the pace. All of us wondering what in the world he had been so excited about, we quickly caught up to the last spot we saw him, and then we saw the sign above the door: Welcome to the Magic Mushroom Shop. We walked inside and saw Paul talking with the guy at the counter. Here we go again, I thought.

“The Mexican mushrooms are the best then?” Paul asked, the first thing I heard walking in.

“Yes. That’s what I think,” the totally Dutch-looking dude behind the counter explained. He was blonde, handsome as a model, and well over six-feet tall. Flashing his bright blue eyes and shiny smile, he started into his spiel for the rest of us to hear.

“They offer a very mellow, very social high. Colors are greatly enhanced. They aren’t really psychedelic though – these are the ones you want here if you want to see crazy things!” He sort of winked with a knowing look, pointing at a plastic bin of shriveled black fungi. He moved down the display case.

“These over here are best for thinking. But you should only eat them alone. The high is great, but not social at all. In fact, people will make you angry for no reason.”

The assortment of mushrooms in the glass display case were arranged, labeled, priced, and diced as if we were at a deli picking out portabellas, cheese cubes, or honey ham. These half-dozen varieties of magic mushrooms, however, were small and parched looking, sorted by the different responses they would elicit. The display case, and the entire store, was decorated in colorful, trippy designs; the smell of incense and hash drifted throughout. After minimal debate, and minimal objection from the three of us, Paul ordered enough for everybody, which to the rest of us, especially me, looked like way too much. We walked out of the Magic Mushroom Shop with a brown paper bag full of semi-psychedelic Mexican happy mushrooms. Yes, here we certainly go again.

We ducked around the corner and over a bridge like kids who had just stolen candy bars. Magic mushrooms were legal here, though. So was pot and hash. It was all a hard concept to grasp and it took a few moments for our paranoia to ebb, a conditioned response from living with Uncle Sam looking over your shoulder all the time. We saw a shaded bench and sat down. Paul took the brown paper sack from his backpack and started divvying out the goodies. With each of us holding a handful, we toasted to a great day, and then stuffed our mouths.

“Yuck!” John snorted through his chomping. “Tastes like cow manure!” We were all thinking the same thing since cow pies are exactly where the mushrooms grow best, and these certainly didn’t taste like they were thoroughly washed off, but we chewed and chewed and swallowed nonetheless. Mere moments after choking down the last of it and spitting out a few stems and pieces caught in my teeth, I realized just how incredibly scenic the place we were sitting was. This was Amsterdam. It was amazing.

Right in front of us was the immense cobblestone bridge we had walked over. I wondered how many hundreds of years it had spanned the canal. It looked medieval. And everywhere I turned, there were tulips, bright flowers of every color everywhere adorning everything. Amsterdam was so colorful. I couldn’t believe the fungi was kicking in already.

Then, a tour boat motored by, under the bridge. Some of the tourists on board waved. We waved back. Mr. Instigator Paul was already in the middle of the action, however, leaning over the edge of the bridge and shouting sweet nothings to a couple of cute backpackers riding on the bow. They laughed and smiled and waved. We all did too.

I first noticed the brilliant reds and deep yellows of the boat, but then the buildings in the scene suddenly seemed very colorful as well. The rich hues of aged brick and stone contrasted the vibrantly painted shutters of building windows, jumping from the canvas, overhead a sharply distinct periwinkle sky.

The shining sun was glorious, and I felt warm, comfortable. I wondered if the mushrooms were kicking in. It sure seemed like it. Everything was fuzzy, a warm bluish blur. I could feel this huge grin plastered across my face and even that was funny and I tried to tone it down, but the harder I tried, the wider my smile stretched. I tried again and again but the same result. It all became highly amusing and pretty soon, my mind didn’t mind going along with it.

Squawking rousted me from my quick colorful daydream, Chappy was suddenly standing over by Paul, and they were unwrapping their sandwiches to feed the birds. With the first crumby flick of crust, hundreds, maybe thousands of pigeons, seagulls, pelicans, and ducks appeared. Instantly, the two of them were swarmed, and seconds later, after they tossed their sandwiches as far as possible, the birds were back on them and bolder than ever, nipping at both of them and wanting more, more, more.

Paul and Chappy were freaking out, howling in hilarious pain as the birds bit at them, but John and I couldn’t move. We were laughing too hard. Chappy was swinging away at the birds, flailing his arms like a punchdrunk prizefighter, aiming at individual birds but missing terribly, while Paul thought jumping jacks would repel the invading beaks best. The scene had turned from colorfully serene to ridiculous just that quickly. People everywhere were staring. We had to do something.

Finally, John and I grinned at each other with the same idea. We nodded, and ran. We covered our faces the best we could, scrambled through the furious flock, and rescued our friends, grabbing them by the arm, running, and not stopping until we were standing back in front of the flower barge. I think all of Amsterdam was laughing at us by now.

The two beautiful Dutch flower girls were smiling as sweetly as ever. Paul was just about to head back onto the barge to banter with the babes, but I reached out to stop him. Suddenly, I was wondering why in the world someone would throw a spoonful of yogurt on me.

When you think about it, considering the great number of flapping, feather-bearing frolickers overhead, it’s surprising it doesn’t happen more often. In fact, it’s been said that a dollop of gooey white pigeon doo-doo or a smattering of seagull smart bomb is good luck. I’m sure that bit of superstition was optimistically offered by an otherwise innocent bystander who decided to make light of the fact that a bird just crapped on someone. Rolling on the ground and weeping in laughter, my own friends were nowhere near as compassionate. The whole town kept laughing.

After figuring out it wasn’t yogurt, which took me a minute – the fishy smell and clumpy, rancid ranch-dressing consistency both strong clues – my initial shock to the surprisingly quite audible splatter had passed. I did my best to wipe it off the shoulder of my sweatshirt, but a healthy percentage had soiled the backpack strap as well. It was a mess. While I cleaned it up, my friends did their best to hold back the chortle, but soon enough we were all sobbing again, howling in laughter, tears streaming down our faces, very much enjoying the moment.

Finally, the fucking birds dispersed.

“Did that really just happen?” Paul asked during a brief reprise from a particularly hysterical chuckling fit. “Actually, I think it’s good luck!” he snickered and went on laughing. The other two couldn’t even manage a word. The mushrooms had definitely fully kicked in, and things were as goofy as ever. I couldn’t manage a word either, tears of laughter soaking my face, so I just quietly put my stained sweatshirt into my backpack. It took a good ten minutes or so to finally calm down again, but soon enough, grinning madly, our bodies aching from laughing so hard, we got up and started off to the next adventure. As always, Paul had the lead.

Amsterdam is laid out like a giant baseball diamond, and in our magic mushroom haze, we walked about ten miles or so covering the bases. Our initial itinerary which had included a number of interesting stops, such as the Van Gogh Museum, had been altered slightly. It was more a hilarious whirlwind.

We walked at a furiously laughable and sparkling pace to perfectly match our mood, taking in a million sites and enjoying the sweetness of a billion tulips. The mushrooms played all kinds of tricks on our senses, or the mushrooms played with our tricked senses, I’m not sure. We later enjoyed fresh Heineken beer washed down a couple of herbal ecstasy pills that are much less intense or dangerous than the harsh chemical version, but rather like a light valium buzz. There is nothing like a great mushroom trip in Amsterdam. Sitting at the Bulldog Cafe, in the busy city center, people were moving about everywhere, music was playing, lights were flashing, and my body and mind were as wonderful as I could ever remember them to be.

The night life in Amsterdam is exciting. Walking to and around the different areas can be as exciting as getting there, with every street offering an array of pubs, coffeshops, cafés, and dance clubs. Most offer live music. It is hard to tell the weekend from the regular day since it is always a party.

Heineken is the locally brewed beer and is on tap everywhere, but other microbrews are available as well. Amstel Light, also brewed by Heineken is popular to tourists since it is exported nearly as much, however it is not worth it compared to everything else so readily available.

The exchange rate is about two guilders for a dollar, which seems like a pretty good deal, but since Holland’s economy is strong, prices are generally a little high.

The Anne Frank house museum is nothing special in itself if it wasn’t the same small home with a hideaway area where she wrote her diary. The history of the city, is as amazing as its culture is rich. The Rikjmuseum displays numerous works by Rembrandt as well as Van Gogh. Diamond factory tours are glitzy enough, and even with such cheap prices, out of my price range. This would be the place to go to buy a ring. The savings on the stone alone could justify the trip and cover the plane ticket.

The hotels are quite expensive and we stayed in a fairly nice place cramming four of us into a room meant for 2. The location was worth the price though. The Flying Pigs youth hostel was about as close to slum as a place gets, but the price is right. There is a basement tavern that is very popular and cheap, often offering some of the best live music in town.

Across the street is the Hard Rock Café which was too small and crowded. We stopped in for the souvenir guitar pins. In front of the HRC was a chess board built into the cement with waist-high piece. I played a hippie-looking fellow who puffed on a joint while he plotted his next move. I guess his mind was really free, because even though I put up a decent fight, he won.

A fancy casino was also in the same square. Driving a little further west we reached the ocean, and in these late spring months, it was a nice touch. The beaches were all ready a little crowded and we were blessed with perfect beach weather, though a bit nipply. Every woman was topless, but a sizable number of people went completely nude too.

The European beaches are indeed more carefree, and not worrying about clothing is at first a little odd, but very natural. I’d like to come back in summer. Where else in the world is it so natural to be chilling out at the beach completely naked, smoking hash!

People have told me they are planning on Holland for the
New Year’s Eve 2000 party. I told them in Amsterdam you don’t need any extra incentive to live it up.