The First 24 Hours in Amsterdam

During my first two days in Amsterdam, I ranged far and wide through the city, mostly on account of misfortune. No sooner was I expulsed from the hubbub of Centraal Station did I find myself confronted by Damrak's gaudy array of sex shops, tacky curios, English style breakfasts and careening trams. A steady downpour lent the cobbled streets a dour air. I wanted nothing more than to abscond to my hotel and swaddle myself in a down comforter, but check-in wasn't until 2pm. It was seven in the morning.

Still, there was a spring in my step. Coming from three straight years in the insular state of Wisconsin, here I was in a real, cosmopolitan city. It was a decidedly non-American city--not a loose patchwork of ethnic neighborhoods; from the gabled roofs to the lapping canals, it was unmistakably Dutch, owing in no small part to an historical advantage of some five hundred years. And it was conspicuously cosmopolitan: every variety of human being is abundantly present in Amsterdam where less than half the population is ethnically Dutch. French, German, English, Arabic and Nederlands coursed through the air of Damrak along with heavy plumes of hash smoke.

It was not long before I became acquainted with the inner-workings of this city reclaimed from the sea. The latticework of canals and dams that keep Amsterdam afloat contributes to an irregular network of streets. As I was to find out the hard way, the avenues of Amsterdam radiate from the Ij River so confusingly that they are utterly incomprehensible on the ground.

It was into this incomprehensibility that I wandered. Neurotically loath to ask for directions lest I mark myself a boorish American halfwit, I pigheadedly marched into the unknown--and the unknown I certainly found. My morbid self-awareness multiplied with the sight of every immaculately dressed European, as did my taboos. Soon I refused to even glance at my map, and soon I was despicably lost. I had only my camera with me, and I used it with the desperation of a man destined for the gallows, taking refuge in scribbling his final thoughts (see below).

One moment I was in the lovely plaza of De Spui (pronounced De Shpye). The next found me stranded between canals. Soon I was wandering through a warren of markets, then over what appeared to be a highway, an industrial zone, a park, an alleyway saturated with marijuana smoke, a gay bondage shop, an upscale shoe store, and finally the same park as before.

7am turned to 6pm as I stumbled hysterically back to the Centrum. My otherwise reliable Vasque boots were in tatters with the left one now bereft of a sole. My feet were blistered and throbbing, my mind mishmashed, my dignity stripped and my confidence crippled. As a fortuitous turn brought me to the facade of Hotel Luxer, I felt a kind of spiritual rapture known only to the religious pilgrim who, after a journey of great peril, throws himself madly to the ground and passionately kisses it. I finally had my hotel, my bed, and my sleep.

I woke early the next morning for the free "continental" breakfast. The fecundity of the continent is such that it circumscribes a full two types of bread, sandwich meat, hard boiled eggs, and donuts. Eager to sate myself, I found the entire self-serve counter blockaded by a scrawny white boy with a brain-fried look on his face and a Nike shirt--my first American! Though there was ample seating available in the form of twelve empty tables, my compatriot stood at the counter shoving donuts into his mouth.

"Excuse me," I said.

He turned to me, his mouth ringed with crumbs, a strand of spittle suspended to a withdrawn donut, and replied,

"Uhh."

I collected my food and sat down. I glanced at him periodically as my disbelief gave way to expectation--surely the present donut would meet the same fate as all the others: half-eaten and redeposited on the counter.

Suddenly, a maid appeared to replenish the supplies. She looked askance at the Braindead American. He turned to her. Slowly, he lifted his donut-hand with zen-like disinterest. Their eyes met. I sat riveted as he blubbered,

"What's this?"
"Dat," she replied, "is a donut."

He looked satisfied, then frightened. He pointed to the coffee-maker.

"What's this?"
"Eet is making the koffie."
Then he pointed to a specific button.
"What's this?"
"Dat is the button for the koffie."

Improbably, he continued:
"What's this?"
"Dat is the button for cappuccino."

He pointed to each of the twelve buttons--clearly marked in English and Dutch--and asked the same question. Satisfied with his mastery of the bewildering coffee maker, he turned his attentions to a pitcher of orange juice, then milk. The maid, exasperated, said,

"Dat is milk, the same color in America, no?"
"Uhh."
"Why don't you sit down?"

I finished my breakfast and left. One last glance confirmed my suspicions: a pile of half-eaten donuts lay scattered on his table.

I have never felt less patriotic.