My first taste of hostels. This means lockers, weird showers, dealing with roving packs of screaming European children on a field trip, and rooming with strangers. My particular strangers turn out to be four computer science grad students from Germany (at least the hostel arranges the rooms by age group). Two are faceless German lightweights, too incapacitated by Dutch reefer to ever formally introduce themselves to me. Another is a straight-edge Russian girl, along to babysit zee Germans. Delightfully simple-minded, she can't fathom why I would devote myself to something as "useless" as fiction writing (you can bet I keep my mouth shut about poker this time around). A geek from Chicago, happening to be studying abroad, completes the group. He and I get along well and discuss his beloved "theoretical computation" studies over a few pints in the hostel's own bar. On my last encounter with said geek, he encourages me to take a strong dose of hallucinogens and sit alone in a dark closet. I reply, "You really are an evil little leprechaun with bad ideas. I think I'll go to the Van Gogh museum instead."
Amsterdam accepts me with only a few hours of foreboding rain each day. Within three days I walk the entire length of the city, cross stitched with canals. Every few hours I stop into a coffeeshop (CS) and partake, deeply, then am on my way again with a fruit juice and more ground to cover. Everyone in Amsterdam partakes. I encounter a varied, colorful, often giggling cast of travelers in the bowels of many a CS.
I make friends with Marco and three other Italians from Naples, none of whom speak much English. The two girls sit there laughing and being gorgeous while Marco pushes his new hash on me. He displays for me a smoke contraption which I have never seen: a hollow wooden popsickle with something like the fat end of a golf tee inserted into the orifice to form a seat for the plant matter. Damn innovative Italians. Marco eventually surges forth into the depths of the psychoactive unknown, finishing his hash when everyone else declines. He becomes comatose, his only connection to the outside world being the word "Isolator", which he mumbles over and over. I promise to look them up in Naples then with wonderful difficulty climb a ladder out of the CS basement.
The last night in town, I wander into the Holland Casino and find a soft little 5/5 No Limit game. The Dutch turn out to be generally amiable table personalities, and don't mind losing money. I play for a couple hours, mostly bluffcatching, and pick up a couple buy ins without any big dramatic pots.
I'm back out into the city by midnight and wind my way around alleys til I find a packed little bar where the Bucket Boys perform. I buy a local brew served in an oblong flask and sat in something like a paper towel mount for a handle. It does the trick. An hour in, I'm shooting the shit with the bassist, who plays a broomstick and string tied to a dirty old water jug. At intermission we discuss land, music, and travel. He informs me that Amsterdam was originally a swamp, which engenders a new sense of affinity for the place. Sometime after screaming along the lyrics of "Beer, Marijuana, and Wine" (That's all we can find!) I meet a trio of locals who drag me to THE bar, where they claim all THE locals go, especially those who work in the CS's all day.
It's a little hole in the wall I would have never found on my own. Sure enough everyone looks like they just got off work and need a little slump time on the bar. A couple guys make the rounds peddling reefer and hash. The main attraction in the bar is a pair of pool tables in the back, around which floated slow thick plumes of smoke, nightclub lighting, and plenty of girls done over in what I like to call dirty-classy. Real hot. But I'm far too drunk to even attempt spinning game. I'd rather just gamble.
I arrange a pool match between two douchebags who act like they're the Amsterdam Billiards Gang, and myself and a local I showed up with. They won't play for money, just drinks. Like I need another fucking drink. My state of mind at that moment is something like "whatever. competition? gogogo."
The first game is an absolute slaughter. My partner makes two balls and I knock in the eightball after they had already sunk all their solids. Somehow I end up buying four drinks. I finish mine and am halfway through the one my buddy didn't want when douchebag #1 approaches me for a rematch, 1v1. He wants to put 20 Euro on it too. Game time. I spill my drink trying to set it down, at which point I insist we add a drink to the wager, and I give the 40 Euro to a girl to hold because I'm just barely sober enough to spell escrow.
He breaks. Nothing. I scratch. He makes three balls. I make five balls. He makes three balls. I run the table out. Dutch beer please, thank you. I collect my spoils, take one sip of the beer before hiccuping and realizing I need to head for the hostel. Now.
Outside I do the classic spin-around off balance and shout for a taxi maneuver. Somehow it works. I almost lose it in the cab, but arrive just as I was about to roll down the window and hold it until I reach my toilet. I get the room to myself tonight but could care less. Five hours til check out and hungover travelling, hurray!
