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The German
Amsterdam, three months before. The adventure begins.
When we got off the plane, we weren't expecting it to be quite that hot. And we weren't expecting our bags to be quite that heavy. 50 lbs. of tents, clothes, sleeping bags, inflatable mattresses, washing bags, hardback versions of The Lord Of The Rings Trilogy, money belts and universal bath plugs.
We had been reliably informed that the tourist information office by the train station would provide you with accommodation. What a wonderful service, we thought. Apparently, the fact that it was Saturday lunchtime wouldn't matter. Likewise, the fact that it was the end of July wouldn't matter either.
It turned out that these things did matter. Funny that. After waiting in line for an hour and a half we were informed that the only things they had left started at €100. But, if we fancied it, there was a camp site nearby. Now, we hadn't actually planned to start camping straight away. We figured this first weekend could be spent in relative luxury at a hostel somewhere. But, the only hostel we had seen (Bob's Hostel), was not only full, it was also clearly a s***hole. Bearing that in mind, the camping option seemed a good one.
It only took us two hours to find the ferry port. I say only, implying that it was far away. In truth, it was probably three hundred yards from the tourist office. But they're sly, these Dutch types, and they'd hidden it behind the train station. Spirits were already getting low. The closest thing I'd had to sleep since Thursday was half an hour of ear-popping slumber on the plane. It was more hot than it had a right to be. Our bags were so heavy and poorly balanced that we had to walk almost doubled over. Things appeared more difficult than they should have been. This was Amsterdam for God's sake! It was supposed to be relaxed, chilled out, and fun.
Once we had crossed the river on the free ferry, it was a mile walk uphill to the camp site. Or at least it would have been. Instead, as we were starting the trudge, this car swerved across the road and screeched to a halt beside us.
What followed was a somewhat confusing conversation between us and the German driver. At first we thought he was after directions, but it turned out he was actually offering us a lift. Bless. His English was bad, our German didn't exist. But a lift is a lift. We crammed our bags into his tiny boot and forced ourselves into the back seat. It was a tiny car, and the presence of his girlfriend and their stuff made for a tight fit. But it was better than walking.
The German drove like only a German in Holland could. His wheels screeched on every corner, he swore in German at every other road user, and we feared for our lives constantly. But, it was still better than walking.
The camp site was huge. Four or so fields full of stoned backpackers. After a couple of hours of struggling we finally managed to get the tent up. The tent itself was easy enough, it was the sheet that went over the top that we had trouble with. And the pole that was supposed to make a kind of porch type thing just didn't work. My suggestion that we threw it away fell on deaf ears, as Karim was slightly more patient than I was. I tried to assure him that it had nothing to do with the fact that I was carrying the thing, but still no luck.
After the tent was up, we did what everyone should on arrival in a new place - we slept, for a long, long time.
The night life in Amsterdam is a great thing. The legalisation of prostitution and cannabis gives it a rather unique atmosphere. Cannabis is an interesting thing. I'm a firm believer in the maxim 'when in Rome...', so found no moral issues in sampling whatever it was we could get our hands on. We were there for three days, and I still didn't decide whether or not I actually enjoyed getting stoned. It just seemed to be like getting drunk, only a little more confusing. When you're pissed, you know you're pissed. But being stoned seems to creep up on you. You kind of think that things are all normal, until you realise you're laughing like a w***er. Then you start to wonder if you're behaving oddly because you know you should be, or because of the effects. Quite a tightrope.
And the prostitution is just funny. This, of course, was not included in my 'When in Rome..' philosophy, but that doesn't mean I disapproved. In fact, there is nothing quite as funny as watching English tourists get turned down for sex by hookers. I mean, if they can't pull at a brothel, there's not a great deal of hope for them. Another funny observation was the Turkish men, who would go around in groups of seven or eight brothers, asking "how much for all of us?" then a moment later, "no, no, at the same time!"
We were in Amsterdam for three nights. It was only supposed to be two, but we couldn't get a bus to Paris until Tuesday morning. Bearing in mind we had already packed up and left the camp site, we deposited our bags in the lockers at the train station and spent the night walking the streets. We were rudely awoken at about 5AM by a woman screaming at the top of her voice that we weren't supposed to be sleeping outside the palace. We tried informing her that the royal family have quite rightly abandoned Amsterdam in favour of the Hague, and therefore the palace was probably empty. This seemed to fall on deaf ears. It's not easy to reason with the kind of woman who goes around at five in the morning screaming at people. Besides, it was rather lucky as our bus left in an hour. Who needs alarm clocks when you've got psychopaths? I didn't realise this at the time, but it was more true than I would ever have dared to imagine.
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