Episode Seven: Holland
Van Gogh, a Nazi Rally and The Clapper
Walking the streets once again, we find ourselves in areas so full of people that it takes us a good half-an-hour to go a block. It is nothing but a sea of heads walking in every direction and breathing alcohol-laced breath on each other. We finally arrive at a less crowded courtyard and through an alleyway, we hear the sound of hundreds of people shouting. We follow the noise and find ourselves in the middle of a rally.
|
|
|
The Rally
|
There are red and white flags being waved by the masses of people and matching banners hanging down the front of the buildings. On the balcony of the main building is a man with a microphone who is shouting something to the crowd, who in turn holler and wave and jump up and down. The ones on the rooftops of parked cars seem especially excited while the ones clinging to lampposts are doing their best not to fall.
The banners are red and the Dutch language, when shouted over a microphone, sounds a lot like German to those of us only schooled in English. I flash Chris a look of concern. Is this a neo-Nazi rally? Should I be scared? Should I even be here? The man next to us is wearing a suit and a dark pair of sunglasses. He holds his flag to the side and looks at me, a condescending smirk lounging across his face. He reminds me of what a KGB man should look like and I think I see a bulge in his jacket that somewhat resembles a gun with those bullets I am most likely allergic to.
We walk away from the mayhem and I find myself in front of a store window that is selling the same banners that the people are waving about. The word AJAX is printed across the front. The name of their soccer team. This is a rally for the upcoming World Cup Tournament. They are not Nazis after all. Chris says he knew what it was all along. They are celebrating their team and have been for the last two days. As one can imagine, I feel like a complete idiot.
|
|
|
Don’t forget to duck!
|
We go to the canal and watch the boats parade by. Many of them have dancing people on their rooftops wearing whatever costumes they could put together in their drunken stupor. We stop for a while on the side of the water and enjoy seeing if any of them will forget to duck when they float under the bridges. Across the canal is a crane with a bungee jumper hurtling toward his death, then he bounces, lives and the crowd erupts in cheers.
By afternoon, we are exhausted. Too many people, too much food and the inability to find a chair to sit anywhere is getting annoying. We did find a good spot at one time and ordered our American Coca-Colas. They came with a lemon wedge inside and we thought this amusing. The lack of ice cubes I found less enjoyable.
Sitting and drinking, we see a group of five men stop at the hedge next to our outside tables, put down there beers, take out their equipment and proceed to urinate on the hedges. I wonder if this is legal to do here. Chris says that it is legal to smoke pot, buy women and drink beer on the street, so why the hell not.
We decide to see a movie and head over to what we have deemed the Times Square of Amsterdam. It is full of large billboards and neon signs, advertising American and Japanese companies. There are two theatres to choose from, one has Schindler’s List with an admission of Fl.20, and the other was playing Hot Shots Part Deux for a fee of Fl.2.50. If you had told me, I would be seeing Hot Shots while in Europe, I would have called you a liar.
It is fascinating that we can buy beer at the concession and excitedly take our glasses of brew and find seats. The movie is in English with Dutch subtitles. There are also subtitles in something that looks like Indonesian, though through the smoke of the moviegoers, it is really hard to tell what it is. Where America usually has sneak previews of coming attractions, this theatre plays commercials. They are the kind you would see on everyday television, but it is not just a few, they go on forever. I count around two hundred and fifteen before I give up. I am hoping they stop before my next birthday arrives.
To our joy, they play a short film of Mr. Bean. We are both big fans of Mr. Bean and this makes the whole thing worthwhile. The movie finally starts and we are amazed at all the different things that only the two of us find funny. There are some references to things that Europeans have not yet been exposed, like the Energizer Bunny, Bob Vila and The Clapper to name a few. While we laugh away at these, the rest of the audience sits in silence, smoking their cigarettes and drinking their beers.
The movie is wonderful and we are glad that at least the Dutch agree that overdubbing movies is a crime, instead using subtitles. Come to think of it, if life contained more subtitles, some people would be a lot easier to be around.
This is our last night in Amsterdam and I find that I am still intrigued with the Red-Light District. We decide to go back and window browse. First, I take my wallet back to the hostel. I do not really think I am the type to pay for any type of sexual favors, but my philosophy is, if you do not want to gamble, why walk into a casino with a pocket full of quarters?
The place is packed and we are laughing at the tour groups of geriatrics that have obviously signed up with some of Holland’s more interesting tour companies. We watch transactions take place. We see people entering or leaving the little doors next to the windows. The windows themselves are provided with a curtain to pull over the front. One does not want to fornicate in front of vacationing grandmothers.
We find that the district is segregated in a way. The older women seem to be grouped together in one area and it seems that a lot of black women are congregated in another area. We wonder if this is by choice, on purpose or if it one of those things that just happens over time. After a couple of hours of walking, gawking, giggling and daydreaming, we decide to call it a night. When we get to the hostel, Chris says that he is going to say a prayer for all the lost souls. He then giggles himself to sleep.
Our bunks are in these huge dorms that must be holding at least sixty beds. They are bunk beds, so of course, Chris grabs the top one. There is a group of German guys sleeping next to us and in their leather jackets and spiked hair they look like they are coming back from a Billy Idol convention. I give Chris the alarm clock and ask him to wake me up in time for breakfast. I go to sleep with the sounds of at least ten people snoring. Normally this would give me the go ahead to make my nasal noise, but the Billy Idol’s have intimidated me and I instead choose to sleep on my stomach, burrito style.
Chris forgets to wake me on time and I find myself having to scramble to get ready. This is no easy feat as I have to share six showers with sixty other guys, eight of which still look like Billy Idol. At breakfast, I meet a guy from Sweden who is thankful that he finally found a bed to sleep in. He says the first night he spent in a bar and the next two nights he slept in the lobby of a police station. I guess we did luck out after all. I eat my meal too fast and give myself the hiccups.
While looking around the hostel, I meet this guy Paul. He says he is from California, but has not been home for months. His parents are mad that he just took off like this, and except for their disappointment, he really has nothing else to go back to. He talked the hostel into letting him do odd jobs in exchange for a bed, and this arrangement has been working out nicely for a few weeks now. He has a return ticket to go back home, it leaves from Paris in three days. He does not have the money to make it to Paris and he would rather not go back home. We talk for a bit and I wish him luck. Something tells me he will still be here a month from now, and happy.
Next: Bavaria!
