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Our early rise was due to our intention of taking a tour of the Heineken Brewery. I had read of this in a guide to the city: it claimed that all a boy had to do was pay 2 guilders and he would be presented with a doubtless fascinating insight into the world of brewage, and then allowed to drink as much heineken as possible before 11am. I was naturally mistrusting of such claims - surely it would be constantly jammers, with queues of winos streching far into Belgium and beyond were this the case - but felt I could get 2-3 pints out of it at any rate, which would be more than adequate at that time of the morning. Plus it served as a more legitimate goal than, say, Anne Franks gaff. I recalled my thoughts as a boy in history class of both feeling sorry for the Franks and the realisation on viewing a photo of the lass that she was manky. I was never going to shell for the kid at any rate. It was added to the list of Things to Do in Amsterdam when I'm Old. This list encompassed most things that required payment and did not result in some form of drug in return.
The brewery was not the only item on our itenerary. Never let it be said I can't plan a zany day, as I was no less than 100% determined to ride the free ferry accross the harbour, despite a rather cool reception from hoolers to this idea. I had read about this ferry during my research and felt it essential that we should avail of this service. I was aware that the masses leaked bucks to be taken around the canals of the city in some pretty device and thats all very well. I even added it to the list. My other aim was to purchase a pipe to put an end to my duties as Skinning Up Guy. I freely admit to feeling quite self-conscious about skinning up in the flying pig, feeling I was surrounded by expert smokers who would balk at my attempts to smoke drugs, saying to their veteran expert stoner colleagues "Observe this parasite to our right: His attempts to create a joint are in some respects near laughable; however I feel no amusement, only disgust, to see such a useless tourist who knows nothing of our special bond to glorious weed. We will treat him poorly and speak to all of his limitations. To him, I give zero out of ten."
It irked me that I was being socially deconstructed in such a fashion, my dismay being increased by the knowledge that old hoolers was escaping such vitriol due not to an inherent superiority and connection to the common man as he would have you believe, but to his even greater inability. A pipe, then, to solve this social nightmare. These fears were in any case to be proved largely unfounded, as I was to discover later that evening.
Follwing a quick smoke. we departed, bounding gleefully into an overcast amsterdam morning. Instantly we were hit by the first piece of shit of the day. OK, we were not literally smeared with excrement, but it was similarly unpleasant to my mind. Beggars, as you the reader may known them, are to my lofty estimation pieces of shit. These POS's dominate the city, skulking around every corner, asking me, who had SAVED ON THE DOLE for some sweet guilders. Some may see irony in the fact that I gladly accepted free money from my government but point blank refused to give money to these people. To these people I say screw you. I dont mind being asked now and then for a bit of cash, and occasionally I will relent. However, these darlings persist in battering you with appeals, and look insulted when you fail to give in to their demands. It is these theatrics, their manky eyes burning with anger and hurt, that make me want to lash out and eliminate all. I realise this rant makes me appear a horrible person, but in my defense I was totally unprepared for such eventualities. Also, the fact that we arrived late in the tourist season probably meant that we were assailed more frequently - surely the affluent would be seen as more legitimate targets than the poorly maintained duo we found ourselves to be, but they were safely back in their 9-5 lives. All I wanted was to stroll about in zombie-like stoned relative bliss but it wasnt to be. Thus, anger.
The journey commenced. We had given ourselves some 45 minutes to reach our destination, feeling that we should just scrape in for the last tour. Error. We moved vaguely south, relative to centraal station which I had designated as North in my magic mind compass. When 11am arrived, we were no nearer our destination. We resolved to locate it nonetheless. The pressure of deadlines removed, we became even more lax in our pursuit of the brewery. Our attempts to move towards it resulted in conversations of the following order:
hoolers: "Ok, I think we should take the next street left"
a couple of minutes pass
galvin: "Did we take that right we said we'd take?"
hoolers: "I think so. Im not sure. We'll keep going this way for a few minutes"
many minutes pass
galvin: "I think we have gone wrong. As there is no right turn here, I propose we take 3 lefts.
First we shall smoke some drugs"
hoolers: "This seems reasonable"
After a couple of hours of the type of frantic searching evidenced by the above dialogue, we formulated the following revised plan. Hostel, Ferry, Pipe, Brewery. We battled back to the hostel, where I skinned up a couple of joints. That I did not insist on getting the pipe was foolish of me. Hoolers had reasoned that the pipe could be purchased at any time, and I did not want to get into my desperate need to acquire it. We made our way to the ferry place with relatively little difficulty. Our only main obstacle came in the form of my North. Centraal station had to be circumvented, and it proved a formidable edifice. But round it we did, and were greeted by the sight of the even more useless amsterdam bums. I was much more comfortable with these dears as they were far too busy being destroyed to batter us with appeals. Also, being away from the main tourist zones, we were mistaken by all for locals. Or so I told my self in a rare moment of smug self-satisfaction. Even the redheaded chameleon could conceivably pass as dutch. Almost.
The ferry journey was short but pleasant. On the other side of the harbour was leafy suburbia. We dallied on a bench to smoke a joint, and were approached by an old man. He sought from us money. Enjoying the view of the harbour as I smoked, I wanted rid of this character. Tossing a few coins in his general direction, at once proving my generous nature and prompting him to depart, we finished our smoke in peace. We ambled about suburbia - it appeared to be a community comprised largely of african imports, future dutch internationals all. There was a pleasant serenity about the place compared to the bustle of the city streets. This buoyed me, being as I am of country stock, I need the occasional exposure to a non-city environment. However little existed to amaze and amuse in the direction we had chosen, and hunger was demanding the next dance, so we resolved to return, satisfied, and purchase essential items: beer and food. I had not had beer since arrival and therefore was in desperate need for its sweet sweet goodness.
Bier beer, for it was so named, was located in a supermarket which hoolers had unearthed in his travels. It cost some 40 irish pence per can which thrilled and amazed me. It was my first purchase of ultra low cost beer since the heady days of old milwaukee and the likes stateside. I interacted with the cans and 5 of them became my friends. I then bought sweeties and Yazoo substitute - over the summer I had become addicted to the sweet nourishment only Yazoo can provide. I could only find massive bottles of pinkish liquid which I determined to be yazooish in nature. Sadly it proved not to be as nice as yazoo yet much of it was consumed. In a dramatic and eerie premonition of things to come, we had to purchase plastic bags to place our stock in. I offset the tiny sum against the huge beer savings and left a cheery boy.
Beer on person, I felt a new man. On our way back to the hostel to fill our larder with the bounty we had acquired, I purchased a pipe. And children, it was a king amongst pipes. Blue as a soft summers night, it bore a design which seemed to whisper of the hidden glories and a bountiful delights it offered when allied with drugs and fire. It was indeed a work of some beauty, and had to be prised from the cold dead hand of the shop assistant. His reluctance to part with it was understandable, as he had but 30+ identical ones in stock, amongst his array of hundreds. I felt no remorse during this transaction, my eyes burning with sickly greed, like the overly eager foe in an indiana jones film as he grasped the cursed amulet. It is with heavy heart I must inform you all that my supposed ally, my travelling companion, he who had vowed to burn my corpse should the trip go pear-shaped, did lose this treasure somewhere on the continent of europe. I pine for it still, and hope yet to one day finance an expedition for its safe return. Until such time a void remains in my heart which cannot be filled. Again, it was my generosity which proved my Achillies heel, as I presented the device to the Betrayer before I returned home. I can be grateful at least that I had it for the duration of my travels.