The City of Church-Approved Sin

Amsterdam, city of sinful things, Europe’s Las Vegas. Red Lights Districts, coffeeshops (ahem), late nights and neon lights. Prostitutes and churches working side by side to make Holland a better place to visit. All in a night’s work.

While not the most logical birthday choice for someone whose nightly routines usually involve an episode of Star Trek (of one series or another) and bed around 11, Amsterdam is still quintessentially Europe, and a must-see, as it were. I was totally stoked that Jonmikel was taking me on vacation! It was reading week at Uni, as well, which made it even more convenient to jet away for Valentine’s Day/my birthday. Also, it was our first Valentine’s Day/Kat’s birthday we celebrated together; last year I was teaching English in Morocco while JM prepared for a conference in Dubai. I was at a loss as to how to tell anyone that it was even my birthday, though Valentine’s Day seemed to be in Moroccans’ normal holiday vocabulary. So Amsterdam this year was something special for us.

And what says “Happy birthday” better than free booze on the flight over? US domestic flights have nothing on even the most basic of European flights (the barebones airlines such as EasyJet excluded, of course). We touch down in early evening, in time for us to find our hotel by the waning touches of daylight. It’s a small place, with dated carpet, 70s subdued decor and a Ms. Pac-Man video game in the lobby. We got a good deal on it, and it sits in the oldest part of the original city, established sometime around 1200 AD. Before the canals. We check in and head up the stairs, old marble rungs concave and tired with the weight of 200 years of feet. We had read reviews of many hotels in Amsterdam, and in all but the fanciest of establishments, the greatest complaint was the small rooms: “Not enough room to swing a cat,” as it were. JM and I seem to have excellent luck in hotel rooms, however (the most recent of which has been our EXCELLENT room at the Ami Hotel in Tromso), and, upon opening the door to our temporary home, found ourselves in an extremely spacious and fabulously drab room with a brand new bed, complete with that fun Swedish sleep system squishy bed stuff. You know, the kind that molds to the shape of your butt and all that. Quality. And, as it turns out, our big bay windows (complete with mini-balcony) look right over the beginnings of the Red Light District (and the Old Church, to boot!). During the day it seems innocent enough, with its flower stalls and ugly little dogs guarding the storefronts. At night it turns into an enclave of soft neon lights and giggling 20-something boys.

The room also happened to be above a coffeeshop, all of which double as cannabis establishments, and upon opening the window, we realized that, first and foremost, this city smells like POT. In fact, we noticed it stepping off the train from the airport, but had more pressing things to take care of, mostly not getting pick-pocketed while standing around looking like the stereotypical lost tourists. The smell is definitely hard to ignore when it’s one floor down. But there was a light breeze, not uncomfortable despite the dry chill, and the wafting aromas aren’t so bad.

We recover slightly from our journey and head out to see what we could see in the evening. Our first stop was Abraxas, a small very retro-hippy kind of place that sold Jasmine and Moroccan teas and a fine selection of fruity milkshakes. And yes, the place sold pot. You can’t avoid such things in Amsterdam: one line for tea, one for an ounce or two. But if you’re looking for a place to people watch and relax, Abraxas was it. Plenty of slightly sheepish American and Brits, slowly going up to the counter, fiddling with the menu, walking away, going back and finally, softly, asking for a space cake. It was kinda cute. At one point, I whipped out my camera and began taking photos of some of the more eclectic designs in the place, which started a trend of unsure tourists following suit. Everybody was just waiting to make sure it was “OK” to be photo-grubbing tourists.

Apparently, though, The Netherlands, in order to make peace with the high haters in the EU, compromised on their drug policy and said that cafés, coffeeshops and bars had to choose between selling marijuana and selling booze. To sell both was just way too liberal a controlled substance policy. Which meant that Abraxas did not sell beer; so when Jonmikel got the urge, we headed out to find a place that served a nice beer and some dinner. We settled on a hole-in-the-wall place not far from the New Church and the Palace that played horrible pop music in English sung by people who spoke absolutely NO English. The food was OK (we should have gone to one of the many South American steak houses we saw on the way, a situation we would rectify later). We called it an early night (11 o’clock bedtime, remember?) and headed back to the hotel, strolling through the crowded nighttime masses.