Day One: Beer and Movies, Pot and Coffee
I arranged for a late morning flight to Amsterdam, figuring it would give us most of the day to enjoy the city without necessitating our getting up with the sun. Peter’s sister kindly dropped us off at Dublin airport, where the queues and mob-scene atmosphere of the place exceeded anything we’ve ever seen during the Christmas rush. Seems like everyone wanted to get out of Dublin that morning.
Our flight was just the way I like my flights – quick and uneventful. Thanks to a strong tail wind, we were there in just under an hour. Schiphol airport is huge but easy to navigate. I believe you can tell a lot about a country’s character by their passport control, which in this case was polite and efficient. We collected my rucksack and then headed out for the train station.
Buying train tickets was a bit of a struggle, since it was difficult to find a machine that would take cash and when we did find one, it only accepted coins. For some reason, the credit card machines didn’t like any of our cards. After a bit of scrambling and the purchase of a couple of diet Cokes to get change, we had our tickets and headed over to the track, where a train to Amsterdam was just arriving. Talk about good timing.
The train ride from Schiphol to Central Station, only takes about 15 minutes. The train station was as big and grand as I remembered and we followed the crowd outside where we had a decision to make. Would we walk to the hotel or take the tram? Since it looked like it was probably at least a kilometer to the hotel, we opted for the tram, so our next task was purchase a strippenkaart.
The strippenkaart is a pretty good system. It costs € 6.75 and is, as the name suggests, is a card with strips on it. When you get on the tram, you find the yellow validation box and you stamp your card so that you use a strip for each zone you’re traveling through plus one additional strip, which the handy guide to Amsterdam public transport calls the base zone. Multiple people can travel on the same strippenkaart and a stamp is good on any tram or bus for 1 hour.
We stopped into a newsagent right next to the train station to buy our strippenkaart. Peter insisted that I ask for it, as he felt (probably rightly so) that I enjoyed saying strippenkaart much more than he would. Plus, I suspect that sometimes Peter doubts my research on places and if one of us is going to look like an idiot, it may as well be the researcher who unearthed the faulty information.
I asked for and received our strippenkaart and we crossed the street and hopped on the number 1 tram. Peter struggled with the validation machine while I wrestled my rucksack over to an available seat and checked the map for our stop. Because of one-track sections and streetlights, the tram ride to Prinsengracht took longer than the train ride from Schiphol. I’d forgotten how the trams were right at street level and how, with the narrow streets and large crowds of pedestrians, it sometimes seems like the tram is driving on the sidewalks.
We got off the tram at our stop and walked the three long blocks to our hotel, Hotel Amsterdam Wiechmann. The neighbourhood was very residential and quiet, which was what I was looking for. The area is considered part of the Western Canal Belt, bit it's also rather close to the Jordaan.
The hotel itself was cheap, cheerful, and clean, which is really all you need when you're traveling. That and an en suite bathroom, of course, which is now practically a non-negotiable requirement for me.
When we checked in, we noticed a large, beautiful dog behind the counter. He was stretched out on the floor, panting, and was one of the fluffiest dogs I've ever seen. We reckon he's part-German shepherd and part-Chow. (I didn't see his tongue so I can't confirm the Chow part, we're basing it on his fluffiness.) Peter remarked to the desk clerk about the dog and the guy responded, "He's a very grumpy dog," which is really a shame, since he's so fluffy, his fur practically screams to be pet.
After unpacking and relaxing for a bit, we decided to set off for some exploring. I wanted to revisit the neighbourhood where I'd stayed the first time I went to Amsterdam, which was over near Rembrandtplein. The weather was just on the right side of pleasant, despite the misty rain and a bit of chill in the air. I found my old stomping grounds easily and I pointed out to Peter the hotel I'd stayed in. I was unable to find my favourite coffee shop though.
Yes, coffee shops. Seems you can't talk about Amsterdam without taking about coffees shops, a delightful euphemism used to navigate the tricky waters of acceptability in the international arena. Renowned for their tolerance and practicality, the Dutch decided that pot and hash weren't that bad in the grand scheme of things, so you might as well let people decide whether or not they want to do it, the same way people can decide with alcohol and tobacco.
Because of international law, the Dutch went the route of decriminalisation rather than legalisation of soft drugs. It's an interesting grey area, where coffees hops are technically illegal, but the laws against them are not enforced. You are permitted to carry a small amount of pot for your own personal use. Coffee shops are taxed and regulated just like every other business, although the tax is based on number of seats since the shops can't show receipts for their technically illegal products. They also can't advertise or sell to minors.
After walking around Rembrandtplein, we found a movie theatre and bought tickets for "X:Men 3." We had more than an hour to kill, so we went back to wandering around. Two streets over from the movie theatre, we found an Irish pub and I popped inside to verify that I'd be able to watch the Cork v. Clare Munster semi-final hurling match, which was scheduled for the next day. I was delighted to know that they would be showing it, since we were at the All-Ireland Cork-Clare semi-final last year and the rematch held the promise of a good fight from Clare.
Half a block down from the pub, we found an empty coffee shop blaring reggae music, so we went in. Back in his previously life (before he met me) Peter's was no stranger to pot smoking, so he was looking forward to the pot-smoking part of the trip. For a variety of boring personal reasons, I'd already decided to forego the pot smoking. I'd enjoyed it on my last trip though – legal, decriminalized, whatever you want to call it, it removes some of the risk and fear from pot smoking and makes the whole activity a lot more enjoyable.
Peter ordered a pre-rolled joint that had super-skunk and tobacco in it. One of the things that the guidebooks warn you about is that the THC content of pot in the Netherlands is extraordinarily high, up to twice that of pot from Columbia or Nigeria. Going slowly on the smoking is advisable, since the stuff is likely to be potent.
We passed an enjoyable bit of time in the coffee shop and had a good time people-watching. When we went into the place, it was empty. Shortly after we arrived, two different groups of trendy-ish college student types arrived. Then came a middle-aged American couple, achingly straight-laced and completely out of place. The man went up to the counter and Peter and I watched, curious as to whether or not he was going to buy pot. The woman waited at the table, her handbag clutched in her lap.
No pot for them, just a couple of coffees. I had to wonder about that. Why would you go to a coffee shop and only order coffee? Why not just go to one of the cafes? Peter clued me in that they were there for the atmosphere, the novelty, to observe pot smokers in their natural Dutch habitats. So they could go back to Kansas or Iowa and say that they'd been in one of those wild and crazy pot-smoking dens in Amsterdam. That intrigued me and I couldn't help watching them – it was sort of like monkeys in the zoo although I have to wonder who was the monkey in that analogy.
We left the coffee shop and headed over to the movie theatre to hit the concession stand before the film. Here's where I first noticed the effects of pot on Peter's brain. He doesn't really have a sweet tooth. When I bake, he prefers ginger snaps to chocolate chips. He's able to make a candy bar last several days. He typically goes for salty over sweet.
Me: What would you like?
Peter: Um, I don’t know. Chocolate-covered popcorn looks good. Or choco-crossies. What are choco-crossies? Do I want popcorn or chocolate popcorn? What do you think the chocolate popcorn will be like?
Me: What's up, Pothead? You never go for the sweets.
Peter: *giggle**giggle*
It was great – very funny. I much prefer a stoned person to a drunk person. In the end, Peter got sweet popcorn, I got salty popcorn and we each got a water. We stood by the side of the concession stand, waiting to be let into the cinema.
Ever since I saw "Pulp Fiction," which was after my trip to Amsterdam, I've wanted to have a beer at the movies. But the only beer the concession stand had was Heineken, which I just cannot drink. It doesn't bear thinking about. I prefer my beer thick and strong enough to practically require a fork. If I can easily see through it, I'm not drinking it.
I went back around the concession stand to see if I was missing anything, if there was any other beer on offer. No beer, but they did have a choice between Bacardi Breezers and Smirnoff Ice. I went for the Smirnoff and returned to Peter, where he shook my hand as I confessed my long-held beer-at-the-movies fascination.
The film was a great honking disappointment. I absolutely loved the first two films and had been looking forward to the third installment. It was one of those movies that was enjoyable enough to watch, although a little voice in the back of my head kept saying it was crap. Then, away from the inexplicable attraction I have to Wolverine, I had to accept that I was more disappointed in the film the more I thought about it.
After the movies, we had dinner at a cheap but tasty Italian place and then walked back to the hotel. The hotel dog was out in the middle of the reception area, stretched out on a rug. Peter approached him slowly and offered his hand for the dog to sniff. I watched the dog curl his lip before giving a little growl and Peter pulled his hand away pretty quickly. The guy was not joking about the dog being grumpy. It was such a disappointment and a tease, to have this lovely fluffy dog that you couldn't touch. That was the only thing I would have changed about the hotel.
Our flight was just the way I like my flights – quick and uneventful. Thanks to a strong tail wind, we were there in just under an hour. Schiphol airport is huge but easy to navigate. I believe you can tell a lot about a country’s character by their passport control, which in this case was polite and efficient. We collected my rucksack and then headed out for the train station.
Buying train tickets was a bit of a struggle, since it was difficult to find a machine that would take cash and when we did find one, it only accepted coins. For some reason, the credit card machines didn’t like any of our cards. After a bit of scrambling and the purchase of a couple of diet Cokes to get change, we had our tickets and headed over to the track, where a train to Amsterdam was just arriving. Talk about good timing.
The train ride from Schiphol to Central Station, only takes about 15 minutes. The train station was as big and grand as I remembered and we followed the crowd outside where we had a decision to make. Would we walk to the hotel or take the tram? Since it looked like it was probably at least a kilometer to the hotel, we opted for the tram, so our next task was purchase a strippenkaart.
The strippenkaart is a pretty good system. It costs € 6.75 and is, as the name suggests, is a card with strips on it. When you get on the tram, you find the yellow validation box and you stamp your card so that you use a strip for each zone you’re traveling through plus one additional strip, which the handy guide to Amsterdam public transport calls the base zone. Multiple people can travel on the same strippenkaart and a stamp is good on any tram or bus for 1 hour.
We stopped into a newsagent right next to the train station to buy our strippenkaart. Peter insisted that I ask for it, as he felt (probably rightly so) that I enjoyed saying strippenkaart much more than he would. Plus, I suspect that sometimes Peter doubts my research on places and if one of us is going to look like an idiot, it may as well be the researcher who unearthed the faulty information.
I asked for and received our strippenkaart and we crossed the street and hopped on the number 1 tram. Peter struggled with the validation machine while I wrestled my rucksack over to an available seat and checked the map for our stop. Because of one-track sections and streetlights, the tram ride to Prinsengracht took longer than the train ride from Schiphol. I’d forgotten how the trams were right at street level and how, with the narrow streets and large crowds of pedestrians, it sometimes seems like the tram is driving on the sidewalks.
We got off the tram at our stop and walked the three long blocks to our hotel, Hotel Amsterdam Wiechmann. The neighbourhood was very residential and quiet, which was what I was looking for. The area is considered part of the Western Canal Belt, bit it's also rather close to the Jordaan.
The hotel itself was cheap, cheerful, and clean, which is really all you need when you're traveling. That and an en suite bathroom, of course, which is now practically a non-negotiable requirement for me.
When we checked in, we noticed a large, beautiful dog behind the counter. He was stretched out on the floor, panting, and was one of the fluffiest dogs I've ever seen. We reckon he's part-German shepherd and part-Chow. (I didn't see his tongue so I can't confirm the Chow part, we're basing it on his fluffiness.) Peter remarked to the desk clerk about the dog and the guy responded, "He's a very grumpy dog," which is really a shame, since he's so fluffy, his fur practically screams to be pet.
After unpacking and relaxing for a bit, we decided to set off for some exploring. I wanted to revisit the neighbourhood where I'd stayed the first time I went to Amsterdam, which was over near Rembrandtplein. The weather was just on the right side of pleasant, despite the misty rain and a bit of chill in the air. I found my old stomping grounds easily and I pointed out to Peter the hotel I'd stayed in. I was unable to find my favourite coffee shop though.
Yes, coffee shops. Seems you can't talk about Amsterdam without taking about coffees shops, a delightful euphemism used to navigate the tricky waters of acceptability in the international arena. Renowned for their tolerance and practicality, the Dutch decided that pot and hash weren't that bad in the grand scheme of things, so you might as well let people decide whether or not they want to do it, the same way people can decide with alcohol and tobacco.
Because of international law, the Dutch went the route of decriminalisation rather than legalisation of soft drugs. It's an interesting grey area, where coffees hops are technically illegal, but the laws against them are not enforced. You are permitted to carry a small amount of pot for your own personal use. Coffee shops are taxed and regulated just like every other business, although the tax is based on number of seats since the shops can't show receipts for their technically illegal products. They also can't advertise or sell to minors.
After walking around Rembrandtplein, we found a movie theatre and bought tickets for "X:Men 3." We had more than an hour to kill, so we went back to wandering around. Two streets over from the movie theatre, we found an Irish pub and I popped inside to verify that I'd be able to watch the Cork v. Clare Munster semi-final hurling match, which was scheduled for the next day. I was delighted to know that they would be showing it, since we were at the All-Ireland Cork-Clare semi-final last year and the rematch held the promise of a good fight from Clare.
Half a block down from the pub, we found an empty coffee shop blaring reggae music, so we went in. Back in his previously life (before he met me) Peter's was no stranger to pot smoking, so he was looking forward to the pot-smoking part of the trip. For a variety of boring personal reasons, I'd already decided to forego the pot smoking. I'd enjoyed it on my last trip though – legal, decriminalized, whatever you want to call it, it removes some of the risk and fear from pot smoking and makes the whole activity a lot more enjoyable.
Peter ordered a pre-rolled joint that had super-skunk and tobacco in it. One of the things that the guidebooks warn you about is that the THC content of pot in the Netherlands is extraordinarily high, up to twice that of pot from Columbia or Nigeria. Going slowly on the smoking is advisable, since the stuff is likely to be potent.
We passed an enjoyable bit of time in the coffee shop and had a good time people-watching. When we went into the place, it was empty. Shortly after we arrived, two different groups of trendy-ish college student types arrived. Then came a middle-aged American couple, achingly straight-laced and completely out of place. The man went up to the counter and Peter and I watched, curious as to whether or not he was going to buy pot. The woman waited at the table, her handbag clutched in her lap.
No pot for them, just a couple of coffees. I had to wonder about that. Why would you go to a coffee shop and only order coffee? Why not just go to one of the cafes? Peter clued me in that they were there for the atmosphere, the novelty, to observe pot smokers in their natural Dutch habitats. So they could go back to Kansas or Iowa and say that they'd been in one of those wild and crazy pot-smoking dens in Amsterdam. That intrigued me and I couldn't help watching them – it was sort of like monkeys in the zoo although I have to wonder who was the monkey in that analogy.
We left the coffee shop and headed over to the movie theatre to hit the concession stand before the film. Here's where I first noticed the effects of pot on Peter's brain. He doesn't really have a sweet tooth. When I bake, he prefers ginger snaps to chocolate chips. He's able to make a candy bar last several days. He typically goes for salty over sweet.
Me: What would you like?
Peter: Um, I don’t know. Chocolate-covered popcorn looks good. Or choco-crossies. What are choco-crossies? Do I want popcorn or chocolate popcorn? What do you think the chocolate popcorn will be like?
Me: What's up, Pothead? You never go for the sweets.
Peter: *giggle**giggle*
It was great – very funny. I much prefer a stoned person to a drunk person. In the end, Peter got sweet popcorn, I got salty popcorn and we each got a water. We stood by the side of the concession stand, waiting to be let into the cinema.
Ever since I saw "Pulp Fiction," which was after my trip to Amsterdam, I've wanted to have a beer at the movies. But the only beer the concession stand had was Heineken, which I just cannot drink. It doesn't bear thinking about. I prefer my beer thick and strong enough to practically require a fork. If I can easily see through it, I'm not drinking it.
I went back around the concession stand to see if I was missing anything, if there was any other beer on offer. No beer, but they did have a choice between Bacardi Breezers and Smirnoff Ice. I went for the Smirnoff and returned to Peter, where he shook my hand as I confessed my long-held beer-at-the-movies fascination.
The film was a great honking disappointment. I absolutely loved the first two films and had been looking forward to the third installment. It was one of those movies that was enjoyable enough to watch, although a little voice in the back of my head kept saying it was crap. Then, away from the inexplicable attraction I have to Wolverine, I had to accept that I was more disappointed in the film the more I thought about it.
After the movies, we had dinner at a cheap but tasty Italian place and then walked back to the hotel. The hotel dog was out in the middle of the reception area, stretched out on a rug. Peter approached him slowly and offered his hand for the dog to sniff. I watched the dog curl his lip before giving a little growl and Peter pulled his hand away pretty quickly. The guy was not joking about the dog being grumpy. It was such a disappointment and a tease, to have this lovely fluffy dog that you couldn't touch. That was the only thing I would have changed about the hotel.
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