Jen Goes to Amsterdam

3:30am Saturday morning and I’m in a car with two strangers making the 45 minute drive back to Amsterdam. It seems poetic that this is how my last night is spent. The sun is coming up in the distance since during this season Holland stays dark for only five hours as a joke on me. My flight is in less than 12 hours and I can’t help but smile as I recount the series of events that brought me to this very moment. To me, only the most bizarre of events equal success. In this case I think it’s best to start at the beginning...

My first few days were spent getting lost between the canals and districts of Amsterdam, locating coffee shops, taking photos, and learning mushroom culture as I watched the cyclists almost run me over. Anne Frank’s Annex and the Van Gogh Museum were as climactic as I'd hoped, and after a day I finally allowed introspection to swallow me whole. The Dutch are calm and happy, and very tall-- which resulted in me barely being able to see myself in the bathroom mirrors.



By the time I was midway into my third night, I found myself surrounded by six Aussies, in a team meeting in the middle of the red light district. After helpfully suggesting (as per request) which prostitute one of my new friends should pursue I slowly crept out of the trip I’d been riding since we ate the mushrooms hours earlier. I’m holding someone's hand, partially just for stability. They invited me to a "show" (of an adult wish-I-hadn't-seen-it nature) when I met them at lunch earlier and since there were two girls going with them I figured why shouldn't I...we’re in Amsterdam are we not? Before I knew it I was in their room preparing for said adventure with Sauvignon Blanc flip cup, quarters, and splitting boxes of mushrooms. Had I not met these new friends 10 minutes earlier, I’d have thought this was just another night. Minus the mushrooms.


The backpacker hostel I stayed in was called, "The Flying Pig" and had a reputation that preceded itself. I wonder to myself when I'll be too old to feel comfortable at backpackers, as I smell consistent waves of pot coming through the windows. The mushrooms were a new feeling: stationary objects were moving unmistakably and I saw faces in curtains, but other than that things were pretty conservative. I did see masks of elders in the tree leaves and had 15 hands, but it really seemed normal at the time. It made cruising the Red Light District bar-hopping and playing games in the side streets at 4am a little more interesting.

It's not just the legal drug usage, I'm enamored with this city. I'm surprised at how easily my absolute loyalty to New York has been diminished. My last night the plan was to watch Neema perform her closing show, spend the night in cast bungalows hours away, and then catch her tour bus back to Amsterdam the next day and hit the airport. At 3 in the morning in the midst of an epic goodbye party, we realize the bus is not actually leaving the bungalows until an hour before my flight. And that, my friends, is how I met Caspar and Oscar. And how it came to pass that I am in their backseat on this highway smiling as the sun comes up, driving back to one of the greatest cities I've ever visited.