Amsterdam (Part 1)

Another day, another hangover, more instant hangover relief ...

Chris and I drove back into Bonn while Anna stayed with her family out in the countryside. We got home, got some food, took turns showering, and had about 15 minutes to relax before calling a cab to take us to the train station. The cab arrived, and although I should not have been impressed to see a Mercedes cab, I nonetheless was. Even though the car was nice, the universal maxim about cabs still proved true: it smelt funny.

We got to the station and decided to get some sustenance. Chris took me to a little shop across the street from the platform that sold really good schnitzel and french fries. The big difference between Europe and America when it comes to french fries are that in Europe, they do not make the fries until you order them, thus ensuring that they are fresh. You cannot expect the same in the States, where your french fries could be sitting in the collection tray for hours before you get them. Well, mabey not hours, but still a long enough time for them to lose their robust, artificial flavor. mmmmm, yummy!. Anyway, we had to grab our food and run because we saw our train pull up to the station right as we were paying. We got on the train and began our way to Amsterdam. I ate half of my plate before having to go to the WC (water closet for the Yanks back home) where I subsequently deposited it into the toilet. The queasiness of my stomach from last night's beer binge coupled with the momentum of the train made me waste about 3 Euro worth of food. And this is probably the most annoying thing about throwing up, besides the terrible feeling one feels. The fact that you pay money for something to go into your body, only to have it come right back up, is infuriating to me. But after it was over, I did feel a lot better.

After an uneventful train ride, we were finally in Amsterdam. Right off the platform the differences between Germany and Holland could be seen. Here, the people actually have a sense of fashion, and every other girl I saw was gorgeous! Not only that, but there was no awkwardness if they caught you staring; they would merely smile right back or point and laugh. Great sense of humor these girls must have. We left the train station and met up with a couple of Chris' friends who are attending university in Amsterdam. We went to their housing block, which I found to be quite novel. Because Amsterdam is a major shipping port, they obviously have a lot of leftover shipping containers in which they must dispose of. Well some genius decided to make low-income, student housing units out of the storage containers, albeit they had amenities like plumbing, insulation, electricity, and security. With each unit being a single, I found it rather spacious. America should look into doing something like this for students or migrant workers or something. We dropped off our bags and then headed out into the town.

I feel it necessary at this point to come out say that I am a cannabis consumer, and have been consistently since the age of 14, and have even been a member of the marijuana law reform community since I could vote. To some in my family who read this, this will not come as a shock, and to others, it will (sorry Mom!). To some of my teachers and friends, it would explain a lot. My point in doing this is because I have never openly admitted this in fear of being branded a "dope fiend", but I feel in a position where such a hidden truth would only hinder the story I am about to tell. And for those of you who wish to brand me a "stoner" or a "pothead", that's fine with me. I will wear such a distinction as a green badge of courage. In the time since I've brought cannabis into my life, I have graduated from the best high school in Arizona, become an Eagle Scout, finished a degree (involving two majors) at an accredited university in 3 years, and am undertaking a world tour. Stereotype me all you want, but the reality is I have to date accomplished every goal I have set my mind on. The fact that I will recount this story in incredible detail is an accomplishment unto itself, as you will now find out.

Our first stop in town was Turkish coffee shop. It was here that I finally had my first cup of European coffee, which blows the crap made at Starbucks straight out of the water. Not only is it great, but it's probably one of the few cheap things you can buy in Europe. Here we acquired a fatty role by the name of Big Momma. Puff puff, pass pass, and I was living a dream. Not only was I getting high, but I was doing it in an open, legal, and socially accepted environment. I was sitting at the window, watching people walk by. I wanted to tap on the glass and show people the monster joint I held in my hand, show them how happy I was. But to the locals, this is just any old thing. Nothing special.

We next headed to Dam Square. On the way we passed a bridge with huge graffiti on it which read "Freedom Lives When The State Dies". I couldn't have agreed more. I stopped and Chris took a picture of me with that in the background.

We made it to Dam Square and found a fair in full swing. In a little over a week the country would be celebrating Queen's Day, or the queen's birthday, and apparently they had this huge carnival, complete with rides, sitting in the square. It looked like a lot of fun. We made our way to the center of the square where a large phallic monument stands. This is some national monument for something-or-other, and I remarked as such.

From there I took the directions my cousin gave me to a coffee shop a couple canals over. It was called Free Adam. Inside, I tried a strain called Laughing Buddha, and another that was distinctly cherry flavored. Some of you may ask how I was able to see straight after this, but it wasn't really all that bad. I think I would have had a tougher time smoking it with tobacco, which is customary for Europeans. They laugh when they see Americans come over and smoke full joints of their awesome grass and can't handle it. Surprisingly I was still on top of my game, and instead of becoming drowsy I was very energetic. I wanted to go walk around the city. Chris was tiring of playing tour guide, but said that since it was getting dark, we should hit up the Red Light District before all the freaks came out. I agreed, and we were off.

The Red Light District has more ridiculousness wrapped up inside of it than I have ever seen in my whole life. First of all, every girl looked like a plastic Barbie doll. I tried my very hardest not to make eye contact, and I sure as hell didn't take out my camera for video, fearing a pimp would come out of a shadow and pop me. But it really was as simple as walking up to the window, playing the glass game with the girls, some opening slightly to negotiate, and the entrances were usually on the side or right through the window. A curtain to the window would close, and that's all there was to it. Overwhelmed by years of indoctrinated Catholic guilt, I asked Chris to take me away from this place. My puny Puritan mind just couldn't handle it. That, and my buzz was beginning to take a turn onto paranoia plaza, and I had an insane urge to be inside and off the street. We hurried back to the dorm, and a wave of relief washed over me in an awesome wave.

We made some small dinner, and I topped out the night with a hashish cigarette acquired through the friendly Turks I had met earlier in the day. And they really were friendly to me, I mean, once I explained to them I was American, and thus did not deserve the same ire they normally reserve for unappreciative Europeans. They usually are the best ones to talk to if you're looking for the stuff, just be prepared to smoke it with tobacco like everyone else here. Disgusting habit, but necessary if you don't happen to have a vaporizer or a sack to make hefty joints with. I lit it up while Chris and I were planning the next day out. I'll end this portion of the story with a controversial Beatles lyrics:
" Found my way upstairs and had a smoke; Somebody spoke and I went into a dream."

Bonn (Part 2)

I woke up with a splitting headache. The blitz of superior German beer overwhelmed me, and the hangover was akin to a Reich occupation. Instant hangover relief was needed ...

On this particular day, Chris and Anna took me out to the village where they both grew up. Even though he is a natural-born American, his family lived in rural Germany for many years before they returned to the States. Anna, on the other hand, is 100% Kraut. To get there we took the marvelous Autobahn. However, I have some disappointing news to report to the speedsters back in America. The Autobahn is not the best road for the adrenal junkies who drive excessively fast. Indeed, there are no limits on the Autobahn (for the moment; I believe Germany may be considering putting in limits, and I think it has to do with the EU.) but you do not move as fast as we have been led to believe. First of all, there are always construction sites at least every 20 miles, so if you are able to achieve the top speed in your sports car, you are not able to maintain it since these areas are heavily monitored, both by cameras and the German Highway Patrol. Secondly, there are only a few stretches of the Autobahn that do not link up to major cities. It is here that you would have the best opportunity to fulfill your "need for speed". Most of the Autobahn connects the major cities of Germany, and because of this, there is always a steady stream of traffic, and this goes on throughout all hours of the day. It is the usual civilian traffic during the day, and freight trucks at night. Considering the land area and the population, (the country is smaller than Arizona, with ~82 million documented residents), there really is too much traffic for you to go incredible speeds to maneuver effectively and safely. Indeed, talking to the local car enthusiasts, they see the almost endless expanse of highway in America to be the pinnacle of driving, and could only imagine what it would be like to fly down the I-40, chasing the sun setting over California and beyond. It was a beautiful expression of a foreign roadster's American dream, and I received it as a fine compliment.

We arrived in the town. It was a picturesque village in the German countryside. Rolling green hills with patches of forest here and there. The air was crisp and clean. The sun was out in all its glory. The feeling of an end to the winter occupation, and the liberation that would come with spring, was in the air. It felt like a great place to be. We came to the house of some of his family, a house which was >270 years old. Wow! This was an aunt and uncle's house, and a pair of his cousins (roughly our age) who were the best mechanics in town. It was in their garage that we were to have Chris' belated birthday party that evening. We set to work stocking up on beer and munchables. Anna even bought Chris a birthday cake.

The night was cold since the wind was up. We set up multiple tables and benches in the garage, and a space heater to keep the cold at bay. People began showing up at about 9. I was very excited to be partying with people my age, but in another country. I was especially looking forward to all the conversations I would have with them, and the questions I might answer for them. They were an incredibly friendly and intelligent bunch. There were some who did pester me about politics, though I must say the most compelling story I have to tell about this was the gun ownership issue. They could not understand why so many Americans own guns (I believe there are currently over 4 million NRA members, and who knows how many unregistered gun owners in America.) I tried to break it down to 4 main reasons:

1. Americans inherently distrust the government. That's simply how the country was established, birthed in a state of paranoia against an oppressive state. Indeed, there was a reason the Founding Fathers put the 2nd Amendment in there. I said that Germans could understand this, since they went through a period where their government turned on them, too. "Oh, that was like 70 years ago." Blink. Pause.
"Um, so if it happened before, what's to stop it from happening again if the government has all the guns?"
"Oh it will never happen again. We will never let that happen again. We will just vote out anyone who crosses the line."
"Mmmkay, but how can you vote if the people in power suspend your constitution, shut down your representative assembly, and declare a police state that they can enforce because they have all the guns?"
"Well even if that did happen, and the people had guns, it would only be a waste of life to fight against such a superior force. It would be best to ride it out and over time make changes peacefully."

Perhaps after 2 World Wars the Germans really have lost that murderous twinkle in their eye, or perhaps there is still a little too much of the mentality of being a "Good German" but I found this conversation to be disturbing. Either way, this is profoundly disappointing for me because I have always viewed the Germans as good fighters. They were our toughest fight, right up there with the Japanese. Is it any wonder why these two countries, traditionally very good fighters, are our most neutralized allies? If I were in war, rather than being in a foxhole with some Brits who are more concerned with planning a battle so as to not interfere with tea time, I would want to be in the foxhole with the Krauts planning the assault. I told them as such. "We don't want war." Woe is the humbled Hun!

2. Wild West mentality. Back when there was hardly any law enforcement in unsettled and remote areas, the only help a frontiersman could depend upon was the gun on his hip. And even today, America refuses to shed this mentality and sticks with the romantic vision of the lone cowboy.

3. Racism inherent in the American judicial system. I explained to them that when police receive calls for violent crimes in progress, they determine their response time based on what neighborhood they are about to go into. If it is a predominantly poor, minority "ghetto", they will take their sweet time. Police departments claim this is done to plan a safe "penetration" of the neighborhood in question, but one only needs to look at the LAPD or NYPD or even the Phoenix cops as examples of how they can be choosey about how quickly they help certain people, or how they intentionally do harm to people they claim to be protecting. I told them to rent a movie called Crash and that it would hit the nail on the proverbial head. I also told them to talk to some Turks about how quickly German police respond to their calls for help. (For those who do not understand this reference, in Germany, Turks are the equivalent of Mexicans in America, with all the baggage entailed.)

4. America's nasty drug problem. And I am not talking about marijuana and cocaine here. I am talking about the incredibly destructive power of methamphetamines, crack-cocaine, and heroin. I tried to explain to them that when people do these drugs, they become addicts, and turn to crime to support their habit. They said, "But if you would just talk to them, tell them to take your TV if they will not harm you. Nobody needs to die." Ok first of all, I am not going to keep buying new TV's to support a junkie's habit. That is subsidization, and that is wrong. You help no one by doing this. Second, how in the hell are you supposed to trust a flipped-out junkie who is jeopardizing your safety and the safety of your entire family?! I told them that at that point, it comes down to basic survival instinct: you or me. And that if you successfully defend your home, not only will you not be arrested, but you will be praised by your local community for getting another junkie off the street. Tough tomatoes on them. Apparently Germany has only had to grip with a steady heroin problem. Meth has yet to make a strong presence here, and crack is considered cheap and therefore inferior by German standards. Only the most desperate would resort to it, and even then without serious consideration. I am glad this country has not been wracked by these terrible scourges, and pray they never do. Perhaps if they were they would understand why Americans need self-protection.

After many, many beers and shots of Jagaermeister, the party was in full swing. It came time to play drinking games, and I thought this would be a marvelous opportunity to see how the youth culture in another country participate in the social ritual of group intoxication through sport. Foreword: beer pong, flip cup, and King's Cup are completely foreign concepts to Germans, surprising as they have a drinking culture older than ours. Their idea of a drinking game is having two teams of 4 line up on opposites ends, ~15 feet apart. In the middle there is placed a bottle standing upright. Each team takes a full rotation to throw a duck-taped roll of toilet paper at the bottle. If they tip the bottle over, that team must drink their beers as quickly as possible, and a member of the other team must run to the middle, set the bottle upright again, and run back to their line. When this is done, the other team stops drinking. First to finish their beers as a team wins. I thought it to be novel but did not like the running and chugging aspect. After 2 rounds I was halfed over on the side of the house, emptying my stomach. Back inside the game turned to quarters. This is the worst drinking game for me. Oh, and they do not have quarters here. They have .20 Euro coins. Do they call them fifths? I have no idea. I was glad I still had some change in my pocket from the States, and to the happiness of everyone produced a shiney drummer boy (lucky me, I had received it in my change when I bought my cheese steak in Philly. Coincidence, or fate? Either way, I'm holding onto it for the duration of my trip, a token to remember America by.) By this point I was not concerned in the least with winning the game, I just wanted to get drunk. It only took a few rounds for that task to be adequately accomplished, and I found myself halfed over on the side of house again.

I returned as the room erupted into a raucous of singing as Anna lit Chris' birthday cake. The night ended shortly thereafter, with slowly beginning to leave one by one. I failed miserably to flirt with a friendly fraulein I had been eying all night. My sheer drunkenness combined with a language barrier left much to be lost in translation. We cleaned up a little bit, and stepped out into the cold night to gaze up at very bright, full moon. We went into the house, and crashed on the couch.