Trip's End
Trip’s end … the sadness that it’s over, mixed with the yearning for home … plus I’m tired … and … moving … slow, due to my blistered feet … so many things I planned to see in Amsterdam, but they’ll have to wait for another time … I’m only able to check out the Rijksmuseum … and eat a hot dog in the nearby park (it’s a beautiful sunny day) and shop for souvenirs, high … no paranoia today, I am at peace … watching the boats on the canals, resting my blistered feet in a pub … dinner in another Turkish fast food place … then back to the hotel via Vondelpark … near the entrance of the park, I encounter a large group of scruffy characters … a big laughing bearded guy demands I buy him a beer … “give me a nickel!” he booms … I toss him a coin … then the guy beside him shouts “give me one too!” … I toss him one, then smile and wave and walk away before everyone starts demanding change … they wave back … the park is pleasant, couples strolling, children playing … I find a place where my smoke won’t bother anyone and sitting under a tree, light up … yes, Vondelpark is pleasant now, but I’ve been told it’s a place to avoid at night, due to the junkies … the scruffy boys aren’t so genial at that hour, nor likely to be satisfied with a Euro centavo …
Back in the hotel, I pack … then take a walk in the nearby park and smoke one more … then back in my room watch tv … the Simpsons subtitled in Dutch … Chandra calls and we arrange our meeting place at Central Station … main entrance, 8:30 … and set the alarm … and fall to sleep …
And in the morning while it’s still dark, take a shower, dress, then take one last walk in the nearby park and smoke … and toss my stash … regretfully … best to think of it as a sacrifice to the grass gods of Amsterdam … yes … some things must stay in Amsterdam …
Then check out of my hotel … I ask the Turkish desk clerk to call me a cab … nearby, a another hotel guest speaks up … he’s American … he talks like Jimmy Stewart … “hey,” he says, “maybe our friend will pick him up, I’ll bet he’s just around the corner” … the clerk hangs up and says to Jimmy Stewart: “yes, it’s him, he’s on the way” … I go outside to wait for the cab … the sun is coming up, bicycles stream past … Jimmy Stewart comes outside and says to me “this cabbie that’s gonna’ pick you up is a great guy, he just brought me here a few minutes ago. He saved my butt too. I had some papers for a meeting that a colleague gave me and darn it if I didn’t leave ‘em in the cab. We called the cab company and lucky for me this fellow was only a few blocks away. Brought ‘em right back to me and saved my butt …” the cab pulls up, and the cab driver, an older Dutchman in a suit, gets out … Jimmy Stewart thanks him again for saving his butt … the driver smiles and deposits my luggage in the trunk and off we go …
“Did you have a good time in Amsterdam?” the driver asks … “yes, I did” … “did you go to the Red Light District” he asks, smiling up into the rear view mirror … “no,” I laugh, “no Red Light District for me” … we’re traveling through the central part of Amsterdam … “you chose a good part of town to stay in,” he says, shaking his head “up here there’s too many different kinds of people all together … too many Turks …” at Central Station, we get out … he opens the trunk and hands me my luggage … I pay him … he smiles at the tip … “you are very kind,” he says, then leaning closer: “watch out for the junkies in Central Station” …
I make my way to what looks like the main entrance … it’s not very busy, which I attribute to the earliness of the hour … I buy some orange juice at a concession stand and stand with my luggage, waiting for Chandra to walk through the doors … we’re due to meet in about 30 minutes … a cop walks by … a few minutes later, I turn and see him standing behind me … he glances away … am I a suspicious character? … I go somewhere else to stand … I walk past the information desk … the man at the desk turns his head as I pass … I don’t like all this attention … I find a place where I can be by myself, but a few minutes later a young guy, long-haired with a scruffy beard, carrying a ragged shoulder bag, stands directly across from me … glances nervously over his shoulder, glances at me … does this several times … I get the feeling he wants to sell me whatever’s in his bag … my long hair makes him think I’m a potential buyer … this is one of those junkies I was warned about, a possible thief or street dealer you should never buy from … I walk away, find another place to stand … in a little while, three cops walk past me, one gives me a hard look … I get the feeling they think I’m a dealer … it’s my long hair … the cops walk on … then, after awhile, a black guy with dreadlocks materializes in front of me … tries to make eye contact … I walk away, find another place to stand, turn, and there he is … I go somewhere else, turn, there he is … wherever I go, there he is … he’s shadowing me … wants to sell me something … I decide to get rid of him by standing right beside the information counter … it works … he hurries outside … through the glass I see him running down the street … just then, the mobile phone in my pocket rings … it’s Chandra: “where are you?” … “in Central Station,” I say … “where in Central Station?” … “by the main entrance” … “no you’re not,” she says, “I’m by the main entrance” … I’m in the wrong place, I realize and tell her I’ll find her … I hurry down a long corridor and find myself in the real main entrance, a much busier place than where I was … I was in the exact place I should not be, the place where junkies dwell, the place where standing around for more than a few minutes brings you unwanted attention, both from junkies and the police who think you might be a junkie …
I rendezvous with Chandra … we board the train … no sooner are we settled in our seats than an announcement is made in Dutch and repeated in English that the train is not going anywhere … everyone has to get off and board another train … a group of confused young people are blocking the door … people shout at them “get off!” … they do … we hurry to the other train … board just in time … then we’re off to the airport … at the airport we go through the usual security nonsense, except we don’t have to take off our shoes … apparently, in Holland, they have not heard about shoe bombs … gratefully I walk through the metal detector with shoes on …
Our flight takes us to London, Gatwick Airport again … again we go through security … but this time have to take off our shoes … on the other side of the metal detector, I am frisked … then, while gathering up my shoes, laptop, coat, and carry-on-bag from the conveyor belt, notice my big white palm-leaf “Gus” hat is missing … Chandra tells the security people … turns out it’s stuck in the metal detector … they shut it down, someone fishes around inside it and pulls out my hat … a smiling security woman brings Bison Bill his hat, then we hurry to catch our plane to Dallas …
We take off … I look out the window at the passing earth below … the curious irregular patchwork that is England, unlike Holland which is more squared-off, like home … England passes, then Ireland … then ocean, and more ocean ... home is eight hours away … eight hours and an ocean away … home …
Back in the hotel, I pack … then take a walk in the nearby park and smoke one more … then back in my room watch tv … the Simpsons subtitled in Dutch … Chandra calls and we arrange our meeting place at Central Station … main entrance, 8:30 … and set the alarm … and fall to sleep …
And in the morning while it’s still dark, take a shower, dress, then take one last walk in the nearby park and smoke … and toss my stash … regretfully … best to think of it as a sacrifice to the grass gods of Amsterdam … yes … some things must stay in Amsterdam …
Then check out of my hotel … I ask the Turkish desk clerk to call me a cab … nearby, a another hotel guest speaks up … he’s American … he talks like Jimmy Stewart … “hey,” he says, “maybe our friend will pick him up, I’ll bet he’s just around the corner” … the clerk hangs up and says to Jimmy Stewart: “yes, it’s him, he’s on the way” … I go outside to wait for the cab … the sun is coming up, bicycles stream past … Jimmy Stewart comes outside and says to me “this cabbie that’s gonna’ pick you up is a great guy, he just brought me here a few minutes ago. He saved my butt too. I had some papers for a meeting that a colleague gave me and darn it if I didn’t leave ‘em in the cab. We called the cab company and lucky for me this fellow was only a few blocks away. Brought ‘em right back to me and saved my butt …” the cab pulls up, and the cab driver, an older Dutchman in a suit, gets out … Jimmy Stewart thanks him again for saving his butt … the driver smiles and deposits my luggage in the trunk and off we go …
“Did you have a good time in Amsterdam?” the driver asks … “yes, I did” … “did you go to the Red Light District” he asks, smiling up into the rear view mirror … “no,” I laugh, “no Red Light District for me” … we’re traveling through the central part of Amsterdam … “you chose a good part of town to stay in,” he says, shaking his head “up here there’s too many different kinds of people all together … too many Turks …” at Central Station, we get out … he opens the trunk and hands me my luggage … I pay him … he smiles at the tip … “you are very kind,” he says, then leaning closer: “watch out for the junkies in Central Station” …
I make my way to what looks like the main entrance … it’s not very busy, which I attribute to the earliness of the hour … I buy some orange juice at a concession stand and stand with my luggage, waiting for Chandra to walk through the doors … we’re due to meet in about 30 minutes … a cop walks by … a few minutes later, I turn and see him standing behind me … he glances away … am I a suspicious character? … I go somewhere else to stand … I walk past the information desk … the man at the desk turns his head as I pass … I don’t like all this attention … I find a place where I can be by myself, but a few minutes later a young guy, long-haired with a scruffy beard, carrying a ragged shoulder bag, stands directly across from me … glances nervously over his shoulder, glances at me … does this several times … I get the feeling he wants to sell me whatever’s in his bag … my long hair makes him think I’m a potential buyer … this is one of those junkies I was warned about, a possible thief or street dealer you should never buy from … I walk away, find another place to stand … in a little while, three cops walk past me, one gives me a hard look … I get the feeling they think I’m a dealer … it’s my long hair … the cops walk on … then, after awhile, a black guy with dreadlocks materializes in front of me … tries to make eye contact … I walk away, find another place to stand, turn, and there he is … I go somewhere else, turn, there he is … wherever I go, there he is … he’s shadowing me … wants to sell me something … I decide to get rid of him by standing right beside the information counter … it works … he hurries outside … through the glass I see him running down the street … just then, the mobile phone in my pocket rings … it’s Chandra: “where are you?” … “in Central Station,” I say … “where in Central Station?” … “by the main entrance” … “no you’re not,” she says, “I’m by the main entrance” … I’m in the wrong place, I realize and tell her I’ll find her … I hurry down a long corridor and find myself in the real main entrance, a much busier place than where I was … I was in the exact place I should not be, the place where junkies dwell, the place where standing around for more than a few minutes brings you unwanted attention, both from junkies and the police who think you might be a junkie …
I rendezvous with Chandra … we board the train … no sooner are we settled in our seats than an announcement is made in Dutch and repeated in English that the train is not going anywhere … everyone has to get off and board another train … a group of confused young people are blocking the door … people shout at them “get off!” … they do … we hurry to the other train … board just in time … then we’re off to the airport … at the airport we go through the usual security nonsense, except we don’t have to take off our shoes … apparently, in Holland, they have not heard about shoe bombs … gratefully I walk through the metal detector with shoes on …
Our flight takes us to London, Gatwick Airport again … again we go through security … but this time have to take off our shoes … on the other side of the metal detector, I am frisked … then, while gathering up my shoes, laptop, coat, and carry-on-bag from the conveyor belt, notice my big white palm-leaf “Gus” hat is missing … Chandra tells the security people … turns out it’s stuck in the metal detector … they shut it down, someone fishes around inside it and pulls out my hat … a smiling security woman brings Bison Bill his hat, then we hurry to catch our plane to Dallas …
We take off … I look out the window at the passing earth below … the curious irregular patchwork that is England, unlike Holland which is more squared-off, like home … England passes, then Ireland … then ocean, and more ocean ... home is eight hours away … eight hours and an ocean away … home …
posted by Mack White at 4:13 PM
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