Prior
BAM! posts:
We
all packed up and left raw meat in the heating ducts, as we do at every hotel,
and headed to the train station to catch our Thalys train to Amsterdam. I gotta say, high-speed rail travel is pretty
fucking nice. We had first class
tickets, which got us plush seats, free wifi in the train, and included drinks
and food. I enjoyed a beer or two as we
whizzed through the Belgian and Dutch countryside at almost 200 mph, arriving
in Amsterdam in less than two hours. How
high-speed rail travel has not caught on in the US is beyond me.
I
hadn't been to Amsterdam since I was four years old, and even then, I was only
in the airport. That didn't stop my
parents from buying me a little windmill to commemorate the experience. It is with 99% certainty that I can tell you
that windmill is broken and buried in my mom's attic somewhere among the mounds
of toys she has not made any effort to remove from her house.
Daniel
was the man when it came to our lodging in Amsterdam. Through Airbnb.com, he found a nice three
bedroom apartment on a quiet street (or straat, if you will) in the center of
the city, and it was cheaper than any of the hotels we were looking at. The only catch was that it was on the second
floor, and the staircase up was narrow and steep.
Before
getting started on what we did in Amsterdam, let me just say, as far as you
know, I drank no coffee while I was in Amsterdam, nor did any of my fellow
travelers. I have always loved the smell
of coffee, and there was no shortage of that walking through the streets. I was only slightly surprised at how many
coffee shops there were. My favorite was
one that we passed on our way to our apartment called The Doors, named after
the greatest American rock and roll band of all-time.
There
was also a Blues Brothers coffee shop, which we passed while walking towards
the Red Light District.
On
that note, after arriving and getting settled, we walked to the Red Light
District, which, in addition to housing prostitutes and sex shops, has a ton of
bars and restaurants. If you've never
been, it's really quite fascinating. The
main part of the Red Light District is probably a mile long, on both sides of a
canal. Each girl has her own little
doorway in which she stands behind glass, usually in a bikini. If she is working, there is a red or pink
light in the doorway. When you pass by,
the girls tap the glass and beckon you to insert your penis into any one of
several orifices. When a guy (or girl)
goes into the doorway and the connected bedroom, the whore closes a shade on
her doorway for privacy while she and her customer take the skin boat to Tuna
Town. It's common courtesy to refrain
from photographing the whores. Here are
a couple general shots of the Red Light District, and a sly photo Colleen took
of a couple doorways.
Looking
at half-naked Dutch women can make five men and a woman thirsty, so we grabbed
a couple beers at a bar at the end of the Red Light District, before going to
see a giant phallic symbol and some really bad street performer who was
berating his audience.
That,
too, can make five men and a woman thirsty, so we found this dark little bar
called Café Belgique, where we had some delicious beers by candlelight.
For
dinner, we went to some restaurant with a Dutch-sounding name. Van Speyk, I believe. This was the only place in Amsterdam with
stairs steeper than those in our apartment.
Going to the bathroom was a do or die proposition. In the hour and a half we were there, six
people perished at the hands of the famed Van Speyk Steps of Death.
Eating
a meal of food can make five men and a woman thirsty, so we went to a nearby
bar that Chandler recommended called Bar Dominus. It wasn't the bar he was thinking of, but
they did have an interesting house wine.
Going
to the wrong bar can make five men and a woman horny, so we all strolled back
through the Red Light District, half intending to see a sex show. It was Chandler's birthday, after all. You'd be amazed at how much money a theater
will charge to watch two humans fornicate on stage. They were as much as 45 or 50 Euro, and I
think the cheapest one was something like 25 Euro, which seemed reasonable. But let's be honest here, we were all more
than a little concerned that we would get what we paid for. It's probably the cheapest sex show for a
reason.
Deciding
not to see a sex show can make five men and a woman thirsty, so we went to a
bar on the main Red Light District canal called The Pint, where we proceeded to
tie one on in honor of Chandler's birthday.
The bartendress, probably in her late 40s or early 50s, was named
Natalie, and she was pouring some strong drinks and cranking some American rock
and roll. The combination suited us well.
At
some point, a group of about four or five Scotsmen (presumably warrior poets)
came into the bar and sat by us. For a
period of about a year and a half after I saw Braveheart, my inner monologue
was almost entirely in a Scottish accent, so I feel a deep kinship with the
Scots. Anyway, some bloke called Paul
was talking to Bonham and me. Paul was
24, from somewhere in between Glasgow and Edinburgh, and had a haircut not
unlike Paul McCartney's in 1965. When we
mentioned that we were thinking about going to a sex show, Paul became very
serious and told us the following story that I will never forget (please read it in a Scottish
accent for accuracy).
"Don't
go to sex shows," he said, pausing for effect to let the simplicity and
gravity of his statement sink in. I
wondered, had this guy gone to the 25 Euro show and watched an overweight,
pasty, middle-aged couple rubbing up on each other? Or maybe he paid good money and only saw a
handy? Or maybe he would rather spend
his money on the real thing? No, no, and
no.
He
continued, "There was a guy from back home who came here on business with
some co-workers. They were all friends, and
they all went to a sex show, probably 10 of them. The people on stage asked for a volunteer,
and this guy's friends made him go up on stage."
At
this point, I thought Paul was going to say that this guy got his bare ass
whipped or something similar, like what strippers sometimes do to embarrass a
bachelor. My life experiences could not
have prepared me for what I was about to hear.
"When
he got on stage, they tied his hands behind his back, put a ball gag in his
mouth, and pulled down his pants. He was
raped on stage by a huge black man, in front of his friends. None of his friends tried to stop it. After it was done, he took the first flight
home and never spoke to any of the other guys again."
As
you might imagine, Bonham and I were a little floored by this. If true, this is probably one of the worst
things that could happen to you: being
raped on stage in front of your friends, who are apparently ambivalent to the
stranger's dick in your ass. This is a
life-ruining event. There's no coming
back after that. There was the portion
of your life before the sex show stage rape and the portion of your life after
the sex show stage rape. When you participate
in "most embarrassing thing that's ever happened to you" ice
breakers, you win, hands down. And you
also cry and weird everyone else in the room out because no one knows how to
possibly react to that. I mean, holy
shit. And who are these friends of
his? I'm sorry, but if any one of my
friends –- or even a total stranger –- is being forcibly penetrated against his
or her will, I am going to try to stop it, rather than sit back and say
"now this is art" while I sip on my 6 Euro Amstel.
Needless
to say, we did not go to a sex show.
That
night on the walk back to the apartment, Amsterdam was foggy, which made for
some nice eerie pictures.
In
the next installment: Van Gogh, boats,
and the single most fucked up first date conversation ever overheard.
Posts
No comments:
Post a Comment