I finally have my computer back! I have lots of posts to make up for, I’ll try to start cranking them out over the next week. First things first though, going way back, all the way back to Amsterdam….
I don’t remember anything.
Just kidding. I actually developed a bit of a stomach bug so I didn’t get to experience too much of Amsterdam, what with being bedridden for over 24 hours. On the other hand I single handedly bankrupted the Holland Casino. I’m presuming the loss of 730 euros would bankrupt the Holland Casino. When I was walking through Amsterdam all I could think of was a quote by Richard Dawkins, “if you’re too open-minded your brain falls out.” I couldn’t help feeling that way about the people of Amsterdam. I wanna congratulate them for being so liberal and progressive. But, I just can’t. I come away feeling like the whole thing might be a mistake. And I think the Dutch are starting to feel that way too. The laws regarding drugs and prostitution in Amsterdam have been slowly but steadily rolled back over the past decade, and it looks like they’ll be clamping down even more in the future. This was the first city I traveled to, besides London, that seemed wealthy to me. In a lot of ways it felt even more wealthy. The people there clearly tried to give the impression of wealth, judging by their obnoxious clothing. But, to be fair, they’re hard-working and ambitious, and as the aging generation of ex-hippies fades away I can’t help thinking all these young professionals are gonna try to do away with all the red-light district craziness. A city can’t be taken seriously on the world stage if it sanctions sixteen year old girls becoming prostitutes, can it? If I were from Amsterdam I would hate my city’s laws. They probably account for a lot of the money coming into the city, so maybe I would tolerate it, but it would be tough watching hordes of potheads desecrate my home every weekend, littering in my beautiful canals and covering my scenic streets and plazas in a thick carpet of urine and Doritos wrappers. What holds me back from feeling really sympathetic towards the people of Amsterdam is the fact that they are all such tools. I used to joke around that I hated Dutch people, but I’d never actually met any, they just seemed silly with their windmills and wooden clogs. But it turns out to be true, I hate Dutch people (or at least the people of Amsterdam). They all have perfectly coiffed hair, gleaming with product, their skin shines like a poorly made wax statue because of all the moisturizers and lotions they use and their clothes are in much the same vain. Going out to a bar or club made me think of being at bar mitzvah, all the Dutch people flirt like seventh graders, sending little groups of scouts from one side of the room to the other to test the waters, I imagine they all had notes that asked the girls if, “you like me or maybe wanna dance?” Bar mitzvahs are funny for this reason, but what’s comical and endearing in a 13 year old is downright pitiful for a group of 20 somethings. To sum it up, you should go to Amsterdam, it’s an experience, and it does have some great museums and all that if you don’t want to leave thinking all you did was turn your brain into sludge, but come with friends and ignore the natives.
Next trip, the Canary Islands….
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Sorry bout that, I got lost daydreaming about Las Gran Canarias. Even at this time of year, which is far from their peak, the sun blazes down and hordes of Germans come to enjoy some overpriced Heinekens by “el lago” (one of the giant pools at my resort). I should say that this was a weekend I spent well outside of my price range, which is a great thing to do every once in a while, even though it means I’ll be training through Europe for two and a half weeks in April without ever paying for accommodation. Hmmm…should be interesting. But the canaries are incredible. They’re volcanic islands so the resorts, or at least my resort, imports fake sand to make people feel more comfortable. I wouldn’t mind the black silty stuff their more familiar with, the fake sand feels like walking on Legos.
Living in London for only a few months has already changed the way I feel about the sun, like it’s water in the desert. You forget for some people it’s not a precious commodity. And it astounds me how the sun could be however many millions of miles away from Earth and yet I could fly south for a few hours and it feels like it’s sitting on top of my head. It’s a shame I can’t really appreciate just lying in the sun, since I start to crisp after about half an hour. In fact, I’m so embarrassingly susceptible to sunburn that when I don’t apply suntan lotion evenly, which I never do, I burn in strange layers and blotches. Ugh…someday I’ll be tan (you have to imagine me saying that while sitting at my window, looking out at the stars, and sounding like Pinocchio). Also, the canaries, unlike, say, Amsterdam, which also relies heavily on tourism to bring in cash (probably not as much as the canaries, which is essentially just one, giant string of resorts) is full of genuinely friendly people. They love you, love that you come to visit their island and love that you’ll pay 8 euros for a “mojito” that’s nothing more than 2 shots of rum, a sprig of mint and a cupful of ice.
One funny anecdote though: when I got to the Madrid airport I was supposed to have just an hour’s wait and then connect to the Canaries. However, unbeknownst to us, they had changed the flight, pushing it back almost 5 hours. I, being American, went all over the airport trying to find people to talk to as if I could bitch and moan enough to make an airplane arrive on time. The English people on the plane who were also going to the islands, and there happened to be several other 20 something year old guys, decided to pub crawl the airport. There are 90 gates, and every 3 has it’s own little area with a tv, seating, small shops and, most importantly, a bar of some sort. Our flight took off from gate 88. Yeah. I met up with them at gates 10-12, and by gate 22 we’re all cruising down the automatic walkways singing football songs (two of the four guys were Arsenal fans. Go Gunners.) I’m not sure exactly what happened to them. I picked up a seat on an earlier flight and abandoned the enterprise somewhere around gate 38. They were at the final stages of friendly-drunkenness, where you confess bizarre secrets to total strangers, but nothing gets British people in a fighting frenzy like raucous signing and beers every three minutes. I’m also almost positive we were being followed by security by the time I left. I assume they didn’t make it to gate 88, let alone the Canaries, which is a shame because they would have enjoyed themselves. This also dovetails into what I plan on writing about soon in my next installment, which is the love, passion and glory that is English Football.
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