Going Dutch (Netherlands 2009)

3 AM. I woke up, gave up on the idea of “real sleep,” and decided to just surrender to the broken-night haze. A few hours later, Sal and I were dragging ourselves onto a plane for the next layover: five hours in Amsterdam, Netherlands.

The flight was short, and I dozed most of the way, saving what little energy I had. When we landed, our wallets were as empty as our eyelids were heavy. Still, adventure called, and we followed the signs out of the airport in search of the train. Fifteen euros lighter, we had a pair of round-trip tickets to Amsterdam city center clutched in our hands and another stamp on our passport.

Sal and I were pretty irritable from lack of sleep, which made a strange combination for the amount of excitement we had to see a new city. The first breath outside hit me like a reset button—cool, crisp air that felt both foreign and invigorating. We eventually got on the correct train to the city after asking a few people. We boarded the train, snapping a few photos of our bleary-eyed faces along the way. That’s when a ticket checker strolled down the aisle. We handed over our passes proudly, only to be informed we were in the first class car. First class? Really? There hadn’t been a single sign, and the place looked about as luxurious as a middle school cafeteria. We spent the rest of the ride wondering what second class looked like—cattle stalls, maybe?

On the Train to Amsterdam

Stepping off the train, Amsterdam opened up before us: bustling, damp, alive. It was quite scenic to look across the water at the old buildings as well. First stop: an information center. Except “center” was a generous term—what we found offered little more than restrooms and a vague brochure. After using the facilities — a subway restroom, where we got some curious looks since public restrooms are basically off-limits unless you’re buying something, so different from back home — we decided to trust our feet and continue on.'

We wandered to a bridge where water taxis cruised beneath, framed by old buildings leaning over the canals. I had a few things to accomplish with what little money I had left to spend. My goals were modest: snag a patch for my travel bag and a charm for my necklace. But the streets had other ideas. Souvenir shops blurred together, rain began to spit down, and I pulled out a squashed airplane sandwich I’d saved in my bag. Fuel is fuel.

The real entertainment, however, came from the storefronts: sex shops with window displays that made Times Square look modest, and coffee shops that reeked more of cannabis than espresso. You must know, if you haven’t heard, that coffee shops in Amsterdam are more known for the cannabis they sell than their coffee. Every door we opened greeted us with a cloud of smoke and the exact same soundtrack: Bob Marley, always Bob Marley. Sal was on a mission to find takeaway coffee—apparently a foreign concept in Europe—so we went in and out of half a dozen shops before he finally scored a cup to go.

I decided with my last five euros burning a hole in my pocket, I figured I’d “do as the Romans do.” I bought a tobacco-blended joint for exactly that amount. The problem was: I didn’t have a lighter, nor the courage to ask anyone for one. Eventually, I borrowed a few coins from Sal, bought the cheapest lighter Amsterdam could provide, and nervously lit up. Unsure if it was even legal to smoke in the streets, I puffed along until we stopped to observe the locals. I noticed that along the Amsterdam streets there where many classic looking bicycles leaned against walls and rails. The streets, I recall had a lot of trash on them.

That’s when we stumbled across the outdoor urinals. Yes, urinals. Right on the street. We watched, baffled, as men stepped up like it was no big deal. Sal even joked about filming himself using one as a souvenir video. Regrettably, we didn’t. 

As I was nearing the end of my smoking joint, Sal asked if I really thought it was a good idea to smoke the whole thing by myself. Just then, as I remember it, the world shifted into slow motion, like a scene out of The Matrix. I let the joint slip from my fingers, intending to crush it underfoot. As it fell, time seemed to stretch — I could almost see from the ground’s perspective, looking up at me. The still-smoking joint drifted down in an almost artistic slow-motion arc before finally being snubbed out beneath my shoe. It wasn’t long after that Sal’s coffee kicked in, and the great restroom hunt began. Europe doesn’t do “free bathrooms,” so after plenty of wandering and rising levels of irritation (on his part—while I floated happily above time and space), we found a pay-to-pee station. The first one had only urinals, which wasn’t exactly helpful for Sal’s situation. Eventually, my idea to head back to the train station saved the day. He paid his euro, disappeared, and I crouched outside, ears tuned to what felt like conversations from another dimension.

Relieved, we boarded the train back. At the airport, we nibbled on some Dutch chocolate Sal had picked up earlier, napped in exhaustion, and finally boarded our long flight home. I stayed up for most of it, polishing off three and a half movies. While watching “The Proposal”, somewhere over Greenland, I pressed my face to the window, staring at endless white mountains and frozen rivers glittering under the sun. It was so fascinating to see the white landscape and mountains from the plane.

Greenland from the plane

We landed in Memphis, where my first thought was simple: I need an American hamburger. “Backyard Burgers” answered the call, greasy and glorious. From there, it was back to Oklahoma. At Will Rogers Airport, Matt pulled up in his farm truck like a cowboy rescue mission, ice-cold Keystone Light waiting for us. We cracked them open, took a sip, and with a laugh, knew we were home.