Soggy times in Holland

One of Amsterdam's many canals, between downpours.

The water cascaded down on us without warning. It was like a cheesy bit from a movie: Five people walking down the sidewalk and suddenly a taxi whips past, shooting water onto the poor, shivering group. David, to my right, took the brunt of the splash. His curly hair was already matted and glistening with droplets of rain. Now his t-shirt was soaked beneath his black wool coat. Water was in my right ear, so I tipped my head to the side and shook it out, eliciting a laugh from Veronica. At least we’d finally found some entertainment on this dreary evening.

When the five of us set out that night, we hadn’t quite known what to expect, or even what we were looking for. The girls – Veronica and Katerina, friends from Germany – were hungry, while I and the other two guys – David and Adam, friends from Australia – just wanted a place to drink. It was the first trip to Amsterdam for each of us, and we weren’t sure what a Tuesday night would hold. We’d seen advertisements at our hostel, where we shared a room, for events happening Wednesday and Thursday, but nothing for tonight. Rather than stay in and be bored though, we went looking for action.

I was the odd man out in our group. When I’d arrived on Monday, the others had already exchanged formalities. They paired up that night while I turned in early, resting up from my trip in. Adam told me the next morning, referring to Veronica, “She is the hottest girl I’ve ever hooked up with.” I believed it. I couldn’t see anything special in the way Adam looked, but Veronica was stunning. About 5-foot-9 with straight blond hair, a beautiful face and curves in the right places, she looked like the type of woman that would catch Hugh Hefner’s eye. But ‘hooking up’ is such a broad term that I wasn’t sure if they’d shared a kiss, had drunken sex, or done something in between. When asked about Katerina, David just gave a shy smile and said he might be interested.

Whatever happened while I was snoozing must not have been too serious, though. When I returned to the room Tuesday evening after a walking tour through the Red Light District, the four of them invited me and another roommate to check out the midweek nightlife. They all seemed to be nothing more than friends looking to add to their numbers.

Now, the weather in Amsterdam is notoriously unpredictable. During my walking tour, it alternated sporadically between clear skies, downpours and drizzle. When the five of us left the hostel, we did so wearing what we hoped would keep us dry for a short walk to the nearest entertainment. After about a kilometer of walking, we came to a pub and the end of the lively downtown area. We were beginning to get damp, but the pub didn’t appeal to any of us. Nor had any of the coffeeshops or bars we’d passed along the way. We turned and kept walking. The girls knew of a club across town that was sure to be fun.

We kept on through quiet, dark streets for another 20 minutes. My hoody was getting wetter by the second, and my confidence in the girls’ sense of direction was waning. Finally we entered Rembrandtplein, supposedly the happening place to be on a Tuesday night in Amsterdam. Restaurants and bars lined the square, but most were dark. We spotted one on the corner that was lit up and loud and went in. But after a quick assessment, we decided the small crowd was too old for us. We were wet and tired of walking, but we couldn’t settle. We left the square and headed up another soggy street along one of the canals.

           None of us noticed the huge puddle or the speeding taxi until it was too late. With a sudden whoosh, the cab was past us and we were soaked. We shivered and tried to shake ourselves dry, but mostly we laughed. We were no longer in any condition to dance or drink, so we headed back to the hostel for warm showers and hairdryers and another night in, half-heartedly cursing our luck through smiles. 

Dutch humor

Back home and forging ahead

I got back to the States on November 17, a Wednesday night. Awake at 7 a.m. in London, I didn’t fall asleep until midnight in Miami, extending my waking hours to 22. That helped arrest my jetlag before it could get started.

Thursday morning I was up bright and early, but not too early. By midday I was in Chicago, and by dinnertime I was in Seattle. As the plane rolled to the gate at SeaTac Airport, I looked out and saw tiny raindrops sprinkling the damp tarmac. Immediately I felt I’d come home too soon. I’ve always dreaded the long, wet, gray winters here in Washington. My mood is greatly affected by the weather, as I suspect is the case for many people in this part of the world and others. Maybe that’s why we drink so much coffee around here – to give us the man-made sense of energy and euphoria that nature neglected. Whether or not that’s the case, the time between October and May has only gotten easier to bear as I’ve grown older and the years have gotten shorter in relation.

Luckily for me, a winter blast hit the Northwest a few days after I got home and the drizzle was replaced with snow. The white blanket was beautiful the way anything rare and different is beautiful. But it didn’t last more than a few days. It quickly disappeared and turned back to rain the way it always does.

Since then, life has gone on pretty monotonously. Some things are different from the way they were before I left – my brother has a puppy, I don’t have a job or money, I haven’t left the house as much as I’d like to – but it wasn’t hard to settle into a routine.

Now I’m trying to find work, which isn’t as easy as I imagined it would be in the fantasy that duped me out of planning my travel properly. I’m about ready to settle for any type of menial labor, just to get some cash in my pocket and start paying my debts. Which is probably what I’ll do later this week.

All the while, I’ve been working on my writing by rewriting and taking editorial advice from knowledgeable friends. The intent is to pick out a handful of experiences from my recent travels and craft them into pieces good enough to send to travel publications. In the meantime, I’ll keep using this blog as a way of developing my voice and keeping my fingers and synapses loose, with some short posts about my travels.

americandigest.org

Notes from the bus out of Tallahassee

This is an unedited excerpt from my travel journal; some things I jotted down after leaving the Greyhound station in Tallahassee, on my way from New Orleans to Tampa. It’s not great writing, but it takes me back to a moment when I felt free, on the move in an unfamiliar place.

Tallahassee, 9/27, 6:20 a.m.

The driver finishes her announcements as we pull onto the main road, and I hit ‘play.’ Outside voices and other annoyances fade away as Jimi Hendrix’s guitar starts to blaze into my ears. The rain falls in waves from the sky, lightning striking every few seconds. One flash comes so close I’m blinded for a second. I can hear the ensuing boom over the riffs of ‘Voodoo Child.’

The security guard at the Tallahassee Greyhound station said it’s supposed to be like this all day. I hope the weather’s better further south, in Tampa where I’m headed.

I wasn’t long in Tallahassee – a little over 2 hours. I’m on the move from New Orleans to Tampa, a 17-hour trip, including layovers. Tampa will be the sixth city I’ve visited in the past two weeks. When I first started this trip, 11 straight weeks on the road seemed daunting. Now, as I begin my 14^th day of travel, being on the move feels like a way of life. Nine more weeks doesn’t seem bad at all. If that time passes as quickly as the last two weeks have, I’ll be back home too soon.

PS: I ended up coming home after a total of 9 weeks, not 11 weeks, because of poor financial planning. And yes, it went by too quickly. But it was nice to get back to my own bed.

PPS: ‘Voodoo Child’ is an excellent hitting-the-road song. The opening guitar solo complements quite nicely the sight and act of pulling out of a parking lot and getting up to speed in traffic.