Amsterdamage 3

Amsterdam Is Still Here …

August 14

… and so am I.

The maid showed up on the morning of the 14th. We had been expecting her on the following day. The place was in no shape to be swept and dusted.  There was all manner of clutter—stuff in ashtrays and the like—so Larry decided to reschedule.

I think she is coming back the day after he leaves.

We went photographing canals today. I made a video from one bridge on the Reguliersgracht from which you can see at least seven others. 

The first beer of the day was a short Grolsch at Cafe Van Zuylen on a bridge called Torensluis over the canal called Singel. I also had half a space cake in my pocket, so I ate that. The photo of the day is one of the views from the bridge.

We strolled down the street to the next place, where I had something with a picture of monks on the tap. At the third place, right next door, I had a lager that was new to me. All I recall is the word “Dutch” on the tap.

Larry had to meet someone at the Hemp at 4, so he took off while I wandered around this part of town. I was to meet him there at 5:30. I actually knew how to get there: go to the Herengracht and head east until I get to Utrechtsestraat. Then I look for Frederiksplein, which is a park, and head for the trees.

I walked the bike over to the Dam Square, which is where the palace, the Grand Hotel Krasnapolsky, the Nieuwe Kerk, and all the tourists in Amsterdam are. It’s also where the Wynand Fockink distillery is. 

They serve a liqueur called Bierblomme, which is a distillation of beer made by a Belgian brewery called De Ryck. I had a shot of it with a De Ryck ale chaser. The liqueur tasted strongly of licorice, like anisette. The ale is available on tap only here out of all the bars in Amsterdam.

I followed that with an oude jenever—old-style gin—accompanied by a glass of real Budweiser, from Budwar in the Czech Republic, the first since my trip to Prague last fall.

Wynand Fockink is where I waited out the first rain. When it let up, I decided that since I had been wandering for a while, it was about time to find my bearings and make my way back to the Hemp. After a couple of false starts and a few minutes sheltered from a second rain, I found the Herengracht and turned the wrong way. But I didn’t have far to go when the canal ran out. I had to ask a few tourists for directions, but they know as much as I did. Then I found a local.

The lady wanted to direct me out this street or that until I come to the railroad station, etc. No, please. I want to follow the Herengracht the long way around to Utrechtsestraat. Just point me in the right direction. I’m too stoned to take a short cut.

I had one beer at the Hemp. Larry was interviewing his friend Barry who was commenting on samples from Derry. This whole trip has had an obsessive rhyme scheme, right?

Larry had ridden through the rain, so he wanted to go back to the apartment to change into dry clothes before we went out for pizza. (Yes, the dinner party fell through.) I waited at the Hemp. I fell asleep in an easy chair in the lobby. Kids came in from time to time to smoke joints.

I found myself on a couple of occasions making noises in the back of my throat and that woke me up. For all I know I could have been sitting in the middle of a stoners’ convention snoring my heart out. If so, maybe they thought it was part of the buzz.

We ate good pizza somewhere. I don’t know where, because I was stoned and Larry was leading the way, so all I had to do was keep him in sight and stay upright on the bike. I may have had another beer with my pizza Margherita.

I fell off the bike twice (Larry says three times) on the way back. I had one last beer and hit the rack around 10 or 11, I guess. At least, I think that was yesterday.

God bless us every one.

Still Amsterdamming

August 15

After I sent yesterday’s e-mail, I went out for coffee, as usual, and then came back and read some of the lead stories in the New York Times online. We left around 2 for a 3 p.m. boat ride.

We stopped on the way at a place called Brecht for a beer and a chance to eat my first cake of the day. Near Brecht was de Togamaker, with some kind of lord's or lawyer's rig in the window.

Then we rode to Leidseplain, where the boat is. By the way, you can find all these places on Google Maps, which even has street views. 

The boat is a daytime activity of an improvisational comedy group called Boom Chicago. It seems the boat tours were at some past time given by somebody else, who didn’t have a license and kept running afoul of the authorities. Yes, they have authorities even here.

Although everyone was invited, I didn’t go back last night for the show, but the boat ride was terrific. 

It’s a small open thing, and Larry and I were sitting on the stern.

We had to duck to go under some of the canal bridges. They sell cans of beer onboard, and passing joints is commonplace.

The city looks different from the lower perspective of the water. the host, one of the founders of Boom Chicago, is an American ex-pat who has lived in Amsterdam for 20 years. We passed Sir Michael’s house overlooking the Prinsengracht. We passed under the old drawbridge, known as the Skinny Bridge. I have bicycled across it over the Amstel, but not traveled under it before.

We passed through narrow canals in the oldest parts of the city where the doors open right on the canals. In the old days, people and goods were transferred directly from boats into houses. 

One bar had a float-up window facing the canal. We wanted to pull up there but couldn’t convince the crew.

I saw other important landmarks, like the sign of the Bush Docter coffeeshop in the Herengracht. Today’s photo is a shot of crooked houses and the Bush Docter sign as seen from the Boom Chicago boat on the Herengracht.

We may also have been on the Keizersgracht, where I stayed the first time I was in Amsterdam.

We passed a lock with the lockmaster’s house still standing next to it. The house is brick painted black, leans a little to one side, and appropriately enough, houses a bar. So we went there after the boat ride. Larry knew right were to find it. I’m not sure that I could even now.

So there I was at a table on the waterside, drinking a nice crisp lager, the tour boats floating by, the graceful skyline of Amsterdam all around me, the space cake really taking over. I could get used to this.

From there we wound up on Kloveniersburgwal, which is another of the many street-and-canal combinations. Larry had to go back to the apartment to get his nighttime glasses. I didn’t feel like trekking all the way back to the suburbs, and besides, I remembered that Goa was only a couple of blocks away at number 42. I told Larry I’d be outside Goa in half an hour. 

By this time my space cake could use a small bump to keep it going, but first a beer. I passed Goa and went to the end of the street where it becomes NieuwMarkt. The Lokaal ‘t Loosje had a tap labeled “Proef de Legende.” I have no idea what that really means; I’m just reporting here. It is a dubbel black beer. It was very malty, like all black brews, and managed to be sweet and salty at the same time.

Goa’s space cakes are a little lighter weight than Paradox’s. I tried to order coffee and was told that it wasn’t enough. You had to buy something to smoke too in order to hang around. So I told the guy behind the counter that I want a coffee and a muffin. The muffins there run 0.4 gram of cannabis. It may be hashish at Goa. No telling exactly, though, because the baked stuff commonly uses the collected leftovers after the measuring and packaging of the smoking products are done.

Think of the old Treasure Island ice cream, the mix of the ends of vats. It was great because you didn’t have to make up your mind about which flavor you wanted. You got them all.

About a half hour after that, things become a little sketchy.

At some point, we went to Bush Docter. It looks out onto a square called Thorbeckeplein, which kind of grows out of the side of Rembrandtplein. We were under the umbrella there when the thunderstorm hit. We waited it out. Then Larry notices the color of the sky. I tried to photograph it, but couldn't catch it, so you’re out of luck there.

Larry made some photos of me on the bridge. Here is one as far out of focus as I was.

Then we rode off for dinner. Into or out of the sunset, I do not recall.

At least, I think that was the sequence of events.

I remember eating spare ribs at a bar. I think Larry had a bowl of steamed mussels. 

Then we went to the Arendsnest, the bar that specializes in Dutch beers. I had a glass of what may be the only Dutch Trappist ale. The rest of the abbey brews are from Belgium. 

I asked the bartender for a suggestion: What is the most unusual, Dutch craft brew here? He said there were several candidates, so I ordered a flight of three.

I had the presence of mind to make notes. One was a SNAB smoked porter. The malt is toasted over an open fire. And it is smoky. Emelisse double I.P.A. was very full of fruit and hop flavors. Very interesting. Breugems Bonnetje, at 10 percent, was by far the strongest of the three. I could taste the alcohol along with the hops.

From there we biked to the Hemp. The bartender this night was apparently a songwriter, who had just got back from Berlin, where she had played electric violin for some people. She was playing Bruce Springsteen, the Doors, and lots of other old history. Then one came on that sounded positively ancient--I mean like folk era, before Bob Dylan plugged in. 

I didn’t recognize it, so I asked: When was that recorded? Last year. As my daughter-in-law remarked of me once, I’m a little sheltered.

Cappy Jack came in with a twisted casting of copper that he called an exotic antenna. Sir Michael came in and took Larry’s seat next to the only girl at the bar. Barry showed up too. The place was pretty full by the time I left shortly after midnight.

I crossed the school yard to Sarphatistraat and followed that to the gas station, turned right past the Brouwerij, left under the trestle and right onto Celebestraat to Eerste Atjehstraat. Didn’t fall off even once. Maybe I can get the hang of this.

Be well, all.

 A pissoir on the canal.

Amsterdamage 2

Homo Sapiens Non Urinat in Ventum

August 11

I got up at the crack of noon in desperate need of caffeine.  Cafe Medina, thank goodness, is half a block from my door. So I sat there with some caffe Americanos and wrote some of yesterday’s message. 

One of the highlights of Saturday was a stop at Brouwerij ’t Ij. Larry had a Plzen and an India pale ale. I had something called Zatte and another called Columbus, both of which tasted like old-style ales. 

People sit outside at picnic tables.  There was a very thirsty looking black dog, maybe a Newfie, panting. Kids play among out there. Sometimes toys are provided, it seems, judging by today’s photograph. Look closely, and you can see the little trucks by the tree trunk.

Larry was sitting at the picnic table next to a British kid who was comparing cannabis selections with his friend. The subject of Barney’s came up. They wanted to find it to buy some kind of cannabis that had won the latest grower’s award.

Larry says, “I work for him sometimes.” And gave them directions to the nearest location. 

Among the bars yesterday was one at Leidseplein, near the Apple Store where Larry dropped off his Mac. There was another with girls tending bar and lots of disco, Like the soundtrack from “Queer Eye for the Straight Guy.” Yet another was a very old looking place with dark wood and stained glass panels. 

I was at places called Hunter’s, Arends (i.e. Eagle’s) Nest, Cafe Oosterling, Cafe Debalic, but can’t remember which is which. I had a dark and fruity brew called Brand Imperator, and a remarkably flavorful Pilsener called Brand UP. I think “UP” stands for “Urtyp Pilsener."

According to the label, the Brand Brewery is in Limburg and was founded in 1340. That may be older than I am, but I’ve lost the ability to calculate and can’t be sure.

A popular Belgian here is La Chouffe, the Dwarf. I was introduced to that one at Eulogy in Philadelphia. I had it at two or three different places in Amsterdam.

We stopped at the Chinese Eethuis Wing Kee, where we had roast pork (char siu) and roast duck (maybe char opp, but I don’t know). 

The Leidseplein has a curious landmark with sage advice. 

There is a classical looking portico with a motto in Latin across the top: “Homo sapiens non urinat in ventum.” That translates, “A wise man does not piss into the wind.” 

We also stopped at Wynand Fockink, which is a very old distillery. The tasting room looks ancient. According to the company’s website, the distillery started in 1679. For all I can tell, this could be the original tasting room, the original shelves, and original jugs, too. 

The lower sagging shelf with the bottles is the active one. The specialty of the house is jenever, the forerunner of English gin. I am fond of an aged jenever that they make.

This is where they pour into tulip glasses and fill them over the rim. You take the first sip like the dunking bird, hands behind your back and dip down to put your lip to the rim of the glass.

Coffee shops yesterday were Gray Area and Bush Docter.  We were sitting outside Bush Docter around ten or eleven, some time after my second space cake of the day. The sky was dark. We could hear a public concert wrapping up somewhere nearby. I was marveling all the neon signs in Dutch as the buzz started to grow. Who could have guessed that some day an uptight pain in the ass from New Jersey would lighten up enough to find himself sitting here like this. Certainly not Harry.

Merl, one of the owners, was tending bar at the Hemp when we got there. Sir Michael was at his post, chatting up a couple of young ladies, as his custom is. 

Then Cappy Jack, another regular, came in. Cappy Jack reminds me of Jack Tamminen, my grandfather. He has a story for every occasion. 

At one point in the conversation, Sir Michael has his Swiss Army knife out and is using the magnifier to look at a piece of jeweler’s wire. Cappy remarks that he is a metallurgist, and what’s more, can distinguish by touch differences in gauge down to one one-thousandth of an inch. The best most people can detect is a difference of about 15 thousandths of an inch. You don’t have to take his word for it. He was challenged by some colleagues, who tested Cappy’s touch against precision instruments and he proved his point.

He had been at the concert. He had been moved to see a pregnant lady with red hair sing “Maria” to another woman, he said. The acoustics were difficult and perfect. Even he couldn’t have done the sound as well.

At another time, though apropos of what I don’t recall, Cappy was a mechanical engineer too.

 I think we left the Hemp around three. But I can’t swear to it.

The Paradox of Space Cake

August 12

I’m back at the Cafe Medina contemplating yesterday’s indulgence.

I got up early, considering that I got to bed at four. It was around 11 when I woke up. Jet lag is a great help when you want to live a life of dissipation.

Larry was making stock for ragu. He invited some people over for dinner later this week. Apparently, they may show up, but Larry’s not sure. So he’s going to make something that can freeze. The stuff smells great.

First order of the day was to get something to eat and pick up Larry’s computer at the Apple Store. Halfway there, Larry pulls his bike to the curb and checks his pockets. He has to go back for the receipt. I waited at a nearby cafe and that’s how I came to have beer for breakfast.

We got to the Apple Store on Leidseplein. I waited at a cafe and had another beer.

We went to Paradox, which is reputed to sell the best space cake in Amsterdam. Could be. It carries a warning. It has 1.25 grams of cannabis--maybe three or four times the active ingredient as the other cakes I’ve been eating. All right. The label recommends taking it easy. If you’re new to this, eat a third and then wait two hours for results. If you have some experience, eat half. OK. For some reason I wimped out and ate half. Good thing, too, because this stuff rocks.

They don’t serve food, so we went around a corner, where I had pizza and a Brand. 

I was thinking about going to the Rijksmuseum, which isn’t far from Leidseplein where the Apple Store is. But then we realized it was 4:30 in the afternoon and had no idea when the museum closes. I checked later. It’s open 09:00 to 18:00 every day. I think that’s 9 to 6. It’s closed on Jan. 1. 

We got back to the apartment and I was sitting in the kitchen when I realized I had been partying for about 60 hours straight, so I took a nap. I must have been out for a couple of hours. It was Sunday afternoon and the kids were playing outside. Someone was playing a piano, I think. Or maybe that was another time. Today's photo is the view from the kitchen balcony. 

We ate dinner at the apartment. At some point yesterday or the day before, we stopped at a wine store and bought a few bottles.  We sampled one with some antipasto and had another with dinner--lamb chops with carrots and potatoes. The wines were nice and dry, almost smoky, more mineral than fruit. It was a pleasure.

We went to the bar at the Hemp, where we saw Sir Michael and discussed the origins of the American Revolution. 

An early night, I was in bed before two.

Be well, all.

Harry

Culture Absorbence

August 13

After I left Cafe Medina this morning, I was in crying need of some culture.

We’re way on the far side of town, but getting to the Rijksmuseum is easy from here. You just follow one canal. Of course, as it has been for the past decade or more, the Royal Museum is a construction site. There is one small traffic sign “museumplein” with a small, easily overlooked arrow. There is also a banner, but I managed to miss that too. 

If you keep going past the sign, you wind up at a commercial dockyard overlooking the harbor. I don’t know where this is. I guess it’s in the Netherlands, because nobody asked to see my passport along the way.

The museum, so happens, is only about half that distance. 

The most of the museum complex is closed. There are 10 rooms mostly of paintings. They are all wonderful, but the highlights include four Vermeers, including the Milkmaid, and at least a dozen Rembrandts, including The Night Watch.  

The first thing you see is a great group portrait of happy Dutchers celebrating the peace of Munster. I have no idea. Maybe this is Dutch Independence Day. Here's a sloppy shot of the painting. (That's a cannon barrel in the foreground of the photo.)

The Night Watch is a rambunctious scene of a volunteer militia getting ready to march.  They’re stepping all over themselves. Some have fired their weapons, perhaps by accident. One detail is part of a face, only the eye and brow and part of a beret, that appear over the shoulder of one of the principal figures. The notes to the painting remark that it looks much like Rembrandt’s early self-portraits.   

I didn't have the arrogance to photograph that one. You can find far more competent reproductions on the internet.

There is also an installation called Grandfather Clock. I had seen it before, almost two years ago, and remembered it, but hadn’t remembered where it was. 

The clock face looks like backlit frosted glass. The hands are hand-drawn in marker. Every minute the blurry figure of a guy appears behind the glass, erases the hands, and draws new ones indicating the new time.

I bicycled back just fine. There was the Brouwerij serving ale under the canopy of its windmill. It was almost four in the afternoon. I hadn’t had a drop to drink, save water, since yesterday. Water rusts iron and sinks ships, so I was overdue for something healthy.

I had half the space cake left from Paradox. So I had cake and ale. I know it takes at least half an hour before anything happens from space cake, but just the suggestion gets to me. An 8 percent beer doesn’t hurt either. 

I have wondered if I would be one of the guys who in the old days would buy oregano on the street in Greenwich Village and then manage to get high on it. After all, I have always liked oregano.

When you see the Brouwerij, unless you’re going there for a drink, you turn right, away from the canal, then left under the first railroad trestle, and the next right takes you to the head of our street, Eerste Atjehstraat.

It was before the trestle that I saw Larry pedaling up the other way. He was headed for the Brouwerij, so it seemed like a good idea to join him.

I was tying to determine if the brew was beer or ale.  So I asked the bartender. It seems the Brouwerij ’t Ij only serves ale. They have one listed as a “plzen,” but it isn’t a real Pilsener. It is, as the bartender said, “soft fermentation,” the old-style yeast.

We met Sir Michael in front of the Hemp and headed to his place for a drink before dinner, which we took at an Indonesian restaurant called Tempo Doeloe. It’s on Utrechtsestraat, not far from where we stayed during my last trip to Amsterdam.

All I had had to eat at that point in the day was an apple tart at Cafe Medina around 11 a.m. The space cake had plenty of time to kick in. So I was ready to eat dinner.

We had the rijstaffel: 18 small dishes arranged across the table according to the level of heat. I don’t think I had anything from the mild side. The dark one on the far right had a yellow chili on it as a warning. We were told to eat that one last, if at all.

There was a reason for that. Curries are by definition aromatic, and these were tasty. One had the decided edge of licorice. Some were vegetable, others meat. There was dried coconut, savory crackers, two kinds of rice, and more food than three men could finish. All in deceptively modest bowls. 

That last one was a bitch. Very tasty at the start, but then the slow burn gets you. The only thing I’ve eaten hotter than that was the green papaya salad in Thailand. I was taking rice, beer, water, coconut, anything to help me cool down. I could feel the acid burning my lips. 

After dinner, we went back to Bush Docter for coffee and dessert.

During our earlier wanderings, we stopped at Paradox, where I picked up a couple of the super space cakes. They’re very small and fit a pocket easily. So I had come prepared. While we were sitting outside on the square, I unwrapped one and had half of it with my Americano.

We finished the night at the Hemp, where I was finished after one beer and before midnight. I found my way home and slept until the cleaning lady arrived, a day earlier than expected.

The picture for today is a heron on a houseboat, which I saw on the way to the Rijksmuseum.

So far, so good.

Harry

Amsterdamage

Back in Amsterdam

Aug. 9

Hello, all.

So far, so good, and you can’t ask for more than that. The train out of Penn Station was on time, and although I was confused by the monorail stops at the airport, I got to the right terminal. Actually, I got off by mistake at Newark Terminal C for an instant, but had time to ask and get back onto the train so I made the next stop (Terminal B) without delay. Damn, I’m easily confused.

That gave me plenty of time to nurse a couple of beers over fish and chips and watch women’s water polo from London. Who ever heard of water polo before? But they were televising the bronze medal game and the gold, which pitted the United States against somebody else, maybe the team from Brazil or Mars.

I think the sport has become popular because of an event I read about in the New York Times. It seems that there is an underwater camera to catch the action as the ladies wrestle for possession of the ball.  According to the Times, there is sometimes a “swimsuit malfunction.” According to the story, one network switched to the underwater camera just as one player grabbed another by the swimsuit and bared her opponent’s breast “for all to see.”

Wow. That would be something if you don’t have Netflix or HBO. 

I noticed there was no underwater camera work in the broadcast we were watching at the bar. But that was all right. I had beer—Sam Adams Lager, Blue Point Toasted Lager (which is downright spectacular, for a lager), and Stella Artois (which is good if you have it first, but is weak after the Blue Point). 

Besides, I have Netflix.

Aug. 10

I don’t recall much of the flight except for seeing parts of movies, one about old Brits on vacation to India and another in which Owen Wilson was a champion birdwatcher. After four pints at Chammps Sports Bar, I slept for most of the trip. Conditions were better than I could have expected. The only empty seat in the plane was the one next to mine.

I got onto the right train at the airport, so I went directly to central station. Actually, it was guess work because the train wasn’t marked and no one was sure we were on the right train.  The rest was easy, because I took a cab.

Larry and I took off to rent a bike and on the way passed the maritime museum. Across the canal from the museum is another museum that looks like nothing less than the bow of a sinking ship.

A sandwich of smoked herring with a glass of white wine constituted breakfast around noon. Space cake and coffee around half-past 12 were good for lunch.

It’s about 2 in the afternoon, local time. The space cake is kicking in.

More later if I remember.

Harry

Aug. 10

Two seats for the price of one! 

Space cake for breakfast. Guess you will have space cake for dinner, which is soon.

You are in your element. Have fun.

Did you meet Ms Libby in Newark Airport? August 9th was her first day on duty. I expect to read about her in your journal.

Joanna

No, I didn’t see Libby. Maybe on the way back.

Harry

Catching Up, Sort of

Aug. 11

I am officially traveling again.

The rows of townhouses in the old city are all either four or five stories high. The top story is a dormer with a projecting beam and hook, one after another down the street, waiting for pianos, sofas, and lynchings. As I’ve remarked before, this city looks as good close up as it does in postcards.

I’m sleeping on the top of Eerste Atjehstraat 44. You can actually find that address on Google Maps.

A little to the northwest of No. 44—an inch or two depending on the scale of your map—there is a landmark noted: Brouwerij ’t Ij. (I don’t know how to pronounce it, but when I say “brew’ree tie” people seem to know what I mean.)

It’s really a brewery, and has a tasting bar that is open for a small amount of time each day—maybe four to nine. but it also has Amsterdam’s only windmill. Larry introduced me to the place the last time I was in the city. He even snapped a photo of the windmill with me in front of it.

So yesterday in the cab coming from the station, when I saw a windmill. I honestly thought, “Is that the Brouwerij?” and was very smug seeing a few minutes later that, yes, it was. Hot damn. I know my way around Amsterdam. I think you can see where this is going.

Shortly after I finished yesterday’s brief message, Larry and I took off for the far side of old town. The buzz was fantastic. Walking was a challenge. Standing was weird. It seems this place all floats on water, but you can only sense the rocking after space cake. Riding the bike was downright magical. I am not as aggressive as locals, so I stop from time to time for tourists, delivery trucks, pregnant ladies with strollers, and the distracted.

Larry had a meeting at four, and we were early, so we traced a route over canals, through picturesque neighborhoods of light and shade, and I have literally no idea where we went. We stopped outside a fantastic bar that I will never find again without assistance.

It specializes in Dutch craft beers. I don’t even remember what I drank. Maybe it was water. I’ve rarely had beer that tasted so good. 

I fell off the bike only once. And that was on the way back from the station yesterday, before we got to a coffee shop or a bar. I was stopping, pulling up to a light, when a lady came barreling past me from nowhere because I had wasn’t paying proper attention to traffic in the bike lane.

My front wheel jackknifed around on me and I went down. I landed on my right hand and may have brushed the ground with my trousers, but they were unharmed so everything was fine. I have only packed one spare suit.

I apologized to the lady, who had stopped for the light. but she didn’t turn around or acknowledge me in any other way. Maybe she was afraid I was mad instead of embarrassed.

So we get to the neighborhood where Larry has his meeting. He’s writing for the website and catalogs of a local retailer. I need help with the bike chain when we are locking up our rides. This is not a good sign.

So Larry goes over it real slow: “Meet me here at 5:30.” He points to a bar across the street from where his meeting is. He says it three or four times, I think. Or maybe my mind is running deja vu in a loop. I mean, how would I know the difference?

He has me write down the address of the bar. I have the presence of mind to dog-ear that page in my notebook. I also note the cross street.

I also have a plan. I tell myself: No turns. Just walk a straight line, Harry, maybe stop for another beer, but don’t take any chances on getting lost. You may not be able to find your way back this time. You may not be able to ask directions. Not sure, but there is a remote chance that you have lost the power of speech.

It’s like I told Matt once. He was a toddler and we were out on a country road, and he was concerned that we would get lost, because I said I had never been on that road before.

I have been lost before, son, but I have always found my way back again. Except once. I used to be somebody else. That shut him up for all of two seconds, and then he started to talk to his Mom.

Anyhow, straight lines don’t count for much when you are walking in a fog. The patterns of the paving stones are fantastic. The color on the canals looks like Impressionism. The voices in your head get very witty. Sometimes you laugh out loud at their jokes.

The streets change names, too. So I’m on Haarlemmerstraat, then Haarlemmerdijk, but how did I get onto Nieuwedijk? Did I get to an intersection and decide that it was necessary to turn? Left or right? This is like being outside or inside the moat at Chiang Mai. Only this time I was really spaced out.

I turned around and tied to retrace my steps. OK, I actually got back to the starting point, but only half an hour had passed which left me another hour to kill. I walked the other way, and came back with little difficulty. OK, this is getting better. Remember, Harry, you can recognize the Brouwerij’s windmill from half a mile off. This is the sound of hubris taking hold.

So now I’m ready to walk the cross street, Kaisersgracht. This is the canal street where I stayed last time, but that apartment was almost at the other end, far across town. I was on the west end of the canal this time. But I knew (sort of) where I was.

Then I got cocky. I made a turn.

When I eventually groped my way back to Kaisersgracht, I had lost all sense of direction. But after all, the canal only goes to the left and right. That gives me a 50 percent chance of being wrong.

In my experience, 50 percent is a sucker bet.

It was only after I had gone quite a ways--a mile, maybe 20--that I actually noticed that it was the wrong ways. The numbers were rising. I was so stoned asking directions back at the intersection never occurred to me. I have no idea why looking at the street numbers ever occurred to me at all.

So here are the right bearings, but it's now down to 10 minutes before I'm supposed to meet Larry in the bar, which was an indeterminate distance away.

So there are a couple of ground rules learned.

Rule No. 1: Don’t go exploring a strange city, if you have an appointment. Or are stoned. 

Rule No. 2: Don’t panic. It’s for occasions like this that they invented cabs.

I get out of the cab and go to the place, but Larry's not in the bar. Did I have it right? Or was I supposed to go across the street where the meeting is? I do that.

It's another bar, so I order a beer. I tell the bartender my mission--that I'm supposed to find my friend Larry somewhere around here, who is in a meeting with Derry, the boss. The bartender goes upstairs, but isn't too sure if I'm Harry or Larry. He knows I'm not Derry.

So Larry comes out of the meeting, grinning all over. He knows the synapses are slipping and misaligning all through my head. Meeting's not over yet. Fine. I'll wait here and sip this beer. Good, then you won't get your ass lost again.

I had a little chat with Derry, too, when the session broke up. He remembered meeting me two years before.

That first space cake came from a shop called Bush Docter—yes, spelled that way on the sign. It turns out, as Larry told me later, this is a hangout of one of his friends, Barry. So everybody knows Larry, too. He’s chatting up the people at the counter. A guy on the steps gives him a Marlboro to mix with hash.

And that’s where I had my first space cake of the trip. 

At some point we linked up with Sir Michael, a British ex-pat friend of Larry’s, who met us and took us some place to get hamburgers. 

Michael is probably my age or older. He is leading the bicycle convoy. I can barely see him. He is tear-assing up the road. Larry’s next and then I get cut off by a van. 

I pedaled forward and stopped. Sooner or later they’ll backtrack looking for me. I stay there a couple of minutes and then think of a better spot, back at an intersection, which is where I found them. Or rather, they found me. I could hear them calling my named from a crowd on the roadside.

They had made a right in the instant that the van had my full attention.

We finished the night at the bar of the Hemp Hotel. This is where many of Larry’s friends hang out. Sir Michael’s a regular. There was a Rasta-looking guy named Banta tending bar when we got there. His hair was gathered under a large knitted cap. 

As I found later, Banta isn’t Rasta. He is African, raised in Germany, but doesn’t care for the German language so he came here to study at the University of Utrecht in an all-English degree course.

The trip back to the apartment was without serious incident. I know this because I woke up there with nothing broken or bleeding. Love to all.

Harry