But when in Amsterdam...
I've done research and had a plan; and thankfully, I met a very friendly Brasilian named Matteus to accompany me in my scientific experiment; because when it comes down to it, I am but a mere servant to my curiosity.
A note on Amsterdam, the city.
It is amazingly beautiful and I was in love with it after the first day. The dutch pancakes are insane... As in as big as my face (that is, if it were flattened to the size of a pizza). The people are beautiful and generally of a good jovial nature. If I lived in a city like that, I would be, too. However, without a job or a study abroad curriculum, I would probably run out of things to do after 3 days. I do wish I had more time to explore Holland. Ah well there's always a next time.
The space cake.
I had gone back to the hostel and met with a fellow traveler whose name escapes me. Funny Brazilian fella with a knack for bringing along unusual souvenirs from his travels (i.e. glow-in-the-dark heavy metal skeleton). We exchanged travel stories and decided that it would be a fantastic idea to go to a wi-fi enabled Coffee Shop to try some of the more college-reknowned Amsterdam delicacies, then head over to the Red Light District assessing the view. He had also mentioned that taking pictures when stoned lends to a very distinctive artistic eye, so we grabbed our favorite cameras and headed off into the center.After literally scouting all of eastern Amsterdam for the perfect "Coffee" spot, we decided to park ourselves in a very rasta-flavored joint.
Immediately after opening the door, we were met with the thick unmistakable aroma of weed, hash and coffee with chill jamaican mixes playing in the background, and a gigantic Miami-style parrot stooped above the door... as if the hyper-jungle theme wasn't enough, there was a hammock to boot. Brazilian-buddy parked himself on a stool, laid out his laptop and ordered us a couple of cappucinos with a side of paper and hash for himself, and a giant slice of "space cake" for me.
As we sat comparing travelogue photographs swapping adventure stories, I began eating my unsuspectingly delicious space cake. With an eye on my watch, I expected to experience some sense of drugness to take effect half an hour to 45-minutes after ingesting this thing. I even left half of the cake in case they packed a lot of weedness into the butter (Brazil, for lack of a better name, had graciously explained the entire history behind weed and hash, and even offered me tips on the best space cake recipes--we had a 2-hour conversation on the varying types of weed in Amsterdam while at the hostel).
Half an hour goes by. Forty-five minutes. One whole hour. Nothing. Two whole hours and I decide that I am an impenetrable fortress of fantastic health and my liver had cleansed my body of any drug. Either that or I just had the most expensive, strange-tasting cake I've ever had in my life (at 4 euros for a pound-cake slice). Disappointed yet somewhat relieved, Brazil comforts me by dragging me along the Red Light District canal observing the thoroughfare that go through in the famous drag of the city.
Pretty hookers. Ugly hookers. Man-woman hookers. Unfortunately no scantily clad men on those neon-red windows, but between the Japanese tourists pointing and looking on with awe, the stupid young frat boys egging their buddies to go into transvestite windows, and local blue-collar men walking making their appointments, the Red Light District is an anthropologist's mecca of social interaction between social norms and taboos.
Three hours later and STILL no go.
After zigzagging in and out of the labyrinthine streets in this district, Brazil and I decide that the Red Light District is interesting, but not all that it's cracked up to be. So we decided to start heading south looking for more plazas and areas to take artistic pictures of.
Four hours later, having covered just about every plaza in the center of Amsterdam, we decide to head down towards the huge park near our hostel, behind the Rijks and Van Gogh museums. We stop briefly to freak out about the scarlet-red sky burning at sunset, grab a couple of beers at a night shop, and head on down through the park. We take awesome long-exposure shots of the amsterdam sign in front of the Rijks museum and I begin to notice that I desperately need water.
My mouth is incredibly dry. My tongue felt as if it had tripled in size. It kept sweeping over my teeth and I kept telling Brazil I needed water. Aside from this, things still felt normal, though I couldn't stop complaining how my space cake had yet to take its effect FOUR AND A HALF HOURS LATER.
We get to the hotel/hostel and the folks in the room had changed. It is now filled with four other American girls from the middle-of-no-where America (minus one Irish-American chick). They, at first, seemed incredibly nice and we begin swapping the day's stories and suggesting places for them to visit. Then the Irish chick (with a strong mid-west American accent) began talking. And all I could think of is, "why won't she stop talking? Jeez, she just never stops talking. She's never going to stop talking. Why is she still talking?"
And then I realized, the space cake has just TOTALLY side-swiped me! Lights begin to dance and everything is just far too slow for a New Yorker's mind to be processing. It felt like my 2008 G5 Mac was just replaced by a Windows '95 system and is dialing-up AOL to get online (wow, I am such a nerd sometimes...).
I freak. And decide that this feeling should never be repeated unless I am in nature and was about to paint something.
And because this Irish chick refused to stop YAMMERING about bullshit, I decide that it was time for me to hide under the covers and make myself sleep.
Five minutes of feeling high was enough for me, and I awoke the next day wondering why the hell it took nearly five hours for the cake to hit.
And that's the story of my only experience getting drugged (aside from alcohol).
***
Back to normalcy, the next day was spent writing postcards and visiting the Van Gogh museum. I really should have saved a bit of the space cake (I ate the rest while assessing the prostitutes along the Red Light District) to eat just before going to the Van Gogh museum. It was an interesting experience, and though Van Gogh never was a favorite painter of mine, I understood then why it was he painted the way he did.
As I continue on my journey to Bruges, the train speeds through the Dutch country side. All I see is Van Gogh everywhere animating the wind in the trees, caressing each dandelion, combing through the overgrown grass. Holland is beautiful and Van Gogh's works suddenly mean more
than bold brush strokes and solid unmixed palettes.
