Friday morning. I decide I want to walk leisurely to the bus stop with Helen and Lindsay rather than run to the train station to meet Juan and Jack. "See you at the airport, man."No. No such thing. Our bus gets delayed somewhere between half an hour to an hour. (There was a lane closed on the highway. Apparently Italians don't know how to merge. This makes sense because they don't know how to form lines either. They just crowd.) The girls and I miss our check-in by five minutes. We have rebook our flight. We're stuck. But we're still in Italy, and we're stuck in Pisa. We buy a pizza - pizza at Pisa! - and go sit on the grass around The Leaning Tower. We ordered Napoli Pizza to be adventurous, but it's anchovies and capers. It's surprisingly good. We get gelato while heading back to the airport. We fly away.
Friday night we arrive at the airport in Belgium. We walk around Brussels for a while because we have a few hours until our train to Amsterdam. We grab dinner at a Mediterranean place. The staff is really nice. They keep the place open late for us. They point us toward a nearby bar when we ask for the check. We don't make it to the bar. We see a sketchy looking door that says Africa Music Club. We can't help but investigate. It's a bar. Our waitress is beautiful, but we think she'll be creeped out if we take a picture of her. We drink several bottles of Jupiter. Alliteration. Belgian beer brewed and bottled in Belgium. We play gin rummy. Eventually one of the black guys convinces us to dance despite being tired. He says something about not knowing whether we'll be alive tomorrow, so we should live tonight as much as possible. It sounds like my favorite James Dean motto. And he says it in French. So we all dance. The playlist is awesome. It's everything with a good beat and a good melody: American hip-hop, Latin music, reggae, and even some African music. Some of the people there are crazy good at dancing. One hilarious guy walks up to me and starts copying movements. It's like watching a mirror. Then he has me try some of his. Eventually like four guys crowd around Helen. They're not pushy like Italians or bump-and-grind like Americans, but she gets tired of it and we head to the station at four in the morning. We bump into the same security guard who told us when our train was a few hours ago. He thinks we've been lost in the station all night. He's really nice and helpful. All the Belgians are awesome. They have a great sense of design, fashion, and are friendly. They also all speak at least four languages. It's a great country. I'm going back. We get on a train at six.
We pass out on the train for three hours and wake up in Amsterdam around nine on Saturday morning. Juan and Jack are waiting for us at the train platform. They haven't slept. We didn't have a place to stay for that night anyway. Outside the station, Helen's friend Nikita meets up with us. She's also from Zimbabwe. It's her birthday. We all start walking. I blaze a trail to the first coffeehouse I see. Coffee and cake. Breakfast of champions. We walk around Amsterdam. It's amazing. Somewhere between Venice and New Orleans. There are canals, but they aren't annoying like Venice. It's easy to get around. There are bike paths everywhere. There's lots of Green like New Orleans' Garden District and small roads like in the quarter. It actually looks a lot like the quarter except without as many bars but just as many neon signs. Indonesian food is to to here as Indian food is to London. There are also lots of Argentine restaurants, inexplicably. We go to Vondelpark and walk the path. We buy hot dogs (with crazy toppings like sauerkraut, curry ketchup, onions, fried something, and sriracha hot sauce). They're good. We almost fall asleep. We get up and go to The Van Gogh Museum. It's amazing. Juan decides to sleep outside instead. Jack, Lindsay, and I join him. They fall asleep. I'm still hungry. I find a stand that sells Belgian waffles, chocolate, and soft-serve vanilla ice cream. I have them top a waffle with melted chocolate and ice cream for me. It's amazing. I wake Jack up. He loves it. He goes to sleep again. I get hungry again, for real food this time, and go get a "big boy burger."" In my stupor I call it a Monster Burger. The lady laughs, and she makes it monstrous by putting extra cheese and extra bacon on it. We regroup outside the museum. We finally go to our hotel and pass out.
When we wake up, we've overslept the alarms we set for dinner. All of us. Light is shining through the curtains. It's 8:15. Jack doesn't believe that it's still Saturday night: "Fuck you. It's morning. Where's Prima?" Eventually he's convinced and we all go to dinner at an Indian restaurant. We all eat too much, but we're in Amsterdam, and it's Kit's birthday, and we're well-rested and well-fed so we go to a coffeehouse after. It's named Ben, so I miss Ben. Cake and coffee. Breakfast Dessert of champions. We walk around The Red Light District. We enter a few sex stores. I'm jaded to both, but some of the others look like they're in awe. We go to another coffeehouse. After sitting in there for ten minutes, we realize it's a gay coffeehouse. But we don't care. They're all having fun. And so are we. When we leave from that, we decided to put Helen to bed since she's got an early flight. We go back to the hotel, hug and double-kiss her goodbye, and pass out.
It's Sunday now. Sunday morning. (A lie, Sunday morning just ended because it's past noon.) I wake up, and soon after Nikita comes to say goodbye. I hug her goodbye in my underwear and lie down again. Jack says bye. She doesn't bother waking up Juan, but I think she said goodbye to Lindsay. She leaves. I can't fall asleep again. I get dressed and go downstairs. The computers in the lounge are taken. I buy a bottle of Aquarius (like Gatorade, but the official sports drink of The Olympics). I go upstairs and take a vitamin. Still can't sleep. I come back downstairs. The computers are still taken. A girl is sitting nearby on the couches. We make friends. Her name is Joan or Joann or Joanna. She's from Seattle. She offers me some of her muffin. I happily accept - because I did sleep late enough to miss breakfast - and we drink tea from her thermos. She tells me to friend her on facebook when I get online, but I forget her last name and am not even sure of her first one. The idiots who have been talking loudly about Facebook Applications and Myspace and typing with only two fingers finally get off the computer. (I am glad they are not American because everyone has been glaring at them.) I get online. I am online. I am in Amsterdam. I am in Amsterdam. I AM STERDAM.
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