It had been nearly two weeks since I left Greece, and I had been using most of the time alone to detoxify, somewhat.  It was one particularly gruesome morning, while lying around the hostel nursing a hangover that I decided to check my email.  I had just said goodbye to Mark and was killing some time before my train.  It appeared Dana and I had been sending messages to each other detailing the fact that we were both leaving for Amsterdam the next morning.  Yet, through all the messages, it appeared that neither one of us fully registered that we were going to be in Amsterdam at the same time.  The conversation was amazing, really.  We both talked about all the cool things we wanted to do, and how much more fun it would be if we were there together instead of by ourselves. 

I, in my much more sober state, became frantic and emailed several times asking when she would arrive and where she was staying.  I began pushing my luck for catching the next train to Amsterdam.

I was over the moon.  Amsterdam seemed much more enjoyable if I had someone to share it with.  I ran like the wind to the station and barely caught the train.  I took my seat.  A Dutch man walked down the aisle and eyed me suspiciously.  He had on a funny little hat that was slightly too big for his disproportionately tiny head and wore a mismatched pants suit.  His fashion sense and head size would suggest he was not of sound mind or stable character.  He said in a tone of voice that would suggest he might just shank me on a whim, “You are in my seat.”  I glared back.  It was the type of glare that I had perfected from years of shoddy boyfriends.  I knew I was not in his seat.  I had made reservations ahead of time.  That bastard was trying to bring me down, and I suspected it had something to do with the fact that I looked like a clueless traveler.  I took my time and replied, “No.”  I spoke much like a mother would if she caught her kid trying to do something forbidden.  My stare lingered for a few seconds for added effect.  “Hokay,” he says as he accepted his defeat and took a seat beside me. 

He introduced himself quickly and began to carry on polite conversation without any regard to the previous situation.  What an awkward little man.  His breath was quite musty and almost unbearable.  I could almost see the fumes coming from his mouth.  Most intolerably, his personal bubble was much smaller than mine, which was quite unfortunate.  I continued to lean away from him while he spoke until I was practically against the window.  The fumes continued to press against my nostrils.  Perhaps, there was a problem with dental hygiene in the Netherlands.  I would have to investigate this when I arrived. 

About half an hour later, my cup of coffee was began to take its toll.  I had not had a cup in at least a couple of days, so my bowels were screaming.  I pulled myself away from the incredibly malodorous conversation and headed up the aisle.  The bathrooms on the train were surprisingly posh with wood grain and elegant recessed lighting.  I entered the bathroom and fiddled with the locks for a bit.  Satisfied with my security, I sat down to conduct business.  After emptying my colon in its entirety, I was quite pleased with what I had done.  The bathroom had been sufficiently punished, and I was a bit concerned that it might not flush entirely.  I considered taking a picture so I could show Dana but decided against it.  I would just have to tell her about it.

All of the sudden, the door burst open.  Clearly, I did not know how to lock doors properly in Europe.  This was the third time someone had walked in on me in the potty, and the second time while I was in the midst of important business.  I could see his unsuspecting little face.  It was no longer the stench of the Dutchman I was worried about.  There was a mirror strategically placed in front of the toilet, and the poor unsuspecting bathroom patron could see me in all of my pooping glory.  He was equally mortified and quite visibly disgusted.  Bless his heart. 

I waited a long time before leaving the bathroom.  The wait was a bit excessive, at least twenty minutes.  I washed my hands, and calmly returned to my seat without incident and without making eye contact with anyone. 

Several hours later, the train pulled into the Amsterdam train station.  I had no reservations, as usual, and my thirst for a tasty beverage was menacing.  Was ten in the morning too early to start drinking?  Probably.  I followed my tiny map to a small but well known hostel across the street from the Red Light District.  It was slightly difficult to find my way around, but I figured it out after a while.  I opened the door and a cloud of smoke billowed out.  The hostel reeked of pot and looked like something from a hippy movie.  The smoke was so thick, it was almost suffocating.  There was a large area to the left full of pillows and cushions.  Directly in the center of the pillow area was a short round table with a half-dozen bongs on top.  Hippies were passed out left and right.  Some were lighting up while carrying on completely nonsense conversations about Existentialism and Lord of the Rings. 

I went to the check-in counter to inquire about an available bed.  Apparently, there were none.  I looked distraught, and the man behind the counter sympathized.  We discussed my options for a while before he directed me to an internet café and other hostels that were relatively tidy.  Well, as tidy as you can be in Amsterdam.  I went to the net café to see if Dana had written.  She had.  Apparently, when she read my frantic messages, she became frantic as well.  I had about seven or so messages from her.  I sent one back saying that I was going to look for a hostel and we would meet up.  I then went back to the first hostel.  I was in no mood to trot about the city looking for a bed and wanted to see if he’d do the leg-work for me by calling around.

I rocked back into the hostel.  The man behind the counter who had been so helpful flashed a huge smile.  “So glad you returned!  We had a cancellation.  I saved this bed for you just in case you came back.”  I was incredibly pleased.  I assured him that we would be best friends forever and to seal the deal we had a beer together before I went to put my things away. 

My bed was in a room with thirty-one other people.  It was the largest co-ed room in the hostel, and definitely the largest room I have ever stayed in.  Some of the people were definitely seedy.  One of the guys in the room had a particularly harsh look of paranoia when I opened the door.  He stared as though I had killed his puppy and had intentions of giving him the same fate.  If I’m not mistaken, he had an awkward twitch, and one eye seemed to move slower than the other.  “Don’t worry about him,” his mate started, “He’s having a bad trip.  Too many ‘shrooms.”  I smiled faintly and walked to my bed.  I planned on taking a nap, but having a stranger with a bad trip in my room put a damper on things. 

I had a few hours to kill before Dana’s expected arrival time, so I decided to do what I do best.  I went to another bar.  The Rugby World Cup was happening, and the Wales v. Australia game was playing.  I could not be happier.  Nearly every Aussie and Welsh in Amsterdam was in this one tiny bar.  I had a yellow sweater on so I decided it would be best to cheer for Australia.  We sang, we cheered, and we drank.  It was a lovely afternoon.  Several pints later, I said goodbye to my new friends that I would never see again and headed back to the hostel.

I sat at the hostel bar visiting for a while.  Inevitably, someone broke out the hash and passed it around.  It was a one-hit wonder.  We sat at that bar for what seemed like three straight days.  I scribbled down some of our conversations on a napkin.  I don’t understand my notes though.  Apparently, there is some sort of link between getting a tattoo, buying pot, and being pregnant.  Although, I am not quite sure what it is. 

A million hours later, Dana walks into the hostel.  We hugged and squealed at our unexpected meet-up.  She inquired as to what I had been doing, but I could not quite keep up with the conversation.  She laughed at my attempt at reasonable and sensible dialogue.  It was to no avail.  We decided that the next acceptable step in our grand adventure would be a visit to one of Amsterdam’s famed coffee shops, and to a coffee shop we did go.  Actually, we went to three.  We had a space cake, a special brownie, and a cookie.  Each.  To be fair, I did advise her that she was eating too much and was going to be sick.  It was no use.

We hung around the last coffee shop for a while until we decided we were hungry.  We then proceeded to blow three days’ worth of budget in the next two hours.  We sprung for Asian food.  Then, we went for frites.  Then, we went for waffles.  Then, we had Asian food again.  I am reasonably confident that there were beers interspersed.  Covered in noodles and with chopsticks in our pockets (just in case a situation arose when we would need them), we walked in the general direction of the hostel.  The city was spinning, the lights were bright, and Dana was positive that the cops were coming to get her. 

We plopped down in the pillow lounge, and undid the top buttons of our jeans so our bellies could be free.  We stared at the ceiling without speaking for what seemed like hours.  Finally, Dana spoke. 

“Whoa,” she started, “You see that paint chip?”
“Yea…”
“It looks kinda like a mouse.  And the disco ball… it… it makes it look like it’s running on cheese.”
“Dude...  You’re right.”
Silence, as we stared at this amazingly animate phenomenon.
“Dana!  Did you see that?”
“YEA!”
“It’s doing somersaults and shit!”
“Wow… We need to tell somebody right away.  They need to do something about that.  That’s gotta be a health hazard or something.”
“Yeah…”

Fortunately, our motivation took a nose-dive out the window and left us with no incentive to alert the proper authorities.  No one would ever know about the mouse. 

“Danielle, I’m going to take a nap.  Wake me up when I’m done.”

I made a mental note to do so as she began to fall asleep.  I laid there motionless.  Having nothing else to do, I began listening to a conversation between some Canadian girls, and realized they were making fun of Dana for falling asleep in the common area.  Clearly, they thought I was asleep.  Clearly, I was not. 

“Stupid Americans, eh.  Can’t hold their pot.  I’ve been smoking since I was like twelve, eh…  Seriously, don’t come to Amsterdam if you can’t handle it…”

The conversation continued like this for quite some time, all the while I made horrible insults about their weight under my breath.  This could be the only reason I could not give Amsterdam a gold star.  This beautiful and historic city attracts copious amounts of tourists who don’t fully understand that Amsterdam is more than lax hallucinogen restrictions.  Thus, hordes of young backpackers, who think they are sensational because they smoke, fill the streets and hostels.  Seriously?  You’re cool because you’ve smoked pot since you were twelve?  She deserved a cookie for being so incredibly awesome. 

Despite my usual inclination to rabidly defend myself and my friends, I decided to ignore her for a while.  Well, it was more along the lines of I couldn’t be bothered to say anything.  After all, my motivation was out the window.

Dana woke up in a state of fright.  “I need to go to the hospital,” she groaned.
“Why?” I asked.
“My heart has stopped beating.”
“Lemme see.”  I checked her pulse.  It had not. “No it hasn’t.  Go back to sleep.”
“Oh… No wait… It’s going too fast!!”
“No, it’s not.  Go back to sleep.”
“I think I’m allergic!  I can’t breathe!”
“Inhale, Dana.  Take a deep breath.”
“Ok.”
She sat in silence for a little while without any breathing problems.
“Danielle?”
“Yes?”
“Can you take me to the hospital?”
“Why?”
“I can’t feel my legs.  I think I might not be able to walk.”
“Where are you trying to walk?” I ask.
“I don’t know.  Anywhere.”
“Well, I don’t want you to leave me here.”
“Seriously, I can’t feel my legs.  This is not good.”
“You’re not supposed to feel your legs.  Go to sleep.”
“I’m sooooo scared!”
“Dammit Dana, if you don’t go to sleep, I’m going to leave you with the Canadians.”
“There’s Canadians!?”
“Yes.  And they’re waiting to get you.”
“Ok, I’ll go to sleep.  Just don’t leave me with them.”

She slept for another hour or so, waking every now and then to inquire about the presence of the Canadians.  I was left in silence to ponder life.  At about five in the morning, I decided that I was going to bed and tried to wake her up.  At which point, she informed me that she felt sick and was going to yak if I tried to move her.  I replied that I would take her to the toilet if it got to that point.  She agreed and sat up.

I helped Dana to her feet, and listened to her thank me endlessly for taking up for her.  She then proceeded to rush to the bathroom.  I went to bed and woke up to find her on the manky floor with a towel for a blanket and my shoes for a pillow.  Still unmotivated, I went back to sleep.  I woke once again, and saw that she was now in someone else’s bed curled in the fetal position.  I made a mental note to keep her drug-free from now on.

The next morning, or the afternoon rather, I woke to find that my eye was infected and had swollen shut; probably the result of karma kicking my ass for calling the Canadian a stupid fat-ass the night before.  Whatever, I’ll take an eye infection over that girl living another day with self respect.  Too harsh?  Maybe.  I went down to the bar and asked for a bag of ice.  Apparently, I looked like a freak, and people took notice.  My eye was red, puffy, and dripping with puss and tears.  The barkeep thought I had been in a fight.  I put ice on it and set off for the Van Gogh museum.  I was undeterred by my situation but miserable.  My eye hurt, I couldn’t see properly, and my clothes smelled like pot and Chinese food.