Off to Amsterdam

Our train was leaving for Amsterdam at 12:30pm, so my sister and I had time to take a leisurely lunch and get to the train station with time to spare. We borded the train, and I settled into my seat with a book. We were halfway through the Netherlands when the attendant started her ticket check. When she got to our seats we handed our Eurail passes up, and after checking them she said to us, "that will be 12 euros please." Naturally, my sister and I were confused, we'd already bought a $280 Eurail pass, which meant any trainride we took within a 2 month period was in a sense prepaid. We asked why, and she told us it was because we were sitting in 1st class. We tried to reason with her, but she said that because we were too close to Amsterdam it would not be possible to "just switch cars." Her attitude was hauty and I could tell she enjoyed every minute as we scrounged around for 24 Euros. Before she moved on she told us that differentiating between 1st class and 2nd class was as easy as reading the giant signs on the side of the cars. "There's a big 1 for first class and a 2 for second class written on the side." If this seems condescending that's because it was, and we were left with even less drinking money as before. Damn!

We pulled into the station, and pulled out the address to our hostel. We walked for two hours looking for it, finally giving up and spending money on a taxi. By this time we were simply on our last leg mentally, spiritually and emotionally, we were missing home, but also determined to squeeze every experience out of our time. But even that can be taxing on the mind and body. After the train and taxi debaucle we were please to have a bed to rest on. The attendant gave us our keys and told us she had a surprise in store. Not knowing what this meant, and fearing the worst, we backed away slowly from the desk and mounted the steps to our room. Opening the door revealed a single room with two beds. I thought there had been some mistake as we had booked a communal room for eight people. I rushed downstairs and told the clerk, but she simply smiled and told me that they had run out of beds in the eight person rooms, and that we could have the single room for the same price. I guess all energy does flow according to the whims of the great magnet.

We left promptly and made for the Leidstraat, or the big commercial street with shops and restaurants. We ate at a well-lit restaurant/pub on Italienne street, and after my sister went in a few shops and I checked out a bookstore. We were drained and so finding out hostel again, this time without a taxi, we decided to crash and relax.

My sister took a nap, and I sat on the balcony reading. Suddenly a the window to the room next to us opened and out popped a guy about my age holding two beers. He was my height with brown hair and a French nose and a weak chin. He asked me if I wanted a beer and I said yes. He said his name was Adrien, and we started talking and I learned he and his friend David were on vacation from Belgium. Soon David popped his head out and said hello, and I told them both about our trip so far. After a few more beers and many stories and jokes, they asked if I smoked weed. I said I had in the past. And they asked if I wanted to smoke with them, and I said sure. David pulled out his stash that he had just bought, which included 3-4 new brands he picked up from a coffeeshop and had never tried before. It was nice to talk to them, even though it was difficult at times due to the language barrier. David hardly spoke english and Adrien's accent was so thick that I couldn't understand half of what he said. It became harder when the weed kicked in, and soon I was marginally catatonic. They invited me to a discoteque, and I told them I wanted to go but was too tired. In reality the beer mixed with weed had caught hold of my stomach and spun my head around making me dizzy and sick. They left, and I promply entered into the room and stood holding the bedpost. My sister said something like, "you look pale." I said something like "Damn right I look pale!" Before rushing to the bathroom and throwing up my dinner. I learned the hard way that alcohol and weed do not mix, and that the Belgian stomach is much more impervious to the effects of drink and smoke than Americans are. Well, some at least.