Friday, October 31, 2014

Amsterdam Eleven: Vanessa



Around 11:30 PM I received a call from the front desk. I was informed that a “Miss Vanessa” was waiting in the lobby. I had read the guidelines about the hotel and there was apparently a strict policy about escorts. I told the concierge I’d be right down. I put on my shoes, looked in the mirror, and realized that was a mistake. I was tripping really hard. I managed to become functional, but my shoes seemed to be sinking into the carpet as I walked toward the door. I didn’t want to touch the handle with my hand—I don’t know why—so I used my elbow. I made it through the doorway and noticed the walls of the hallway were breathing in and out. I felt crushed then expanded, my breath matching the rhythm of the walls. I saw the elevator and looked at the button. It was red. Bright red against metallic silver. I pushed the red button and heard a whirring sound. I didn’t know if that was good or bad. I hoped no one would be in the elevator when it arrived. The doors opened and it was empty. Thank god for small favors.

Once inside I saw the panel of buttons. The one labeled “L” was the one I wanted but I had a hard time getting to it. The air was thick as molasses. I could have gone on a voyage to Iceland in the time it took to press the button. The doors closed and I felt the lighter gravity of going down. My stomach felt woozy. Not nauseous, sort of jellyish. The elevator whispered to a halt. “Wow, silent landing. I could sneak up on someone right now.” The doors opened and I realized I needed to exit. I walked around the corner to the lobby and saw Vanessa.

She looked radiant in the soft lights of the lobby. Her hair was shimmering blackness. Jet black mascara, winter white cheeks, and liquid red lips. She wore a black leather jacket that came down just below her waist. Six-plus inches of a denim miniskirt peeked out from under. Black diamond stockings gripped her slender legs and shiny black boots climbed up her calf. She was Romanian but my mind registered her as Russian. She was maybe 5'4" with heels, but otherwise looked like she could pass in a James Bond movie. For a brief moment, I thought she might have poison plastic on those liquid lips. Maybe she intended to kiss me to death. I thought that would be one of the best ways to die.

Apparently I was gaping at her because the concierge lightly coughed. I snapped to and turned to him. He said, “Miss Vanessa, sir.” I said, “Yes, I see. Thank you.” I don’t know if I was smiling or ogling or exactly how I looked because I was so wrapped up in her. She curled her lips into a smile and widened them enough for me to see her gleaming white teeth. “Michael,” she said, “Darling.” She walked over and gave me a kiss on the cheek. “Shall we?” she asked. Dumbfounded, I merely nodded. I turned to the concierge and nodded to him as well, but he had already turned his back to us.

Vanessa walked me to the elevator and as we turned the corner she whispered to me, “Are you high?” Her voice was sing-song with a thick, sexy accent. It may have been the shrooms talking, but I responded, “I’m drunk on you right now.” She gave out a little laugh then asked which floor. I held up four fingers and stared at them. She pushed the button and the doors opened immediately. She pulled me in behind her and pressed “4.” The doors closed and we were alone together. I turned to her and asked if I could kiss her. She smirked. “No rush, baby. I here all night. We get you to room first.” She was clearly amused by my bizarre behavior and looking at me with eyes that said “You are not who I expected you to be, certainly not at this address.” Her eyes were also soft and kind. To my eyes she appeared to be glad I was different.

The elevator doors opened and Vanessa pulled me by the hand, ever so gently, out of the elevator. “Which room?” I pointed and she walked me over. “You are puppy dog, baby. I like you, but you are strange.” She kept smiling that smile with the lips that dripped lipstick. I unlocked the door with my magnetic card and opened it for her. Vanessa walked inside and I followed behind. She unbuttoned her coat and let it fall to the floor. She wore a tight-fitting black blouse with a couple buttons undone to expose her cleavage. The blurb on the web site mentioned that she had natural breasts. They weren’t completely exploding through her shirt but under different circumstances she would be better off wearing a size larger.

The blouse fit tight around her shapely waist. Her skirt clung tightly to her ass. She twirled halfway round to face me, one leg out at an angle with her other planted firmly and straight. She nodded her head once toward me and flipped her wrist over to casually point. “You close door or you want whole floor hang out here?” She shook her head. “You are piece of work, baby.” That accent! Le sigh. I closed the door with my foot without taking my eyes off of her. I was in awe, but I was also hungry for her.

“I want to lick you all over.” Vanessa stared at me wide-eyed. “Did I say that out loud? I meant to ask if you want anything to drink.” She laughed. I opened the refrigerator and saw super-orange orange juice, dull green Heineken bottles, little itty-bitty bottles of Scotch, whiskey, vodka, and rum, an assortment of candy bars, and the rest just blurred together. It was like a clown car for drinks and snacks. I couldn’t believe the little thing could hold so much. I thought there might be a compartment in the wall where a walk-in cooler existed and a tiny man pushed and pushed and pushed all the stuff he could fit into the refrigerator until it bulged to the brink of explosion. I believed this was really true, as real as Vanessa standing in my hotel room. Then I thought it was unreal that she was standing in my hotel room. Was she really here? I was afraid to turn around and find out that it had all been a hallucination, a shroomy dream that had dissipated, and I’d be alone again, left with my ganja and a refrigerator that wanted to be bigger than it was.

As I turned around something shifted within me and when I saw her I realized what it was. She was real, a very real woman with a very real heart and mind. Some latent virtue came rising to the surface and I said to her, “Vanessa, if you don’t want to be here you don’t have to stay. I don’t want you to do anything you don’t want to do. I’ll pay you a gratuity as if you’d stayed all night even if you leave right now.” Vanessa’s mouth dropped open. She closed her eyes and shook her head and a bit of her torso as if she had a chill or a sudden recollection of a bad experience. When she opened her eyes she looked puzzled and taken aback. She asked, “Is this trick? I no like being toy, you know?”

I responded, “No, no. I’m being honest. I just … this is the first time I’ve ever done this and I don’t … I don’t want to take advantage of you.” Upon hearing this, her eyes went wide, her open mouth spread into a smile, and she clutched her belly as she doubled over. “Oh … my … god.” She started laughing. “You are … you are like virgin!”

I blushed. “Well, when it comes to escorts, I am a virgin.”

She shook her head and walked toward me. “Baby,” she said. I loved how she said baby. That accent was intoxicating. She put her arms around my neck and let her hands dangle. She leaned in and gave me a very gentle but sensuous kiss. “I here, baby. I here with you all night, okay?” My knees were a little weak and my lips were pulsating. My tongue felt like the size of a football. I tried to say something but my gigantic tongue wouldn’t let me. She put a finger to my lips anyway. She asked if I had any music. I forced my tongue to cooperate. “No, I don’t think so.” I remembered my laptop. “Maybe you can find something on YouTube.” Her eyes lit up and she walked over to the computer. I sat down on the bed and watched.

She bent over with her ass a foot or so from my face. I pondered it. A shroom voice that had a lot of hair on it said, “Grab her ass!” but then a shroomy Vanessa voice said, “Chill, you got all night, baby.” My mind said baby with Vanessa’s lilt. I went to the fridge. I saw the empty space where the Heineken I had drank earlier had been. The tiny man had forgotten to push more beer into the fridge. I asked Vanessa if she wanted a drink. She said a beer would be good so I grabbed a bottle of Heineken and opened it using the gizmo on the side of the fridge. The bottle cap clanked and fell to the floor. I looked at it and it seemed like a green life boat in a blood-red carpet sea. I picked it up to rescue potential survivors. As I stood there I felt myself sinking further into the floor. I figured it had to be the shoes so I removed them. My feet felt better and the carpet somehow seemed more stable. There was obviously something very strange about the soles of those shoes. Sole? Soul? Different spellings, different meanings, same sound. I shook my head and said aloud, “That’s fucked up.”

Suddenly gypsy music filled the room. I screamed, “Aaaaahhhhhh!” I turned around and saw Vanessa whip her head around at me. She looked shocked. “What? You no like?” I said, “No, no, I heard something and didn’t know—never mind.” Gypsy music seemed like a really odd choice; the fiddling was better for stomping about than setting a mood. Sure enough, though, Vanessa stomped around in a weird Romanian jig. She grabbed the bottle from my hand and took a big drink. She let out a squeal “Aieeeeya!” and continued gyrating and spinning as she danced, throwing her arms above her head, nearly flinging the bottle to the ceiling. She caught herself and brought it back down without spilling a drop. She half crouched, covered her mouth with her hand, and giggled. She pulled her hand away and looked at me with an eyes-wide grin as she said, “Oops.”

I shook my head slowly side to side and smiled at her. I reached out and she handed me the beer. I took a drink and handed it back to her. I asked her, “You like this music?” Her eyes went wide again as did her mouth. “You are joking, no? This is Romania’s best singer group!” She uttered ten syllables in Romanian something akin to “Uzabekesculatoradia.” It sounded like a weird fusion of Russian and Italian. She handed me the beer and again started dancing, this time sensually as the rhythm of the song changed. Her back was to me and she raised her arms above her head as her hips gently swayed. With a toe out front she gently tapped it again and again as she turned toward me. She very purposefully placed one foot directly in front of the other as she walked to me. She dipped her head and her face became shrouded by hair. Her deep, dark eyes peered through her hair. They were twinkling, so vibrantly full of life I gasped.

“Baby,” she said, followed by a string of Romanian words ending finally with iubescu. I was able to catch the last word and pronounce it correctly. I asked Vanessa what it meant. “It means ‘I love you.’” I stared at her thinking, wow, she doesn’t need much to get her going. She smirked, “The song. I repeat the words to you. It’s sexy.” She kissed me again. “Come, you dance with me, no?” I said, no, I’d rather sit and watch. The shrooms were losing energy and I felt anchored to the bed. She shrugged and started dancing again, sensuously moving her body. I drank the Heineken while watching. I remembered the marijuana and figured a small toke might take me back up a little higher. I grabbed my bowl, lit it, and inhaled. I blew smoke toward her and she laughed. “No wonder you are strange. You are always high.” I asked her if she wanted a hit and she gave me a hard, clipped, “No.” It sounded like she’d cut off the end of the “o” with a machete. Her eyes saddened and her lips formed a pout. “I no like.” It was so sexy! Fuuuuuck!

Honestly, I just wanted to listen to her speak. The accent made me delirious. I felt the flush of the pot mix with the shrooms and I leapt up to hug her. “It’s okay, baby”—now I was saying baby like she did—“I want you to be happy.” I was grinning ear to ear and I felt a wave of euphoria come over me. I blurted out, “We have to celebrate! I just made eight million dollars today! Whooooo!” I jumped up and down and started trying to dance to the song. I lost track of Vanessa and once the song ended I stopped moving. It had been an incredibly long song, perhaps a mix of many songs. I looked around until I saw her sitting on the edge of the bed, her mini skirt exposing just a smidge of the crotch of her panties. She was propping herself up with her hands behind her, leaning back a bit with her breasts thrust forward. Her head was tilted to the side. “You dance good.” A pause, “You are millionaire?”

I was high and the shrooms were back, clocking a gigabyte per second. “Oh, yeah, I am filthy rich!” I wasn’t sure why I was saying this, but there was something about spending gobs of cash that made me feel giddy. She was playing a role with me and something in me said, “Play a role with her!” So I played Big Daddy Warbucks. “I wish I had a cigar right now.”

She responded, “Ewww. Cigar is gross. It is for fat, greasy man who hate women. No, you are not cigar man.” She stood up and put her arms around my neck. “No, you are fun, you like life. You are strange and maybe drug addict, but you are good.” Addict? Ha! I was no addict. Neither mushrooms nor cannabis are addictive. Granted, to her eyes I was drinking beer, smoking dope, and maybe she figured I had taken ecstasy rather than shrooms. Given that, I understood why she would say it. But I felt defensive, like I had been insulted. I was on vacation, a vacation from my vacation, but she didn’t know that. Now that I had told her I was a millionaire she probably thought I was a trust fund baby or … who knows?

“You like drugs? You want cocaine?” I was super high and whatever rational part of me existed was lying on the floor completely incapacitated. I yelped, “Yes!” She said, “Okay, I make phone call.” She went for her hand-sized purse, pulled out a teeny phone, pushed a button, flipped her hair to the side of her head, and put the gizmo to her ear. A moment passed and then she began speaking Romanian again. There was a back-and-forth for a couple minutes before she hung up. “Okay. He call me twenty minutes and we go to lobby to get cocaine.”

The rational part of me jumped off the floor of my mind. “Whoa! Not in the lobby.” She cut me off quickly. “No, in car outside hotel, silly. He call. Twenty minutes.” Vanessa smiled. “You want ‘nother song, baby?” She paused. Then she undid one of the buttons of her blouse further exposing her cleavage and the edges of her lacy black-and-red bra. She turned to the computer, clicked a video on YouTube, and started dancing again. The song was much slower and the voice was of a Romanian Frank Sinatra. Vanessa licked her lips, turned to the fridge, and grabbed one of the seven Euro Heinekens.

It dawned on me that I probably didn’t have enough cash for the cocaine. Before Vanessa could turn around and start dancing again I asked her how much for the coke. She said, nonchalantly, 60 Euros. I told her I needed to go to an ATM machine, that I didn’t have that much cash on me. I panicked for just a second before she turned, smiling, to say that cash wasn’t necessary. “You pay with credit card, no problem.” Credit card? Credit card?! For cocaine?! I was flabbergasted. Vanessa danced sensuously but I was distracted. I filled a cup of water from the tap in the bathroom sink and drank it to fend off dehydration.

Twenty minutes passed while dancing, hugging, kissing, and singing. God, she was fun. Vanessa’s phone rang. She said something in Romanian and then, “Okay.” She hung up and grabbed her coat. “Now we go.” We went out into the hallway and I noticed my visuals were gone. I was still high, but mainly stony. I wasn’t sure what time it was but Vanessa had arrived more than an hour earlier. We took the elevator down, walked out of the lobby past the concierge’s desk, and over to a taxi parked just outside. A valet was nearby. I was a little nervous: smoking pot in my room, an escort in tow, buying cocaine in the valet drive-up.

We got into the backseat. Vanessa said something in Romanian and then the handsome, middle-aged dark-haired man replied. Vanessa nudged me and said, “Is okay. You give him card.” I handed him my credit card as he reached over the seat. He had an old-fashioned card slider. He did his thing and returned my card before reaching in a black backpack to pull out a little plastic bag filled with white powder. He ripped off the yellow receipt from the card swiper and handed it to me with the plastic baggie. I took the receipt and baggie and put them in my pocket. Vanessa pulled herself forward, grabbing the back of the front seat to do so, and placed a tiny kiss on the man’s cheek. He smiled and said, “Ja, ja. Go.”

We exited the cab and I looked toward the valet. He seemed entirely uninterested but I said to him anyway, “Changed our minds.” He didn’t look my way or even blink. It dawned on me that I probably was not the first nor would I be the last to conduct business that way. Staying at such a hotel has the wonderful benefit of affording ultimate privacy and nonjudgmentalness … on the surface, at least.

As we entered the elevator and the doors closed I thought, “Buying coke through a taxi driver ... what a brilliant cover! I love this city.” Vanessa was relaxed but quiet. When the elevator doors opened we walked to my door and I unlocked it. We entered and Vanessa again let her coat slide off of her onto the floor. She turned and gave me a relaxed smile. “You want line?” I said yes. She looked around the room for a suitable surface for the blow. I had brought a couple of CDs with me in case there was a stereo in the room—there wasn’t—and pulled out a case. Vanessa said “Yes, perfect.” I pulled the gram out of my pocket, placed the case on the top of the dresser, and dumped a couple rocks onto it. I pulled out my wallet and took out my credit card. I placed it flat against the case on top of the rocks. I pressed down softly, swirled it around a bit, pressed again, and swirled it one last time. I lifted the credit card and used the room key to scrape off the residue. I swiped a finger across the area and licked the white dust off. Instant nummie and just a hint of waking. I used the edge of my credit card to dice up the coke into a finer powder. I separated the pile into two sizeable lines. I had a couple of five Euro bills in my wallet. I handed one to Vanessa and I rolled one up for myself. I got up and offered her the first line.

I learned to use separate bills for snorting coke during my separation in Chicago. My time spent with brokers involved plenty of cola. One of them informed me that AIDS was easily transmitted through the nostrils. Using the same bill as everyone else increased the odds of contracting disease. I wasn’t sure if it was true or not, but better safe than sorry—especially with an escort. I didn’t want to make any harsh judgments but I figured it was prudent to be cautious.

Vanessa bent over and snorted a line. She stood up like a shot, like someone from beneath the floor had grabbed her breasts and shoved her as hard as possible toward the ceiling. She sniffed and breathed, sniffed and breathed, and then burst: “Oh, yeah!” Here she was calling me a drug addict! I was beginning to wonder myself: beer, pot, shrooms, and cocaine. Quite a night. Oh, and an escort to boot at a high-end hotel during a luxury-away-from-luxury weekend. Damn, I was doing it right. Fuck Vegas. I was plenty happy with the decadence of Amsterdam. I hadn’t been gambling yet, but there was a casino in the city if I got the urge to play Texas Hold’em.

I took my turn and zoomed a line. I shot up just like Vanessa. I had been on one knee and found myself feeling like I might hit the ceiling no matter how high it was. I was instantly flying. “Wow,” I said to Vanessa over and over. “This is really good coke.” I wasn’t sure if it was completely pure, but there was no ether or any other additives I could detect. Not that I was an expert, but I’d done some “rocket fuel” in my youth and so I knew the smell of ether in the nose. This stuff was as soft and odorless as powdered snow.

I turned toward Vanessa and her eyes were bulging from her head. She was panting and her chest was heaving, her breasts rising and falling. She started undressing, letting her blouse dropped to the floor. Her lacy black bra was see-through. She had sizeable areolas and protruding nipples. She zipped off her mini-skirt, not fast but with a little urgency. Her sheer black panties contrasted with her smooth alabaster white skin. Her breasts were perfectly rounded in the bra. She stopped what she was doing and said to me, “We share a bath, no?” I nodded my head while thinking, “We share a bath, yes.”

I unbuttoned my shirt. As I did she stepped over to kiss me, her hands sliding down my back, squeezing my ass, and then coming around to the front. She unbuckled my belt, unzipped my pants, reached a hand down, and grabbed hold of my growing erection. She pulled her mouth away from mine and pulled me by my dick to the bathroom, looking back at me with mischievous eyes and a sexy grin. She wiggled her nose and giggled. Adorable. She was sexy, beautiful, and cute all at the same time. I couldn’t figure out how she pulled it off, but I appreciated the rare combination while becoming more aroused.

The bathroom counter had a variety of goodies including a small bottle for a bubble bath. Vanessa bent over and started the tub as I uncorked the bubble bottle. I put my hand on a cheek of her rounded ass, squeezed while appreciating the firmness, and dumped the contents of the bottle into the water. Vanessa stood up and unbuttoned her bra. Her breasts spilled out. They were perfect or as close to perfect as I’d ever seen. She was breathing heavy and I noticed I was as well. I pushed down my pants and took off my shirt. Vanessa pulled down my boxers as she licked her lips and made a move that made me think she was going to take my cock in her mouth. She stopped, looked up at me, and winked. “Later, baby. Not without protection.”

Vanessa stood up again and pulled down her panties. She was completely waxed and I noticed the dimple of her labia before she turned to climb into the tub. I stepped out of my pants and underwear and joined her. The tub was mostly full and filled with bubbles. Vanessa’s breasts floated as they protruded from the top of the foam. We settled down and relaxed. She asked me if I liked her. “Of course I do!” She looked at me coyly. “You no like my breasts? Come, wash me.” I struggled for words before sliding to her and cupping them in my hands. They were slippery and soft but firm. I squeezed gently and massaged them. She laid her head back and closed her eyes. I allowed one hand to move down her stomach below her navel. She had fleshy abs. They were trim and silky to the touch, slick with the water and oils of the bubbles. She gave out a low moan as I lowered my hand further. It was as if we were at a sex spa. Vanessa then washed me, taking special care to massage between my legs. This time my head was rolled back with my eyes closed and I let out sighing moans of pleasure. It had been a long time since I had been in a bubble bath with a woman. I forgot how erotic it could be.

We got out of the tub and dried one another with enormous white towels. We put on cozy white robes and walked to the bed. Vanessa let herself fall back and her robe came open exposing her body. She looked incredibly sexy and I gently climbed on top of her allowing my own robe to open. She shifted before I touched down and climbed out of bed. She went to the dresser for her purse. She pulled out a condom and climbed beside me. She pushed me over onto my back, bit open the wrapper, and took out the rubber. She slid it on me and then lifted her leg to mount. She slowly lowered herself onto me and I slid inside her. Her eyes were closed and her head was bent forward, her arms dangling at her sides. She removed her robe entirely and quickened her pace. Her eyes opened and fixed on mine as she moved faster. I rolled my hips and twirled her onto the bed beside me, moving along with her without sliding out. It was my turn to take off my robe and I placed my hands on her breasts while slowly but rhythmically gliding in and out. I thrust harder and she winced, telling me to slow down.

“You are too big.” Was that a line escorts give their customers? She felt tight and other than her breasts she was petite. I couldn’t enter all the way so maybe penetrating too hard was painful. I slowed my pace and went in and out only halfway. It had been two-thirds of a year since having sex, but I was glad to see that sexual movement was like riding a bike. Everything came back to me. I wondered, though, how many men this nineteen year old woman had seen as an escort. I pushed the thought out of my mind. Why think about that? I was the one with her now.

We switched back and forth from foreplay to fucking, changing positions along the way. When I came I rolled off her, panting, not used to such activity in bed. The coke was wearing off. Vanessa got out of bed as I had been thinking that and started chopping more coke and forming more lines. I got off the bed and joined her. It was fun watching Vanessa snort lines while naked. There were wiggles and convulsions, her breasts heaving upward and flopping down against her chest. Then there was the eye popping and mouth-opened “Hhhhwowwhhh. Holy shit!” I did a couple lines and threw my head back. The shit hit quickly and I was flying.

We talked past one another for the next hour. Vanessa got on the phone at one point to call a friend and I listened to her chattering away in Dutch and French for about ten minutes, enjoying my high, her beautiful body, and the rat-a-tat-tat of her voice. Even in other languages her accent was sexy. Her emotions were all over the place, from giggles to pouty, clipped “No’s” to languid and dreamy-eyed French phrasings. When she got off the phone I peppered her with questions about her life. We were lying on the bed together by then, half-clothed in our robes, hers opened enough that I could see her breasts as she lied face up and I face down at her hip. My head was resting near her pubic bone on her soft upper thigh which was comfortably padding my cheek. I asked her about her classes, her life as an escort, and more. She asked me about my business—I had to make stuff up, being a faux millionaire and all—and my past relationships. I told her about my divorce, the reason I came to Amsterdam, and more.

Vanessa went to her purse again and grabbed another condom. She ripped it open with her teeth. She turned me onto my back, slid the condom onto me with her mouth, and performed the most spectacularly pleasurable fellatio of my life. I wasn’t as high from the coke and I came much quicker given her magical lips and tongue. She looked up at me and smiled. I lifted my head and looked down at her with my cock in her hand. I wasn’t sure how I looked, but I felt dreamy. She said quietly while nodding her head, “Yes, you are happy.” I laid my head back down and laughed. “Yes, Vanessa, I am very happy.” We talked a little more and I thought about doing more coke, but I saw it was nearly 5:00 AM. We were both sleepy-eyed and we fell asleep in each other’s arms.

I woke about 7:30 AM feeling surprisingly fresh. I looked over and Vanessa was still sleeping. I went to the dresser and looked at the room service menu. French toast sounded delicious to me. I climbed back into bed and crept up next to Vanessa’s ear. I whispered, “Vanessa. Vanessa, wakey, wakey. What do you want for breakfast?” Her eyes were still closed but she started to wake. She gave me her clipped “No” then paused and said, “Pancakes … and orange juice.” Then she rolled over onto her back, stretched as far as she could while yawning, and opened her eyes. She smiled at me. “Good morning, darling.” I gave her a short, soft kiss on her forehead. She cooed and then said, “I have to pee.” I laughed. How romantic.

I ordered breakfast and we ate heartily. As she was finishing she said, “I have to go. It’s been more than eight hours.” I said, “Nooo, staaaay.” She shook her head no. “Even if you paid more I couldn’t stay. I have to sleep.” I nodded. Besides, I’d already spent more than a thousand dollars for her to stay the night. Still, I felt rich, like I hadn’t even gotten started spending money. “Can I see you tonight? I’m not leaving the hotel until tomorrow.” She turned and looked at me with her big brown eyes. She let out a gasp of exasperation. “Really?” I said yes. She looked deep in thought as if making calculations. “Okay, but we no use escort service. You pay me cash.”

I thought about this. I wondered why so I asked her. “Because agency take half. I charge you 100 Euros each hour, okay?” I liked the sound of that so I said yes. “Come by around 10:00 PM tonight, okay?” She shook her head no. “You call me when you want me come over. Maybe you change mind.” I knew I wouldn’t but she grabbed a pen from the dresser and wrote her phone number on my hand. Then she went into the bathroom to freshen up. When she came back out she got dressed. I wrote down the number on a piece of paper and then brushed my teeth. When I returned from the bathroom Vanessa said, “I go, baby.” Sigh. That sexy baby loosened every bit of tension in my body. She passionately kissed me then walked to the door. As she opened it she turned back, smiled, and blew a kiss. She walked out and the door closed. She was gone.

Thursday, October 30, 2014

Amsterdam Nine: Vacation from My Vacation



I spent the next three days going to Eike en Linde, working on my index, wandering through the city, and smoking in the evenings. The first time smoking cannabis after shrooming dulled the radiance of the experience. A disappointment, but I was mostly in good spirits. Familiar anxieties welled upon occasion. An attractive gallery would present itself on my walks and I’d hesitate to enter. I visited one gallery with eye-bending abstracts, but left within minutes because the woman working came to ask me questions. I had taken a few art classes in college, but no art history or theory so I understood almost nothing she said. I smiled and nodded then lied, telling her I had an appointment, but, oh, thank you for allowing me to view these wonderful paintings, goodbye!

Whew. I gulped fresh air outside, a rare sunny day, fairly warm. Many days had been overcast and drizzly. I didn’t mind the weather, though, because it provided a strange but familiar comfort. The cold drizzle made Amsterdam tangible in a way the sunshine did not. When it was sunny and warm the city glowed with vibrancy. I loved that on one hand but it also overwhelmed me. The cyclists smiled even wider, the walkers whistled or sang or bought flowers, and the groups all but skipped in gleeful laughter. The city is lovable in all weather, but on a warm sunny day it’s as if the gates of heaven open and all the angels fall to earth. I wanted to be one of those angels and my awareness that I wasn’t caused me consternation.

The issue was familiarity. I felt comfortable in certain cafés and in the coffeeshops because I knew the protocols. The anxiety spiked when plopped in unfamiliar environments. My awareness of my insecurities was growing and I was gradually understanding how powerfully the divorce had affected my sense of self. What special skill or talent did I have that might make up for anything lacking in status, finances, or appearance? Intelligence, sure, but anxiety crippled my thought in particular settings. I could write and draw, but I hadn’t published anything or shown my work to anyone. What was I going to do, walk into a place that was unfamiliar and pull out a small portfolio of drawings before saying, “Sure, I’m divorced, middle class, overweight and balding, and I work alone, but I have a hidden intelligence I can’t articulate to strangers, a vast knowledge gleaned from all areas of academic study through my work as an indexer, and I write and draw quite well. Please take a look at this portfolio and allow me to enter your circle of friends post haste.”

Smoking pot every day didn’t help matters. Well, it did and it didn’t. Some of my anxieties were relieved just by knowing I had it at my disposal. I could stop at a coffeeshop or return home to smoke to alleviate stress. The daily smoking was putting my thought in a haze that lessened my enjoyment of life in Amsterdam. I didn’t need to smoke every evening but I did so because I knew I wouldn’t be able to back in the States. I didn’t have a connection in Wisconsin to provide me with the helpful medicinal use of cannabis and since it was illegal I couldn’t go to a local establishment to purchase a few grams whenever I needed (this was before a few of the Western states exhibited some maturity and decriminalized marijuana). I didn’t realize it at the time even though I’d been diagnosed with generalized anxiety disorder, but I needed anti-anxiety meds and there are none better in terms of addictive properties and negative side effects than cannabis.

One way around the problem of being in a stony haze was eating “space cakes.” I preferred the lemon bars with ganja in them. They provided wonderful body relaxation without the dulled thinking and feeling that comes from being overly stoned. My tolerance was growing, too, so the hazy stoned feelings weren’t likely to continue to hamper me. When I limited my smoking to the evenings I had better days. Winding down while listening to music, enjoying a glass of wine, a puff from the pipe, and viewing the canal from my living room window satisfied all of my senses.

The fourth day after shrooming, a Friday, I felt compelled to have another go. I finished my second index and I wanted to clean out more cobwebs, find out what else was holding me back. I returned to Conscious Dreams and purchased another dose of McKennaii and a dose of a variety from Ecuador. I could take both doses at once, stagger them, or keep one in the fridge for another night. I was at the three-week mark and while I had only a couple weeks left in Amsterdam I was quite sure I would want to dose again.

I returned home and made the necessary preparations. The cleaning woman had visited and tidied up. The linens were fresh and the apartment smelled like citrus. I opened a window to air out the apartment. The weather was unseasonably warm. I rummaged through dresser drawers looking for my sweats and came across the moe tickets. I had forgotten I purchased them. I looked at the dates and breathed a sigh of relief. The shows were a week away.

I prepared pasta and ate the McKennaii with my meal. I poured a glass of chardonnay from a bottle I had bought at Albert Heijn. The warmer weather begged for a white. A fresh bud of White Widow sat in the bowl ready to be smoked; I often laughed at the names growers gave different strains of cannabis. A selection of CDs sat next to the stereo, but I tuned the satellite radio to a mellow jazz station for pre-tripping relaxation.

I looked at my MacBook. The shrooms hadn’t kicked in yet, but I decided to scope Amsterdam sights in case I felt bold enough to venture out. This seemed highly unlikely, but I wanted to check out the clubs and music venues to see what was happening. As much as anything, I was passing the time. When I started feeling the buzz I stopped surfing, but left the browser open. The website I had been viewing was for a hotel piano bar.

I walked leisurely to the stereo and played a Phish CD. I didn’t have the witty or strange “mind” high at first so I chilled out in a chair listening while drinking another glass of wine. I closed my eyes. No visuals, but the music resonated more clearly. My body vibrated from the sounds.

I couldn’t stand the music after, what, maybe ten minutes? Time was distancing itself from my awareness. I was tripping harder and my body was screaming, “Get me into that fucking shower!” I did as commanded. The water felt great, but the shower did not result in orgasmic ecstasy. Anticipation and expectation likely diminished the quality of the experience; planning lessened the power of the shower. Plus, the sensations experienced were not as potent as they had been four days earlier.

However, I was still tripping when I left the shower. I was in and out in a fraction of the time I had spent during my first shrooming experience. The trip was somehow too light, though. I was bored which is a very odd experience while booming. I saw the MacBook and took a look at the website. I didn’t feel like going to a piano bar; I didn’t feel like music at all. What intrigued me, though, was staying at a hotel. A vacation from my vacation! Yes!

I jumped and twirled in the air. “Ah, movement. I forgot.” I simulated a speed skater while surfing through websites. I came across a review of the Grand Hotel and discovered it was considered one of the top ten hotels in all of Europe. In my trippy state I said aloud, “I deserve to be pampered. I deserve to stay at the finest hotel in the city.”

The prices? A stay of one night exceeded six hundred U.S. dollars. “Meh. It’s only money.” I had been spending money at a decent clip, but I was far from depleting my savings. I had income coming from the indexes I had completed, had one scheduled for December, and more would be on the way. They always were. I was also receiving $2000.00 per month from a divorce settlement. While my income had been at the middle class level my ex was an attorney making well over six figures. During the divorce we both fired our lawyers and worked out a settlement on our own. She agreed to give me some dough every month for two years and then that would be that.

I was trying to remain grounded by analyzing my financial situation. Even so, making financial decisions while shrooming can be dangerous. I looked at the clock and saw it was only seven. I had another dose of shrooms with me and plenty of ganja. One night at the Grand didn’t seem adequate. Most of the day was already gone and I wanted to wake up in luxury—greater luxury than the apartment—knowing I wouldn’t have to leave. From some place deep within me arose an aristocrat. My chest puffed out and I marched around the kitchen. “Yes, yes. An aristocrat indeed. Cut off his head and give me another wedge of your finest cheese.” I went back to the computer and booked a room online. I went to my bedroom, grabbed my wallet, and pulled out a credit card, the one with the $25,000 line of credit. I went back to the computer, entered the specs, and placed my order. Voila. Two nights at the Grand Hotel Amsterdam.

I could see rain falling outside the living room window. I walked over and closed the window I had opened earlier. There was no fucking way I was going to walk in the rain with a backpack to The Grand. That was not the aristocratic thing to do. I had brought only one dressy pair of clothing and changed into it. It wasn’t worthy of the Grand, but it was the best I had with me. I packed clothes, ganja and pipe, the Ecuadorian shrooms, and a few other items. I went back to the computer and looked up Amsterdam cab companies. I thought briefly of renting a limo, but came to my senses. I ordered a cab online. I shut down the MacBook and packed it.

I had been surprisingly functional given that I was tripping. Time remained a mystery so I was surprised to receive a call from the cab waiting out front. I had forgotten that I’d ordered one … and that I’d booked a hotel room! I had lost myself trying to figure out how the couch cushion could be both firm and smushy. I must have squeezed the cushion a hundred times trying to develop a theory before the cabbie called. I walked down the stairs and outside. I locked the door; I remembered that was an important thing to do.


I approached the cab tentatively and lifted the door handle. The sound of the door opening was loud! I hopped inside quickly and slammed the door shut. My ears were ringing from the noises. The cabbie turned around to look at me. He just stared at me. I thought, “Well, this is awkward.” He finally spoke, “Ah, where do you want to go?” Oh. Oh, yeah! I forgot again. I started laughing as I realized I’d forgotten why I had gotten into the cab. My mind said to the guy, “Seriously, you’re asking me where I want to go? And you’ll take me wherever I say I want to go? Holy fuck! This is awesome!” I just kept laughing even while looking into the guy’s eyes. I’m pretty sure he thought I was a madman. He wasn’t wrong. I took a deep breath, closed my eyes, and calmed myself. I opened them and an entirely new persona emerged, very business-like. “The Grand Hotel, please. Take the scenic route. I have an important meeting tomorrow and I want to bask in the city’s glow before I eat the mint on my pillow. Be a fine fellow now.” I almost said, “Chop, chop,” but some part of me knew it was rude. I quietly pronounced “rude” over and over during the drive to the hotel. I was fascinated by the feel of the particular throat muscles that flexed as I said the word. I have no idea what was going through the cabbie’s mind.

Wednesday, October 29, 2014

Sadistically Liberated Linguistics


Ishmael stared absently at his mother’s vulva. Yeah, that’s the worst time to cut a lizard’s tail. Gathering dust on the mantle, Kant’s philosophy went unnoticed by the Sigma Nu pledges. Why did you yank on that bull’s yang? President Lincoln once remarked that he couldn’t tell the difference between snow and rain. Hippos mated less frequently last year. Your nut sack can swell up to the size of a bowling ball if you sit naked on a rotten peach. You could get a rash from rolling around in that prostitute’s bed. Throw out those pumpkins for crying out loud! Security guards will one day be regarded as entertainers.

I have never been offered a glass of water by a horny woman. It really makes me sad to see you in such a helpless condition. Just for the record, I never said I wanted to witness a parking exhibition. Dreadlocks look really bad on sheep dogs. The next big reality TV show will be about elementary school children who burn ants with magnifying glasses. Border disputes go unresolved as an asteroid drifts unnoticed a million light years away. Holidays are a time for viewing meta-epistemic art. Too many men think dragons exist. Pouring milk down the side of the fence, Jane realized she was standing on a platform of doubt. When you go out tonight, whisper into a dead rat’s ass. Like a magician, he farted and jumped into a hat. Knitting is not for the meek or timid.

You just don’t know where the darling little girl came from, do you? Eschatology and eugenics aren’t always spelled correctly. Do American urbanites have more psychological defects than Malaysian gamblers? On the other side of town I saw an abandoned El Camino. Not a good idea to look directly at the headlights of an oncoming car. Why not borrow a few pounds of onions before going to bed? Thanks for listening to my sheep bleat earlier today. It was the most beautiful jar of peaches you’ve ever seen. Which side of the bed did you make? I can’t see anything but my other hand. The Wednesday morning after Easter I smelt the scent of a fried apple wafting through the window of my prison cell. Nine times is the most you can hope to try that sort of thing. For every dollar received by homeless beggars we spit on a sports agent. What time is the ferocious beast supposed to eat? No one ever said life would be breathtaking. Just in case you end up smiling at me, I’ll read the New York Times.

After being ogled by a well-dressed accountant, June didn’t feel like attending her coven’s potluck. John found paradise while looking for a hot dog bun. Mustard seeds contain more snot than you’d ever imagine. Huge vats of fat were used to make the first atomic bomb. Genghis Khan never really existed. Just in case you happen to be deaf, I’ll type louder. Howard is a name that I found while flipping through a phone book. Money shouldn’t exist. Nocturnal bleeding is a cause for concern. Hippies are still fashionable in Saigon. Gonads hardly ever speak; however, nipples are quite chatty. Frosty drinks are especially hard to swallow. Ferocious wonders cease to detect salient creatures when drifting into madness. Gunk and slime float on the canals outside Brawley. Licking the filth off a diamond for the delight of pharoahs is no way to spend an afternoon. Corn flakes from Ghana found their way into my dreams. Time cannot be quantified any more than a watermelon can dance. Hopping on one toe for hours will not be understood by the Chinese government as an act of aggression.

Just so you know, I’m not eight feet tall. Elves steal things from my wallet whenever I go to the airport. Creepy looking women hanging out on the end of the block just told me that you aren’t actually human. Most yuppies wish they were in Paris fucking shepherds. For some reason, open-ended questions lead to bloody gashes on my ass cheeks. Fellatio is practiced by inanimate objects almost as often as by Reba McIntyre. Hubris constrains my thoughts. Bold colors make me want to wear diapers. Retired servicemen wintering in RVs are seething with hatred. George W. Bush is devoutly immature. The modern is replaced by the moment. Kleenex will be sold for pennies when nectar seeps from phone lines. Harping on what might have been, a woman clips her toenails. When do you want to make doughnuts for escaped convicts? It’s time to wash your armpits with vinegar and salt. Good night, me. Good night, you. Take a crap on yourself the next time you think of it.

Sentences are written. A sentence within itself may be coherent, but if it is unrelated to the sentence prior or the sentence following then it becomes incoherent. Strange that a coherent sentence can be made incoherent by sentences that are not the sentence itself. Language obtains meaning and purpose only through context. This means that each word is in relation to all other words in the environment of the writing. If this is true then words are not individuals, sentences are not species, paragraphs are not genera, chapters are not families, books are not orders, volumes are not classes, genres are not phylum, subjects are not kingdoms, libraries are not domains, and language is not life.

Classifications of these kinds fit no better for words than they do for biology. We’re looking for traits, patterns, means of ordering chaos to provide orientation. Self remains detached from other through organizational systems. But language, like the physical environment, proves that such separations do not exist except through the ordering of thought. Apple Jacks taste better with orange juice. The world is ordered or chaotic according to applications of thought. Thoughts may be grouped to create a context that does not match sensory experience. In that case, a schism develops, a break between the physical and mental, a splintering of oneself.

Killing dogs for fun is wrong. Incoherence may illuminate facts that coherence cannot. How can incoherence become married to coherence and coexist as an asymmetrical symmetry? Should they marry? Should they compete? Should they ignore one another? Should “should” be eliminated entirely? Should should should should shoud? Should shoud. Should? Should Should! Shouldshouldshouldshouldshouldshould … should.

When the dandelion flies berry with nary a thought in its green grass, a lap tooth brown jouster with jester may sequester. Biddle pimple pus jeeeeesh liffle stymie cremple valume seejurn grest velin werffed merffle terf gjhriosdjpqzhfi nnnghdheuiid. Blehhhh. True dat. He speak the truth! He said it, not me. She said, not her! We said it together. No one flew apart. Gathered together us be dynamite! Hunk and damsel loser hero fights lover kills brother marries sister shames dad beats mom hugs boy kicks girl rides dog out of sight into the night by starlight sees everyone not there. Very close to being understood without saying what she means. Break away from what can never be broken; impossible possibility. Improbable probability. Opposites repel, attract, repel, attract, remain still. Inertia.

Bass lines from music that hasn’t been penned exists in forests unheard by ears but felt by flowers. No one loves me. He’ll be here in an hour. Jane said she could bake a pie. Ghana refused to be a nation in October; it became a lamb instead. Who lives inside the octopus>lesser beings than I. Jagged lines drawn on the paper of a high school math test were considered to be a far greater innovation than calculus. Wigs worn with wonderment were wheeled with wagons where wombats wiggled. I like alligators. Benches made of wood are for sitting. Obviously, Dave was here. You’re not going to put the candy wrapper in the baby’s mouth! Fuck this shit. I’m sick and tired of beeswax being smeared on the handlebars of my motorcycle. Bellyache all you want, but I’m still going to screw your boyfriend.

Isn’t that tiresome? Haven’t you become exhausted by incoherence? Haven’t you had your fill of confusion? You need understanding. You want it, anyway. You feel lost and alone without it. Are you sick of me telling you what you want and how you feel? Do something about it! Commit an act of aggression against someone you don’t know! Of course, if you did that you’d be doing what I tell you to do. Be independent of me. Fight for your autonomy and achieve total self-control and self-direction. I just fucked that up for you, though, didn’t I? Now even your potential autonomy is tainted by my influence. And if not mine … someone else’s influence. None of us can escape the influence of our environments, whether physical or visual or linguistic or … blah blah.

Prick, that’s what you are/     I am, too? Yes, I am. I proudly reclaim the word prick and reconfigure it to mean goodness. Like every other formerly derogatory term that has been reclaimed, I will transform fucker, shithead, asshole, douchebag, and every other word of disparagement into bouquets of love. I will eliminate all negativity from all words and, by doing so, no one will be able to think negative thoughts because there won’t be a language for negativity! Absent words of hate, hate cannot exist. It’s worth the effort. Try to stop me and I’ll change the meaning of the word “stop.” You can’t win except by eliminating the meaning of the word “not” and by doing so rendering the very concept of winning obsolete. This world I’m creating through the transformation of language will be unlike anything you can imagine. Why? Because the language for it hasn’t been invented yet. You can only think in the ways you know … unless you create new ways to think and, thus, understand.

Hello!

Amsterdam Eight: The Day After


I woke in the morning feeling refreshed. French toast breakfast; an orange devoured. Body and mind sparkling clean. I felt a tug to shower, though. It’s what I typically did first thing in the morning. No more being a slave to routine; time to live. Movement, a brisk walk. I didn’t know where I was going and that was the point. Movement. I looked to the left, the direction I usually went to go to Eik en Linde. I turned right and walked to streets I didn’t know.

The neighborhood was lovely, older buildings, row houses older than those in the Plantage. The tree-lined streets were quiet; few were walking or biking. Soundlessness except for the low whistle of wind. Movement slowed to a stroll. Sights freshly presented themselves. Walk and looking, that was all there was except for a quiet feeling of ease.

A tiny café on a corner marked the edge of the neighborhood. The interior was small, space for three tables packed close together. Windows on either side of the door looked at different streets. The doorway was on the corner of the building, diagonal from the sidewalk. A counter with an inverted angle that mimicked the back corner. The walls were brown, but it wasn’t a brown café. A woman read a book, a cup of coffee on the table. Long, straight, light brown hair, high cheek bones, Dutch eyes. She was fashionably dressed in designer clothing. Tall with long legs crossed at the knee. Indifferent to anything that was not her book.

A barista behind the counter busily cleaned and organized. I waited patiently until she finished her tasks. She turned and smiled, asking in Dutch what I wanted. I didn’t understand her but replied, “un espresso.” Her head nodded and then her body turned to the espresso machine. I stepped to a chair at a table next to the window opposite the reading woman.

Through the window the cobblestones of the street hinted at the Oude Zijde. Pedestrians ambled slowly nowhere with facial expressions suggesting appreciation. A cyclist who appeared to be singing rang his bell to notify a pedestrian crossing the street. The corner breathed easily, relaxed in its harmonious rhythm. I wept softly, relieved.

I was in no hurry to receive my drink and found myself surprised when the barista brought it to me. I’d forgotten I’d ordered. “Dank u wel.” I sipped the espresso. The flavor was thick and delicious. It came with a jolt. The café had a gentle gravity and the invigorating aromas beckoned me to stay. The reading woman remained as well. An hour passed with another espresso and pastry. After my last swallow I rose and stepped to the counter. I saw the prices on the chalkboard and handed the barista a bill. She made change, handing me a bill and a few coins with a friendly smile. I sang “tchϋss” as I walked out the door.

Movement. Where? Anywhere. I wandered along quaint streets and canals, a pleasant romp through the Classical Age. I crossed the Amstel and stumbled onto Rembrandtplein. The square was hopping, midday with throngs of cyclers and walkers coming and going, stopping to fill up the numerous bars and cafés. The square pulsed with movement. I felt no anxiety. It was as if I crossed off a particular limitation from a long list of enervations. I had loved crowds and happenings most of my life, but the moment S. told me she wanted a separation the joys I’d found in public celebrations diminished severely.


I wandered around the square but nothing struck my fancy. I turned back toward my apartment. I followed a different route, crossing a different bridge spanning the Amstel River to the Plantage. I made lunch when I arrived home. It struck me that I thought of this rented apartment as home. It felt like home. I worked through the afternoon, prepared a meal in the evening, and drank wine while listening to classical music and reading Alain de Botton’s The Architecture of Happiness.

Amsterdam Seven: Shrooming


The next week passed much the same way as that first full day in Amsterdam. I’d wake up, shower—how I loved that shower—dress, and head over to Eik en Linde with my MacBook in tow. I’d get set up (they had WiFi), order an espresso and uitsmijter, bullshit with Kasper, Peter, and some of the other regulars. There were always interesting discussions and they seemed to find it fascinating and odd that an American would choose to frequent their particular roost in such an out-of-the-way area of Amsterdam. There were questions about American politics and the like and I tried to learn little bits of Dutch along with the culture. I felt more and more at home with each passing day and Eik en Linde in particular gave me a sense of grounding that I otherwise lacked.

I didn’t like being there after 2:00 PM. I didn’t even have to check the backward running clock on the wall next to the curly Q. I could tell because a different class of regulars came in, younger, hipper, exclusively Dutch-speaking, and it only got worse (for me) as the afternoon moved on into evening. So I mostly hung out in the mornings and left around noon.

Eik en Linde kept me sane and whenever I felt anxiety creeping up I’d remind myself that it was there and that the following morning I would be able to return to my home-away-from-home. Kasper, in particular, was the root. His presence, relaxed and confident yet humble and friendly, provided the place with just the right feel. I discovered during a conversation with him that his parents owned the place and that he managed it. I asked him if Eike en Linde had been in his family for generations and he replied no. It had been a brown café for a very long time, though. His mother sometimes worked the bar either with Kasper or alone. She was sweet but also tough. She took no guff from the regulars and if she was in a feisty mood she gave it right back. Phillip, he of the long red hair, sometimes worked the bar but usually in the afternoons and I usually left before that so I rarely had a chance to talk with him.

While at my apartment I worked on indexing assignments, listened to music, read books and magazines, cooked, and occasionally smoked herb in addition to more mundane activities like brushing my teeth and doing laundry—there was a washer and dryer in the large bathroom, snuck out of the way from view by cabinet doors. I would include showering as a mundane activity but it was too luxurious to be considered ordinary.

During the second week I finished an index and I was well on my way to finishing a second. I’d gotten an offer for another index from a publisher via email. It needed to be completed by mid-December. I emailed the editor and informed her I would be happy to do the job. One of the best aspects of indexing for me by 2007 was that I had been working in the field for twelve years. I had plenty of contacts with publishers so I rarely had to market myself for work. I typically received another offer—if not three—while still working on one.

I also went out to explore the city center that week, but I still felt a lot of anxiety when doing so. I didn’t understand why and I usually got high when I returned home to alleviate the tension. I reminded myself now and then that I had been in a severe depression with tremendous social anxiety less than two weeks earlier. I sometimes forgot that since I was in such a different environment. Of course, that was the point, to forget my old life and start a new one. This new life was becoming routine, though. The highlights of my day consisted of my mornings at Eik en Linde and my afternoons or evenings smoking pot. I thought about smoking and then wandering around, but the few times I puffed and went out I went right back inside before even leaving the neighborhood. The marijuana alleviated stress in my apartment but somehow exacerbated my apprehension outdoors. I wondered if it was a remnant of living in a police state back in the U.S., that I’d get busted by the cops. I also worried about being negatively judged while walking around stoned since my tolerance was still so low. My apprehension turned to panic rather quickly.

The sheen of my apartment was also wearing off. I knew it well by now and even my indulgent showers and state of the art sound system had lost their luster. I felt a nagging sense that time was passing, that this brilliant escape might not break me out of my funk. I certainly felt better than I did and I enjoyed most of my days, but I suspected that when this adventure ended and I returned to Wisconsin I would come face to face with all of my old problems. I couldn’t let that happen.

One late afternoon into my third week I realized I needed to make a more drastic change. On my few ventures out I’d passed by a coffeeshop on Kerkstraat I’d first encountered in 1998. It was called Global Chillage and its décor had been surreal with every wall painted as an interconnected psychedlic mural. The seats were wood, but not cut wood; they were trunks of trees sans bark and the tables were the same. The place was under construction so it wasn’t open to the public. That saddened me because I really enjoyed the staff—beautiful and friendly young women. The trance music also made for a wonderfully trippy smoking experience.

Down the street from the boarded-up Chillage, though, was a smart shop. Smart shops have all manner of items for sale from oxygen pills to healing tinctures. However, the most striking products they sold were psychedelic mushrooms. I’d shroomed in college many, many times and did so again on a trip to Amsterdam in the early 2000s. The experience I had during that visit to Amsterdam was good and bad. Well, I shroomed in Haarlem because that’s where our hotel was. S. and I wandered the streets one evening looking at the lit-up stores with their eerie but beautiful glow. She hadn’t shroomed with me, but she enjoyed watching me have a good time. I was also in a fantastically romantic mood. When we returned to our hotel, though, the trip went bad and I had a horrible panic attack, the type that made me think I might never come out of it. S. did not enjoy that any more than I did. It freaked her. I decided at the time that I was done with shrooms for good.

Sitting in my apartment the beginning of that third week, though, I seriously contemplated going to the smart shop to purchase mushrooms. I went back and forth in my mind and felt like I had an angel whispering in my left ear, “Don’t do it! Remember how bad it was?” and another angel in my other ear saying, “Go ahead, I’m here for you and you need to take risks in life. That’s why you came here, remember? If you want to break out of the funk then you need to push past your self-imposed boundaries. What do you have to lose?!”

The angel telling me to do it won. I decided I would at least visit a smart shop and see what they had on offer. I looked up the location online; this was not a walkabout. This was a mission and I wanted to make sure I found the place easily. If I wandered and couldn’t find anything I was likely to start feeling anxiety again. I was tense as it was. I had plenty of cannabis, a potential antidote if I had a freak out while shrooming.

Once I found the place closest to my apartment I left. I was nervous but also excited. Instead of feeling apprehension in the face of newness I felt more like I had that first full day in Amsterdam. I could hardly wait to get there. When I arrived at Conscious Dreams and stepped inside the brightly lit establishment—filled with youngish hipsters and hippies—I wondered if I was doing the right thing. I thought to myself, “I’m 38 and I’m acting like I’m going to a rave with a bunch of 19 year olds.” Some part of me rose up and yelled “Fuck you!” to that inner doubt.

I walked to the counter and, as always in such places, there was a glass top for peering at the wares below. The shop had a menu with descriptions. The staff was helping other individuals and I listened a little as I perused the menu. Just as in the finer coffeeshops, the staff spoke of the shrooms as a wine connoisseur speaks of fine cabernets. I listened as a staff member with long black dreadlocks explained how the Hawaiian variety provided a powerful cerebral trip without many visuals or auditory hallucinations. The Hawaiian was the thinker’s shroom.

I read the menu and the paragraph-long descriptions of the common effects and how long they lasted. I decided on the McKennaii which was advertised as providing a loose body-oriented, sensuous experience without much of a head trip or hallucinations. The length of the trip was estimated between four to six hours. Each dose was fresh and measured at 35 grams. That was quite a difference from the U.S. where two dried grams were usually enough to trip pretty hard. Drinking plenty of liquids was suggested and a product called After-M was advertised as a wonderful antidote for the morning after shrooming.

I told the man with the dreads that I’d like a dose of McKennaii. I asked him about the quantity and told him 35 grams seemed like a huge dose. He was friendly and professional in his explanation that fresh shrooms contain water and that the dosage effects were more reliable than that of dried mushrooms. He told me he received that concern from many coming from out of country, especially those from the United States. I laughed and nodded. “Yeah, we’re still a little backwards overseas.” He said, “No worries,” and explained the quality control involved with the growing and distribution of the various strains and I just looked at him dumbfounded. As with the cannabis, the operation was professional on all counts.

I thought about purchasing the After-M product but decided smoking would do the trick if necessary. I put the purchase on my credit card and he put the plastic container into a brown paper bag with the store’s name and logo on it. I walked out of the store and into the day smiling. I felt none of the anxiety I had earlier at my apartment nor any of the stress from the walk over. I felt free.

I returned to my apartment in the early evening after strolling around the canals. Doing so set the mood for peace, relaxation, and a feeling of inner romance. I made spaghetti and opened a bottle of red wine I’d purchased from Albert Heijn, a grocery store. I ate the shrooms with the pasta. I figured eating them together might mitigate the effects. I didn’t want to go bouncing off the walls running from angry goblins that weren’t there.

Half an hour after my meal I felt the first effects. I loaded a bowl of Northern Lights No. 5 and had it handy on the coffee table just in case. In the CD player was Phish. I had some more mellow CDs on hand in case Phish didn’t fit the bill. I figured Phish would be perfect, though, because their music is upbeat and tailor-made for psychedelics. I was wearing comfortable sweats and the blinds were closed in case I had the urge to get naked for any reason. I had purchased a phone a week earlier and placed it next to my pipe. I turned on the lamps in the living room, one of which had a dimmer switch that I turned down.

As I looked around the apartment I felt the “whoosh-whoosh” of my heartbeat and saw the place anew. I yelled “This place is beautiful!” I laughed at the sound of my voice and then cupped both hands over my mouth as if I’d done something wrong. This caused me to start giggling. I laughed harder and then let out a loud “HA!” that stopped me in my tracks. “Wow,” I said aloud to myself. “It’s like someone else is here with us, don’t you think?” I responded to myself, “You know, it really does. I like having company. I wish I’d invited all these people to hang out with me sooner.”

I laughed again and ran the length of the apartment to the back of the kitchen. There was a window there that looked out on a tiny courtyard. “There’s a tiny courtyard,” I said to myself and the other “me’s” who had gathered to play. “How did I not notice that before? I need to be more observant.” I straightened up, crossed my left arm across my stomach, propped up my right elbow on it, and tapped the end of my nose with my index finger. “You’re absolutely right,” I said in a very serious and stern voice. “What would the professor think of such negligence?” I laughed again and raced back to the living room.

“Moving is fun! How could I have not known that?!” I looked down at my body, saw the pudginess of my belly. I felt at my chin and squeezed the little bit of fat below it. Not a double chin but a bit saggy. “Well, this is no good. Clearly we need a change.” I stood there and thought for a minute, but none of the thoughts seemed coherent. “I guess I need to move more. I can go for more walks, certainly. I can eat healthier foods.” I thought again. “This won’t change overnight.” I paused and thought, “It doesn’t have to change at all.” I smiled and started moving. I grabbed the remote for the stereo and Phish played. It was a bootleg concert CD. I hopped about while listening to “Bouncing Around the Room.” I almost fell into the coffee table and snapped out of my movement trance. “Whew. Okay, that’s enough for now.” I felt a slight bit of anxiety and noticed I was sweating. “I think I need a shower.”

I disrobed in the living room and walked to the bathroom naked. My body felt gooooood. I turned on the lights in the bathroom and gasped. “My God! The shower is enormous!” I was extremely excited, hysterically excited. I opened the shower door and felt like I was entering a glass time machine. I closed it behind me and turned on the water. I found a warm temperature and my body melted. I moaned like a woman having an orgasm; I was a woman having an orgasm. “This is what it feels like to be a woman, isn’t it?” Despite my earlier dissatisfactions with the fat on my body I now loved it because it was making me feel soooooo gooooood. I put my face and the front of my body against the glass and let the water cascade down my back and off my buttocks. I could feel the water slithering around my crotch and sliding down my legs in spirals. The water was alive and it was as sensuous as any woman I’d ever met. I moaned, “My God … why would I ever want to be with a woman when I can just go into the shower and be with water!” I loved water and water loved me. The water touched me everywhere I wanted to be touched. I moved back a little and the water responded exactly the way I desired. “You know me so well, water. You’re the best lover in the world. Thank you, thank you for loving me, for giving yourself over to me, for covering my body, and for endlessly pouring from the angel’s head above me.”

I showered for at least an hour. I couldn’t leave. I didn’t want to leave. Eventually, though, the sensation felt less potent. I became more alert, more cerebral. I turned off the water but still felt warm. I opened the door and steam poured out. “Ah, dragon’s breath.” I shivered from the cold. I grabbed a big soft fluffy white towel and snuggled myself dry. I said to the towel, “Thank you for snuggling me. You’re so kind and soft. I love you so much. You’re so snuggly.”

I walked out of the bathroom, looked into the living room at my clothes, and considered for a moment. Am I hot or cold? I couldn’t tell. I figured I must be “just right” so I walked into the kitchen naked. “What should I do now?” I asked myself. I felt less sensual. I didn’t know if it was because I was out of the shower and away from snuggly or because I was on the downward slope of the shrooms. I saw my MacBook on the dining room table. I thought it looked sleek and cool. It was all black and the screen was black, too, idling for three hours now at least. I decided to tap the space button and instantly the computer screen came to life. I uttered a soft “wow.” I was no longer in a state that made me feel like the computer must be magic, but I wondered a little about technology and electricity. “Hello machine I don’t understand but are easy to use.” No verbal response. “You are under my power completely, aren’t you? Without my help you just go to sleep.”

I sat down on the seat, but it was cold. I got up, walked into the living room, and put on my sweats. I returned to the dining room and sat in front of the computer. I opened the browser and then changed my mind. I felt slightly drowsy so I went back to the living room, changed from Phish to a jazz station, and lied down on the couch. For the next hour I enjoyed the sensations of music.

I picked up my wooden bowl and the lighter beside it. I fired up and inhaled. I followed the procedure again thirty seconds later. Within minutes I was high and the shrooms kicked in again. I was too tired to move, though. I didn’t have a thought in my head. I sat there, breathing and relaxing. In time, I got up and made my way to the bedroom. I saw the big comfy comforter and pulled it back along with the sheet and blanket. I went to the bathroom and brushed my teeth. I walked back into the bedroom and crawled into bed, sighing as my head sunk into the pillow.

Tuesday, October 28, 2014

Amsterdam Six: Coffeeshop


When I left Eik en Linde I wandered west through the Plantage. I found a beautiful botanical garden. It appeared to require payment to enter so I just observed what I could from outside its walls. I crossed a busy intersection and made my way into the east edge of the city center. Now I was in what was considered by tourists and travelers to be the real Amsterdam. There were gabled houses, narrow crooked streets, beautiful shops, bustling pedestrian and bicycle traffic, and a buzz of amiable busyness.

I found an attractive coffeeshop, entered, and took a deep breath. The aroma was that of quality cannabis. The joint was spacious with a lounge area near the back. Up front, right next to the entrance was a glass-topped encasement featuring perhaps twenty varieties of cannabis as well as a few containers of hashish. I looked at the menu which consisted of names like New York Diesel, Lemon Skunk, Blueberry Delight, Razzberry, Northern Lights No. 5, White Rhino, and so on. I didn’t look too closely at the hash list because I just wanted buds. The list of cannabis strains offered helpful information in the form of THC percentage. I bought two grams of New York Diesel and one gram of Lemon Skunk.

I was informed the Diesel was a stony high, that it would drop my body into total relaxation, and that I might struggle to move depending on my tolerance. At this point, my tolerance was low because I hadn’t been smoking in the States for nearly a year and I’d had just those few puffs of scraggly weed from the shit store near the train station. The Lemon Skunk, though, provided more of an airy high, a bit cerebral and lighter, looser on the body, a “stay-awake-and-function-coherently” high. I had learned on previous visits to Amsterdam that at the better coffeeshops the staff were experts and could explain nuances about their products much the same way winemakers at wineries in, say, Napa Valley could tell you about the details and vagaries of various vintages. I found out later that night that the Lemon Skunk did indeed have a lemony aftertaste.

My first trip to Amsterdam in 1998 was when I was first blown away by the experience of purchasing “legal” cannabis. I thought of past experiences at upscale wine bars in Chicago. The “stoner” reputations of burned out druggies did not apply. There were certainly vagabonds and wanderers but they were often artists, intellectuals, or trust funders who enjoyed living the good life. The Cheech and Chong days had long since passed.

I left the coffeeshop feeling somewhat sheepish. I knew so little and they knew so much. They were kind and patient, though, so I had no reason to feel apprehensive. I realized I was feeling a bit overwhelmed. On all but one of my previous trips to Amsterdam I had been with my then-wife, S. This was my first big exploration on my own since being divorced and it came following a years-long depression. I’d had more social interactions in the previous two days than I’d had in the prior six months. On the surface that seemed hard to believe because I’d spent little more than a couple hours conversing with others about the lightest of subjects.

I walked toward my apartment. The streets were busy with walkers and cyclists dressed in all manner of clothing from multi-colored rags to Armani suits. I felt my anxiety rising. It hit me again that I was really fucked up. Once I was back in the Plantage the crowds thinned and I felt more at ease. When I had rented the place online I was worried because it wasn’t in the city center. I thought I might become bored and miss out on all of the excitement. Now I realized that I couldn’t have chosen a better location. It was less than a ten minute walk to the edge of the center if I wanted excitement and action. Meanwhile, the neighborhood was relaxed while still feeling alive. It was certainly attractive even if not as romantic as the major canals, Vondel Park, the Jordaan, or the Oude Zijde.

I arrived at the apartment early afternoon. I made a good old fashioned PB&J, added some chips, and grabbed a diet soda. I turned on my computer, checked my email, and then decided I may as well start working on one of the indexes. I spent the afternoon working that way, went out for a short walk, then came back and ate supper before smoking a bud of Lemon Skunk. I forgot to purchase a glass pipe so I emptied the remnants of the schwag I’d purchased the previous day. It felt weird flushing pot down the toilet but I could buy more any time day or night. I felt no compulsion to smoke shitty weed under such circumstances.


After two puffs I was high. The person who helped me at the coffeeshop was right on the money: There was a lemony aftertaste. Better yet, the high was light and airy. My body felt relaxed and I noticed the remnants of my earlier anxiety disappear. There had been studies suggesting cannabis helps alleviate anxiety as well as depression and that had usually been my experience—except with the heavy, stony varieties. Those sometimes caused mild panic, but that may have been from the embalming fluids, herbicides, and other crap mixed with the weed I’d smoked in the U.S. In Holland, the cannabis was clean. That’s what happens when plants are legalized; there’s no need to beef up weak weed with toxic chemicals. The purity of the Skunk was noticeable. My lungs said, “Thank you,” and I laid down on the couch, grabbed the stereo remote, found a jazz station, and zoned out.

Louis C.K.

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