it's a good thing Niblet is Fierce!
Friday - My arrival
When you've been someplace before, you don't have that first breathtaking moment of discovery when you return. The magic of the unknown is replaced by the comfort of familiarity. It's not a bad thing or a good thing, it just is.
That's the way I feel about Amsterdam now. It doesn't feel "foreign" to me, although the people sound that way. There is a group speaking German to my left. A couple speaking French are sitting in what used to be a jail cell. Oh, right. This coffeeshop used to be a Politie station. The cell wall is now lined with pictures of a complex hash making process. I just paid the US equivalent of $15 for half an 1/8th, and I'm sitting here with my seal, a cappuccino and pipe full of AK47.
I do love this city.
It's like San Francisco ... stoned.
***
I can't get over how different it is for me this time. I understand why - 50 lbs. is a *lot*. In the 3 years since my Amsterdam New Year's Eve, I've lost close to 50 lbs, more than 25% of my former body weight. I guess I just didn't expect it would make this much of a difference in my treatment here. But the responses I'm getting from men are a lot more than I expected, and I now completely understand why everyone kept telling me to avoid eye contact with European men.
I don't remember catching the eye of the guy who asked me to escort him to the next canal foot bridge under my umbrella, but it was clear when we reached his "destination" and he asked what I was doing just then, that he'd had more than a few dry steps in mind. Right. I was just trying to get to Leidseplein from Dam Square by memory (I had a map, but I wanted to try without it ... I got lost).
From discussions with other women who've traveled alone, I knew that if I didn't escape this situation now, I wasn't getting out of it any time soon. This is the beginning of a seduction that begins with him asking you for help and ends, presumably, with you in his bed. Not that he was unattractive, not at all. He reminded me of this French-German boy I had as a lover my first year of college who would sing the French anthem to me in bed. I just wasn't in the mood to be seduced.
So I made up a story about having to meet my friends at the Leidseplein, and we went on our separate ways.
Later, after Niblet's introduction to the Bulldog, I was on my way back to Dam Square (with an unintended detour through Rembrandtplein) and started wondering how he'd so easily marked me as a foreign tourist. I hadn't made eye contact with him, so it wasn't that. Nothing else about me stands out: I'm blonde & fair like the Dutch. I know from some cursory shopping that my personal style corresponds with current fashion here, from cut, fabric, colors, even accessories like belts, bracelets and shoes, I am apparently Euro fabulous.
As I opened my umbrella because it had started to rain again, I realized. "It's the umbrella"
I checked the weather report before I left and knew there was a chance of showers, but I decided if I left my umbrella at home, the weather would have to cooperate and not rain on my vacation. I've seen Amsterdam in the rain, dammit! That's why I'm here in May.
But it's raining, so I bought an umbrella, the first one I saw. It's mostly bright red, but that isn't the problem. There are three white panels with huge black "X X X" lettering, as well as "AMSTERDAM" slightly smaller. X X X by the way, doesn't mean hardcore porn, though I can see how you might think that. It's the national symbol for windmills. You may know they have a lot of those here.
So, basically, big red umbrella with "X X X AMSTERDAM" translates to a big scarlet "T" branded on my forehead. I tossed that one and bought something in basic black. I don't mind being taken for an American, especially because I can say "San Francisco" which apparently makes me a slightly better class of American tourist than someone from just about any other U.S. city. But discretion isn't a bad thing, particularly when the international view of American women is frequently that we are easy targets for men with accents and a little bit of charm.
Dutch isn't a sexy language, and they don't sound sexy when they speak it. It's highly Germanic, very guttural sounding, and about as unsexy a language as you can imagine. Their accents are cute in English, though. Not as hard as German. And holy crap! are Dutch men hot. Some of them are very Aryan looking, which tends to get my attention. The tall, lean, broad shouldered, blonde hair, blue-eyed thing. They have these really dark lips, too, and many have that permanent rosy-cheeked thing going on. Much like my ex, who, though he grew up in England and Scotland, exhibits far more of his Dutch heritage. I find all sorts of men attractive, but throw a hot, blonde, Dutch-looking guy in my path and I guarantee I'm going to drool.
***
After dinner and a nap, I headed toward the Red Light District for the second time since arrival. My first stop after leaving my hotel much earlier in the afternoon having been Baba, first the souvenir shop for a pipe, since I suck at rolling joints and the pre-rolled ones here are full of tobacco, which makes me want to hurl if I smoke it. Then to their coffeeshop for my first "legal" bag of pot. An 8 euro gram of Jack Herrer.
Approaching midnight, I headed in to coffeeshop Route 66 for a mango nectar Looza, hoping to take advantage of their internet access.
Route 66 has 4 computers attached to the web. 2 were in use by 3 guys who were all together, the other 2 turned out to be broken. So I bought some more pot, packed a bowl, and sat and waited my turn. They were speaking Dutch to each other. The closest one to me looked like he was 18 or 19, the Aryan Dutch look I described earlier, very fresh faced and cute. He spoke to me in Dutch, but when I replied in English, the older guy in the middle spoke back to me in accented English, but I couldn't tell where he was from. The third guy didn't speak much, but was also rather Dutch looking.
They started showing me attractions they had built, explaining the length of time it took to build and break them down, and how many men each job required. They are carnies. The attractions they showed me were roller coasters, hydro-powered rides, haunted houses with mechanical puppets. The 18 year-old (I was right, he told me his age at one point) had left his family and started working at traveling carnivals when he was 13. The other guy turned out to be Turkish, and we established he'd be home in Bodrum just after my arrival in Istanbul, for his daughter's 2nd birthday. I'm not clear on his age, but I'm guessing mid to late 30s, and he'd been working at carnivals for 20 years.
They told me it's something that gets in your blood. Once you do it, you just have to. It's a life of travel, they spend 9 months a year on the road. Sometimes, they build, run, and break down an entire carnival in a single day. They're like the modern equivalent of gypsies.
When you've been someplace before, you don't have that first breathtaking moment of discovery when you return. The magic of the unknown is replaced by the comfort of familiarity. It's not a bad thing or a good thing, it just is.
That's the way I feel about Amsterdam now. It doesn't feel "foreign" to me, although the people sound that way. There is a group speaking German to my left. A couple speaking French are sitting in what used to be a jail cell. Oh, right. This coffeeshop used to be a Politie station. The cell wall is now lined with pictures of a complex hash making process. I just paid the US equivalent of $15 for half an 1/8th, and I'm sitting here with my seal, a cappuccino and pipe full of AK47.
I do love this city.
It's like San Francisco ... stoned.
***
I can't get over how different it is for me this time. I understand why - 50 lbs. is a *lot*. In the 3 years since my Amsterdam New Year's Eve, I've lost close to 50 lbs, more than 25% of my former body weight. I guess I just didn't expect it would make this much of a difference in my treatment here. But the responses I'm getting from men are a lot more than I expected, and I now completely understand why everyone kept telling me to avoid eye contact with European men.
I don't remember catching the eye of the guy who asked me to escort him to the next canal foot bridge under my umbrella, but it was clear when we reached his "destination" and he asked what I was doing just then, that he'd had more than a few dry steps in mind. Right. I was just trying to get to Leidseplein from Dam Square by memory (I had a map, but I wanted to try without it ... I got lost).
From discussions with other women who've traveled alone, I knew that if I didn't escape this situation now, I wasn't getting out of it any time soon. This is the beginning of a seduction that begins with him asking you for help and ends, presumably, with you in his bed. Not that he was unattractive, not at all. He reminded me of this French-German boy I had as a lover my first year of college who would sing the French anthem to me in bed. I just wasn't in the mood to be seduced.
So I made up a story about having to meet my friends at the Leidseplein, and we went on our separate ways.
Later, after Niblet's introduction to the Bulldog, I was on my way back to Dam Square (with an unintended detour through Rembrandtplein) and started wondering how he'd so easily marked me as a foreign tourist. I hadn't made eye contact with him, so it wasn't that. Nothing else about me stands out: I'm blonde & fair like the Dutch. I know from some cursory shopping that my personal style corresponds with current fashion here, from cut, fabric, colors, even accessories like belts, bracelets and shoes, I am apparently Euro fabulous.
As I opened my umbrella because it had started to rain again, I realized. "It's the umbrella"
I checked the weather report before I left and knew there was a chance of showers, but I decided if I left my umbrella at home, the weather would have to cooperate and not rain on my vacation. I've seen Amsterdam in the rain, dammit! That's why I'm here in May.
But it's raining, so I bought an umbrella, the first one I saw. It's mostly bright red, but that isn't the problem. There are three white panels with huge black "X X X" lettering, as well as "AMSTERDAM" slightly smaller. X X X by the way, doesn't mean hardcore porn, though I can see how you might think that. It's the national symbol for windmills. You may know they have a lot of those here.
So, basically, big red umbrella with "X X X AMSTERDAM" translates to a big scarlet "T" branded on my forehead. I tossed that one and bought something in basic black. I don't mind being taken for an American, especially because I can say "San Francisco" which apparently makes me a slightly better class of American tourist than someone from just about any other U.S. city. But discretion isn't a bad thing, particularly when the international view of American women is frequently that we are easy targets for men with accents and a little bit of charm.
Dutch isn't a sexy language, and they don't sound sexy when they speak it. It's highly Germanic, very guttural sounding, and about as unsexy a language as you can imagine. Their accents are cute in English, though. Not as hard as German. And holy crap! are Dutch men hot. Some of them are very Aryan looking, which tends to get my attention. The tall, lean, broad shouldered, blonde hair, blue-eyed thing. They have these really dark lips, too, and many have that permanent rosy-cheeked thing going on. Much like my ex, who, though he grew up in England and Scotland, exhibits far more of his Dutch heritage. I find all sorts of men attractive, but throw a hot, blonde, Dutch-looking guy in my path and I guarantee I'm going to drool.
***
After dinner and a nap, I headed toward the Red Light District for the second time since arrival. My first stop after leaving my hotel much earlier in the afternoon having been Baba, first the souvenir shop for a pipe, since I suck at rolling joints and the pre-rolled ones here are full of tobacco, which makes me want to hurl if I smoke it. Then to their coffeeshop for my first "legal" bag of pot. An 8 euro gram of Jack Herrer.
Approaching midnight, I headed in to coffeeshop Route 66 for a mango nectar Looza, hoping to take advantage of their internet access.
Route 66 has 4 computers attached to the web. 2 were in use by 3 guys who were all together, the other 2 turned out to be broken. So I bought some more pot, packed a bowl, and sat and waited my turn. They were speaking Dutch to each other. The closest one to me looked like he was 18 or 19, the Aryan Dutch look I described earlier, very fresh faced and cute. He spoke to me in Dutch, but when I replied in English, the older guy in the middle spoke back to me in accented English, but I couldn't tell where he was from. The third guy didn't speak much, but was also rather Dutch looking.
They started showing me attractions they had built, explaining the length of time it took to build and break them down, and how many men each job required. They are carnies. The attractions they showed me were roller coasters, hydro-powered rides, haunted houses with mechanical puppets. The 18 year-old (I was right, he told me his age at one point) had left his family and started working at traveling carnivals when he was 13. The other guy turned out to be Turkish, and we established he'd be home in Bodrum just after my arrival in Istanbul, for his daughter's 2nd birthday. I'm not clear on his age, but I'm guessing mid to late 30s, and he'd been working at carnivals for 20 years.
They told me it's something that gets in your blood. Once you do it, you just have to. It's a life of travel, they spend 9 months a year on the road. Sometimes, they build, run, and break down an entire carnival in a single day. They're like the modern equivalent of gypsies.
posted by Serrephim | Sunday, May 28, 2006
1 Comments:
You are foreign and no matter how well your clothes blend in there is always a certain foreignness about you. Just like I can peg Americans on the street here in Canada. They look like Canadians, but there is just something that screams foreigner!
Work it don't fight it!
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