Day 1
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After last night's adventure during which my hostel roommate showed me the 2ft long cloth dildo costume he purchased at a sex shop to sling at enemies, and a 60yo man managed to finagle my number and called me 5 times over the course of the night before I managed to block him, I've had enough of Amsterdam to last a lifetime.
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But. But! I'm a slut for a Dutch pancake.
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I spend an hour at the Anne Frank museum. The original bookcase is encased in plastic, but the Secret Annex kitchen remains untouched, the countertops crumbling. Dark energy. I cry openly, and wish I weren't embarrassed.
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I explore the shops, buying an array of cheeses, a book from Waterstones, an Aperol Spritz, and lastly bitterballen (fried balls of congealed cream of mushroom soup) at a lesbian bar. I start Octavia Butler's "Dawn," the most compelling, perverse alien novel I've had the misfortune of picking up.
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My first lesbian bar is mid. Most of the regulars are straight women avoiding men. One dyke calls me a true Dutch for bringing and consuming a block of cheese at the bar, which is nice.
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At a different lesbian bar, a drunk dude steals my beer thinking it's his. He's wearing either the world's tiniest hat or world's largest yamaka. I doodle a picture of him leaning on a pool stick, and when I give him the drawing, he cries and says he has never seen himself captured so beautifully. He's very drunk. This is the first time I've seen someone cry over something I made.
Day 2
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The Dutch pigeons are purple and green. Couples make out on street corners. The sky hangs heavy with cloud, and I wake up to a sore throat. And so it goes.
I visit Cafe ONS for tea, breakfast, and apple crumble. I'm the only person in the restaurant to receive ice in their tap water. Another old man whose name must be Mike chooses the table next to me, chugs a Heineken, asks hundreds of questions, and I respond with two word answers. The fine art of mean bitch.
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A cat pees over the side of a bridge. It's hilarious. I miss Echo.
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Day 3
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Housekeeping kicks me out thirty minutes before checkout time, so I get my revenge on ClinkNoord via bad review. I stop by a laundromat, and then the Stedelijk Museum of Modern Art. Highlights include: the sheer number of times I blew my nose; a sculpture made entirely of bottle caps; a light installation inspired by the artist's partner's death by AIDS, representing the transience of life as the bulbs burn out; Picasso; an interactive slumber-party-couch-fort-blanket-tent decked out in witchy lights and speakers playing ASMR.
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I attempt oysters at a brasserie. I don't know what brasserie means, and I'm not going to ask. My new AirBnB is a private room adjacent to another private room containing... you guessed it... the costume designer for the European Les Miserables tour. She is *chef's kiss*
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I meet up with Alfonzo and Celia at a coffeeshop. In Amsterdam, cafes sell coffee, and coffeeshops sell weed. The establishment has an exclusive sex club vibe, but none of the sex. We puff our pre-rolls and talk about education, relationships, and how to roll my r's. I'm embarrassed. Celia says my attempts are cute. Then they're off to Valencia, kissing me on both cheeks, and I finish "Dawn" and toss it violently on the bed. Disgusting. 4 stars.
