Chapter 33 –Amsterdam Honeymoon

Landing at the Luchthaven Schiphol twenty miles south of Amsterdam in the town of Haarlemmermeer, all we saw were orange and blue. The Netherlands had apparently just won the World Cup and they had their colors flying everywhere. It is a rather large airport, the fourth busiest in all of Continental Europe, and all the signs were in the looping and multi-lettered language of Dutch. Names like Zwanenburgbaan, Aalsmeerbaan, and Buitenveldertbaan blurred past as we scurried down the turquoise tiled corridors to meet the tram that would take us to the heart of the capital city. The Direct Rail Link connects Schiphol to Amsterdam Central and is the fastest and most convenient way to get to the city center. Trains run every ten minutes and in less than an hour we were on Leidsegracht St walking to our hotel, The American Hotel, of all places. With over a hundred kilometers of canals, ninety islands and fifteen hundred bridges, I wondered if it rivaled Venice, Italy for sheer amounts of water in the confines of a city. But like Venice the canals were the main way of transporting goods and materials in the past and present as well. It was truly a delight to see the Merchant houses with big narrow windows, decorative gable tops, narrow stairs inside and pulleys outside to transport larger objects to upper floor. I would hate to have to move a piano into one of those babies.

Architecture aside, I couldn’t wait to get into our room, relax and then go out and find what the place was famous for, good old European cannabis. Donna was more of the Bailey’s or gin and tonic kind of girl so I was going to have to keep the small amount of whatever I scored on the street for myself. As long as you didn’t flaunt it, like blowing a hefty stream of smoke in the face of a cop, it was basically legal there. I pounced on the platform bed and found it surprisingly firm, just the way I like it. It was a really nice, clean room with plenty of space to stretch out and a big bay window facing north with a great view of the city.

An hour later I told Donna I was going to check things out and would be back as soon as I could. I went to a round pavilion where I saw a local, or what I thought was a local dude, looking like he was a selling some of his wares. He shuffled past him and I heard him say “hashish”. I wasn’t sure if this was the best thing to do but I figured I would at least find out what he had and how much it was. He said he had a gram for twenty-five guilders, which was about eight dollars. What did I have to lose? I asked to see it and he clandestinely opened the baggie a crack told me to take a whiff. It smelled like the real thing to me so I bought it. He pretended to shake my hand we exchanged money for the goods. I should have known something was not right. If it was legal why was he being so secretive? It just felt shady. I went into a tobacco shop and bought a small meerschaum pipe for ten gilders then to a liquor shop and picked up a bottle of Chardonnay and a couple of Heinekens and headed back to the room. 

Since it was our honeymoon, I propped myself up on the bed and filled the pipe with the hashish. It didn’t remind me of anything I had seen before but I figured, this was Europe and things are different here. I lit a match and drew in the smoke. It was hard to get lit and I had to keep the match going until it burned down to my fingers. The smell was unmistakable but I wasn’t getting any kind of buzz.

“Donna, I know you don’t smoke this stuff, but will you try it?”

“I’ll stick to my good ole Bailey’s, thank you very much.”

“I just don’t think it’s working, and since you’ve never really smoked, you would be able to tell if something felt different.”

After a little more coaxing, Donna finally submitted. I let the pipe for her and she inhaled like Bill Clinton. She squinted up her nose and said, “I din na’ feel a thing.”

I tried it again...nothing. Upon further investigation I realized I had bought candle wax dipped in a smallest amount of hash oil to pass olfactory inspection. Ripped off. I went out to try and find the guy, but what would I do if I did find him? Cause a scene? Call the cops? I don’t think so.

Donna and I went out to get some java in a local coffee shop. I saw a fellow next to me who looked and sounded American and appeared to be kind of hip. I asked him point blank where a guy could get the stuff that was illegal in the States.

“You go down to The Bulldog Cafe on Leidseplein Square. They’ve got everything.”

“Great, thanks. Who do I speak with?”

“The manager, anybody really. They know what’s happening.”

After coffee, we walked down to the Bulldog. It was in the touristiest part of the city. There was an Ecuadorian pipe band playing outside with a ton of people standing, milling about and riding bicycles. Donna waited outside while I moseyed in. I saw the host approach as I entered the foyer. 

You can see by the look on her face in the picture above, Donna was not too pleased about my interests. She wanted to go bike riding, visit Anne Frank’s house or see museums, maybe even go to a live sex show, not score dope. I told her it was all part of the Amsterdam experience and we would most certainly do those other things later

“Table for one?”

“Actually, a friend of mine told me you could buy some, well, some marijuana here. Is that right?”

“Right this way, sir.”

He led me to the back dining room and opened the top drawer in a hutch. A cardboard sign flipped up and I could see a menu of drugs. At the bottom I saw sensimillia. I didn’t have to look any further.  Three grams for twenty-five guilder, the same price as the hash oil dipped candle wax I bought hours before.

“Wrap it up, I’ll take it,” I said as he handed me the small baggie and I stuffed it into the front pocket of my jeans.

When we got back to the hotel, the concierge walked towards us with purpose. Was I busted? Did the guy with the candle wax see me staking him out and had a message for me? None of the above.

“Sir, miss, you have a message from a visitor,” he said as he handed me the note.

It read: Have no fear, Irene is here!

I couldn’t believe it. Irene, Donna’s best and lifelong friend had followed us over to Amsterdam. I guess she wasn’t ready to relinquish her to the cheeky American quite yet.