Fear and loathing in Amsterdam
Fear and loathing
Fear and Loathing in Amsterdam.
Between scrupulous explorations of bar life in Prague, Berlin and Hamburg and bathing in sangria with bull runs during Spain’s wildest fiesta, fate threw me a chance to visit one of the couture capitals – Amsterdam.
My life flows in a torrent of beer, whiskey, arak and shit (yes, not without that), blowing the minds of mere mortals unprepared to ride that wave, like bloody Cody Maverick. In fact, that’s why 30 hours in Amsterdam is more than enough for me.
Arrival from Hamburg. Early morning. It’s drizzling, but it’s not freezing yet. The driver says goodbye to the passengers: “Don’t smoke a lot of funny cigarettes or you’d never remember, that you were here!”
We’ll skip the cultural 2 hours in which I ran around all the sights, that’s not why we’re here today. Let’s go straight to the sweets. On kaucheserfing (site for sex tourism matches travelers ed.) that summer, appeared a magical feature – everyone can publish a preferred pastime (to walk through museums, dine at Michelin restaurant, rent a dog sled, make a birdhouse, go back in time and kill Hitler, give birth to a possum), and a positive response to the request – you added to the chat, where the place to meet and just acquaint. This option is just what we need. I spent the whole of Prague with Brazilians at absinthe parties, and in Amsterdam my choice fell on a Belgian with a very curious suggestion: “I’M GOING TO EAT MAGIC TRUFFLES.” Isn’t that breakfast? – I thought.
Here we are in the park. There’s a kid laying around and catching some kind of interesting parish. The amount recommended for consumption is unknown to me or my tasting partner. But, as they say, if you dance with the devil, dance to the end of the song. While waiting to arrive, my newfound Raoul Duke, a hippie with red dreadlocks, teaches me how to play songs from Into the wild. We’re lying on the grass, on the bank of a body of water, with ducks in it, young and beautiful duchesses running around us, apparently shooting a video for a bachelorette party. (Now you will need all your imagination) Suddenly a group of totally naked cyclists from 40 to 70 years old, about 15 people, starts approaching the girls and mixing sharply with the group of women. I was about to be surprised, but then everything fell into place – Amsterdam, bicycles, naked people, in fact, everything as taught at school. Out of the bacchanalia of bicycles, flowers, greenery and retirement penises I decided to get out into the city, for your magic truffles don’t take me. HAHA. I don’t know how much time I spent in disorientation, wandering around town. But I was determined to find a place (a bar, of course) where I needed to sip a local beer. So I got to the bar to watch the Netherlands-New Zealand handball game, and, I won’t immerse you in the rules of handball, but in a series of shootouts (penalties? free kicks?) the Netherlands won, and the truffles only added to this seemingly insignificant victory for us Jews, with a sense of true triumph.
On the flight from Moscow was my faithful friend S., and with an inhuman effort to come to my senses, I fulfilled my obligation to meet him. The following are small scraps of memory. Whiskey. A man in a penis suit playing the contrabass. The coffee shops are closed. A jaunt for five euros. Disorientation again. Two girls and S. take me to the train station, flight in 2 hours. Customs. I dance. I elbowed a guy and yelled “look at them, they’re looking for drugs! I woke up in Barcelona, where S. was on the next flight. When I got off the plane I got a telegram: “Misha, I don’t understand anything, you have to meet me, ecstasy.
Travel and don’t get lost, kittens! This text is for informational purposes only and is in no way a call to action. The use of alcohol and drugs is dangerous to your health. But it is a lot of fun.
Fear and loathing in Amsterdam
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So, kitties, did you miss me? I decided to burst out with a post about the past summer, because summer (Oleg Grigorievich won’t fuck around) is a little life. Attention, there will be a lot of revelations. Impressed – go fuck yourself, the rest – sit back.
Reading time, a glass of cold riesling. In a heartbeat.
I just hit rock ‘n’ roll age, which means the war on monogamy and drug addiction is in full swing. I’m not a fan of pouring water (and neither are Israeli skies), so I’ll briefly outline the main points by month:
Bar June. (Childhood). Everything’s right on track. I work (at the bar), rest (at the bar), do things (at the bar).
Cocaine July. (Adolescence). Going to the “walker” level, which means every dog in the alleys knows my easy walk. More and more friends/friends = less and less chance of sleeping at home. Inverse proportionality, dick. I’m starting to comprehend full-blown polygamy, I’m getting a taste for it, but I’m also honored. I once missed that same sense of freedom by jumping from relationship to relationship, so don’t feel bad. I can afford it. Thursdays schedule includes a bdsm club (sorry pop), and my diet includes the totally out of the blue regular cocaine. I radically reconsider my views on many things, as a consequence of which my self-esteem grows to the sky, followed by my charisma. Success.
Suicidal August. (Youth).
Thoughts arise of stopping, at least once a week to sit at home. Does not come out. I get tired of people. Their attention is no longer so important, and alone with myself is unbearable. But show must go on. If you dance with the devil, dance to the end of the song The uppercut is a change of job (of course, from a normal job to a shitty one), with no chance of return. It’s the realization that you’re just furniture in the local bars. Like a fucking chair. If the chair is broken/thrown out/removed, the first week – everyone is not used to it, the second week – few people will remember why this chair was so fucked up, and a month later – was there even a chair? Old people leave, new people come. Wild homesickness for Russia. I can’t get a local passport due to an unpaid debt. My Russian passport is expired. It would seem, here it is, his majesty, the Fucker. But the fuck it is.