Amsterdam: Part Two

Amsterdam: Part Two

Part One of this blog post can be found here.

It was a slightly blustery Wednesday, but here I was in Amsterdam, passport still very much on my person.  I had a few hours to kill before I would be able to get into my room in the hostel I had booked into, so I started to explore the city.  The first thing that came to light was the sheer number of bicycles and cyclists about the city; sadly this was twinned with the realization that my vague plan to hire a bike and go cycling was probably a bad one as, quite frankly, I am crap at cycling and everyone else seemed a lot better at it than I have ever been.

     When I was 15, I had a paper round in Lancing, the village where I grew up.  I was cycling down a hill when the chain came off and brakes jammed.  I went straight over the top of the bike, my leg getting caught in it on the way over, and slammed straight into the ground below, rather painfully and bloodily, with my helmet protecting my head from the worst.  The worst was my bicycle, which flipped over with my and crashed into my head, splitting the helmet, with my leg still trapped in its frame.  Newspapers, blood and dignity were spread over the road.  I quit the paper round soon after, though have cycled since.  I’m just very aware I’m a bit shit at it.

     Anyways, where was I?

     I pootled around Amsterdam for a bit, very consciously aware of how loud the bag I was dragging around with me appeared to be, and how painful the bruise on my back from earlier was.  I started to feel rather lost and doubtful: why had I run away to a foreign country? Was this going to solve any of my problems? Give me peace of mind? Lessen my anxiety?

     No, definitely no the latter.  I found myself increasingly worried about my place in the world… and then I found something comforting.

Yes, it appears that wherever I go, a branch of Waterstones can be found nearby.  I popped in, not necessarily intending to buy anything (still sticking to my plan to only spend £100 on books across the year) but just needing to see something familiar.  The first thing I saw was half a dozen Cadbury’s Crème Eggs for sale and a lot of copies of Fangirl by Rainbow Rowell, a book I owned and kept meaning to read. (I did, eventually. It is absolutely breathtakingly brilliant.).  For some reason, this made me feel okay with the world, so I left the shop and found some grass to sit on and read.

I eventually walked to my hostel, The White Tulip.  Now, the hostel has a lot of bad reviews online, and I must admit that the prospect of staying in a place possibly overrun with mice was a bit… daunting.  That said, I do like a good mouse.  All the same, the main reason I had booked myself into the hostel was because it was so cheap and I was a bit nervous about actually staying there.

     I needn’t have been as it was actually pretty nice.  The rooms were basic: beds and nothing more.  They were comfy enough to sleep on though.  The bathrooms were pretty clean (though, again, basic) and whilst the hostel lacked a living area, there was a large table outside the room with some seats, which proved to be a good place to stay and write postcards, and a bar downstairs, where I spent all of my evenings.  There was also a vending machine selling both snacks and toiletries such as soap, razors and toothpaste.  I looked at the razor and stroked my beard.

     Before I did anything else though, I collapsed onto my bed and fell fast asleep for a couple of hours.  I woke up with the sort of fuzzy head and tongue you get from napping for a bit too long, and made my way outside to the vending machine where I purchased a razor.

     Not just any old razor though.  Oh no! This turned out to be the World’s Smallest Razor Ever.  Now, regular readers of this blog (are there any?) will know that my history with razors, shaving and hair is… troubled.  All the same, I decided to shave my beard off using the World’s Smallest Razor Ever.  This ended up taking me over an hour to do.  I would swipe the razor down my face, wash the hairs off the razor, and then swipe the razor down the exact same piece of face, washing the razor again before swiping down for a third time to really start removing hair.  It took about ten swipes to make any real progress and de-hair a portion of face.  That and a lot of fumbling with the razor, trying to remove trapped hairs and not split open my fingertips.

     An hour killed and my face hair free (much like my head; smallest violin), I ventured out for some food and then hit the bar downstairs.  Now, before we go any further I suggest you read this blog post here, because there is something you need to know about me: I cannot drink alcohol.  I have not done for nearly six years now, as I’m allergic to it, but it makes the next bit a tad… difficult for me.  You see, I thought I would try my luck and try to perhaps pull at the bar: not as in pull a drink, but as in find someone to kiss.

     I’ll wait for you to finish laughing.

…

Done? Good.

     I was on my own in a foreign country, so figured why not give it a go.  The trouble was, I soon discovered two important things; two important things that stuck with me this night and the two further ones I spent in the bar:

1. I am not very good at flirting with anyone in any meaningful fashion, mainly because it feels a bit forced and things that are apparently flirtatious, such as noticing someone’s new nail varnish or making continual eye contact or complimenting someone on their new haircut, are things I just do anyway and it’s hard perhaps to tell that I am flirting in the first place.
2. Alcohol, or rather the lack of it.

You see, being at a bar, most people there were drinking alcoholic drinks, and were, to varying degrees, drunk.  Which meant that when I tried to flirt with them, I was aware that they were drunk and I was sober, and when I did kiss (as in a peck, nothing make-out-ish) with someone late one evening, I instantly felt guilty about it, because they were drunk and I was not and that felt like taking advantage.  I think it’s safe to say that I won’t be trying to pull again any time soon.

     I slunk away from the bar later that night, having finished reading The Outsiders, and ended up playing several games of cards with some other people in my dormitory.  There were fourteen of us in there, though most of them seemed to swap on a daily basis.  However, one person stayed throughout my time there, an Australian girl who was currently travelling, studying in Oslo when not doing so.  She refused to tell people her name, mostly to annoy one of the other people in the room, and promptly named one of the other people playing cards ‘Branson’, which was not his name.  I cannot recall what his name actually was, so Branson it always will be in my mind.

     Some other people were smoking in the room with the windows shut, and so we all went to bed rather mellow and buzzing.  I didn’t feel too tired, but ended up sleeping for nearly twelve hours.

     Don’t do drugs, kids.

     I'll leave you with a lion, a discreetly hidden gator, and some bicycles for now.

To be concluded…*

*= Yes, I know I said that this Amsterdam post would only be split into two entries. I accidentally rambled and made it three. Apologies.