I was in amsterdam yesterday; I had been before, but when I was young, which meant wholesome things: the anne frank museum, the van gogh museum, the museum of torture. amicable amsterdam. nothing is quite so comfortable, quite so happily impudent as walking around with a gram of mushrooms and a gram of really good weed, walking past policemen, smoking on a windowsill, watching the world spin in circles. I stumbled around, tumbled around, listened to illmatic and stared slack-jawed at everything in the world, all of the people submerged in novel hedonism. high as hell. the hash was good; I crumbled it up and put it in my bag and later smoked it on a needle in chamonix. in perfectly respectable buildings, in windows framed with pink neon, are women dancing to unheard music with looks of boredom or sadness, and men gather outside, leaning against bridges and sitting by canals, discussing the pros and cons of prostitutes that have caught their fancy with their ghostly dancing. the frightening ones are the women that frantically bang themselves against the glass of their windows like angry dogs for attention. now I understand perfectly why my father took me to amsterdam, and not my mother.* my mother would have wandered through the red light district with her typically dazed expression, smiling at the drug dealers, waving back at the prostitutes, saying 'everyone is so nice here.' I am having a wonderful time. I am in chamonix, france. my hotel had a piano and I was allowed to play, I played chopin's revolutionary etude and people clapped and I was delighted. I am training to italy in a few hours. I'll write about shaun later.
*my father went to amsterdam on business, not on sprees of spicy solace, and I say that with absolute certainty -- my father was vehemently anti drug, alcohol, cigarette and I can count the number of times he smiled on one hand. we stayed in a very lovely, very conservative part of amsterdam and I was with him every moment.
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