But there is a city that turns this convenient arrangement on its head and that gives rules a fat middle finger: Amsterdam. Besides the fact that half its buildings are close to falling over, the city is one big trippy tea party with loads of fun to be had. The city provides a riotous assortment of activities with which one can rebel against the great Dutch bureaucratic machine. Sex and drugs are the first things that come to mind, an ample supply of which is found in the Red Light District (which I found myself lost in the other day, much to my Uncle's chagrin). On every street corner, one can purchase a smorgasbord of drug paraphernalia (bongs in shapes I didn't know existed) and, of course, the drugs themselves. This is no meeting-your-dealer-in-the-township thing. This is buying weed in a shop. With Euros. And the shop assistants don't bat an eyelid. In Amsterdam you can score marijuana to the soundtrack of bicycle bells, tram horns and high heels clicking dubiously across cobble-stone pavements. And then of course if you aren't into prostitutes or legal drug-binges, you can just drink your body weight in coffee. (Milk and sugarless, the stuff is like mud here).
And yet, there is something more to this city. As I sat in a coffee shop (caffeine not cannabis - more on that later), I couldn't help but find the endless stream of American backpackers (all 9's on the nerd scale), all boasting about their 3-day, sleep-deprived binges, a bietjie lame. These were clearly kids who had never been let out back home, and now, unleashed in probably the most notorious city in the world, did little to make it seem cool. Don't get me wrong, the coffee shops are dope (haha) and what I have seen of the RLD so far is funny in the oh-my-GOSH-I-want-to-wipe-that-from-my-memory-right-now way, but there is far more to Amsterdam than what tourists have made it famous for. Of course, the Hemp and Cannabis Museum is pretty cool, and the seedy sex shows with " Live F#&king" plastered across their signs are, to say the least, pretty eye-opening. But at the end of each day that I've spent in this fantastic city, I am always left thinking about something else; the art, the architecture, the culture. Besides, forbidden fruit is always exciting because it is exactly that, forbidden. Half the fun in getting high lies in it being an illicit and illegal pleasure, something that could possibly get you into a lot of shit. And although it isn't illegal, I am sure it is pretty much the same thing with sleeping with prostitutes. (Though since I have no experience in this case, I could be wrong).
And while the good residents of Amsterdam aren't getting stoned or sexing ladies of the night, they are dressing beautifully. Never before have I seen so many people that look like they walked off the Sartorialist's website: crisp linen shirts, black leather jackets, vintage blazers and suede shoes, perfectly-tailored trousers and artfully-rumpled t-shirts with the names of obscure indie bands scrawled across them in mock-graffiti. And that is just the men. Women are a whole other ball game and need another post to do their sense of style justice.
On a side note, leather is big here. Which is weird - because in SA people are becoming increasingly intolerant of animal cruelty - you'd think it would be more intense in a country like Holland but people are furnished top to toe in cow hide here. It gets a bit uncomfortable when there are fields of cattle just outside the city happily grazing, while their relatives are being worn by the entire Dutch population.
And that's the thing with Amsterdam; it is such a visually stimulating city that it need not be experienced while under the influence of ten kinds of chemical/ herbal substances. The Van Gogh Museum, for instance, is an incredibly-rich experience (if you pre-book tickets - standing in the queue surrounded by French teenagers and Chinese tourists made me want to increase my anti-depressant dosage) - at the time I went there was a temporary Surrealist and Impressionist exhibit on too, with an array of Munch and Manet and Monet. Needless to say, I left the building speechless, and happy.
In this dazed state of post-art gallery contentment, I had a cappuccino in a post/progressive jazz/rock/dub cafe. Just as I was trying to sneak another coffee-creamer into my caffeine-laden drink, I saw the bright yellow of a poster for Pitch Festival (massive Dutch music fest) and the name of the lead act, Die Antwoord, caught my eye. I couldn't shake the feeling that this was serendipitous, and that this city was going all out to charm me. In all honesty, getting stoned in a foreign country in an unfamiliar city with the possibility of greenies and intense paranoia sort of quelled my thirst for coffee shops before I even got to Amsterdam. But the city has been magical enough without mind-altering substances. Although maybe that's just the shrooms talking. (Jokes Ma).
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