|
T H I S+W E E K Lost in the Sahara
Dunescapes
> Letter from Amsterdam
D E P A R T M E N T S The Surreal Gourmet
Mondo Weirdo
Readers' Tips and Tales
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - LA S T+W E E K Tuesday, Sept. 9, 1997
Bali low
A full list of all
|
 |
____toke of the town
BY MARY ELIZABETH WILLIAMS | you reach a certain age, and spending three days with your head in a bong just isn't that appealing an option anymore. Yet tell people you're going to Amsterdam for the weekend and suddenly they start hooting like you're opening for Cypress Hill on the NORML tour. Your friends no longer see you as a mature adult who enjoys museums and fine wine. No, with that one word, "Amsterdam," you're transformed into a wound-up college student out for the spring break of a lifetime, the kind of person who uses the word "party" as a verb. It's not that far-fetched an assessment. True to every cliché in the book, when I actually did visit Amsterdam as an energetic college student 10 years ago, I came home with a treasure trove of fond if rather foggy memories. So it didn't really surprise me to discover that for many, that decadent image of the city is still the sum of its cachet. A few weeks before my trip I'd met a couple at a party who clasped my hands excitedly when I told them I was going to Amsterdam. "You're so lucky!" they swooned as if I'd just won my own cropfield in South America. "Be sure to go to the Bulldog," they whispered conspiratorially, divulging the name of the city's best-known "coffee shop." But I had a different kind of trip in mind this time. For one thing, I was heading over to rendezvous for a long weekend with my spouse, who'd been away in the Dutch countryside for two long weeks at a writing workshop. I only had romance and Droste chocolate pastilles in mind. Then something started to change. As the date of departure drew closer, I found I also wanted to reacquaint myself with some of those blurry youthful recollections. I headed off toward the city in which altered states are practically a cottage industry wondering, "Is Amsterdam really any fun if you're not fucked up?" Of course it is. For one thing, it's one of the easiest cities in the world to get a handle on in a short time, which makes it ideal if, like me, you can only get away for a weekend. It's small enough that you can walk (or, in true Dutch fashion, bike) everywhere. If your Dutch language skills are not up to par, it's no big deal -- nearly everyone speaks English. And unlike, oh, Paris, the locals who do speak English don't treat you like you're a complete moron for lacking fluency in the vernacular. During the course of our weekend, we amused ourselves in traditionally touristy ways -- gawking at sunflowers in the Van Gogh Museum, whiling away an afternoon people-watching at the American Hotel, exploring funky antique shops in the Jordaan district. But Amsterdam is a mix of both the quaint and the grotesque, of beautiful tree-lined canals and neon-lit sex clubs. It's that eclecticism that gives the city a unique, anything-goes vibe that hits you the moment you step out of Centraal Station. I was seduced by it immediately. And I knew that even though I didn't necessarily want to "experience" everything, I did want to see everything. You can go to Amsterdam without getting high. But you shouldn't go without at least checking out the more, er, freewheeling side of its scene. For a full day we wandered around various neighborhoods, down streets dotted with enclaves sporting names like Rasta Bar and Easy Times. I noted that since my last visit the once omnipresent pot leaf icons in coffee shop windows had been replaced with discreet images of multi-pronged palm trees. I never did figure out the reason for the subtle change, though it might have to do with the fact that marijuana still is not legal in the Netherlands. Whatever the reason, the multitude of tropical signposts lent a positively Polynesian mood to the dark and curving back alleys. What I really wanted to see, however, was the infamous Bulldog. I might not have had an appetite for space cakes, but that didn't mean I was going to miss out on poking my nose in the landmark coffee shop. To skip the Bulldog, I believed, would be like going to Vegas and not at least walking through Caesars Palace. I licked my voyeuristic chops in anticipation of sitting in a den of pure, old-fashioned iniquity. But when we at last discovered the Bulldog, I was not prepared for the jaw-dropping horror that awaited me. For this was no sleazy little den of vice, no dark corner in which a local might enjoy a mellow spliff. This was instead a Hard Rock of hash. A blazing sign with a feisty canine logo, perched in the middle of the bustling Leidesplein, beckoned like a Bob's Big Boy on the Jersey Turnpike. Inside, a T-shirt concession offered cutesy-poo souvenirs of the kind that easily pass through customs. Sure, the marijuana scene in Amsterdam has always been a tourist draw, but there is something deeply disturbing about seeing recreational drug use so Planet Hollywoodized. It's like having someone tell you of a great erotic club and discovering you've been waylaid into a Hooter's. I may have desired a tamely decadent weekend, but I hadn't banked on this. They might as well have been selling tiny pullovers emblazoned with, "Grandpa got fried in Amsterdam and all I got was this lousy shirt." Dejected, we decided to look for more sincere outposts of the illicit. We headed to the Red Light District. There, across the street from a picture window in which a young woman sat distractedly fingering herself, we found the Hash Marijuana Museum. The museum does possess a kitschy appeal that puts it in the ballpark of the Bulldog, but it also comes complete with an earnest educational imperative. Shuffling through its cramped, humid quarters, where numerous "exhibitions" grow under hothouse lights, I couldn't help but detect a certain whiff of ... academia. We traced the history of the popular plant, gazing upon displays devoted to the medicinal and ritual uses of marijuana and the practical applications of hemp. But my favorite exhibit was the glass-enclosed collection of "makeshift pipes" -- a crowded tableaux of apples and cola cans the likes of which I hadn't seen since my freshman dorm. If I'd been looking for take-home treats however, I'd have had to limit myself to such non mind-altering fare as Cannabliss, a lip balm made from hemp and definitely not likely to bring on the munchies. The museum was unquestionably unique and informative -- it's not often I get agricultural tips on the amount of sunlight pot plants need every day -- but I was beginning to feel I'd entered a time warp. There's just something about the whole weed scene in Amsterdam that feels stuck in the nostalgic, patchouli oil and love beads past. And I got enough of that when I lived in San Francisco. So for a more up-to-date experience, we stopped by the Magic Mushroom Gallery -- a quasi art gallery/resource center/smart drugs emporium located not far from the always-fun-to-say Dam Square. There we learned of the various properties of assorted herbal refreshments, like Passiebloem, which is described as "relaxing and healing as well as hallucinogenic in large quantities," or "K2," the "supersonic cybertonic" that promises "positive energy and lots of self-confidence." Perfect for ego tripping! As techno music pulsed through the air, a pack of young men and women chatted animatedly in a corner through a thick cloud of smoke. But this being the Magic Mushroom and not the Magic Doobie, the fog was composed of pure Marlboro. Herbal XTC and cancer sticks -- I couldn't tell if this was a Dutch version of a healthy alternative to the coffee shop or not. In three days we'd managed to explore one of the city's most famous coffee shops, a museum devoted exclusively to cannabis and a self- proclaimed "smart product center," yet we'd barely detected a breeze of ganja anywhere. And with the cheerful pot leaf images so commonplace a decade ago now morphed into innocuous palm trees, the city's most famous attraction seemed almost to have transformed from tangible consumer good to sentimental concept. The idea of pot was everywhere -- yet the sight and smell of it remained less obvious. Had we not met up at the airport with a friend who smilingly described his weekend simply as "really stoned," I might almost have believed that Amsterdam had blown its last bong hit. It hasn't, of course, and I can't imagine it ever will. But the decadence has become more Disneyfied, and the pure is almost as in your face as the prurient. I left the Netherlands having not gone one toke over the line, but
I didn't come home feeling I'd missed anything. In the 10 years since I'd
last visited, it seemed that as I had become less interested in certain
pursuits, so had Amsterdam. And I learned one thing that I hadn't picked up
on my last trip -- that if you want to see the city, you don't need to get
smoke in your eyes.
What's your favorite place to go in Amsterdam? Join the discussion in Table Talk. Amsterdam offers an eclectic range of riches. Want to sample them? First visit our handy reference site in Marketplace. ________- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - |
![[Salon Wanderlust Marketplace]](../../wanderlust/logos/marlogo.gif)
![[Bali Low]](bali970916.gif)
|
S A L O N +|+ C O N T A C T+U S + A R C H I V E S + N E W S L E T T E R + T A B L E T A L K + M A R K E T P L A C E + S E A R C H
DAILY | COLUMNISTS | COMICS | FEATURE | MEDIA CIRCUS MOTHERS WHO THINK | NEWSREAL | SHARPS & FLATS | SNEAK PEEKS | TELEVISION WEEKLY | 21ST | ENTERTAINMENT | GAMES | WANDERLUST |