Part three of the holiday marks the end of our stay in Amsterdam, which is probably just as well seeing as we were treating wandering around the red light district like window shopping, in the sense that you know you’re not going to buy anything, but you go to pass the time.
Today was an equally early start thanks to Mr. Snooze, who likes to be up at 8am, but lacks the conviction of the early bird and snoozes his alarm for an hour. It was to be a day of both physical and psychological exploration. The plan: eat truffles (a mild hallucinogen) and hire bikes. Only five braved the former and after half an hour of nausea which was overcome by the motto “ride the wave boys”, we went in search of bikes. However, we decided this was a bad idea when we overheard the early bird try to describe time as a colour, whatever that means. Noticing someone else staring at the floor we asked him if he was alright. He replied that he felt “emotionally neutral”, then later cried with laughter and then cried, so I feel like he was okay; needless to say, we explored on foot.
This strange walk resulted in three things, we all became professional photographers to the shout of “landscape!” from a certain individual (a failed artist, he now has a prejudice of portraits), the strongman successfully lifted two people on his shoulders and we went to an ice bar, which sounds like a great idea until you’re standing in a fridge, wearing shorts holding onto an ice cube full of beer. Despite Heineken’s claim, when you’re verging on hypothermia, beer is, in fact, not best served ice cold. And this was all in the presence of our host, dressed as a pirate and of questionable sanity. If I didn’t previously support Brexit, I now do.
With the English tradition of drinking abroad to uphold, yet again, we went out. And after three days of everything being really expensive, a €4.55 bottle of wine was very appealing. Background info: wine is that drink for me, and so the night ended in what can only be called a tantrum on my behalf. Much that I would like to leave it out, my mates, who have all assumed the role of co-editor, would have something to say. In my mind I had reason. Only three of us made it out at first: the DJ, the navigator and myself, and with the help of the navigator’s GCSE German, we had been talking to two German girls. Plot twist: DJ decides, and I quote, “this is too much effort bruv” and abandons me, much to the amusement of the others. To add insult to injury, Mr. Steal Yo Girl then slid in and got their numbers in seconds, so I did the only thing that could save my reputation and bitched for an hour. Let’s hope it’s all forgotten by Brussels.
To be continued…