The Complete Idiots Guide to Amsterdam

I am back.

After 2 months of eternity in America, some in DC; some in New York City, I am back. These 2 months were not a completely terrible thing. I was able to raise some money for a summer in Europe, Joann was able to have some time to experience life abroad on her own, and I have a renewed appreciation for my life in Italy now. All good things.

So here we go again. 27 hours of travel (including the time difference) and I am finally back in Siena. And what a homecoming it is. It is such a different sensation getting back here. Mostly because immediately I know my way around everywhere and I am running into people who graciously welcome me back. That and Joann is here. Home is where the heart is, after all.

Things move almost insanely quickly as soon as I arrive. It feels like a series of dreams, and I keep waking up in these crazy little scenarios.

I wake up and we are at Luna Park. The traveling fair that has come through Siena for a stint. I am catching this funland on its last leg, as it closes and meanders to another town in two days. It is a rainy and dreary night, but Jo and I head out anyway alongside our trusty friends Francesca (an amazing young woman from England) and Anja (who politely declines going on a lot of rides, but takes all the pics for us!). We hit the swings, the Fun house, the horse races (which Joann dominates), and then arrive at the game where you throw the ping pong balls into the fish bowls. Theoretically I will absolutely ruin this game with my (sometimes exceptional) beer pong skills...this, however, is not the case. We all fail miserably, but the carney feels bad for us and decides to give me a goldfish. A little backstory: this is not the first time the girls have been to Luna Park. They all came a few weeks ago and ALL won goldfish. I believe our friend Ashley's survived the longest...and that was less than 2 weeks. Anyhow, I am very happy to have a new companion, and one whom I speak more Italian than, at that. I name him Joe Pesce. And I love him. (as I write this, exactly 14 days later, he is alive and well...swimming frequently and once in a while debating with me on the possible influence of sustainable agriculture on the youth of tomorrow).

I wake up and it is our friend Malou's 21st birthday. It seems kind of a moot point since the drinking age in Wales (where she is from) is 18, and here in Italy it is 16, but we celebrate with vigor anyways. They throw a party for her at the Erasmus residence, which is basically a converted little country house that now acts as dormitory. The is, to say the last, debaucherous and yield more than a handful of great pictures...check those out at the end.

I wake up on a train to Bologna. Jo and I have a wedding to attend tomorrow. It will be both of our first Jehovah Witness' wedding. In all honesty they are not weird or different at all...in fact the only noticeable difference is the bride and groom sit on chairs in front of the Altar for the whole ceremony, which frankly seems logical and smart to me. This trip to Bologna (our second; We came for Easter as well) is the first leg of our first big trip outside of Italy. From Bologna we will head to Milan for one night and then off to the Netherlands for two nights.

I have never been to Amsterdam. And I want to go for a couple of reasons, some of which are not so obvious. My main driving force is beer. I know, I know this is often not the first substance people consider when traveling to Amsterdam, but whatever...I have been to college and know what the other stuff has to offer. My main concern is Heineken. For years I have had a terrible relationship with Heineken and knew deep down that it would take a trip to Amsterdam to mend. The reason is all about refrigerators. You see, Heineken is brewed in Amsterdam and then shipped to America in unrefrigerated boats. This means that basically all of the product we receive is, for lack of a better word, skunked. So what we know in America as Heineken, is likely not what it tastes like AT ALL in Amsterdam. Hence I am very excited to head to the Heineken factory and, once and for all, drink the beer as it is supposed to be drunk. I hope it will be as fresh and delicious as I imagine.

I wake up in Milan. This city is absolutely not as bad as people make it out to be. It is a CITY. in every sense of the word, and we found it to be quite nice. Jo and I have a bit of trouble checking into our hotel (more on that later), but settle quickly and hit the town. We take some showers and watch Italy lose in UEFA cup to Spain (on penalties!!). We are ready to paint this town couture red. We ask the strangely effeminate desk agent at the hotel for some direction on how to get the to area of the city that has bars, restaurant, clubs, etc. He quickly points us in the right direction and we hop on the subway. Its a bit dirty and covered in (pretty good) graffiti and we quickly arrive at our destination. We round the corner and find the strip of road we were meant to arrive at. It quickly becomes apparent why the clerk sent us here. Every club here is bumping Madonna's newest, serving drinks with umbrellas, and apparently do not allow sleeves on the shirts of the remarkably well formed male clientèle...oh and no girls allowed. So he sent us to the gay neighborhood in Milan, not a big deal, at least no one will hit on Joann and we are probably pretty safe. We amble around for a bit have a drink here, a panini there and then retire to our hotel...we have an early flight.

I wake up on a rock in the Cinque Terre. Funny, I don't feel drunk. How did I get here? We are supposed to be in Amsterdam.

Why did we have trouble checking into the hotel? You see, Joann and I have forgotten our passports in Siena. This means we have to go to the Milanese police station to gain permission to even stay in a hotel...and drastically more importantly it means neither she nor I will be taking any flights any time soon. Our own stupidity kept us from The Netherlands, but I am more than confident that we will make it there some day. (side note: I wonder how often this happens to stoners who are attempting to get to the motherland? I imagine quite often...)

So after we realize that we will not be traveling internationally this weekend and make the appropriate cancellations ...we have to decide what to do now. Luckily Joann and I are like fucking Peyton Manning when it come to audibles, so we decide (since we are already up north) to head to the Cinque Terre for a few days...not a bad plan B in anyone's eyes. With a new lease on time, we decide to check out a bit more of Milan before departing, so we head to their Duomo. It is pretty magnificent. Not really sure how to describe yet another Duomo, but look at the pics to get an idea...I think this one ranks number 4 on my list of Italian Duomos (still very unclear on the difference between a Duomo and a Cathedral, by the way). To refresh, my list is as follows:
1. Siena
2. Rome
3. Venice
4. Milan
5. Florence

After the Duomo, I literally have to physically force Joann into the Gucci store in Milan. This is the co-fashion center of the world, and I was not going to let her not go in. WE perused for a mere minute and a half before it became too much and we left. As it turns out I like playing the game where I go into these stores and pretend I can buy anything (case in point: when I took out my computer to make sure it fit in the Louis Vuitton messenger bag)....Joann, does not like this game. So we move on. Back to the train station and off to Cinque Terre.

We arrive in the picture perfect coastal town of Monte Rosso with many expectations, but very little ideas on where to stay. We, kind of quickly actually, find the tourist board in Monte rosso and they hook us up with a guy who rents out rooms in his apartment like hotel rooms. We agree to a two night stay and swiftly walk to his abode. The is nothing to write home about, but nice. We are sharing the apartment with two American girls who are pleasant if not semi-mute. We put our bags down and immediately head to the little beach shop that the guy who rented us his room owns with his wife. It is a very tytpical little shop, tons of little knick knacks and shot glasses labeled with the Cinque Terre logo. We have informed him that we came unprepared and will need to buy some swimsuits, so he agrees to give us a discount. Joann grabs a bikini that undoubtedly would have been cool in 1992 and I choose a bathing suit that is basically a spandex pair of boer briefs...you know the kind.

A defense of the tiny male bathing suit.
By Jay Maxwell Zimmerman

You know when its really early in the morning, like 5 or 6 am? And you know no one is around, so you go out to the sidewalk to get the morning paper in your boxers (or briefs or whatever), and you think, "wow, this really feels good. I kind of, sort of wish I could just walk around all day in my skivvies and no one would care...because, well, it just feels good". Do not pretend that that has not happened to you. And thats what wearing these little bathing suits is like. It is oddly freeing and remarkably comfortable. you simply have to get past the idea that, in all likelihood, no one is interested in looking at what your packing. So you get over it, you enjoy your newly liberated spirit, and you revel in the pure joy of having tanned thighs...for the first time since you were a toddler and you hobbled around Rehoboth Beach in your diaper. I digress.

We head to the beach for a few hours of the everlasting sunlight of an Italian summer before agreeing that tonight will be the one night we have a good nights dinner. We dress ourselves up in beach chic and head to a nice restaurant for the first time since I arrived back in Italia. Restaurants in tiny beach towns are kind of funny, the menus offer fish. And that is all. Nothing else. This works out because Jo has a hankering for Spaghetti with Fish. We get it and it is pretty damned delicious. The fish is as fresh as the Prince of Bel-Air and the pasta is cooked to the tooth. Another fun fact about the restaurants in this town: when the fish for the night runs out...they close. No matter what time it is. We literally went to one restaurant that turned us away because they just received their last order for clams. Sorry, non piu (no more). We retire to the warmth of a bonfire on the beach for a little bit before bed. Big plans for tomorrow.

We are up at 8 am (ungodly early for us) and head for the train station. We plan on taking a train to the farthest of the five towns in the Cinque Terre (Riomaggiore....the opposite end of the Cinque Terre from us) and hiking back. The train ride is swift, 20 minutes at best and suddenly we are in Riomaggiore. We hit the trail that links the 5 towns, through 5 mountains, with blind ambition and terrific smiles on our faces. Everyone around us is outfitted in CamelBaks, and hiking boots, and Poles (!), and Carabeiners, et al. Joann and I have flip flops and bathing suits on...we will show these people exactly how to do this, the right way.

We tackle the firat mountain with ease and stop in the next town to get a bottle of water and hit the beach for a bit. We actually find a stretch of rocks that extend out into the ocean aways, so we climb those and swim out where they touch the sea. The cool water is welcome break from the mid-day, mid-summer heat and feels great. At this point I put on a bow tie and greet incoming ships with my little man-bikini on. It makes everyone involved happy and sad at the same time. We hop back on the trail home and are making great headway. We spot yet another little spot to swim and stop to enjoy the ocean one more time. I find a little cave and explore it...but the impending doom of jellyfish and sharks gets us out of the water pretty quickly after that (no word yet on if jellyfish or sharks actually inhabit those waters).

As soon as we leave this second swimming paradise...things get a little dodgy. The perfectly bricked walkway gives way to gravel, the even sidewalk ascends to an incline, and then to a mountainous trek, the breath taking cliffside views are quickly covered by brush, then by full-on jungle. It quickly becomes apparent that Joann and I are not correctly outfitted for this journey, but we soldier on nonetheless. We trek through, legitimate hiking, trails for 3 hours. Up and down mountains, rarely talking, but huffing anf puffing the whole way. We eventually get to the 4th of the 5 towns, Vernazza, which is positvely beautiful. We decide to have a slice of pizza and hit the local beach there for an hour or so. The water is perfect, the sand is hot, as is the sun, and we are more than content to give our aching limbs a rest. As we begin to move again the debate as to whether or not we should actually hike the last bit flares up. We are pretty tired after all, and we did hike 4 mountains already...but alas, this is something I have to do. I came this far, adn something inside me was pushing to finish. No I can't run a marathon, No I cant be a professional athlete, but I can complete this. And I will.

The last bit is hard and arduos. We are fatigued and sweaty, some of us are a bit unhappy with the situation, but we both keep moving our feet. one after the other. And 2 hours later we arrive in Monte Rosso. I have this mountainous feeling of accomplishment inside of me and am quick to thank Joann for sticking it out with me. Now, I know that I am making this sound like it was torture and not fun at all...in reality it was jaw dropping-ly gorgeous and a fun excursion. We didn't kill ourselves, but were a little worse for wear...any thing worth doing will leave you this way I think anyways.

It should be noted that I did this entire 7 hour hike with no shirt on and in flip flops. Joann did it in a tiny sun dress and flip flops. Needless to say we both returned to Siena looking lobster-esque.

That night there is a big party in Monte Rosso. It is, as it turns out, John the Baptists' birthday. How could I forget? There is a long procession of people, some of which carry grotesquely realistic crucifixes. After the parade passes us, Joann and I head to the beach once again. Soon thereafter hordes of little childred storm the beach and start hopping in the pitch black ocean (this seems, to me, like bad parenting). Their parents are on the beach lighting candles and hanging them to the kids. These kids then float these candles out into the ocean. They light hundreds upon hundreds of candles and light the sea as far as the eye can sea...it was remarkably beautiful and an unexpected sight. Not half an hour later, as we watch the tea lights tickle the horizon, the fireworks start. The people in Monte Rosso take JTB's birthday seriously. And this firework show is on par with anything I have ever seen. And yes that includes the 4th of July in Washington DC, which is something to behold. We were right on the water as the lit missile after missile into the air. They exploded in every manner and color you can imagine. And right in front of our faces at that. They even went so far as to shoot the fireworks out into the ocean...level with the water, not into th air at all. They exploded at eye level...unbelievable. And absolutely unsafe...but unsafe in the way wearing stilettos while dancing is...certainly not the most sound idea, but it just has to happen.

As the plumes of smoke left by the blasts retired into the bay, we too decided to listen closely to aching, tired bodies. Our sunburns prevented us from hitting the beach again in the morning, so we instead decide to head home.

I wake up on a speeding train cutting through the Tuscan hills heading for Siena. 3 hours later, we arrive in Siena. Back home, red as apples, and having to explain to everyone how exactly we got such a great tan in "amsterdam".

Until the next...

HERE ARE THE PICTURES...