The Hostel American's Excursion Part II (Amsterdam)

Right. Soldiering on (instead of writing my Language and the Media paper...but there's plenty of time for that.) Let's get right into the written notes from my second night in Amsterdam. Transcribing below:

02/11/09 (St. Christopher's Hostel)-

Ah, Amsterdam. I am enjoying myself here, too. Hostels really do agree with my travel sensibilities. They're the best. I can be social without being stupid or vulnerable. For example, last night, I went to dinner with two (out of five total) hostelroommates. Indonesian food. Very good, though perhaps not entirely politically correct. What with the colonization and all. What would Multatuli say? [Okay, obviously, I added that Multatuli bit. I did not know who he was at this point. But you don't either!]

After dinner, I passed on a pub crawl with creepy Mike (Mark? Mork?) and his friends, went back to the hostel, read in my room for a bit, went out to use the internet for an hour and charge electronics, then went back to the room to read some more. And then I slept. And that, friends, was my first night in Amsterdam. Granted, I arrived only just in time for dinner, and was a bit tired all day. And I still had three more nights.

So the hostel in Edinburgh was right in the middle of the Old Town, and had a very relaxed, comfortable vibe for its weary travelers. St. Christopher's Hostel is a bit different. While also quite centrally located (in what I would call the "pink light district," just off the Damrak and 5 minutes from Centraal Station) the lobby area is basically naught but a bar. There are no quiet places to sit with your book or journal if your constantly sleeping hostelroommmates have already turned out the light. This puts me at a slight disadvantage, considering my nocturnal travel habits, but no matter. I'm making friends with the drunk guys who think that they can approach the mousy girl writing all by herself.

Just now, in fact, I've been approached by two Canadians, Joel and John. We had a delightful conversation about what to see and do and drink (their contribution) in lovely Amsterdam, the general differences between our respective countries of origin, and the motivations of our travel. The Canadians seemed very impressed by my general solo travel philosophy, that is that I'm not here to make any bad decisions or put myself in compromising situations. I'm here for art, culture, and tulips. Not weed. Or sex. Or even drink, really. They admitted that their intentions are quite the opposite. But still we were friends! Ladies and gentlemen, hostels!

So. Catching up- today. I slept in- which was awesome. I've been sleeping a lot, to be sure, but I usually have to wake up early either to catch a tour, a train, or a plane, and sometimes I simply have to make the most of a short time in a new, unfamiliar city. It was nice, though, to sleep in until 11:00 and meet up for the 1:15 Free Tour (just like the one in Edinburgh!) instead of the 11:15. I am on vacation, after all.

The tour was great, led this time by an Australian ex-pat named Amy. "You're in Amy's Amsterdam, now, bitches!" she said. Okay, she didn't call us "bitches" but it seems to fit. Just like Canadian Kate of Edinburgh (wow, the alliterations) she was passionate enough about her adopted home to make up for the fact that she's not actually an Amsterdaminian (?) She seemed pleasantly surprised by her own fascination with the history of the city- like the common backpackers' job had actually managed to genuinely excite her. I've found this an interesting but common phenomenon among tour guides in general. Interesting, since I've always found history, personal or otherwise, to be the only real reason to visit any city, especially in Europe ("where the history comes from," Eddie Izzard tells us.) Okay, maybe art, too. Anyway, I find it difficult to understand that others don't feel this way. Must be all the pot.

Anyway, one of my friendlier, awake hostelroommates- I cannot for the life of me remember his name, thought someone introduced him to someone else here at the bar not an hour ago, and it's a guy's name that I like- joined me and together we sought out the "pick-up point," and failing that, the "starting point" in Dam Square. We were just in time to join Amy's tour- and it must have been fate, because there was a couple from Atlanta decked out in Georgia Tech hoodies and hats, and a Northeastern grad. Aw.

We started out in Dam Square, went through the red light district with its tax-paying hookers, crossed bridge after bridge over canal after canal, past "coffeeshop" after "coffeeshop," stopped for lunch, and finally ended up in front of the Anne Frank House, where Amy, genuinely moved, told us the story of both Anne Frank, and the February 25, 1941 strike and protest against the deportation of Dutch Jews. It was a very good tour, especially considering all of Amsterdam's various historical and contemporary places of interest. And Amy really did seem to love Amsterdam. So. I tipped well.

From there, I joined Russian Svetlana from San Francisco (via Russia) on the Museum Cruise line of the Amsterdam canal circuit. It was very nice, and extremely pretty. We casually chatted as our captain navigated through the various canals, past the Hermitage Amsterdam, the Museum of Music, and the Nemo. And! The world's largest floating Chinese Restaurant. Points of interest indeed! It was a perfectly lovely way to see the city, and Svetlana proved excellent company. She even promised to send me some pictures she took after my camera died (it's utterly useless!) [Haven't received anything yet, actually...but whatever.] After we docked at Centraal, she invited me to venture into the Red Light District, deciding that it would be best to see it with company, and we might as well take the advantage of the opportunity. The real Red Light District is as seedy and grossly fascinating as you would expect. I find it difficult to avoid eye-contact with the prostitutes who pose and gyrate in their rent-paid-for windows. I can't decide if I should feel sorry for them, or empowered by their sexual liberation, or simply repulsed by the whole situation. I suppose I should further research their general quality of life- though I did learn today that pimping is illegal, so that probably helps. Also in the Red Light District, one can find novelty sex shops and many, many opportunities to buy hard drugs. The pot-selling coffeeshops are interesting destinations, too. I even saw the one where Robbie Coltrane, George Clooney, and Matt Damon quote "Kashmir" in Ocean's 12 (Amy didn't mention Robbie Coltrane when she identified it- come on! He's Hagrid! He's James Bond's Russian Criminal Contact I Can't Remember the Name Of! He's Dr. Johnson!) Anyway, as stated, I don't think I'm here for pot. Still, it's an interesting subcultural element. I think I'll leave it all for Canadian Joel and John, though.
-

Well, there ends my up-to-the minute (or night, anyway) journal transcriptions. So, from now on, you're getting plain, old Lauren's London-bound memory. I think I've got a pretty good command of facts though, never fear.

Anyway, that night, as mentioned, I made friends with those Canadians, who left me, before I started writing about them, for pot, naturally. The hostelroommates were all sleeping when I went to my room to read (seriously...I didn't see one of them leave his bed!) and so I went back to the bar and read amongst the drunks. I was approached again, this time by a chatty Australian named Pras, who saw me earlier with Joel and John, and naturally assumed that I was Canadian, too. When I corrected this, he was excessively penitent, as if confusing those two nationalities was the absolute height of racism. He was very drunk, too. Actually, I saw him again the next night, and we actually became something like friends. Good guy, Pras. I took a shot for him, too (my only liquor in Amsterdam.)



The next morning I woke up early and walked all the way down the Damrak to the Van Gogh museum and Rijksmuseum. It was a most pleasant little jaunt. I got lost a few times, which suited me just fine, since it was a nice, cloudy day, and it allowed me to see more of the city. The Van Gogh museum was very cool, but only just worth the 16 euro I paid. In light of that, I decided against the 11 euro for the Rijksmuseum, which I sort of regret now. I did look through the guide book in the gift shop and decided that there just wasn't enough must-see works to merit a visit. I did also buy a too-expensive hat that day (I would soon buy a too-expensive skirt and promptly run out of money. Damn you, Europe!) so the sacrifice was a noble one. And, really, I'm not all that into Dutch art. But! The Van Gogh museum was way cool, showcasing his letter-sketches, and the Potato Eaters. I was glad I saw that.

On my way back I got caught in the rain, and had some waffles in a little restaurant near the "I AMSTERDAM" statue, and after finally finding my way back to the hostel and eating 25% off bar food, I heard from MFAs, who had arrived the night before and invited me to meet up with them in a "coffeeshop" in the Red Light District. Pras of the night before offered to escort me through the sketch zone, though he didn't go inside, which was a shame. I kind of wanted to show those jerks that I was capable of making friends. Oh well. They were all high, anyway.

The next day, I trekked again down the Damrak to the Anne Frank House. It was very cool, and very interesting, but also crowded by disrespectful and unpleasant (is there any other kind- apart from Martha?) schoolchildren. The use of the texts of her diaries was very cool, almost as if Anne was telling the story herself, and there were a number of very informative videos that featured interviews with the now aged people who knew her. Like Dachau, it can't exactly be described adequately here, so if you get a chance to see it, do so.

As I was leaving the Anne Frank House, I saw MFAs in line to get in (the night before, Sarah told me that they were going early to avoid the lines, and I said "Oh, when I was there before, the lines weren't so bad." "The concierge at the hotel told me we need to get there early." "Okay, but I don't think it will be that bad." "Well, we're still going early!" So...ha.) Anyway, they invited me to dinner with them after they finished at the House, so while they went through, I walked around the neighboring canals, vaguely looking for a Waterstone's I remembered seeing somewhere around there from the Free Tour.

And then we went to Hard Rock Café. Again. I can't really say why I tagged along. I did actually have kind of a nice time. Mike, strangely enough, out of the group, was nicest to me. Weird. Anyway, the five of us caught up on our separate experiences, and when they stayed behind to get further and more expensively drunk, I left, returned to St. Christophers, and went with Pras and his friend to an Australian bar, Coco's Cave ("Warm beer and lousy food.") Good times. When I got back, I charged my electronics, and a fellow traveler told me that there was a rail strike on in Belgium the next day (you know, when I was leaving. For Belgium.) I went to bed determined not to worry.

I was very wrong. But we'll get to that tomorrow!

The Hostel American's Excursion Part I (Edinburgh)

Hello all! I just got back from my excursion on the continent...

Ha. Actually I've been back for a while. A week or so. But I did journal it while it was happening, for the most part. Anyway, the trip precipitated a lot of thoughts, so I've been kind of intimidated by the mere thought of compiling everything. Not bad, lonely, "I've-been-abandoned" thoughts, mind you...I actually had an excellent time. But I was solo, and I didn't do much crazy partying after hours (What? You? No way!) so there was a lot of time to read and think.

Before we get started, on a related note, Sense and Sensibility is a great book. I was inspired to read it again after seeing the latest Andrew Davies miniseries. It really helps that they casted a fox to play Edward. And Dominic Cooper, despite my doubts, plays a pretty good Willoughby. He is a History Boy, after all...and he lives with Smithy. Which reminds me...I need to find that flat!

Okay. So, here's what I have written, it might require multiple posts. Actually, let's run with that. Here's what I have written...for Edinburgh, Scotland:

30/10/09 (The train to Edinburgh)-

On my way to Scotland now- started out fairly early this morning to catch my 8:00 train (I asked for 8:30!) and made every possible dumb mistake. Fortunately, I actually stared out very early, so I made it with plenty of time. And then it was late, anyway. Awesome.

I am glad to have purchased this soundtrack to Adventureland (bummer movie, but great music.) Lou Reed's "Satellite of Love" is on its way out...and I do love David Bowie's backing vocals. And now begins, that kook's own "Modern Love," one of the tracks for which I bought this. Such a fun song. And it's giving me some dance-y self-confidence in my own funness, which is important, as I'm about to head out on a foreign and basically solo adventure.

It is indeed a very trying thing (maybe rewarding too?) to be a complicated introvert. Expensive, too, but what's to be done? My days of wondering what the hell is wrong with me and wishing desperately for a "crowd" are over(ish.) Though occasionally beset by self-doubt (who isn't?) I'm actually quite fine with who I am. The other flatmates feel sorry for me, I can tell. They treat me like a sick child. Well, they can misunderstand me as much as they choose. I'll misunderstand those alcoholics right back! Alternatively, I could just not care.

So I won't. I am actually quite excited about this journey. Paris was a slightly difficult testing-of-the-waters, but I'm confident that I can rally here. They do speak English in Scotland, right? Something like, anyway. Also, I hope that hostels will provide some distractions. That was the main problem in Paris. One can only watch so much BBC World News.

On a new and wonderful note, I'm completely fascinated by the family sitting next to me on this train. The father's accent indicates a Northern English upbringing, while the mother and the kids (Martha, 8? and Finn, 4?) are from the South (Surreyish, I mean, not Alabama.) There's also Martha's doll, Annabelle. I think she's from Kent. Anyway, Martha just spoke on the phone to her grandmother, whom they are visiting in Yorkshire, to inform them of the delay (there's a delay- it's ridiculous) here at St. Neots Station:

"Hello gran! There's a delay here. They don't know when we'll move again. Daddy's quite upset. Oh, I don't know. Yes. I am excited to see you as well. Goodbye, then! We're on our way!"

Also, earlier she called Annabelle "darling," and told her father that "mummy is so lovely and kind." This is how my children will talk! I don't care if they're calling me or a warthog "lovely and kind," but it will absolutely be used with frequency. Quite seriously, I want to belong to this family. I don't even mind grumpy little Finn.

Ugh. I do hope there's no danger of having to terminate here, as Mr. British Family believes. That would be most inconvenient, not to mention disheartening. It's rather critical that this already maligned journey not kill my tentative Independent Spirit. If it weren't for this family, I'd have gone mad already. ("Mummy, could you draw me a hippo again, please?") Though, it does make me miss Joe a bit. He'd really get a kick out of this family...especially after "Oh my God! It's completely broken!" event from the cruise.

Oh, we're moving again! Excellent. Slow lines, but moving. Perhaps I'll make it to Edinburgh, after all. Or Petersbourogh, anyway. That's the next stop. Anyway, time to read.

[Here, I read, apparently...and probably slept...until...Yorkshire?]

Ah, there goes Yorkshire, and Durham, specifically. It's absolutely beautiful. I remember going to Durham Cathedral in 10th grade. It's rather magnificent, but it has nothing on the atmospheric scenery of the sea, the moors, the sky. I didn't know that I would be passing beach today. It's really very spectacular, what with the cliffs and the wind, and the rocks.

The next stop is Newcastle, which is where my school group was based in 10th grade (the same one that went to Durham). We flew into Edinburgh from Atlanta, and took a train similar to this one down to Newcastle, so this is a fun, reverse journey. Though, I think I slept on that old train, as I have no real memories of this scenery. I know that we arrived at night...

And I certainly don't remember Newcastle people being this unbelievably noisy! They're all absolutely bombed, too! Yikes! Anyway, the lovely British family got off at Darlington, and now I cannot concentrate. Anyway, nearly there!
-

30/10/09 (High Street Hostel)-

Finally here! Armored in a CMF teeshirt, the green one from before my time, my favorite, I rode into Edinburgh feeling pensive and brave- but not exactly confident. Still, so far things are okay, so far. I am glad that there are people all around me. Some of them are most amusing. I think some of these Australians have been here for months! More on that, later.

I'm also under considerably less pressure for this trip to be magical and not-a-waste, which, so far, it is, and isn't, respectively. I've got a few days to explore (or two, anyway) and the hostel hosts free tours (including a ghost tour!) An additional help: Edinburgh is, in fact, awesome. More beautiful than I remembered (and I remembered it as quite beautiful) and with a lot of Lauren-y things to see and do.

It occurs to me as I sit here in this reception lobby, surrounded by all these weary travellers, most of whom are in friend-groups or long-settled societies, that this whole experience, this studying in London business, has indeed been extremely worthwhile. Though not in the way I expected. For the past couple weeks, I've been overcome by a fear that this isn't what it should be, what it's supposed to be- the best time of my life, the fulfillment of a lifelog dream, etc. Indeed, some of it has been quite nakedly painful, and it's hardly the confidence rush I thought it could be. However, I've learned so much about myself here. I'm growing up every second, and with each rejection and disappointment, I keep surprising myself with defensive resolve.

But, all that's just of-the-moment meditation. Not fitting in has that effect on me. Anyway, this hostel is very interesting. For the most part, its occupants are comprised partly of teams of vacationing students from abroad, and partly of individuals who seem to pretty much live here, marking food in the kitchen and hosting Halloween parties. I would like someone to talk to, sure, but it's reward enough to watch these people. There are so many different people and everyone is relaxed, and curious (a lot of staring), and seemingly, lost. I don't exclude myself from this. I'm a bit lost, but maybe that's just a condition of being in my early 20s.

Thinking seriously about this, if I have to travel alone, this is actually perfect for me. This is exactly how I would like to travel. I'm not pressured to do anything I don't want to, as I surely would if I was travelling alone with people (Munich.) There are people all around, friendly people too, if I desperately need to connect. It's perfect for people-watching, and I'm certainly immersed in culture. Tomorrow, I'm going on a walking tour, and then there's a Halloween party. And then a ghost tour at 9! I'm going up to bed now, at 10:00 with my book, and that's no problem whatsoever. So far, this trip is much more good than bad!
-

01/11/09 (Edinburgh Airport)-

I charge forward in excellent spirits! Despite the fact that I ran out of time to see the Writer's Museum, Edinburgh Castle, and Hollyroodhouse Palace (all of which I've seen before), my solo Scots adventure was a phenomenal success. Even after all that self-discovery crap from the other night (and Erin's quotation of Robert Frost in my head,) I made friends, even talked to people without making friends, and enjoyed myself in the UK's Savannah, Georgia.

As decided, I am a great fan of the Euro-Hostel environment, thought this was tested to comic effect by my neighbor in bed "Loire" (I was in "Jordan,") a strapping young lad I sleepily dubbed "Asscrack McSnore." Indeed, I first became alarmed when young Asscrack situated himself on top of the covers, still in his jeans, with about 45% of his lilly-white bottom exposed. Each inadvertent look was a terrifying ordeal, and they became painfully frequent, too, as I soon started to fear for his health. For once he fell asleep, snores of a wild, mythic, bestial nature could be heard by all occupants of Room 6. And especially by me. Now, my father is a violent snorer, and so I did my best to embrace the situation with zen and understanding. I employed all of my tricks: counting the snores, pretending it's me, making sense of Tom Waits lyrics, but nothing worked. Chiefly because Asscrack McSnore has a tendency to mix it up, switching from whistles to chokes to grunts to noises for which there are no words yet.

After some time, I employed myself thinking of how I would represent these sounds textually. Here's what I came up with:

"kwhhhrrrnnnnkkkkwww"
"hnnnnnrtttshhhhh"
"fttttttdyrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrt"
and of course, the old classic, "kaaaaaaawwwcth- shhhuuuuuuuu"

After a time, some other hostel occupants actually gathered around him, debating how best to take action. I didn't open my eyes, still haunted by the ass, but I'm sure there was a priest there. Indeed, some of those moans were not unlike those of a young girl from New England trying desperately to communicate through a demonic possession. In the end, this is what I heard:

"Just roll him over or something."
"Maybe just wake him and tell him?"
"Who?"
"Do you think that will work?"
"Okay-"
"WHAT THE HELL?"
"Sorry, I was just trying to turn you, because you were snoring so loud..."
"Jesus Christ!" (I can understand his indignation here. It seems to me a great violation to wake a stranger in this manner- my sleepy plan was simply to kill him.)

Shortly after this episode, the snores were louder than ever. Lord knows how I finally got to sleep.

For a free thing, the tour was shockingly comprehensive. My tour guide was an eager Canadian called Kate. I was disappointed to have her, and not, as my friends-from-later, Kelly and Ben, had, a massive , bearded Scots bloke called Hamish. But what this 6-year stalled backpacker lacked in nationality, she made up for in enthusiasm. And it was free, anyway.

Kate shared with us all manner of monuments, attractions, historical anecdotes, tips, and even the occasional ghost story. I took several pictures, answered questions correctly (Kate giddily told me that I was the only tourist in the whole history of the tour to know the significance of the year 1620) and even shared my amusing reflections with two Americans, Cameron and...his friend from Alaska studying architecture in Paris (funny, the things we do and do not remember.) Cameron was from Sacramento and was studying at Oxford, and both of them were normally students at UC San Francisco. I was disheartened a bit by their lack of conversation initiation, but they laughed enough and responded to my observations with sincerity, so who's to say they didn't like me. Anyway, they left for the airport just after the tour. And fearless solo traveller, Lauren Wood don't need no body, anyway.

I went back to the hostel and spent a couple of hours awkwardly flitting back and forth from my bed to the reception lounge to the Halloween party in the downstairs lounge. There was a ghost tour at 9:30 that sounded cool, but an opportunity for a more unique, authentic, free, and social activity came about when two Americans I had met the night before struck up a conversation and told me about a fire-full Halloween street show...Samhuinn, or something. It was basically a strange, Ent and Faun featuring Celtic ballet.



There was no discernible plot. Very odd indeed. Afterward, I was semi-assaulted by a man in a surgeon's costume. Despite this, it was the first good Halloween I've experienced in a few years. And I left a breakfast run-in with Kelly and Ben with the assurance of their every intention of facebooking me. [Kelly did!]

So, now I'm off to Amsterdam for four nights, but first I need to sleep for a bit [I think I'm on the plane now.] I've just remembered that Amsterdam is famous for tulips, my favorite flower. That's a nice thought to end with, I think.