Tripping
CHEAP FLIGHTS AND AMSTERDAM ADVENTURES
by John DAgostino, Eccentric Outsider Artist a.k.a. John Dog
I wrote this about a year and a half ago. It is the last chapter of a story about going home for the holidays. For the most part it is true 99.9% pure, just like Ivory soap. No names have been changed to protect the innocent, cause nobody is. To read the whole story go to http://www.tripping.johnsbighead.com ps. stare at the picture for 3 minutes before you start to read, repeat as often as neccessary.
My flight home to the States was $503 round trip, a last minute deal that I saw in the Sunday paper while sipping tea with friends at Cinar Alti in Cengelkoy. It was a warm day in late November as we sat under the massive oak tree now bare of leaves. We were enjoying the sun as we watched freighters and tankers move steadily through the choppy waters of the Bosporus from our vantage point on the Asian side of Istanbul. The catch with the ticket was that I had to book and pay for the ticket by sixteen hundred hours the next day.
I got through to KLM in about half an hour of rapid speed dialing on Monday morning and made my reservation. No problem getting to the U.S. on December 2nd as planned. Getting a good return ticket date was harder. December 27th was full, December 28th and 29th also full, which put me flying out of Kennedy the night of the 30th. Figuring in the time zone factor I’d be arriving back in Istanbul just before midnight on New Years Eve. I might miss the parties but I had a six and a half hour lay-over in Amsterdam, not a bad place to spend the early part of New Years Eve.
I caught the train into Amsterdam which took 20 minutes or so from Schiphol airport. I walked a few blocks this way and that snapping photos of the botels and other interesting buildings. The air was brisk and it was a little breezy. I helped a Japanese tourist find the train station. I took a photo of some Germans with one of their cameras and one of them returned the favor and took a shot of me with my camera.
I was getting thirsty so I started to look for a place to chow down, have a few beers, and maybe later a smoke in one of those infamous Amsterdam coffee shops. I passed up Thai and Indonesian food and the sex shops. I peeked in a few pubs and then checked out the prices at the landmark Baba’s Coffee Shop. They were reasonable, but there wasn’t an empty seat to be found.
Hunter’s Place was near by and there were plenty of open bar stools. The smiling dog logo and the London Underground decor was inviting enough, as were the multiple sets of taps leading to fresh kegs of fine European beer. I’d worry about food later. I had breakfast on the plane only a few hours ago. The clock on the wall said 2 o’clock, time to relax and enjoy myself. By about 3 I was on my second pint of Heinie and debating whether I should buy some herb. My flight was to board at 6:45 in the evening. I finished the pint, ordered another, and went to the booth in the back to purchase some pot. I bought a pre-packaged joint mounted on a colorful piece of cardboard with a clear plastic cover that was formed to fit the shape of its contents. It was labeled Orange Bud and cost 3.50. I opened the package and fired that mother up with the over-sized lighter that I bought at South of the Border.
It didn’t take long for things to start getting weird. I was making quick work of that doobie, puffing it down about half way. This definitely wasn’t the Istanbul homegrown that I was used to. This was some bad ass weed. The room started to spin and I tried to read various signs around the bar to try to stay focused. That didn’t work and soon my chin was resting on my hands on the bar counter. Not too much longer and the head was down. I was out for the count. In hindsight, maybe the fact that I had only gotten 5 hours of sleep in the last 48 could have contributed to my current condition. Or ‘maybe’ somebody had slipped something in my frigging beer.
What seemed like hours were only a few minutes. I was totally shit faced. My head popped up and I returned a mouthful of beer and some half digested airline egg back into the almost empty mug in front of me. Not a pretty picture. It was amazing though that while in such an inebriated state I hit the glass and didn’t mess up the bar, drunkard’s instinct I guess. That was the worse of it. I didn’t need the bucket the bartender provided. She slid a coke in front of me and I tried to drink it. The hands of my watch were pointing to 3:30 now and laughing at me. For the next half hour I alternated between sipping coke and resting my head on the bar, then breathing deeply to try to shake off the cold sweats that engulfed my whole body. Standing up and walking were vague faraway thoughts dimly dangling in the distance.
Four o’clock, time to make a move. I stand, I wobble, I sit back down. I want to be back at the train station by 4:30, so after a few minutes I muster all the strength left in my twitching leg muscles and try again. I stand, get steady, and try to push the bar stool out from behind me. This last hurdle being much easier said than done, I sit back down exhausted. Shit, I don’t think I’m gonna make it. That was some killer weed.
A few more minutes of rest and I’m ready to try again. I AM not going to miss that plane. Even though staying a few more days in Amsterdam in a cheap hotel getting high wouldn’t be the worse thing that could happen. I give it another go. I get up again, push that damn chair out of the way, reach down and pick up my bowling balls. Oh, Did I forget to mention that in my carry-on I had packed a ten and twelve pound bowling ball along with some souvenirs from South of the Border, which I had been lugging around with me all afternoon. I gripped this small but heavy bag in my right hand. I leaned far to the left for balance and attempted to walk. I took a little baby step and that’s exactly what I was thinking- baby steps, just take baby steps, one little step at a time. I set my sights on the front door, tilted my head forward and slowly moved towards it. I was awfully self-conscious shuffling along like an old man, but I was making progress. After some time, which seemed like ages, I exited with a proud sense of accomplishment, I rested with my shoulder against the wall to the right of the door. I peered hazily down an alley littered with flashing neon signs.
I leaned hard on the building in an attempt to keep from sliding to the sidewalk. This got the bartender’s attention. It must have looked like I was trying to push the damn building over. It was a very old brick place, maybe I could have. The bartender was lovely. She came out and pointed to the bench just to the left of me, which somehow I failed to notice, and told me I had better rest before moving on. And that I did. After about 10 minutes of sitting outside and breathing cold crisp air I began my journey back to the train station. I was beyond baby steps and in toddler mode as I walked the half dozen blocks or so to the station. I only had to stop and rest a couple of times as I dodged through the gauntlet of party goers and tourists coming at me along the narrow cobble-stoned sidewalk.
To get from the airport to the central station in the city is not hard. You take the number one or two train the required four stops. Getting back to the airport is a much much more difficult task, especially when you’re blitzed. There are 32 tracks up 16 different sets of stairs with many trains going many places, which might or might not stop at the airport on their way to cities within and/or outside the borders of the Netherlands. I took a big rest on a low stone pedestal that supported a decorative architectural column and pondered approaches to tackle the "which-track" puzzle.
Out of the corner of my eye I saw a young girl sit down on the opposite corner of the pedestal that I was sitting on and commence to eat something rolled up in paper. This seemed normal enough until I heard the Spanish serenade of a male hip - hop rapper booming loudly in my ear. I can only imagine that his girlfriend must have enjoyed the song along with her food because I didn’t turn to see if she was smiling. I wasn’t sure if the whole scene was real or just in my head and I afraid to find out.
I clutched my bowling balls and tried to refocus on my predicament. I took a stab at Track 2 and climbed the stairs. Wrong train but the exercise did me good. I was glad to see that I could manage the stairs, both up and down. But I didn’t want to be going up and down the wrong stairs all evening.
I noticed a couple buying tickets to the airport from a vending machine. They turned out to be English and a huge help. We found an electronic board with departures posted on it. A train was leaving in ten minutes on Track 11, no it suddenly changes to Track 8A. Good, that track is closer and we run towards Track 8, have some trouble determining which side is A and which is B, then I stumble up the stairs with hand on railing and bowling ball bag swinging. I lost the young Brits as we ran along the platform toward the back of the train where most people seemed headed. I sat down. More people came in the car and we waited for the train to pull away.
Shortly thereafter there was a long announcement in Dutch. Luckily for me a fellow across the aisle translated. Apparently, there was confusion about the destination of the train and if it was going to the airport. After a short pause the good news was that the railway gods had decided that yes the train would go to the airport. Another message came over the speaker, this time in English and in Dutch. It said that people going to the airport had to board on the front of the train. Another agonizing stoned dilemma, the doors were open, but maybe if I got out to move to the other end of the train the doors would close and I’d miss the train. While I was trying to come to a conclusion on that one, the doors closed making my decision for me. More luck, the train pulled out in the opposite direction than which it entered, so I was on the right end of the train after all, whew, big sigh of relief. I looked out the window and said farewell to that magical mystical city.
I was still drifting in and out of la-la land and paranoid that I was going to miss my stop and wind up in Belgium. I tried counting the tiles on the train floor, singing 99 bottles of beer on the wall in my mind, and other methods of mental concentration to try to maintain a hold on real and present time. There was one problem though. The coach seats were covered with a vibrant pattern of a super enlarged version of a chicken foot design. Every time that I looked at the bright blue and yellow fabric of the seats it would trigger these really bizarre Wizard of Oz on acid-like hallucinations.
Condiment bottles with happy faces were dancing in my head. It was rush hour and the trip was taking much longer than the twenty minutes that it took to get into the city. Welcome to the Hotel California. I was beginning to feel a bit claustrophobic then I noticed the doors of the train were opening and I saw that people were getting off. I got myself oriented and I asked the friendly man that had helped me before if this was the airport. He gave me an affirmative nod. I thanked him and tried to make a bolt to freedom. Slowly I got up and lumbered forward, hauling the immense weight of my long heavy leather coat, myself and my bowling balls. As the awaiting passengers emptied the train I prayed that the portal to my salvation wouldn’t close before I reached it.
I finally made it to the airport and it was only 5:30 pm. The bowling balls were getting heavier and heavier. I made my way to the gates. I’m marching on. I got to Gates EFG first and asked the guards if I could enter here if I was boarding at Gate D. Of course not, I had to walk another half mile down to BCD. So I am walking and walking and walking and switching the bag from hand to hand and shoulder to shoulder. I made my way along the endless steel and glass corridor encircling the gates area of the airport. I imagine at this point, that if I fake a semi-crippled limp maybe one of those nice airport service carts might pick me up and give me a ride.
The entrance to BCD appears. I show my boarding pass with D14 on it to the customs guard and ask if I am in the right place. He says that this is the place. I throw my hands up in the air and shout out, "Praise the Lord!" Both guards laugh and I proceed to put my stuff through the x-ray machine. I walk through the metal detector, no bells or buzzers. I’m clear. Why the bowling balls don’t spark curiosity is beyond me, but at none of the airports which I passed through did anyone ever ask me to open the bag. I feel this pounding on my head. I think, oh I’m getting patted for being a good dog, but no, it’s just the guard making sure that there is no contraband hidden under my puffy corduroy hat.
Once through security I go to the nearest KLM desk to confirm my gate hoping against all odds that it is not changed or if it is then it is not too far a walk. KLM is notorious for changing gates.
The woman at the counter is sympathetic as she sadly informs me that, yes, the gate is changed to D56, the last frigging gate in the whole damned D wing. I fight back the tears and ask her to point me in the right direction. At this time I have a little more than an hour to boarding time, so I’m coping. The airport is equipped with a modest number of moving pathways which makes the trek a little easier. The additional walk is bearable. I’m not as high as I was before, but everyone that I have talked to has been smiling. I suspect that they know I’m buzzed. They probably see a lot of it, dumb foreigners with long lay-overs, go to town, get wasted, stagger bleary-eyed back to airport.
I get to the waiting area o.k. and after a while board the plane. I struggle putting the bowling ball bag in the overhead compartment. I can hardly lift it my arms are so sore. I take my seat and doze off. The plane takes off and I wake up with a jolt thinking that I must have missed my train stop. I focus and realize that I am on the plane and go back to sleep. I’m dreaming now of home, Istanbul, all is peaceful, then someone bumps me as they pass down the aisle and again I wake up sure that I missed my stop and how can I get off this fucking train. Ah, yes plane, on plane. I’m on the plane. I’m in my seat on the plane. Everything is cool.
I unbuckle my seat belt, get up, find my way aft to the restroom and take a long leak (remember those 2 pints that I drank back at the bar and all the cola). I reach in my shirt pocket and pull out the half of joint that I have left. I stare at it wondering, for how long I don’t know. It could have been a minute. It could have been an hour. Is this a good thing or is this a bad thing? Is this a really bad good thing or a really good bad thing? I loosen my fingers and I drop it. With a whoosh of indigo down the toilet it goes.
