Snapshots from Amsterdam

Within seconds of stepping outside of Amsterdam’s train station, the air smelled like marijuana. A short walk will bring you past a variety of coffee shops that I imagine sell very little java. I’m staying in the Red Light district, which is like an amusement park for hedonistic adults. Head shops, sex shops and porn shows fill most of the storefronts, with a few women flaunting their lingerie-covered wears in windows. Groups of fantastically inebriated men stumble through the narrow streets, shouting, fighting and generally in an epic struggle to keep upright.

It’s not as sketchy as it might seem. There are a few blocks that are definitely more seedy, and I never appreciate people lurking in doorways, illuminated only by a lit cigarette, whistling at me in hopes of selling me a little cocaine. But this ain’t the Ritz, even though they charge like it, and instead I’m in the hostel ghettos in the fringe of Europe’s Sin City.

Outside of this canal-laced island of debaucherous wonder, life calms down a bit. You can buy tulips and wooden clogs and I Love Amsterdam t-shirts as you dodge a legion of serious cyclists on their daily to-and-fro.

I like to get out even further. Once the crowds dissipate, the chemical buzz fades, and the carnaval of humanity is left to its own devices, the details of Amsterdam come out, and you have a chance to breathe and take them in.