Act 3, Scene 1
OK, youve had a whole act of Italia, the sights, the sounds, the smells, the adventure! Please stow your carry-on luggage under the seat in front of you, or in the overhead compartment. Be warned, the contents of the overhead compartments may shift during flight.
Here's an interesting day:
I had breakfast in Venezia (Venice) with a little last-minute shopping afterward.
Then I hopped a plane and met Lena in Bruxelles (Brussels) for lunch and
a wonderful Belgian waffle. We
wandered around the city a bit before getting on a train.
|Lena had neglected
to make reservations for a hotel or hostel so we hit the Amsterdam information
office and got one of the last rooms in town. It was Amsterdams annual
cultural festival and everywhere was booked solid. We ended up at one of
the priciest hotels in town, Victoria Hotel. At least it was conveniently
right across from the train station. I complained until we walked in the
room - television.
Id forgotten my oldest friend! There the Cyclops sat, eying the room, awaiting animation. I awoke the beast and its gaze instantly turned me to stone. I can hardly resist a TV when I have a steady diet of it, but here Id been denied for 9 weeks and the addiction, forgotten during its absence, came on like a heroin high. Lena had to pull me away.
I got a hot shower. I enjoyed it even more than the TV. Things just kept getting better - after my shower I looked out the window and saw a rainbow arching over the whole city, no shit.
I stopped complaining about the expensive room.
We had dinner and wandered around, eventually stumbling into the red-light district. Lena and I bar-hopped in the district for hours, passing between the rows and rows of professional ladies advertising their assets in the red lit windows. I was impressed with the bold displays of flesh and the variety of the aesthetics. You can find someone to suit any fancy, for a price.
Go Europe 1996 says
It had been a long day so we called it a night relatively early. More on the oldest profession shortly.
The first full day in the Mecca of sin was superb. The town is fabulous in every way and Lena may be right - you can just walk around and enjoy the beautiful city. The people are amazingly friendly, speak perfect English and are often gorgeous. The canals are practically drinkable compared to their Venetian counterparts and the mass transit system is a joy. The place is filled with art, something like 42 museums (I'm not sure if that includes the Sex Museums or the Cannabis Museums) and more than 20 performance theaters (I'm sure that doesn't include the live sex shows!) The whole place has a feeling of elegance, distinction, and intelligence.
Were it not fucking freezing
I'd move there permanently. Nowhere is heard a discouraging word, though
the skies are cloudy and rainy all day. "Welcome to Northern Europe!"
said Lena while I purchased a sweater - in September! Back home
Id be jumping in the river to cool off. In Amsterdam I was wishing
Id brought a coat.
To get the strongest contrast
we headed to the The Van Gogh museum. His work hadnt impressed me
much in the books Id studied, but in person its, well, stunning.
I saw Wheatfield of Crows and literally had to sit down, breathless.
I sat on a bench and gawked for a full 20 minutes, silent - a record
for my remote-control, MTV attention span.
The big cultural fest coincides with the beginning of the theater season. There are performances and live music and film festivals and stuff going on everywhere we go. But you've heard enough of breathtaking views, important/impressive works of art, and magnificent churches - time to leave the nave, head out into the street and down into the gutter.
Quentin Tarantino writes some
hilarious dialogue. This bit, from Pulp Fiction, is appropriate:
Dont quote me on this,
but heres how I understand the drug trade in Amsterdam:
Lena and I took a break from
cruising the options for exotic sin and ended up in some bar packed with
an English soccer team chanting along to that damned CD by Oasis. If I
ever hear Champagne Supernova again I'll hurl. The soccer team
had the jukebox jammed with money playing the album over and over. Many
of them were falling down drunk, stupid drunk, probably-going-to-hurl-soon
drunk. Lena found it amusing and giggled every time one of them fell off
his bar stool or when their chants got so loud you couldnt hear
yourself think. I thought it was funny at first, but after the fifth or
thousandth time Champagne Supernova came on, with the whole lot
singing along incoherently, I was less amused.
Then one of the soccer guys climbed the steps to the balcony overlooking
his mates, pulled down his shorts and peed on his friends.
We continued window shopping.
On average, I'd say the ladies for rent average about 4.5 on a scale of
1-10, but there are numerous exceptions at both ends. Some were so beautiful
that we just stopped and stared. Almost all wear predictable lingerie or
They sit on stools and watch the potential clients pass by. Most have
perfected some quick flirt technique, tapping on the window and winking
or something even more provocative.
I slowly worked on Lenas
attitude toward casual sex, in a blatant attempt to corrupt her. No, not
seduce her, just corrupt her. Back at the hostel she admitted one of our
roommates was cute. After some goading she even admitted interest in sex
with him on a purely non-emotional level. It was a small victory, but
she still couldnt even understand why Id want to pay for sex
or why Heather would just smile at the idea.
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nice. Copyright © 2002, All Rights Reserved
All original content on this site is owned by Degenerate Press and cannot be used without our permission. We have lawyers for friends with nothing better to do than cause trouble (no kidding), so play nice. Copyright © 2002, All Rights Reserved