My return flight from Italy had a five hour layover in Amsterdam. I jumped off the Milan flight, kissed some Dutch soil and was on a train heading into town within 10 minutes. Central Train Station, right downtown. First thing you notice about the city as you navigate in is the intricate series of canals and waterways. Each block and city section is partitioned, meticulously separated by them. The whole country is threatened by flooding, and there is some stoic Dutch word that means, “Hey it could all be gone tomorrow,” or something like that, which lends to the national Dutch nonchalance. Also, my little laptop almanac stated that Dutch society prides itself on neatness, stemming from the sacking and quick rebuilding of Amsterdam in World War II.

The first thing you notice about the city is the people on bikes. Lots of bikes. Everywhere. Specific bikes lanes allow for an amazing, efficient flow of bike transport. I thought about Kris Okins.

And, I had to wonder to about just how many of those bikers were beautiful women. Hubba hubba. Millions of them. Dutch beauties whizzing by with their scarves and sunglasses and little backpacks…phew.

I hoofed it down the main drag, past the tourist bazaars and the infamous “Sex Museum.” You come into a well-maintained town square with rising cathedrals and buildings. Street vendors, street performers, the occasional yawning cop and a grillion tourists.

I went deeper and came across my first couple red lights. It was 1pm, so, those girls looked a bit groggy as the day’s work got rolling, or, “laying.” You walk past the windows and sort of sheepishly grab a glance, only to make eye contact just long enough to see the “pursed lips” and “come hither” glazed dazes. Interesting. An old profession, modernized and regulated, offering a selection of Eastern European ladies. 40 euros for a “suck and fuck.”

I kept on going, and made my way to the Anne Frank house. I did the tour, somewhat rushed, only to stop and just sorta freak out on the horrific nature of what this family went through. He little room is a very powerful place. Sad, somber, innocent and strangely youthful; her little spirit fills the place. Seeing the actual journals moves the already quiet crowds to an eerie silence. Her little handwriting, hushed, scared, hopeful and ultimately tragic is something that is burned into my head for the long haul. Her family was given up by Dutch agents, who were working in conjunction with the Nazi secret police. What an ugly time.

As I pounded my way back to the train station, I passed up a number of coffee shops, noticing the scents of “mean green” in the air. Weed, man. No big deal. As an American, I couldn’t help but feel ashamed at the state of our nation’s “war on drugs.” Pot busts are at an all time high. Budget’s in the red? Legalize it, and tax religion.

I got back to the train, thankful for my three hours-albeit rushed-in Amsterdam. Flew out a couple hours later, all the way back to Detroit. Nine hours on a big plane. Seated next to a guy who thought the schoolyard humor of Adam Sandler in “The Longest Yard” was funny enough to laugh out loud to. Way out loud, enough to awaken sleeping old ladies. Some people are just…uh…”fucking awesome.” I hope his luggage was lost, and, he had an ingrown hair or two in that sweet mustache of his.

083. “Took the train into town…”
084. “Railway logo.”
085. “The town square.”
086. “Waterways, everywhere.”
087. “Lunchables. Yikes.”
088. “Big things to look up at…”
089. “Anne Frank memorial.”
090. “Red Light District, no.01”
091. “Red Light District, no.02”
092. “great clocks…”
093. …and great logos, all over the place.”
094. “Big arrows, too.”
095. “Going home, man, and, very happy about it.”