Wiping the crusty sleep from my bleary eyes, I stole a glimpse of Amsterdam’s Singel Canal through the curtains. I had no idea what time it was, but it was a belter of a day and the street was already teeming with splendiferous summer life. Well, once I looked past the devastating orange wreckage, leftover from the World Cup final the night before. A proverbial bomb had annihilated the town. Like Goliath had stood above the town with a mammoth 10 mile long piñata and absolutely detonated the crap out of it with a bommy-knocker the size of Kylie Gillies’ ego, leaving beer bottles, orange-bikinis, mangled bikes, party streamers and homeless bums to rain down on the Dutch capital.
The entire town lit up with that warm, soft Summer glow that only Amsterdam knows how to spark up. In some ways, it felt like home. My stomping ground for the better part of 2009. The town where I offloaded many a rusted two-wheeler into the filthy, fetid canals which wove their way through town. The town where I wrote essays while watching an obliterated Kiwi lass try to mudwrestle an equally obliterated Yank from my bedroom window. The town where I made an Estonian girl shed salties for telling her I was only talking to her for her hot arse. (What? She should’ve been flattered – her arse was rubbish. Hi Sandra! Just joshin’ ya! Everyone else – I’m not really joshin’, her arse was rubbish. Hi Sandra!) The town where the uni residences took on a distinctly tropical odour from 10am each morning. The town where a Liverpool-jersey-clad Englishman gave me an unexpected (but delightful) warm golden shower as my boat passed under a low bridge on Queens Day. The town where I spent three long hours in the slammer, laying on a hard, splintery wooden bench. The town where I hitched a ride to southern Belgium with a Hell’s Angels leader, who insisted that we listen to Wendy Matthews, and quite rudely dismissed my gentle suggestion of Pantera and Cannibal Corpse.
Canal Parade for the Dutch runners-up: a mini Queens Day.
Being here felt right. You know when you get those moments of suspended clarity when something just feels right? Like a Daddo brother in the Centrelink queue, or a douchebag trance raver in three-quarter length pants. I couldn’t wait to burst out the door like a kid at Christmas, leap onto the nearest bike and charge off into the hazy summer distance. I’d probably have to go back and lock the door – it’s not my apartment after all – and maybe check Facebook to see what’s gone down since I burst out the door. But after that, I’d charge off into the hazy summer distance (with my wifi-enabled iPhone, of course, to check the ‘book on the go. Now in 3.0. But of course, y’all already know. Never buy a handbag made by Mimco. Check out my latest Asian ho.).
If I’m frank (which I’m not; I’m Adrian), I couldn’t actually tell you what we did with our first couple weeks in the ‘dam. Primarily, we pissed the days away by alternating between eating, shitting, sleeping, cycling, and red-light window-shopping. Well, I only window-shopped. Benni couldn’t quite quell his curious desire to get behind the windows to extract his three and a half minutes of imported eastern European pleasure. I didn’t even get through a cone of mayo fries in the time he was in there.
Windmill Brewery in East 'dam.
The height of fashion at Amsterdam Fashion Week.
One of my favourite things about Amsterdam is how compact the city is. You can be out of town in the time it takes to say, “come on, that KFC ad wasn’t THAT racist – I mean, it’s a known fact that black people like fried chicken”. Few people know, but there’s a gigantic forest only half an hour’s bike ride south of Amsterdam. The Amsterdamse Bos is one of the city’s hidden treasures. Actually, it’s not really hidden, by definition – it’s fucking mammoth, spanning several suburbs, and could house almost four Amanda Vanstones. But few out-of-towners have the privilege of experiencing the forest. Being only 30 minutes from town, it’s close enough to be able to sample its splendid leafy delights on a whim, yet remote enough to provide sanctuary from the queue-dwelling, bifta-choking, beer-swilling madness that is the dam city centre.
As Benni and I set off for the forest, I was determined to lead him through the darkest, gloomiest depths until we were irrevocably lost, whereupon I would slowly sever each of his tender limbs, marinate them in guava, ginger and pinot noir jus, before slow roasting them on a BBQ grill constructed from his wiry little ribcage. I’d feast on his remains for several days before making the trek back to civilisation, feeling recharged and full-bellied, with fresh curly black locks.
I tried my best to lose him, I really did. But, I couldn’t outpace him on my rusty two-wheeled ol’ trusty. So we set about finding our own private sanctuary for the afternoon. First, the lagoon. Blast! It was lined by loud, overly-energetic infants. Keep riding. Next, the smaller lake. Drats! It was populated by crack whores and their drug mafia pimps. Keep riding. Now to the lush rolling hills. Collywarts! They were irritatingly beset by nude, oiled-up, stone-cold Dutch foxes getting their vitamin D fixes. It must be a set-up. Keep riding. Surely the rainforest track will be pleasant enough. Pinecone-tits! It’s too dark and infested with mosquitoes. Keep riding.
Call us perfectionists, but we spent a solid two hours trying to capture this elusive, magical spot. We were growing tired, hungry, grumpy and high. On nature, of course, on nature. Well, unless those mushrooms were hydroponic. Ok, semi-nature. Ha. Just joshin’. Just when we were about to settle for our last resort - the nude-stone-cold-fox-grassy-knoll - a hidden path curling under a bridge caught our eyes.
None of the path’s features, in particular, grabbed us. But there was just something indescribable about it that whispered, “ride up me”. Now, the last time I heard those words, I was trying to push Wendy Harmer off me before I suffocated to death. Seriously, woman! Don’t make me enforce that AVO again. The path nonchalantly deviated off the main track, down alongside an old wooden drawbridge, before coiling its way through a lush, charmingly unkempt riverside field. It perfectly dissected two sturdy oaks and unfurled itself over a hummock on the horizon.
A group of butterflies fluttered about, guarding the path, like bats between Angela Bishop’s legs. (I was going to go for Gretel Killeen there, but my pending defamation suit stood in the way. But fear not, she’ll be back on this page. Big tiiiime.) A seductive haze drifted between the distant oaks, tempting us with its mystery, yet concealing any clues as to what lay beyond. It was like something out of a fairytale. But, after a minute or so of doing fully-sick donuts on the bridge, we ignored the storybook path, and rode on to continue our pursuit further into the forest.
A quick piss-stop in the forest.
Half an hour later, we were still sanctuary-less. When Benni managed to dramatically topple off a bridge, from his bike, in front of two families and a young couple, it became alarmingly clear that we needed to find this place, quicksmart. But in all the bridge-falling kafuffle, I’d forgotten about the magical path. Until I turned a tree-lined crescent and spotted those dratted butterflies flirting in the afternoon haze.
It was worth a gamble. We took a sharp turn and joined The Path. Swatting the vivacious butterflies out of our vision only antagonised our anxiety as we followed the tranquil river, and up towards the two oaks at the top of the hill.
What we found when we pierced the haze and wove between the oaks was utterly unremarkable. Nothing but an intersection with another dirt track heading across the river. I mean, there’s nothing wrong with taking the dirt track, but it just wasn’t what we expected, or hoped. Benni was begging me to go up the dirt track, but I wasn’t in the mood. I was trounced by sheer disappointment.
But the fluttering butterflies insisted that we continue over the hill. We dutifully complied. When we crossed the intersection, and rounded some tall scrub, my jaw dropped. It dropped low. In fact, my jaw dropped so low, that one of the butterflies flapping past, stopped and asked me if I was Lara Flynn Boyle. I punched that sucker between the eyes, clenched my fist ‘cause the punch kinda hurt, then tippy-toed around the shrub like Shaggy out of Scooby Doo.
The most majestic scene presented itself before us. A wedding-white 19th century drawbridge off to the right, blinded me with its regalness, as it led over a quaint old-fashioned dam. A flock of swans stood proudly guarding the entrance past the bridge intersection. They squawked and hissed, doing their best to deter us from entering their private enclave. Once we’d bribed the pesky swans to let us in (i.e. drop-kicked them into the thorny bushes), we stood gazing at the enormous expanse of pristine, open water that glistened in the late afternoon sun. The sound of the dam gate tinkled melodically like a wind-chime as the gentle tide swelled in and out. A lone wooden bench sat slumped at the water’s edge, allowing us a tiny glimpse of the vast waterway through the tall seagrass.
An old hippy Dutch couple poked their heads at us from around an oak next to the dam, waved at us, doobie-in-hand, and then disappeared, seemingly rejuvenated, back down the magical path.
A long, strategically-placed plank of fraying wood, no wider than a Somalian’s foot, stretched out from the grassy enclave and across the glassy water. Apart from a couple old Dutch boats dotting the waterway far in the distance, not a soul was with us. This is what we’d been searching for all day.
After collecting the debris that had flown everywhere when our heads exploded, we knew it was inevitable that we’d have to get in that damn water. We were hot and sweaty, beaten up and bothered, it’d make the perfect remedy. Problem: a distinct lack of suitable bathing attire, and an unwillingness to bare our privates to each other. Truth be told, I just didn’t want to embarrass young Benni.
We canvassed the idea of swimming in our underdaks, but the prospect of riding back to town with saturated pants, or freeballing, wasn’t particularly appetising. Nor was the accompanying jock itch. Next, we tossed up fashioning board shorts out of swan feathers. Benni thought that was a great idea, and sorted himself out with two feathers. He was being generous. I plucked all 17 swans and unfortunately was unable to cover all the necessary organs. Plus, I immediately regretted drop-kicking them into the thorn bushes. It also wouldn’t bode well for us, having a passer-by see a bunch of bald swans and two feathered-up Aussies frolicking in the water. So, back to the drawing board.
We surveyed the area and confidently concluded that we wouldn’t have any company for the rest of the day. That would allow us plenty of time for a swim in our daks, and some sun drying time. So, standing next to the wooden bench, it was down to my Ren and Stimpy boxers and Benni in his Macauley Culkin tighties. We wasted not a second leaping into that water. Actually, I lie. We piss-farted about, like schoolgirls, for at least 15 minutes debating who should get in first. But the instant I became submerged, I felt instantly cleansed. Like every demon within me fled quicker than guests at a houseparty when someone announces Cargo Bar as the afterparty destination. Seriously though, why do people STILL insist on going there? It’s the most soulless, unimaginative, pretentious piece of shit. Much like its staff and patrons. Meh, who am I kidding? I’m just bitter that it’s always “members only” night when I turn up. Cocks.
But man, that water was beyond divine. I think we frolicked in it for at least two hours, with nobody but the family of swans to interfere with our ostensibly questionable shenanigans. Until a loved-up couple arrived on their bikes. Fuck. We quietly doggy-paddled behind some shrub, trying to remain obscured, and desperately hoped they would move on. Surely our pants strewn about the grass would be enough to deter them.
They dropped their bikes, unloaded their picnic baskets and skipped to the water’s edge, next to the wooden bench. Shit, they were definitely here to stay. But all of a sudden they stopped dead in their tracks. They realised they weren’t alone. They’d spotted our rags. The dude dropped his gear on the ground and looked around to see who they belonged to. We remained still and sheepish in the water. He peered over towards the bridge and saw nothing. He fixed his gaze through the seagrass and again saw nothing. I think we’d gone unnoticed. The couple eventually returned to setting up their bloody picnic.
Benni and I now faced a real quandary. We had no exit strategy. Even worse, when we did exit, we’d be deprived of our perfectly calculated drying time. We decided it’d be best to patiently wait it out in the water or on the plank of wood and remain out of sight until they left. Close to an hour passed and it was evident they weren’t leaving. In fact, they were in for the long-haul. They had a portable BBQ set-up, two bottles of wine and a pack of glow-in-the-dark dams. Damn. The more we analysed the situation, the more we realised that the motherfucker was probably going to propose to his missus: the BBQ, the wine, the sun gradually setting, the perfect weather, the smart clothes, the single knee pad. It all added up.
Any tactful exit strategy had been thrown out the window. It was now purely a matter of timing. Fuck it, we were growing cold, the sun was drawing closer to the horizon and our skin was more wrinkled than Fifi Box’s crow-feet. This was no time for playing games with strangers. As our two soon-to-be-hitched neighbours intertwined arms to sip their 2009 Albert Heijn merlot and feed each other pieces of overcooked, insipidly marinated chicken, we hauled ourselves out of the water like great hunks of whale blubber. Exhausted, wrinkled and dripping, we stood there in our underpants just staring silently at the lovers. They jutted around in horror and uncomfortably returned the glare. It was a horribly confusing silence. Do we wave hello? Do we pretend this is standard practice? Do we apologise for planting an indelible stain on the memory of their first day of their new life chapters? Or do we ignore them completely?
All these thoughts ran through our heads at an incredibly slow pace, meaning we stood facing them motionless for an incredibly long time. We cagily tippy-toed towards our clothes, piled up beside their picnic and offered the dude a half-nod, which I wasn’t entirely sure that he saw, as he was in some form of typically-Dutch social-paralysis where he could neither outright ignore our presence, nor consciously acknowledge it. Still half-naked, I nodded again, and the girl looked away, with what now appeared to be a solitary teardrop running down her cheek. Well, it was either a teardrop or part of the spray after we shook ourselves off like Golden Retrievers.
After attempting a third awkward nod, we hastily grabbed our clothes, intentionally ignored the fact that, up close, the dude bore a spitting resemblance to Troy Buswell, and inched our way in reverse, back to our bikes and out of view. Inside out, back-to-front, our soggy attire was rashly slapped on, much in the same way as when you’re in your girlfriend’s sister’s bedroom trying on her clothes and you hear the family car pull up in the driveway. …Oh come on! You’re only lying to yourself now.
We flung ourselves onto our bikes and sped off over the majestic drawbridge and down the magical path, turning around just once, but for long enough to spy our proposing prince steal a quick sniff of the picnic blanket as his princess wandered off to refill their wine glasses. The sun glistening behind him, impeccably silhouetting the scene, he offered us a heartfelt thumbs-up. Oh Troy, you just don’t learn do you? …Always sniff the blanket AFTER the meal.
The awkward lovers' nest.
