Amster-goddam

"Throughout the city, there are as many canals and drawbridges as there are bracelets on a Gypsy's bronzed arms."

-Felix Marti-Ibanez

I am taking a departure from my typical writing of New Orleans and the glories within, to bring you a very specific memory that I have of my visit to Amsterdam.

I started my day rather late by most standards today, and after coffee and checking comments from a certain "social-networking" site that I belong to, I began in earnest to clean my apartment. I would have liked to wipe my ceiling fan blades of their own grime, but my ladder is still in Toenisha's keep, so I concentrated on other tasks at hand that haven't been dealt with since mid-summer, at least. In a freshly organized Treme apartment (other people who live in this divided house refer to their spaces as "condos", but, as I am the only renter in the house, I call it "my apartment"), I watched a very interesting documentary about regional sandwiches that included po-boys from Domilise's and Central Grocery's Original Muffaletta (ya heard me, Y'all?). See, I give a nod to the city that I love most of all, even in a non-designated post! I am so consistent. After the doco, I prepared taco meat to be enjoyed with the fixin's I like the most inside of a soft flour tortilla. Fresh tomato, grated cheese, lettuce and sour cream. I, regretfully am not enjoying beans tonight, as I forgot them in my order from Matassa's Grocery for delivery this afternoon. See, there I go again. (Shout out! Give it up to New Orleans, Y'all!) Anyway, after the sandwich movie, I started to prepare dinner around 9:00pm and had a glass of wine while listening to Cowboy Junkies croon on "Trinity Sessions". This only fueled my craving for more red wine, blues and cigarettes. Dinner is still unconsumed. (Hell, it is taco-meat. It can be reheated, effortlessly.) I picked up Nigella Lawson's new "look-book" titled Nigella Christmas. I have to tell you, it is a masterwork. I adore her cookbooks. I would never go in for such a book designated for seasonal cooking but hers. I read her seven books over and over as if they are novels. I love her use of language above all. "Bring the brownies, studded with candles, to the table set gloriously and seasonally alight." She is marvelous. I practically worship her.

In one of her chapters, devoted to sauces that can be stirred together from ready-made ingredients, she talks about Dijonaisse, which is really, just mayonnaise and mustard whisked lovingly together, to create a dip for veggies or a sauce to be served alongside carved meats or as a spread for sandwiches. She enjoyed a version of this sauce with pomme frites in Amsterdam, which inspired this post. Finally!

I visited Amsterdam a few years ago with a dear and former lover who was quite aquainted with the city. We stayed at a lovely gay B&B called "The Golden Bear". We arrived in Amsterdam around 9:30 am, and were unable to check in to the place until 1:00. I only had coffee on my mind, so we left our bags and headed out to a charming cafe on a canal and had sweet milky coffee accompanied by crisp pastries while looking at the reflections of canal houses on the water and romantically imagined our anticipated time in that great and beautiful city. We walked around a bit and took in the unusual sights that were familiar to my partner, but new to me. Eventually, we made our way back to the hotel and found our room on the third floor following a narrow and winding staircase. The room itself was very modernly appointed and decidely masculine in its decor. A hidden vanity behind what seemed to be a closet door, revealed such a wonderment to me: a stainless steel sink and fixtures imbedded in fine blonde oak accompanied by minimalist, but effective lighting with a three way mirror designed into the doors. Everything was either wood or black or chrome tying it all together. The toilet was across the narrow hall, as was the shower facility, to be shared between four different rooms on the floor. Finding the accommodations lovely, we made love and napped for a few hours. We awoke and found ourselves very hungry. Bill insisted that the only thing he would eat while in Holland were the pomme frites that the city is renowned for. I accepted and was led to a fry-stand where crisply fried potatoes are prepared to order, and served in a paper cone positively doused with whatever sauce you would like. I chose the ubiquitous mayonnaise, knowing that I would have opportunities to try the different varieties in the days to come. They were more delicious than I ever thought french-fries could be. Crisp and golden and as satisfying as I was told they would be. We proceeded to a place known as April, where there was a revolving bar and the loosest happy-hour on the planet. Immediately upon arrival, Bill was greeted by a smilin' Irish lass known as Kelly (go figure), who remembered him from previous debaucheries in the place. I decided to stick with white wine, you know, to keep myself in check, right? All was fine and mellow. The crowd was jovial and friendly and the good times rolled. The revolving bar opened up in the mirrored back of the bar at 7:00, so why not? We were seated with the fair Irish gal as the barkeep at the carouselled bar, and continued our happy hours. Every fucked-up or refused drink passed our way, due to my lover's association with the place. Red vermouth? Really? Oh, it's a shot! Glug glug glug....When Kelly asked us if we smoked, we both said, "not cigarettes, Kelly." (See, I didn't smoke Marlboro's at the time. I had stopped.) She promptly produced a hash cigarette for us to enjoy. Everything after this point is kind of hazy...I remember Kelly recommending places for late night eats. Finding the toilet was a challenge with the revolving bar and all. The bar actually increased in RPH as the evening wore on. I recall emerging from the bar to a light, cold mist of rain and then eating pizza somewhere...

I awoke in our room somewhere around dawn, in our bed, in my underwear, completely soaked with my urine. Full bladder release had occurred and I was sure that it was mine. Never a signal, never an "I'm-standing-in-front-of-the-toilet-peeing" dream to wake up from suddenly or anything. Full bladder release in my sleep. I uneasily pulled over to Bill's side of the bed and dozed off. We awoke with the problem. "What do we do?", I asked. Bill said, "Just pull the bedding off and it will be alright. Let housekeeping take care of it." I did as my lover recommended, and we set off on our second adventurous day in Amsterdam. Of course, we started the day with pomme frites. This time, I tried mine with the mustard sauce that stained my mouth yellow with a brilliant golden color. Although delicious, I had to take care of the yellow teeth situation. In my mind I could recover from that by buying some chewing gum and chewing the stains away. Let me tell you, European gum is different from our tender, intensely pepperminty kind. It is hard and waxy and hardly amounts to a tiny tooth-sized lump in your mouth, doing no good at all. Regretful in fact...European drugstores are a different matter altogether. More on that later.

We arrived at Anne Frank's House and toured the hallowed place where they hid for so long before being ratted out to the Nazis. I wondered what she was complaining about. The attic was huge! Much bigger than any apartment I have ever had! I remembered reading about David Sedaris's visit to the same place. He raced from room to room with the same idea. "Have you seen this toilet?", he exclaimed when he saw the polite Delft porcelain potty in it's own little enclosed closet. Upon leaving the museum, you are confronted with an interactive feature designed to determine how much of an intolerant racist you are...I figured a 6-out-of-10. Not bad, I think. Afterward, we sought out a restaurant famous for Dutch-style pancakes. The Dutch bake anything into a thin, big-as-a-spread-out-newspaper pancake that you can imagine. I had mine with ham, caramelized red onion and Gouda. The friendly and very handsome waiter told us to try the beet syrup on the table that resembled a thin molasses. It was divine on the meat and sweetly studded, folded paper-thin lunch I enjoyed. It's flavor cannot be compared with anything that I can think of. Deep and minerally comes to mind when I consider wine-tasting terms.

Afterward, we walked through a few shops. One was a deluxe drug-store. If only America had pharmacies such as these! Contact lenses and pain killers readily available without a prescription! I would have bought some new contacts, if only I had my prescription. Dammmit!

Instead I purchased some salty licorice for Gyps and some chocolates for later.

We retired to The Golden Bear for a nap before re-entering the decadent world of Amsterdam. Upon entry to the room, I discovered a note on the bed that asked me personally, to see Management at my earliest convenience. I assumed that it had something to do with international billing, and we made love in the raunchy reflection of the three-way mirrors. When we were ready to emerge from our love nest, we descended the winding stairs, and I approached the front desk about the note that was left on our bed. The conversation went something like this:

Innkeeper: "Housekeeping was very surprised to find your bed wet, very wet this morning when they went in to service the room."

Me: " Oh. Sorry about that. We got very drunk last night and the jet-lag and everything..."

Innkeeper: "It doesn't matter. What matters is that we need you to pay for the cleaning of the bed. It is going to be 125 Euros."

Me: "Oh...OK, Um...can I pay when I check out or.."

Innkeeper: "We need you to pay as soon as you can. This room cannot be let again with a urine soaked mattress. We have to have it cleaned and replaced and..."

Me: "I understand."

I left that hotel completely mortified. Bill was on the street in front of The Golden Bear. When I told him what had transpired, he was amused. All I could think about was my shame in front of that desk at The Golden Bear. We walked into a completely different area of town that was filled with huge and imposing structures. I'm not aware of what I was looking at, they must have been government buildings or something. We went to a cafe where I ordered a Coca-Cola and a hash cigarette, like the one Kelly presented us with the night before. After two tokes, I needed to deal with the new monetary responsibility I had. I decided that it was better to withdraw the funds now and present them to the hotel desk before there was a shift change and I had to talk to a new attendant about the situation. I went to an ATM, took out the cash required by The Golden Bear for my accident. Stoned as Hell and high as Heaven's clouds, I approached the desk with the money in shaking hands. The conversation went as follows, with Bill by my side:

Me: "i have brought the money you require..."

Innkeeper: "Thank you. You know, sometimes people think they can come here and do whatever they please. That is fine, but, the next time you want to do that sort of thing, there is a shower directly across the hall fro your room."

Me: " Uhhh....(mouth agape) OK"

Again, I was mortified leaving the hotel. Again, Bill was amused, "Did you hear that?" he said. "That guy thought that we were pissing on each other!" I was not amused, until I told the story later. Not only was I out about $200, but I was labelled as a piss-queen in Holland. Oh dear. Thankfully, our stay at The Golden Bear was limited as we were leaving Holland for Scotland in the next two days. I mean, you couldn't enter or leave the hotel without walking past that front desk. Forget about enjoying the breakfast that was inclusive with your stay. Who knows what kind of new "friends" we would have made. Golden Bears, no doubt.