In the last episode, at my girlfriend’s behest, I found myself on a long flight to London to begin what was planned to be a three-month tour of Europe with insufficient funds, our belongings on our backs, Eurail passes as the only form of transportation, and a Let’s Go Europe book to guide us. Lucy was bubbling with enthusiasm for the journey whereas I was not. After some early follies and frustrations in London, Belgium and Luxembourg, we accidentally took an express train to Paris where I got a taste of true European culture and the first inkling I might enjoy the trip.
Let’s Stay Europe
The week spent in Paris opened my mind and gave Europe a sense of place I had not expected. Even the Parisien’s dignified ennui appealed to my sensibilities and suddenly I felt a jolt of joie de vivre, becoming eager to continue the adventure and see more of the old world. So it was that Lucy and I began the next leg of our journey, a train trip to Amsterdam. Unlike the previous legs, this one was planned, and with the purpose of seeing my best buddy Tom’s folks, Bob and Irma, for dinner. I had sat at their table often, and Lucy had on rare occasion as well, but to break bread together in such a far away and foreign place promised to be exotic and exciting.
When we detrained at the Station Centraal, we had a night to kill before their arrival. After stashing our packs in yet another cramped but decent pension, we headed out wide-eyed to explore Amsterdam.
I’ll spare you a detailed explanation of the geography and architecture and just say that there are a shitload of canals and narrow cobblestone streets, all of which have bike lanes because there’s also a shitload of bikes. In fact, at times it seemed as if we were the only people traveling on foot and the locals had simply forgotten how to do that.
Following an afternoon of idle peregrination, we consulted the trusty Let’s Go book and after dining at a charming café embarked on what promised to be a most interesting and amusing evening.
Unlike the rest of Europe, marijuana was legal in Holland, and Amsterdam had already earned a reputation as the destination of choice for stoners from all over the Continent, if not the world, so naturally we were excited about the prospect of getting high in some smoky club and without fear of being arrested and sent to Turkey.
We were not clear on the current extradition laws in Europe but like all Americans who’d seen Midnight Express, we were certain that if we were caught with weed, we’d be thrown in a Turkish prison.
When we went searching for our den of iniquity, however, we grew increasingly disappointed and ultimately bitter. Pot had only been legal there for about five years and, although you couldn’t be arrested or even fined, police still had the authority to confiscate your stash and scare the bejesus out of you. Consequently, hash bars operated on the Q.T. and those in the know were unwilling to share their whereabouts with two scruffy American tourists.
Feeling let down instead of high, we set our sights on Amsterdam’s fabled ‘Red Light District’ where prostitution is not only legal but advertised to the public in much the same way Nordstrom would promote its fall collection of coats and sweaters.
There are plenty of private clubs and escort agencies housed in the district, but what makes it really unique and worth a look-see is what is referred to as ‘window prostitution’. There, ladies of the night who are not otherwise occupied pose provocatively dressed in their alluring finery behind large plate glass windows for men to admire and contemplate purchasing their services. I’ve never been very interested in window shopping but on that occasion made an exception, at least to the extent Lucy would permit it.
Most striking about this amorous appellation was that unlike in America where buying sex is criminalized, outside of marriage at least, and business is conducted in the shadows with both buyers and sellers shamed, the Dutch are accepting and respectful of the planet’s oldest profession and sensibly regulate it.
There are no pimps and the workers are treated with dignity and given safe, sanitary working conditions. There are even the 10 Commandments of the Red-Light District, prominently posted and strictly enforced – no photographs allowed, no tapping or spitting on the windows, no disrespecting the ladies, no peeking through cracks in the curtains, no loitering and gawking, services are always discussed and paid in advance, protection is always used, customers are to be clean and well-groomed, not too drunk, and absolutely no aggression or coercion.
The following day was spent seeing many of the less sordid sights of Amsterdam. We skipped the Anne Frank House but got a double dip of art history touring the Rijksmuseum and the Van Gogh Museum, had lunch overlooking the lovely Floating Flower Market, and no doubt saw other sights as well but I can’t remember which. As evening descended it was finally time to rendezvous with Bob and Irma and we had a giddy reunion at their hotel, then a delightful dinner somewhere I can’t remember either. Seeing good friends thousands of miles from home is at once disorienting and deeply comforting, and the encounter elevated my spirits even more.
By now it was late September and the weather in Northern Europe had gotten quite chilly, so being only slightly buzzed after moderate wine consumption that night, we made the clear-headed decision to go to Greece for some sun and warmth. Why not, right? Well, let me tell you why not.
The route chosen for us by our friend Let’s Go turned out to be fraught with perilous pitfalls, all of which we tumbled into, beginning with an overnight train ride to Brindisi, Italy where we were to catch a ferry across the Aegean Sea to Patras, Greece, and then another train to Athens.
Things got rolling smoothly enough. We chanced upon an empty sleeper car compartment and because our wine consumption that evening was more than moderate, we slept soundly. Early the next morning we woke to spectacular views of the Swiss Alps which took our breath away and I remember being almost deliriously happy with our trip to Europe in general and the decision to go to Greece in particular. Then we crossed the border into Italy.
I should note before I go any further that American tourists were not the most popular or welcome people in Europe then, and much less so now. Especially those who make no effort to appreciate the unique cultures, respect their customs, or speak the native tongue, which is most of them.
Europeans of any nationality who staff accommodations, dining places, trains and train stations, taxi cabs, tourist sites, and law enforcement departments take great pains to ensure we feel unpopular and unwelcome, but some more so than others. Such as the Uzi-packing Italian Customs agents who burst into our compartment that sunny morning and demanded our passports and tickets, as well as to search our backpacks. We had already smoked the last doobie so had no fear of being jailed, but the search was conducted with us not yet fully dressed which explained the extra suspicion they had of Lucy.
As jarring as that buon giorno was, what was in store for us in Brindisi made it in retrospect feel like a hug and a kiss. In that ancient and picturesque port on the Adriatic Sea we encountered forms of tourist torture which were both sophisticated and systematic, starting with a mysterious fee we were required to pay to get off the train.
And to say that locals scorn the scores of young people milling around waiting for ferries to depart cannot be overstated. There were several petty torments and taxes levied to conduct ordinary business – exchanging money and using public restrooms come to mind – but the biggest scam awaited us after lunch. It was a hot day so when some shady signore handed us a flyer offering a bus ride to a nearby swimming hole we readily accepted. When we boarded the crappy coach, the motley crew of a dozen or so young tourists was informed by the cheerful driver not to worry about paying the fare and I remember feeling maybe our luck was going to change and the rest of the day wouldn’t be so bad.
It wasn’t so bad, it was worse. Not long after our departure the bus was stopped by two marked cars, sirens blaring, and soon we were deboarding at the command of the local polizia. Four scary guys with scary machine guns strapped to their backs demanded in broken English proof we’d paid the fare, which of course we didn’t have.
And when another passenger tried to explain in broken Italian that the driver said we didn’t need to, he was dressed down in fluent Italian. We were next told that if we didn’t pay the fare, plus a substantial fine which I want to say was a hundred bucks but more likely ten, we were going to jail. Naturally we paid and the hornswoggle was clear. The bus driver got his fares after all, and the polizia pocketed the fines which no doubt pays for their pasta. Finally allowed to continue, no one was surprised to find that the swimming hole billed as bellisimo was little more than a laboratory for pond scum.
(to be continued)