12/10  Amsterdam, Netherlands

10 Dec 1985, Posted by Scott An Chora in Travelogue, No Comments.

12/10 Amsterdam, Netherlands

I knew we had reached the Netherlands when the standard blue or green trains turned multi-colored.  Two guys had hit us up in the train station soliciting us to take a room on their boat.  I preferred being in the heart of the city where access was easier and I could be closer to the coffee shop I decide to write in, but Jenni kind of liked the idea of being on a boat.  I was leaving in a few days and felt that getting her acquainted with another group of people was also a priority.  The boat had a large lounge which was nice and some of the people staying there were very interesting.  But our room was like sleeping in a can with barely enough space for one let alone two.  No doubt winter had arrived.  Although it never rained the moisture just hung there like a mist and almost froze my ears off.  I searched for things I knew and places where I had hung around before but those familiar faces had disappeared and the smiles had vanished.  There was a depression that accompanied the coming of winter.  It was not the same Amsterdam I knew.  I suppose that was good because I had things to wrap up before heading home and the normal distractions I found there would just get in my way.

Where went the loveliness …….  I know you by, do I know the place
lost in all perfection …….  no longer shy, a dance without that grace
Pretty little dance …….  around we use to spin, a subtle touch …….  our eyes were one, we wandered like the wind

Where went the voice …….  I use to hear sing, now I hear it speak
lost in all perfection …….  no longer brings, these dancing feet are weak
Pretty little dancer …….  within my dreams I see, the way you looked …….  the way we danced, the way it use to be

Where went the warmth …….  that I once knew, now there’s a little distance
lost in all perfection …….  no longer true, the steps are less persistent
Pretty little dancer …….  you’ve grown so far away and stopped those nights …….  of dreaming and let it pass away

I located a travel agent to see what a flight home would set me back and then I searched out an American Express Office.  I had enough money set aside at home to cover the hundred and fifty I owed Jenni, accommodations for the week and the flight home.  But when I reached the front of the line at the American Express Office, the lady behind the counter told me that she couldn’t give me any money off my card, that I could only withdraw money from a savings account.  I paused for less than a half a second, said okay and proceeded to create a savings account number out of thin air.  It was easy.  Way too easy.  So easy I planned on cutting up that card up as soon as I got off the plane in LA.  Once I had money in my pocket I headed up its arteries to a familiar coffee shop and we both procured hash for the week.  I held Jenni’s hand while she packaged some and sent it home for the holidays.  I on the other hand planned on doing nothing for the next few days but smoke, drink and write.  Weed either focuses me or distracts me.  Typically it distracts when I’m surrounded by options so I found myself a couple of nice coffee shops where I could hide in the corner and not be bothered.  I bounced between there and the lounge on the boat and focused on finishing my journal before boarding the plane home.  I tossed out notes and poems that were never finished.  I found myself sitting at a crossroad between freedom and routine.  When I get home I had to find a job and financially get my feet back on solid ground.  I would be entering another world.  One I am no longer accustomed to.  I spent the last few days going over and over those thoughts which had been on the back burner numerous times since Spain.  I suppose it will never be truly done.  I started, stopped and continued so many time that I think I just proved to myself I that I know less than I think.

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    Usually behind a cup of coffee waiting for the world around me to wake up I entered today’s thoughts about yesterday’s activities into my travel journal. I’m not a writer, so I’ll apologize in advance if I jump around or seem confused. These are just the thoughts of a young man who left his possessions behind and who believes that getting lost is how one finds oneself.

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