I Will Not Leave This Place Alive.

[Scribbly]

Okay I have to get this down because I am not convinced that Amsterdam is going to be the end of me.

As some background, I am not unfamiliar with large cities. I have never gotten on well with them, but I have always maintained a healthy respect and fear of them.

London and I could be said to be on speaking terms. One of my earliest memories is as a child on the tube, where some bastard put a cigarette out on my hat. My parents didn't notice until three stops later, when I asked if... that was an alright thing to do, because it sort of, had ruined my hat.

That casual malevolence is something that I've maintained with London ever since. London is simply too large to care about you. It oozes contempt, and its inhabitants tend to move with a kind of listless violence. In other words, if you are aware of yourself and your surroundings, you'll largely be okay. London is also very loud, I feel this is important in the context.

I have also lived in Birmingham. Birmingham, despite London's reputation, has always struck me as a far more harmoniously multicultural landscape. In London, communities tend to be... very well demarcated. In Birmingham, things are a hodge podge which I loved - I lived in a small house located between a Methodist church, a Mosque, and within walking distance of a Synagogue. The accent I heard the least in my time in Birmingham was, in fact, the Birmingham accent. Birmingham too was largely happy to let you get on with what you were doing, with little interference.

I have even spent time in other European cities - not for more than a couple of weeks at a time, you understand. Paris and Brussels were pleasant enough, though. They obeyed the same rules. They were boisterous, but had their own characters. Brussels felt very cramped, Paris very aloof. 

Not so Amsterdam.

The first thing that I noticed in Amsterdam was how quiet the place is. There's some traffic noise - I can here it now, attempting to calm me down in my hotel room, audible over the sound of the blood drumming in my ears - but it is not the deafening roar of activity I am accustomed to in large cities.

The second thing I noticed is how clean the place is. I understand this now; if you stay still long enough to leave a mark, you will be destroyed.

My taxi ride to my hotel was uneventful, though I noticed at the time that the driver seemed to be in a rush. I could swear that he came within six inches of ploughing into a tram, but, taxi drivers often seem to inhabit their own special areas of the road. I thought nothing of it.

The hotel should have been my first warning.

I had read reviews of course; I am not totally inept. They had mentioned the stairs being the main downside, but the place is cheap, and I am young - what are some stairs? I can deal with that, I thought. After seven hours of travel, however, to be greated by this was... foreshadowing.



My room - I have had to pay up front, I presume because the hoteliers know as well as I that I shall not be leaving this place alive - was on the top floor. That is the view which you are granted with when you open the door of the 'hotel'. Three more flights of stairs and I was able at last to reach my room, where I laid out my luggage and prepared myself.

I have one day to myself on this trip, in which to see the sights. I intended to make the most of it. I particularly wanted to see the Van Gogh Museum, so I charted out my journey using my map - apparently it was very close to the hotel!

I walked outside, and was almost immediately nearly hit by a motorbike.

You see, in Amsterdam, they use many bikes. You have probably heard this. What I was unprepared for was the way that the cycle paths seem to blend seamlessly into the pavement. Well, I thought, I am not a fool. I will be more careful. Just a matter of keeping my wits about me, but damn if that motorbike didn't seem... quiet.

I found somewhere to eat, and noted that London is not the only place which will gouge you for food and drink. (Incidentally, I have yet to find something like a supermarket - the heat has necessitated that I spend almost £20 on drink alone thus far.)

Theoretically the museum was within 4 minutes walk of my hotel. It actually took me a half hour navigating the strange, blending pavement/road/cyclepaths to get to the place. I enjoyed taking in the exhibit, though. Van Gogh, it is said, found the cities nerve wracking and thus could not abide living in them. I begin to sympathise.

After that, I decide to try and find my way to the university theatre - it is where I will be spending the next three days. I chose this hotel because it was recommended by the organizers of the workshop. It is the closest hotel that was not booked up, and it is 20 minutes away. I begin to walk.

My memory of this time is hazy. It is quiet and nowhere seems to go where it should. I walk down one street to find it failing to connect with the next according to my map. I find myself twice in the path of oncoming bikes. I take two hours in total before I am exhausted completely and can go no further. By some twist of horrible fate I recognize the street I am on at this point as being close to my hotel. I come home. I beg the receptionist to tell me if there is a taxi service he recommends.

"Not." He says, "That I would recommend. But I may call you a taxi. Where do you want to go?"

I tell him I need one in the morning, to go to the university.

"Mostly you should go to the road, stick your thumb out." He gives the gesture, in case I have never seen it before, "And hope. If you wish to call, though, there is a phone, there." He points. Behind a potted plant, there is indeed, a phone. "Seven sevens."

That cryptic advice given he seems to lose interest in me. I return to my room, nearly killing myself on the stairs, and drink some water. I post on PD.com. I feel a little better. This is not too bizarre, I tell myself, I am making a fuss over nothing.

So I go out to get something sweeter than water to drink, so I can review my papers for tomorrow and maybe get an early night's rest. I am so very tired.

I fail utterly to find somewhere like a supermarket, as I mentioned. I am barged into by three flamboyantly gay men who laugh and say something I cannot understand. Nearby I spot a pink I sign. Tourist information, I think, but when I get closer I notice that it is specifically gay tourist information. That confuses me. Will they sense my heterosexuality and deny me service? Is making use of this service some betrayal of trust? Which way is it back to my hotel? I'll make do with water.

But I do spot a kiosk selling large bottles of drink. Two of them and some waffles set me back almost ten euro. I am so pathetically grateful to find something I might want to drink that I don't question it. I turn, I notice the green walking sign.

And then I am almost hit by the tram.

A tram is not a small method of locomotion. It is not inconspicuous. It should not be that quiet. But Amsterdam works in these ways. It is quiet, and it confuses you, and when you think you have gotten a handle on something - for instance, being told it is safe to cross - then it will strike.

By some miracle I am not hit. I have to jump, and then I keep walking. It is the walk I use in London. The walk which says, I know where I am going fuck you get out of my way, you do not exist to me. As though I can ward myself from this place by pretending I understand where I am and what I am doing. As though I do not expect several tons of silent death to barrel down on me at a moment's notice.

I have made it back to my hotel room now. I am shaking as I type this, and I feel certain that I will not be returning home. Amsterdam has apparently marked me in some way. I find myself thinking of Tucson, and how Sister Fracture says that the city sings to you.

But Amsterdam does not sing. It is silent, as calm and reasonable as its people.

And then it hits you with a tram.

send help

[Doktor Howl]

Look, get some fucking rope, and tie it to the room's radiator.  At night, when you hear scratching noises at the doorknob, drop the fucking rope out the window and climb out.  It's your only chance.

Look, Amsterdam SHOULD be one of the world's most visited places, because people can get high there legally...But it isn't.  Because even the fucking hippies know what goes on there.  What would possess you to go to that Godforsaken place?

Tucson, as you say, is an honest place.  It sings to you every day about the awful things in store for you.  Amsterdam is quiet.  It silently waits.  When you get fucked up, that's when they will strike.

[Scribbly]

Look, get some fucking rope, and tie it to the room's radiator.  At night, when you hear scratching noises at the doorknob, drop the fucking rope out the window and climb out.  It's your only chance.

Look, Amsterdam SHOULD be one of the world's most visited places, because people can get high there legally...But it isn't.  Because even the fucking hippies know what goes on there.  What would possess you to go to that Godforsaken place?

Tucson, as you say, is an honest place.  It sings to you every day about the awful things in store for you.  Amsterdam is quiet.  It silently waits.  When you get fucked up, that's when they will strike.

There is a very sturdy radiator in here. The taxi driver on the way over mentioned that the place has been in a bit of a heatwave lately, incidentally. Much like the UK - lots of nice summer weather out of nowhere.

The heating was turned ON when I got here, and the windows were shut.

Rope may be difficult to come by, but as a good Englishman I have packed not one but two towels. The room came with two provided, but I don't trust them. They have uncannily shaped creases of strange angles.

[LMNO]

They say, in the grey hours when the dawn is unsure of it's intentions, that is when Amsterdam sends the Courtesy.  Silence becomes tangible, and in the thin light, you can almost make out how it muffles its victims, making offerings and sacrifices to the Courtesy.  Was that a scream?  Or was it simply a bicycle lock scraping against the pavement?  Keep the door locked.  Do not stare too hard into the corners.  Keep the room well-lit.  And whatever you do

[Scribbly]

I have also noticed the quantity of lights in this room. It is not a large room. There is one over the mirror (reasonable), one main one (reasonable), a reading light built into the wall in the corner by the bed (there is also a chair... I guess I could want to read there, okay?) and then a fourth, fitted so that when laying down in bed, you can choose to have a fluorescent bar illuminate your face?

Very well.

I will take heed, LMNO. The lights will stay on, all of them. The curtains will be drawn. I may even turn the heating back to its original position. I am a visitor in this city; perhaps it is my lack of deference to their customs which has turned them so firmly against me.

In the morning I shall purchase clogs.

I just called 0207777777 by the way; that number does not exist. Seven sevens becomes even more peculiar.

And outside my window, at this very moment, they gather.

[Mesozoic Mister Nigel]

Perhaps so that when the end comes, you can see it very, very clearly?