Whorin' and Smokin' in Amsterdam

I'm going to work a little bit backwards in my trip recap. Last things first: Amsterdam. Mrs. Bart and I had a 1-night stopover in Amsterdam on our way back from Turkey. It was purely a logistical thing, since we were flying KLM. Still, I was interested to see this fabled city. Crazy architecture! Below sea level! Legalized prostitution! Bland food! Weed! Oh snap, I was going to break it the F off, Holland-style.

It was a long day - we had to wake up early in southern Turkey, get on a bus, drive an hour to the airport, check our bags, fly to Istanbul, pick up and recheck our bags, and fly again. By the time we got to Amsterdam it was 6 PM local time, and it was cold and rainy. I was still in Mediterranean dress mode.

I was highly amused, however, while standing in line to get my passport stamped.

We were in the "non-EU" line, behind a couple of Aussies (bearded, crazy hair, wearing shorts and sandals) and the most bizarre American or Canadian I've ever seen. This cat was tall, blond, wearing a gray suit, white dress shoes, and had a pair of pink sunglasses on his head. Not fancy sunglasses, either; think plastic, mid-80s style. Maybe that's fashionable now (again?), but they looked pretty damn stupid. He was guy / dude / bro-ing it up with the Aussies, talking about hitting bars and picking up chicks, and I'm thinking, OK, if they let this jerkoff into the country, they ought to pay me to come in just to balance out their society.

Passport was no problem (because I live in a GOOD country), and we picked up our bags and made our way to the airport hotel. We'd reasoned that, no matter what, it would be better to have a short distance to haul our bags if we decided to go into town. Plus, there's a train station right there at the airport, so we're near a surface transportation hub.

We checked in, heard a cute little Dutchette lilt out some English in an adorable accent, and headed up to the room to plan our assault on this capital of Euro-depravity.

We didn't make it out of the hotel.

I think we have a decent excuse. In all likelihood, that excuse is called the KLM Airlines butter snack cake. We decided it's the only thing in the preceding 48 hours that Mrs. Bart had eaten and I hadn't. In any case, something made Mrs. Bart violently ill, so we didn't get to venture out.

I'm not proud of the following, but I'll go ahead and admit it: while Mrs. Bart was illin', I started thinking, hmm, I could just take a train into Amsterdam by myself. I quickly decided it wouldn't be cool (with her or me), but the thought crossed my mind.

The next morning, heading back to the check-in area at the airport, I had another unwelcome thought as I passed through the train station. Seeing all the boards showing the destinations, and the times the trains were leaving, I thought, I don't have to get on the plane back to Dallas. I could just hop a train, go as far and as long as my credit cards'll take me... some classic end-of-vacation thinking.

Needless to say we got on the flight, and had a most unpleasant time, as Mrs. Bart was still feeling awful and now had the added benefit of blaming her condition on the airline. Yep, that's one of the crappiest 10-hour stretches I've ever sat through. Although we did get to watch 'The Watchmen' and 'Quantum of Solace'.

So thanks a ton, KLM. Not only did I not get to whore or smoke it up in Amsterdam, now my wife has totally ruled out your country for future vacations, layovers, connections, or international relocation. Now I'm stuck with goddamn Belgium. I hope you're happy, 'cause I'm not.

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