Thirty Dirty Days Across the Big Pond: Amsterdam High Jinks

By Mike Slickster

"Amsterdam High Jinks," the second part of Mike Slickster's sensational trilogy, involves erotic relationships with three extraordinarily complex women and one prostitute, explicit documentation of the intrinsic ambiance within this medieval berg, and the tragic, personal suffering of its heroic citizens during a dark period in European history. The artistic wealth of the Netherlands' capital is brought to life with detailed sagas of two well-known, Dutch favorite sons, and one prolific daughter. Toothsome, local cuisines; the laid-back, promiscuous culture; and the sundry, mind-altering accoutrements available to residents and tourist alike, compliment the fascinating whirlwind tale. A sentimental reunion with the two Parisian pretties from "Part One" tops off this amorous, heartwarming, offbeat, hilarious story of overindulgence, sexuality and psychedelic rediscovery. Beautiful, original photographs and colorful illustrations fully enhance the reader's total experience throughout the fun-filled e-book.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Oct 8, 2013
• ISBN: 9781304403100

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Thirty Dirty Days Across the Big Pond: Amsterdam High Jinks

Thirty Dirty Days Across the Big Pond: Amsterdam High Jinks

A Novel

by

Mike Slickster

Prologue

With just one week left of his thirty-day grand tour, having covered thirty-one hundred miles on European soil (almost 5,000 km) thus far, Mike Slickster stopped for a five-day visit in Amsterdam, The Netherlands, where this story begins.

Once settled in the Dutch capital, our American hero embarked on a whirlwind tour of this historic city and developed amorous relationships with three sensational women and one prostitute, taking erotic, fun-filled psychedelic excursions topped with forbidden pleasures, reliving his long-foregone, wild-and-crazy youth.  A visit to the Red Light District proved to be quite invigorating, but a lockup in the hoosegow was an unexpected downturn.  The two Parisian girlfriends with whom he had gamboled previously in Paris and the French Riviera, both flew into Amsterdam to add to the pandemonium for a nutty, offbeat, sensual and unbelievable reunion during his last days in town.  The story line includes incredible indulgences in local cuisines, sexuality and the mind-altering amenities sold legally to tourist in Amsterdam, along with artistic and cultural experiences the old city had to offer.

Art, sex, food, frenzy, hilarity, death, friendship, lifestyles, booze, drugs, eroticism, Adolf Hitler, Anne Frank, the Holocaust, music, comedy, Rembrandt and van Gogh are just some of the illustrative keywords that describe the many interesting topics found within the forthcoming chapters.  The day-to-day details of this tantalizing tale were based on the author's personal memoirs taken from a strictly updated travel log, maintained during his thirty-day grand tour of England and Europe.  The accompanying historical data, fully researched and true to form, supplemented the imagery in this fascinating novel.  Some names of the venues, and all those of the characters—aside from celebrities and public figures—were changed to protect the innocent.

Many of the expressions and interjections found within the novel are in Dutch, British English, French and Spanish.  For the reader's convenience, a glossary of terms with translations thereof is found after the end of the last chapter.  Welcome to Thirty Dirty Days Across the Big Pond: Amsterdam High Jinks.  Enjoy the trip.

Chapter One: The Breakfast from Hell

The Singelgracht

Finding my lodging for the first week of November took many frustrating turn-abouts through a semi-circular array of narrow, one-way streets.  The ride was quite scenic, however, with many quaint canals and fascinating architecture, weaving and strewn throughout the populous burg.  My directions from Mapquat.com fouled me up, naturally.  At a stop light in the assumed vicinity of my deluxe accommodations, I asked a rotund, whistling doorman, who was standing outside the building adjacent to the traffic signal, where the Museum District Hotel was located.  Pointing directly to his right, he said it was the large building diagonally across the canal, adding I couldn't miss it.  Evidently my diagonal was on a different angle than his.  I drove up to the Rijkamuseum—thinking at first the huge Dutch national museum was my downtown auberge—turning around after realizing my hotel was elsewhere and headed back once again, ending up exactly at the same red light with a now grinning, totally amused doorman, pointing lavishly around the bend for a second time.My destination was beyond what appeared to be a bike lane, which led over a large sidewalk to the busy street in front of my new digs for the next five days.  Having parked the Fiat halfway down P.C. Hooftstraat in a spot costing three euros per hour, I hoofed it for a block and one-half to my nineteenth-century inn, going inside to register finally after my four-hour journey from Germany.

Two people were ahead of me awaiting in line.  Carousing around in the meantime, I found the bar and lounge just past the front desk.  At the far end of the lobby was the dining hall, facing Amsterdam City Centre; and across the street was the Singelgracht: one of the main canals running through the city, starting at the North Sea Canal and flowing south to the Amstel River.  Teeming rain presented the makings of a dismal day, but I couldn't complain.  The weather had been picture-perfect ever since my sojourn in Nice, remaining crystal clear and sunshiny for well over a week. 

My turn came up but the room wasn't ready yet.  With the time still only a little past noon and much earlier than their standard check-in time at fourteen hundred hours, the desk clerk suggested I return in about twenty minutes.  I'm sorry for your inconvenience.  Your room should be ready by then, the woman said.  She spoke English like it was her native tongue.  I can see the maid is down the hall, cleaning the room next to yours.

By the way, does the hotel provide parking? I inquired.

No, Sir, she replied.  You can park outside if you find a spot, but you will have to keep feeding the meter.

I noticed that, and it isn't cheap either.

"No, it definitely is not; but if you drive to Olympisch Stadium, you can park there for very cheap." 

Where is it located?

She shrugged her shoulders.  I'm sorry, Sir. It is hard to explain.  Just ask anyone along the way, and they will tell you how to get there.  One would have thought the hotel had a concierge with that information handy and available to give out.  Unfortunately for me, none was on the payroll.

"Dank u wel, I said, thanking her in Dutch.  I'll be back in a bit."

Not wanting to walk almost two blocks with all of my belongings in the storm, I drove around and luckily found a space in front of the hotel.  To kill the remaining ten minutes or so before checking in, I smoked one of the little cigars bought in Venice before leaving, and dodged raindrops while nodding and smiling back to those who were passing by.  Municipal regulations forbade smoking inside public buildings, and even while in one's hotel room.  Some establishments specifically listed on their no-smoking signs that fines could be levied for the cleaning-up of a smoker's trail.  After shelling out another three euros for parking, I dragged my the suitcase from hell up the seven steep steps to the hotel lobby.  Where was a bellboy when you needed one? 

Your room is now ready, Sir, the desk clerk said as I re-entered the building.  She swiftly made the necessary transactions and handed me my room cards along with a pink slip of paper, on which appeared the words, Stadionplein, Tram 16, or 24 to Museumplein. 

"I thought you were giving me your phone number, Juffrouw,  but I should be so lucky.  What does it mean?"

"Stadionplein is the name of the plaza and the tram stop in front of the stadium where you can park the car for your stay in Amsterdam, she said while not even acknowledging my furtive attempt to flirt.  Once you have parked the car, take the number-sixteen tram back to Museumplein.  It is not very far from here, and you can walk back to the hotel.  The strictly business-like clerk pointed down the hallway to her right, saying my room was number seven and the last door on the left, adjacent to the exit.  Is there anything else I can do for you, Mijnheer?" she said.  I had to bite my tongue before getting myself into trouble.

"Bedankt, I said instead.  You have been extremely helpful."

You're welcome, Sir.  I hope you enjoy your stay in Amsterdam.  The desk clerk didn't seem to be the type for small talk.  She turned and walked into the back office, closing the door behind her.

Once inside my chamber, I had to turn the thermostat up several degrees, probably due to the blustery wind, blowing consistently outside, coming off the North Sea.  I had gotten accustomed to the comfortably warm breezes from the Mediterranean and Adriatic Seas.  The room had no minibar, the first time since Paris I was faced with such an inconvenient predicament.  Not even a little chocolate mint lay waiting for me on the pillow, giving me the impression the hotel had cut unnecessary costs by eliminating the expected frills found usually in my British and European accommodations up to this point.  At least the wireless Internet was functioning, by which I was able to find directions to Stadionplein and Olympic Stadium.

The metered parking was about to expire; so I had to hustle while putting on a warm hooded sweatshirt under my leather jacket to kept my head dry from the rain.  The seven stitches on the left side of my skull from the lantern's crashing down upon me during the earthquake in Rome were still only a week old, and I didn't want to mess them up by getting wet.  I had a surgical incision on the center of my gut pop open once, after the staples were removed, presumably from getting the fastened area wet while showering.  My immediate,  incredulous peering, gazing wide-eyed into a blood-red, gaping gash into my abdomen, was not an exceptionally gratifying experience to say the least.  Not only did it flip me out when it occurred, but also the nurse who had removed the surgical fasteners seemed considerably shaken.  The look on her face had frightened me more than the event itself.  The resultant unveiling of my subcutaneous tissue was extremely gross and unsettling.

The stadium wasn't hard to find.  The park-and-ride garage was underneath the complex.  Leaving the car there for the next five days cost a fraction of the price for metered parking, saving me around forty euros per day.  In fact, the charge was less for the entire stay under the stadium, than it was for a full day's parking on the street.  A two-way tram ticket for getting anywhere in the city and back was also included in the parking fee.  The only stipulation was I had to turn in the validated tram ticket upon returning to claim the vehicle.  This fabulous deal had one setback.  A visitor was only allowed to park there for three consecutive days before having to pick up the car.  I assumed it was for preventing vagrancy, or keeping the locals from cheaply storing a vehicle for extended periods of time. 

So what am I supposed to do? I said to the attendant.  Does that mean I have to pay for the three days on Thursday, leave the garage, and drive right back in again to park the car until Saturday?

That is correct, he replied and handed me my parking voucher with the tram ticket.  Don't forget to leave the stub on the dashboard of your car, facing up.  After doing so, I climbed the long flight of stairs out of there and hopped on the number-sixteen tram to Museumplein.

The trolleys reminded me of those in Philadelphia, although the routes in Philly were limited as compared to the ones here.  A body could go most everyplace in the Amsterdam without having to transfer onto a bus.  Relying on public transportation in the Dutch capital was a necessity for getting around.  The streets were very narrow, and the city had limited parking spaces, metered and very expensive as previously noted.  After getting off the tram at the stop across from the Van Gogh Museum, a stellar attraction added onto my list of things to see later in the week, I walked across the plaza to Hobbemastratt and stopped at a bustling vintage restaurant before reaching the street of my hotel. 

What a nice surprise it was to find everyone with whom I had spoken thus far knew English very well, and they made me feel quite welcomed in these parts.  I ordered a ham-and-cheese sandwich on a roll coated with the sweetest, creamiest mayonnaise I had ever tasted.  A bowl of hot pea soup warmed my belly on this damp, chilly Monday afternoon.  A heaping helping of apple yogurt topped off my lunch with something totally sweet, while coffee served with a tiny biscuit on the side hit the spot.  The ongoing cloudburst outside made me scurry back to the hotel room when I was through with my delicious repast.

I see you found Olympisch Stadium, the desk clerk noted as I pulled back the soaked hood from the top of my head.

It's not a great day for getting around without an umbrella, I said while noticing the woman now was wearing a nameplate inscribed with Kaatje clipped to her blazer.  She wasn't wearing it earlier when I checked in.

Before you go out later, ask me for an umbrella if I am still here, she said.  You can also ask the night clerk for one when I am gone.  They are in the closet for the asking.

That's nice of you for telling me, Miss, I said.  I'll be sure to do it.

My name is Kaatje, she declared while pointing to her name tag.  Let me know if I can be of any other assistance to you.

Thanks, Kaatje, I replied.  Well, I better go and dry off now.  The clerk smiled and told me to hurry up so I didn't catch cold.  Her seemingly curt attitude from earlier had softened considerably and was a lot friendlier, sort of like a ray of sunshine on a rainy afternoon.  I waved and headed to my chamber.

The room was very spacious with two giant sets of casement windows, opening out to P.C. Hooftstraat, Amsterdam's most upscale, exclusive shopping district.  For three short blocks, one could find stores with fashionable items from just about every label and designer, according to a visitors guidebook found on the desk.  I really hadn't noticed anything unusual about the street earlier while walking in the pouring rain, which had inhibited most of the potential shopping activity apparently; but I figured when Chantal and Angelique (my Parisian pretties with whom I had cavorted when staying in France) arrived in Amsterdam to visit me on Thursday, they would be alerted inherently to the shops and boutiques by their built-in early-warning systems, deep-seated well within the psyche of all females around the civilized globe, set to go off whenever a shopping venue was nearby.  Surely then I would be finding out all about what P.C. Hooftstraat had to offer.

The travel booklet provided interesting reading for a first-time vacationer in the capital of the Netherlands.  First and foremost was a reference to the cost of parking, already a given; but it was interesting to further note, the authorities immobilized the vehicle for parking violations by immediately utilizing the accursed wheel-clamping device, removed only after paying sixty-seven euros for the fine imposed.  If the summons was not paid in twenty-four hours, the car was towed away and probably cost mega-euros to retrieve it.  Secondly noted, a sixty-euro fine for freeloading on a tram was imposed and payable on the spot, or the perpetrator instantly got locked up. 

Thirdly and most importantly for one's own safety was the suggestion for staying out of the bicycle lanes, something I immediately discovered upon my arrival in Amsterdam,  It drove the locals stark-raving mad.  Several hundred thousand bicyclists who lived in the city peddled at breakneck speed to wherever they went during some part of every day, and they would mow down anyone who got in their way.  Everyone must have owned a bicycle or two, as was exhibited by seeing them parked in large clusters everywhere.

The next section in the tourist booklet dealt with smoking.  Not only was tobacco referenced but cannabis as well.  The no-smoking regulation on the trains, trams, or buses wasn't surprising.  Even the throwing-away of cigarette butts onto the loading platforms and the forty-euro fine if caught didn't phase me either; albeit, smoking pot in selected coffeehouses, which was perfectly legal evidently in Amsterdam, had certainly raised my eyebrows.  

I hadn't smoked weed since back in the eighties, right after my son was born.  My wife had previously convinced me not to smoke it in the house anymore, fearing if we got caught with the illicit substance in our home, we would have gotten busted big-time with the chance of forfeiting our property; and losing our son to human services would have been the worst-case scenario.  Keeping it out of the house wasn't a problem, and I continued enjoying marijuana whenever the opportunity presented itself when away from my family.  Ultimately, the threat of periodic, random drug-testing was announced to be forthcoming by the company where I worked.  The policy eventually became a requirement, mandating termination of employment if traces of contraband were found in an employee's system; thus making the eminent risk of getting caught my final incentive for quitting ganja and never touching it again.  The notion for partaking anew had become instantly quite enticing, since I was no longer under any obligations.  Chantal's mentioning to me during our last conversation on the phone while I was in Florence, about how she looked forward to visiting the coffeehouses when she came to Amsterdam, suddenly made a lot more sense to me.  It wasn't just poetry and drinking espresso in dimly lit hole-in-the-wall places, exciting her so much after all.

Two more sections appeared in the tourist's handbook and were well worth the read.  One warned about taking photographs of the scantily clad women who beckoned from tiny windowed showcases in the Red Light District, an area where prostitution was legal, indicating picture-taking violated the privacy of the wenches who worked there, and the johns who purchased their services.  The other notation warned about speaking to low-life scoundrels who attempted to sell drugs or bicycles on the streets, soliciting such items that were most likely tainted or stolen; for both circumstances usually led to either being ripped off or robbed.  If a tourist was caught doing so by the police, who heavily patrolled the popular hot spots, hefty fines were levied.

Thanks to the guidebook, my itinerary was set to keep me occupied for the next couple of days.  A great little map of the city was also provided.  I got down to filling in the missing gaps within my travel log, last updated on the preceding Wednesday in Florence.  The many outstanding events remained clear in my memory and were further enhanced by looking through thumbnails of the several hundreds of pictures taken.  After finishing my entries, I fired e-mails to all my friends, including those with whom I had partied thus far on my trip, proclaiming my safe arrival in the Netherlands.

Dinnertime had officially arrived, which started in Holland at six o'clock sharp, or eighteen hundred as it was known in Europe.  My hunger pains had forced me away from the computer to search for sustenance.  On the way out, I asked the night clerk for an umbrella.  He brought one out of the closet and requested my room number before handing it over to me.  I told him it was number seven, grabbed the umbrella, and went on my way.  A plaza was located diagonally across Stadhouderskade (the street in front of the hotel) and the Singelgracht, where a casino and a franchised rock-oriented eatery were situated with a string of shops and pubs scattered around them.  It had been a while since I had patronized a branch of the well-known café.  The last time was in Montréal, Canada, a couple of years back.  I decided to meander over for a few drinks and to eat supper.  The hostess brought me down to the lower level of the restaurant and seated me at a table next to the bar, where a lively group of patrons were hobnobbing and enjoying the evening.  I ordered a martini before the meal arrived, and feasted on pork chops with mashed potatoes, gravy, green beans, and a tossed salad.  A large mug of locally brewed beer washed down my dinner.  Skipping dessert, I paid the bill and walked over to the casino to test my luck for the night.

Admission into the gambling house was not free like it was in Atlantic City, Reno, Lake Tahoe or Las Vegas, where even the drinks were served at no charge to patrons.  After showing my passport at the ticket window, I paid the nominal fee to enter the casino, checking my coat and umbrella in the cloakroom forthrightly.  Once inside the main level of the circular three-story building, I was greeted by the usual racket of bells and ballyhoo, filling the air with a carnival-like atmosphere, highlighted with the familiar array of flashing lights and illuminated marquees that flickered throughout the gambling parlor. 

Within this massive maze was a myriad of glittering slot machines mostly operated by little white-haired ladies and ornery old men, activating multiple one-armed bandits all at once, and then shuffling from one end of an aisle to the other while holding onto their liter-size cups filled with coins.  They were in far better shape than I was, for I couldn't even imagine keeping pace with those old-timers.  Hundreds of machines offered bingo, poker, and video games; but slots weren't my cup of tea.  To me, it was like flushing a commode with each pull of the arm alongside one of those shiny contraptions, and watching my money go swirling down the drain, never to be seen again. 

I searched the ultramodern building until finding a roulette table, my specialty, located distinctively on the second level of the complex.  The casino offered both American and French Roulette, each differing slightly from one another by the configuration of the numbers on the wheel, and the absence of the 00 in the French version.  Other minor variations applied as well.  I opted to play the American style for the ability to alternately maintain a chip on either the 0 or 00 until the number came up, and then switching to cover the other one with a bet.  On a good night, the odds seemed to be in my favor to hit them both from time to time, and paying off thirty-five to one. 

When doing typically well on a roulette table, I seldom lost all of my money quickly and was able to gamble for an extended period of time, leaving with chips leftover while sometimes at a considerable profit.  Another trick seemingly good for paying off regularly was to chose sections of the table selectively, containing those numbers which hadn't been hit in a while, and covering the various corners of several numerals within that particular block of digits.  Placing a chip or two directly over a certain number where the game ball hadn't landed at all since I had been playing yielded a hit on many occasions.  Buying into a game with two hundred euros, I had enough chips to last me for a while, providing my mojo didn't run out; but my luck proved not to be overly zestful on that Monday evening.  I cashed in my remaining chips about two hours later, leaving the casino with fifty euros from the original amount.

Twenty-two hundred hours had rolled around.  Walking back to the hotel in another downpour, dropping the umbrella off at the front desk, I moseyed over to bar for a nightcap.  Only a few customers were inside and not much was happening.  After drinking a gin and tonic, I bought another one to go and returned to my room for the remainder of the night.

Raffaela, my hot tamale from Rome, had sent an e-mail, informing me about Armondo, claiming her ex-husband had not made bail and remained in prison.  As a bit of rudimentary backstory, Armondo had attempted to slice me up with a knife in a jealous rage after Raffaela, her mother Rosa, Doctor Giordano (a friend of Raffaela's mom), and I left a nightclub in the Eternal City.  We were walking to the Metro station for returning back to the two women's estate.  After her ex-son-in-law had lunged at Raffaela, who was on a cell phone calling the authorities, Rosa shot Armondo in the leg with a pistol she had brought intuitively along in her purse.  He was told to drop the knife beforehand while I was fending him off, using a metal lid from a garbage can as a shield.  The police arrived and hauled the wounded maniac away.  Prior to the altercation, the doctor's car was found vandalized and disabled with punctured tires, and both headlights were smashed; the damage was inflicted presumably by Armondo, forcing us to walk back for taking the subway train to our companions' home.

Armondo's trial for attempted murder and aggravated assault with a deadly weapon, while not to mention charges for vandalism on the doctor's car, and the breech of the restraining order Raffaela had a judge issue against