Calling The Pot Black

A recent newscast on TV featured a riot by high school kids in a park in Amsterdam, Netherlands. They were rioting because they thought the hours spent in school were too long. If that were worth rioting over, my high school years should have been a non-stop melee. What tickled me about the story is that they were rioting in the park that was across the street from the first hotel Mark and I ever stayed at in Amsterdam.

If there was ever a foreign city I could live in, it would be Amsterdam. They all speak English including the taxi drivers, it has excellent public transportation, it has a great night life and gay bar scene, and probably one of the most liberal attitudes of any other city on earth. Oh yes, it also has legalized ‘coffee houses’ that sell pot, and the pot is really cheap. The funny thing is that I have never smoked marijuana while I was in Amsterdam. I just liked the fact that if I wanted to, legally I could.

The last time we left Amsterdam, we took the train from the Central Station to Cologne, Germany. Because Mark’s suitcases were so large and heavy, we had to take a taxi to the train station instead of walking the few blocks. Mark likes to over-pack when we travel and this was his most over-packed trip ever. He thinks he needs a different outfit for everything. I say you’ll never see these people again, so who cares if they see you twice in the same shirt.

When we got to the train station a man on a little motorized scooter offered to take us and our bags to the train for five euros. Instead of me getting a hernia dragging all the heavy bags, I said okay take us. It was a little ride from hell. As he sped through the train station, weaving in and out of the crowd, Mark and I clung to the back of the cart like baby monkeys clinging to their mother. It was a death defying ride that seemed to spook Mark much more than it did me. There was a reason Mark was spooked, and the look on his face told the story.........he had visited one of those ‘coffee houses’ that morning.