Tribute to Amsterdam

My train arrived in Amsterdam mid evening. From the station it was ten minutes (apparently) to Kloveniersburgwal. I stepped out into the placid grey clouds swept overhead, run through with blue channels, reflection of a city made from stone and water. One step forward and I was lost. I even had the map with me, still couldn't decipher the puzzle that was Amsterdam's urban sprawl. Nevertheless, the beauty; redolent of an idyllic painting, a tram passed, murk water rippled and the Europeans sang to me, from bicycles, from cafes, birds whistled from empty black trees to the high cross atop the castle spires. Innocent repose, warm clothes and cold weather. Bags in tow, I mused, a thousand miles from anything I knew.
It took me four cigarettes and two and a half hours to find the hostel. I dumped my bags and crossed the canal, stopping to take in the houseboats lining the waterfront, wood polished, curtains drawn. Smoked a joint at a Coffee shop thinking I'd smoked enough to handle my shit. I was wrong. How did I end up in Amsterdam? Next minute I left off to talk to the Scottish guy I met at the hostel. Then we left off for a few drinks at places that I can't recall to name. Before I knew it two am had rolled past and I was arguing with a Turkish guy outside of a pizza joint, smoking a doob that I bought from some fellow who was telling me about Gods eternal love. Mr Turkish starts getting at me about Gallipoli so I give him a few choice words and stumble off to find my bed. Drunk and out of sorts, I was soon lost again. A guy in a trench coat rides up next to me on his bike and asks me what I need. When I didn't want anything it turned out he wanted something. Told me to look at his hand. He had a switch blade at his waist, wanted fifty euros or I'd cop it in the neck. Gave him my last fifty and he pedalled off into the dark.
I vaguely remember being calm through the ordeal. I marched on down the brim of the canal, lit over with tall street lamps. The adrenalin kicked in,pumping through my veins, high shutters clattered in the nervous winds, the symphony of silence revealed itself and a restless overture ran through me, head to toe. Intrepid spirit dawns, I say aloud, an ode to Henry Miller, 'I'd rather be a poor man in Europe!' And disappear into the artwork. Never more alive.