Early Summer 2002
Spotlight: Backpacking

Annie in Amsterdam
by Jim Marquez

Monsoon Trekking
by Julie Vick

Mount Kenya: Equatorial Highs
by Adrian Walsh

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Early Summer 2002—Spotlight: Backpacking

Annie in Amsterdam
by Jim Marquez

Annie Lennox's "Diva" played over and over over the cheap head phones of a fake Walkman I bought two years ago at Thrifty Drug Store for $5.99. Cassette, not even CD, but that doesn't matter.

It's dark, it's cold, it's been raining everyday here in Amsterdam—the first three days of my first solo to Europe—and I'm lost; walking the streets of a neighborhood looking for that alternate American Express office in order to cash in another hundred in traveler's checks. The threat of more ludicrously violent rain is in the air. You can smell it.

The Am. Ex. office in The Dam—the town center by Centraal Train Station—is a sham. Way too many thieves hang out there, and they're not necessarily hiding behind a parked car ready to jump out and hit you up either. Most of the bastards are behind a counter, like at the pizza joint next to the Hooters they got, or, at that sex museum they're so famous for. I must remember to pay with exact change next time I visit. Anything more, expect to be severely gypped. Surely there will be a third journey; this being my first solo, remember, but my second time on the continent. That first wondrous trek was for Paris World Cup action back in '98 with Joey...

But I've learned not to care about the impending storm that much. My heavy, leather jacket and my cheap give-away ball cap from the Del Mar Race Track is all I got. That, and the quirky, melodious strains of Annie Lennox...

Alright, back to Annie—the music, not extravagant but haunting nonetheless; the lyrics biting, sardonic, but mostly longing. In her music, you find a passionate human being reaching out—perhaps too far, as has happened to me.

She is what guides me through wrong turn after wrong turn. I thought I was walking parallel to one particular boulevard behind the Van Gogh Museum, but I end up taking myself through tree-lined neighborhoods (beautiful, narrow, four story domiciles), and numerous dead ends. Probably parcels of land no American has ever walked, which is cool because getting lost is one of the joys of back packing...for a while.

But through it all, Annie is my comfort, my companion through the darkening streets. She is my lover to keep me safe as the first crack of thunder explodes about two blocks behind me. And it's not like back home Los Angeles rain, where one drop hits, then another, then a steady shower unfolds. No, not here. It was that thunder clap 30 seconds ago, now one directly above my head-causing me to reach out my hands for balance-and then the skies cave in...ungodly.

(Pretentious writer's aside here: I write this piece as I play "Diva", finally, on CD. It instantly places me on those back streets of Amsterdam. I write this with the twisted thought that even though I've been with beautiful women in the past, I think I'm destined, ultimately, to be alone. That I'm being granted the glorious opportunity to travel the world, to write as a way of life, but that I must do so at a price. The well has run dry. I wonder what my ex-girlfriend is doing at this moment at 3:35am. Sometimes it's tougher when you turn 30.)

I see cars up ahead as I turn a corner here and find that the street I wanted 30 minutes ago is indeed a reality. See? I knew it was here somewhere...

But I don't rush, for Annie sooths me. Tunes change seamlessly, add to the melancholic atmosphere, accompanying the chaos in front of me. It seems as if day really is turning into night. A wall of rain makes me squint, hunch up my shoulders. I reach the boulevard, make a right. The guidebook says the Am.Ex. office is on this street. I just wish those books would get it precisely, correctly, absolutely accurate when it comes to directions. You get so sick and tired of phrases like "just around the corner" or "a few steps from." Bullshit. "Around the corner" is usually clear on the opposite side of where you were looking, and you feel like the biggest asshole in the world.

In minutes, I'm soaked. I walk under storefront awnings for momentary shelter, but I don't mind anymore. Amsterdam can make you accept things nonchalantly. Like when I hit the Red Light District looking for my usual assortment of women my first day in-country...

Saw a little hot number, talked price, headed up those damnable stairs, and, as I was pulling off my jeans and as she was hopping onto the bed, nude, she says, "So how have you been?"

Now, she doesn't say this as a good prostitute trying to make nice-nice, she says this as you would greet an old friend. Or an old lover.

"What?" I'm standing at the foot of her bed, naked as well.

"I know you," she says flatly.

One of the few people you don't want on this planet saying "I know you" is a prostitute. Trust me. "I'm sorry, what?"

"You from last year. We make love good. How was Paris?"

Of course I'm completely limp at this point. How did she know I had pushed on to Paris from here? How is that possible? Well, asshole, you must have told her. Yeah. She was the girl you had on your first night here almost exactly a year ago.

"We make love good," the girl repeats, scooting to the edge of the bed. "You remember me?"

Oh Christ, how could I forget? Yes, now I remember. The sex was passionate. My God, the noises she made...tricks of a pro, to make the act seem real? Oh sure. Been there, heard that. But no, not this one. She was different. This one was one of the best I've ever had. I guess it isn't impossible to find a pro who will have sex with you like when you and your last girlfriend were still in love. It's just rare. But still, how many men had she been with in the past year? Figure five a day (and that's being conservative), every day of the week, including Saturdays. That's 30 dudes a week, times four weeks a month, but take off four weeks spread throughout the year for vacation days...that leaves eleven months of sex. Ok, so now that's about 150 men a month, times eleven, leaving her close to 700 men she's serviced since I was last here...interesting.

"So you remember me?" The girl says.

"Yes. I do. How are you?"

"I'm good. Real good. Working real hard. Haven't been to Paris yet."

"Oh. Well. Maybe some day."

"So where else you go?" she asks, like a child asking her daddy what else he did on his business trip to San Francisco. And for the next few minutes we chatted, like old pals, wandering souls, connecting in a distant city, the both of us on foreign soil, searching, seeking, making our way irresponsibility through life. The both of us sitting at the foot of her bed. Naked. The madness carrying on below her second floor window. A dim, red lamp throwing shadows against her bare walls.

As nonchalant as that...

Outside the office door I reach into my pocket and pause Annie's voice, and for the first time I hear the thunderous crash of rain all around me. Sound is important. If I had seen AND heard the rain, I wouldn't have been silly enough to walk in it, so I must thank Annie for that one. I pull off the earphones, shag the wet ball cap, and jerk the door open.

Stepping through their door illicits a clanging racket that startles me, and the six young ladies at their six desks all look up at once and immediately burst into giggles. I didn't mind though. I simply play it straight and ask the stunning young lady closest to me, "Change?" She points to the back and indeed there are two glass-encased change windows, bank-like, a striking Taiwanesse behind door number one. I make my way past the smirking ladies.

"It's almost five, you know," one of them says to me. "You made it by a few minutes." I nod my head confident agreement, as if I had planned it that way, and shuffle onward.

Splotches of water are falling off my leather back, my bag is soaked, and my footsteps squish and squeak all the way to the back of the office. This naturally brings about more giggles.

"You all wet, big guy!" the Thai-girl says, grinning. I'm wondering how much she'd cost down in the district. "Hey, you awake? You need money? Already spend all your American dollars?" She's the first in a week to peg me for "American".

"Oh yes," I say. "The drugs are far more expensive than I thought."

"No, I don't see you doing that. You're too cute and cuddly to go into that," she coos back at me. And she's right, for aside from the pot and the booze, the only other vice I did indulge in were the "ladies". As a matter of fact, one of the reasons I came to the office was because my guilder was going faster than I had planned...I needed another 50 guilder ($100 US) for another day or so, and a starter-hundred in British pounds for my trek to London at the end of the week.

My question is: if she didn't see me as a crackhead, what did she see me spending my cash on? Was it that obvious? Seven whores in three days so far. I put my bag on the counter top, take out my traveler's checks and passport, and peel off two one hundred dollar cheques. A hundred bucks turns into 197 guilder (gotta love a country where your money is worth double), but the pounds cut it in half.

"Be better if you change for pounds over there. Here, you'd have to change into guilder first, then we go pounds and the rates are bad for that, along with a fee."

"Ok, good then. Thanks for the tip. Just the guilder then."

She counts out the cash with a slight smile.

"What?" I say.

"Hmmmm?"

"Why are you smiling?" I smile myself.

"Nothing....You have good time?"

"Always," I say, and she giggles.

At that point a second change girl steps into the next booth over. She looks Latina, and she's grinning wide. "You speak Spanish?" she asks me a bit too enthusiastically, practically pressing her chest against the glass.

"Un poco, no mas," I try to impress her.

"Oh, ok, so this real cute man came in earlier and he said something to me in Spanish. I even wrote it down so I could ask somebody else."

I couldn't translate it perfectly, but, taking the context of words around each other is an old stand-by, which I couldn't do for the life of me. Some gibberish whose sole intent was to get somebody in bed. Didn't even know where to begin. And besides that, fuck her, you know? Talk to me lady! Why do I always play the middle man?

"So, you've never heard of it?" this other lady asks me and both the Thai-chick and this Latina-looking chick exchange glances and sigh. They mumble something, look at me and roll their eyes. Jesus Christ, woman! Sorry I didn't brush up on my Spanish before coming to Holland. The Latina, wordless, about-faces and disappears.

It's time to turn on Annie again...

(Shit, look at them at that far table. A Mexican dude and a Chinese girl. Joann and I used to talk like that. Sit that close. Be that happy. Look at her smile! It'd be nice to talk to a woman right about now).

I step out into a light drizzle now. Wet hat clinging to my head like a towel dunked in a tub. It's even colder now with the wind picking up and blowing against wet clothes. My blue jeans have turned black. I must have five pounds of extra body water here.

I reach into my jacket and release PAUSE, and Annie's voice starts to take me away; her voice cuts into my head, jarring suddenly, cooing suddenly, suddenly right again. A voice...

that beckoning voice men throughout the centuries have heard calling them; a voice I thought I heard at 16 while staring intently into the blue stone of my graduation ring. I thought I spotted a woman in white silks in there, barefoot, dancing, spinning, no, cavorting, as that voice carried out to me and said it was ok to kill myself. A voice I, of course, rebuffed then, but now celebrate. It allows me to traverse boundaries, time, dimensions. It helps guide me, alone, into unknown lands only to lead me, as always, to safety...

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