Day 2: Amsterdam

Snob day. How often do you get to say, "Oh, I spent Sunday in Amsterdam. Pish pish."

Well never, of course, and we intended on using that 11 hour stopover to its fullest. So after the niftiest plane breakfast ever (served in a box!) and landing in the Benelux, James and I zipped off to the hotel our travel agency had graciously provided, with every intention of dumping off our luggage and a quick shower before heading into the city.

I'm still in the throes of Airport Neurosis, remember, so it didn't help one bit that a corny Asian woman shoved ahead of us in line to flirt with the concierge. (Batting eyelashes and twirling hair) "So KLM doesn't allow meat on the plane? How about cheese?" (smile) "I just don't understand why they don't let me bring dairy products on the plane. Are you sure about that?" (wink) "Okay then, what about smoked meat? Jerky?" (positioning fingers suggestively)

By this point I am giving her the most evil eye I can come up with and ready to mow her down with my carry on. Meat and cheese? If you're going to be a flirtatious bimbo, for fuck's sakes do it properly and show some cleavage.

After Miss Asia orgasmed from her check-in sex with the concierge, James and I finally got our rooms, dumped off our luggage and showered. I insulted him thoroughly for not cleaning up quick enough (yes I know, Airport Neurosis), then piled into Mario Andretti's cab and barreled towards Amsterdam, city of fashion, sin and bacterial culture at no less than 160kph. Have you ever repeatedly body slammed an extra-large homosexual in a foreign cabbie's backseat? Yeah, I can check that off my list now.

Amsterdam was sleeping when we got to the Leidsestraat, a narrow street lined with shops and filled with trams. It was Sunday morning, and if you've ever been to a major European city on a Sunday morning, you know it's not happening. Everyone's just too busy sleeping in from the madness of the night before. We did our best with the few things that were open, mainly souvenir stands, a few eateries and a small grocery store called the Big Bananas Nightshop (gotta love Amsterdam).

James and I hit up a French cafe for some sandwiches, where he gets miffed because the waitress slipped him a cold wiener. In his baguette, that is. And to make up for it, James goes on a tasting spree with the passion of a five-star food critic. James is a chef, you see, and very much the foodie. Pre-travel, he likes to research local fare of his destination city and sample it all. Another sandwich, fries and mayo, cheese, chocolate, spice shopping and one salad later, James gets lost in a restaurant bathroom for long enough that the proprietor feels the need to ask me if my husband will be needing any help?

Umm, husband? No no no no no. Do you see a ring? Do you see rampant heterosexuality past my hairclip? Do you really think I want to search your toiletten for my opaque, vertically gifted friend whose stomach is probably doing the chicken dance as we speak?

And in saying all that, what better to prompt me towards space cake? I dragged James to the Dampkring Cannabis Cafe, where I'd had some PG-21 rated fun a couple years back... but at the last minute my Airport Neurosis wouldn't let me get torched. Sad, so sad, I know. But we sat there for awhile anyway, determined to fly off secondhand buzz.

Stores finally opened, and after much parting with Euros on the latest styles for Oli, James forced me away weeping from the Lomo camera I've been dying to own so we could make Mario Andretti's cab on time. We had our rocket blast to the airport, boarded without much incident, and if memory serves me correctly, I spent my second consecutive midnight in the air pulling James' head out of the aisle so he wouldn't get hit by the food cart.