Life, and Other Absurdities.

That first evening in Amsterdam was, I'm pretty sure, great for Bonne, who partook of all the things you're supposed to partake of with a healthy mix of enthusiasm and curiosity. I, on the other hand, spent the majority of the night waiting for my measly portion of space cake to kick in. In typical fashion, I had begun my consumption of it with gusto, as a result of one person's testimonial that it hit you gradually with a low level, pleasant high. Then, halfway in, I made the mistake of consulting one of the cafe's displayed guidebooks for more information.

"THE DANGERS OF SPACE CAKE," one article read. "When eating can actually be more hazardous than smoking."

"Oh, BOY," I muttered, and buried my face in the guidebook for the next ten minutes, leaving Bonne alone with only her beer for conversation. I re-surfaced with my heart already beginning to palpitate. Bonne was on her second beer.

"Don't you want the rest of your space cake?" She asked, finishing off the crumbs from hers.

"NO!" I barked. I put one hand to my chest and counted the beats. One one thousand, two one thou... Jesus it was already going fast! And the guidebook had said the worst effects wouldn't even kick in until an hour, two hours later... what had I done?

Bonne had devoured the remaining cake before I could stop her. At least I could console myself knowing that whatever side effects I might soon experience, hers would be threefold. But my system was inordinately fragile! I began to talk myself down when I remembered that I had a tried and true system for dealing with these sorts of panics. That system was alcohol.

So thanks to the fact that beers in Amsterdam were ridiculously cheap, and that the space cake we had imbibed seemed ultimately to have hardly any "space" in it whatsoever, I eventually relaxed and we both had a marvelous time checking out as many local bars as possible. At midnight we went to get delicious steaks and red wine, and on the way back to our hostel we took a giggly detour into the red light district.

The streets were surprisingly clean, the prostitutes surprisingly friendly, and the few men we encountered surprisingly well-dressed and bashful. I can say with all certitude that Bonne and I were the sketchiest ones there. We quite enjoyed being part of the all-male gang, making our rounds up and down the block again, elbowing each other gleefully when we noticed that the curtains in certain windows had gone from open to closed.

And when we'd had enough we trundled back to the hostel, where Bonne smoked an entire joint on the steps while I waited patiently. Inside, we made friends with the hostel cat, and then Bonne wrote fervent observations in her journal while I welcomed a rare bout of calmness as a chance to slide, finally, into a deep sleep.