What follows is a portion of a rather half-assed journal of my summer trip through Europe.
Amsterdam. Saturday. Time: to be determined.
Bong.
What’s with the bells?
Bong.
A church. Across the street.
Bong.
Why are they only waking me up now?
Bong.
I would imagine that has something to do with the tequila.
Bong.
Why was I drinking tequila?
Bong.
Probably for the same reason you forgot to get Danny’s address before the two of you left his apartment.
Bong.
Which is?
Bong.
That you’re an idiot.
Bong.
So where am I?
Bong.
In a hotel. A hotel found by the taxi driver who picked you up as you were walking down an Amsterdam street you didn’t know after striking out at the Marriott and the NH, which were the first two hotels you saw after thirty minutes of leaning against a light pole outside the bar while trying to make the twovisions become onevisions, which was imperative because you’d lost Danny, who’s the only person you know in this city, which happened right around the time the girl you’d been talking to for an hour, whose name you didn’t know and whose number you didn’t have, said she had to go, which, inexplicably, you did not protest, and which also left you even more lost in a city you’d been in for all of twelve hours, which was made all the worse when Danny wouldn’t answer his phone, which, you’ll eventually learn, was because he left it in the bar but which information you will only gather at 4:30 this afternoon, when you finally see Danny again, after two meals in restaurants you wouldn’t be able to name if there was a million dollars riding on it, a nap in the park, and several resolutions to do a better job of confirming where your host lives the next time you go to a city you’ve never been to.
Bong.
I think I might need a late checkout.
Bong.
I recommend a call to the front desk. And that you stop talking to yourself.
To read the previous Euro Bits entry, click here.
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