Amster... dayumm.

Go to Amsterdam, they said. You will have fun, they said. 

Firstly, sorry for the lack of posts recently, it's been insane this week at work and I was too busy surviving and partying in Amsterdam to blog-on-the-go, so to speak. 

I've been brutally honest in this post. I thought about omitting some things, but then I realised that I hadn't actually done anything wrong. I didn't break the law.* I planned and booked accommodation, I sent messages in advance from London. Let's just say: next time, I'll plan better. 

Taken last Saturday afternoon, reflective of the way I was feeling. 

23.06.2018

This adventure begins at Luton Airport, one of the crappiest airports in the world. A concrete wasteland an hour-and-a-half from London, one of those depressing places that you wouldn't bother visiting unless you were were a cheapass traveler looking for any way to visit Europe (me, everyone).

Speaking of those depressing places you would never bother visiting, I am reminded suddenly of this port in Bali where you catch boats to Gili Island. Pay-as-you-go toilets (bucket operated) and locals who both despise and depend on you. Awful.

Unlike Bali, Luton has this amazing Ted Baker store, its only saving grace. I purchased a graceful pantsuit that makes me look very European - we hope. I could have skipped the pantsuit and the whole awful evening that was to follow by not buying a budget flight and investing in a better one though.

The flight was delayed by so many hours that I stopped counting. Luckily, time passed quickly as the airport was bursting with gorgeous young Europeans up for a chat. I learned that Northern Ireland has not had a government for a few years (how the fuck did I miss that?) and I met an alumnus of the institution I work for. I tried on all the perfumes too.

Then it all went horribly wrong. On arrival in Amsterdam, half-starved (smelling great) and two hours into the next morning both my phones stopped working. No one around me seemed to speak English, including the signs. 

I approached the Sheraton across the road - fully booked. I was approached by a taxi driver who claimed to know the address of my AirBnB, he offered to drive me for €20. 

After a disorienting ride in a car driving on the right, we arrived on the street of the alleged AirBnB. 

As I was staring at the impenetrable doors of a deserted unfamiliar street, it suddenly occurred to me that we are way too reliant on phone apps. With AirBnB, kind of like Uber, you don't usually share your personal details with each other - even though I had provided my phone number to the host, she never called and I never received any messages because the roaming data wouldn't connect. I couldn't top up my personal mobile because the provider doesn't accept Amex and my HSBC card was still not activated. Batteries on both phones were running low and my chargers have UK plugs, not EU ones. 

Basically, I was screwed. I'm very aware now of what I could have done differently, and I would really appreciate it if you didn't point out what you think I could have done unless you do it really nicely, LOL.

By the way, my driver friend, Fatih, didn't speak many words of English, and me only about three French words (whyyy did he not speak Dutch, I don't know). Instead we communicated via the alien language of a silly Albino Kiwi lost in the Netherlands. 

We then tried to find a hotel (3:00 am local time). Everywhere was fully booked. Can I stress here that I always try dressing as respectable as possible for airports, so I wasn't being turned away because I looked like a lunatic, even though I felt like one. 

I re-booked my accommodation for the weekend at a computer in one of the hotels I attempted to stay in. 

I'll never forget; the second-worst moment of this ordeal was when I asked a reception guy what he would do in my situation. 

'Hopefully I will never be in your situation' was his worrying reply. 

By then I just wanted to get out of the hotel, out of the damn car to find a friendly bush that didn't talk back to me to curl up in for the night. 

Believe me, I really, really wanted to do this, but I also needed electricity to charge my phones, unless I wanted to be really screwed the next day too. 

So when Fatih told me I could sleep in his house for about the fifth time that evening, I had to accept. Luckily Fatih had a trustworthy vibe about him and the fact that he refused to let me fend for myself on the street made me very appreciative; duty of care and all that. 

Fatih brought me snacks and Fanta and I managed to sleep for a few hours. 

But before I fell asleep I saw myself from a distance. Lying on the possibly illegally-occupied floor of an attic room in Amsterdam covered with a blanket in a house with no running water, it wasn't a great situation. But I felt humbled by someone who had so little, would give a roof and snacks to me. 

Then suddenly a bowl was placed on the dusty floor next to my floor patch. Somehow in our alien language Fatih conveyed to me that I could pee in the bowl, if I wished. 

Fatih (in the same room) was to get up twice throughout the night to pee into a bottle. I heard every drop, on that dark, dark night. Horrifying, but the price of (possibly) free rent, I suppose. 

So there we have it, the first-worst moment of that ordeal. You can't make this shit up.

I write this on my walk out of there, phone sorted and body, mind and spirit relatively unscathed.** 

I guess I did break the law. *I peed in a nature park on the way to my new-and-improved hotel. **And got scraped by stinging nettle. 

Last night taught me that even if you are a French speaking African driver, you can still both save a girl's life and completely freak her out. 

An even bigger lesson: make sure your fucking phones work when you travel.

Today's goals are simple: visit a museum, buy toothpaste, go to a trance gig and smoke weed legally for the first time in my life. 

Let's face it. I need it after last night.