travis jeppesen on the city of gray skies and dead flies
Illustrations by Kelli Bickman
54 corpses were fished out of the canals of Amsterdam last year. While about half of them were later determined to have been locals - mostly junkies and bums - the rest were drunk tourists who fell in and drowned while pissing. Remove death from this equation while retaining the junkies selling fake coke, the shady bums and drunken tourists loudly cajoling in their native tongues while shaking the piss off their fat uncircumcised wogs over a stretch of water that seems to be glowing pink... you are probably standing in the Red Light District around 10pm on a Friday night.
Or more likely, you're being pushed up against a window by the burly Mardi Gras-size crowd to stare at an even burlier Mexican prostitute, who half-attempts eye contact and a smile, although her lip muscles seem a bit fatigued. You peel your face off the window as swiftly as possible and move along past the range of consumable flesh on display. Must get out of here, you repeat to yourself in a rare agoraphobic attack. Not drunk enough for this scene.
Heading south along the Amstel, Amsterdam's largest canal slashing through the Oost (East) on a longitude axis, all is still and calm as the muddy brown water. With the exception of an occasional bicyclist zipping past, you are all alone. It seems you are in an entirely different city, yet you're not. The bloated Babylon is only a brisk 10-minute walk away.
Needless to say, Amsterdam is an incoherent maze of cultural contradiction. The people who reside there don't squint at their status as one of Europe's smallest big cities. Instead, they have used it to their advantage through the centuries by building what is perhaps the world's most user-friendly capital. Brimming with youthful energy, BMWs and Smart Cars whiz along the narrow straats aside rabidly fearless cyclists, forcing pedestrians to perform ridiculous-looking dances at (frequently stoplight-less) intersections, for which I'd recommend a pair of Dutch clogs (you're gonna look like an idiot anyway, so you might as well look like an authentic idiot.)
HOLLAND IS A GEOGRAPHICAL ODDITY, a veritable swampland with the entire country having been built below sea level with a complex network of irrigation to prevent flooding when the tide comes in. Trying to imagine Amsterdam one thousand years ago is nearly impossible; it was even wetter then than it is today, as most of the brick-lain streets and interconnected canal houses that comprise the city today were underwater, and the dominant mode of transportation was by boat. Many locals continue the ancient tradition. House boats, ranging from luxurious yachts to modest barges, line the thousands of canals snaking their way through the city. Ducks and swans skim the surface while eels and fish dodge garbage sinking down to the silty depths, usually about ten feet below the surface.
Even if you make the wise decision not to plunge in for a dip, you'll still feel like you're swimming your way through each day. This is because you are being rained on constantly and you keep forgetting to buy an umbrella. The underwater city retains the ocean's climate. The few times the sun appears, there is a mad rush outdoors throughout the city. The sun is such a rare event that everyone wants to absorb, and the streets and outdoor terraces of every cafe quickly fill up.
Ultimately, the omnipresent grayness tends to drive away the many outsiders who come to indulge in the city's decadent treasures. Writer/ choreographer Ishmael Houston-Jones lived there on and off for a year before calling it quits. "The weather was too depressing," he says. "There was always this fog lingering over you when you went outside, like the sky was any minute going to cave in and suffocate you."
The many decide to remain despite the excessively moist climate - as I did for a few months last spring - brush elbows with thousands of tourists who come here throughout the year. There's at least one hotel on practically every city block. This makes it incredibly difficult to live there as a foreigner unless you are there on business or studying. The nomadic artist or writer really has no 'ins' with society and the Dutch, while generally cordial, are also known for being sleazy, cheap, and cold.
THE ART SCENE, on the other hand, is dryer than a dead tulip. In the '80s, the After Nature school of painters ruled the flourishing market, while government funds were doled out to practically anyone calling themselves an artist. The most exciting work I saw was at a group show called 'Neubauten' at the W139 Gallery in the Red Light District, which has earned an international reputation for showcasing youngish, up and coming artists from the Netherlands and abroad. The highlight of the show was also the least visible piece. Jeroen Offerman's installation purports to be one of the smallest works of art ever produced at approximately 3cm. It's a minuscule silver cage that houses the artist's pet fly, Mr. Henry, who is quickly becoming an art world celebrity in his native London. I was lucky enough to be present at the cute little speck's continental premiere. The cage was absurdly perched at eye level (if you're really tall) in the center of the gallery's enormous back wall, which was otherwise bare. It took us a while to locate Henry upon arrival, because he's invisible from even a short distance, the cage barely exceeding him in size, making it impossible for this fly to fly. 'Hello, Mr. Henry,' I whispered politely so as not to disturb the poor fellow. Alas, Mr. Henry was hanging upside down from the top of the cage. I didn't even know that flies were that good at defying gravity. If you look hard enough, maybe you can see him smiling. Or maybe he's just dead.
Offerman's other installation, situated tastingly close to the bar, is not as cute: several labeled jars filled to the brim with maggots squirming all over each other. It reminded me of an elementary school science project, molto retardo. I managed to suppress the urge to execute this elaborate prank I had all planned out in my mind, but wouldn't it have been great if a bunch of PETRA-fashioned insect activists crashed the opening, chanting 'Free the Maggots, you art faggots!'? Ultimately, I decided it would be a bad idea because I'm sure at least one asshole would have taken it seriously and I don't wanna be mistaken for making any kind of genuine political statement. Call me a masochist, but I'm actually fully in favor of sacrificing maggots and flies to the throne of art. My only complaint is that Offerman hasn't taken it far enough. I'm talking commodification here, man. I want to see Mr. Henry rings sliding down anorexic fingers, dangling from earrings, necklaces - I'm even sure sunglasses could be figured out somehow. Wouldn't it be great if we lived in a world in which everyone had a pet fly?
WATCHING THOSE MAGGOTS crawl all over each other was making me feel frivolous, so I decided to head over to investigate the Banana Bar, rumored to be the sleaziest joint in the Red Light District. For 75 guilders, you can drink as much as you want for an hour, during which you are waited on by a bunch of naked ladies who perform erotic parlor tricks on the bar right in front of you, including their trademark banana routine.
Although I ultimately decided against crashing the bachelor party that was going on inside, I was lucky enough to obtain an exclusive interview with Onaar, the bouncer.
PAVEMENT: Can you tell me what's so special about this banana trick, Onaar?
ONAAR: De girl, she put a banana een her pussy.
PAVEMENT: That's it?
ONAAR: Haha, no. Den you lay down and she - how do you say - squat down in front of you and make you eat de banana.
PAVEMENT: Oh, yeah, I get it. So do you have to leave her a tip? Cos, I mean, it sounds like I'd be doing all the work. I'm the one that eats the banana.
ONAAR: Yes yes, you must tip. Dat is deir job, you know, dat is how dey make deir money. Some of dem are prostitutes, as well, you understand, but not all of dem.
PAVEMENT: So what do you do to the guys who don't tip? Tie them to a chair and make them eat a can of tuna fish out of some ho's twat?
ONAAR: I do not understand.
Neither do I. But that's okay, because then a bicycle ran over my foot and I vowed never to return to the Red Light District, no matter what kind of fruit was being offered. I found out later, though, that that's only half the story. The Banana Bar was apparently sold to some cheapskate who ran the bar for a brief spell in the '80s. In what has to be the most creative act of tax evasion in history, the guy officially registered the place as a church, renamed it 'the Church of Satan,' and presented the legendary banana trick described so poetically by Onaar as a sort of communion ritual. When the real Satanic church, led by Anton Lavey, found out about it, they complained to city officials, but the owner got word that the gig was up in advance and fled town right before the cops arrived.
THE BIG CULTURAL STAR of the Netherlands, though, is TV. Unlike the crassly commercial programming in the U.S., in Holland you can click on the box and it's virtually always a miracle - either something totally bizarre that would never get past the censors in America or that random movie you've always wanted to see but never got around to. One Friday night, I stayed home and had Flirting with Disaster, Marie Baie des Anges, the excellent Bob Dylan documentary Don't Look Back, and Happy Together to choose from, all commercial-free. And unlike most European countries, they don't dub any of the English-language programming. MTV Europe kicks MTV America's ass every day of the week (and they actually show videos), hardcore porn runs 24-7, not to mention all the weird local stuff, like Tom Green wannabe Crazy Theo. Jerry Springer is big, coloring a vivid picture of the inhabitants of that big land across the ocean. My first month in Amsterdam was apparently Fat Month, as they played marathons of all the Jerry Springer obesity shows all day long! My favorite one was where they showed this guy being "rescued" by Jerry - removed from his bedroom in a forklift!
BUT WHO GOES to Amsterdam to watch TV, anyway? People seem to go there for two reasons: 1. to fuck; 2. to get fucked up.
The gay scene is one of the largest in Europe. Homosexual marriage was recently legalized, allotting full domestic legal rights to queer couples. The leather bars along Warmoestraat have given Amsterdam the status of S&M world capital. Prostitution is also rampant, with boy brothels scattered across the city. Rent boys can be picked up at Soho, the largest gay bar on Regulierdwarstraat. Those seeking the roughest of rough trade will find a nice selection of mainly Eastern European thugs in the bars along Paardenstraat near Rembrandtplein in the center of town, but if you're really gonna hang out here, I'd watch my back and my wallet if I were you. If you're anxious to blend in with the droll patchwork of clones, girlfriend, go dance the night away to bad Madonna remixes at one of the commercial discos, the largest one being the creatively capitalized. On the other side of the spectrum, the Sunday party at De Trut, a former squat on the western outskirts of town, is fun and you might even get to have a conversation with a real human being.
As for the getting fucked up part, you'll have a really tough time avoiding it unless you never leave your hotel room (and even then, you'll probably be confronted with an overpriced minibar). More Heineken than water, juice, and soda combined is consumed on a daily basis in Amsterdam. Thousands of coffeeshops spread out over the city's vast landscape vend weed and hash both imported and homegrown, and "smart shops" offer "natural alternatives" to hard drugs, such as magic mushrooms, ephedrine, peyote, herbal ecstasy, and salvia, which makes you lose control of your muscles for a few minutes and do retarded dances while laughing uncontrollably. All of the above are legal here - in fact, you couldn't get arrested smoking a joint if you tried. Hard drugs, on the other hand - ecstasy, coke, and heroin in particular - are strictly illegal and dealers are busted on a daily basis. In other words, you can party, but if you wanna party hard, plan your next vacation to New York or L.A.
IN A NUTSHELL, this is a fun place to be for a week or so, two months tops. Once you've seen the sights, marveled at the canals and the quaint architecture, smoked as much dope as you possibly can, and paid for your 15-minute suck and fuck, there's not much left to do. Yeah, that's right, what I'm trying to say is Amsterdam is boring as hell. And no matter how hard you try to fit in, at the end of the day you're always going to feel like the tourist you really are.
As I walked to Central Station on my last day in Amsterdam, I remembered my first day in the city, stepping off the train and wandering into the Red Light District, gazing open-mouthed at all the madness of the streets, thinking this place was the greatest city in the universe. It's so sad when things turn out to be a lot less than what you expected. I boarded the night train for Berlin, and arrived the following morning to see the sun for the first time in two-and-a-half months. I'd forgotten how much I missed it.
I haven't looked back since.
More about writer Travis Jeppesen
More about illustrator Kelli Bickman
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