Synopsis: Cokehead - Volume 2. A real-life adventure spanning two continents, 'Cokehead' is a semi-regular pulp series chronicling one man’s journey to and from the depths of cocaine addiction including entanglements with Mexican drug police and a trio of knife-wielding pimps in Amsterdam, and life as a second-rate model in Milan, a bartender in Toronto and philanderer everywhere. (You may also be interested in reading Cokehead - Volume 1: Volkswagen Van Damned.)
The warning signs are posted throughout Amsterdam’s Red Light District: No Photos.
No matter. Pete placed his camera on my shoulder and, using my body as a shield, pointed it towards the voluptuous hooker posing provocatively in the window. Since it was dark, I thought it wise to disengage the auto-flash, lest we draw unwanted attention from any pimps lurking in the surrounding shadows.
“Don’t worry, it’s off,” Pete assured me as he pressed down the shutter.
Then, in a flash, our second night in Europe almost became our last …
February 1992: We’d arrived at Schiphol airport on the outskirts of the city the previous afternoon on a KLM flight direct from Vancouver. Sleep on the plane proved fleeting. Fuelled by a healthy dose of Heineken surreptitiously supplied in six packs by a sexy Dutch flight attendant, we shuffled over to the baggage carousels to claim our respective backpacks, skis and ski boots, then lugged the lot beneath the airport and boarded a train bound for the city.
Our plan was loose: spend a few days checking out the sights and sounds of Amsterdam, buy a Volkswagen campervan, roll south to Austria and meet a trio of fellow Vancouverites teaching wealthy Brits how to ski in a small resort town called Albach, ski for a couple of weeks, then spend the next seven months slurping culture from kegs across the continent.
We stumbled off the train at Central Station with an international horde of wide-eyed explorers and were immediately confronted by a small army of locals aggressively peddling rooms to rent. We bullied our way through the crowd and bivouacked at a nearby bench before spotting Frank, a white-haired wisp of a man who looked like he ought to be greeting a giggling gaggle of grandkids.
Instead he got us.
Like most things in Europe, Frank’s flat was small. A trio of cots had been wedged into a cramped room that, in North America, would have been better suited for storage. A tiny, oven-less kitchen connected to a short hallway and a minimalistic main room, its focal point an old television with a lone dusty chair positioned directly in front of it. Frank plopped himself into the chair and, other than to wave us off when we left a few days later, rarely got out of it again.
Dropping our bags in the hallway, we each called a bed and hopped on for an obligatory test drive.
“What do you guys want to do first?” I asked.
We awoke several hours later in the disorientating darkness of a stranger’s house, realizing we’d inevitably crossed unprotected borders and invaded each other’s personal space. I fumbled for my toiletries and stumbled into the aptly named water closet and, thanks to a complete absence of heat, water pressure or curtain, suffered through my first scrotum-scrunching rendezvous with the hand-held European shower.
Afterwards, we headed straight for Leidseplein, a major square crackling with electric street performances, bars, restaurants and clubs. The Bulldog Palace was, according to whatever guidebook Pete had stuffed into the inside pocket of his leather jacket, worth a visit. Part of the Bulldog chain established in 1975 by Henk de Vries, this particular location, established in 1985, once headquartered Amsterdam’s police. More club than café, the place bustled with busty backpackers from Australia, England, Sweden, America and, yes, Canada.
But where was the culture? Adventure? Moroccan hash? After all, if you just want a drink, there’s no need to travel to the other side of the world to get it.
We got drunk.
Pete snatched a Bob Marley flag from the Bull Dog’s wall before we spilled out into the street in search of another venue. Instead, we stumbled across a couple of Dutch girls, one of whom had a furry Russian Shapka perched atop her head. I promptly stole it and, several hours later, lay next to her in bed as Glynn and Pete shared a nightcap with her disturbingly unattractive friend in the living room.
“You must be careful with woman in Europe,” she whispered to me. “You must always wear a condom. Understand?”
I nodded.
“But you don’t have to wear one with me.”
(Note: Always use condoms. Especially with 35-year-old Dutch girls who claim you don’t need one.)