Amsterdam. Land of Joy.
I met a traveller once, in the world-renowned Flying Pig hostel of Amsterdam, who seemed pretty cool. Well, actually he seemed to be high as shit, but I figured that was cool, I mean it was a hostel in Amsterdam, after all. Our conversation went something like this:
Me: “So what’s up? How long you out for?”
High as Shit Guy: “Uhh, ‘bout a year. Left Australia like six months ago.”
Me: “Oh cool! So where’ve you been? Must’ve been amazing!”
HSG: “Oh. Uhh, yeah. Well, uhh, I’ve been like, here?”
Me: “Oh. Uh huh. So like, Amsterdam?”
HSG: “Nah, nah, like… here.” Gestures to our seating area.
Me: “Oh.” And I just can NOT let this one go. “So you haven’t made it off the floor of this hostel in six months???”
HSG: “Nah. Keep thinkin I should, but like, I like it here. And if I like, left, or whatever, how would I like, know where to get my drugs? I mean, I got the dude down the street I see every morning. Like, what would I… do?”
Me: “Yeah, that’s a toughy, man” [“Yo,” poke poke to my brother, “we gotta get the fuck outta this hostel, dude, before we’re sucked into the vortex…”]
