My flight from CDG to Amsterdam was scheduled at precisely 4:20 PM. I kid you not.
The plane smelled suspect, although I thought nothing of it at first, but when all the flight attendants were red-eyed, I became concerned.
Of course, it goes without saying, the plane left a few minutes late. …

I arrived at Central Station unsure of my lodging for the night, or of how many successive vowels to use in my speech here. I had failed to reach my contact before leaving Paris, and opted to take a room downtown. That’s it … stay unpredictable – keep them guessing. Now to find something… Something akin to the surroundings – cheap and easy. And not a hostel.

Damrak. Right in the middle of the red-light district. With a full moon rising. Not making this up.

Despite the abundance of waterways, Amsterdam is easily traversable on foot, and after a short walk I ended up at the hotel – a serviceable room with a window overlooking the very active strip at the intersection of Damrak and Oueedsmookinplaace. I was greeted at the front desk by a seven foot tall transvestisexual? with an amazing rack and full tattoo sleeves. It’s name was Stefan, and it spoke in falsetto.

This all really happened.

Stefan hipped me to the coffeeshops in the general vicinity, and I made a beeline for the first he had suggested, the Old Church. Appropriately, it was in fact, next to an old church.

I wove my way through the narrow streets feeling eyes all over me. Was I being watched? Or was I just paranoid? Nevermind, just keep walking – don’t show them you’re rattled. Just keep walking. Past the dildos and nine-foot hookahs. Past the life-size inflatable Rasta. Past the doner kebab shops, the t-shirts of Obama smoking a spliff, and what the f…?

Why are all these hot women staring at me? And aren’t they freezing standing there in the doorway? Jesus, why is she wearing a bikini?

Oh.

The warm smiles soon took on a more sinister tone – I was being watched, indeed. Scoped, for my money.

I remembered the words of Uncle Bill Burroughs, “Beware of whores who say they don’t want money. The hell they don’t. What they mean is they want more money. Much more.” I’ve never paid for sex before (not with money at least…) and I thought it best to minimize the window shopping. At least stay a healthy arm’s distance away from the doors, lest they grab me and shake the shekels out of my pockets, cackling and writhing the whole time.

Not far from the hotel, at Gaanjabuurn Platz, there was a street fair sitting in the shadow of the Royal Palace. I’ve always felt at home among carnies, and took safe haven weaving through the rigged games and vomit-inducing rides. I smoked a cigarette and soon felt at ease, despite the clanging bells, blinking lights, and blaring Euro-techno. But quickly, the sights and sounds became too intense for me – what the hell? And why am I hungry all of a sudden? I just ate a bunch of double-cooked frites with mayo and currysauce…

Hmmm…

Something foul’s afoot… somewhere in the distance, a dreadlocked white boy spending his parents’ money bayed at the moon. And the moon howled back…

No first trip to Paris would be complete without a visit to the Eiffel Tower, and I’m happy to say it’s as impressive as it seems in any black and white postcard you’ve ever received. It’s grandeur is all the more when you consider it was built in 1889 (wtf?) and entirely of wrought iron. That’s no joke.

No, you’re not docking with the Nostromo there – that’s the tower’s rarely photographed undercarriage. Something perverse about looking at such an iconized structure from this POV, no?

The tower is almost a thousand feet high, and although I arrived too late to visit the upper observation deck (classic George) I was still taken with the view from the lower one, especially at night.

Every hour, the tower is lit up by hundreds of small flashes giving it a sparkling effect from afar. Awesome to witness, but I’d hate to be the one who has to change a light bulb up there…