Vol. 3: a cone of french fries, please

After a photo of the girls passed out on the floor of the Madrid airport, there is a gap of about eight hours from my camera. Scrolling through my albums, we can be seen bouncing about in the sunshine of Spain, dancing late into the night in comically oversized shades, frolicking at the airport and then BAM! Amsterdam. It's a startingly accurate perspective on the day.

I hate flying. As terrible as long bus rides leave me feeling, as frustrating as trains can be, as expensive as taxis and as turbulent as ferries, I detest nothing more strongly than airplanes. After crawling on board, we promptly passed back out for the short hop over France, those two hours serving as our "night's sleep." When we landed, not a one of us moved until every other person had exitted, then we drug ourselves into Amsterdam under the grey pall of sour hangovers. We caught a train, then a tram and finally walked our packs to our first Amsterdam homestay: a hotel basement. Soon after, we met up with a friend of Cassie's who is living in France and together slouched into a restaurant for some sort of lunch deal. If my mouth openned during this time frame, the words undoubtedly did not form sentences. I was in a daze, as travel sometimes causes, and it robbed me of the excitement I had expected upon arriving to our destination; instead, the city and the people were warped and surreal. I can remember only a few times in my life that I have been so simultaneously exhausted, starving and dehydrated.

Sometime late that afternoon, however, the photos start flowing again. In those first pictures, we're seated around a low wooden table shaped like a massive guitar, dotted with six cups of steaming coffee, our faces plastered with wide, excited grins; their expressions relaying the ellation I had anticipated since leaving Morocco. We were finally in Amsterdam.

Because it was our last planned stop on the trip, and because none of us yet had any solid plans for after, we scheduled ourselves a full week in the city. With so much time, we finally had a chance to get a deeper impression of a place and, for the others at least, to figure out the city's layout. (My own sense of direction is rather hopeless, I'm afriad.) The Amsterdam we discovered, that folded us into its comfortable grooves, was far beyond what I can articulate here, but suffice it to say that it was equally far from what you might expect of it.

And that, I think, makes it all the more charming.

Not that Amsterdam needs much help in that department. It isn't possible to describe all the delights hidden amongst that city, but from the far reaching canal system to the twisted, bended building faces, to the cascading stacks of bicycles leaned and chained to every upstanding structure, you'd have to be heartless not to fall in love with it.

Near the Dam, I suppose it would be easy to get lost in the sea of tourists and their traps, to be blinded by the lights of chain restaurants and generic bars slinging overpriced drinks, but just beyond these places and hidden in the alleys between is a city overflowing with residents who love it, and there's nothing more beautiful in a city than happy people. Even on the cold, cloudy days we spent there, the city was alive.

But Amsterdam seems to live in a comfortable manner, like its been worn throughout the long years and has grown wise, as if it is enjoying old age. The corners of every surface have been airbrushed with bright moss, and as written in my ol' notebook, "the buildings have all settled in for a little tea and perhaps convesation;" their tall peaked roofs literally bend over to greet you.

Dotted within the heavy architecture set arm-in-arm along the narrow cobblestone streets, whipped cruelly by the wind, are the clean, beautiful lines of modern typography; together presenting the city's philosphy of protection and progression (e.g. Bibliotheek, the Amsterdam Library). "Everything seems to be done in a lovely way on purpose," I wrote, although I realize now the sentiment sprouted from the months I'd spent in Africa, where literally everything exists in varying degrees of disrepair.

In fact, while there, we'd all grown to accept that things don't have to make sense. They almost always did not, you see, and you could hunt for reason, but it was so often in vain that you'd eventually stop trying. Accepting things at face value, we'd lived in a world that just should not exist as it does. And we'd been happy. Now in a place of such grandeur, I was remembering that once upon a time I'd believed in causes, inspirations, and that I'd often wondered why.

But what is better? Straightforward acceptance of the present surely allows for more peace as life tosses dripping, manky garbage at you. It is this that allows us to have patience and trust. Contemplation of cause quickly leads to blame.

But we cannot live without wondering "why" because we cannot grow without these considerations. 'Tis the rub, isn't it? We much cherish our curiosity and master simplicity, or cherish simplicity and master our curiosity, but without devotion to both, we're doomed to become exaggerated versions of people we don't want to be.

People bound for discontent.

Whatever we were bound for as we began our adventure in Amsterdam, it was certainly not discontent. After the misadventure of our first day, which ended gloriously early, we woke ready for Amsterdam to show us her stuff, so to say. When she laid out before us, we were enraptured. As the week flew past, our conversations were becoming more and more dominated by future-speak, but a new dream had formed: fuck it, lets just stay here. That pipedream distracted us on many on occassion, particularly when the real discussion of splitting up and heading home became a bit overwhelming.

Generously, Amsterdam offered a variety of additional diversions. As I wrote previously, travelling with others who could relate to my reintroduction to the non-Niger world was clutch in my attempt to stay sane during this time. As a small example, on Saturday we made it to the library mentioned above, and had a beautiful lunch at the cafe on the top floor. At another point, we wandered into a fantastic bookstore (which I spent the rest of our time searching for but could not find it again). Books! Books that people read! Books in English, even, that people read! I was basking in the written word in Amsterdam and in every sign of others' appreciation of it. In the bookstore I found a new copy of the New Yorker, and nearly paid the 12 euro for it just for the singular joy of openning my first timely copy after months of reading the discarded '90s and '00s editions discarded by volunteers long since gone from Niger.

The next day we gathered our packs again to move to a hostel further outside of town. We hopped a tram and were dropped on a deserted street corner, so a couple of us popped into a nearby grocery store to ask directions. (Gloriously, and for the first time in months, we could speak English and know we'd be understood; the Dutch speak perfect English.) Inside we met Michael, a friendly man browsing for produce, who didn't know where we were headed. Determined to help, he called his wife, who googled directions and called him back for us. Impressed by his assistance, we were unsurprised to learn that he was African. Originally from Cameroon, Michael not only supplied us with perfect directions to our hostel, but he emailed us after expressing his gladness to have met us and offering his phone number should we need anything else during our stay in Amsterdam. African hospitality is deep and genuine, and we were grateful for the brief taste of home.

Our new hostel would house us until Friday, when our trip would splinter. By this point, I'd booked a flight from Prague to Dublin for the following Saturday. My mission was going to be to make it to Prague, where I'd meet back up with two of my travelling mates who were taking different routes through Germany.

Wait, wait, wait, we still have six days in Amsterdam!

We were staying in an old school building converted into a massive, shiny hostel, which was pretty much as scary as it sounds, and they were charging for internet. Since we were all attempting to plan seperate trips (and futures), this meant the ongoing mission for the week was to locate coffeeshops that offered internet. This is not as easy a task as it seems; internet access in Europe is miserable compared to the sweeping, expected coverage in the States. We all had different things we wanted or needed to get done, so we took to setting family meeting times in various places around town. This allowed us to toodle in our own, beautifully unique ways. In other words, it allowed the more ambitious among us to be free from those more content to sit on her bum in ill-lit corners, consume coffee and write, write, write. Or to work half-assedly at improving her chess game.

My satisfaction with such pastimes caused me to miss the Anne Frank House, but I will surely visit on my next stay in the city. The impression I received from everyone else was lackluster anyway. Instead, I spent the euro perusing the Van Gogh museum, from which I can recall unforutunately little other than a few familiar paintings and lunch at the trendy cafe.

And on Monday, we all went to the zoo.

The Amsterdam Zoo was easily my favorite part of the week. It was a telling episode from the full EuroCrash series as nearly everyone was able to spend the time doing exatraordinary versions of what they were inclined to do anyway and within the confines of a lovely city zoo. The only exception to this is that I didn't lose anything while at the zoo, which I believe was the only five hour span in which this was the case. As if to make up for it, I managed to get horribly lost despite having purchased the map, but that wasn't altogether unpleasant as I was greeted at the end with the sight of Sam bursting from the Aquarium doors, on what was at least her third trip though, a bright blue scarf wrapped around her laughing face. That girl's joy is infectious.

Our five journeys through the zoo weaved in and out of one anothers' like this throughout the day, generating a feeling that the zoo belonged to us. It was a hazy late-winter day, and the sun flowed through the trees and exotic plants with a grace I'll forever associate with Europe. The zoo seemed to be holding secrets: tiny statues of monkeys in quirky postures tucked into corners and gardens camoflauged behind animal cages. In itself, the Amsterdam Zoo is really nice, but with us there, it was spectacular. The animals seemed happy to see us as well, or at least willing to perform for us. It was one of those days you'll forever talk about without ever managing to communicate even close to the greatness of living it.

As the week wound down, I found myself all the more content to sit, enjoying the feeling of having a plan with so many gaping unknowns, but found doing so alone made me feel a bit like a creep. At the Barraka Coffeeshop, deep into my notebook entry the handwriting grows less legibile. I had finally found words for one of my lingering worries: "It's hard to imagine attempting to interact with the people who knew me last year," I mused. "I'm just not the same. What's worse, though, or complicating, is that I have no desire to return to being that person; I'm actually afraid to go back to all that..." While fear of the unknown is natural, this new fear of the known, of the comfortable that I'd pined for in my most homesick African hours, is much more difficult to explain.

The battle to hold onto Djamila in Julia's world has proven complicated. "Once I'm on my own I think I'll stay Djamila much more naturally than I would've without this trip to Amsterdam," I wrote. Djamila, I reasoned, was most often by herself, so my lone travels through Germany were going to be her chance to show her face in my life after Niger. "I miss Djamila..." I'd later write on a train to Cologne, "and I can't help but feel cheated out of this part of myself I'd only started to get to know. Now I worry she'll recede, pull back now that we're in this other world, and that I might lose her forever. In so many ways, Djamila was better than Julia has ever managed. I will regress too with the loss of her. With my fellow Niger volunteers around, I could pull Djamila out, Zarma & Niger & PC always in our conversations & minds. But I know people won't want to hear about it at home, that I'll have to hold my tongue to keep from annoying people. Maybe I will begin to forget in my silence and isolation, until the whole experience is just a bullet point on my resume.

"It's an overwhelming sadness, different from the way I felt missing home. It's heavy, another weight in my pack, and it slows my steps and catches my breath when I'm out on the street. If I'm sitting still, it's just a bothersome pressure, but when I try to move, the sad holds me still."

Up until our last couple of days in Amsterdam, I hadn't allowed myself to be sad. I'd hardly managed to cry, instead holding onto anger to keep the tears at bay. Now facing the departure of the very last of my Peace Corps contacts, the blue was dripping in like rain.

Friday was the beginning of the end, but due to a painfully irresponsible streak, I spent the day running around town attempting to deal with a lost wallet. The three of us who were left had moved to a third homestay: a hostel closer to the train station that we'd wandered into a couple of days before and determined was perfect for us. I had plans Saturday morning to take a train to Cologne, a site I'd chosen for soccer, beer and an art museum, while the two others en route to Prague would head to Berlin and Hamburg. It would be my first experience travelling alone, and so I was ignorantly less excited than I should've been. I was much more focused on the "goodbye" parts of my day, my lost wallet and my last precious hours in the city.

As might've been predicted, I didn't take an early train out of Amsterdam. That morning, I walked to the station in the rain to see off Malika, who I'd expected to see again in Ireland, only to discover I was afterward locked out of the hostel. Since my card had gone with my wallet, I wasn't able to check my pack at the station as I'd planned, so not only was I soaking and stuck, I was hauling everything I owned. Also, my phone was dead. The lobby openned at 8 a.m. so until then, I ducked into a cafe and spent the last two euro I had to my name. It occurs to me now that had I been found in such a predicament last year, I would likely have panicked. Instead, I just waited.

Rather than hopping the train right away, I spent the day lingering in the company of my last Peace Corps friend, laughing, telling stories, eating waffles and drinking coffee. Could it have been only a month since he'd come across me on the Rabat rooftop spitting at cats?

Eventually I did head sadly out of Amsterdam on a German ICE train that cost a nauseating chunk of my euro and arrived in Cologne in the dark. I found my hostel near the university bars, settled into a room occupied by an Aussie and a Frenchie, and tucked myself into a corner of the hostel bar to enjoy the German beer I'd been craving. After a quick bite, I called it early, looking forward to the full day all to myself.

I caught up on a bit of the sleep I'd fully neglected in Amsterdam, showered and put in my contacts for the first time since Swear-In. I hid my few valuables, left my room and punched the elevator button. A British guy came out of a room near mine, and we greeted one another casually. "I'm Dylan," he said. Shit.

I grabbed a cheese and ham croissant for breakfast from a nearby cafe and splurged on a chai latte, a long forgotten guilty pleasure from my life Before. I poured over the German paper, flipping through until I found the crossword puzzle (which I could decipher none of and so settled instead on tackling the sudoku), and munched contentedly. Looking up I noticed a plaque hanging on the wall near a clock, which had long since given up its count. "HEAVEN IS RIGHT HERE."

I walked down to the Cathedral and along the river, eventually finding my way to the modern art museum. After a few hours, I followed some heavily costumed and highly intoxicated soccer fans into a bar for the match. In the streets, fans shouted and sang, and the roar from the pitch came in off the wind. Eventually the chilly air pushed me back to the hostel, where Dylan, which is likely spelled Dillon, had found another English-speaker, an Aussie named Adam, to join our hunt for some fun way to spend the evening. We passed a few hours in the kitchen with a gang of Spanish guys in Cologne on holiday, then went out to a club we'd snagged tickets to.

Needless to say, I did not make my morning train to Frankfurt the next day.

Next to my friends' travels to Berlin, my path through Germany seems a bit arbitrary. In fact, I was headed to Frankfurt to meet a friend of a friend who was studying German there, which pretty much sums up everything I knew about this guy before showing up on his doorstep, so to speak. Because I'd been foolish and missed my train, and because I was unwilling to pay for the arrogantly priced German high-speed train a second time, I didn't make it to Frankfurt in time to get to the Western Union. I also hadn't done laundry in nearly a week, and my Dutch sim card was inconveniently and inexplicably nonfunctional.

I was still dramatically hungover from the night before, and due to my severely limited funds two Snickers bars on the train had sufficed as my daily meal. Otherwise I'd purchased an espresso in exchange for the internet password and was thus dead broke, smelly and spastic. Hello! My name is Julia. Add to the scene: it was Valentine's Day.

By the time we met that night, I'd given up any hope of living up to whatever expectations this stranger might have of me, and instead sat patiently waiting, realizing a bit too late that I didn't have the slightest idea what he looked like. Eying each person who came through the door, I tried to imagine what my friend might look like after what was nearly a year since we'd last seen one another, and thus how a friend of his might be. Then a bearded guy in a I'm-not-even-kidding corduroy coat appeared. Of course.

So I spent a late evening in the company of one Sean Anderson in a very American pub near the Dom in Frankfurt. The next day we wandered through a beautiful old cemetary and ran into a couple of his German friends as we were drinking the type of good, cheap coffee only the locals seem to know about. We ate free samples at a brightly colored market and wandered to the top of a strange building overlooking the dull grey German skyline. He pointed me in the direction of my metro that evening and bid me farewell. "We'll see each other again," he said with a wink not unlike my friend's. "In Sha'allah," and I trotted down the subway steps.

I'm writing this blog in my usual spot in the dining room of the guest accomodations where I have been WWOOFing for nearly six weeks. Currently, Sean is in the kitchen, singing along to a tacky 80s ballad playing on our favorite Irish radio station as he cooks himself a sausie for lunch. It's our last couple of days on the Cape, and while I'm well ready to get home, I must thank Allah for the preciously unique people he's put in my path.

I took night transport to Prague, which managed to depart late and arrive early, and thus found myself disorientedly at a station in the Czech Republic in the dark again. And I needed to pee. I heaved on my pack and headed toward what I determined must be the toilets only to have my euro turned away at the door. The exchange booth wouldn't open for nearly an hour and I didn't have a single Czech koruna. Despite my obvious desperation, the evil keeper of the station bathroom refused to let me in. Welcome to Prague!

So I headed instead to the cafe and waited again. As soon as I could I flipped my money, took a glorious leak and bought a coffee and some juice, settling in until the sun rose to lead me to my hostel, where I was greeted by the smiling face of my old travelling buddy. We decided to meet for a late lunch, and headed off to explore this new beautiful, old city. After showering and wandering aimlessly for a few hours, I returned to the hostel to see my second friend grinning on the lobby couch.

Sometimes I wonder what I've done to deserve having seen so much in my young life. I am so lucky for the places I've visited, and the startling beauty of Prague overwhelmed me with gratefulness. And yet nothing I have seen or done comes close to how blessed I am to know the people who I know. On that first day in Prague these two familar faces, neither of whom I'd known a month before, were immaculate.

The next day was Nichole's birthday, and we spent a silly afternoon exploring the Prague Castle before enjoying a Mexican dinner and too much whiskey. After the long, long night at a 5-story club, I woke late on Friday, hauling my computer down to the hostel bar where I drank coffee and nursed my shame in my PJs until a vaguely appropriate hour to switch to beer. Eventually, the three of us were together again, and when we were finally convinced to leave the warmth of the hostel, we headed to the Strahov Monastic Brewery, a little gem founded in 1142.

We rode the tram up the hill and set to our first mission: beer and food. Roughly five hours later the mission hadn't changed, nor had we seen any other part of the monastery; it was one my favorite days of the entire trip.

Just as we were leaving, Nichole receieved a call from a friend (and former Niger volunteer) who had recently moved to Prague for a TEFL program. We met her and her friends at a really great downstairs bar, the name of which I unfortunately neglected to write down. "It used to be fun to make fun of Americans," her Canadian friend explained a few drinks in, "but it's not anymore. Now its a bit like kicking a kid when he's down." I sat in content apathy as the other three spoke Hausa, comfortable in this familiar type of indecipherable chatter. And it didn't really matter that I was a Zarma, or that I'd never visited Zinder, or that this new Jamila hadn't been in country at the same time as me. What mattered is that she knew Niger and so did we; it mattered only that we shared the specific kind of love you feel for a place like Niger.

When we finally returned to the hostel, Max and I headed back out for one last beer together at the trashy "non-stop" bar across the street. The run-down bartender had agreed to play Waka Waka for us, so we sat waiting and waiting, entertained by all the, um, characters around.

Finally, we heard it. "AHHHHHHHHH!" filled the room, and we looked at each other, eyes wide and excited.

But just as suddenly, it stopped. We looked around.

A cell phone.

Laughing, we left the bar and said our goodbyes. I would fly to Dublin the next day as the other two headed to Vienna. And in time we would each head back the States, to Kentucky or New York or Utah, and our paths would meet again some day, in sha'allah.

Or so we said.

My head hit the pillow that night with a soft pft, but if I hadn't known better, I'd say it was the sound of my PC Niger book closing.