"Should I Move to Amsterdam?"

Article series, via Slate:

Lately, for lots of reasons, I've been thinking I might leave the country.

I daydream about moving to Canada. Or maybe New Zealand. In my most crazed and misanthropic moments, I envision myself on some sort of self-contained barge, drifting aimlessly through international waters.

In the end, though, most of my fantasies settle on Amsterdam. It's a modern, First World metropolis, and as such it's a realistic destination for me. It's not too close, but it's not on the far side of the world. It's not too cold but also not tropically hot.

In my limited visits to Amsterdam, I've always felt at home. The progressive social policy, the slicing-edge architecture, the relaxed yet refined mood ... it all speaks to me. It says: Move here...

1: The Bicycle Culture

"There's something about riding a bike that makes you feel like you're 5 years old," my American friend Carey, who lives and works here in Amsterdam, said to me. Indeed, these proper Dutch couples outside the theater seemed to morph, before my eyes, into bouncy little children. I half-expected the ladies to shriek, "Wheeeeee!" as their bikes picked up speed and rounded a corner out of sight.

The next day, totally inspired, I rented a bike from the shop by my hotel. (Of course, a helmet was unnecessary or at least unfashionable—no one wears them here. Nor do they wear Spandex shorts; or wristbands; or water-dispensing backpacks. They just hop on the bike and go, like normal people. You'll often see a mother with two kids perched on the bike holding groceries in one hand and a cell phone in the other.)

Since Amsterdam worships bicycles, there are separate bike paths on nearly every street. There are even bike-specific traffic lights to prevent you from careening into traffic. I still assumed that I had about a 70 percent chance of causing some sort of horrific accident (tram car, canal, Belgian tourist) but decided not to worry about it.

Within moments, I was zooming around the city, elbow-to-elbow in a pack of Dutch cyclists, feeling—yes, a bit like a 5-year-old. It was fantastic. I hadn't ridden a bike in a while, and I'd forgotten the tiny thrill of coasting along with the wind in my face ... standing on the pedals and leaning over the handlebars ... weaving back and forth down an empty street.

Ignoring the wonders this does for your fitness (everyone's thin here, with shapely calves) as well as for air pollution, perhaps the best thing about biking is the utter silence of it. At night, rolling along the elegant western canals, the only sound I'd hear was my own wheels rumbling on cobblestone streets (or the polite ding of another cyclist's bell; or the watery echoes of a boat passing beneath a bridge)...

3: The Quest for Gezellig

The overriding vibe in Amsterdam is coziness. It's like a municipal mission here. Every cafe has a cute little cat in the corner licking its paws. Every canal house blooms with a window box of tulips. Every hooker has doilies on her bedside table. (I'm guessing about this last thing, but it feels right.)

There's a Dutch word for their tyranny of cuteness. The word is gezellig, and it's difficult to translate. You just know it when you see it. For instance: Friends enjoying a picnic on a canal bank, laughing fondly, sharing a bottle of red wine ... this is clearly gezellig. A slob wolfing down fast food as he sprints to a meeting ... not so gezellig.

The larger point is this: They live much better here. They carve out cozy, delightful moments anywhere they can find them. They bring their families on candlelit, nighttime boat rides through the canals. They chat with their friends at outdoor cafes as the sun sets. They leave work by 6 every evening. And these are not special, once-in-a-blue-moon treats. This is how they live, all the time. Even in my short stay here, I've found myself drifting into various gezellig moments (involving, for instance, good food, thoughtful friends, copious pints of Heineken, and a rainy afternoon inside a bar that played only Al Green records).

I realize I'm in grave danger of sounding like a Euro-snob. So, let me be clear: I don't think they're any smarter or cooler than us (though they're certainly taller and slimmer). And yes, of course, we're capable of living beautifully in the States. But the gezellig lifestyle is a national priority with the Dutchies. I'm not even sure what our shared priorities are in America. Getting rich? Appearing on television? It's fair to say that coziness is not high on the list...

5: Kind Bud

Some people visit Amsterdam and neglect to smoke any weed. Frankly, I can't comprehend this.

...Following this impeccable logic, I wandered into an Amsterdam coffeeshop ("coffeehouses" sell coffee, while "coffeeshops" sell cannabis) along the posh Prinsengracht canal—far from the annoying hippie/frat-guy stoner scene near the city center. This particular coffeeshop was called La Tertulia, and it's the cutest little marijuana mart you'll ever see. It has a garden and a goldfish pond. Outside, there's a mural of Vincent van Gogh, and some canalside tables and chairs so you can smoke up al fresco. At the counter, a nice older lady (I'm pretty certain she's the owner) will sell you a zip-locked baggie of pot for 12 euros.

...How does pot's semi-legal status play out in the Netherlands? In terms of overall drug-use rates, some claim it's been a great success (though, as always, there are arguments on both sides). But in terms of everyday life in Amsterdam, I can see how the Dutch might get fed up. Each weekend, hundreds of British teenage boys storm the city, get totally blazed, and stumble around in a zombie stupor. It's like a plague of retarded locusts.

The American kids are less staggering in number but equally irritating in behavior. I watched one frat guy play "I Will Survive" on his acoustic guitar, sitting cross-legged on the grass at Museumplein, as a buddy nodded his head in time and then launched into a feeble somersault. They both had souvenir poster-tubes from the Van Gogh Museum's gift shop. I watched them with a burning revulsion. Later, I saw a different kid sitting alone on a sidewalk at night, his eyes as red as maraschino cherries. He was totally incapable of speech. Or thought. Or standing up. And again, I hated him fiercely. Pull it together, you toasted-out spaz!

Of course, the Dutch deal with doofuses like this every day, yet manage to maintain a tolerant (if unimpressed) attitude. It's the price you pay for enacting a vaguely rational drug policy.

Me, I'm no blazed-out teen. But I did thoroughly enjoy the opportunity to hit La Tertulia, spark up a jaybird, put on my headphones, and then listen to Nina Simone as I walked the canals on a sunny afternoon. I assure you: My eyes were not red, my gait was not wobbly, and the Dutchies were none the wiser.

Am I a doofus? Oh, yes. But a doofus in moderation.

6: World-Class Skinflints

The Dutch are widely thought to be the cheapest people on earth. Wherever there's a guilder-(now euro-)shaving angle, there's a Dutchie. For example: Why are canal houses so narrow here? Because they were built at a time when property taxes were based on width.

...You probably think that "going Dutch" means splitting the check 50-50. But in fact it's much less casual than that. According to my friend Carey, who has witnessed this ritual many times, the Dutch will split each check right down to the dish. Thus six people eating a meal together will carefully examine the bill, determine who ordered what, and then pay precisely their share. (And it goes without saying that you don't have to tip your waiter.)

I get the feeling that I'm being squeezed at every turn. Just look at the bathroom in my hotel room: I'm certain that its cubic capacity is the absolute minimum necessary to fit a toilet, sink, and shower. My God, but these people are masters of niggling. Have a heart, you cheap bastards!

I think the Dutch are secretly happy to dominate the soft-drugs tourism market (all the annoyances aside). It's a highly profitable niche, and they can't resist it. Same thing with prostitution, which is a massive tourist draw.

7: Hookers

Speaking of which, I suppose I should address the hooker issue.

I can give you no first-hand accounts. My girlfriend would not be coolio with that. Frankly, I would not be coolio with that, either, girlfriend or no. Paying for sex seems rather icky.

With your interests in mind, though, reader, I tried to enlist a few single guy friends as surrogate reporters. I was hoping one of these dudes might be willing to indulge in some red-light shenanigans. But I found no takers. What a bunch of nerds my friends are.

So, here's what I can say: Even if you never close the deal, it still puts a bit of a zing in your step when a stocky, pockmarked whore waves you over to her window, flashes a dun-toothed smile, and gives you her best bedroom eyes.

Maybe next time, you squat, sexy minx!

8: Living the Dream

...This leads us to a broader discussion of the Moroccan ghettoes growing on the far side of Amsterdam and about the reactionary xenophobia that's been brewing all over the Netherlands. The country has been inflamed in the past few years by the anti-immigration bluster of politician Pim Fortuyn (who was eventually assassinated); by the death of filmmaker Theo van Gogh (who was stabbed and shot in the streets of Amsterdam by a radical Muslim); and by the more recent assault on a gay American couple (who were beaten by a group of Moroccan men).

It's all quite depressing to think about. I'd built up Amsterdam in my mind as a progressive-thinking paradise—a perfect escape pod when I decide I can't hack it in the United States any longer. But it turns out the legendary Dutch tolerance (for soft drugs, prostitution, homosexuality, euthanasia) does not extend to immigration. Perhaps Moroccans are not gezellig?) The bottom line is: This country has its problems, too...

9: Satori

It's my last day in Amsterdam. I've got no one to hang out with. I've seen all the good museums, I've biked through all the interesting neighborhoods. What's left?

Ah yes, one last thing to do: eat psychedelic mushrooms.

...It's time for me to dance with the fungus.

Luckily, the "smart shops" here are incredibly professional. They tell you precisely the dosage to take (it's pre-packaged), help you determine which shrooms are best suited for your purposes (I took a pass on the daunting "Philosopher's Stones" and went for the wussiest option: "Thai"), and even explain how to come down if you're freaking out (you fill your stomach with food and sugary drinks, which mutes the effect).

So, now I've bought some shrooms, scurried them back to my hotel room, and gobbled them up. And now the waiting game begins. I walk around Amsterdam aimlessly, doing some window shopping, trying to kill time until the trip kicks in.

I'm in an H&M, on the edge of the socks and accessories aisle, when the drugs begin to take hold. My body starts to yell at me: "Something is happening! What is happening?! Yeeeee!!" Racks of cotton dresses shimmer together in a wavy mass. Sounds that were soft are suddenly loud, while sounds that were loud are now fading away.

I manage to stumble outside to an empty park bench. The trees here are waving wooden fingers at me, and birds are somehow flying without flapping their wings. It feels like I'm in a scene from Koyaanisqatsi. And my stomach seems poised to eject from my torso at any moment. I am clinging to broken shards of reality.

Then, after a few terrifying minutes like this, it all smoothes out. My stomach settles. My eyes refocus. I decide that I am not in fact dying ... and that the basic laws of physics still pertain. I gather myself, and I stand up straight.

It feels like there is a magical accordion in my skull and that it's pumping a thick, steady breeze of colors through my brain.

The rain has picked up and that low, weighty Netherlands sky looks sort of evil, so I duck into a nearby cinema. I complete the ticket transaction with a surprising degree of competence. Now I find myself watching What the #$*! Do We Know? in a theater with a few dozen people. The British women to my left whisper during the coming attractions, gossiping about their love lives. Their voices sound like they're living inside my cortex. Then the film starts up, and it turns out to be just the ticket: an exploration of quantum physics and the meaning of life, written by members of a bizarre, guru-centered cult. Perrrrrfect.

The accordion in my skull eventually slows. The experience is becoming less physical and more cerebral. My thoughts race and blend. Concepts and forms crystallize, then melt, then merge.

I start contemplating my visit to Amsterdam: how wonderful travel is—the way it jolts you from patterns and ruts and lets you examine your everyday life from the outside. I think about the people I've met here, conjuring their faces in my mind. I remember the thoughts and stories that spilled out in our conversations. Each person and thought and story forges a teensy new dot in my brain ... a dot that hadn't been there before ... and these dots join a web of connections in my head ... and the people and places and thoughts and stories swirl together in an overarching conceptual understanding of the universe and my place in it ...

I know it's silly. I know I've totally lost you here. And I don't mind you laughing at me—I realize that this seems not nearly so profound as it did when I was in that satori moment.

One thing about interesting drugs (not boring drugs like cocaine or Vicodin) is that they can help you appreciate simple truths. Things you've been taking for granted. I mean, you look down at your hand, and the drugs say, "Wow, far out, there are bones inside my hand!" but then the sober, together voice in your head says, "Well, of course there are bones inside your hand, you doofus—you have a skeletal system to provide structure for your body," and then the drugs say, "No, dude—there are bones inside my hand! That is trippy!"

And the thing is, both of you are right.

When the film ends, I sit in the cinema lobby for a while (it's a plush, upscale place—not some popcorn-shrapneled megaplex), and I let myself come down. I sip on a fountain Vanilla Coke. I watch people come and go. A few Dutchies have set up a sort of picnic at a table in the corner. They are surrounded by their empty bottles of Heineken. Their children are playing a game of tag, shrieking and circling the bench I'm sitting on. People board the escalator, and I follow them with my eyes as they ascend. Everyone I see, I love. You, guy in the glasses with a backpack: You're A-OK! Hey, you, mom with the stroller: Rock on! I feel deep empathy for all humankind. This is a feeling I wish to hold onto forever yet also wish to be rid of as soon as possible.

I suck at my straw and the last drops of Vanilla Coke burble up to my tongue. So, this is the end. My travels are over. Tomorrow I'll get on a plane and be back at home, back at work, back in the swing, back on track.

But I've realized it's just a state of mind. Going to an art museum shifts my perspective. Meeting new people shifts my perspective. Taking mushrooms shifts my perspective. Being here in Amsterdam shifts my perspective. But I needn't actually move to Amsterdam (or, thank God, be on mushrooms) to find the life I'm seeking. It's all waiting for us, up there in our noggins. We choose to become who we are, and together we all create the world we live in. And now my rational, together voice is saying, "Duh! You're a mushroom-eating moron." But my Amsterdam voice is saying, "That is trippy!"