My plane arrived in Amsterdam at 12 midnight from Milano.   What better time to arrive in the city of debauchery! From the airport, I took a train to Central Station, which was filled with pickpocketing, zombie-like junkies.  It was a scary sight at that hour; there were so few travelers, and it looked like a scene from Night of the Living Dead.

I’d made a week-long reservation at a hostel, which made me a bit nervous; I wasn’t a stranger to cheap digs, but I’ve never stayed in a hostel before.  My friend Mike, who was living in Amsterdam arranged to meet me at 1 am outside my hostel.

The hostel, thankfully, was a block away from the train station, and as I walked up, Mike was waiting for me. I went in, paid the nightperson for a week, and told Mike I needed a drink. We walked a few blocks to a dive bar, where hardcore music was playing, and dogs were running around. I felt much better and ordered a beer. Mike and I began to catch up; we haven’t seen each other in about 6 months.

Mike is a proud squatter, and it’s a fact that I love to make fun of. In my teens/early 20’s, I was much more tolerant of people. But, living on Avenue C for 6 years, across the street from two squats, changed all that. During the summer, I would smell their squalor as I walked to and from my apartment. I was sick of the same kids asking me for change every day. I was sick of their dogs crapping in front of my apartment building.

Mike dressed like an American squatter; everything he wore was a different shade of gray, complete with pullover sweatshirt safety-pinned together. I liked to tell him that he was wearing the squatter uniform.

He brought me to his squat, a majestic building which used to be an old hotel. It was a beautiful building, with running water and even (gasp) electricity.  About 12 people lived in the squat, but they all had their own rooms and seemed to bathe regularly; only Mike’s washing habits were questionable. The squat had running water and electricity. He told me about the squat in Spain—before he reached Amsterdam—where the squatters had to go to the bathroom outside. I looked at him with disgust as we laughed. Mike and I were extremely close as teenagers; we definitely were bonded. After losing touch for a few years, we’ve generally drifted apart, but still had so much in common. He teases me often by calling me a yuppie. Hey, if being a yuppie means I need running water, then call me a fucking yuppie.

At about 3 am, I dragged myself to my hostel, and made my way to my assigned room.  There were about 5 bunk beds, and in the darkness, I could make out heads and limbs on the 10 beds. I finally found an empty bed on an upper bunk.  I couldn’t figure out where the bathroom was, so I climbed up, contacts still in my eyes, face unwashed.  People were snoring.  I kept my backpack with me and had a hard time getting to sleep.  At 5 am, the nightperson I had seen earlier came in, turned the lights on and ordered us to all show him our receipts for payment that evening.  We looked at him like he was insane.   I groggily woke up and found my receipt.  I glanced around at the people in my room.  Most of them seemed to be in their early 20’s.  I tried to go back to sleep, but at this point, two chatty girls started talking, with no regard to the rest of us who were trying to sleep.  They sounded like valley girls, and I wanted to stab them in their eyes.  At 7 am, as I tried to sleep through the sounds of people snoring and people showering, the guy came back in and told me to go to the front desk asap.

I decided to get up.   Most of the people in the room were awake, and I was a light sleeper. I waited my turn to shower, and when I was finally able to use the bathroom, the floor was covered in water; every surface seemed to be covered with wetness.  The toilet paper was cardboard-like brown paper that almost cut my skin. All I could think about were the germs in here, and how most of these people probably weren’t very clean. Serves me right to try and stay in a hostel in my 30’s.  I went downstairs, and they told me that the night-man accidentally charged me 7 dollars less than he should have.  I looked at the woman, not believing that they woke me up because of this.  I asked her for a refund, since I paid for a week, but she pointed to sign that said no refunds.  I’ll never book a hostel via the Internet in a coffee shop in Como again.

I kept the room just in case I couldn’t find something better.  I was low on cash and didn’t think I could afford a hotel.  I dreaded staying here another night.  I was carrying my backpack.  There were lockers in the room, but I didn’t have a padlock, and I didn’t trust anyone in this godforsaken city.  I sat down to my free breakfast, and a woman brought me a plate with two pieces of white bread, a piece each of what looked like welfare cheese and baloney.  I looked up at her, and she smiled and said, Enjoy.

There was a café on the bottom floor of the hostel, and at the tables outside, young boys were lighting up bongs.  God, how things change when you get older.  I waited for Mike since I didn’t know my way around, and when he finally came around, I said, "Let’s get the hell out of here."

There were many little alleys, all filled with coffee shops, where you could buy hash and weed.  They all catered to American 21-year olds.  Mike said I could stay at his squat for the rest of my trip, and I thanked him. The squat actually seemed cleaner than the hostel. We dumped my bags off, and went sightseeing.  Amsterdam was a beautiful city, when you get away from the main drag near the train station.

The World Cup was still going on, and thankfully there were English bars where we could go and watch the soccer games.  I was obsessed with my Italian team, especially my Francesco Totti.  I squealed as my greasy, long-haired boys scored a goal.  I felt Italian by now; my mindset was that I couldn’t possibly return to America.  Ever.

Amsterdam had a great underlying punk feeling; we spent the days shopping at great outdoor markets. It was so strange seeing the prostitutes in the windows. I’d forget they were there, but my eyes would automatically look at windows because a light was on; and the women seemed so casual, sitting in chairs in lingerie. Men boldly went in and out of their doors. Besides the red-light district, which was incredibly sleazy, more for the shady characters who lurked around there then the prostitutes themselves, there were random windows throughout the city with red lights glowing in the darkness.

We found the most amazing garage-rock bar down a small alley, and we went there night after night. I couldn’t remember the last time I was that drunk, but who cared? I was in Amsterdam!

I was a non-smoker for four years, but when I was offered a hash cigarette—hash mixed with tobacco—I smoked it.  I thought I was strong enough to handle it; but 15 minutes after I smoked, I was already craving tobacco.  I began smoking again right then and there.  I thought I was going to be sick, but I kept on puffing away.  It was exciting to be in a foreign city, smoking cigarettes, and arguing politics with anarchists.  This was as different of a lifestyle as I can remember, and I embraced all of my adventures.  After two days of smoking, I stopped, realizing that my few cigarettes a day have already escalated to half a pack a day.  Soon I’d become the 2-pack a day smoker I was years ago.

I stocked up on chocolate croissants and pizza.  The food was so bad in Amsterdam—especially after the amazing meals in Italy.   Even the cardboard pizza at local pubs was better than trying to figure out what the mystery meats were.

I was getting the Squatter Tour of Amsterdam. The nights got dark around 10 p.m. and for Summer Solstice, we all rode bicycles down to a party on a squatted ship. The ship docked in different ports and basically threw parties around the world.  I rode on the back of Mike’s bike and we rode through industrial areas, and around apartment buildings until we reached the ship with the Skull and Crossbones flag.

We partied as the sun set, and I found myself surrounded by amazing people in Amsterdam, as I have my week here.

I was having a great time, but I began missing Italy. I was ready to be lazy and eat well again. Mike decided he was going to stay in Amsterdam indefinitely, and we made a loose promise to try and go to Spain. On one condition, I told him. No more squatting!