I realized mere seconds after writing the title to this blog that it could easily apply to hundreds of stories from our travels. The beauty of ignorance is that danger is only dangerous if you are aware of it. It’s like the Coyote in the old Roadrunner cartoons who only fell off of the cliff once he looked down and realized he was in trouble. The lesson learned? Never, ever look down.

This story involves me and my esteemed colleague, Harry Dog. If you have never had the pleasure of joining HD for an extended partying session, I highly recommend it. I am almost 100% positive he is the only one of our crew to ever crawl naked through his bushes at 3am and call it a successful birthday.

It all started after several beer fueled nights in Amsterdam when HD and I decided to hold a one day, “all smoke” excursion. We rose early, waved farewell to our compatriots who were off for a day of overindulgence at the Windmill brewery, and with an impressive list of coffee shops in hand set out on our adventure. Now, if I have to explain coffee shop to you, well, you need to check out a blog on wooden shoes, windmills and the Anne Frank House. That is Amsterdam – but it is not MY Amsterdam. Sure, I like coffee – a lot – and we visited roughly seven coffee shops that day, but I can assure you at no point did a single drop of java pass these lips. Somewhere Tommy Chong is smiling.

HD and I visited a wide range of places, sampling the house specialties and soaking up the local color. We started at Abraxas, who make a spectacular and very special Milkshake, and then hit a few more larger spots like the Grasshopper, and the main branch of the Bulldog. After a much deserved break, during which I’m pretty sure we stared at a lamp post for about an hour, we opted for a few smaller, more intimate (and sometimes downright cozy) spots like Soft Temple, Barakka, and Rock Planet.

As evening replaced afternoon we found ourselves huddled in the back of an old favorite – the Bulldog Energy. Let me attempt to describe the Bulldog Energy for those who have not had the experience. It is a small place in the basement of a modest row home and maybe holds 30 patrons. (30 for skinny super-model Dutch locals and only 20 or so if it’s full of us fat Americans). The décor is designed to make patrons feel as though they are sitting in a hollow tree – “Keebler Chic”, if you will. Lots of foliage, mushroom barstools, bark, vines, and the obligatory gnome in a bright red hat. To most folks it would be unsettling … luckily we were extremely high so it all seemed about right. Now, I could spin personal tales of the Bulldog Energy for days, up to and including a very scary night involving smart drinks, connect four, and a bad case of the “get-em-off-mes”. But this story is about Dutch Rap Music and the marketing power of a really good buzz.

As we sat in our little corner – rolling, lighting, toking, rinsing, and repeating – the most wonderful music filled the room. Big beats, cool samples, and wave after wave of rhymes in brash, streetwise Dutch. I surmised later (in that way that one does when the eyes get glassy and you inevitably ask “what if we’re just dust on a Giant’s fingernail) that if you don’t speak Dutch then the vocals in a Dutch rap song become just another instrument.
Deep, man, Deep.

We mused upon this further, listening to one track after another before finally deciding that we could not live another second without owning this CD. Steadying ourselves we approached the kind and generous bar keep – some high cheek-boned twenty-something who we will call Klaas for the purpose of this story – and asked for the name of the artist. He smiled, placed his giant “Up In Smoke” doobie in the ashtray, and scribbled these words onto a scrap of paper: Lange Frans & Baas B

HD and I, grinning as though we’d just been handed the Holy Grail – thanked the lad and rushed headlong into the street to acquire this new found musical treasure. We needed a CD shop, and we needed it fast. Amsterdam, for the uninitiated, is not a place where you “know where something is”. Sure, you can visit a locale – a bar, coffee house, shop, pub, hotel, etc. – many times, possibly many times in one day, but you will never know “where it is”. Perhaps it’s the luck of the ignorant, or some divine entity that takes pity on poor, inebriated fools, but you will, with enough wanderlust, eventually find whatever it is that you are looking for.

There we were, HD and I, red eyed, disheveled, and staggering blindly through the streets of Amsterdam clutching what very well may have been a Top 1.5 with some Dutch words scribbled on it. Here, things get fuzzy, but I do know two things: We both woke up the next day with copies of the Lange Frans & Baas B CD, and we both ended up back at the Bulldog Energy in what seemed like a matter of seconds. I can only imagine the sheer look of terror (or worse, familiarity) on the faces of the Free Record Shop staff as we poured ourselves up to the counter, blathered something unintelligible, and thrust that crumpled scrap in front of them. Somehow, as is always the way in Amsterdam, it all worked out.

Yes, we went back to the Bulldog Energy, and yes we continued our celebration of “just being there”. Another interesting fact about Amsterdam is that if you travel with a group, and you split up (intentionally or otherwise) you will inevitably end up at the same place by evenings end – at least in time for one more round. That was the case this night – as the rest of our crew stumbled in around 8pm and helped us finish the evening in style.

Later that week, we listened to the Lange Frans & Baas B on the van ride home from the airport once we were safely and sadly back in the states. No, it did not have the same awe-inspiring effect as it did that night, but I couldn’t help but remember … and smile. The tracks from that CD live on to this day … comfortably nestled in my iPod and always poised to provide a little random flashback. It always makes me smile and it always reminds me of how lucky I am to have the friends I have and to have a place like Amsterdam to share with them.

I’ll be at the Bulldog Energy again – sooner rather than later – and, with the proper herbal motivation I may just have a request for the DJ. Hell, I might even pronounce it correctly.

There are a great many examples of stunning religious architecture in Barcelona. El Templo de la Cerveza (The Temple of Beer) is not one of these examples.

However, it is a fine establishment to venture into when you have tired of Estrella and San Miguel.

They have a special deal on Tuesday nights. 1/2 price drinks all night, but first you have to drink a glass of Hoegaarden as big as the size of your head. Keef is always willing to drink one for the team.

Actually he will usually drink more than one for the team.

“All I can say is that’s all I can say” goes an old English saying…from some elder statesman I imagine.

It was a fine day in old Dublin town, we went for a stroll. Near St. James Gate, we were called by St. Urinus to baptize the entrance to the cathedral, so as good Irish lads, we had no choice but to comply with the calling.

A wee bit later, we were all nicely situated in Bray. The time in between the holy baptism and the sea coast seemed almost compressed. We speculated over our stouts…”imagine throwing a tennis ball into the air. The harder you throw the tennis ball, the faster it is travelling when it leaves your hand and the higher the ball will go before turning back. If you throw it hard enough it will never return, the gravitational attraction will not be able to pull it back down. The velocity the ball must have to escape is known as the escape velocity and for the earth is about 7 miles a second,” said Allan. We all agreed and laughed heartily at Allan’s light humor. “Another 14 stouts,” called Brett…

And with that, the weary travelers tipped back their drinks, and headed for the train. It was a LONG ride back for some of us. For others, it was merely the blink of an eye…

Westvleteren Beer Goggles

I don’t want to alarm anyone. However, photographic evidence has been received which suggests a potential Westvleteren epidemic.

As we discussed previously in Memories and the Struggle to Remember Them, there is growing evidence that over consumption of Westvleteren may trigger a fundamental metamorphosis.

If you see this guy at the Delirium Cafe, then please help him find his way back to the Ibis before the metamorphosis is complete. The Westvleteren brand of beer goggles can make visual navigation most difficult.

The year was 1996. By the time we got to Utrecht, the week long binge of Belgian beer drinking had kicked in. I was about to tell my friend about the purple bats, but he would see them soon enough himself.

Okay, it wasn’t quite a Hunter Thompson experience. After a long afternoon at the Belgique, we eventually wound our way to one of the Bulldog cafes in the red light district. Actually, Lance was just trying to get us to the red light district. Lance was our little leprechaun of a friend, and after a couple of beers, every time we talked about moving on to another bar, he would say, “Well, we could go have some more Belgian beer, OR we could go watch some bloke shaggin’ a bird”.

So we finally made it to the red light district, and truth be told, I believe we were in and out of two or three different Bulldog franchises, before we settled into one that was known as the Energy Coffeeshop.

Sure, we enjoyed the Connect Four. Who doesn’t?

But, we should have taken John’s advice and stayed away from the smart drinks. Still, naive as we were, we thought the smart drinks would indeed help us beat John at Connect Four. And then something snapped in ColoniAl’s world.

At first we thought he would snap right back out of it. But when he started talking more and more animated about the bad people that were out to get him, we began considering the idea of calling it a night (at 8pm), or at least getting ColoniAl back to the hotel.

But there was no sense in all five us heading back to the hotel. So somehow the taxi came and went, and I was left out on the town with Lance. And you know exactly how the subsequent conversation went, “Well, we could go have some more Belgian beer…”

And that was when I made my first visit to Het Elfde Gebod. The bar was practically empty when I walked in. I sat down at the bar and asked for an Orval.

The bartender checked, and he only had the warm bottle that was sitting out on display. So the owner said he would go upstairs to his apartment and bring down some more bottles.

The Orval tasted great. Almost as good as the 6 year old bottle we’d find at Duda’s in Fells Point a few years later … but you get the idea. And I had a few more.

The bar started to fill up. Everybody seemed to know everyone, and it had this real neighborhood bar kind of feel to it. People went out of the way to speak to me in English and try to include me in conversations.

By the time Lance showed back up again, we were all singing. Well, the only word that I could make out was “Amsterdam!” in the chorus. A cool place, and hopefully I’ll find my way back there this year.

As I understand it, Het Elfde Gebod translates as The Eleventh Commandment … so I think it’s safe to call this a religious pilgrammage.

A view from inside the bottle

This undated photo was clearly taken at the Delirium Cafe, as I can make out enough details from the background to recognize the decor.

What is unclear is exactly what was going on in this picture. And, as the photo was likely taken between the hours of 2AM and 4AM, any memories of the event are fuzzy at best.

The most popular theory is that Keef had drank so much Westvleteren that he was beginning a metamorphosis, the bottle caps had grown to cover his eyes and he was beginning to transform himself into a giant bottle of Westvleteren.

Only François really knows what happened, and well, we don’t want to ask him, as the theories are probably far more interesting and entertaining than the realities.