Banff and Calgary - Day 1

Wednesday, November 26, 2008. Landing in Calgary at 9pm after a 3 hour flight with some very friendly Air Canada crew, I feel lucky that I booked this trip. I had booked this trip less than two days ago, after my week long trip to Hawaii was cancelled with less than two days notice. My friends, who I was supposed to go with, were asked to stay for work as their team was falling behind as an important deadline was fast approaching. I reflected on how unlucky I had been at trying to take long vacations. Last time, I had to cancel my vacation after being hit by a car while cycling, and this time my friends had to put in some extra time at work.

Anyway, the important thing is that I am here now. Although I arrived alone, it was better than spending a four day long weekend back in San Francisco without doing anything really exciting. Being perpetually affected by the travel bug, I was very happy to finally be out of town again.

After picking up my bags and going through customs, I took a cab from the airport to the Greyhound station as I had only two hours to purchase a ticket and get on the bus. On my cab ride, I chatted with my driver, who was from Punjab. We talked about my visit to India, life in Calgary, and the recent situation in Mumbai. Along the way, he pointed out to me certain sights of the city, including a cheap hotel where all the heroin addicts stayed at. I had thought the cab ride would only cost about $25, so I was horrified as I watched the metre tick ever higher as we approached the brightly lit downtown core and drove past it. Arriving at the Greyhound station, I begrudgingly paid the nearly $50 in cab fares and bid my driver good-bye.

I still had about an hour to burn after purchasing my ticket, so after asking the ticket counter for directions, I went out for a walk to find something to eat. I was very content feeling the familiar nip of winter around my ears and face. I really do miss the cold and the snow while living in San Francisco.

After a failed attempt at finding food, I started crossing the street on a pedestrian overpass. There was a view of the downtown core there, so I decided to take my ceremonial first photo of the trip there. Bracing the camera against the railings, I snapped away. As I was busy taking the photos, I noticed a bulky young man, perhaps just slightly older than I am, approaching. I asked him where the nearest convenience store is, and he told me he was looking for the same thing. He was very upbeat and invited me to join him, so I did. After a bit of walking, we started crossing some train tracks in a rather empty and abandoned business area. At this point, he turns to me and says "Not to scare you or anything, but I just got out of jail." I was extremely amused by this and smiled. I thought about how I would be freaking out in this situation if I had encountered it two years earlier, before my travel adventures. In this case however, I felt quite comfortable around him as he seemed to be a nice guy. It turns out that he was arrested for taking a drunk fight a bit too far. As we were walking around, we talked to a few other people who seemed familiar with jail life. Arriving at a convenience store, he grabbed a cigarette and a Coke to enjoy after being deprived of them for months.

We eventually found a Mr. Sub where we grabbed some food, and ate back at the bus station. We talked about what life was like in jail and the vast differences between the jails in the area. I learned that the worst thing you call someone, at least in jails in Alberta, is a "goof." I also learned that if you should never show that you are afraid of someone or do anything to provoke the guards as that will be set you up for a good beating later on. He told me of all the wasted talent in jail, but I was happy to hear that there are programs to help prisoners learn valuable skills and get an education while incarcerated. Pulling out items from a large paper bag, he showed me some of his souvenirs from jail, drawings of his fellow prisoners, his bead work that he learned in prison, and told me stories of other creations from his buddies. He told me that jail had been good for him. He quit smoking pot, stopped drinking, learned to be patient with life, and found God. He even game me a few book suggestions that I will follow up on when I get a chance to.

When the time came, I boarded the bus bound for Vancouver which will drop me off in Banff. There was a crazy mute that repeatedly made decapitation gestures to the bus driver in the station. He seemed to be telling people either that he saw a decapitation or saw someone related to it. This put everyone on edge as it was clear he was referring to the recent decapitation incident on the Greyhound bus in Manitoba. After a quick security check, with one person from the American military being turned away for being drunk, the bus started up and rumbled out of the terminal.

As we pulled onto Highway 1 westbound, the bus driver announced the estimated arrival times and break length of the various stops throughout the night. This reminded me of my trip on overnight buses in Europe, and a rather romantic wanderlust feeling came over me as I thought of the people who are taking the bus all the way to Vancouver. As we pulled away from Calgary, I can see a tight vertical cluster of brightly lit buildings in an otherwise flat sea of light behind us as we ascended a hill, passing by the Clagary Olympic facilities. Eventually, I started seeing dark shadows of tall hills against the starry night as we neared Banff.

I got in at about an hour past midnight. Taking a cab to the hostel, I checked in, found my bed in the dark, set up the pillow covers and sheets, and went to bed at around 2 after a failed attempt to socialize with a group of people drinking in the lounge. Someone in my room was quite sick, and he kept me up until after 5 with his coughing, so I wasn't looking forward to waking up tomorrow and having a full day of adventure. I decided to take it easy the next day.

Madrid - Mediterranean Backpacking Trip - Day 1 (Part 5)

After a final walk through the park, it was about time to head over to my Couchsurfing host's apartment. The bright midday light was now becoming weaker and warmer, adding a yellow-orange glow to everything. There also seems to be less people around now. After picking up my pack from Atocha Renfe, I taking the metro to Príncipe Pío station and emerge onto a busy, but not very central, square in the middle of a roundabout. Using a crude map I drew of the area, I set off finding their apartment. I walk along a street lined with shops and restaurants. All the restaurants were busy setting up chairs and tables along the sidewalks. At this point, everything was covered with a warm orange glow from the setting sun. Walking over a neat little dam and pedestrian bridge construction over a mostly dried river, a series of apartment buildings loomed ahead. I went to the wrong building at first, but was directed to the correct one with much pointing, motioning, and repeated counting to communicate numbers to me.

Finally, I arrive at their building. It was a 17 story rectangular building covered in red bricks at the end of a small, rather empty road. There was bus station in front of it, and trees lined the chaotic street. There was a small plaza with a small supermarket beside the building. Walking up to the iron gates of the building and checking to make sure I was at the right address, I type in my host's apartment number and wait. I had arrived at 8pm, one hour later than planned.

I was very glad to hear the voice over the intercom recognize my name, and was buzzed in immediately. The inside of the building had a small lobby, with a large photo of an areal view of Madrid. The corridors were dark and lined with dark polished wood. Going up a cramped elevator, I emerge in a similarly dark and wooden hallway. There were a few over-sized, heavy-looking wooden doors blending into the walls lined with the same wood panelling. In the middle of each door, at just below the level of your waist, was a large, bronze knob that you can grab onto, but could not be turned.

Knocking on the door, I was let in by Adolfo, my Couchsurfing host. He was Spanish, had short hair, glasses, and had a friendly but direct mannerism. He lived with a French Canadian and another Spanish girl who where all quit friendly and seemed to be very social. They were all students. They had a small narrow room that they dedicated to Couchsurfing guests. There was a small bed in it that seemed to take up more than half the room. From the single window at the end of the room, you can look toward central Madrid up a hill. There was a calendar at the opposite wall, filled up with people's names on the different days. "Mark and Felix" was marked across June 4 to June 7. After dropping off my stuff and meeting everyone else in the apartment, I was informed that they had their weekly Monday get-together with their friends tonight, and I was invited.

Shortly, at around 9pm, we headed out. During the walk, I was told that we are going to Casa Mingo, a somewhat historic joint that specializes in hard cider and roast chicken. Casa Mingo is located a large informal stone building, with vaulted ceilings and large wooden tables adorning it's loud and hectic interior. There were many young people here, many of them students. Right away, we ordered some roast chicken to start off the night. For the rest of the time there, we would order a plate of chicken whenever we ran out, as we all shared from one common plate and ate with a shared fork. As good as the chicken was, the highlight of the trip to Casa Mingo was most definitely the cider. Casa Mingo had been famous for some time for the cider that they brew, and although I am not a cider connoisseur, I can tell you that the cider I had that night was the most delicious cider I have ever had.

The cider was very fresh tasting and refreshing. It was vibrant and a joy to drink. As with the chicken, we also drank out of the a communal glass, poured from the same one litre bottle of cider. It seems that that Spanish have cider drinking down to an art. To get the best flavour, you must pour a small amount of cider from as high up as possible, making sure the stream hits the inner wall of the tilted glass, and then drink it immediately, a process called throwing the cider. I watched as people held the tilted glass in one hand as low as possible, and stretched with all of their might, balancing the bottle of cider precariously high above their heads, aimed, and poured. I even got a few practise pours in during the night. We watched some of the other patrons do it with a more difficult technique, holding the cider bottle behind their heads, and pouring the cider from behind their backs. I was told that you can tell that someone is from the Basque (or was it the Asturias?) region if they pour their cider that way.

The mouthful of cider poured in this way was opaque and churning with tiny bubbles, as opposed to the transparent, serene-looking cider in the bottle. You drink the cider as soon as it is poured. As tradition dictates, one leaves a small amount of cider in the glass after drinking from it, which is then poured onto the stone floor of the pub from the side of the glass you drank the cider, to rinse the shared glass. As a demonstration, I was given cider poured into the glass from a small height, and then cider poured from a great height to taste the difference. The difference in taste was surprising! There was nothing subtle about it! The "un-thrown" cider tasted good - like how good, refreshing apple cider should taste. However, when thrown, the cider came alive! All the off flavours were gone and all the good flavours were magnified many times over. It became crisp and clean. It was a world of difference. Instead of tasting like apple juice, it tasted just like biting in to a fresh apple just plucked from a tree. I made a mental note to always throw cider before drinking it from now on.

Only two of their friends dropped by briefly that night. Supposedly their weekly get-togethers would vary in size unpredictably every week. As the night went on, the area of wet stone under our feet grew larger and larger with every drop of cider spilt from a pour. Soon, it was time to return, and after a quick shower, I went to bed. Taking one last look at the scene outside my window, I was glad the time for sleep had come, after only getting about half an hour of sleep in two days. As I fall asleep, I think about what I've experienced so far, how much more there is to come, as well as looking forward to meeting up with Felix tomorrow.

Madrid - El Retiro - Mediterranean Backpacking Trip - Day 1 (Part 4)

I explore the area a little bit more after lunch, walking around the park. I walk through a pedestrian road lined with stalls selling low-priced used books. I buy a postcard. I plan on sending a postcard to my parents from every city I go to, just as I did during my trip in the winter. This way, my parents will be able to track my progress through Europe and I can share a little bit of that excitement and spirit of exploration with my parents.

Returning to the park, I find a bench in a nice, quite shady area. I settle in and read The Da Vinci Code. It was the only paperback book I found at home that could bring with me on my trip. It is always a good idea to carry a light book with you for those times when you have nothing better to do. I only started the book earlier today, but have already blasted through almost half of the novel. I spent the day reading and strolling through the park, taking photos once in a while. I even had others take a photo of me to commemorate the first day of my trip. Settling down to read again, I look forward to spending the next half hour or so reading quietly, enjoying more of the serene scenery around me, listening to the birds, and finding out how Robert Langdon and Sophie Neveu were going to get out of their current dilemma.

After a while, an old man saunters over and stops near me, looking as if he needed a place to sit. Moving my bags from the other side of the bench, I smiled at him to offer him a seat. Smiling back, he plops down on the bench right next to me. "Wow." I think, "I guess people in Spain are just like people in Asia where they don't need a large personal space." I continue reading for another minute or so until I finish the chapter.

Seeing that this is a good opportunity to meet a local, I glance over and ask "Do you speak English?" No. "Parlez-vous Français?" "Un peu." After some wrangling, I find that he doesn't seem to speak enough French to carry a conversation so I decide to go back to reading. "Chaud?" I look over. I see him grinning at me and making a "take off your shirt" motion while nodding. OK, that was weird. I shake my head. Now I'm a little freaked out. But looking around, I notice that many people have their shirts off. I also remember seeing many people with their shirts off in the streets while I was walking around. Maybe it's common for people to have their shirts off, and the old man didn't know how to say anything else in French. OK, I'm just going to pretend I misheard and go back to reading. Suddenly, a hand on my leg. Hmm.... this seems a lot like that scene on the train in Eurotrip. Maybe he's just being affectionate. After all, it's really only in North America that people are so afraid of contact. OK, I'll let it slide just this once. A minute later, he starts rubbing my shoulder and feeling my biceps... while stopping whenever someone walks by. OK, now I'm not sure this is normal even for Europeans anymore! I think of an excuse to leave... after all, isn't it rude to leave without saying anything when someone's befriending you? Suddenly, someone walks by, stoops in front of the old man and talks to him like a friend. A second later, they seem to be in some kind of disagreement, and the old man is handing the other person a five Euro bill. Right then, I receive a phone message from my parents. I Pick up my phone, pretend to take an important call, and walk away.

What an wonderful first day in Europe. I was targeted by a team of pickpockets, hit on by an old man on a park bench, and was the star of a show about the dangers of the sun that my audience interpreted as me brushing my teeth.

Madrid - El Retiro - Mediterranean Backpacking Trip - Day 1 (Part 3)

Walking through bustling corridors filled with shops and people hurrying in the morning rush hour, I find an information booth to ask for directions. After some more walking, and guessing at which corridors I was supposed to walk down, I emerge into an enormous atrium with a garden containing full sized palm trees, and restaurants and stalls lining the sides. Following the signs from here, I find the luggage storage room, hidden behind all the action, in an unsightly corner of the station. After going through a brief security check, I find the smallest, and cheapest, locker I can fit my gear in, prepare a small day pack, and deposit some coins. Finally, I was free of my debilitating pack.

Freedom. That was all I felt at that moment. No school, no work, no pack, no responsibilities. Walking back through the lobby, I stop to marvel at the palm garden. There were a variety of tropical plants there, and a system of pipes and nozzles to spray the plants with warm mist from time to time. This was my first vision of Spain, my first vision of what was to come for the next two and a half months. To mark this moment, I take a photo of the palm garden. The first of thousands of photos that I would take at hundreds of different places this summer.

I decide to take it easy today. After a long flight across many time zones with nearly no sleep, I though it would be a good idea to have a relaxing day in the sun to recover from my trip and to readjust my circadian rhythm. I had the perfect place to go. Parque del Buen Retiro, Madrid's most famous park. Covering 350 acres, it would provide a full day's worth of relaxation and casual exploration.

Walking out of the station, I take a brief tour of the neighbourhood. A cozy melange of bustling cafés and small, quiet back streets lined with worn-in, distinctly Spanish buildings full of character. The bright sun woke me up and made me feel alive and energetic even after a sleepless night. Passing by small lucotorios, offering Internet and phone service, I make a mental note of their prices, as I know I will be relying on e-mail and Internet to coordinate, research, and organize my trip as I go. Ambling toward El Retiro, I enjoy the stately architecture along the way. Before long, I was walking through the lush greenery of the park among tall, twisted trees, fountains, lakes, and statues. There was a very well laid-out rose garden, the famous Monument to Alfonso XII, and the beautiful Palacio de Cristal. I enjoyed finding small, out of the way paths winding through the dense forest, through beautiful gardens filled with a variety of different flowers and plants. I sat by a lake to watch ducks, fish, and turtles race to reach breadcrumbs thrown in by locals.

Around lunch time, I walked out of the park to grab something simple to eat. Throughout the trip, I would do most of my eating at simple local shops or buy ingredients from markets and supermarkets. On the way back to the park, I decide to get some sunscreen since I didn't bring any liquids or gels due to the new restrictions on carry-on luggage.

After exploring some shops, I realize that sunscreen was sold only in pharmacies, all of which are marked by disproportionally large, green neon signs flashing a dizzying array of complicated patterns. Walking into a pharmacy, or rather, buzzing into a pharmacy since all pharmacy doors are locked, I patiently waited for the person ahead of me to complete her purchase. The pharmacist smiled at me. I start "... uh... do you speak English?" A blank stare. Unfortunately for me, I discovered only later that surprisingly few people in Spain can actually understand any English, but a good portion of the population understands French. Not having thought this through and not having a backup plan, I quickly scan the shelves that I can see for sunscreen. Nothing. "Umm.... sun?" I point to the sky. "Creme. Lotion!" I smile and rub my left arm with my right hand. A puzzled look followed by some words spoken in Spanish that sounded like a question Now being caught completely off guard, I repeat my gestures, this time with more vigour. Now I'm also rubbing my face and play-acting an entire scene in which I look at the sun, appear threatened by it, and am rubbing sunscreen all over, interspersed some some related words such as "sun" or "sunburn." Suddenly, the pharmacist looks like she understands, walks into the back room and comes out with a small tube. It was toothpaste. At first, I started making the motion of rejecting the toothpaste, but realizing that I was already embarrassed enough and not wanting to continue my silent play about me cowering from the sun, I smile and pretend it's what I want. I pay one Euro, butcher the pronunciation of "gracias" and walk out. As I walk out, the pharmacist was beaming about the fact that she was able to figure out what I came in to buy.

I was eventually able to find a tube of sunscreen at another pharmacy, but it was very expensive, so I thought I would wait until Morocco to buy a tube, hoping that it would be cheaper there. It turns out sunscreen can be ordered by saying "solar" in a Spanish pharmacy. I feel stupid not trying that earlier.

Madrid - Mediterranean Backpacking Trip - Day 1 (Part 2)

The main lobby of the airport was run down, dark, with a rather drab brownish colour scheme. With the heat, humidity, and the disarray caused by some maintenance work, the place rather reminded me of the Varadero Airport in Cuba. From the information booth, I followed the signs pointing me in the direction of the metro station. Leading me through various corridors, turns, and different lobby areas that become emptier and more desolate with every doorway I pass through, I start wondering if I was going the right way. Eventually, I give up, and backtracking a little bit, I head out the doors into the open. I had been looking forward to this moment as I had caught glances of the surrounding countryside through the windows ever since I was standing in line at customs.

It was hot. And humid. The climate is very different from home. Seeing the bright blue sky and the bustling cars and buses that look older and more run-down compared to what I see at home, I feel like I'm in a foreign land. There was barely any English in sight. I suddenly felt and intense feeling of freedom. There was no more school to worry about for I had graduated, and my job wasn't starting for another three months. I had absolutely no responsibilities or expectations and had come away victorious, with a double major from a top-tier university with various honours. Above all, I was in a strange land with so many many things to explore. For the next few months, I can live my life anyway I want to. It was the most freedom I had ever felt, unlike anything I had felt before. I was completely liberated.

I was completely liberated except for one thing. My pack. I hate carrying my pack on hot and humid days. Even with moderate activity, you can't help but sweat a bit on a hot and humid day. Even the slightest amount of moisture would pool behind a large, heavy backpack after an hour or so, putting a oval of dark, sticky, clingy, uncomfortable mess on the back of your shirt. I had to get rid of my pack, the sooner the better.

After a short period of exploring, I finally find the metro station at the airport. I was lucky. Having arrived very early in the morning, the metro system wasn't overly crowded yet, making for a comfortable ride. Having a large backpack on with a Canadian flag on it, however, made me stand out on a subway in Madrid, a fact which I was painfully aware of. I was especially self-conscious of my situation since this was the first day of my trip, and had not yet grown accustomed to being the odd one out yet. Wanting to avoid crowds and potential pick-pockets, I stood off to one side of the car I was in, away from the crowds.

The train started to fill up on the way to Atocha Renfe, although there was still enough room to easily get to the doors. Eventually, I noticed two men standing to either side of me, almost squeezing me into a corner of the train by the doors, away from most of the other passengers. This was suspicious enough to me that I lowered my hands to protect the pockets that contained my camera (which was large and bulky), and my wallet (which I tied with a string to my belt for extra security). I noticed one of the men draped a thin jacket across his arm, and the two men were glancing at each other, and would sneak quick looks in my direction. I pretended not to notice. As we neared a station, with me in alert mode, I noticed I was being slowly squeezed toward the doors by the two men. As the doors opened, I ducked between them with my hands by my pockets. They exited at the same time, squeezing me between them. All of a sudden, I felt a hand in my pocket, fumbling around as if trying to find something to grab a hold of. It was subtle, and would have gone unnoticed if I hadn't been paying attention. I quickly raised my hand of slapped his. A second later, the two men were out of my subway, with the closing doors separating me from them. Checking all of my pockets, I was relieved that I hadn't lost anything. I hadn't expected to come into contact with pickpockets so early in my trip. I had expected to lose some money during my trip since I figure you can't completely avoid pickpockets and other criminals over a trip so long. Even so, I decided to be constantly on the lookout for suspicious behaviour.

Madrid - Mediterranean Backpacking Trip - Day 1 (Part 1)

Taking my seat on the plane, I can hardly contain my excitement. I scanned the area for other backpackers and people to talk to. Across the aisle from where I was sitting, there were three people that looked about my age, taking very excitedly. I struck up a conversation with them, and found out that they were a group of two seniors and one sophomore, on their first backpacking trip to Europe. One one of them had visited Europe before, but had only spent a short time in Paris. They asked me to take a photo of the in their seats and returned to excitedly talking among themselves. They still seemed a bit shy talking to strangers, but I knew that their attitude will change after their experience. I was excited for them, how much fun they are going to have, and discovering the liberating world of backpacking. I missed my first backpacking trip, how excited and anxious we were, plunging into something that we were unfamiliar with, having no idea what awaited us. It was a great bonding experience with friends.

I can almost never fall asleep while sitting up, so I knew it was going to be a long flight through the night ahead of me. Luckily, I was on a Boeing 777, with a personal TV, so I could entertain myself with movies all night long. It also enjoy being up all night, as I feel nighttime is like a completely different world than during the day. Breaking routine and the lack of sleep also helps to intensify the feeling that I was on my way to something special. At one point during the flight, I felt sleepy and dozed off with some difficulty. Waking up to the hum of the airplane around me, I checked the time and was very disappointed to find out I had only dozed off for about half an hour. Not being able to go back to sleep, I decided to watch some more movies. Seeing that I had about three hours left in the flight, I started Pam's Labyrinth. I enjoyed the movie very much but near the end of the movie, all of a sudden the entertainment systems turned off, and we were told to prepare for landing! They had cut off the movie about 40 minutes before we actually started the final approach! Well, I guess I'll just have to finish up the movie at a later point in time.

After what seemed like forever circling, we finally landed at Madrid Barajas Airport early in the morning just after sunrise. After standing in a very long line at customs and chatting with the three I met on the plane, I passed customs with no questions asked. I just gave my passport to the customs agent, and without a single word spoken other than hello and good-bye, my passport was stamped and motioned to move along. I split up with the first people I met on the trip as they went to collect their luggage. Heading out to the lobby, I called my parents to tell them I have safely arrived, and acquired a map of the city at the tourist information booth. I had arranged to stay at a local's apartment through Couchsurfing.com, but seeing that they were at work, I needed a place to store my luggage and spend the day before going to their apartment at "7pm or after." After chatting with a friendly and pretty female tourist information agent, I had a new destination, a place in town where I can store my luggage for the day: Atocha Renfe Train Station.

Amsterdam - First Backpacking Trip - Day 1

During the train ride, the three of us were staring out the window at the landscape we were rolling by. We were all visibly excited even after a red-eye flight across the Atlantic. We continually remarked how amazing it is that we are now in Europe about to start a long backpacking trip! It just seemed so surreal, as we've never really travelled without our parents before. It felt so liberating, but also quite scary as we didn't know what to expect. We were all by ourselves in unfamiliar territory, half way around the world from home.

Pulling into the station, we jumped off of the train and walked outside in front of the Amsterdam Station Centraal. We immediately gave our camera to someone and took our first photo of us on our first backpacking trip! After that, we visited a tourist information centre across the road, but they didn't have much free information. Too excited to wait in line, we decided to walk toward the hostel we were staying at, the Flying Pig Uptown.

On the entire way over, we frequently stopped to take photos. Ok, maybe a bit too much, but what can you expect? It was the first hour of our first ever trip with friends, and it was in Europe! I also felt very strange since my family had just taken our first trip to Europe the summer before, so everything in Amsterdam was strangely familiar to me. During my trip with my family, I had never even though there would be the day when I would be wandering these streets with friends, without my parents anywhere near. Amsterdam is very different without your parents. Well, it's not nearly as awkward for sure!

After a long walk through a very indirect route due to some confusion, we finally saw the large yellow sign with the "Flying Pig" name and logo on it. Walking down the quiet street right by Voldelpark, we were all very anxious to see what a hostel looked like from the inside. I was very nervous since I had never shared a room so with so many strange and unfamiliar people. It made me quite homesick thinking about the idea.

After checking in, we made our way down a small cramped staircase. At the bottom was a hallway, somewhat dimly lit with some bulbs with a yellowish tinge. The air was thick with the smell of marijuana smoke. There was the sound of reggae coming from the bar, and the walls and doors were covered with strange paintings of drug use, pigs with propeller hats, and marijuana related things. Walking past the thick smoke, we came to our room.

When we arrived, everyone else was out of the room. With the aid of a single dim light bulb and the dim, gloomy light coming in the windows from the perpetually overcast Amsterdam skies, we examined the room. There was room for 10 or 12 people. Some stuff was lying on other beds, and a bottom bunk that was sheltered by a sarong wrap. The walls were light green, with dark green stencilled giant marijuana leaves in a neat pattern. It was obvious that we had arrived in Amsterdam, the centre of the Western pot world. The cramped, damp washrooms located by the bar where you can hear the music and talking from inside also contributed to the ambiance. We decided to take a short break to recover from our flight. Deciding that we needed to force out the jet lag, I dragged both of my fellow travellers out after a long struggle lasting a couple of hours.

We took a walk to a nearly supermarket, the large Albert Haijns chain. We bought shampoo, toothpaste, some food, and three bottles of wine at 1.5 Euros apiece. You know you are in Europe when wine is just as cheap as water! Arriving back at the hostel, we made some pasta, and met many of the others who were staying there as we were lounging around the kitchen and sharing our wine. Before going out for the night to check out the nightlife, we sat at the bar surrounded by marijuana smoke, and had a Bailey's hot chocolate (quite tasty!) while chatting to a Canadian girl who was also staying in our room.

Finally, after a while, we headed out after somehow spontaneously gathering 8 of our roommates. Since our hostel was close to Leidseplein, we ended up at the Bulldog, which I now know to be the "tourist" hangout spot. Soutrik and I split a special brownie, although we didn't feel any effect at all, while our new Canadian friend bought a few blunts for the night. I ended up trying a puff, my first puff of pot in Amsterdam, sitting in the corner couches behind the busy dance floor. It was also the first time I had heard techno, and I had enjoyed it a lot. The ambiance was great, the dimly lit Christmas decorations hanging above the dance floor, the dim red lights everywhere, and the trance-inducing techno music which was just loud enough to remove your from reality while not being uncomfortable. Everyone around us seemed to be enjoying themselves, relaxed under the influence of numerous substances.

Retiring for the night, not at all tired thanks to the time difference, we tried to go to sleep. This had been a great first day in Europe, and we can't help but feel that we were going to have the time of our lives even if the rest of our trip was like our first day, being jet lagged and uncomfortable with our new surroundings. As we laid in bed trying to sleep, the rest of our roommates who had returned early with us dozed off straight away, under the influence of alcohol, marijuana, and who knows what else.