AmsterDAMN: Tripping on Mushrooms in Hunktown

If there’s one thing I can be an annoying snob about, it’s my pride in not being a tourist. Wherever I go, my priority is and always has been to do what locals do (aside from working, that is. Fuck that) and explore the places they frequent.

However, there are certain tourist traps that are too hard resist. They’re rites of passage of sorts that must be crossed off one’s bucket list and that certify that X place has, indeed, been experienced in full. And what’s more touristy than doing magic mushrooms in Amsterdam, indubitably a solid contender for the title of Most Popular European City?

I’m visiting my family back in Portugal when I decide to take a short 4-day trip to Amsterdam. My phenomenal friend Jo from Wander With Jo also happens to be in Europe, backpacking in Germany, and promptly suggests we meet in ADAM. Jo is a wild party animal, so I don’t even have to suggest we do shrooms; her mere presence in the European Sin City implies inebriating substances are to be consumed freely.

Being the efficient travelers that we are, we naturally elect to be productive and cross getting baked off our collective bucket list first thing, right after dropping our tattered suitcases off at our hotel in the center of Amsterdam. After some light online research returns more smartshops than I care to overanalyze, I pick one less than 2 miles from our hotel which has stellar reviews and we head there promptly.

The girl manning the store has the customer service skills of a prison guard. Any assistance we were hoping to get selecting our shrooms is just that: a hope.

‘Yeah, that’s fine, too’ is her lackadaisical rushed response to everything, even though we’re the only customers in the shop. I feel sure that if I tried to scrounge up some dust bunnies to snort mixed with onion powder and dish soap, she would approve of it with the same unwavering lack of enthusiasm.

We pick whichever strain is met with the least amount of disdain from Miss Congeniality, shell out $70 for two doses, and step back out onto the sunny bustling streets.

‘So…should we start with just half,’ Jo asks.

This is her first time doing shrooms, but I’ve tried them before and I know they take about half an hour to kick in.

‘Nah. Why waste time?’ Halves are for wusses and I don’t feel like waiting too long. She agrees.

We give each other an encouraging ‘fuck it’ look and scarf down the contents of our respective plastic containers.

‘Blargh. This shit is awful,’ Jo protests. Magic mushrooms leave your mouth feeling incredibly dry, much like carobs, and have a very sour aftertaste, and I immediately regret not planning for that. ‘Now what?’

‘Now we find a convenience store, buy five gallons of water, and look for a nice place to chill while we wait for this crap to kick in.’

It’s an earnest plan, but I fail to account for all the times we will stop to ogle the dashing Dutch men we encounter. And boy, do they abound…

Amsterdam has the highest ratio of shagable men of all places I have ever visited.

Neither Jo nor I have been with anyone in months, and it’s taking all of our self-control not to pounce on one.

‘They look strong… Do you think they’ll be able to escape if we both sit on ‘em?’ I quip.

By the time we finally reach a convenience store we are both higher than kites, especially Jo. She’s pretty disoriented and switches between smiling mechanically and low-key laughing at nothing in particular. I feel responsible for her and try to guide her as well as I can.

The stoned leading the stoned…

Still, I’m convinced I’m doing an impeccable job acting sober and no one can tell I’m just another messed up basic tourist.

I manage to find a pleasant spot by the water for us to chill and trip away, making sure there’s a safety rail to prevent our clumsy selves from falling in.  A nice, fragrant trash can right next to us keeps us grounded. I’m a bit of control freak, which along with my OCD allows me to retain a certain degree of awareness and self-control even when I’m hammered; occasionally, a shred of dignity, too.

‘Oh my god. Those colors, boo. Can you see them,’ Jo asks me softly, still in her happy trance, our feet dangling not too high above the hypnotizing undulating waters.

‘Yeah, but no hallucinations yet.’ I’m a bit disappointed. I didn’t get them the first time I tried shrooms and was hoping a stronger strain would do the trick.

‘Wow. It’s like I’m seeing in HD. You know, like an HD TV. But it’s real.’

‘Mmm-hmm.’

‘Those golds… And those greens…’

‘Yeah.’

‘And the water… Those reflections… Wooooow.’

I’m admittedly no fun to get high with. I enjoy every bit of my trip, but always become extremely quiet and introspective. Every attempt at a conversation with me will be met with little more than a shrug.

‘What are you feeling,’ Jo insists.

‘I feel like it’s time you shut up.’ She cracks up but acquiesces.

With the silence comes the peak of my mind trip. Random thoughts rush in and meld together.

I attempt to control my own perception of the beautiful multicolored buildings reflected on the water and partially succeed at intensifying their different hues and swaying motions. I think of the guy I’ve been chatting with for months and intended on meeting once back stateside, who’s slowly slipping away. Can I control that? Change it? Do I want to? Those golds really are amazing. Fuck you, Nick! Man, I really want a chocolate waffle. Wow. Those greens, though… I don’t need no man! Mmm, doughnuts…

Nearly two hours pass while we each enjoy our individual trips in silence. We sober up just enough to finally get back on our feet and stumble to Amsterdam Central Station, behind which we catch the free ferry to the A’DAM Lookout, in Buiksloterweg. Jo is a seasoned travel blogger and landed a gig trying out and reporting on Europe’s highest swing, which juts out over the edge of the Lookout’s Skydeck. As her sidekick for this trip, I get to ride with her.

Our ferry docks and out march the stylish Amsterdammers aching to get home after a long workday in the height of summer. Jo and I make way through the throng of people, and that’s when the magic truly happens. As we gracefully glide left and right avoiding oncoming bikes, gorgeous men strut past us in slow motion, disorientating us further.

‘Boo, the one with a checkered shirt,’ I drool. ‘No, wait. The one in navy blue shorts.’

‘The one in a Polo shirt. Gahhhhh.’

Damn.

‘Are they glowing?’

We will later learn, once the narcotics have worn off, that we didn’t look quite as graceful or self-assured as we thought, and the glow those hunks were emanating was likely rage. Apparently, we’re supposed to wait for all passengers to march out and only then board the ferry, rather than squeeze ourselves through a crowd of annoyed residents.

It’s a short ride and we get only a couple of minutes to pull ourselves together. Jo is still flying high – higher than I, at least – and in no condition to document the visit. I’ll have to take as many pictures as I can for her, lest our little drug adventure botch up her reputation. I’m partially responsible, after all.

It’s showtime, baby.

Walking into the building, I ask for directions to the restrooms, trying to slur as little as possible.

A quick look in the mirror confirms my suspicions: I look like utter shite.

I’m tired, my hair is a mess, and my bloodshot eyes immediately give away my inebriated condition. Ain’t no hunk gonna put a ring on this finger today, that’s for sure.

Focus! Pictures. Right.

Mustering as much focus as a sex-deprived, tripping fool can, I manage to look past the eye candy and capture multiple pictures of the neon-lit elevator, the trendy bar/restaurant from different angles, and the views from the Skydeck, while Jo holds us a place in line for the swing. It’s not a long line and the swing ride is exhilarating! Had we not gotten to experience it for free, the $18.5 it costs ($13.5 to get in the building plus $5 for the swing) would have been well worth the investment.

There’s more than mere adrenaline at play, though. The calming ochre tones of the sunset, the awesome company, the thought of how much I’ve grown since I added Amsterdam to my bucket list back in my early twenties, when I was grappling with social anxiety and crippling depression…  The shrooms don’t hurt, either.

Our tour includes photographs of us riding the swing, which somehow get erased, so we’re invited for a second round. I couldn’t care less about the photos, to be honest. I just want to ride again.

It’s still fun, but not quite like the first time. The real world beckons and we’re both finally feeling more like our normal selves.

The comfy bean bags scattered around the Skyview deck make for the perfect place to wrap up our mind trip and toast to our friendship while we watch cargo ships dawdle by down on the sleepy Amstel.

‘Those guys were hot, but you know what? This view is way better, boo,’ I declare.

‘Hands down,’ Jo concedes. ‘But look at that waiter behind you.’

Damn.

Have you ever acted like a fool in public while tripping balls? Share your crazy trips below!

ACCOMMODATION
Jo and I stayed at Hotel Luxer while in Amsterdam. We didn’t spend much time there, but it was cozy and superbly located! If location is a priority for you, this place can’t be beaten. We paid $176/night for a private twin room in July.

Disclaimer: I do not advocate for the consumption/use of drugs, and my post is simply an account of my experience getting fucked up. Be mindful that we’re all affected differently by psychotropic drugs, so you won’t necessarily have a fun time while on them, even if I did. When in doubt, stick to doughnuts and masturbating to Chris Pratt.