After much ado and one or two wrong skinny alleyways, Grant finally GPS's our way to a green patch on the map, a park we're hoping. And a park it is. A quaint, little gated thing shored on one of the canals. We make our way to some shade under a tree by the canal, and we shed our packs with pack-mule exultation. It's not 11:00 yet, and already we're short-winded and sweating our balls off. Maybe it's all the still-water canals and all the muggy hours of sunshine, or maybe it's just the Nordic countries, but Amsterdam is humid as fuck. Moisture clings to the skin in a way that doesn't look like sweat, but instead like some heavenly gloss applied by the gods so that everyone's skin glows in the sunlight and everyone is just that more beautiful. But presently, that isn't the matter of our focus. We're in Amsterdam. We've had our breakfast and purchased four grams of marijuana from the bartender at a corner shop. We'd ordered off the menu. And now, finally, pack-less, our toes frolicking in the damp, humid grass by the canal, it's time to indulge. Grant does the honors, rolling a beast of spliff while Max and I give our legs a stretch with smiles and giddy anticipation plastered on our faces. Some toe-touches, some side lunges, no big deal. It's the middle of July, the dawn of the World Cup Finals, and we're in Amsterdam. In the face of our total lack of pre-conceived planning, we're here. And Grant's done rolling the spliff. So now what else are we to do, other than lay back and watch the sky change behind the tree branches. As the spliff makes it's rounds, we go silent and the music from that tiny little speaker on my iPhone is now somewhat audible. It's a couple tracks by Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeros I think. And I think I wiggle my toes in delight. And when I look down at them, the canal comes into view and the jolly Dutch boat-owners mozy on by in their water-bound carriages down the parade circuit that is their life, ever amused by their slowly changing audience of spectators. Thank goodness for safety goggles. The fade on my white sunglasses make head-bobbing an entirely new experience, as the trees and clouds above get darker and then lighter, and then darker again to the meter of a slow, slow metronome. But always, everything is bluer and mine eyes a mystery. God, I love these sunglasses.
