The boat cruise included free beer, wine and soft drinks and came with a wacky commentator who was really informative and had an amusing way of telling us the story behind “this big green thing over here” and the like.

The cruise was pleasant, and everyone on board was being sure to have a good time – it was our last night together. After the cruise we got out and wandered to Dan Murphy’s – one of the nearby pubs (we were in the centre of town) for a few parting drinks.

And share drinks we did, grateful for the company we’d been in over the last few weeks. After a while Antoinette and I left the group for a romantic stroll back to Hans Brinkler’s. We wandered out into the Leidseplein square and stopped to see some amateur breakdancers and then wandered down a random street leading out of the square hoping it would magically turn into something familiar. It didn’t so we wandered another block over and headed back towards the square, lapping up the atmosphere and savouring the fading moments in each other’s company.

We decided to catch a cab and bailed up a driver who looked at us strangely and said “it’s just down that street there and to the right”. Right. It was the last time we would walk hand-in-hand, with out steps synchronised, towards what had become our home.

Our first morning in Amsterdam I arrived downstairs just too late for breakfast, but oh well, around the corner to the bakery for some fresh pastry and maybe some time alone. I put in our photos from the paragliding in Austria to be processed, and then waited at the bike hire shop for the bike tour to arrive.

The bike tour of Amsterdam was pretty cool, but quite cold because it rained rather miserably for most of the trip. But there is more to Amsterdam than evil follies, and it really was an interesting trip. We heard how the house-boats in the canals were now all fitted with sewage pipes connected to the mains, how the canals are flushed every week, that the Netherlands was home to some philosophical thinkers who were actually listened to, how Amsterdam is a really really old trading city, about the relationship they have with Canada, and probably more that I’ve forgotten since.

One cool thing was the symbol of Amsterdam/Netherlands; the three crosses. St Andrew is the patron saint for the Netherlands, and his symbol is a sideways cross that looks like an X (he didn’t want to be crucified on an upright cross like Jesus so they put him on his side). Three of these crosses represent the three threats Amsterdam has overcome: the plague, fire, and flood, each of which put the city in grave danger of being destroyed on multiple occasions in the past. To diverge a little, the Netherlands was one of the first countries to legalise hardcore pornography and export it around the world. Whenever some of this material would leave Amsterdam it would have the local symbol of “XXX” printed on it. In a marketers dream this symbol soon became synonymous with the “good stuff”, until today in most people’s minds its true meaning is lost and they just relate it to pornography.

Having seen the red light district and a sex show, I’d set aside the afternoon to sample the local green cuisine. I’d previously arranged to share a ‘space cake’ as they’re known with Jess and so we met up at a coffee shop where we found a few of the other guys, and we indulged.
OK, all’s well and good. But I haven’t eaten since the bakery this morning and I heard that some other guys were over at the Italian restaurant around the corner so Jess and I go to join them. They’re just finishing up and soon I’m left on my own with a loaf of garlic bread and a huge bowl of pasta. Sure enough, a few minutes later I start to notice my thinking patterns have slightly altered. Must be that bitter leaf-tasting part of the muffin kicking in. Well it really didn’t kick in as much as I though it would, but certainly enough to appreciate my surroundings on a new level. There was something serene but stimulating about my sitting at the back corner of the (mostly empty) restaurant looking out the front doorway and large glass window, watching the world of people leading a smorgasbord of lives drift past to wherever their mission or daze leads them.
Halfway through my pasta I realised it was nearly 5pm and we were meeting at 6pm to head out for our final farewell dinner. Off I went for a shower.

We trammed it out to a large pier where we boarded a floating Chinese restaurant. The food there was plentiful and tasty, and they brought out a large firecracker on a cake for Lisa’s birthday. All fed, it was off to the river cruise.

We’re nighing the end of the trip now.
Next stop after Czeck Republic was St Goar in the Rhine Valley in Germany. The trip there was mostly uneventful except for passing the Hokkenheim ring when the F1 race was on there (I saw a Lambo parked in the paddock next to it!), the pork schnitzel in a roll that I had for a morning snack, and the material shown earlier in the blog written by Anrie.

St Goar is a nice little uneventful town on the Rhine. It lays claim to both the largest freestanding cuckoo clock an the largest beer stein in the world, neither of which Lara or I took photos of because they aren’t really that interesting. We saw presentations on both cuckoo clocks and beer steins – the stein one was pretty interesting; if we weren’t given one already when we stayed in Germany last I almost certainly would have bought one, just to be a man.

We stayed at a campsite owned by a slightly crazy guy known as Hermann the German. He fed us with great chips, pretty good pork schnitzel and below average (tinned) vegetables, and later we went down to his special downstairs bar for the world’s fastest wine-tasting, with cheese.
The wines were nothing special, all quite sweet, but the evening was spiced up by the quantity (double-shot-ish sized glasses we got to keep) and rate (what, you’re not finished the last one yet?) at which they were put through, as well as Herman’s antics with an ugly mast and some amusing poses for photos. Later on we all tried “Herman’s Special” shots (really quite nice actually) and a few of the group tried the completely wacky version of “fussball” game that was there.

Before the evening got too out of hand Antoinette and I made our retreat back to the … interesting accommodation. Most of the sleeping arrangements were two side-by-side mattresses behind a curtain, stacked two high and two across (sleeping 8 against one side of the room). I wound up with a standard single bunk though, to which we retreated now. Later we went out for a wander just as everyone else was returning. There was a bit of a kafuffle as to who was going to sleep where, that didn’t bother me too much, but I found out the next day that Antoinette slept the night with no pillow, sleeping bag or any other covering! She was great and didn’t complain a bit, though I regretted not being there for warmth and comfort.

After an early breakfast, the last meal Fluffy (our cook) had to prepare, we were on the road to Amsterdam and our two final nights.


Amsterdam, city of legalised prostitution and drugs, and other disgraces to humanity. Maybe it’ll soon sink or be washed out to sea and this slight on our earth will be removed.

I really enjoyed Amsterdam, for many reasons. On our way in we stopped at “Rembrandt Farm”, a building so old that Rembrandt painted it, and of a lineage so frugal that some of its windows are still blocked up, centuries after some crazy empire taxed open windows. One of the farm girls gave us a short demonstration on how cheese is made, and then we went on through to meet the farmer. This guy was a real character, he was able to speak in the native language of every member of our group, and seemed just slightly crazy – the sort of crazy you’d go if you had the luxury to afford it.

From there it was on to the Hans Brinkler home for exotic diseases and youth hostel. This place’s spin on promoted image was “we are really crap”, and by the way it was packed out I guess it actually worked. Certainly was the accommodation highlight of the trip though.

That night we took in a sex show (good for the experience but I don’t think I’ll ever need to go again), went on a walking tour of some of the old city and red light district. It was a bit strange to walk down the alleys with the girls behind large glass windows dressed in bikinis. Most of them didn’t really dance or wave, but just stood or sat there chilling out, maybe wondering what the night might bring. Most of them could fit in as one of your mates, so for me it wasn’t so surreal as others found it, but just legitimately real and lifelike.

In the Netherlands prostitution is legal. The defence case is as follows. Amsterdam has always been a port city, and in every port city of there world there have always been sailors and sailors who have been away from home for extended periods of time and only in port briefly. In every port city of the world there have always been prostitutes. The Dutch are quite liberal (some might say “clear”) thinkers, and realised this would simply always be a fact of life, and so they legalised it, bringing the advantages of being able to regulate it. Every sex worker is health tested every three weeks, they pay taxes, they are well looked after (just try to take out your camera or mobile phone down any of the alleys) and they have formed their own union even.

Along a similar train of thought, the Dutch authorities “tolerate” cannabis. It isn’t strictly legal, but it s allowed and very strictly regulated. “Coffee Shops” with green and white stickers are where you can purchase cigarettes, cakes, even mushroom tea (if you want only a coffee, go to a Café). Any coffee shop found with any ‘hard’ drugs on the premises gets a star against them, and two stars is instant close-down of the shop, and further, when a coffee shop is sold the stars are transferred to the new owner (reducing the value of any establishment allowing even one junkie on the premises). The Netherlands has the lowest marijuana usage of any of its European neighbours bar Luxembourg – about half that of Australia. Outside Amsterdam these coffee shops are few and far between. As a whole, the system seems to work well for the locals and it’s only the tourists that potentially rock the boat.

It is worth another interjector to say that Prague is very richly cultured all over, lovely and vibrant, I would love to go back and live there for a little while.
So Jan and I took the opportunity to be a part of this culture of which we speak, and decided to dine for the evening at a little known small restaurant near Wenceslas Square called McDonalds. I ordered a hamburger and chips with a large strawberry shake, and Jan two cheeseburgers (oh the strange details one remembers). At this McDonalds place they give you your food all on a tray when you pay at the counter, and you go then and find your own seat. Well I picked up my tray but turned awkwardly and my large shake lost balance and tumbled from the tray. This wasn’t an ungraceful fall however; as I looked down to see the impact I watched as it tumbled nicely and hit the ground squarely on the exact bottom of the cup. This was extraordinary to witness – the cup instead of rocking or tumbling or crumpling instead shot two thirds of its contents into the air. My shoes, shorts and jacket were of course all hit, my face was almost directly above the cup and was the most covered by the eruption. Even the girl behind the counter had a spot in her hair. You can just picture me covered in pink goo trying to explain through sign language to this girl that she had some in her hair. I think she thought I was trying to be funny because she’d nod and giggle at my every attempt. Finally Jan got a photo and I was able to start cleaning down.

Our reason for choosing such a classy establishment for evening dinner that night was not primarily to experience this starkly new culture, but more so to be finished with dinner promptly so we might scoot across town to the Opera house and make the Gala Opening Concert of the Prague Music Festival – the Prague Radio Symphony Orchestra playing Brahms’1st Piano Concerto and Beethoven’s 7th Symphony.

And scoot we did, making it in good time. The friendly doorman asked us in velvet British tones, which perhaps came with his suit and tales, for our tickets. We couldn’t yet oblige so he directed us to the ticket office around the corner. It was only after this encounter that we thought “Gee, it was mighty good of a man so well dressed and groomed to be so polite to dags like us”, and then the logical extension “perhaps we should have thought about wearing something other than the smelly and dusty clothes we’ve been walking and climbing in all day”. We were both in shorts, Jan with a Pinky & The Brain t-shirt and me with my shake-stained jacket. Nevermind, no time for that now. Our tickets cost us each 600 Kroner (we splurged on the best seats still available) which came to $32.12 a pop. Feeling that we were a little more worthy because we could afford such high spending we returned back around the corner and up the grand stars to the main entrance and were greeted warmly once again and directed to the cloakroom and then to proceed around the corner.

Around the corner free champagne and a room full of what seemed Prague’s royalty awaited us. The champagne was quite nice and our fellow concert-goers were less than amused to see the state of the nation had crumbled to the point where such people as us were also patrons (I mean, communinism was one thing, but…). Jan and I lingered in the toilets and almost cowed in the corner of the lobby for a short while before (over our third glass) I suggested to Jan that we had come this far, had the gall to be in the same room as these people, and it’s only a small step further to have the audacity to join them, even meet them at their level and interact with them. Actually what I think I said was “are you feeling ballsy? Let’s go mingle” but the net effect was the same, and soon enough we were in the thick of Prague’s upper crust. Our “Good Evening”s were met with the predictable range of return greetings along with some expected cold stares and icy shoulders, and one surprising “good on you guys, you’ve got guts” style of wink. A marvellous night even before the music!

And the music! To be hones Jan and I both were starting to nod off during the introduction to the Piano Concerto, but once the pianist started we were picked up and transported to that surreal place of total immersed enjoyment.

The Opera House itself is not very large, and is as crazily ornate as expected. Our 600 Kroner bought us seats about a third of the way back from the stage and about a third in from the side, and were great for the experience but made it a little difficult to keep my stifled coughing to myself and exceptionally embarrassing when I had a ‘down the wrong pipe’ episode while trying to keep my stifled coughing to myself. Jan nearly picked me up and threw me out himself, but I was soon good again so no real harm done.

During Interval we purchased ourselves another glass of bubbly so as to round off our evening you see. Beethoven’s 7th was again an amazing experience, but even more so than Brahms. In that place in that time I was beamed up to a whole new plane of sublime fulfilment and it took a good while to start to come down again.

At the end of the night Jan and I ran into a few of the others on the tram home, and buzzed our great evening to them. When we arrived back at camp I found Antoinette, took her by the hand, ran with her, twirled her, threw her in the air and kissed her madly. The whole evening was a wonderful passion kick-starter.