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somebodyisfromhere.com
The destination destination.
Editor's Note: Somebodyisfromhere.com has recently dedicated a lot of thought to the idea of creating a narrative for his site. He likes his
individual pieces, but he wanted to find a way to string together a series of articles for those who were new to the site or for those who wanted to
explore a bit more thoroughly. Sure, the search option in the top corner of the front page works. Sure, he also tries to link old stories with
comparable new ones. Atop the first page, he created sections like entertainment, photos, etc. It's all golden. Yet, Somebodyisfromhere.com is
inexhaustible and he wanted more. So he came up with the "In Between Cabs..." section. Somebodyisfromhere.com has been in his share of
cabs. He's been in Mercedes cabs in Europe. He's been in those charming British boxes. He's been in the old yellows. He's been in cabs in
foreign countries where it's fairly standard to have to write down the address or otherwise you'll end up somewhere disastrously far off. More than
anything else, he just has some pretty bleepin' weird cab stores and, most importantly, he recognizes traveling is what happens in between cabs.
individual pieces, but he wanted to find a way to string together a series of articles for those who were new to the site or for those who wanted to
explore a bit more thoroughly. Sure, the search option in the top corner of the front page works. Sure, he also tries to link old stories with
comparable new ones. Atop the first page, he created sections like entertainment, photos, etc. It's all golden. Yet, Somebodyisfromhere.com is
inexhaustible and he wanted more. So he came up with the "In Between Cabs..." section. Somebodyisfromhere.com has been in his share of
cabs. He's been in Mercedes cabs in Europe. He's been in those charming British boxes. He's been in the old yellows. He's been in cabs in
foreign countries where it's fairly standard to have to write down the address or otherwise you'll end up somewhere disastrously far off. More than
anything else, he just has some pretty bleepin' weird cab stores and, most importantly, he recognizes traveling is what happens in between cabs.
Chapter Four:
Night of the Living Dead.
Night of the Living Dead.
<<< When you arrive in Amsterdam, it's a bit like a circus. Well, that's not altogether accurate. It's worse. It's better. You lose
the ability to be surprised which makes it like Vegas, but although it's clearly built for tourism, it's been around longer so it feels
less manufactured.
On the first night, you walked to the hostel that was closer to the red light district than their ad indicated. When you reached the
historical canals you were promptly peed on by a naked water fountain in the shape of a boy. The red light aspect of the city
was every bit like it's been described to you. Indeed there were women in windows advertising their goods. They looked bored
for the most part. One was eating Pringles.
What stuck with you was some of the zombies walking around the city. They were presumably normal people looking straight
ahead unable to focus on anything in particular. They would walk into things, their clothes a mess. Oblivious, the town had
picked them up and spit them out. You didn't feel bad for them per se. There was a good chance they got exactly what they
bargained for. Still, you wondered exactly what needs to happen for a person to end up like that.
Here it is a few days later and you learn a day in Amsterdam is like spending a day with the good angel on your right shoulder
and the bad angel on the left shoulder. You start off at coffee shop and then you go to the Anne Frank House. You go to the
Heineken Factory and then you go to the Van Gogh Museum. You end up at a bar, and you're pretty sure - well it was a long
day, and you wouldn't swear to it under oath - but, yeah, you're pretty sure you played Connect 4 at a bar where there was a
dog behind the counter.
You're in Amsterdam with friends. Friends you're staying with and friends you aren't. It so happens that two girls you traveled
with are going back to their hotel and it is, after all, the red light district. So you and Bill - we'll call him Bill because thats what his
parents named him - decide to walk them back to their place. Bill's a gentleman.
So you and Bill drop them off and the two of you happen upon a bar. You may be Americans and you may be in Europe, but you
do what guys do universally when they go out for just one more. A couple hours later, Bill gets up and says, "I've got to go walk
this off." And you say, "Well, I've got to go sleep this off."
You head in separate directions. You only do this because you and Bill don't have the same goal and, by your particular logic at
the time, two people without the same goal shouldn't go in the same direction.
It takes you about a block to realize you have no idea where you're going. At all. At this point you've been in Amsterdam a
couple nights, but only in Amsterdam could you be distracted to the point that you never bothered learning the name of your
hostel. Without knowing that kind of information, it should come as know surprise that you don't know the street your hostel is on
either. In the end, you're intoxicated, you're thousands of miles from home, and you don't know what you need to do. Stumbling,
bumbling and looking straight ahead you have become one of the zombies.
There is only one thing you can come up with. That's when you get a cab. The cab is a Mercedes but according to Amsterdam
rules, you aren't surprised because you've already long suspended logic. You just tell the cabbie, "Dam Square." You know your
hostel is just a couple of blocks from the square. You wish you knew this for touristy reasons, but really you know it because
thats where the closest ATM was.
As the cabbie is driving to the square, you happen to see your hostel. It is one of the better feelings you've ever had. You tell
him to stop and you get out. Your hostel sleeps eight or so in one room. It's basically just a room with a bunch of beds; sort of
travel barracks. You walk to your bed somewhere in the middle and sit down. It's late but others are awake so a girl you're
traveling with asks you where Bill is.
You don't have anything to hide, but it's been a long day. Besides, you don't actually know where Bill is. So you decide to play
the oldest card in the deck and pretend you're sleep. You're a hundred percent convinced you can get away with it too, until you
think, Wait, you're still sitting up and your eyes are open and you are staring at the person who just talked to you.
At this point it's survival. Say anything you can. That's when you come up with, "Bill, no here" and go to bed in Amsterdam
the ability to be surprised which makes it like Vegas, but although it's clearly built for tourism, it's been around longer so it feels
less manufactured.
On the first night, you walked to the hostel that was closer to the red light district than their ad indicated. When you reached the
historical canals you were promptly peed on by a naked water fountain in the shape of a boy. The red light aspect of the city
was every bit like it's been described to you. Indeed there were women in windows advertising their goods. They looked bored
for the most part. One was eating Pringles.
What stuck with you was some of the zombies walking around the city. They were presumably normal people looking straight
ahead unable to focus on anything in particular. They would walk into things, their clothes a mess. Oblivious, the town had
picked them up and spit them out. You didn't feel bad for them per se. There was a good chance they got exactly what they
bargained for. Still, you wondered exactly what needs to happen for a person to end up like that.
Here it is a few days later and you learn a day in Amsterdam is like spending a day with the good angel on your right shoulder
and the bad angel on the left shoulder. You start off at coffee shop and then you go to the Anne Frank House. You go to the
Heineken Factory and then you go to the Van Gogh Museum. You end up at a bar, and you're pretty sure - well it was a long
day, and you wouldn't swear to it under oath - but, yeah, you're pretty sure you played Connect 4 at a bar where there was a
dog behind the counter.
You're in Amsterdam with friends. Friends you're staying with and friends you aren't. It so happens that two girls you traveled
with are going back to their hotel and it is, after all, the red light district. So you and Bill - we'll call him Bill because thats what his
parents named him - decide to walk them back to their place. Bill's a gentleman.
So you and Bill drop them off and the two of you happen upon a bar. You may be Americans and you may be in Europe, but you
do what guys do universally when they go out for just one more. A couple hours later, Bill gets up and says, "I've got to go walk
this off." And you say, "Well, I've got to go sleep this off."
You head in separate directions. You only do this because you and Bill don't have the same goal and, by your particular logic at
the time, two people without the same goal shouldn't go in the same direction.
It takes you about a block to realize you have no idea where you're going. At all. At this point you've been in Amsterdam a
couple nights, but only in Amsterdam could you be distracted to the point that you never bothered learning the name of your
hostel. Without knowing that kind of information, it should come as know surprise that you don't know the street your hostel is on
either. In the end, you're intoxicated, you're thousands of miles from home, and you don't know what you need to do. Stumbling,
bumbling and looking straight ahead you have become one of the zombies.
There is only one thing you can come up with. That's when you get a cab. The cab is a Mercedes but according to Amsterdam
rules, you aren't surprised because you've already long suspended logic. You just tell the cabbie, "Dam Square." You know your
hostel is just a couple of blocks from the square. You wish you knew this for touristy reasons, but really you know it because
thats where the closest ATM was.
As the cabbie is driving to the square, you happen to see your hostel. It is one of the better feelings you've ever had. You tell
him to stop and you get out. Your hostel sleeps eight or so in one room. It's basically just a room with a bunch of beds; sort of
travel barracks. You walk to your bed somewhere in the middle and sit down. It's late but others are awake so a girl you're
traveling with asks you where Bill is.
You don't have anything to hide, but it's been a long day. Besides, you don't actually know where Bill is. So you decide to play
the oldest card in the deck and pretend you're sleep. You're a hundred percent convinced you can get away with it too, until you
think, Wait, you're still sitting up and your eyes are open and you are staring at the person who just talked to you.
At this point it's survival. Say anything you can. That's when you come up with, "Bill, no here" and go to bed in Amsterdam