14. She's a fine vessel

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Even as the rain stops and the day begins I remain steadfast about going home no matter what the cost. Looking like a wet rat I board a bus to Lelystad and enjoy the view along the coast. Once there I pull out a dripping wet 50 note, give the teller a nervous smile and buy a train ticket to Amsterdam. Train rides are always enjoyable but I soon feel like a coward when 5 or 6 black guys harass one young girl after another until they all leave our cart. I try to convince myself to say something, but I do nothing.
Amsterdam is hectic to say the least and the train station is overwhelming to the first timers. For the first time other than in London I can clearly see young backpackers like myself. Most of them are carrying huge backpacks and look rather foolish, while I have one dilapitated bag and probably pass as a local. I don't know why they need all that stuff when most of them are staying in hotels and hostels. Wasting no time I head down the main street and stop at the first travel store. The closest fleight available is in 6 days and costs 900 canadian one way, nevertheless I do not hesitate to buy it. My only problem is to now figure out how to spend 6 days in amsterdam without getting killed and not spending any money. Finding a spot to sleep here proves even more difficult than London as there is no centralized green space. Many hours later I find a few trees in a north west park right beside the "Post Bank". Its poor concealment but its the best I can hope for in grave circumstances. The next few days I work myself into a routine once again and spend a lot of time drawing pictures on the grass behind the arts school. I take a day to walk to Haarlam, the city where Hans Brinker put his finger in the dike, or at least I think this is the place. No matter how many times I think I have part of the city memorized I am proved wrong and find myself staring at a map. In one instance I was quite embarrased when i realize I had been staring at the gay map for the last 5 minutes.
While waiting for my 3rd day to end I spend some time reading on a bench. A muslim looking man approaches me and I put away my reading material not wanting a theological debate. He introduces himself, gives me a beer and explains how he sits on this very bench all the time. He's turns out to be a cool guy and says hes from morocco. Trusting him not to kill me when I sleep I point out where I had been sleeping, he then insists that i sleep on the boat he owns. So before I know it I'm riding on the luggage rack of a bike while a 50 year old moroccan man pedals me around town. He shows me his boat and it is a dump to say the least, but its probably better than the street, The fact that apperently crack addicts use the back of the boat does not put my mind at ease. Bidding him farewell I climb down and quickly board up the back with some planks. The crack addicts never show up and in three nights the worse that I experience is a few drunks walking on the roof. When I awake after my third night I see several police officers checking nearby boats and walking along the canal. Thinking to myself " I wonder if someone got killed last night" I climb out to see whats going on. Within seconds I am surrounded by not one , but six police officers. Surprisingly I am quite casual and they find it hard to believe that a man in the park would let me sleep in his boat, and since I didn't even know his name they discredit me quickly. Eventually they allow me to leave and I agree not to sleep on boats anymore. Missing my flight because i'm detained by police would be rather unfortunate.
I spend my last night sleeping by postbank again and eventually say goodbye to my park and its really poor trumpet player. My flight really doest leave til the following morning at 7 am, but I'm not taking any chances and will stay up all night.
In my last day I pick up my only souvenirs of the entire trip. A shot glass for my sister christy. A rock for adele and heart shaped confetti from a wedding for Natalie. I'm both cheap and pathetic, I know. This is it only 23 days later and i'm heading home to Canada. Perhaps solo travelling is not for me. I look back on Amsterdam with only a little bit of remorse and buy my train ticket to shiphol airport. Its only 9 pm and I have 10 hours to kill in the airport. Its a very poor idea to spend 10hrs in an airport, but I'm extremely anxious to go home. Its almost time to say goodbye to europe.

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