The First Day

by Tzvi Gluckin

I was a big man. I was going to Europe and I was going for a long time.

I quit my job, moved out of my apartment and got rid of my car. I found a home for my cat and bought a ticket to Amsterdam. The plan was to play guitar in the streets long enough to earn room and board for the night, meet and freeload off of as many people as possible, and flop at youth hostels only when necessary. I figured I’d use my “gift of the gab”, magnetic charm and exceptional people skills to network, connect, hook-up and get my way “in” with Europe’s underground hipsters. I’d become a part of the counter-culture, following in the footsteps of Ernest Hemingway, Henry Miller and the other great American ex-patriots. I bought a Euro-rail pass and a copy of Let’s Go Europe as a backup for those odd times when things didn’t work out. I packed up my guitar and a battery-powered amplifier, three pairs of underwear, two pairs of socks, two t-shirts, a pair of jeans, shorts, a toothbrush and toothpaste, and a bar of soap that doubled as shampoo. I had deodorant too. I was ready to conquer the world.

I flew into Amsterdam. I made my way through customs, found my way to the train and took the short trip into town. “Nice place,” I thought to myself, “Funky and kind of Earthy, I dig it.”

I walked down the main drag. All around were small hotels, coffee houses, and an endless number of places to exchange money. I stopped to call home and let everyone know I was alive and well. My first Atlantic crossing wasn’t that big a deal. I wandered on.

I eventually ended up at a large fountain in the center of the city. Everywhere was action, people, youth, color, everything. Everyone was busy. Music, jugglers, fire-eaters, freaks, hippies, all the assorted riff-raff that find their way to alternative centers like Amsterdam. The city was alive and excitement was in the air. Everyone spoke English. Thousands of bicycles littered the streets.

“This could be the beginning of everything,” I thought. “Maybe I should take out my guitar and start playing. This could be it.”

Something told me to wait. It was my first day. I had just landed and was probably jet lagged.

I walked around for a while. I sat down near the big fountain. I walked around a little more. I sat down near the big fountain again.

“This place is fantastic!” I said to myself. “My friends would love it here.”

I looked around. People were eating French fries. (Europeans eat them from large white paper tubes and dip them in crazy sauces.) My stomach was rumbling. I hadn’t eaten since the flight and that was a while ago. I looked for a place to buy French fries. I walked down a side street, around a corner and down another side street. I looked down long alleys and across major intersections.

Nothing.

I followed a few people savoring their white paper tubes of potato magic. I couldn’t find anything. I wandered around for about a half an hour. My mouth was watering and my stomach was grumbling.

“Maybe you should ask somebody,” I thought.

I decided to look around a little more. I went up and down a few streets. I retraced my steps and looked for telltale signs of French fry consumption. I couldn’t find anything.

“Everyone speaks English. Ask somebody.”

It was getting very hot. It was a beautiful day, not a cloud in the sky, but the midday sun was starting to take its toll on my road-weary, hard-traveled body.

I found my way back to the fountain, walked around a little and sat down. I looked around. Bicycles, thousands of bicycles, everywhere I looked were cheap black three-speeders with goofy handlebars.

“Amsterdam is a wild place”, I thought to myself.

More bicycles, unicyclists, mimes, musicians and clowns were gathering around my holy fountain. Small clusters of young American tourists congregated on benches and in corners. I was surrounded by hair, color, laughter, smoke and the sounds of white urban youth on holiday and away from home.

The day went on. I was starting to fade. It had been a long flight and the excitement of a new city and the promise of adventure were wearing off. I needed to lie down and get some rest. I was pretty confident that if I looked around I could find a youth hostel for ten or fifteen dollars a night.

I got up and walked around again. My bag and guitar were starting to get heavy. I looked in windows and doorways for something that looked like a hostel. No luck. I wasn’t exactly sure what I was looking for.

“You’re surrounded by young American tourists,” I thought. “Ask one of them where they are staying.”

I walked down street after street, over bridges and through narrow tunnels. I admired the canals and intricate inter-city water system. I wandered in elaborate giant circles for about an hour and finally somehow made my way back to my fountain. I was exhausted. The sun, lack of food and time difference was beginning to take its toll. I really just wanted a place to lie down.

“Look in your Let’s Go Europe. This is the reason you brought it.”

There is an unwritten rule when riding New York’s subways: Never look at the maps posted by the MTA. No self-respecting New Yorker would ever be caught dead with his nose up to the wall, pointing at stations or talking out loud about where to get off. To do so would be justifiable grounds for public humiliation, an open admission of naiveté (read: GEEK), a breach in the “self-confidant,” “all-knowing” façade required of all hip urban dwellers. Intuitively, this principle is applicable to the self-styled, ex-patriot radical wanderer as well.

There was no way I was going to look through my Let’s Go Europe in public.

I sat by the fountain for a while. People were coming and going. The tourists were in the museums. The tattooed, heavily pierced people in black crawled from their caves and were meeting each other by the fountain. I was starving.

“I have to lie down,” I said to myself.

I picked up my stuff and headed back down the main drag towards the train station, past the money exchange places and expensive looking establishments. I walked for a few minutes until I came to a place called the Delta Hotel.

“Hmm…” I thought, “The Delta Hotel, nice. Like the Delta Blues, cool… very cool.”

I went in and paid for a room. It worked out to be a little more than $60 for the night. I climbed up a winding narrow staircase, went into my room, put down my stuff, checked out the bathroom, arched ceilings, and looked out the window.

I sat down on the bed and started to cry.

I cried and I cried. What was I thinking? Ex-patriot radical urban hipster – what!? Hello… Dork. Nerd. Dweeb. LOSER. What happened to the slick talking, suave, self-confident smoothie? I was supposed to freeload, “work”, hook up and get myself “in”.

Instead I was out. Way out.

I couldn’t get up the guts to find a tube of French fries, let alone scam a free room or play guitar on the street. What was I going to do? I was thousands of miles from home, not that I had anything to go back to. I had no apartment, job, car, cat or anything else, I had made sure of that, and the SHAME, if I were to go back now – the SHAME – oh my. There was no turning back – what was I going to do?

I was pathetic. I lay down on the bed sniffling and feeling sorry for myself.

What has I afraid of? Maybe a big green monster with six heads would jump out from behind a rock and expose my ignorance. The crowds would gather and laugh, “New guy… HA HA HA … new boy, new boy… HA HA.” I’d be disgraced in front of everyone. “HA-HA, what kind of mama’s boy doesn’t know where to buy French fries?” They’d point and laugh and I’d stand humiliated, naked and alone…. then I’d ask, “Where can I find a Youth Hostel?” “HAHA! Youth Hostel? He wants the Youth Hostel… HA HA, BABY, BABY, he doesn’t know where the Youth Hostel is, haha snicker, jeer…” and the crowds would laugh as I’d turn red and white and purple and green and I’d be alone and embarrassed and ashamed. Then I would start playing my guitar and a 12-foot, 800 pound beast in a clown suit would walk over with his big feet and tell everyone, “This is his FIRST day, HA HA, look how UN-cool he is, what is he doing, he is so UN-cool…” And I would be SO UN-cool and awkward and wrong.

I fell asleep and dreamed. I dreamed that all my friends were standing on boxes and talking about me. They were talking about how great I was and how I was such a pioneer and had done such great and adventurous things. And I was there. And I was dead. And it was my funeral and I was in a box but I was there. And I sat confidently back and listen to the accolades and tales of glory and greatness and of my charm and magnetic personality. And I felt so warm and so good and so loved. It was so easy to die. No battles with monsters or awkward situations. No asking for directions. No trouble. No hassle. No effort. My mother was there and she cried and smiled and talked about what an easy baby I was. Everybody laughed and loved me. I was so loved and it was wonderful. Oh to be dead.

Then I woke up. I was still alive and in my $60 hotel room in Amsterdam.

“This is crazy,” I said to myself. “It’s irrational, embarrassing, it’s ridiculous. Am I really such a timid, cowardly nerd? I can’t sit here forever feeling sorry for myself. I have to do something.”

I decided to go back to the train station. No matter what, I was going to set up my gear and start playing music. It was the only way. I just needed to get the ball rolling. I needed to meet people and move on with my radical ex-patriot plans. I would establish myself on the streets and that would be my in with the cool Amsterdam sub-culture.

In the morning I got up, packed up my stuff, went downstairs and had breakfast. I bought an ashtray and headed off to the train station.

In no time I was there, parked in a sunny spot in the front. It was a large, unobstructed, wide-open space. I rummaged through my bag for cables and cords and set up my small, battery-powered amplifier.

“Wait.” It was déjà vu, “Not now.”

I persevered. I unzipped my guitar case and fumbled around for my strap. It took a few minutes to set up, tune my guitar and plug everything in. I put down the ashtray to collect tips and loose change.

I stalled. I turned the knobs down to zero, put my ear to the body of the guitar and played a few chords. It was a beautiful day and people were out and about. New tourists were arriving from the airport and other parts of Europe. I stood there for a while. I felt like I was seven-feet tall and dipped in neon. I didn’t know what to do with myself, where to put my hands or how to hold my body.

I fumbled around with the tuning pegs and readied myself to play. I had to do something. I had to get started.

“You can’t play here.”

“What?” I was taken a bit by surprise.

A tall American guy with thick black curly hair had been watching me set up my stuff. He came over to where I was standing.

“You can’t play here. The cops will arrest you and confiscate your equipment.”

“Oh, really, hmm, bummer.”

“They do allow music in other places, just not in front of the train station. Do you have a place to stay? I can hook you up.”

It wasn’t what I was expecting or planning, but this chance warning and offer saved me. I would have stood there all day fiddling with my guitar and looking at the bicycles. The newness of my surroundings had made it impossible to maintain an air of hip unaffected aloofness. It forced me to confront my fragile self-image. I didn’t want to deal.

I followed the American across town and checked into the hostel he worked for. It was seventeen bucks a night and managed by a blond, skinny Canadian. He hated me. I made a few “Ottawa” jokes to let him know that the feeling was mutual.