FROM HERE TO THERE
PAIN AND RAIN ON COBBLESTONE TERRAIN or, WHERE'S MY WALLET?
Eric didn't expect to see fifty bald-headed people when he walked out of his hotel, but then nobody
ever does. Nevertheless, there they were. That's just the way it is in the crazy little town called
Amsterdam.
Eric confides that besides having toilets that are a helluvalot better than the ones in Germany, Amster-
dam can be a hot spot for wicked weirdo hangups. "I walked past the Museum of Sexual History.
Just the stuff in the front window was enough to make me walk bow-legged."
To set the record straight, Eric and travelling companion Wiley Weenie haunted the coffee houses and
perused the sights, leaving the wickedness of "Goof-off Town" to travelling horny shoe salesmen, Asian
computer freaks and off-duty militarists. Amsterdam-where enemy soldiers can pound down beers
at the same bar without realizing they're supposed to hate each other. "Don't hate until told to hate."
Nobody expected life to be easy, but then again, nobody ex-
pected life to be such a pain in the ass either. It had been
raining since sunrise, harder than a racehorse pissing a river,
and for longer than a bullfrog can hold its breath.
As much as they wanted to, Weenie and Eric couldn't do
the skate thing. They could splash as much with their feet
as they could with boards. So why bother?
They found themselves at the Bulldog main station, sip-
ping beers and speaking profoundly while they waited for
the streets to dry. A grisly sidewalk denizen entertained. His
act consisted of smashing bottles onto the cobblestones, then
placing the side of his face down upon the glass. Next, he
got a Frenchman from the crowd to come stand on his head.
After that, the man walked up to one of the sidewalk café
tables and snatched a man's beer glass. He emptied it then
bit out a chunk of the glass, crunching it in his mouth as
he walked through the crowd, demanding money for the per-
formance. Blood trickled from the corners of his mouth.
Eric thought out loud that possibly Hunter Stockton Thomp-
son said it best when he stated, "I have nothing to say."
After the moisture evaporated from the ancient streets, the
pain of finding skating material continued. Weenie remem-
bered an old friend, Jimmy Purimahuwa, from a previous
Amsterdam visit. He looked him up and arranged a meeting.
hoping it would result in decent terrain. Dam Square was
the rendezvous point and the connection was made.
The spot was a three-foot high mini-ramp at the end of
a dead-end Straat. A few young Dutchmen, or Netherlanders
(whichever is the proper way of putting it), were skating the
ramp. The sun was already going down and it felt like six
o'clock in the evening. In reality, it was eleven at night in
Amsterdam and 6 a.m. back home. Regardless, Eric began
to pump the dilapidated, mealy surface of the toe-head con-
structed mini-halfpipe. The patchwork condition of the ramp
was frail to put it mildly. The flat bottom slid a few inches
every time a rider whizzed by. Splinters flew from the lip with
each of Eric's slamming axle-stall variations.
A few pedestrians happened upon this scene. Being very
curious folk, they naturally asked several questions in some
foreign language which Eric assumed was Flemish.
Recognizing only English and various barrio hand gestures,
he chose to communicate by skating hard. ►
Story and Photos by M.Fo
Previous Page: Yes, there is artistic
freedom in Eastern Bloc countries-
Marco proves it with a boardslide
to box drop. Inset: The battered
Dutch mini undergoes aggressive.
anonymous abuse. This Page: Stylin
and argylin, Eric opts for some
Amsterdam axle action.
NC
Next, he got a Frenchman from the
crowd to come stand on his head.
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