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I've been meaning to post all week, but have been too busy or too lazy. The other half finally beat me into sitting down for ten minutes to relate the theory I developed after last weekend.
I was in Amsterdam last weekend, for an annual industry conference we always attend. It is also a chance to see people from the other sites the company has: Amsterdam (obviously), Berlin and, presumably to add the the list next year, Brussels. Only a few of us bother actually visiting the conference, and it has become more an end-of-season party for the whole industry than a serious conference (all the real business is done earlier in the year, at NAB and Siggraph, the two other major events relevent to the industry.)
Amsterdam is a funny place. It's pretty in parts, and pretty ugly in others -- I get a different impression every time I visit. One thing that has always struck me, though, is what a dangerous place it is. Nothing to do with the sex or the drugs, although the drugs can't exactly help. In fact it seems like about the worst place in Europe to legalise cannabis, given the hazards inherent in the place. I visualise a group of high-ranking law enforcement officials from all over Europe gathering to discuss the soft drug issue, and eventually concluding:
"OK lads, they're going to smoke the stuff whether we let them or not, so we're going to have to make it legal somewhere to contain the buggers. But while we're at it, lets have ourselves a little fun."
And so they searched all over Europe, and hit upon Amsterdam -- the one town that looked the same wherever you were, just to mess with the poor kids' minds. Every street in the centre looks alike, row upon row of tall-narrow brick townhouses, lined up along identical-looking canals, crossed periodically with similar canals lined with more Lego houses. The canals seem to be straight, but have a nasty habit of turning 90 degrees without you noticing so you end up walking in completely the wrong direction for hours, past row upon row of identical-looking houses.
The houses themselves are trying enough. The stairs in these houses were clearly added as an afterthought, and no space has been wasted on them (and no spirit levels either, by the look of them.) The long trek to, say, your hotel room on the second floor is tricky enough when stone-cold sober; how you manage it when even a little happy is beyond me.
On top of this, Amsterdam is literally strewn with minor hazards to keep you on your toes whenever you set foot outside the coffee shop. Wander a little too far one way, and the unprotected canals claim the unwary. A little too far the other way, and you tumble down the steep steps to someone's basement entrance. Even crossing the road requires that you take your life into your hands. No amount of frantic looking around can quite rid you of the sense of peril as you try to figure out which way the cars are coming from, only to find out that the trams often go the other way. When you get to the other side you pause for a moment to get your breath back and congratulate yourself at having made it in one piece, only to find you are standing in the middle of the cycle-lane, with insane natives bearing down on you from all directions. After a brief "startled gazelle" moment when you realise they're not likely to stop for you, you lurch forward again, to end clinging to a lamppost or some other suitable immovable object that you're sure even the trams or the cyclists wouldn't attempt to run over. Again, this is written from the point of view of the sober visitor; drugs can only serve to enhance the experience to a new level.
The trams, of course, don't have much choice. They can only go one way, and take a little while to come to a halt since they weigh 20 tons. When you observe closely though, the same is true of the bicycles. Ability to steer around obstacles is a luxury long-since done away with on these dinosaurs (or at least if you used to be able to steer you can't anymore because the handlebars have rusted up.) The fashion is Amsterdam is to drive the oldest, crappiest bike in town, since anything that might distinguish your piece of junk as being in any way better than anyone else's piece of junk will lead to it being nicked within about 20 minutes. Not that anyone is really bothered about this, since everyone knows you can by a replacement piece of junk on a street corner for a pocketful of loose change, which may even bear a striking resemblance to your last piece of junk. There is a roaring trade in Amsterdam for, er, pre-owned bicycles. Or, more often that not, still-owned. Exercising any kind of control over these tired old beasts is a skill in itself -- never rent a bicycle in Amsterdam unless you have a death wish, or at least like the taste of canal water.
All in all, I am quite proud when I manage to return from Amsterdam without major injury, and always look forward to returning: it serves as my dose of excitement for the year.
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