So off I went to my friend Tania's, who lives in Kent, about an hour south-east of London. With me were fine friends Danny, Kelly and Karen. Betsy was to come, too, but was held back by familial obligations.
I did not keep a log of what I ate, forgot to take my dirtpills, and totally just put my home stress out of mind.
I've been returning to Tania's once or twice a year for about 15 years now, Gillingham is a small working-class town in an industrial/agricultural belt of the Medway Towns. Her family stretches back many generations in the area, and people have a small-town mentality in the very best sense of the phrase. London can be in any country- Gillingham can only be in England.
A lot of my ceremonial attachment to the place is with food. The first night we were there, we went to a local Indian restaurant. The food was not world-class, but definitely a step above 6th Street. Followed by a very jet-lagged 3 pints, was a fun but draining evening
The main reason for a bunch of us coming over was the event of Tania's 40th birthday. There was a surprise party for her, with about 150 people in attendance at a village community hall. The food comprised mostly of sausage rolls and onion bahji, and I must of downed about 6 pints and a shot of sweat-sock tasting whisky before they shut down at 11pm - after which we went to the local disco which is the only place in 100 miles that has a license to serve till 3am. Had a pint there, then me and Danny did the traditional thing and got chips on the walk home.
Sunday some went into London to see a
museum, while others like me were wrecked with a hangover. We took great pleasure in going to the local supermarket and poking around. Tania ended up making a traditional Sunday roast (cooked to bloodlessness), potatoes, cooked veg, and a desert of Spotted Dick - Dick out of the freezer case. It's basically a fruit cake with syrup and custard - traditionally beef suet, but this industrialized version had all sorts of weird ingredients. Witness Danny and Karen licking their Dicks...Usually, my last meal in Gillingham is fish n' chips, but between the actual cooking by a friend and the good company, an old ritual can be put on hold. I usually don't drink more than a couple of pints a night, either...
Took the fast train from London to Brussels, and a commuter train over to Amsterdam. Met
Danny and Kelly at the hotel, then walked about until stumbling on a random 'Dutch' restaurant. A 'traditional' Dutch pea soup was pleasantly laden with sausage, but the 'Dutch' fries were only distinguishable from French by the heap of mayonnaise that came on the side.Tuesday morning brought a pleasant continental breakfast at the cute hotel we stayed at, tucked in a brownstone amongst the canals. Selection of weird wholewheat breads, meats and cheese, granola...I really enjoyed the granola, with raisins and almonds in it, gonna look for a low-sugar version here.
Did the museum and walking thing all day, grabbed a falafel (again, oddly shmeared with mayonnaise) and then we popped into a coffeeshop for tea and a baked good... we skipped out of
the quite skeevy red light district into quieter territories to find a nice, quiet non-descript vendor of THC-steeped goods. Lemon tea, a chocolate 'magic' muffin at 3 pm, and all was well. The muffin tasted good, with a slightly funky aftertaste of mary jane.We walked about for an hour until we randomly decided to rent bicycles, as our muffins did nothing for us. Then about 10 minutes of riding, heading towards Vondel Park, a huge smile emerged in the back of my throat, radiating tingles up and down the back of my head. It seems the exertion of the riding kicked the muffin into action, and all of a sudden Danny and I had handle-bar mustaches and morning suits, squiring around Lady Kelly in a hoop skirt, all while on bicycles in a park much older than any in the US.
After a bit, we stopped at a market and I wandered in. Got a huge bottle of w
ater and a bag of 'Nibbits', whose squirrel on the package appealed to me some how. The ingredients were in 4 languages, none in English, but I suspect the two main ingredients were dehydrated potatoes and table salt. We stood by our bike wolfing it down, then we decided to take the bikes back. I promptly lost the other two and spent about an hour (or maybe 2, or maybe 10 minutes) stoned out of my gourd pedaling around random streets of Amsterdam without a map, hoping to find the rental shop. A few moments of almost-freak out, but was just enjoying the physical sensation of riding in a new city without a care in the world...We wandered to a truly mediocre Italian restaurant, then got back to the hotel at 7pm, where I passed out and slept coma-like to 7am. I had a bottle of water by my bedside which somehow disappeared.
The last time I got stoned was in Amsterdam in 1992, where I ate a block of hash resin and basically hallucinated and felt weird for a few hours, this was MUCH more pleasant. Still, unless it becomes legal here, I have no great desire to get stoned on a regular basis. Funny, though, I was pretty ripped on alcohol and I suffered for a day after. Getting stoned, however, gave me a great night of sleep and I felt 105% functional the next day.
The next day, at the airport, I spent the balance of my euros as that most
American outpost of culinary ingenuity, McDonalds. Got a McKroket Sandwich, and though I've eaten it, I'm not quite sure what it was. I think it was a breaded piece of cheese, smothered with that Dutch condiment, mayonnaise. It was....both tasty and disgusting, and I would of expected nothing less.
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