The following day, Anna was ready to leave before me. "Mike, what are you going to do? Do you think you'll find something?" Valid questions given that I didn't have a work visa and Anna was the only person I knew in the city.
"I'll do what I always do," was my confident reply. "I'll go for a beer."
Any time I needed information or wanted to network during my travels, popping into a pub was my first port of call. Having been a bartender myself, I knew the value of speaking to those pulling pints in the heart of a city or town. The number of times people would belly up to the wood, sip away their worries, and tell me their life stories was incredible.
A bartender is more than someone filing and cleaning glasses. They're charming, able to win people over with a smile and always know the right thing to say. And, since drinking is an indiscriminate pass time, bartenders meet people from all walks of life who immediately warm up to them even if the hospitality shown comes with a price tag. In fact, consider the title of bartender as more of an umbrella term where host, therapist, friend and tour guide are but some of the many roles men and women behind the taps could fill.
The establishments where these charismatic fountains of knowledge dwell are far more helpful than any info centre you'll encounter. But you have to find the right one.
Walk into a busy joint and try to strike up a conversation with the bar staff, and anything beyond your drink order will fall upon deaf ears. Go into an empty place where a few regulars assume the same position each day and put back enough of their favourite poison to keep the lights on, and you may as well be asking a farmer where the nearest boutique is so you can update your fancy wardrobe.
A place with young, attractive bar staff is also a waste of time. The male stud peacocking behind the brass, young, dumb and full of cum, isn't interested in you beyond your tipping habits. Instead, he's focused on flirting with the new hostess or lounge server, slipping her a free drink here and there without his last conquest catching on so he doesn't get a reputation. It's a juggling act that requires the utmost attention. One mistake and the valiant young buck can become public enemy number one, labelled as a player with no hope of dipping his pen in the company ink again. He has no time for you.
And as for female bartenders, well, they have a heavier workload than the guys, attending to the same bar duties while having to put up with shit from patrons. Upon starting a shift, a female bartender will quickly lose count of how many men fall in love with her after a few drinks. Lightly glazed, etiquette and manners are soon forgotten as gentlemen and sleaze balls alike eye fuck, chat up, inappropriately compliment, and, in some cases, attempt to grope the beautiful woman serving them.
I've been there, slinging drinks in all sorts of pubs, clubs, taverns and restaurants, and witnessed chivalry turn to shame. I've been on the other side, too, heavily sauced with eyes full of lust and love, genuinely convinced that the one keeping my fluids up wanted more from me than my money. Nothing brings out the worst in a man than a belly full of booze and a beautiful woman.
Some might say, "Women know what they're getting into when they take the job." Maybe, but does that make it right? Could you imagine going to work and being treated like a piece of meat day in and day out? Being hit on and visually undressed by strangers when you're just trying to pay the bills? Say what you want, but I bet it sucks. It's a perfect example of how fucked up our society is, where even the most respectful of men can forget themselves when influenced by poison with a fancy label and a piece of ass. Men are weak in matters of the heart and loins, all of us.
Anyway, my point is that female bar staff put up with enough from both male colleagues and customers to harden after a while and have little time for small talk, which is fair enough. So, don't waste your breath. Sip, eat, pay, be respectful and move on.
Beyond places that won't help our cause, where can we find the help we need? If you're new in town and looking to find work, rent a room, have fun, maybe even score some drugs, depending on who greets you, you need the right pub.
Firstly, go during the day. Night and day staff deal with different clientele and different volumes of customers. They also have distinctive personalities, with day bartenders enjoying a slower pace and time to chat with everyone and anyone walking through the front door. Meanwhile, even in a lower-level establishment, night bartenders are more edgy. Strutting around like movie stars while running a boozed-filled circus, small talk for them is a luxury saved for a few beers with their co-workers after doors are locked and tills shut down. The sweet spot is just after weekday lunch, between the middy rush and late afternoon handover to the night team. There's a perfect two- to three-hour window when a chat is ripe for the picking.
Next, you want to find a place with plenty of windows. There are two reasons for this. First, you can get a view inside from the street to see if you've found what you're looking for. This avoids spending money in a place of no benefit to you or an awkward entrance, scanning as if trying to find friends, making an Oscar-winning look of disappointment, then exiting seconds later with a half wave to a bartender who's seen that same act thousands of times before. The second reason is that a place closed off to the outside world suits staff and patrons alike who are also closed off. Unless you know them as well as the wino that's been sitting on the same stool for twenty years, you're better off becoming a dentist, so you can actually get paid for pulling teeth. Either way, it'll be awkward. So, look for windows.
Another thing to look for when choosing your temple of enquiry is the décor. How are the aesthetics? If it's a sleek-looking joint that seems expensive, it probably is. Expensive means wealthy clientele who expect a more professional, less friendly personality pouring top-shelf whisky and are less likely to open up. If you're kicking around in jeans and a rain jacket like I was, a swanky spot probably isn't for you. Find somewhere less fancy, but also avoid tacky.
Somewhere blasting jumpy, outdated music into the streets with flashing neon signs advertising cheap drinks and decorated like a booze cruise vessel is definitely not where you want to be. A tourist trap like that, serving watered-down cocktails and shooters, and jugs of horse piss, is either staffed by foreigners who haven't been around long enough to know anything useful or a local who's jaded and will mistake you for another annoying tourist, snidely offering a fish bowl of colourful liquid sugar with a dash of alcohol and a slice of pineapple with an umbrella sticking out of it as the drink special of the day because after all, like every hour in that Jimmy Buffet album cover come to life, it's happy hour. No way! Avoid at all costs.
You need to find something in the middle. The perfect balance between shitty and nice, with a sign that doesn't flash or scream "cash!" Somewhere, neither empty nor full, discreet enough to avoid tour bus passengers but noticeably appealing from a distance. Over time, it becomes easy to pick such an establishment out. I'd mastered it by then and could nail the right spot on the first try. And that fine mid-February day was no different.
Maybe a dozen people were scattered throughout the joint when I walked into Café Zwar. It was a fair size, located on the corner of Dam and Damstraat, across from the National Monument on Dam Square. There were empty stools at the bar, but rather than getting too intimate straight away, I chose a high table beside the window - close enough to carry on a conversation with the bartender yet far enough away to slink out the door while he was changing a keg in the case that I'd chosen poorly.
Within two sips of my oversized goblet of Hoegaarden, I'd made a new friend. David was in his twenties, with a shaved head and excellent English. I believe his family moved to the Netherlands from Mauritius before he reached high school, and he'd been working at this bar for a few years—always during the week, always on the day shift. Perfect!
"It doesn't matter if you don't have a work visa. There are still jobs you can find. I'll be right back." He was fast! Light-skinned and tall, David could have been born in the Netherlands if he hadn't told me otherwise. He wove his way through tables, chatting and making people laugh as he brought them food and cleared their plates. With every emergence from the back of the house, David laughed and joked with faceless voices echoing behind the wall. He was having a great time and had a solid rapport with colleagues and clients alike. A likeable person and, to this day, one of the friendliest bartenders I've ever met.
After making his rounds, David returned. "Do you know Leidseplein?" My reference to Led Zeppelin was met with a forced laugh and a curious look. Perhaps that was just for Anna and I. David explained that a pub crawl company in the city had foreign staff members. "Maybe they can hire you, I don't know. You should try. They only go out in the evening, so wait until then."
David and I got on like old friends. It was still early, so I ordered another massive Hoegaarden and decided to stick around for a while and chat. We'd shout back and forth when David was behind the bar. Otherwise, he'd return to my table at every free moment, and we'd talk there.
The afternoon melted away, and I was feeling good. David asked if I wanted another beer but said Hoegaarden was now at regular price, which was basically one arm, one leg and at least two vital organs. Drink prices in Amsterdam were insane! He brought me a glass of something bitter. It was less pleasant than Hoegaarden but thankfully much more palatable than horse piss.
After a while, a lass joined David behind the bar, and I saw them begin transitioning from day to night. It was time to be on my way. "Here, take my number and let me know how things go for you." I put the paper in my pocket, thanked David, shook his hand, and stood up to leave.
Man, I was fucked up! Having yet to break the seal, this was my first time standing since I'd arrived. It felt like I was on a boat charging through a stormy sea of Belgian Blonde and cheap lager. I reached forward and braced myself, then grabbed my small pack. When you're out at sea, and the swell picks up, regardless of how you got there, you're in it for the long haul. You have two choices: curl up and wait for it to end, or have fun and enjoy the ride! It would take more than a few beers to curl me up. I was all in!
The cobbled streets can be tricky enough to navigate sober, never mind the state I was in. Fortunately, I'd had plenty of practice wandering through the lumpy, uneven streets of Glasgow pissed out of my mind, so I glided through Dam Square with grace and ease.
Whenever I drank, I literally became a different person. Without alcohol, I was pretty mellow and kept to myself. But after a few drinks, it was a different story. Lightly lubricated, I oozed with confidence. Like Popeye throwing back a can of spinach, I felt invincible. Alcohol was my superpower, allowing me to do anything. Up to a point, of course. At some stage, I'd go from life of the party - alias Sauce - to unravelling at the seams, blacked out and messy - alias soon to come. Fortunately, I hadn't crossed the threshold yet because I was lost and needed my wits about me. David's directions went home with the other guy, the sober one who handed the torch to the drunk superhero now walking in his place. The drunk superhero who was lost. Not to panic, though. I was pissed, remember? I could do anything.
Spotting an Italian guy on the opposite side of the street trying to lure people into the pizza place behind him, I darted across and struck up a conversation. Unfazed by my lack of interest in pizza, the smiley young man with dark skin and even darker hair was happy to help. "I've heard of the pub crawl. I don't know where they are exactly, but go to Leidseplin and ask around. I think they start at a bar over there. Just follow the tram tracks. It will take maybe ten or fifteen minutes to walk there." Easy! I could do that.
We chatted and laughed for a while. About what? I can't remember. The vibes were good, though. I know that. I thanked him, shook his hand and turned to walk away. Shit! I forgot what he said. I turned back to see him already laughing at me. "Just follow the tram tracks! Good luck!" I guess my drunkenness was more obvious than I'd thought.
Fifteen minutes later, I was in Leidseplein. At least, I thought I was. "I'll ask someone, just to be sure." Chuckling, I knew the real reason I was going to ask for directions as I walked into an Irish pub on the corner that had caught my eye. I was a sucker for a pint of Guinness.
"Was the Guinness good?" is a standard question in Ireland when discussing a night out between friends. Had someone asked me on that particular occasion, my answer would've been an enthusiastic "no!" It was watery, bland and far too cold, just like the staff. A tourist trap run by foreigners with chips on their shoulders because they'd been in town longer than most.
There's this attitude people develop when they move somewhere foreign. They aren't locals, but they know some. They aren't tourists either and want nothing to do with them despite having no other options beyond tourism to survive. Outsiders who want to be seen as insiders. Life in the grey area. Limbo if you like. I've been there many times, in many places. It's pleasant and unpleasant at the same time. You don't fully belong where you are, yet you no longer belong where you're from. It's a head fuck for the most part. Some handle it well, but most don't and become jaded pricks. I confess to falling into that second category more than the first. It's inescapable. Wherever you go, if you stay long enough, Limbo becomes your home. Nowhere have I experienced this more than in Amsterdam. The staff at this Irish Pub were my first encounter with this arrogant Limbo mentality. Even the Irish fella in charge, hailing from a country renowned for its friendliness, was a miserable twat.
I finished the tasteless pint that cost me a down payment for a house, grumbled a farewell to the unfriendly fuckers behind the bar, and, with a bad taste in my mouth, walked back out into Leidseplein. At least I'd gotten confirmation I was in the right spot. The most expressive directions I'd ever received. I could have bought a GPS unit for the price of that pint of rubbish.
On my way through Leidseplein, someone pointed me in the right direction. Who? I can't remember. That interaction is shrouded in a cloud of booze. I got there, though, and found myself standing outside Sports Bar, later known as Sporties - I think.
I asked the guy at the door if the pub crawl staff were around. He was a tall, dark, handsome guy from Suriname. His short, gelled hair shone in the outside lights. He was intense, staring into my eyes like he'd just caught me in bed with his sister. So serious. So angry. But wait! What's this? An act of kindness? A soft centre behind that hard exterior? This tough-looking, pretty boy was the manager, and the pub crawl started there every night, so he knew them well. When I said I was looking for work, he pulled out his phone and rang the owner for me.
"Can you go on the pub crawl tonight?" It was a test I later found out. To get hired, you had to party one night. If you fit in, you had the job. I was getting closer to my threshold by then. A few more drinks and Sauce would have become a beast. Besides, I wanted to see Anna, so I said I had plans.
"Tomorrow at half past one. Okay?" I confirmed. He pointed across the square to a shop. "To the left of the shop, there's an entrance to some offices. Look for Ultimate Party and press the button. Ask for Nir." I thanked him, he nodded, and I left.
"Half passed one tomorrow. Ultimate Party. Nir." I said it over and over again in my head while taking a visual photo of the building. So far, so good! With any luck, I'd have a job the next day. I only had to find a place to stay after that. I couldn't wait to tell Anna about my progress. But first, I had to find some food and try to sober up a bit.
"It never fails", I thought, scoffing down something cheap and unhealthy. "When in doubt, go for a beer."