The Lost Boy - Chapter 7 – part three - Blurry Nights in Amsterdam

My friend offered to take us on a city break. He knew I was partial to a spliff, and I’m not sure if that played a part in the decision on where to go — probably a small part at least — but also the culture, I’d imagine. Not for me, but for him. For me it was enough that he suggested it, and I was looking forward to it the moment it was planned.

I was excited to go to Amsterdam. Of course I was — drugs! The thought of sitting in a café, smoking weed openly, was the most exciting part for me. But it wasn’t the only thing I enjoyed.

I remember the waiting — the anticipation of the flight, though only through a photograph now. I remember getting a train from the airport into the city. In my memory the train feels really high up, almost like it could have been double-decker — maybe it was. I can picture myself in the station, then stepping out into the city itself.

Amsterdam was beautiful. Bicycles everywhere, weaving through streets and bridges that arched over the canals. The tall, narrow buildings leaning together as if they needed each other to stay upright. The weather wasn’t great, but that didn’t matter. The place itself was alive.

And then there was the café. My first real experience of sitting abroad with a coffee and a pastry, just watching the world go by. It was simple, but it stuck with me. I’ve never fallen out of love with that feeling, and to this day, whenever I travel, I make sure to find a café, sit outside, and just watch life happen around me. It never fails. Pure bliss.

I remember walking into the first coffee shop. We planned to try a few different ones as there were different styles, but the first one stands out. I bought my first pre-rolled joint. It felt bizarre — buying drugs over the counter and then sitting right there in the same building to smoke it. I lapped up every second. It wasn’t long before I was stoned as fuck.

I also remember the beer. They had a different glass for each one, and I tried a few — darks, blondes, some short and round, some taller. And yes, I’m still talking about the lagers and beers. They were mostly stronger than back home, served in smaller glasses instead of the pints I was used to. You could still get pints, I’m sure, and the standard lagers, but I wanted to try new drinks. It reminded me of when I’d developed a taste for ales in Northampton — this felt like another tasting session. I loved it.

At some point I walked through the Red Light District. The atmosphere was surreal — neon lights, women in windows, groups of tourists wandering as if it were some kind of attraction. I never went into a peep show or paid for a sex worker. That’s never been my idea of fun, and it hasn’t changed since. I passed through, curious, but it wasn’t for me.

But of course, this was Amsterdam, and for me at that age, that meant weed and more. One night we decided to take mushrooms. At first it was fun — trippy, giggly, strange. We got a tray each with a handful of mushrooms in each. I just smashed the whole tray without a second thought. I don’t know why. Maybe because I thought more meant better, maybe because I was showing off. Or perhaps I was just an idiot. I’d have to opt for all of the above at a guess this far after the event.

It hit me hard eventually. The intensity steadily evolved until reality certainly changed! It was So intense that at one point I thought I was dead. My friend was telling me it would be okay. In my head I twisted that into something else — that he was telling me it was okay that I was dead, that I should just accept it and go with it.

The trip didn’t calm down. It got worse and worse. I couldn’t handle it. I made him call an ambulance. I remember flashes — the panic, the lights, feeling like my life was over. And the paramedics seeming completely unfazed by it all!

And then, in the middle of it, something else. A memory I still can’t quite place. He was in his underwear. He was a bit too close for comfort and I remember either pushing him away or moving away from him. I don’t remember anything happening beyond that — but something about it has never sat right with me.

The next morning I broke down. I cried. I told him what I remembered, what I felt. He cried too. He left the hotel room with a plastic bag and dropped it into a bin on the street. At the time, my mind spun with suspicion — what was in that bag? But later I told myself it was probably just the rubbish from the mushrooms, the remnants and packaging.

Even so, that night has stayed with me. I’ve tried to write it off as just a very strange, mushroom-fuelled experience. Im quite sure the underwear detail was simply him getting ready for bed — we were sharing a twin room after all. Maybe when he got close it was to try and comfort me while I was panicking, and I pushed him away or moved away in fear. I’ve never been able to explain it clearly, not even to myself.

But what I do know is the confusion, the fear, and the sense that something wasn’t right. I cried telling him, and he cried too. And somehow, despite all of that, we stayed friends for years after. I told myself it was the drugs, that my mind had filled in the gaps, and I just carried on.

This whole experience — that night, and the following morning in Amsterdam — has never sat right with me. And I know even writing this now, years later, probably risks that friendship. Not because I want to accuse, but because I need to be honest about the confusion and the mess that came with the way I was living.

So yes, this is a shorter part of the story. But I needed to share it because the confusion and the lack of clarity are just as much a part of my journey as anything else. This part does that perfectly — it shows how far I had fallen into a way of living where even the good times were stained with doubt, fear, and uncertainty but never enough to stop repeating them over the years!