At the last moment.
I was a
neophyte visitor to Amsterdam, unknowing of the wiles of city life, much less
that of a foreign port. I came with a group of forty men on a flying road tour
but stayed aloof from the others, not wanting people to think me a tourist; so
I spurned their invites to roam about the red-light district. I was better than
that, I thought. Yet, like it or not, I was a tourist nonetheless.
I found out
how much a tourist I was after leave-taking from my acquaintances. Wandering
through the streets solo, I also wanted to try out a marijuana café, stopping
into a tobacconist for a pipe and rolling papers.
Not far down the road I spied such an establishment and ventured inside. It was poorly lit, with serving counter to one side with a couple of stools, all occupied.
The men on the stools, and the counterman, all looked like the cast of a B-grade film about dirty, violent bikers. At the bar’s end was a sign – in English – “More seating upstairs”.
I was hesitant,
realizing right then my hotel key, passport, money and all my identification
was in a bright blue pouch hanging around my neck, yet I was about to make a
step toward going upstairs.
At the last moment I felt a tap on my shoulder. I turned. Before me stood a tall, impeccably attired, muscular African man, hand outstretched, saying “You dropped your cell phone on the ground” and sure enough I had.
Just as quickly, in an urgent tone, he said “What are you doing here? Get out. Get out of
here NOW!’ and motioned me to follow him. Without any hesitation, I did and
we both rushed down the street to civilization and safety.