Arriving in Holland felt like an end to a long and wonderful trip. But we still had things and people, both expected and unexpected, to see. I had found out only days before crossing the border into The Netherlands that my good friend and fellow rider Ave was starting a new job at a training barn in Holland. Her first day was our first day, so we went straight to Putten to greet her. She was tired but happy to see us and we were happy to see her. Steve and I checked out her new workplace and met some of the other girls and then went to a nice Italian dinner nearby. We sat and talked, wavering between conversations about our trip and horses. Steve probably wavered in and out of listening, respectively. Then we let Ave crash and we drove to a campground just on the outskirts of Amsterdam.

We slept in the park-and-ride lot outside the grounds because we arrived after hours and then checked-in the next morning. We spent the morning lazily making breakfast and catching up with emails and then went into the city. We did the routine first steps: bought a map, checked the metro schedule, and made a loose plan. As we walked along the main road toward the Red Light District (because we wanted to see it during the day, too) we stopped at The Sex Museum. We couldn't resist, and clearly many others couldn't either. It was packed. We walked around the maze-like museum looking at ancient art, sculptures, and photos depicting Europe's sexual history. There was also a giant penis chair that was really cool. What? It was.

After that we wandered through the famous Red Light District, which at this time of day was just bars, restaurants, old buildings and sex shops. Normal people and their children wandered up and down the pedestrian-only side streets and over the canals. Steve and I wanted to go see a movie at a famous theater that was once a performance theater, but we were distracted along the way. We spent about a half hour in a well-lit and professional looking sex shop where the clerk, a shaggy haired guy in his late 20s, explained in great detail the mechanical benefits of many "tools." He was very passionate about his job and talked to us about the colorful and oddly shaped gadgets like he was trying to sell us a vacuum cleaner. A very "dependable," "ergonomic," and "water-resistant" vacuum cleaner. We left without anything but admiring the guy's professionalism. Then we stepped into another universe and sat down to watch Ice Age 4…in 3D.

The movie was as good as any successful, sequel-happy cartoon could be but the theater was even cooler. It was intricately detailed and elaborately grand at the same time. We overpaid for some nachos and popcorn, which is sweet in Europe, but enjoyed the experience. That night we decided to actually go "clubbin'." We hadn't gone out dancing at all on the trip, but we thought it was a good place (and the last place) for it. I didn't have anything "clubby" to wear so we jumped into Mango right as it was closing and I bought a top. The plan had been to go out with Ave and a Canadian girl from the barn but it didn't happen. Besides, it was probably best for her to meet her new boss in the best possible condition. So after going back for showers and dinner at the campground, Steve and I hit the town together.

We went to only two bars/clubs and stayed at the second one the longest. We danced all night. The only bummer was stepping on broken glass in my sandals and cutting my big toe. I was on my way to get our coats from coat check when I felt a pinch. By the time I got upstairs the sole of my shoe was covered in blood and it looked like I'd lost a toe. A lot of people went out of their way to help me out. While the Dutch girl went to grab a first aid kit, the Australian guy gawked at all the blood and told me to sit down. The other guy, who I think was from a Nordic country, actually went to help me wipe the blood off when he returned with paper towels from the bathroom. I stopped him and reminded him that he didn't know me and he shouldn't go touching other people's wounds. He looked like he didn't know what I could be referring to. I cleaned it up and mummified my big toe before shoving it back into my bloodstained sandal. It was a good night.

After dancing the night away we hit the streets of the Red Light District. Aptly named, this area of Amsterdam is the home-away-from-home to "professional" prostitutes. They rent out small studio-like spaces with glass doors that face the street. They each have a red tube light above the door. The girls stand framed in the door wearing next to nothing in spiky heels and too much makeup. It is strictly forbidden to take photos of the girls and I was surprised to see the hoards of gawking men obeying that rule. The girls were, however, very attractive. Well, most of them. I saw very few people coming or going from the red-lit doorways but from what I could tell, you simply walk up, they open the door, probably tell you their price and then you disappear behind the curtain. Business.

I was really curious how much they charged and was dying to pretend I was a journalist (well, one with a business card for proof anyway) and pay one of these girls to tell me about their life as one of Amsterdam's "professionals." I'm sure it's been done before. Steve and I wandered around in the hoard of people that Saturday night as innocent bystanders. I felt like the only girl (in clothes) in a 10-kilometer radius. The only thing that surprised me was how some of the girls pointed at Steve and did the little finger curling "come here" taunt, despite the fact that we were holding hands. The audacity!

The next day was a quiet Sunday. We watched the European Cup Final at a bar that night. I sat with my third or fourth cup of green tea as Spain re-claimed the title. Neither of us was in the best state after our fun night out but we managed to enjoy our last day in Amsterdam together. When we got back to the van that night I checked my email to find that an old high-school friend was living nearby in Haarlem, just 20 minutes outside Amsterdam. So, the next morning Steve and I drove out to meet him. My friend Luke is playing baseball in Haarlem and was anticipating the arrival of his wife (also a girl I went to high-school with) in a week. We caught up over lunch and he took Steve and me on a bike tour of Haarlem. This is where the New York Borough got its name. Whoever came over from Holland just took out the extra, pesky 'A.' Luke ended up being a phenomenal tour guide and he showed us some historic sights, bike paths, the old town and his baseball field. He introduced us to a pastry that I fell in love with instantly. I was pretty sad that I'd only just discovered it. It is a Dutch treat of two super thin, crispy waffles sandwiching a hot, oozing caramel sauce. It was heaven. Before leaving we checked out Luke's side-project. He is helping build a 'grand café' in a cute area of town. He is doing pretty much all of it, actually. We snapped a photo in front of the construction site and then said our goodbyes.

Before we hit the road for home we stopped for a goodbye to Ave at her barn. Catching her in the middle of work, we only stayed for a few minutes. It was a wonderful end to our trip and I was lucky to see Ave and Luke there.

We spent the next 6 hours as hobos on the autobahn; "hobo," as I recently learned, stands for "homeward bound." I guess whether we are retuning to a house after a wonderful trip or trying to get to a welcoming state of mind, we are all hobos, at one point or another.