We spent a few days on the west coast of The Netherlands fighting heavy tourist traffic in the tulip field region. We were lucky to be visiting when they were in full bloom. The rainbow of colour was a spectacular sight. We were also lucky to find available hotel rooms; most were booked solid. For this reason I regret not being able to stay in The Hague, one of the prettiest cities we drove through during our holiday. I hope to return one day.

My father seemed to enjoy the country as well, and slowly eased his disposition against Amsterdam. He had to. I used my iPad to book a hotel for two nights near the city and it was non-refundable.

This is the official flag for the city of Amsterdam. Also a good warning for the remaining content of this post. While it does have a rich history and culture, the city is known as the "sex and drugs capital of the world" for good reason: these people are open-minded to the point where I'm certain the word "shame" doesn't exist in Dutch dictionaries. I am by no means prudish but there were times when part of me felt I had stepped off a time machine from Victorian England, shocked and appalled by the wanton hedonism that carried virtually no consequence in this strange land.

The other part of me was envious.

One person I talked to, a well-dressed professional who claimed to be the accountant for a local football club, described it as such: "We respect our freedom. We enjoy our freedom."

I checked the weather before we left the hotel. It called for sunny skies and a high of 20 degrees celsius. There was no mention of the cloud of hashish smoke that permanently hangs over the city though or the residual high that one gets while strolling the streets. It is omnipresent. I kept overhearing other tourists (mostly English accents) comment on it as well. I always assumed stoners treated this place as a mecca because marijuana - and only marijuana - was decriminalized. Imagine my surprise at the number of shops openly selling all manner of narcotics. Noticeable by the red/white mushroom signage hanging over their doorways (which, to me, resembled Toad from Super Mario Bros.), these stores would have "menus" in the front windows advertising their wares, potency and any potential side effects. It was like no window shopping I'd ever seen before. Until we went to the Red Light District that is…

The cobblestone streets of Amsterdam, while beautiful, weren't helping my father at all. At one point, instead of farcical praying for the good lord to take him away, he wanted his picture taken with someone dressed up like the Grim Reaper. I refused but was relieved he hadn't lost his sense of humour, no matter how dark.

You have to possess a sense of humour when visiting here. It's too crazy a place to not laugh at things and situations you find yourself in. Behold my personal case study: I had a craving for Doritos one day and thus entered a general store selling all manner of respectable merchandise from gardening supplies to baby items to housewares. Spying a shelf packed with cookies through the corner of my eye, I assumed that potato chips would be in the general vicinity. I was well surprised when I got there to see sex toys located next to the Chips Ahoy. I'm not sure how the two correlate but viewed it as a missed marketing opportunity. Clearly they should have been placed next to the batteries.

Another missed marketing opportunity - why the hell aren't Doritos available in Amsterdam of all places?

It was only 5:00pm but it had been a long, tiring day and my dad was due for a nap. Before leaving however, we had to visit the infamous Red Light District. Seeing it in daylight offered a different perspective, the faces of all the other perverts loitering the area unobscured by low ambient lighting. I expected visitors to be older men (not sightseeing with their daughter) but most were roving packs of 20-something males, ear-to-ear grins plastered on their overly-enthusiastic faces. Despite being relatively early, the workers of the district were present in their windows attempting to entice passerby with the tiniest and sheerist of lingerie. Each venue seemed to have a different specialty; the one that stood out the most advertised something called "electro-sex", which immediately made me think of the movie Eurotrip. I overheard no screaming, but again - it was early

Coincidentally, walking through the Red Light District was the first time I didn't hear my father say "may the good lord take me". It was worth the trip after all.

Weird food dispensing machine in Amsterdam

McDonalds in Amsterdam…not to be confused with "coffee shops" in Amsterdam

Side effects: crying and screaming for up to 15 hours

Automobile and boat traffic go side-by-side

To view more images of Amsterdam, click here.

My father's hip pain continued as we left Paris. His gait reminded me of my 85-year-old grandfather. Slow, uneasy. He would often state, half jokingly, "may the good lord take me". I hated hearing this but I was not in a position to judge. I was only watching cancer eat away at someone well before their time, not experiencing the physical, mental and emotional pain of having it firsthand. It was for this reason that I had an idea: it wasn't officially on our itinerary but I felt my father could use a diversion…to Amsterdam.

He had told me previously about my grandmother, Beatrice, and the pain she endured during her own battle with breast cancer. I was too young at the time to remember this but after his diagnosis last fall he wanted me to know the realities of this situation, that life wasn't always pretty and could get very, very ugly at a moment's notice.

My grandmother died on New Years Day, 1981, at the age of 50. During the final stages of her life, she was prescribed medical marijauna to ease her suffering. Despite this, my father has always been staunchly opposed to narcotics. I did feel however that this could perhaps be a better remedy for his ills than the oxycodene that was prescribed to him; a drug that has since taken a life of its own on the street market where it is often referred to as "hillbilly heroin". He wasn't receptive, but I had a few days (and a few countries) to persuade him to perhaps give alternatives a try.

If we got out of Paris first.

I have a tendency to write about foreign washrooms. It can be an icky subject but considering how much time we, as human beings, use them, I feel like I'm prepping/warning people as a gesture of good will. So here it is: do not under any circumstances use the washrooms at Montparnesse Train Station. Just pee your pants. Trust. Despite having enough first-hand knowledge to know better, I still expect that if I have to pay to use facilities that they will be (relatively) clean, contain at least one square of TP and have a water source to clean up with. Nope. You get that maybe 50% of the time in Europe. Even stranger are the urinals that are out in the open. No one needs to see that. Nothing - NOTHING - could top Montparnesse Train Station though. I'm sure there were germs and viruses in there not yet identified by science. Damn my love for iced tea.

We picked up our rental vehicle at Montparnesse Train Station on Sunday because the streets of Paris are relatively quiet then. Our drive within her boundaries was pretty stress-free but that all changed once we got on the Boulevard Périphérique. Bumper to bumper. Vehicles taking up multiple lanes. Those damn motorcycles that seem to come within millimetres of sideswiping everything in their unpredictable path. Despite having a GPS, we had no idea where we were going. We eventually were forced to turn off near Disneyland Paris and within a few hours made it to Belgium (coincidentally where my grandmother's side of the family is from).

Belgium is an interesting country in the sense that I know nothing about it beyond their ability to craft great beer and chocolate. Perhaps that's all the reputation they need. Achieving perfection in two of the world's favourite exports is quite the feat. We stayed overnight in a town named Mons which I've also never heard of, the vacancy sign on the IBIS being the main draw for our stopover. Mons has a large, beautiful public square wherein instead of a hot dog stand, there's a small trailer selling escargot and champagne. Posh. The next day we drove through Brussels and Antwerp. I'm none the wiser about the country after visiting these cities, but the nation is very pretty.

Soon enough we were in the Netherlands. Everytime I saw an Amsterdam sign, I dropped the hint that I wanted to go there. My father kept complaining about potential pickpockets, scams and "druggies", failing to to see the irony of where his life was heading. He carried a baggie full of medicine, at least three different prescriptions just for pain relief. Security at the airport didn't even question him; when he mentioned that he had cancer, they just looked on in pity. Everyday at some point, the refrain of "may the good lord take me" carried on.

Next: Amsterdam

Our rental car, a Renault Captur (I really liked it)

XXX (part IV)

"May the Good Lord Take Me" (part III)