I arrived yesterday after sleeping most of the way over here on what had to be my smoothest and easiest flight across the Atlantic ever. The greatest joy of KLM's daily flight from SFO to AMS is that since it departs at 3:10 PM PDT and they serve dinner ASAP, you can then knock yourself out with a handful of sleeping pills while you cross Canada and the North Atlantic. They serve breakfast as you reach the Scottish west coast, and you arrive in Amsterdam at 10:00 AM without really feeling that you have somehow leaped ahead nine hours.

Rina picks me up at Schipol, and when we get to Spuistraat I'm just blown away by what she has done to create a very comfortable living space at the far end of her garage, complete with everything but a bath. Almost any man would be quite comfortable here although I think many women might be a bit iffy about sharing their bedroom with a Citroën ZX 1.4i. Still, the price is right: zero. Thus the title of this year's tale.

And oh, I've been thinking about calling my roommate "Cittie" but then realized she may be a male. I'm not sure. I think you have to look under the hood to determine the sex, but even at my kinkiest, I never got into inter-species relations.

After I get settled in, which mostly means unpacking all the food I've brought, we bicycle to Albert Heijn and pick up some essentials. The usual suspects: milk, butter, cheese, quark, eggs, mustard, bread, cocoa, coffee, sugar, fruit juices, cactus sap, speklapjes, etc., all at prices so low as to make a Californian weep...and then change party affiliation from Democratic to Trotskyite Workers Party. Hell, 72 cents for 250 grams (over half a pound) of fine butter would convert all but the staunchest Republicans. Why, one asks, does the standard-size 370 gram jar of Bonne Maman Kersen Confiture cost nearly $5 in San Francisco, but €1.95 in the most expensive grocery chain in Amsterdam when the only detectable difference is that in San Francisco the label is in English and reads "Cherry" instead of "Kersen"?

And of course Rina is outraged that I would pay €1.95 for the expensive spread when I could buy a less famous brand for half the price.

Vocabulary review: speklapjes are those wonderful centimeter-thick slices of uncured pork belly. You can gently sauté/steam them until the flesh is tender without disturbing the thick layers of glistening, succulent fat.

This afternoon brings the first Adventure. Knowing that everything electric I'm bringing works equally well on 220 volts, I somehow neglected to bring my plug adapter, and so Rina and I bicycle over to an electrical supply store on Haarlemmerstraat. I dash in for a quick purchase, but after a couple of minutes Rina gets curious and comes in without locking up my bicycle, and yep, when we come out, it has stopped waiting for us. Amsterdam is notorious for being the bicycle theft capital of the world, and now I've seen it in action.

I use this as an opportunity to let her ride back home alone while I make a detour on foot via the Moroccan shop to get some of that 10% fat Turkish yogurt that I just love. To my delight, both the owner and his assistant break into grins upon seeing me. Then again, how many weird Americans have been shopping there every May for five years, joyfully butchering both French and Dutch?

While I'm in there I get some of that toxic Mango nectar that I don't allow myself to buy in San Francisco as well as some almonds because I also forgot all the stuff I had in my freezer. Well, yes, I'm sure I can buy good nuts here for The Pie, but somehow I doubt I'll see pecans from Rattlesnake Ranch.

Rina has a backup bike with a broken chain, so later I walk it over to a repair shop on Westerstraat, where I discover some weak areas in my Dutch vocabulary. On the way, I spot a delightful Bauhausy building on Prinsengracht nestled between a couple of 17th century neighbors. How strange that I never before noticed this building since I've walked or Segwayed on that block many times, it being just this side of the Noord Markt.