The Hotel Monty Chronicles: Or, We Didn't Go to Amsterdam for the Damn Tulips!

The Hotel Monty was located just a five-minute walk from Amsterdam Central Station on the corner of Liberty and Lunacy. You could say it was kind of a cross between a stoner summer camp and a reality show. Hotel-owner Julia leads a revolving cast of oddballs through unexpected humor, chaos, and the occasional farce. People coming from everywhere, laughing, smoking and connecting made the place perfect for a world class collision of ideas. More peace was made in that little hotel lobby than at the UN. Each chapter explores something, or someone, new and is its own little adventure, culminating in an international coalition attempting to save the illegal American desk clerk's swollen balls from a Russian gangster. "They will steal your organs, not fix your balls," became the repeated mantra; louder and more profane, with more accents joining throughout the night including Dutch, English, Polish, Thai, Romanian, American, Jamaican, Italian and even a small, sweet Scottish voice. Each voice carrying its own special line of reasoning, clearly colored by the speaker's national origin, Amsterdam's finest green bud and good ol' Kentucky whiskey of course.