Amsterdam Part Two

My heart is bigger and brighter in walkable cities. Ones with cobblestone streets and gray skies and brick buildings. Even in the cold and wind and mist, it’s full of life. Or maybe that’s just the espresso talking.

I’ve loved this city since I was twenty-one. I’ve dreamed of her when I’ve felt lost, and I’ve missed her sparkle when I’m missing the friends I knew there. She is always in my back pocket when I need her. I am so lucky to have been able to meet her again, to reintroduce her to the woman I’ve become since we last saw each other. Somehow I am exactly the same and completely new.

My feet are tired and my cheeks still sting from the wind, but I’m happy. I’ve eaten good food and average food and food I don’t ever have to see again. I’ve consumed copious amounts of espresso, with little white foam leaves drawn on top. I saw one of my favorite artists perform, and I sang at the top of my lungs to songs that have held me together in my darkest moments. I’ve wandered bookstores and judged their inventory. The Dutch have gorgeous special copies of books I’ll never read, but I will say I considered it. 

I’ve always been more of a Monet and Degas girl, but I have a new appreciation for the man that is Van Gogh. His eye for beauty and mundanity. The harsh, the still, the dimly lit, the bright, the blooming. I realize that up until now, I don’t think I’ve ever seen a photo of him, just his many iterations of himself. In a hat, in a straw hat, with a pipe. Strange how that is, isn’t it? The photograph on the wall looked so…unlike him. Solid and young and, well, black and white.

It’s interesting, he said his self portraits weren’t supposed to be regurgitations of himself, but experimentations with technique and color. Funny that that’s how his true image became an enigma to me. If you’d asked me before, I could only produce the image of his brushstroked skin and shades of orange hair. How tall is he? Are his shoulders broad? What color are his eyes, really? I could never tell you. Art can be so unexpected that way. I adored seeing so many versions of it.

And the porcelain! The whites and blues and mosaics. Whole walls and rooms and shops full of it, true and cheap versions. 

We visited out of season, but the flower shops were full of the promise of tulips and the presence of fake ones. Bright and non-fragrant (and great for my allergies). It was a running joke: goods to declare? Seeds? Roots, perhaps?? Could I smuggle a small tree past the folks back at LAX? Say goodbye to Global Entry with that one.

A vacation full of unserious observations and equally unserious languages. I forgot about that part, so ingrained in my english-speaking ways and quick nightly Duolingo lessons in Italian. I wondered how the sounds were supposed to form on my lips, how they were supposed to sound in my ear. All the versions I came up with sounded too funny to be true.

The days were so long, despite the sun setting relatively early. We were never pressed for time. In fact, it often felt like we had too much of it. I wondered if seven days was overdoing it for such a small city. But I also know, especially now, that the last full day of our trip, a day where we made zero plans, was a godsend. The quiet morning after a loooong evening prior (one of the only times European transit has failed me), the easy rain of the day, the two item to-do list. Pre-planning a day of rest is probably my best travel tip.

Much of our trip was like this. One big excursion a day. Lots of wandering. A few naps here and there. This is my preferred way of vacationing. I love to go-go-go every once in a while, but my favorite way to take time off is to sloowww itttt dowwnnnnn. Even when we spent a few hours back at the hotel for cat naps and reading and warming up, I never felt like time was wasted.

And to see Noah Kahan again, even sick, even from the back of a cavernous room. How special. Hearing “Forever” live for the first time was magic, a song that is so engraved on my heart already. Noah’s shows leave their fingerprints on me, always, and I won’t soon forget how it felt to feel at home five thousand miles away somehow.

Sweet Amsterdam, I’m so Romantic about you. I always will be.