Dear Cleo,
After escaping Montmartre, with the taste of red and cigarettes lingering in my throat, I arrived in Amsterdam.
A three-hour nap on the Eurostar and a touch of salt in the breeze revived me. I rolled my luggage through the open plaza around Centraal Station and into the narrow streets of the city proper.
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Dutch is a funny language.
In contrast to the “uncanny valley” of smiles and photographs, when language is subverted, the result is quite hilarious.
My first impression of the city was a hotel next to a McDonalds aptly named the Hotel Neutraal. As opposed to what? the Hotel Biaased? I laughed at this stupid thought and continued trudging along.
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Amsterdam is mesmerizing.
Long lines of row-houses topped with metal hooks. Light moss on red bricks. Canals lined with purple flowers. The Flemish pride lives on in the cleanliness of their stoops and crests above them.
At night, urinals pop out of the ground, tourists flock to red windows, and British men begin singing. You can actually tell time by the heartiness of their song.
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Amsterdam is surprisingly diverse.
Posh Museumkwartier, chic Jordaan, and many other distinct characters live a half-hour apart. People of all forms walk down the street.
Within three hours, I washed away the oil of Paris with bibimbap, bún thịt nướng, and Southern pulled chicken. I wondered why there were so few Dutch restaurants until I tried the broodje haring.
The masters of the spice trade are too wise to get high on their own supply.
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Old books are super cheap.
I stumbled upon a large book fair the next day and, over an hour and half, picked out eight. The oldest, published 1639, began with a story of the Eucharistic miracle. The longest was a Brit’s memoirs of Mao’s China.
But my favorite was a Dutchman’s account of meeting T. Roosevelt:
I daresay you have heard the story of the ugly duckling. It just crossed my mind: We, the old family of ducks at the pool, had some centuries ago, owned a pure-bred aunt who, unwittingly hatched—not a swan’s egg, but far worse—a condor’s egg . . . a young condor, true offspring of the old Dutch one, Condor Teddy . . . [was] to pay his respects to the old nest in our well watered Holland, and you can imagine what noise and quacking this caused among the dignified Dutch ducks.
This goes on for seventy or so pages. It was quite strange to see a Roosevelt dickrider in third-person.
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I hurried off to the Rjiks.
The stare of Hals’ standing woman and the light in louhan Ajita’s eyes stuck with me. Somehow, besides a portrait of a Javanese painter, an irresistible urge surfaced. I sat down and opened three tabs: Spinoza’s Ethics, Laozi’s Dao De Jing, and the Tanakh.
That afternoon, after chewing a few truffles, I made the trek to Vondelpark, found a bench by the water, and sat down for a very long time. An excerpt from my notes:
Those who desperately desire money don’t seem to get it. Those who crave power can’t seem to hold onto it. But when you let go, a man bikes up to your bench with a basket of coconuts.
Good things just come into our lives. All we need to do is stop holding the door shut.
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