Sneaking into the city at dawn, rolling silently past identical homes. In that way, it's not so different from my hometown, the difference being that these homes are identically more interesting. Pelted with snow falling violently from the sky, an aggressive welcome to this city of bicycles, canals, wooden shoes, and brownies à la eyebrow waggle.
Waiting for ten minutes at the tram stop, until a woman calls out from three stories overhead and points us to the one across the street. We yell, "Tag," because someone says it means thank you. But we could be yelling day for all we know.
Snaking past the zoo and its white melting dinosaur sculptures and peek-a-boo flamingos, the high concept trojan horse, and everywhere you turn a picturesque brick building, beauty stretching so high up in the sky you crane your neck like one of the flamingos to see where it ends, forehead lines be damned. Amsterdam in the morning is serene.
Hiding away in an underground restaurant barely peeking out of the ground to say "Yoohoo we have bagels!" Orange juice to replenish after a sleepless night and poffertjes well, because. Too much butter, not enough pancake. My husband will have a greasy yellow face.
