…and we’re home. This is the unofficial part of the trip that falls between ‘the end of the trip’ and ‘the resumption of real life.’ I am home, and hobbling on somewhat sore and extremely tired legs, and I’m dealing with the oddity that is culture shock in my own country.
On the nine-hour flight back, I tried to think through some of the questions I expected to be asked.
I’ll say it. I like Amsterdam, but I don’t love it.
I don’t think I’ll speak of it in the rapturous terms that many others have. We get along, the city and I, but I think we’re meant to see other people. It hit me on the way home; Amsterdam is a city of revelry, merriment, and conviviality. I am alone by choice. We have different intentions, the city and I. I’m glad I came, and I’ve seen amazing things here, but I’m ready to move on to London.
I’ve been doing some Serious Writing in the meantime but let me just tell you … I’ve survived Germany and France, and am currently recovering from a minor gastrointestinal issue in Copenhagen. Due to the short length of my stay, and the fact that this bug thoroughly kicked my ass for 24h, I won’t see as much of the city as I’d like.
However, I hit up Marimekko. Much evil was acquired.
I said my goodbyes yesterday and ended up not flying, thanks to plane maintenance. My first flight out yesterday was so severely delayed that it would not land at my stopover until thirty minutes after my plane to Germany had already taken off.
At the gate: “You don’t want to take the flight? We’ll put you up in a hotel.” Me: “When the other option is to go home and sleep in my own bed?”