On Amsterdam.

So here I am, somewhere over the Atlantic, throat still itchy from the cheap hash we had to finish before we left the boat, arm crackly and aching from the fresh ink scratched into my skin three days prior. Already in my head I can hear the inevitable cavalcade of voices asking the same thing - “How was Amsterdam?”

Somewhy, I don't really feel like answering. Not for any particularly deep-rooted reason – there wasn't some deep resonance to the trip that would encourage me to keep it to myself, nor did anything untoward happen for me to keep under my hat. Amsterdam simply was, and I was in it. I had a good time, and now I'm coming home.

Then how do I answer? With the obvious, I suppose – with the details, with the simple joy of meeting Darian at the door, or finding Jon at Centraal or Pigtails leading her cadre to us in the rain. The cheese, the coffeeshops, the bars and clubs, the Christmas dinner. The genever and the advocaat, the stroopwafel and showarma. Or even the quiet times between, the hours spent watching movies and napping, lying about in flannel and comfortable t-shirts.

It was a vacation. One with plenty to do at our fingertips. For some of us, it was one stop of many, a link in a chain of crazy European adventures. For others, it was an escape from the day to day, a walkaway from our jobs and quiet lives. It's over, and I'm ready to get back my work and my kitties.

But regardless of what it was, or how it was, I spent Christmas Day with a table of near-strangers and dear friends, raising a glass to something as simple as a houseboat on the canals of Amsterdam.

So here's to that.